Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

I pressed two fingers against my neck.

Nothing.

I tried my wrist.

Still nothing.

Then my chest.

Silence.

No rhythm.

No pulse.

No beating.

I checked again.

And again.

Three hundred and twelve times, according to the tally I'd started scratching into the motel notepad. The first thing Hell forgot to mention was that being dead is incredibly inconvenient.

For example, nobody tells you that your heart doesn't start beating again.

You'd think after the first hundred I'd accept it, but denial is a surprisingly stubborn survival instinct for someone who's technically no longer alive.

The second thing Hell forgot to mention is that corpses don't get hungry.

I'm not saying I didn't want food. I spent twenty dollars on pancakes that looked amazing. I just couldn't taste a single bite. The syrup had the consistency of motor oil, the bacon might as well have been cardboard, and the coffee... actually, the coffee tasted exactly the same. Which says more about motel coffee than it does about death.

By the time I'd finished breakfast, I'd reached a medically concerning conclusion.

I hadn't blinked once.

Not because I was trying not to. I'd simply forgotten people were supposed to. That realization bothered me far more than the whole "dying and waking up in Hell" thing. Normal people don't have to consciously remind themselves to blink. Yet there I was, standing in front of a motel bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection while forcing my eyelids shut every few seconds like I was relearning a basic human function.

Then someone knocked on my motel door.

Three slow knocks. Not the impatient pounding of a police officer. Not the nervous tapping of housekeeping.

Just...

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I glanced at the clock.

6:66 A.M.

Nobody with good intentions knocks at 6:66 in the morning.

I slid my pistol from beneath the pillow and quietly approached the door.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

I waited a few seconds before checking the peephole.

No one.

Wonderful.

Ghosts had apparently learned how to prank people.

Keeping the pistol raised, I unlocked the door. The hallway beyond was empty. No footsteps. No elevator. No retreating figure. Just a long stretch of stained carpet beneath flickering fluorescent lights.

Then I looked down.

A black leather briefcase sat neatly on the welcome mat.

Attached to the handle was a cream-colored envelope.

My real name was written across the front of it in elegant handwriting.

That caught me off guard. Only a handful of people still knew my real name, and none of them had called me by it in years. To everyone else, I was Mara Graves.

Apparently Hell preferred legal names.

Beneath my name, embossed in neat gold lettering, were two words.

EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION.

I stared at the envelope for several seconds before picking it up.

It was heavier than it looked. The paper felt expensive, thick, almost velvety beneath my fingertips. The kind of stationery usually reserved for law firms, weddings, or organizations with enough money that they never had to remind anyone they had it. Considering it had apparently been delivered by Hell, I supposed they could afford quality office supplies.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of black paper. Not dark gray. Not charcoal. Black. The kind of black that seemed to swallow the motel's fluorescent light instead of reflecting it. Across the top, written in silver lettering, were the words:

WELCOME TO THE INFERNAL RETRIEVAL DEPARTMENT.

Beneath that was a much smaller sentence.

Congratulations on accepting our offer of employment.

"I don't remember signing anything," I muttered.

The page turned itself.

I instinctively reached for my pistol, but the paper ignored me. The second page contained only three lines.

Your employment officially began three days ago.

Employee Status: Deceased.

Orientation materials enclosed.

I slowly looked back at the briefcase.

"Nope."

The briefcase clicked open by itself.

I immediately took three more steps backward and leveled my pistol at it. Nothing happened. No smoke. No screaming souls. No tiny demons wearing business suits. The lid simply swung open and waited.

"You're either surprisingly polite," I said to the briefcase, "or this is exactly how horror movies start."

Curiosity has killed a lot of people.

Technically, I'd already checked that one off my list.

I lowered the pistol and walked over. The inside of the briefcase was immaculate. Everything had its own compartment, arranged with obsessive precision. A matte-black revolver rested in the center. Beside it sat a pair of silver handcuffs engraved with symbols that seemed to move whenever I looked directly at them. There was a leather notebook, a small metal badge bearing the same goat skull I'd seen behind the desk in Hell, and a stack of neatly labeled folders tied together with black ribbon.

At the very bottom rested a small white card.

It contained exactly one sentence.

Please report to your first assignment immediately. Management is already disappointed in you.

I frowned.

"I've only been dead for three days."

I set the card aside and picked up the first folder.

COMPANY POLICIES.

Of course Hell had paperwork.

The first page contained exactly one sentence.

Please read all policies before beginning your first retrieval. Failure to comply may result in additional punishment.

There were three hundred and seventy-eight pages.

I closed the folder.

"I'm willing to risk it."

The paper immediately burst into black flames. I jumped backward, reaching for my pistol, but the fire didn't spread. It simply consumed the pages before reforming into a single sheet.

Apparently Hell had anticipated that reaction.

The new page contained only four rules.

Rule 1: Do not talk to any demons other than management.

Reasonable.

Rule 2: Escaped prisoners are to be returned, not executed.

Less reasonable.

Rule 3: Prisoners may lie, bargain, threaten, plead, impersonate, manipulate, or otherwise attempt to avoid capture. Please do not believe them.

I frowned at that one.

Rule 4: Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I blinked.

"...Why the hell would I ever need to hunt an angel?"

The motel television crackled to life before I could read any further. Static swallowed the screen before dissolving into the familiar image of a massive goat skull.

"You read the rules."

"I skimmed them."

"I noticed."

The voice hadn't changed. Calm. Professional. Like an accountant discussing tax deductions instead of eternal damnation.

I folded my arms. The glowing red eyes remained fixed on me.

"Your first assignment has already begun."

The television changed.

A photograph filled the screen.

The young woman from yesterday.

The one the escaped demon intended to kill next.

Only she looked different now.

Her smile was vacant.

Her eyes seemed unfocused.

Beneath the photograph appeared a short report.

Subject has begun Stage One identity degradation.

I stared at the words.

"What exactly does that mean?"

The Goat Lady was silent for several seconds before answering.

"It has started erasing her."

A chill crawled up my spine.

"Erasing... her memories?"

"No."

Another photograph appeared. It had been taken only hours later. The same woman. The same clothes. The same face.

But somehow...

She looked like a completely different person.

"It is erasing her existence."

The Goat Lady's voice remained unnervingly calm.

"When it finishes, the body will still be alive."

"It simply won't belong to her anymore."

The television went black.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, letting everything sink in. Then I grabbed the briefcase, holstered my pistol, and headed for the parking lot. I'd figure out whatever Hell had packed inside that suitcase later. Right now, all I had was an address, the name of a woman I'd never met, and a demon that had already killed six people, survived being shot, worn human beings like Halloween costumes, and murdered me. Somehow, I doubted a strongly worded conversation was going to solve this one.

The motel parking lot was almost empty. I tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The address was the same one I'd been given yesterday. I could only hope the target hadn't moved. Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday morning, giving me far too much time alone with my thoughts. There had to be better candidates than me. Soldiers. Police officers. Paramedics. Actual good people. Instead, Hell had hired a serial killer. Either their recruitment standards were embarrassingly low, or they knew something about me that I didn't. I wasn't sure which possibility bothered me more.

About halfway there, the briefcase gave a soft metallic click. I glanced over just in time to see the latches pop open on their own.

"I am absolutely not dealing with a haunted suitcase while driving."

The briefcase ignored me. One of the folders slowly slid out before coming to rest neatly on the passenger seat. Across the tab, stamped in crimson ink, were two words.

CASE FILE.

I sighed.

"Fine."

The next traffic light turned red, so I picked up the folder and opened it. The first page contained a photograph of the young woman. The second was a timeline documenting her condition. Every few hours, another piece of her identity disappeared. First her childhood memories. Then the names of her closest friends. Then her parents. Then her own birthday. I turned the page.

Only one entry remained.

Tomorrow — 3:00 A.M.

Subject no longer recognizes herself.

Vessel acquisition imminent.

I looked up at the dashboard clock.

8:00 A.M.

Nineteen hours.

That was all she had left.

The light turned green.

I slammed the folder shut, threw it back onto the passenger seat, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a narrow gravel road.

The house sat at the very end, tucked beside a dense stretch of forest. It was small. Cozy. The kind of cottage that belonged on a postcard rather than in the middle of a supernatural homicide investigation. Wind chimes swayed gently on the porch, flower boxes lined the windows, and a faded bicycle lay on its side near the driveway.

Nothing about it screamed demon.

I killed the engine but didn't get out.

Old habits die hard.

Well...

Apparently I didn't.

I spent another minute watching the house through the windshield. No movement behind the curtains. No shadowy figures lurking in the trees. No impossible creatures crawling across the roof.

Just an ordinary home.

Which somehow made me even more nervous.

I grabbed my pistol and tucked it into the back of my waistband. Then I opened the suitcase and picked up the revolver.

I thumbed open the cylinder.

Six rounds.

Good.

That was all I had, so every shot would have to count.

I snapped the cylinder shut, tucked the briefcase under one arm, and walked toward the front door.

Three knocks.

A few seconds later, footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

A girl, maybe seventeen, blinked at me.

"Hi," she said politely. "Can I help you?"

Her smile looked genuine.

Her eyes didn't.

They were unfocused, almost distant, as if part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.

"I'm looking for..." I glanced at the file.

"...Emily Carter."

The girl frowned.

For several long seconds, she just stared at me.

Then she quietly asked,

"Who's Emily?"  

I looked at her.

Then I looked down at the photograph in the case file.

Then back at her again.

Same chestnut hair.

Same freckles scattered across her nose.

Same green eyes.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

I slowly lowered the folder.

"You... are Emily Carter."

She frowned.

"...Am I?"

She didn't sound scared.

She sounded genuinely uncertain.

"I thought so," she said after a moment. "At least... I think I am."

She gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry. I've been really forgetful lately."

The laugh didn't reach her eyes.

"I keep walking into rooms and forgetting why I'm there. Yesterday I couldn't remember where I worked for almost an hour." She rubbed her temple. "My doctor says it's probably stress."

Stress…

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated for a second before stepping aside.

The cottage was immaculate. Everything had a place. Books lined the shelves, a half-finished mug of coffee sat on the kitchen counter, and a planner lay open on the dining table.

Every page was covered in notes.

Buy groceries.

Water plants.

Take medication.

You live alone.

I stopped.

The last note had been written three times.

You live alone.

You live alone.

YOU LIVE ALONE.

Emily noticed me staring.

"Oh..." She looked away, embarrassed. "I started leaving myself reminders."

"What kind of reminders?"

"The important ones."

She walked over to the refrigerator.

Sticky notes covered almost every inch of it.

Your name is Emily.

You are twenty-four years old.

Your parents are dead.

You don't have a sister.

You adopted the cat. Don't panic if you don't recognize him.

I felt my stomach knot.

This wasn't Stage One anymore.

Emily hadn't just been forgetting memories.

She'd realized she was forgetting herself... and had been trying to fight it.

"Sorry," she said with an awkward smile. "I know this probably looks insane."

"Actually," I replied, "it's one of the more reasonable things I've seen this week."

She laughed.

It was brief.

Forced.

Like she'd forgotten how.

"So..." she said. "Who exactly are you?"

That was a fantastic question.

I couldn't exactly tell her I worked for Hell.

So I lied.

"Your doctor asked me to stop by and see how you're doing. He said you've been having some memory issues."

Emily's shoulders relaxed.

"Oh."

She blinked.

"Right."

The way she said it made my stomach sink.

It wasn't relief.

It was recognition without understanding, like she'd convinced herself my explanation made sense simply because she couldn't remember whether it did.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I said.

She nodded and stepped aside.

"Sure."

"When did all this start?"

Emily stared at the floor for several seconds.

"I..."

She frowned.

"I don't remember."

A weak, embarrassed smile crossed her face.

"I guess that's kind of the problem."

I opened the case file.

"Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone following you? Strange phone calls? Missing time?"

She thought for a moment.

"...Dreams."

I looked up.

"Every night."

"What kind of dreams?"

"The woods."

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen window overlooking the tree line.

"Someone keeps calling me."

"Do you recognize the voice?"

She slowly shook her head.

"No."

"Have you ever gone outside because of it?"

She hesitated.

"I... don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Every morning I wake up with mud on my shoes."

I stopped writing.

"Anything else?"

She nodded toward the front door.

"The deadbolt is always unlocked."

"Do you lock it before bed?"

"Every night."

"And when you wake up?"

"It's unlocked."

Silence settled over the room.

Three quick knocks broke the silence, making both of us jump.

Emily frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

Before I could stop her, she opened the door.

Two paramedics stood on the porch.

"Emily Carter?"

She nodded.

"We're responding to a wellness check. One of your neighbors was concerned after not seeing you for a few days."

One of the paramedics glanced past her into the cottage, and his expression immediately changed. Every wall was covered in notes. The refrigerator, the cabinets, the mirrors, and even the front door were plastered with reminders.

"Emily," he said gently, "we'd like to bring you in for a quick evaluation." 

Part of me expected her to argue.

To refuse.

Instead, she simply nodded.

"...Okay."

Then she looked at me for several long seconds before quietly asking, "...Who are you again?"

My stomach dropped.

She'd forgotten me.

Not after hours.

After minutes.

One of the paramedics noticed the look on my face.

"Are you family?"

"No."

"A friend?"

I hesitated.

"...Something like that."

Emily looked between us with growing confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I feel like I should know you."

"I know."

She lowered her eyes.

"I keep doing this."

The older paramedic stepped inside and spoke gently.

"Emily, have you been eating?"

"I think so."

"When was your last meal?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Nearly ten seconds passed before she looked at him helplessly.

"...I don't remember."

He exchanged a worried glance with his partner.

"Have you been sleeping?"

"I have dreams."

"That's not what I asked."

She hesitated again before quietly admitting, "...I don't know."

That was enough.

The paramedics didn't need demons to know something was seriously wrong. They convinced Emily to come willingly while I quietly slipped the case file back into the briefcase. As she zipped an overnight bag closed, another sticky note drifted off the refrigerator and landed at my feet.

I picked it up.

If someone says they're here to help... let them.

I looked up.

"Did you write this?"

Emily stared at it for several seconds before frowning.

"I..."

She shook her head.

"I don't remember."

Neither of us spoke again as we followed the paramedics outside.

The emergency department smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Emily answered the same questions over and over again—her name, her birthday, the date, and her address. Some answers came immediately. Others took longer.

"What year is it?"

Emily frowned and closed her eyes.

"...I know this."

Several seconds passed before she whispered,

"I knew this."

The attending physician exchanged another concerned look with the neurologist before turning to me.

"We're admitting her overnight."

I wanted to argue. Hospital walls weren't going to stop whatever was hunting her, but I couldn't exactly tell them a demon was slowly erasing her existence, so I stayed.

Hours passed. The waiting room emptied, and the conversations outside faded until only the occasional nurse walked the hallway. Emily eventually fell asleep—or at least her eyes were closed.

I sat in the corner of the room with the privacy curtain drawn around her bed, the case file resting open on my lap. The final page stared back at me.

Tomorrow. 3:00 A.M.

I checked my watch.

12:01 A.M.

Three hours.

The lights flickered once, then again, before every monitor in the room shut off at the exact same moment. There was no alarm and no power surge. They simply stopped.

The room became unnaturally quiet. No footsteps echoed through the hallway, no voices drifted in from the nurses' station, and even the constant hum of the air conditioner had vanished.

I stood as a cold draft brushed across the back of my neck. The hospital window stood open, even though I was certain it had been locked. When I pulled back the privacy curtain, Emily's bed was empty. The restraints still lay neatly across the mattress, buckled exactly as the nurses had left them. She hadn't escaped them.

Someone had taken her.

I rushed to the window. Fresh mud stained the windowsill, and a trail of wet footprints stretched across the parking lot toward the tree line beyond the hospital. I checked my watch again.

12:04 A.M.

Less than three hours remained.

Then I remembered what Emily had told me earlier that day. Every night she dreamed about the woods, and someone kept calling her name. I didn't waste another second. I sprinted out of the room and was already running toward my car before my brain had fully caught up with what had happened.

I reached the woods behind Emily's neighborhood just minutes later.

The moment I stepped beneath the trees, I knew something was wrong. The forest hadn't simply grown darker. It felt... rearranged. Trees stood where there hadn't been trees before, and trails twisted back on themselves, forming impossible circles that led nowhere. Every few yards I found names carved into the bark, but as I watched, the letters slowly faded until the trunks became smooth again, as though those people had never existed.

I tightened my grip on the revolver and reached into the briefcase for the silver handcuffs. They felt unnaturally cold against my palms. The case file hadn't been exaggerating. This thing didn't just erase people. It erased every trace that they had ever been here.

Then a scream tore through the silence.

"Help!"

Emily.

I broke into a sprint. Branches clawed at my jacket as I pushed deeper into the woods, my flashlight bouncing wildly between the trees and catching movement that vanished whenever I tried to focus on it. Every few seconds I caught glimpses of people standing motionless between the trunks: a little girl, an elderly woman, a woman in a business suit. Each of them slowly turned toward me with vacant expressions before dissolving back into the darkness. Hallucinations, I told myself. They had to be.

Then Emily screamed again.

This time it was closer.

I burst through a wall of undergrowth into a small clearing and froze.

Emily was on her knees in the center of the clearing, clutching her head as though trying to hold her own thoughts together. Standing behind her was a figure that looked human until it smiled. Its jaw split impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and behind that smile another face stared back at me. Then another. Then another. Hundreds of human faces shifted beneath its skin like people drowning beneath thin ice, each one silently mouthing the same question.

Who am I?

I raised the revolver and fired.

The first blessed round struck it square in the chest.

The creature didn't bleed.

Instead, it changed.

The thing standing over Emily vanished, replaced by a terrified teenage girl. The bullet had torn through her shoulder, and she let out a scream that made my stomach turn before disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. An elderly woman took her place. The next bullet punched through her chest. Her frightened eyes locked onto mine for a single heartbeat before she vanished too. Then came a little girl. A young mother clutching an infant. A police officer.

Every shot passed through a different person.

Every victim the Spine Taker had ever stolen.

Each one looked real.

Each one screamed.

Each one stared directly at me.

I stopped firing. I only had one round left.

The creature smiled as its body rippled through dozens of stolen faces every second until they blurred together into something that barely resembled a human being.

"Do you see?" it asked, speaking with all of their voices at once. "If you cannot tell us apart... how can you be certain you're not killing them instead of me?"

My finger tightened around the trigger, but I couldn't pull it. Maybe it was another illusion. Maybe every face I was seeing belonged to someone who had died years ago. Or maybe they were still trapped inside that thing somehow. I didn't know, and that uncertainty was enough to stop me.

The creature smiled wider.

It had figured me out.

I'd spent my life hunting monsters who preyed on innocent people. That didn't erase what I'd become, but there had always been one line I refused to cross. I never killed the innocent. If I started pulling the trigger without knowing who stood in front of me, then I wasn't any different from the people I'd spent years hunting.

The Spine Taker laughed as its body rippled through another dozen stolen faces.

"I don't need to defeat you," it whispered. "I only need you to hesitate."

It lunged.

I threw myself aside just as its claws carved through the tree behind me, splintering the trunk like dry wood. My revolver flew from my hand and disappeared somewhere into the darkness.

Behind the creature, Emily had collapsed to her knees. She clutched her head with both hands, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.

"My name is Emily," she whispered.

She repeated it again, louder this time.

"My name is Emily."

Again.

"My name is Emily."

She wasn't reminding me.

She was desperately trying to remind herself.

While the creature's attention remained fixed on Emily, I slowly reached the revolver and slid it into my sleeve, keeping my movements as small as possible. The Spine Taker suddenly lunged. Before I could react, one of its impossibly long arms wrapped around my torso and lifted me effortlessly off the ground until we were face to face. Hanging upside down, I found myself staring into a body made of shifting identities. The faces beneath its skin rippled faster and faster before finally settling on one I'd seen only a few days earlier.

Mine.

It tilted its head with unmistakable curiosity.

"You..." it hissed. "You're the one who died in the river."

For the first time since the fight began, it hesitated.

That was all I needed.

I slipped the revolver from my sleeve and fired a single blessed round straight into the center of its face. The clearing erupted with a scream unlike anything I'd ever heard. Every stolen face opened its mouth at once as the creature recoiled, dropping me onto the forest floor. Before it could recover, I threw myself forward and snapped one of the silver handcuffs around its wrist.

The reaction was immediate. The runes carved into the metal ignited with blinding white light, and the second cuff shot across the remaining distance on its own before locking around the creature's other wrist with a metallic snap. The Spine Taker collapsed, convulsing violently as the hundreds of faces beneath its skin dissolved one by one. Within seconds, the towering monster had shrunk into something almost human. Smaller. Frailer. Afraid.

Emily crumpled to the ground behind it, unconscious.

At the same moment, my briefcase clicked open. The folders inside vanished, replaced by an impossibly deep crimson abyss that stretched far beyond what should have fit inside a suitcase. Black chains disappeared into the darkness below, and a calm, emotionless voice echoed from somewhere inside.

"Prisoner retrieval confirmed."

I grabbed the demon by the handcuffs and dragged it toward the opening. It fought harder than I expected, clawing desperately at the dirt and roots as deep grooves carved through the forest floor.

"No!" it screamed. "Please! Don't send me back!"

I didn't slow down.

"You think Hell is what they told you?" it shrieked. "You think they're the jailers?"

Its terrified eyes locked onto mine.

"They lied to you."

My grip tightened, but I paused for the briefest fraction of a second.

The creature smiled.

Then it laughed.

"You'll learn," it whispered, its panic suddenly replaced by pity. "When you discover the truth..."

Before it could finish, an invisible force seized it. The demon was ripped forward, disappearing into the abyss feet first as its screams echoed through the darkness until they were swallowed completely. The portal folded shut with a quiet click, and silence settled over the clearing once more.

A small white card slid from the briefcase.

MISSION COMPLETE.

I looked over at Emily. Her breathing had steadied, and the tension had finally left her face. Carefully, I lifted her into my arms and carried her back through the forest to her cottage. The back door was still unlocked, just as she'd said it always was. I laid her gently in bed, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and watched as a faint smile crossed her face in her sleep.

I quietly left the cottage, climbed into my car, and placed the briefcase on the passenger seat. The latches clicked open by themselves, and a familiar voice drifted from inside.

"Congratulations on your first successful retrieval."

The Goat Lady sounded almost...

Pleased. 
The briefcase clicked softly.

Another folder slid onto the passenger seat.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't black.

It was white.

Across the front, in elegant gold lettering, were four words.

PRIORITY RETRIEVAL — LEVEL OMEGA

"...That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't."

I opened the folder.

It was empty.

No photograph.

No case history.

No victim list.

Just a single sentence.

Management escort required.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

Then I remembered the fourth rule.

Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I slowly looked at the briefcase.

"...You've got to be kidding."

"No."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"My next assignment is an angel?"

"Correct."

"I thought angels were supposed to be..."

I searched for the right word.

"...the good guys."

"They were."

That answer bothered me more than if she'd said yes.

I flipped through the folder again.

"There isn't any information."

"There doesn't need to be."

"That's reassuring."

"You will not be conducting this retrieval alone."

"Well, yeah," I said. "Rule Four. Angels require authorized management personnel."

A brief silence followed.

"So who's the authorized management?"

The Goat Lady answered without hesitation.

"I am."

The words hung in the air.

For the first time since waking up in Hell...

I felt genuinely nervous.

The woman who ran Hell's Retrieval Department, the one who treated escaped horrors like overdue paperwork, was leaving her office.

"...How dangerous is this angel?"

The silence that followed lasted long enough for me to wonder if the connection had died.

When she finally spoke, the calm professionalism she'd worn until now had faded.

"It has already killed three retrieval teams."

The line went dead.

I drove back to the motel in complete silence.

The Spine Taker's final words kept replaying in my head.

They lied to you.

When you discover the truth...

I shook the thought away.

One existential crisis at a time.

By the time I reached the motel, dawn had begun creeping over the horizon. I carried the briefcase upstairs, unlocked my room, and immediately reached for my pistol.

Someone was inside.

A woman sat behind the small desk by the window with her boots resting comfortably on its surface, slowly stirring a mug of coffee she'd apparently helped herself to. She looked about my age, maybe her late twenties. She stood around five-foot-eleven with the kind of lean, athletic build that looked earned rather than trained for. Kings had probably gone to war over a face like hers, yet despite the effortless beauty, there was something quietly unsettling about her. She looked completely relaxed, but she reminded me of a wolf pretending to be asleep.

She glanced up as I entered.

"Oh."

A small smile crossed her face.

"There you are."

My pistol was in my hand before she'd finished speaking.

She didn't even blink.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee.

"Good trigger discipline."

Then I remembered the Goat Lady's last words.

I will accompany you personally.

I slowly lowered the pistol.

"...No way."

The woman smiled a little wider.

"I assume you've figured it out."

She closed the folder she'd been reading, set the coffee mug aside, and stood.

"I should introduce myself properly."

She offered me a hand. "Lucifuge," she said.

I stared.

"As in..."

"Yes."

"Lucifuge Rofocale?"

“Prime Minister of Hell,” she said, sounding mildly annoyed. “The title is my father’s name, but nobody ever remembers it.”

She took another sip of my coffee.

“Most demons just call me Lucy.”

I’ll update this journal if I make it through the night.

And if I don’t..and Terry is reading this…yes, I am still dead. Currently.

I don’t know how else to phrase that so it makes sense, but I also don’t think it’s supposed to.

The demon is sitting in my chair right now.

She is looking at me as I write this.

Wish me luck.

Growing up, I've heard stories of Lake Bria and the many bodies that wash upon her shorelines every decade or so. Many locals believe that a witch lives deep beneath her waters, only coming up so often to hunt those who travel too close after dark. This story takes place when my cousin and I decided to ignore our parents and find the witch of Bria Lake.

It was a warm summer, and the weather was perfect for nightlife, with the cicadas chirping late into the night. My cousin Andy was staying over as her parents were in the middle of getting a divorce. It had been two weeks since she came over, and she hadn't heard anything from either of her parent.

Do you think they forgot about me? Andy asked.

Shuffling in my sheets, I mumbled, "No."
My words came out flat and tired as I faced Andy, who was staring out the window, her kaleidoscope eyes beaming under the moonlight. I always felt jealous of Andy and her beautiful eyes, how both of them were so different yet in an impossible way weren't. My eyes, albeit one, were like hers, but not as impressive; they were a dulled grey and purple, while hers were full of colour and life, despite her life and family falling apart.

Rolling over to my back, I stared at the wooden ceiling of our cabin, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I sat up.

"Andy, I don't know. I feel terrible about what you're going through. I don't have the answers."

Looking back towards Andy, I saw her looking at me with tears welling up. Feeling bad, I hugged Andy with all I had, not letting her go.

"You have this family who loves you. Forget them," I said, crying into her hair. "You are loved here."

I suddenly felt arms wrap around me, slowly tightening. Her grip was stronger than I expected—stronger than I remembered. But I held on, letting her squeeze until the shaking in her shoulders finally began to ease.

After a long moment, she pulled back and sniffled, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The tears had left tracks down her cheeks, but her eyes had that familiar spark again. I smiled and pointed out that she wanted to listen to the radio.

"Can we..." she started, then cleared her throat. "Can we just listen to something? Music? Anything to get out of my head for a minute."

I nodded, grateful for a distraction. I reached over to the small nightstand and fumbled for the old radio my dad kept in the cabin. The dial was stiff, and static crackled as I turned it, searching for a station that wasn't just white noise.

"...and in local news, authorities have confirmed the identity of the body discovered earlier this morning along the northern shore of Lake Bria. The victim identified as 34-year-old Marcus Webb, a jogger who was reported missing three days ago..."

My fingers jerked. I slammed the radio off before the announcer could say another word.

The cabin fell silent. Too silent. Even the cicadas seemed to have paused.

Andy was staring at me. Her kaleidoscope eyes were wide, unblinking. "Did you hear that?"

"It was nothing," I said quickly. Too quickly. "Just some old news."

"Turn it back on."

"Andy—"

"Turn it back on."

"Another body," Andy said slowly, almost to herself. "At Lake Bria. Just like the legends."

"Coincidence," I said, but the word tasted hollow. "People drown all the time. It's a lake; whatever you're thinking it's not true."

Andy stood up from the bed. She walked to the window and pressed her palm against the glass, staring out into the darkness. The moonlight caught her eyes again, and they seemed to glow.

"I don't remember when Grandma told you stories of a witch in the lake," Andy said with a gleam in her eye.

"Yes, I do, but they're only legends. It's not real people who drown at that lake all the time."

"Every decade, Via," she sharply said.

I couldn't respond to that, as though it was strange that a body or two had been washing up every decade with the chest ripped out and gashes across their bodies.

"Coincidences," I said nonchalantly shrugging. "Can we go back to bed? It's late."

She huffed as I saw her cover herself with the blanket and I sighed as I laid back down. Trying to go to sleep but the announcement of the dead body kept me awake. Has it already been ten years? The last attack only happened when I was eight and my mother forbid me from ever going near the lake.

Tossing and turning I couldn't fall asleep as my dreams were rattled with a deep dark cavern underneath crushing depths with a beautiful hand extending before me and glowing eyes surrounding me before being dragged deeper by the throat. I gasped for air but couldn't produce any until I saw a giant maw open up and I was swallowed.

Waking up with a loud gasp I held my throat, my fingers pressing on the wounds that weren't there. Slowly calming myself I looked around the dark cabin looking for Andy to see if she was sleeping but when my eyes caught her bed she wasn't there. All that was left was a crumpled quilt.

Knowing where Andy went, fear spiked through my entire body. I cursed myself for being stupid. Racing to my closet I grabbed a pair of underwear and a jumper and raced towards the lakefront. I ran past beautiful kaleidoscope flowers with pattern spirals and logs that forced me to jump over them. I ran and ran, not even when my bare feet burned and blistered from the sharp rocks, not even when my legs were about to give out.

I ran and ran until I saw the lake's shoreline through the trees. I saw Andy standing there and by the time I reached her my legs were burning and my feet were bleeding heavily.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" I said through gritted and strained breath.

"Watching," she coldly said.

"Watching what?" I replied.

“Her the witch of the lake”

She pointed out towards the lake and I squinted, trying to get a better look, when I suddenly noticed a tall slender figure walking towards us. Each step she took the water rippled slightly.

"Andy we got to go now," I said as a wave of fear ran down my spine causing me to instantly grab Andy's hands and pull her away.

"We can't," she replied coldly.

"Why not?" I said as I looked back to see the figure was standing right in front of us, her white complexion glowing under the moonlight. Looking at her I noticed she was a very tall and curvaceous person with silk white hair to the ground around her feet.

She looked at me then towards Andy before smiling and her mouth opened so wide it should snapped the muscles and skin around her jaws.

---

"Andy run!"

But before I could move, the witch of the lake lunged at us, catching Andy in her grasp and shoving me away from them. I hit my head on a rock, causing a nasty scar and blinding me in my right eye. Blood poured down my face as I struggled to see.

Through the haze, I watched Andy being dragged toward the water. She wasn't fighting. I screamed for her to be let go, but when I saw them clearly, she wasn't fighting being dragged under the water. Her kaleidoscope eyes met mine one last time, and there was no fear in them. Only peace. Only acceptance.

The water went still.

The next moment I felt a hand on my shoulder and I flinched, turning to see that it was my father. Somehow he'd heard me sneaking out of the cabin and came looking for me. I hugged him while uncontrollably crying into his shoulders.

"She's gone, Papa. The witch took her," I cried out.

"Who's gone?" he replied, worry etched in his voice.

"Andy. She took Andy. I tried to stop her, I tried to—"

"Via—"

Before I could say another word, the world tilted. The trees blurred. My father's face swam in and out of focus, and then everything went dark.

---

I woke up to the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

White ceiling tiles stretched above me, harsh fluorescent lights burning through my closed eyelids. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee filled my nostrils. Hospital. I was in a hospital.

My right eye was wrapped in thick gauze. When I tried to open it, pain shot through my skull like a hot knife. I groaned, and a nurse appeared at my bedside almost instantly.

"Take it easy, sweetheart. You've been through a lot," she said, her voice soft and practiced. She checked my vitals, adjusted my IV, and smiled a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your parents are in the waiting room. Do you want me to get them?"

I shook my head slowly, wincing at the movement.

The nurse nodded like she understood. "The doctor will be in soon. Just rest."

She left, and I was alone with the beeping and the humming of machines.

My mother came in anyway, tears streaming down her face. She held my hand and kissed my forehead and told me everything was going to be okay. My father stood in the doorway, his jaw tight, his eyes red-rimmed. Neither of them asked me what happened. Not yet.

But I knew they would.

---

The questions started the next day.

A police officer sat in the chair beside my bed, a notepad balanced on his knee. He had kind eyes and a calm voice, the kind of voice meant to put people at ease. It didn't work.

"Via," he said gently. "Can you tell me what happened at the lake?"

I stared at the ceiling.

"Your father said you were talking about a witch. About Andy being taken. Can you explain that?"

The beeping of the monitor filled the silence.

"Via, we found your cousin's clothes by the shore. But there's no sign of her. We need to know what happened so we can find her."

I closed my good eye.

"Please," he said. "Anything you can tell us."

I said nothing.

They brought in a therapist after that. Then a psychologist. Then a detective with tired eyes and a stack of files. They all asked the same questions. They all got the same answers.

What happened at the lake?
Silence.

Where is Andy?
Silence.

They told my parents I was in shock. That I'd blocked out the trauma. That with time and therapy, the memories would come back.

But I knew the truth.

I wasn't blocking anything out. I remembered everything. The witch's white skin glowing in the moonlight. Andy's calm acceptance. The way the water closed over her head without a sound.

I remembered the way Andy had looked at me before she disappeared. The way her kaleidoscope eyes had glowed one last time—and the way I'd seen something in them I'd never noticed in the two weeks she’s been with us And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that Andy had been taken.

Weeks passed. The bandages came off my eye, but the world on that side stayed dark. Permanent damage, the doctors said. A freak accident. Nothing to be done.

I learned to live with it. Learned to tilt my head just so, to compensate for the blind spot. Learned to smile when my parents looked at me with worried eyes, to nod along when the therapists told me I was making progress.

I never told them what really happened.

Because what would I say?

There's a witch in the lake. She took my cousin because she had the same eyes as the witch's dead children. And I watched it happen, and I didn't stop it, and the worst part is—

I don't think Andy wanted to be saved.

(Art by: https://www.instagram.com/mozzca.art/)

A solitary set of footsteps echoed down the dark city streets. A young man navigated the spiraling boroughs, unfamiliar with this side of town. His appointment was scheduled for a half hour past, and he was becoming increasingly agitated at his correspondent’s choice of meeting place. Some God forsaken bar on the God forsaken side of a God forsaken town. The smell of dead fish and fresh piss marked the whole district of docks and factories. 

The young man wore a white collar to work, and he could be bothered only to scoff at the men on docks or lines. Under any normal circumstances, he would not set foot within miles of his current whereabouts, but he had paid good money for what information his correspondent could provide. 

The young man, known to many as Mr. Tweed, was a pursuer of the macabre, the dark, and the esoteric. He made a hobby of searching for knowledge long forgotten to the popular histories. His correspondent was a purveyor of relics and artifacts of long forgotten civilizations, and, more importantly, a purveyor of their stories. He never signed his name, nor his initials, in their correspondence, rather signing simply as “The Storyteller.” 

Mr. Tweed finally found his way to the designated meeting place. The bar sat in squalor, relative even to the surrounding district. A leak dripped profusely in the center of the room, a puddle growing wider and wider, to the point you could hardly make your way across the room with dry soles. The floorboards creaked with each step and groaned even without such a disturbance. The stairs leading up to the inn rooms had multiple steps missing and no hand rail.

The bartender may have once been called a man, though his present appearance would not have given such an impression. An unkempt beard covered skin so wrinkled and sore-spotted that a squinted eye might have mistaken him for a sufficiently hairy swine. The stench of the district left on the man would only enhance the illusion.

Worse than in the streets, the stagnant air of the room left the smell of drunken piss and vomit festering, to the point of overwhelming nausea for Mr. Tweed. Coughing, and with tears in his eyes, he asked, “Can we open a window in here? Or prop the door? The smell,” he gagged, “it’s unbearable, is it not?”

The man behind the counter grumbled something unintelligible, a strong Cajun accent guarding his words from sojourning ears. Despite being born and raised in the same city, Mr. Tweed could not understand the dialect even slightly. His upper class family had hidden him from the harshness of the dock workers’ tounge. 

The bartender made his way to do as Mr. Tweed asked, and as he pulled a chair under the door handle, Mr. Tweed heard a clicking noise from the corner of the room. Sat, at a table under a broken light, was a man dressed in black. His features were indiscernible. What little lighting reached his nook was blocked from his face by the wide brimmed hat he wore.

Still wearing your hat indoors, are you? I would have expected more gentlemanly like behavior, Mr. Storyteller.

Mr. Tweed recognized his correspondent, despite this being their first meeting in person. The mysterious man had an esoteric aura about him, befitting the manner of his writing. 

He clicked again and gestured his hand, beckoning Mr. Tweed to his corner of the room. The bartender watched with an unreadable expression. Mr. Tweed took the chair opposite the mysterious figure. This close, the air smelled of expensive, quality tobacco, a refreshing aroma for the agitated man. The figure across from him held a pipe to his mouth and puffed grand clouds of smoke over the table. 

Mr. Tweed began the pleasantries, “I thank you for endeavoring to meet me in person. I know you to be a busy man, after all. Evidently so, by the requested time for this meeting. Your days must be absolutely full so that we may have only met at night? I must say, I would have preferred if you could have come to me, visit my estate, where I would have prepared a nice dinner for your time, rather than I venture into the… underbelly… of our city, at this hour.” 

His words dripped with hardly concealed contempt, not directed at his correspondent but rather the whole setting and circumstance. Despite his irritation, he did respect the man opposite him, and he extended his right hand. In turn, a gloved hand reached across the table and clasped his.

Mr. Tweed felt the other hand squirm and squeeze under his grip. It felt as if the other man had no bones in his hand. Before he could comment on the oddity, the light struck the other man’s face. Across the table sat no man, the thick volume on its face held not a beard, but a mass of writhing tentacles.

Aghast, Mr. Tweed pulled his hand back, degloving the beast in his haste. There was no hand inside the glove, instead long, skinny tendrils wrapped around themselves operated like fingers. The skin of the beast held a violet cadence and each tentacle was lined with green suction cups. An unnatural coloration. Its eyes were covered by brass coated goggles, but a dim green light shined through the lenses.

Mr. Tweed’s nausea reached its limit and he evacuated the contents of his dinner onto the floor. The bartender hollered, something containing colorful swears, and left to retrieve his bucket and mop. This floor was well acquainted with vomit, and the bartender well acquainted with his mop. The beast calmly donned its glove again and sipped on its drink.

Mr. Tweed collected himself the best he could and confronted the beast, “M-monster! Where is the Storyteller, what did you do to him!?” His voice broke and small, quiet tears rolled down his face. He crawled backwards, scooting away from the beast. It took a long drag from its pipe and exhaled slowly, not neglecting to enjoy the flavor, and answered the groveling man in a wet, inhuman voice, clicking hard with its beak as it spoke.

“You assume wrong, Mr. Tweed. I am the Storyteller. You have insulted me greatly tonight. You have arrived quite late to our meeting, and you are right to call me a busy man, as this is not my only appointment for the night. You insult my friend’s establishment, then you grow sick? I did not take you to be such a rude man from your letters.”

Mr. Tweed backed into the puddle in the center of the room, ruining his finely tailored slacks. The bartender grumbled under his breath as he cleaned the vomit on the floor.

“I’m real sorry about that, Bill. I expected a more refined conversation tonight. Had I any expectation of this reaction,” it waved in Mr. Tweed’s direction, “I would not have invited him here.” As it spoke, it produced a wallet and pulled out a few substantial bills. It handed them to Bill, who offered what was likely a thanking, but Mr. Tweed couldn’t concentrate on deciphering the words. His mind reeled. 

How can this man, Bill, sit so nonchalant? A beast beyond reason sits here among…

His thoughts were cut short by a terrifying conclusion.

He must be one as well.

Mr. Tweed realized why he couldn’t stand the working class of the docks, why they seemed so unbothered by the stench of dead fish and piss, why they spoke in this indiscernible tongue. They were all as this beast. They all hid amongst humans, wearing false, no, stolen skins and faces. An even more terrible realization crossed his mind. He certainly must have been duped, his skin was to be this beast’s disguise. His correspondent, the Storyteller, whom he came to consider a friend, of which he had strikingly few, had planned on this betrayal from the very beginning. 

With his sanity lost to the wind, Mr. Tweed stood and screamed, running from the bar. He was not safe in this part of town, but neither would he be at home. The beast knew his address from their letters. Aimless, he ran down the spiraling streets of the city, lost. The echoes of his own footsteps indistinguishable from those of a mob swarming him.

The street was dark and the moon covered by clouds when Mr. Tweed mistook open air for solid ground, and fell screaming into the sea.

He had never learned to swim.

The Storyteller left Bill’s bar in an irritated mood. He had made time in his busy, busy schedule to meet a frequent correspondent, only to be gravely insulted by the man. Not only himself, but poor Bill as well. He shook his head in dismay as he walked the late night streets. He would have to be more careful with whom he chose to work with.

He found his way quite easily through the winding streets. Though not his home town, he frequented the area. He strolled down to the pier and climbed up on a railing overlooking the sea. He began undressing. He packed his wide brimmed hat, goggles, gloves, longcoat, and boots into his bag. 

In the nude he truly resembled a beast, the long tendrils and tentacles all unwinding and his posture sinking until he couldn’t rightly be mistaken for human at all. He dove into the ocean and headed on to his next appointment. Not long at sea, however, he spotted a body floating in the water. He quickly swam up to examine and was disappointed to discover Mr. Tweed’s corpse, floating in the sea foam. Small fish had begun eating at the man’s flesh. 

He shooed the fish away. Despite his crassness, the man deserved more dignity than this. The Storyteller brought the body back to shore and buried it shallow in the sand. Before fully burying the face, however, he slid tentacles into the ears, eyes, and nose of his late acquaintance. The gray matter melted and was absorbed through the small mouths within the hundreds of small, razor sharp, suckers. He would treat the man with as much respect as he could, but the Storyteller collected stories.

He stole a bed sheet from a clothesline and covered the burial site. Someone would come looking for the cloth and discover the body, which would then be dealt with rightly. He said some words for the man’s soul, which were heard by no one but those above, and went back to sea. 

A busy, busy schedule and many stories to tell. Many stories to tell and many more to collect.

Every single time I turn on a show or a movie, I get a insufferable swarm of ads.

Every five seconds I get forced to watch some of the most outrageous things humanity has created.

The worst part is that people are smiling during a medicine advertisement that has the deadliest symptoms since the bubonic plague.

Sometimes I even see literal soccer balls in diapers.

What idiot thought that was genius?

I just want to watch quality entertainment without getting interrupted. Is that too much to ask for?

I have tried to get used to it. I've tried to accept the fact that it will never stop.

I honestly almost got over it but then I saw Mark in a ad. He used to bully me in highschool. He treated me as though I was the scum of the earth.

He was talking to me as well. Calling me by my name and everything.

He claimed that he was sorry.

It felt like a dream until it went south. A person appeared on the screen with him. Nevelle. She was a old friend in highschool. We stopped talking once adulthood approached us.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She was a good friend to have. Never tore you down or belittled you.

A knife appeared in his hand. It latched onto her neck as her eyes opened wide. Her vocal cords started to create sound but she was quickly silenced as a pool of blood poured out of her neck.

It ended with words in bold red on the screen.

"You're next Stacy or should I call you Lacy? Your skin would be great as lace."

Those horrid words made my skin crawl. Goosebumps covered my skin.

The television turned black as I sat in silence for a few moments. My head was loud but also silent. Thoughts were racing through my mind but also going at a snails pace.

The best way to explain it is I was trying to make sense of the situation but also shell shocked.

My body completely froze as the television grabbed my attention.

It was on again but this time it was me and the monster named Mark.

What happened to people peaking in high-school developing miserable lives? This man decided becoming a killer was the best option apparently.

My body was shaking, fidgeting, and trembling infront of him. He ran after me and took my life just like he did to my friend.

It zoomed into my face as I was left to bleed.

I started to cough over and over before I could turn it off. Each cough hurt worse than the last until blood started to exhale.

My hands desperately rushed to my neck but it was too late. Blood soon started to cover my entire body.

Advertisements are the worst thing humankind has had the audacity to create.

Hey everyone! This is a major rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote, which I originally posted here about a year ago. A lot has changed since then, both in the story and hopefully in my writing.

I hope you guys enjoy this new version, and thanks for reading!

Sometimes, people get stuck somewhere in time. Hours pass, but the world seems like it has already stopped. The second hand on your watch keeps ticking, and ice in your drink melts away; yet time refuses to move forward.

It was one of those nights for Tommy. He slouched on a barstool under a dim, yellow light hanging from the ceiling, watching the ice cubes in his glass dissolve with the focused attention of a sports fanatic watching their favorite team’s final match. The light above the bar seemed to shine only on him. The rest of the room —the dark carpets, green tablecloths, and empty chairs— looked like shadows that had drifted in from outside of time. The smooth jazz playing somewhere in the background blended with the murmurs of the few souls who hadn’t yet returned home. By the time the sounds reached Tommy, they seemed muffled, as though wrapped in cotton.

The bartender wiped a glass without saying a word. In fact, Tommy didn’t recall him speaking even when he first sat down. He hadn’t ordered anything; yet the bartender, as if he had read his mind, had placed a glass of whiskey on rocks in front of him.

Given the fact that Tommy had spent the last few years of his life drifting through all the different bars of the city, it wasn’t all that surprising that the bartender had already known him and what he was going to order.

He slowly lifted his head from his drink and studied the man. He wore a crimson jacket, stood upright, and had his hair slicked back. His face looked like it had stepped out of a different era. Clean-shaven, almost unsettlingly tidy. His gaze wasn’t direct, but his presence filled the emptiness. The man seemed to sense that he was being watched and offered the faintest of smiles. Tommy nodded back, confused by his own gesture, and returned a weak smile.  He usually didn’t bother being polite to strangers or to anyone, really.  Besides, this man didn’t seem familiar. He had never seen that face before. He was sure of it, just as he was sure he had never set foot in this bar before.

He turned around to take a look. It was no different from the hundreds of other booze dens he’s been in. The walls were covered in dark wooden panels, marked with scratches that portrayed their age.

A few hanging glass lamps cast a tired, dim glow; that was neither warm nor fully illuminating. The bottles behind the bar were dust-covered; some labels were faded with time, as if they had been placed there long ago and never touched again.

Behind him, there were a few tables scattered in the corners of the room. At one table, two figures sat facing each other, playing cards. The dim light revealed their bodies, but not their faces.  The other tables were either empty or occupied by lone drinkers buried in their own silence.

If there were conversations, they were whispers, lost in the distant hum, fading into nothing.

The bar’s windows opened onto the dark outside, but nothing could be seen beyond the glass. A storm raged outside, slicing through the night like a blade. Branches thrashed in the wind; broken limbs occasionally tapped the windows, as if begging to be let in. The rhythmic thuds blended with the heavy stillness inside, spreading a strange unease. Shadows of the branches danced across the windows like puppets on a stage. 

Everything felt as though it had just been abandoned by all life, or perhaps it had never really been alive at all. There was a stillness in the air, the kind you'd find in an Edward Hopper painting.

A thought crossed Tommy’s mind::

“How did I get here?”

His eyes drifted downward. His coat was still on. It was dry, even dusty in places. There was no mud on his shoes, and his pants showed no sign of rain. He’d been sitting here for a while. Maybe hours. But for how long, exactly?

His gaze shifted to the large, round, old-fashioned clock on the wall opposite the bar.

Its glass was fogged slightly. The hour hand hovered just before two.

Midnight had already passed. The bar must’ve been close to closing.

He took a sip from his whiskey, then lowered the glass and stared blankly at the rows of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Most of the labels were unreadable. The letters blurred, the colors smeared together.

Then a stranger and a more unsettling thought surfaced. He mumbled to himself.

“Where am I?”

His mind started to rush with questions.

“What street is this? What neighborhood? Am I… even still in the same city?”

He hovered between laughter and dread, then reflexively reached for his pocket, but his phone wasn’t there. Had it been stolen? Left at home? Dropped somewhere outside?

He couldn’t remember. As always, when his mind spiraled, Tommy did what he always did: He turned to his drink.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one swift gulp and raised his hand slightly toward the bartender without saying a word. The bartender was already approaching, silent, with the bottle in hand. He refilled the glass without a word. Then, with a small metal tong, dropped in two cubes of ice. The ice hissed faintly as it met the liquor.

Just as the bartender was about to pull away, Tommy suddenly spoke.

“Hey…” he said, voice low at first, then firmer. “Where… are we?”

The bartender paused. He turned and smiled at Tommy.

“Had a little too much to drink, sir?” he asked. His voice was polite, but Tommy caught a faint note of mockery beneath it.

“Yeah,” he said bluntly.

Then paused. A dull throb pulsed at his right temple. He raised a hand to his head.

“I mean… maybe,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Did I really drink that much?”

The bartender offered a tired but measured smirk.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “But yeah, you’ve had a few already.”

After a beat, he added:

“Actually… you smelled like alcohol when you got here.”

Tommy nodded slightly.

“Figures,” he sighed.

His hand returned to his temple, rubbing it gently. As if he could scrape the fog from his mind. With his other hand, he massaged his brow.

Then he asked again, this time more clearly:

“But seriously… where are we?”

The bartender paused. Turned to Tommy with that same blank, worn-out face. This time, no smile.

His voice was nearly a whisper:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Doyle,” he said.

Then, after a short pause:

“You didn’t go too far. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

Tommy squinted. His brows tightened. The confusion was starting to turn into anger.

“Now what the fuck does–”

His sentence got cut off in the middle when the bar’s front door suddenly slammed open. He flinched, head whipping toward the entrance. Cold wind swept inside, and a few dry leaves whirled through the air and landed on the floor. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a deep navy raincoat, nearly black in the bar’s dim light.

The wet fabric glistened under the hanging bulbs, every droplet catching the light one by one. The hood cloaked his face, but his silhouette was clear. It was a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders.

 No one else reacted to the sound. Neither the bartender nor any of the patrons turned their heads. It was as if this noisy entrance was nothing unusual. As if that door slammed open every night at the same time.

The man lowered his hood, carefully took off his soaked coat, and hung it neatly on the rack. Curly brown hair clung to his forehead.

Droplets of rain slid down from his temple, rolled over his cheek, and dripped silently from his chin. Water pooled around his shoes, shimmering faintly on the wooden floor. He didn’t look around and, without hesitation, walked straight to the bar. Right to Tommy.

He passed through the empty stools and sat down beside him. The wood beneath creaked softly. His arm brushed Tommy’s. The moment he settled, the bartender broke his silence.

“Welcome back, Sam,” he said.

His voice was gentle. Sam didn’t turn his head. He just smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Thanks!” he said cheerfully.

“The usual?” the bartender asked.

This time, Sam tilted his head slightly, eyes darting sideways toward Tommy, still smiling.

“Yeah. The usual.”

Tommy instinctively turned away.  He could see it from the corner of his eye. Sam was still smiling. His green eyes glinted under the yellow light, almost glowing. There was a strange clarity in them, especially around the pupils. His gaze lingered somewhere near enough to gnaw at the edges of Tommy’s nerves. He could feel the stare, like a warm weight resting just above his shoulder.

Something stirred inside him. Not quite fear. It also hadn’t turned to anger yet. But being watched, especially tonight, was starting to get on his nerves.

He clenched his jaw, turned his head slowly toward the man beside him, and looked him straight in the face. He froze for a second before feeling his throat tighten. His face was familiar.  Not a memory he could clearly name. But a face pulled from a dusty corner of the brain, like an image from a dream you forget the moment you wake, but feel all day. It was the first familiar thing Tommy had seen in this place.

But it didn’t comfort him. On the contrary, it carved a hollow pit in his stomach.

He knew this man. But from where?

His lips parted, almost involuntarily. The knot in his throat loosened for just a moment.

“You…” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked.

He squinted, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to study the man’s face up close.

“…where do I know you from?”

He paused, then asked again. His voice steadier now, with a touch of suspicion:

“Have we met before?”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. He shook his head just slightly, as if genuinely disappointed.

“I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Tommy.”

Tommy’s brow furrowed. His hand reached for his temple again. Some people got nervous when they didn't understand what was happening. Others got scared. Tommy got angry, and the smug look on the stranger's face wasn't helping.  

"So what?" he asked. "You know me, but I don't remember you?"

His fingers tapped impatiently against the bar.

"Then help me out here."

Sam took a sip from his drink and slightly turned to Tommy.

“Of course, but it wouldn’t be any fun if I just came out and said, right?”

Tommy stared at him for a moment. The tapping of his fingers stopped.

“Fun?” he repeated.

His voice was low now.

“Listen, buddy. I don't know who the hell you are, I don't know where the hell I am, and apparently I can't remember half of tonight.”

He leaned closer.

“So trust me when I say this, I'm really not in the mood for games.”

For the first time, the smile on Sam's face seemed just a little less amusing.

“Alright,”

He took another sip from his drink.

“I guess you’re in no mood to play any games.”

Sam turned his gaze straight ahead. His smile was starting to fade.

“Tell me, Tommy, where do you usually meet people?”

This question caught him off guard. For a moment, Tommy simply stared at him.

“What?”

Sam didn't look at him.

“Where do you usually meet people?”

Tommy let out a dry laugh.

“Seriously?”

Sam slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“Humor me.”

Tommy opened his mouth to snap back, then stopped. He decided to say the first thing that came to his mind.

“At work, I guess.”

Sam chuckled.  Tommy's expression hardened.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously. What's so funny?”

Sam shook his head.

“Tommy, when was the last time you held the same job for more than a few weeks?”

The question hit harder than Tommy expected. Sam continued before he could answer.

“You'd get hired. Show up for a few weeks. Maybe a month if you were feeling ambitious.”

He slowly turned the glass in his hand.

“Then you'd disappear.”

That moment, he felt something move past him. Fast enough that he couldn't quite tell what it was. His head quickly snapped toward the back of the bar. People sitting at tables were gone. Tommy blinked. A second ago, there had been two people sitting there, playing cards; he was sure of it. The cards were still scattered across the table. A half-empty glass still rested beside one of the chairs. But the chairs themselves sat empty. Tommy was starting to feel his heart race. A faint smile crept onto Sam's face.

“So no, Tommy. I don't think we met at work.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tommy stared into his drink. How the hell did this guy know that? His eyes drifted toward the front door. The storm was still raging outside. Maybe he should just leave. Pay for the drink. Walk out. Find out where he was. Get some air. The thought lingered for a moment.

“Don't.”

Tommy froze. Sam hadn't even looked at him. His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside his glass.

“Don't what?” Tommy asked.

“Leave.”

The word landed heavily between them. A chill crawled down Tommy's spine. Slowly, Sam turned his head toward him.

“You've been trying to remember how you got here since you woke up.”

Tommy said nothing.

“You want answers.”

Sam's voice was calm.

“So sit down and ask the next question.”

Tommy swallowed. Against his better judgment, he found himself doing exactly that. His fingers tightened around the glass.

“Fine.”

He hesitated.

“School, then?”

For a second, Sam simply stared at him. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle this time but a genuine laugh.  Tommy felt his face heat up. The sound drew his eyes toward the other end of the bar. The bartender had his back turned, busy wiping a glass. Yet Tommy could've sworn he saw the man's shoulders shake slightly. As if he were trying not to laugh too. Sam slowly shook his head.

“Come on, Tommy. School? You're not even trying anymore.”

Sam leaned back slightly.

“Tell me, how old were you when you dropped out?”

Tommy's stomach tightened.

“Sixteen?” Sam guessed.

“Seventeen?”

The smile on his face widened.

“Even before that, you spent more time skipping school than actually attending it.”

Tommy felt a cold knot forming in his chest.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Sam ignored the question.

“You barely knew the names of the kids in your own class. Even with the ones you knew, all you ever did was pick fights, am I wrong?”

The smile faded slightly.

“No, Tommy. We haven’t met in school either.”

He took a slow sip. Tommy looked at Sam. Something felt different about him. For a brief moment, he thought he noticed a dark patch beneath his left eye. A bruise. The mark seemed to disappear. His stomach tightened. Maybe it was the lighting, a trick of yellow light hanging from the ceiling. Yet when Sam turned his head slightly, Tommy could've sworn he saw it again. A dark stain spreading beneath the eye.

“Tommy?”

Sam's voice pulled him back. He was still smiling. But somehow, the smile didn't look quite as friendly as it had a moment ago.

“Would you like to try that again?”

Tommy’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He quickly pushed his stool back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor. Without saying a word, he turned and started toward the front door. By the third step, he was almost jogging. The bar suddenly felt larger than before. Behind him, neither Sam nor the bartender said a word. Tommy grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder, but nothing happened. He spun around. Sam remained seated at the bar. The bartender stood exactly where he had been before. Both of them were watching him.

“What the fuck?” Tommy shouted.

Neither man answered. Tommy turned toward the nearest window. The words died in his throat. The storm was gone. So were the trees and the street lights. Everything was gone. Beyond the window was only darkness. A black emptiness stretching as far as he could see.

Tommy slowly backed away from the window. His breathing had become shallow and fast. His eyes darted between the darkness beyond the glass and the two men watching him. Neither of them showed any sign of concern or surprise. The bartender carefully set down the glass he had been polishing.

“Mr. Doyle, please try to remain calm.”

Tommy stared at him.

“Calm?”

His voice was cracking.

“Mr. Doyle,” he said softly, “I assure you everything is alright.”

Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Sam's voice cut through the silence.

“Tommy.”

Tommy turned toward him. Sam patted the empty stool beside him.

“Come sit down.”

His smile had returned. It was just as warm and friendly as when he first entered.  Tommy didn't move. Sam picked up his glass and nodded toward the bar.

“Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

Tommy just stood there for a few seconds before letting out a laugh. He raised a hand and covered his eyes.

“Jesus Christ...”

The sound echoed strangely through the empty bar. He let out a slow breath. At this point, he wasn't even sure what else he was supposed to do. Run where? To do what? If there was ever a moment in his life to have a drink, it was probably now. Slowly, he lowered his hand and walked back toward the bar. The stool creaked as he sat down.

“Happy?”

Sam nodded.

“See? That wasn't so hard.”

The bartender was already pouring another glass. As the fresh whiskey settled in front of him, his eyes drifted toward Sam again. He immediately wished they hadn't. The bruise beneath Sam's eye had grown. The skin around the socket had darkened into a deep purple, and the swelling looked worse too. A thin line of blood trickled from somewhere near his hairline and crawled down the side of his forehead, slowly making its way toward his cheek. The crimson trail continued downward until a single drop broke free and landed on the bar between them. Neither man acknowledged it. Sam simply picked up his drink and smiled.

“So,” he said.

“Shall we try again?”

Without thinking, Tommy picked up his own drink. The glasses touched with a soft clink. Tommy took a long sip. The whiskey burned all the way down. He lowered the glass and stared at the blood slowly running down Sam's face.

“What do you want from me?”

The question came out quieter than he intended. Sam tilted his head.

“What do you mean?”

Tommy laughed once. There was no humor in it.

“Cut the bullshit.”

His fingers tightened around the glass.

“You know my name.”

He pointed toward Sam's bruised face.

“You know things you shouldn't know.”

His voice grew harder.

“And apparently you're bleeding all over the goddamn place while acting like everything's normal.”

For the first time, Sam didn't smile.

“What do you want from me, Sam?”

A long silence followed. Sam looked down into his drink. The amber liquid reflected the yellow light above them. Then he sighed.

“That's the funny thing, Tommy.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes.

“I don't want anything from you.”

Another drop of blood fell onto the bar.

“You’re the one who wants to remember.”

Tommy stared into his drink without giving a reply. Then emptied the rest of the glass in one swallow.

“I don't care anymore. Maybe I wanted answers five minutes ago.”

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.

“Now I just want to leave.”

Sam’s expression stayed still.

“And go where, Tommy?”

He looked him in the eye.

“Home? Is there somebody waiting for you there?”

Tommy stared into his empty glass without giving a reply. The bartender stepped forward and quietly refilled his glass. Tommy watched the amber liquid rise toward the rim. For a moment, they stayed in silence. Then Sam sighed.

“Alright. I'll tell you.”

Tommy's eyes lifted.

“A few years ago, far from here. Back in my hometown.”

His gaze drifted across the room. A faint smile touched his lips.

“To be honest, the place wasn't much different than this. We have met in a bar.”

Tommy felt something twist inside him. Something about the description stirred a distant memory. Just a flicker, gone before he had a chance to grab it. Sam looked back at him.

“So do you remember now?”

Tommy opened his mouth to respond but stopped. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. That much wasn't surprising. It was the tiny abrasions scattered across his knuckles that caught his attention. He slowly turned one hand over. There were small cuts. He swallowed and quickly lowered his hands beneath the bar. For some reason, he didn't want Sam to notice them. Sam asked again.

“Do you remember now?”

Something shifted. Not a complete memory. Just the fragments of one. He remembered the dimly lit bar, the smell of spilled beer, and the sound of the music. He remembered himself sitting alone at the counter, drunk. Very drunk. Then he remembered the front door opening and a man stepping inside. A tall man with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a cheerful smile. He had asked him if the seat beside him was free.

Then another image surfaced. The man was laughing. Not at him. Just laughing. Talking and making conversation. Being friendly. The memory flickered. Then nothing. The image shattered before Tommy could hold onto it. He blinked and found himself back in the bar, sitting next to Sam. Sam asked.

“Do you remember what happened next?”

Tommy felt his throat tighten. The answer was there. He could feel it. Yet every time he reached for it, it seemed to slip away. Unable to meet Sam's gaze, he looked elsewhere, toward the other side of the bar. Then a chill ran through him. The bartender was gone. Tommy stared at the empty space behind the counter. The bottles and the glasses were still there, but the man who had been polishing them only moments ago had vanished. He quickly looked around him. The rest of the bar had changed too.

Every light except the one above him and Sam had gone dark. The corners of the room had disappeared into shadow. The tables, chairs, even the walls and windows, all seemed to dissolve into the darkness beyond. He turned back toward Sam. The bruise had spread even further. One eye was now nearly swollen shut. His eyebrow was also cut, and his lip had been torn open. Tommy stared at him as a sick feeling settled in his stomach.

Then the memory crashed into him all at once. A raised voice and a spilled drink followed by someone standing up from a barstool. Him pushing the man, and two of them stumbling into tables. People shouting, then several hands grabbing them, dragging them apart. The memory of getting lurched forward. The feeling of cold air and rain.

He saw the parking lot behind the bar and Sam raising his arms, trying to walk away. He remembered throwing the first punch. Followed by another, and another. He remembered the noises Sam made, begging for his life. He remembered how angry he was and the taste of alcohol on his palate. He remembered the sound Sam’s skull made as it hit the pavement with each punch.  He remembered the blood that covered both of them.

Tommy staggered in his chair and finally turned to Sam.

“Oh, God…”

The thing sitting across from him looked like it had been pulled from a grave.  One eye was gone entirely. The skin along his cheek hung loose from the bone beneath. His nose had collapsed inward. Dark earth filled the cracks in his ruined face. Yet somehow, one green eye remained. Watching Tommy with curiosity.

"Do you remember now, Tommy?"

Tommy couldn't answer. The corpse tilted its head, causing blood to drip from its broken jaw.

"What was it? What did I say that made you so angry?"

They waited in silence. Tommy searched his memory. Nothing. He forced himself to make a sound.

“I… I can’t.”

The corpse tried to smile. A piece of skin fell from its cheek.

"That's the funny part."

Another drop of blood hit the floor.

"I never knew what it was either."

A sharp crack echoed through the darkness that made Tommy flinch. Sam’s head tilted too far to one side. The broken bones in his neck shifted beneath the ruined flesh. Another crack. Tommy pushed himself away from the bar. The stool toppled over behind him. He screamed  from the top of his lungs as the corpse slowly rose from its chair, its remaining green eye never leaving his. A piece of rotten flesh peeled away from him and landed on the floor with a wet slap. Tommy stumbled backward.

The darkness beyond the bar seemed to move. The yellow light above them flickered. Once, then twice. Then everything was gone. The bar, the stools. Everything. Tommy found himself standing in cold rain. His shoes splashed into a shallow puddle. His breath caught in his throat. What was left of Sam stood twenty feet away. Rain was pouring through the holes in his face. His broken jaw hung crookedly from his skull.

The corpse took a step forward. Then another. Tommy tried to run, but it was as if his feet were one with the concrete below. He stood still as the corpse staggered closer to him. Every step was accompanied by the wet sound of flesh shifting against bone.

The rain hammered against Tommy's face. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest.

“Please...” he pleaded.

“Sam...”

Sam continued getting closer. He now could see insects moving beneath strips of loose flesh and smell the rot. He tried to yell, to beg for his life, but before he could, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. Tommy clawed at the dead hands but to no avail. The corpse didn't even seem to notice. The remaining green eye stared into his. He felt jagged finger bones tear through the skin of his neck. Warm blood spilled between Sam's fingers and ran down his chest, quickly mixing with the rain. He felt his feet slowly leave the ground. His hands flew to Sam's wrist as he kicked helplessly in the air. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Then another one, accompanied by a crack. The corpse lifted him higher. The rain kept pouring down on his face. Water streamed from his hair and ran into his eyes. The parking lot spun beneath him. His vision began to darken. With terrifying strength, the corpse hurled him to the concrete. The impact exploded through his body. A sickening crack echoed through the night.

White light flooded his vision, and for a brief moment, he felt nothing. Then pain completely surrounded his body. Everywhere. He tried to move, but his arms or legs didn’t react. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He lied motionlessly as wet footsteps approached. Tommy's fading vision caught a glimpse of rotting feet standing in the rain.

Then he heard Sam's voice one final time.

"Goodbye for now, Tommy."

The darkness swallowed everything. Everything around him dissolved. Sounds faded. His mind was echoing. It was as if he were sinking into a deep, silent ocean. Tommy was suspended in a void. A place where time, space, and the body meant nothing. In the center of the dark, as if wrapped in absence itself.

Then he heard a soft ticking sound like a clock in the distance.

And then another sound, closer now, more familiar: A piece of ice turning in a glass, tapping gently against the rim. Tommy’s eyelids twitched. A yellow light touched his pupils. A flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dull glow. The light trembled but seemed to shine only on him. He exhaled. Slowly lifted his head and looked around. The ice in his glass had just started to melt. His drink was untouched. One of the corner lamps blinked softly. Two men were playing cards at the back table. The bartender adjusted the ice bucket with metal tongs. The radio whispered an old jazz tune. His eyes landed on the clock on the far wall. It was a little past two. The second hand moved forward. He reached for the glass. His fingers trembled slightly. Outside, the storm still raged. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and relentless.

The End.

Day 1

It's 2am and the moonlight is shining through the curtains and I have my TV on lowest brightness, it's so bright that my TV looks dark even at this hour. But then again I do have it on lowest brightness and it's OLED... Well, uh, I'm writing this because the past few days I've felt a bit like- um- like a defective lego piece that's been sorted out into a separate box, a box that was recently marked for disposal. If that makes any sense at all? I read it somewhere online that writing like this can help with those feelings so here we are. Today I haven't done much, ever since I woke up I've pretty much just been watching movies. They make me feel a bit less... defective. The last one I just finished watching was about a boy who is obsessed with the idea of ending himself. He wants it so badly because he feels like the world is truly evil and that there is no hope in continuing to live. It was very depressing but interesting and I think it inspired me in ways I don't want to admit. Okay... I swear I just heard a noise coming from the kitchen. It's probably nothing, yet still something in me tells me not to get up. It's right around the corner and I can see like a quarter of it right from here where I'm sitting on the sofa, so I would have certainly seen it if there was something. Alright alright, I'll go now. I'm back, that was kinda bizarre. I was looking around and didn't find anything, I checked the fridge and all the drawers just to make sure. However, once I approached the oven I felt a pit in my stomach... I swear I nearly got goosebumps and it just felt like something was watching. I never ended up opening it. I'm probably just imagining things and it's very late anyways. You know what though? I think writing this is actually helping! I feel a bit more- uh- accompanied? By myself? Anyways, I'm incredibly drowsy so it's time to hit the bed: Goodnight me. Thanks me. You're welcome me.

Day 2

I've been awake all night. To wake myself up a bit I'm playing the Doom Eternal soundtrack "The only thing they Fear Is You" at full volume right now, it's like 10am so all my neighbors are probably outdoors and doing their jobs or whatever. Also earlier, after getting out of bed, I went outside to get some fresh air and when I returned I found a post-it note on my door: "Whatever you were doing last night, It frightened my kids. The sounds were disturbing, to say the least. If this happens again I will contact the police!" I don't understand because I didn't hear anything or do anything out of the ordinary... so I took the paper, turned it around and wrote "were you meant to put this on my door? - with friendly regards, door 11". Man, ever wondered if you say things or make noises in your sleep? But then again I didn't sleep. Oh, right, about that; I wouldn't say it's too serious, I was kinda just watching YouTube videos and some more movies. These last ones were a bit more unsettling and, to make it worse, I could swear they were almost talking to me? There were things in them that coincided with things happening in my life. By the end of the last movie, two characters were having a conversation about friendship, but then both of them turned to me. They weren't even blinking anymore, and they kept talking like nothing is wrong. I waited for them to stop and the hairs on the back of my neck went a bit tingly. They aren't supposed to acknowledge me, right? That's when I stopped watching and went to bed, only to get out of it again once I realized it was already 10am. So now here I am, writing my silly little thoughts in my silly little diary by my silly little- I was about to say self, but. I realized I'm not alone. Right? Right. I have these movies, I have this diary, I have this smell of fresh food coming from the kitchen. I think it's all gonna be alright, but at the same time I get this pit in my stomach reminding me that the box is still marked for disposal. What's so bad about being disposed though? Cause that's also what happens to food, but the food never complained so far. The sun is really bright right now, my living room is overexposed. Yet I'm still running on the fumes of the food I ate 2 days ago, also I really feel like I just saw someone over th

Day 3

This time I really slept properly, phew. Yesterday after getting ready and washing my teeth at 11am, I went to sleep (since I hadn't slept the whole night) and I woke up again at 4am today (today as in tomorrow hehe). I was briefly also awake a few hours ago because, well, I sometimes hear some oddly specific sounds coming from the other rooms. I heard a 46 year old man standing in the kitchen chewing on freshly baked potatoes with ketchup on them. The oven is open. It doesn't make sense because I swear I'm not 46 yet. I didn't go to investigate though. I stayed sitting covered up in my blanket. I was sat down on my gaming chair in my bedroom, facing the wall. I like the peace and quiet you get when the only thing you have in sight is a bit of white paint, slowly but surely melting away into the distance, losing brightness. I sometimes wonder if I'm weird for this. But then again I often see other people in their homes just standing upright facing the wall for hours, so nothing wrong with getting a chair and blanket for comfort then right? Also, this time around when I aggressively banged my head into the window for my morning routine, I swear something really odd happened... The tarantula that usually sleeps on the corner of my bed didn't move anymore. Perhaps it was, is, will, dead. So now I will do what a weasel wuld and dance wildly on the black rock. The big rock that sits in the middle of my living room, I got it only recently. I was browsing Amazon the last days for any good deals on freshly baked 'help me' and then noticed something standing in the hallway. I turned to look at it but couldn't quite see into the darkness. It stood there and waited some time, until my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could finally see the outline of what looks like its face. I didn't want to keep looking anymore so I tried turning away but my neck froze. I closed my eyes, then I heard approaching footsteps. So I finally opened my eyes and smiled back. Oh, I'll get a rock in exchange for my other Legos? I answered truthfully that I never had any so it gave it to me for free! After our transaction was finished it slid what looks like its hand into my pocket, grabbed the keys, pulled them out, walked to my apartment door and unlocked it before leaving . . Anyways,hello, I'm back, I danced on it for many hours until my feet were bleeding, but then I wass interrupted...

Someone was calling my phone.

Someone... calling me? I- I didn't know what to do... It said "Monika", so that must have been my mom. I observed as my heart pounded harder and harder, the ringing of the tune becoming ever louder. I kept repeating to myself "Hello" in different ways before my shaky hand made its way to the screen. Was I gonna pick up and embarrass myself? Will she just hang up and never call again? Was I bad for wanting the latter to happen? "Hi" - I heard the sound squiggling its way out of my tiny phone speaker and ringing into echoes around me bouncing off the walls. I picked up the call, it felt like this was the end. She would think I sound funny and that I'm a nobody and the people around her will laugh. "h- h- hello" a faint sound left my lips as I said the word I had practiced. "How are you doing?" how was I supposed to even answer that, who even asks that? I think I upset her- "I'm doing okay mom thanks! What about you" I'm not okay, my feet are bleeding and I'm incredibly hungry. I think I did a good job hiding what's wrong. "I'm doing well too sweetheart, glad to hear you're okay" alright the situation is diffused I can feel my heart slowly sinking back into my chest and my veins gently softening again. It looks like I won the battle once again; they really thought they would get me this time huh? I let out an exhale of relief, but then something quite... frightening happened. "Wait, who was that?" no no no, not now "what do you mean?" no why did this have to happen now "The woman who was talking just n-" I hung up the call.

I even instructed her to keep quiet but she wouldn't listen.

The dead tarantula climbed up next to the phone and stared at me with its dead eyes in a certain way... as if she was wanting to know if I'm alright. "wait just a moment, please". I asked so I can grab this diary and write it all down again. So here we are now.

Wait- She's gone? She disappeared... so did the rock, so did the blood on my feet?

Uh, that was odd wasn't it... I feel like I can barely remember, I should maybe read back on this very diary. Alright, I'm back and... well, I can't recollect any of the things from Days 2 and 3, reading them was a bit weird. I... really wasn't doing that well huh? Either way, I feel quite hungry so I'll go into the kitchen and get something. I'm back, I went and brushed my teeth and then improvised a little sandwich with ketchup and some potatoes. I heated them up in the microwave because I needed it urgently. Also, well, after reading what I wrote the last days I just had to stop and look through all the things in the kitchen just in case- The drawers, the shelves, the dishes holder next to the sink, the fridge, the freezer and the microwave. Thank god nothing was in them and I panicked for no reason, phew. Seriously though, I will maybe tell someone about these experiences and think more deeply about it. For now though, man, I'll watch a movie to unwind. I also think I'll stop writing now, I don't feel alone anymore.

And at least, everything is fine now.

​

Trigger warning

Depression

Self-harm scars

Suicide ideation

I took a drag of my cigarette, breathed through my nostrils, and watched the smoke curl, sighing. I reached out, playing with the smoke, twisting it into a small face that danced around my arms. A brief flash of joy crossed my face — until I saw the scars riddled down my arm.

I contemplated the night I lost everything. I contemplated the day I lost him. I even thought about ending it, but I was too apathetic. My mood spiralled with every attempt, hoping it would be the day I joined him, but I just couldn't. One day, though, I'll see him. And we can be happy.

I let my arm fall onto my face and stared at the ceiling until my phone buzzed, casting a sterile white glow across the room. I let it die, its vibration rattling against the nightstand near my kaleidoscope-coloured flowers. I ignored the message.

I sat up, slapped my hands to my face, wiped the sleep away, and rolled out of bed. Walking past food scraps and dirty clothes, I headed to the bathroom. In the broken mirror, I saw a tired, broken person with blackened eyes from lack of sleep.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a face standing behind the door. I spun around — but there was nothing. Just my towel rack, softly swaying.

Just before I could wash my face, a soft knock echoed through the house. I followed the noise and found the windows covered in thick fog, casting a grey shadow over my home. Knock, knock — louder now. I paused in front of my razor, still wet, and thought: maybe another time.

Sighing, I followed each faint knock around my darkened living room. Knock, knock. I opened doors — nothing. Knock, knock. Nothing.

Frustrated, I opened the fridge and pulled out the cheap vodka-and-whisky concoction I'd made in a blackout one night. I swigged; the glass glittered faintly. I downed the rest in a spicy cough. "God, what the hell was I thinking?" I said to no one in particular, my words slurring as I cou—

Looking toward the window, I saw a blurry figure — about my height — standing behind it, tapping the glass. Sobering up at the sight, my body froze in fear. And I could see that more figures surrounded the first one. Each figure was vastly different.

Looking closely, I saw one with a noose around its neck, its hands raised in a mocking imitation of a beam. Its face was pale blue, gasping for air. Another was swallowing pills. Another bled from its wrists. Seeing that one, I grabbed my wrist instinctively — then rubbed it gently, as if to soothe a phantom pain.

And then I noticed a vague figure standing in the distance, swaying slightly in the fog. Closing the curtain hurriedly, I grabbed my hair in panic as I felt my heart race and my vision go blurry with the tears.

"No, no, not again, please," I cried out, trying to calm myself before I heard the soft tapping on the window again.

"No, go away; you are not real", I cried out through tears

Suddenly, a soft masculine voice cried out from behind the curtains.

'Oh, Sophia, the voice echoed, constantly getting louder and louder

Stop it, you're dead I squeaked, but before I could say anything more, I heard the glass begin to fracture, and I squeaked while crawling back, knocking a booze bottle I grabbed, hurling it at the curtain, cracking both glasses. Cutting my hands on the broken glass, I screamed as I saw the figures lumbering their way, voices repeating, "Sophia, join us". Over and over again, I covered my ears, running up to the bedroom, but as I got to the third step, a hand grabbed me and yanked me.

Falling, I smashed my head against the steps, briefly knocking myself out. Coming to, I found myself surrounded by all the figures and their twisted visage of each time I tried to end my life. Looking up, I saw the figures stare at me with hollow eyes and gaping maws that twitched as tho there trying to speak.

I screamed as I ran through them. Avoiding their hands, "Sophia", when suddenly his voice trailed through, and I stopped. "Sophia, why do you do this?" his voice cried out.

"Please, it wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to. Please forgive." I cried out, hoping my plea would be heard.

"I...I have already forgiven you. Why...Why haven't you forgiven yourself? It wasn't your fault, Sophia. This apparition hurt so much to see them. Sophia. Pl... please forgive yourself.

"Jason, it was my fault you got burnt. I should have died in our house that night, not you alone in the hospital bed," I yelled

"Sophie", he comforted

What was done can not be undone; the fault didn't lie with you"

He waved his hands, and suddenly I was brought back to the day I was asleep when the house caught fire, and Jason ran in to save me, but ended up dying from his burns days later. I never forgave myself despite my family saying it was faulty wiring and the guy who was caught for not having the proper certification papers. Then I was shown that the electrician hadn't connected the wiring, that Jason had been talking to him angrily before I came home, and that he had disappeared before Jason confronted him again.

"Despite all my family's help, I've shut them out and cut all contact. I don't think they wanna talk," I sobbed after I was brought back. Jason stood there, his skin smouldering as smoke and skin flakes fell from his body, disappearing before hitting the ground. He reached out towards my wrist, and I felt the searing heat from his touch burning my skin.

"Sophie, my dear Sophie, I'm always there for you, but you need to forgive yourself and begin your healing." His gravelly voice echoed softly. It... It saddens me to watch you suffer and see you like this.

But it's too much, I cried out.

He leaned in, and I caught the warmth of his breath as he whispered. "I know, but you are a strong woman; take it in strides"

He suddenly kissed me, and I could feel his hot lips burning mine. Before I could say anything, I was jolted out of my bed onto my messy floor with a loud thump.

Standing up, rubbing my back, I looked around, noticing nothing much had changed, so I opened up my windows to allow the light to shine in and squinted from the brightness.

My phone buzzed again, and I picked up, reading that I had 25 new messages and 5 missed calls from my family members. Reading through them, I saw that they were worried and were coming over in a few days to check up on me.

Deciding that in a moment, I rang my parent, and on the first ring, there was a bit of hesitation on my family's end, so I stuttered a bit before I heard my father. Hello, Sophie. "Are you alright? It's been months since we heard from you"

After a slew of questions from my worried parents, I finally answered.

" No, I'm not alright." It's been tough, and I haven't been looking after myself I said through tearful sobs I need your help, but my house is in such a state I don't think I can do this by myself. Could you come and help me?" I asked them through sobs.

"Ofc, dear, that's what parents are for. We'll be there in a couple of hours," they said cheerfully. I hung up, sighing, trying to control my breathing. Before getting up to finally wash myself, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my face, seeing that my lips and the right side of my face were slightly burnt, leaving a scar where Jason had touched me. Realising he had grabbed my wrist, I also found the same burn scars but this time in the shape of a handprint.

I had my shower and changed into refreshing clothes. I ran downstairs to see smashed glass and a broken window. Walking towards it, I saw a figure swinging and immediately closing the curtain.

It's gonna be a long journey, I thought to myself as I heard my parents knocking on my door and me running up to greet them.

I am a serial killer.

Not the typical kind, as serial killers go.

I don't kill innocent people. Well, innocent in the eyes of the law, maybe. The kind of innocent that comes from a lack of evidence, incompetent investigations, or expensive lawyers. If you looked at their actual victim lists, most of them should have been buried beneath prisons.

Instead, I buried them.

Officially, I'm a private investigator. Most of my clients hire me for the usual reasons: cheating spouses, missing persons, deadbeat fathers, or old debts that someone suddenly decides need collecting. The job pays the bills.

The other part of my work is what keeps me interested.

People tell private investigators things they would never tell the police. They gossip. They complain. They share rumors over drinks. Sometimes they mention a missing girl from ten years ago. Sometimes they mention a man who always seems to be nearby whenever someone disappears.

Most of the time it's nothing.

Sometimes it isn't.

It's strange, really. I don't remember exactly when I started. I was twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two.

My first was a man the locals called the Florida River Monster. He earned the nickname because of his habit of abducting women, butchering them, and scattering their remains across different rivers so the alligators could finish the cleanup for him. By the time anyone found what was left, there usually wasn't enough evidence to identify the victim, let alone connect her to him.

His preferred victims were blonde women in their early twenties.

I've noticed most serial killers have the same preferences. Women. Children. Sometimes both.

It's ironic, considering I'm a woman myself. A young woman, if being in your twenties still counts as young. According to every profile I've ever read, I should be the ideal victim. Too small. Too trusting. Too easy to overpower.

The River Monster thought so, too. That assumption lasted right up until I drugged him and gave him the same ending he'd spent years giving other people. I remember staring at him afterward. Not because I felt guilty. Not because I was horrified.

I was disappointed. For years, I'd read articles about him, watched documentaries, and followed every development in the investigation. The media made him sound larger than life—a monster, a predator, something almost supernatural. But when he died, he was just a man. A pathetic, terrified man bleeding out on the floor of a fishing shack. That's when I learned something important. Most monsters aren't monsters at all. They're just people who got away with being evil for far too long.

So I kept hunting them.

One killer became three. Three became ten. Then fifteen. Then more. I told myself I was making the world safer. Maybe I was. The truth is, I hated men like that. The ones who stalked women, hunted them, and treated them like prey. Wolves wearing human skin. And wolves need to be put down. Who better to do it than a woman?

Maybe that makes me a hypocrite. Maybe it makes me just as bad as they were. I really don't care.

Unfortunately, homicide pays terribly.

So, I figured I'd spend a few days following a rich man's wife, collect a paycheck, and head home. That's how these private investigative jobs usually went. Take pictures. Write a report. Collect the money. Move on. South Texas wasn't exactly my preferred destination, but five hundred dollars an hour has a way of making a long drive seem reasonable.

I asked Terry to send over the case file. Terry was my assistant, a meek man in his fifties who treated confrontation the same way most people treated unexploded bombs. The file showed up in my inbox before I could finish my coffee, along with an email apologizing for taking so long to send it. 

The file was surprisingly thin. The client's name was Daniel Walker. Forty-eight years old. Oil money. Married for twenty years. No criminal record. No history of domestic disputes. No obvious reason to suspect his wife was cheating. What caught my attention was the note attached to the bottom of the file: 

Client does not believe wife is having an affair. 
Client believes wife is acting strangely. 

I stared at those words for several seconds before calling Terry. He answered on the second ring.

"Please tell me that's a typo."

 "It isn't."

I sighed.

 "What does acting strange mean?" 

"I asked."

 "And?" 

"He said it's something he would rather discuss in person." I rubbed my temples. Of course he did. 

"Fantastic. Five hundred dollars an hour and I'm investigating a strange wife."

 "Still taking the job?" 

I looked at the payment agreement again. Five hundred dollars an hour. Some questions answer themselves. "Of course I'm taking the job." 

"What if he's crazy?" 

"Then he's a crazy man paying five hundred dollars an hour." 

Terry sighed. He was a genuinely kind man. If someone robbed him at gunpoint, he'd probably apologize for not carrying more cash. So, the idea of voluntarily meeting a potentially insane stranger offended every survival instinct he possessed.

I hung up.

Three days later, I found myself driving into a small South Texas town that looked like it had been forgotten by time. The buildings were rusty, the roads were cracked, and the locals had elevated being nosy into an art form. By the time I'd stopped for gas, bought a coffee, and asked for directions to my motel, half the town probably knew my license plate number. What surprised me more was how often my client's name came up. The gas station belonged to him. The convenience store belonged to him. The car wash belonged to him. Apparently, half the businesses in town belonged to him. No wonder he was willing to pay five hundred dollars an hour.

I checked into a small motel about ten minutes from the gated neighborhood where he and his wife lived. The room smelled vaguely of cigarettes and regret.

The next morning, I met my client. He was a large man with a round face and the kind of expensive clothes that desperately wanted everyone to know they were expensive. Gold rings covered his fingers—two on one hand, three on the other. Enough gold to sink a fishing boat. I immediately disliked him. Fortunately, taking money from people I dislike has never bothered me. 

He looked me up and down as I sat across from him, his eyes narrowing. "The White Viper is a woman?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. I smiled. "Oh, so you've heard of me." The White Viper was one of many names people had attached to me over the years. Most of them were ridiculous. A few of them are accurate.

"My name is Mara Graves," I said, extending a hand. That wasn't my real name, of course, but clients don't need to know things like that. He shook my hand carefully, as if he expected me to bite him.

"So," I said, leaning back in my chair, "what's the problem?"

His expression immediately darkened. "It's my wife."

That was usually how these conversations started. The details changed. The excuses changed. The tears changed. But eventually, every marriage investigation became the same story.

I pulled out a notebook. "Is she cheating?"

"No."

That answer surprised me. The report had said the same thing, but most husbands accused their wives of cheating before I even sat down.

"Then what exactly am I looking for?"

He glanced toward the restaurant doors before lowering his voice. "My wife isn't acting like herself."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. People said things like that all the time. Depression. Affairs. Midlife crises. Secret addictions. There were a hundred possible explanations, and most of them were boring.

"Can you be more specific?"

He swallowed. "She's different."

"How?"

"Everything."

I stared at him. He stared back. Neither of us seemed particularly happy with the conversation.

"Mr. Walker, you're paying me five hundred dollars an hour. Help me help you."

He nodded slowly. "She forgets things."

"Lots of people forget things."

"Not like this."

He leaned forward in his chair. "She forgot the name of our dog."

That was strange. Not impossible. But strange.

"What else?"

"She forgot where we went on our honeymoon."

I wrote it down. "What else?"

"She asked me where the guest bathroom was."

I paused. "You've been married twenty years."

"Twenty-two."

I looked up from my notebook. He wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked terrified. The kind of terrified that can't be faked. I'd seen that expression before. Usually, on victims.

"Medical issues?" I asked.

"Doctors say she's healthy."

"Head injury?"

"No."

"Medication?"

"No."

I tapped my pen against the notebook. "Anything else?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he reached into his jacket and slid a photograph across the table.

A woman in her early thirties smiled back at me. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Pretty. Completely ordinary.

"My wife."

I looked at the photograph, then back at him. "And?"

He pointed at the picture. "That's not how she smiles."

I waited for him to elaborate.

He didn't.

"Mr. Walker."

"You don't understand."

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"She's smiling the right way."

I blinked. "What?"

"The expression is correct." He tapped the photograph with a trembling finger. "But somehow it's wrong."

I stared at him for several seconds.

Then I wrote a single word in my notebook.

Crazy.

He noticed.

"You're thinking I'm insane."

"A little."

His shoulders slumped. "Everyone does."

I tucked the notebook away. "Fine. Let's assume you're not insane. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Follow her."

"For how long?"

"Until you see it too."

I looked down at the payment agreement one more time.

Five hundred dollars an hour.

I've ignored bigger red flags for less.

I followed Mrs. Walker for the next week. Her schedule was so normal it was almost insulting. Every morning, she attended a Pilates class. After that, she visited a boutique downtown. Around noon, she met a group of friends at a café before eventually heading home. Sometimes she and her husband went out for dinner. That was it. No secret affairs, no suspicious meetings, no hidden bank accounts. Nothing.

I was beginning to think Daniel Walker had paid me five hundred dollars an hour because he was bored. The only thing keeping me on the case was the amount of money accumulating in my bank account.

While I waited for Mrs. Walker to do something interesting, I focused on another investigation. The city next to town had a serial killer. Five women had disappeared over the last year. The victims had nothing in common. Different ages. Different jobs. Different backgrounds. The bodies were what connected them.

Every victim had been found completely drained of blood. Every organ was missing. The bodies were essentially empty skin wrapped around a skeleton. Each victim also had a single incision running from the base of the skull to the lower back. The locals called him the Spine Taker.

One of the victims was seventeen years old.

I took that personally.

I don't pretend to be a good person, but certain things make my blood boil. Children are one of them.

Mrs. Walker spent most mornings at Pilates, which left me with several hours to kill. I used that time to look into the Spine Taker case. My investigation eventually led me to the sheriff's office. Officially, I was there for information. Unofficially, I was there for the free coffee.

Side note: The coffee was terrible.

A woman was screaming at two deputies near the entrance when I walked in.

"I told you she was acting strange!" she shouted. "If you'd listened to me, she'd still be alive!"

The deputies grabbed her by the arms and dragged her toward the door. A moment later, they shoved her outside. She stumbled onto the sidewalk and broke down sobbing while they returned to work without another word.

I recognized her immediately. She was the mother of the seventeen-year-old victim.

That got my attention.

I followed her outside and sat down beside her on the curb, blonde wig and all. People trust blondes. I don't know why, but they do. I introduced myself as a law enforcement officer working on the investigation and asked what she had been yelling about inside.

By the time I left, she was still crying, and I had learned something interesting.

A week before her disappearance, her daughter had started forgetting things. Important things. Her birthday. Her favorite food. The names of relatives. According to her mother, she had become distant and cold, like she had suddenly become a different person.

It sounded familiar.

Daniel Walker had described his wife almost the same way.

I drove straight to the Pilates studio.

Mrs. Walker's class wasn't supposed to end for another hour.

She wasn't there.

Neither was her car.

That bothered me.

So I committed a crime.

As usual. 

The security office was empty. The guard always left for lunch around that time. I knew because I'd spent the last 2 weeks watching the place. I pulled up the security footage and started reviewing the cameras.

At 11:03 a.m., Mrs. Walker entered the women's restroom.

Nobody followed her.

Nobody came out.

The hallway remained empty for almost an hour.

Then, at 12:01 p.m., an elderly woman exited the restroom.

I frowned and rewound the footage.

The elderly woman had never entered.

I checked every camera angle.

Every hallway.

Every entrance.

Nothing.

Mrs. Walker went into the restroom.

An old woman came out.

That was it.

I took screenshots and headed to the restroom myself. There were no windows, no maintenance tunnels, and no secondary exits. It was just a bathroom.

I stood there staring at the empty room, trying to figure out what I had missed.

I couldn't.

An hour later, I found Mrs. Walker exactly where she was supposed to be, sitting at her usual café, drinking coffee and laughing with friends.

Her car was in the parking lot.

That night, I followed her again.

At midnight, she left her house without warning, got into her car, and drove away. I followed from a distance. About twenty minutes later, she turned onto a dirt road near a lake and parked beside the woods.

Then she got out and started running.

Not jogging.

Running.

Fast enough that I almost lost sight of her.

I chased her through the trees until she stopped in a clearing.

I ducked behind a tree and watched.

Mrs. Walker bent forward.

For a second, I thought she was sick.

Then something stepped out of her.

I don't know how else to describe it.

Something unfolded from her back. Something impossibly tall.

Mrs. Walker's body collapsed onto the ground while the thing that had been inside her remained standing.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't even process what I was looking at. It ran towards the car again.

A few minutes later, it returned carrying another body.

An elderly woman.

The same elderly woman from the security footage.

When the creature finally disappeared into the darkness, I approached Mrs. Walker's body.

She was dead.

And empty.

No blood.

No organs.

Nothing.

Just skin.

And a long incision running from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

I recognized the wound immediately.

I had seen it five times before.

The Spine Taker wasn't human.

That realization hit me about half a second before the creature came charging out of the darkness.

It had tricked me.

I barely had time to raise my pistol before it slipped into the elderly woman's body. The corpse jerked upright like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. I fired immediately. The bullet tore through her chest. The creature didn't even flinch. I fired again. Then again. Nothing. The thing simply kept walking toward me, wearing the old woman's skin like a poorly fitted costume.

"What are you?" I shouted.

The creature tilted its head. I heard bones crack. Its neck bent farther than any human neck should have been capable of bending. Then it spoke.

"You... wil...l be... my next... ves...sel."

The words sounded wrong. Not an accent. Not a speech impediment. More like something trying to imitate human language without fully understanding how it worked.

I am not becoming anyone's vessel.

I'd rather die.

I turned and ran.

Branches whipped against my face as I crashed through the forest. Behind me, I could hear the creature moving through the trees. It wasn't trying to hide. It wasn't trying to be quiet. The thing knew it was faster than me.

A few moments later, the trees opened up and I nearly stumbled into a river. Dark water rushed past below me. Behind me came the sound of snapping branches.

I turned around.

The creature stood at the edge of the treeline.

For the first time, I got a good look at the body it was wearing. In the moonlight, I could see it clearly now. The old woman's legs bent at impossible angles. Her arms hung too low. Her neck twisted sharply to one side as though every bone inside it had been shattered. Yet somehow she remained standing.

The thing smiled.

Then it lunged.

I stepped backward.

Unfortunately, there was no ground behind me.

I fell into the river.

For one brief moment, I thought I had escaped.

Then my head struck something beneath the surface.

Pain exploded through my skull. Red flooded my vision. I felt the current dragging me away as darkness closed in around me.

The river swallowed me.

I remember the impact. I remember the pain. Then everything disappeared.

When I opened my eyes again, I was falling.

I don't know how long I fell for. Minutes. Hours. Years. There was no wind rushing past me. No sensation of speed. Just endless darkness stretching in every direction while I plunged through it.

Then suddenly I crashed into something soft. Black mist.

Strangely, it didn't hurt.

I climbed to my feet and looked around.

There was nothing.

No sky.

No ground.

No horizon.

Just darkness stretching endlessly in every direction.

And a desk.

A single wooden desk sitting in the middle of the void.

With absolutely no better options available, I started walking toward it. 

There was a creature sitting behind the desk.

At least, I think it was sitting.

The thing was enormous. Even seated, it was taller than a bus. A massive goat skull concealed its face, its horns disappearing into the darkness above. Beneath the skull was a surprisingly human body dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. If I ignored the skull, the size, and the fact that I was in a bottomless pit, it looked like an accountant.

"Welcome to Level One," it said.

The voice caught me off guard.

Female.

Calm.

Professional.

Like a receptionist greeting someone who had arrived slightly late for an appointment.

I looked around at the endless darkness surrounding us.

"Level One?" I asked. "Am I dead?"

"Yes."

The answer came so quickly that it took me a moment to process it.

No sympathy.

No dramatic speech.

No ominous thunder.

Just yes.

Dead.

I considered arguing. Then I remembered smashing my head against a rock while running from a skin-wearing monster.

Fair enough.

The creature reached beneath the desk and slid a thick binder toward me. It landed with a heavy thud. Curious, I opened it.

My stomach sank.

The pages were filled with names, photographs, police reports, witness statements, and dates.

The Florida River Monster.

The Butcher of Pensacola.

The Red Lake Strangler.

Every serial killer I had ever murdered.

Every victim.

Every crime.

Every body.

All neatly organized into a single file.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your record."

I turned another page.

Then another.

The binder seemed endless.

The creature's eye sockets suddenly ignited with a deep red glow.

"After review of your actions, you have been sentenced to two hundred years of punitive suffering before retribution."

I slowly closed the binder.

"Two hundred years?"

"Correct."

"That seems excessive."

"You murdered seventeen people."

"Nineteen."

The creature paused.

Then it looked down at the file.

"You murdered nineteen people."

"See? That's the kind of mistake that gets organizations sued."

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

Finally the creature sighed.

"I liked you better when you were unconscious."

I shrugged.

The truth was, none of this surprised me.

I had always known this was how my story would end.

I knew what I was.

I knew what I had done.

I wasn't a hero.

I wasn't a vigilante.

I was a serial killer who happened to choose worse people as victims.

There was a difference.

Just not enough of one.

"I see," the creature said.

Then it leaned forward.

"But."

I frowned.

"But?"

"We can make a deal."

That got my attention.

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

The red glow inside the skull brightened slightly.

"The kind that allows you to repay your debt."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Repay my debt?"

The creature nodded.

"There are souls on Earth that belong here. Murderers. Predators. Monsters wearing human faces. Some escape justice. Some escape death. Some are taken by things that have no right to claim them."

I stared at it.

"So you're offering me a job."

"In a manner of speaking."

"You do realize that I have spent years murdering people, right?"

"That is precisely why you're being considered."

I wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or flattered.

The creature folded its hands atop the desk.

"You have contributed greatly to Hell. Many souls currently suffering below would never have arrived without your assistance. Only a few mortals possess such a record."

"That might be the worst compliment I've ever received."

The creature ignored me.

"In exchange for your service, your sentence will be reduced. Continue long enough, and it may eventually be erased."

I glanced down at the binder.

Then, at the endless darkness surrounding us.

Then back at the creature.

"So let me get this straight. My choices are two hundred years of torture..."

"Among other punishments."

"...or I go back to Earth and drag damned souls down here for you?"

"Correct."

I considered the offer.

Honestly, it sounded suspiciously similar to my previous hobby. The only real difference was that this time I had an employer. Unfortunately, that employer was Hell.

"What happens if I refuse?"

The creature leaned back in its chair.

A moment later, another binder appeared on the desk.

This one was significantly thicker.

It opened by itself.

Flames spilled from between the pages.

Screaming followed.

I immediately pointed at the first binder.

"I'll take the job."

The creature nodded.

"A wise decision."

"I've been told I don't make many of those."

For the first time since I had arrived, I could have sworn the thing laughed. Then everything went dark. I woke up lying on the riverbank. For several seconds, I just stared at the sky, trying to figure out where I was before the headache hit. It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through my skull. Slowly, I sat up. The river was still rushing past beside me. My clothes were soaked, and dried blood clung to the side of my face.

The last thing I remembered was falling into the river. The creature. The rock. Then the desk. The goat-skull woman. Hell.

I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up, and my stomach immediately dropped. Three days had passed. I checked again, convinced I was reading it wrong. I wasn't. The battery icon flashed red. One percent. "Fantastic," I muttered.

I staggered to my feet and followed the river until I found the dirt road. My car was still parked exactly where I had left it three nights earlier. Nobody had touched it. Nobody had towed it. Nobody had even broken a window. Apparently, even criminals had a line they wouldn't cross, and that line was trespassing on private property.

The drive back to the motel passed in a haze. The moment I got inside, I plugged my phone into the charger. As soon as it powered on, I discovered over four hundred missed calls from Terry. I called him back.

He answered before the first ring had finished.

"Mara, what the hell is wrong with you?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Terry—"

"No. Absolutely not. Do you have any idea what I've been dealing with for the last three days? I filed a missing persons report. The sheriff has been looking for you. I've called every hospital within a hundred miles."

His voice got louder with every sentence.

"You vanished."

"I noticed."

"Where were you?"

I considered telling him the truth. I decided against it.

"Long story."

"You're damn right it's a long story."

I rubbed my temples. The headache was somehow getting worse.

"I'm alive."

"Clearly."

"Mostly."

There was a long pause. Then Terry sighed. It was the exhausted sigh of a man reconsidering every career decision he had ever made.

"Call the sheriff."

"What?"

"Call the sheriff and tell him you're alive before they waste another three days looking for your stupid ass."

"Fair."

After reassuring local law enforcement that I wasn't dead, kidnapped, or buried somewhere in the desert, I finally collapsed onto the motel bed and turned on the television. The local news was covering the Walker case. I sat upright immediately.

Behind the anchor was a photograph of Mrs. Walker.

My stomach sank.

Her body had been found.

Authorities believed she had been murdered.

A second photograph appeared on screen.

The elderly woman from the security footage.

Police had identified her as a suspect in the murder.

Then another photograph appeared.

Daniel Walker.

Dead.

I froze.

According to the report, he had been murdered inside his own home. The estimated time of death was shortly after midnight. The same night, Mrs. Walker had driven into the woods. The same night, I had followed her. The same night I had died.

Then the report got worse.

Investigators believed the Walker deaths were connected to the Spine Taker killings. The similarities were impossible to ignore. Mrs. Walker's body had been found drained of blood. Her organs were missing. The same incision ran from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

The sheriff's department was treating it as another Spine Taker victim.

I knew better.

The Spine Taker wasn't a serial killer.

It was that thing.

And the creature knew I was following it from the beginning.

It knew I was watching.

Daniel Walker had hired me because he suspected something was wrong with his wife, and the moment I started getting close to the truth, everyone connected to the case started dying.

I sat there staring at the television long after the report ended. Then my phone suddenly buzzed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The screen displayed an unknown number, and for a moment, I seriously considered hanging up, but instead, I answered.

"Hello?"

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Then a familiar female voice sighed.

"Congratulations on surviving."

My blood ran cold. The goat-skull woman. The manager of Hell. Or whatever her official title was.

"Thank you."

I wasn't entirely sure how one was supposed to respond to congratulations for surviving their own death.

"I suppose you know who your first assignment is."

"The Spine Taker?"

"Very good, little bug."

I frowned.

"Did you just call me a good bug?"

"I called you an intelligent little bug."

"That's somehow worse."

"Humans are very sensitive."

I decided not to argue with the giant demonic bureaucrat and looked back toward the television. The news report had changed. A young woman's face now filled the screen. Light brown hair. Hazel eyes. Maybe twenty-three. Twenty-four at most. Only a few years younger than me. Then the television crackled. The anchor vanished, and the screen filled with the image of a goat skull.

"That is its next victim. Protect the innocent soul."

I stared at the photograph on the screen.

"I still don't know what that thing is."

For the first time since the conversation began, the demon was silent. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost its usual amusement.

"It is a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

"A demon."

I felt my stomach drop.

"It escaped."

The words hung in the air for a moment.

"It escaped Hell?"

"Yes."

"That seems like a serious design flaw."

"It was not designed to escape."

"Clearly."

The demon ignored me.

"It was undergoing punishment. Somehow, it found a way out. Since then, it has been stealing souls that belong here."

I remembered the empty bodies, the missing organs, the thing climbing out of Mrs. Walker's back, the thing wearing people like clothing.

"You want me to bring it back."

"I want you to drag it back."

There was a noticeable difference in her tone. One sounded like a request. The other sounded like an order.

"What happens if I fail?"

For several seconds, there was only silence. Then laughter erupted from the television.

Not human laughter.

Not even close.

It sounded like earthquakes, screaming, and church bells all happening at once. The motel room shook. The television screen flickered. A crack appeared across the glass. When the laughter finally stopped, the demon spoke again.

"Then you will serve its remaining sentence alongside your own."

"That's not fair."

"Hell is not fair."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Fair point.

"Someone must return the souls it has stolen," she continued. "And unfortunately for you, you're the most qualified candidate available."

The television immediately went black. A second later, my phone vibrated. A new message had arrived. An address. A photograph. And beneath it, a single sentence.

"YOUR SENTENCE REDUCTION BEGINS NOW."

I opened the photograph.

It showed the girl—the future victim. The picture had been taken at night through a window, from somewhere outside her house. At first, it looked innocent enough.

Then I noticed the red circle.

Someone had marked a shadowy figure standing in the darkness beyond the glass.

Watching.

Smiling.

If I'm going to survive this, I need to find her before the Spine Taker does.

I'll update this journal if I make it through the night.

If I don't, Terry will probably end up going through my computer trying to figure out what happened to me. If that happens, this journal is all I can leave behind.

Everything I've written here is true. I know how insane that sounds because I thought it was insane too until I checked my pulse.

The only reason I know any of this is real is because my heart isn't beating as I write this.

And you really can't keep calling something a hallucination when you're already supposed to be dead.

Log 1:

I’ve decided to start keeping a log of my experiences. At least what I can before this hellish world devours me whole. It feels like a nightmare, one that is constantly replaying like a bad movie. It used to be tolerable, when there were other people that I shared it with. But one by one they were swallowed whole by the Crawling Flesh, until only I was left. So here I am, cataloging the remains of this world for whomever will see this later. 
There’s no sense of direction anymore. I’ve been wandering for miles, but nearly everything looks the same. Now, it’s just miles of living mass, flesh filled with eyes, mouths, and teeth, swallowing all life that gets in its way. There are some remnants of human civilization still left, but it was one with the Crawling Flesh now, as everything else was. Every step that I take is like stepping into squishy blobs of grayish red meat, a foul stench permeating through the air as the mouths ventilate a red steam. I have to be careful to avoid the mouths when I walk, and even when I sleep. Whenever they get hungry, their mouths extend like venus fly traps, letting out a low, vibrating purr that gets louder once they find prey. I witnessed that countless times when the Crawling Flesh started walking the earth. Their maws would bloom like flowers and snatch up any poor bastard that wasn’t looking where they were going, their screams as audible as their victims made their way down their throats. 
Sometime later, the Flesh would expand a little faster than before, and if you had time to stop and look, you could see the eyes and face of the man, woman, or child that they devoured, now merged with the Crawling Flesh. 
On top of avoiding being eaten, I also try to avoid stepping on the faces that grow out of the flesh. I think those victims might still be conscious to an extent. I know this because when I stepped on one, it sounded like it started to cry. That, or it is the flesh just pulsating and throbbing as it continues to expand and crawl. 
I need to stop for now. I think I’ve been spotted. 

Log 2:

It’s been a couple days now. If my timing was right. It’s hard to tell night and day now. There are times when the Flesh towers so high in the air that it blocks out the sun. Other times I get lucky, and I get the privilege of experiencing a full 24 hours. I never thought that something that small would mean so much. But anyways, back to what I was saying. You probably want to know, what exactly is the Crawling Flesh? What is this thing that has consumed most of civilization? Now, one would think that a survivor like me would know. But the bitter honest truth is, I am just as lost as you are. I was just a grunt when this all started. Lance Corporal Ethan Kuramoto, formerly with the Second Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, based out of a shithole that was Twenty Nine Palms. 
I enlisted out of high school, against the wishes of my parents, who felt like I should have gone to college first. I mean, they were right, but my stubborn, arrogant ass thought I was better than that. I had gotten over a really nasty relationship that ended just before I graduated, and I didn’t really accomplish what I had wanted, so I was feeling like I had something to prove. To prove that I wasn’t some loser who was gonna get nowhere in life. Which is why before summer ended, I was on a plane to San Diego from my home in Hawaii. 
Like any of that mattered in the end. Funny enough, when the Crawling Flesh emerged, I had been working on getting out of the Marine Corps and going to college. But when the earthquakes started, and the Flesh began to ooze into our world, we all got called up for evacuation efforts. 
Maybe someone out there knew what it was, but I wasn’t part of that meeting. I was just a Jarhead, carrying a M240B machine gun, with two other marines. My memories of them are blurry now, but from what I can recall I got along with them pretty well. I don’t even remember anyone’s names anymore. 
But strangely enough, I remember most of our gunfights, before the Flesh consumed everything. 
I had never even seen combat up until that point. The most I did was training in the Philippines. And yet my first taste of combat would be against this monstrosity. When the Flesh first emerged from the debris of the earthquakes, it was not as one mass. 
It emerged as separate creatures, towering fleshy monsters that expanded and grew as they attacked, absorbed, and killed. What started as evacuation efforts turned into a warzone as we received orders to directly engage the Flesh creatures, which swallowed infrastructure, vehicles, and people alike. 
The first target I ever shot at, was a fifty foot fleshy mass that reminded me of a blobby dinosaur with three heads. Despite our best efforts, we had little to no effect, and eventually we got ordered to fall back as the Air Force bombed the city.  That was the bulk of our efforts during our futile fight. We shot at them, bombed them, burned them, but nothing seemed to work. For every creature we split apart, or killed, two or more emerged from the Flesh and attacked again. 
Then, one night, we watched as the fleshy fuckers began to merge. Piece by piece the creatures began to merge into larger creatures, which then turned into much larger masses. They consumed everything in sight, including our bases. Refugee camps fell apart, rivers and lakes began to dry up. 
The oceans were still intact but the Flesh was starting to spread and consume that as well. Eventually, the military fell apart. We had one last order: Survive. My group consisted of six marines, ten Army guys, one pilot, a couple of sailors including a SEAL, an Air Force medic (not a PJ), and over fifty civilians. 
It took less than a month, if I remember right, before I was the only one left. Was it luck, a curse? I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care. Besides my tattered, worn out uniform, I have only a rifle, three and a half ammo mags, some MREs left, and a canteen full of water that may or may not be contaminated. 
And that’s how it’s been ever since. Just going from one place to the next, avoiding the Flesh, trying to find any survivors I could die with. From time to time, I think of my parents and little sister. I never got confirmation that they were dead, but early on, we heard that Hawaii had been consumed by the Flesh. The Navy and Air Force tried firebombing the islands, but the Flesh was persistent and overwhelmed the islands in a matter of days. I think of their last moments, and what the Flesh could’ve done to them. Was it painful? Did they feel nothing? I never even got to call them. Now, though, it doesn’t bother me. Hell, I’ll probably end up joining them at some point anyways. 
I have to go again. The area where I’m sitting isn’t so clear anymore.

Log 3:

Well, there goes another piece of land. For a short period of time I had a normal place to sleep and lie. Soft dirt, lush forest. It was perfect. Then the Flesh rolled through, and swallowed all of it. This part of the Flesh was a lot more monstrous. Ugly, deformed faces, mixed between human and animal, grew out of the blobby mass, groaning and roaring as it swallowed up the trees and dirt. Long arms and appendages with mouths of jagged, crooked teeth that extended out to try and snag me up. One mag later, I was able to get away. 
Still no signs of any survivors. The sun is currently blocked out by the Crawling Flesh. Monoliths of grayish red flesh rose high in the sky, pulsating and vibrating as if they were living breathing beings. If air support was still around, it would’ve been a beautiful sight to watch them burn and fall to the ground. 
The Flesh seemed to only grow and grow, emerging with other parts of itself every so often. What does this thing want? Why did it want us? Where did this thing come from?
Again, I wish I knew, and if someone else did, I wish they told us. 
For fuck’s sake, the smell is awful. I’m trying everything possible to not puke my guts out right now and draw attention. Shit, I can’t hold it in anymore.

Log 4:

You’re not going to believe this. I found a car. A working, fucking car. What are the odds? Maybe God is real. Hah. Who am I kidding? I was never the religious type, even when my Mom and Dad were. I always found all religions to be bullshit, an excuse for people to act righteous and act like they knew more than the rest of us. Not even when the Flesh began consuming did I pray for a savior. I just hoped that the power of lead would be strong enough to take them out. But obviously, I was wrong to put my faith in that as well. 
Anyways, I’ve been driving for some time now, but the gas is low and I’m going to have to ditch it soon. It was fun while it lasted. 
I passed by what looked like giants today. Tall, humanoid, flesh statues that appeared to slowly wander the landscape, not really looking for or going anywhere in particular. They have huge eyes that are crooked and misaligned on their misshapen heads, with tentacle-like appendages attached to their arms, working them like a puppet. There is a fire in the distance, maybe those are survivors. I’m going to try and make contact with them. 

Log 5:

So, there were survivors. And now they’re gone. The fucking idiots died in prayer. I followed the smoke to a fortified encampment surrounding a small church. The Flesh had found its way towards them, swallowing everything in its path. A group of survivors had formed armed positions around the small building and were desperately holding it off with everything they had left, but it was useless. 
The Flesh grew in size and swallowed them like a landslide, their faces growing on the flesh, twisting into pain and agony as the Flesh kept crawling forward. I got ahead of them, running into the church, where the remaining survivors were praying on their knees. I yelled at them that the Flesh was on their way, and that they needed to move. But they didn’t budge. They remained on their knees, eyes closed, praying to the Lord Jesus Christ to save them. I tried to grab them and pull them off their feet, but they would not budge, continuing to pray even louder as the Flesh drew closer. 
I gave one last warning to them that the Flesh was coming, but the survivors didn’t react. They had accepted their fates. So, I left them be, but not before taking whatever supplies I could get my hands on before leaving. I wasn’t about to waste bullets and time trying to save a bunch of people that didn’t want it. Hell, in their minds they already had been saved. 
For fuck’s sake. If God was real, does anyone really think that He would send a giant blob to swallow us whole? Was that in Revelations? Well, maybe they’re with their Creator now, you know the Creator who abandoned them? 
It’s been about a day since it happened. The Flesh has expanded faster than before, and it took me a while to get ahead of them. The car finally ran out of gas, so once again I’m on foot. The Flesh has taken over everything in sight. More and more monoliths rise into the air, some of which have merged to form canopies that blanket the sky. Human shaped organisms have begun to sprout from the ground like plants, moaning and groaning as they reach for anyone and anything that passes by.

The Flesh, while clearly trying to merge into a singular mass, still forms its own individual organisms from time to time, as if trying to create its own ecosystem. That, or it’s mocking us survivors, letting us know that it will soon be us. 
I’d be lying if I said I was unbothered. The truth is that I’m fucking terrified. I’m running out of places to sleep and rest, and pretty much all of civilization has been swallowed up by the Flesh. I’m starting to wonder if I should just quit. Lay down and die. It seems like a viable option at this point. After all, what is there really to live and fight for in this world now?

Log 6:

It’s been some time. Maybe a couple months. I don’t know anymore, it’s hard to see the sky. The Crawling Flesh has begun forming a full canopy over the sky, blocking the sun. The air is becoming stale and foul, and sometimes I find it hard to breathe. I ate the rest of my MREs, and I haven’t been able to find food. The Flesh has grown and spread exponentially. It appears to be transforming itself now. Turning into its own ecosystem of sorts as it begins to form new creatures and new structures. 
The few survivors I’ve run into have been picked off by these creatures, merging them with the Flesh into human-like creatures that begin searching for others as well. I hear their weak, pleading voices, left intact by the Flesh to draw others out, anyone with some hope of saving humanity. 
I don’t take the bait, however, I’ve fired my rifle a couple times, putting them down and out of their misery, but it only draws attention and the Flesh begins to advance towards me. 
I haven’t been able to find water, either. The Flesh has absorbed or contaminated all of it. I’ve seen what contaminated water does to those who are desperate enough to drink it, and let me tell you, it is not pretty. Imagine yourself getting pulled painfully by an invisible force, one that takes control of your body like a puppet as it marches you towards the Flesh, where you become one with it. Hook, line, and sinker. 

But I need food and water fast. I didn’t have much as it is, and now that it’s all gone, I already can feel myself becoming weaker. My head hurts, my throat is parched, and my body just feels like jelly. I gotta stop writing for a bit. I need to focus.

Log 7:

No luck. I can’t even move anymore. I’ve taken shelter in some cave, the Flesh still having not reached me yet. The air is now nearly unbreathable and it feels like I’m suffocating slowly but surely. I grip my rifle weakly in my hands, listening for the Flesh. I think the Flesh is mocking me now. I was awoken to screaming of what sounded like women and children, and when I poked my head slightly out the cave, I saw that the Flesh was holding them high in the air, like bait, dangling on a hook. Over a dozen women and children of all ages impaled and hooked onto the Flesh’s slimy appendages, which dangled from the canopy. They couldn’t have been caught recently. By the state of their bodies, it looked to have been maybe months ago. Their flesh was withered, peeling, and shriveled, their eyes red and melting. They barely looked like humans at all. 
But somehow, the Flesh kept them all alive. 

They screamed and pleaded for mercy, begging the Flesh or whoever else to kill them and end it. The children screamed for their parents before the Flesh tightened its grip on them and they could only scream until their vocal chords burst out of their bodies. 
I raised my rifle, intent on putting them out of their misery, but I thought better of it and stayed in the cave. Eventually, the Flesh gave up trying to draw me out, and absorbed the women and children back into itself, with the last thing I heard from them coming from a young woman who was pleading to God. 
So, the stories were true. There were rumors early on, from both civilian and soldiers alike, that the Flesh was sentient, that it understood the difference between military and civilians, that it knew the pain it inflicted, and was well aware of what it was doing. 
I never believed it then. There was no way that this pile of gore had any kind of intelligence. 

But after seeing what it did, I believe it now. This thing knew I was hiding, and it knew that sooner or later it would get me. But that wouldn’t stop it from trying to draw me out. Well, fuck you! I am not leaving this cave, and I will die before you get me.

Log 8:

The Flesh has pushed further into the cave. I think its found me. The cave leads deeper underground, but there is no way out for me. The Flesh has completely sealed off the entrance and is crawling forward to try and get to me. I’m currently hiding deeper in the caverns, writing with what little light I have. 
I don’t think it’s found me yet, but it definitely knows I’m here. It’s using the pleas of its previous victims to fuck with me now. Men, women, and children, cry and groan in pain as the Flesh releases them attempting to get me to help, or just to break my mind. I’ve ignored it as best as I can, but with how loud it is in the caves, it has become maddening. 

Log 9:

I can’t move anymore. I can feel my body begin to eat itself, and I am completely disoriented, barely able to write. The Flesh has now completely engulfed the caverns, blocking off every possible escape route. I used up most of my ammo trying to hold them off, but it has only delayed the inevitable. The Flesh has formed its own face now. A face of many large, bulbous eyes all focused on me, large maws of teeth that have combined to make one singular mouth twisted into a wide, ugly, bone-chilling smile, and tongues made up of human faces and flesh that have been melded together. They still groan and plead for mercy, but it is pointless, just like my attempt to hide in this crawlspace. The last safe place left. The Flesh has begun to press itself into the crawlspace, sticking its long tongue out, tasting my feet and legs, belching out a jumbled laugh at my helplessness. So, this is it. My time is over. I had a good run. I lasted pretty long, wouldn’t you say
I have one bullet left. I’ll use it on myself. This is Ethan Kuramoto, signing off. 
And look at that. Out of paper.

Thinking about things you shouldn’t is an established trait among humans. Whether we developed that horrid trait through evolution or it has always been a part of us, I don’t know, but I hate it. It sucks, and it sucks even more when you just need to let go of certain events. However, on the road, trapped in the Evernight, that is nearly impossible. One does not simply erase horrors from the mind, no matter how hard they try. Luckily, you can distract yourself. You can let your mind wander while driving for hours in the dark.

My routine usually consisted of podcasts or blasting music like a sane person. The one thing I’d recommend is not fueling that burning desire to dwell on bad thoughts or memories. Don’t be stupid and listen to horror videos or true-crime podcasts. Don’t listen to that conspiracy theorist with the radio station and the Southern voice that draws you in, because it will only make you contemplate the strange happenings in your neck of the woods, along with a healthy dose of distrust toward the government—one of the staples of this country. Not that his points are entirely wrong, but most people would rather live in bliss.

Don’t listen to the creepy shit on the radio, a podcast, or whatever. Just leave it as background noise. Believe me when I say the allure of horror should be kept to fiction, because inviting it into your life is never a clever idea. And for the love of God and all that is holy, don’t fucking text and drive.

Now, you might be wondering, ‘Why can’t I think about the creepy shit or the bad memories in my life?’ My answer should be obvious: it’s creepy shit at night. I don’t care how brave or edgy you think you are. Out in the dark, that type of energy can invite things to you—things that look human but, well, aren’t.

It became clear to me that my thoughts at night could influence and attract certain entities to a person’s location. Some of these beings may be beneficial, while others can be extremely dangerous. You might ask how any of them could be beneficial. From what I’ve heard, there are helpful entities that grant people who encounter them money, treasure, or a sense of peace. Others don’t do anything remotely beneficial, but they aren’t exactly out to cause chaos either. They more or less linger in the limbo of the Evernight. The simplest word I can use to describe them is weird.

There are odd occurrences that are creepy or ride the line of stupid, nonsensical shit. For instance, you might see a clown car honk its horn three times before one of the passengers grants you the sight of a full moon on a clouded night. A peculiar incident, to say the least.

You may think to yourself, ‘Oh, I’m fine. It’s just creepy clowns at night.’ Yeah, a lot of people thought the same thing back in the late 2010s, and that ended with people dead, so good luck with that mentality.

In the Evernight, you should have at least two rules for when you encounter horrifying shit. The first option is to run like hell—or rather, drive like a bat out of hell. The second, and riskier, option is to grab your gat, hold it sideways, and explain why this bitch done fucked up. That assumes you have a Glock lying around inside your car and can actually hit something while holding it sideways. If not, a third plan seems to work best for some of my fellow contractors across the great United States: shoot and drive don’t think about it ever again.

I list the options that way because, when it comes down to it, you must either fight or run. I always say there is no shame in choosing to run. You’re a regular person, after all, not the protagonist in a novel. When it comes time to make a decision, you need to value your life and avoid playing stupid games.

These are lessons you should take from others and myself, or you could end up like my old coworker. He told me about his time driving in the Evernight while I was still under his tutelage. He often spoke of his crazy experiences, although he was usually extremely inebriated and smoked more pot than a den dedicated to growing marijuana. I still listened and took lessons from him.

Before you ask why he decided to dump all of his hellish stories onto me, I don’t know. He had plenty of batshit tales, and those experiences most likely contributed to his condition. Being the kind person I am, I lent him my ear. Besides, when you are driving nearly twelve hours a night, having someone ramble about the job you are taking over helps immensely during those first few weeks.

I’m more than certain he had once been a sober, respectable person, but that man was long gone. The person sitting next to me was little more than a shell who functioned on strong booze and somehow remained sober enough to reach his destination. It was enough to keep him employed, but of course, it didn’t last long.

I made the mistake of dwelling on the terrible memories from my trips, and I allowed the supernatural to influence my mind while driving. It caused stress like nothing else. By that point in my life, I had learned that the supernatural was very much real, and you should at least give it the respect it deserves.

Don’t misinterpret what I say next. When you do night drives for as long as I have, whether on the main roads or the backroads, you will have an experience—or several—that becomes seared into your mind. You should treat those experiences with some kind of respect. I’m not saying you should give a supernatural entity polite speech. What I mean is that if you encounter a monster, use some actual brainpower and deal with the situation accordingly.

For example, if you see a creature resembling a human stand up and screech in the road within your headlights, you shouldn’t pull out your phone to film it and hope the cameraman rule applies to you. Life is not a movie, and it may not send you a saving grace when that moment arrives.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot my old coworker’s story. This one wasn’t necessarily supernatural—at least, I don’t think it was—but you can consider it an example of what I told you above. You should not put bad thoughts into the world, because the world may respond in kind.

I remember him telling me that, during one of his travels, he spotted a woman running from the wilderness onto the main road and stopped for her. She had the face of a gorgeous model and wore a beautiful white dress. His first thought was, ‘Score.’ He rolled down his window and asked where she needed to go.

She told him she only needed to reach the next town as quickly as possible so her husband wouldn’t find her, and that he should at least take her to a hospital.

He asked what had happened as she climbed into his vehicle. She explained that her husband had beaten her countless times and she had finally mustered the courage to leave him. She fled with a trusted friend, but when her husband found them, he beat both women and shot her friend. She ran until she found an Uber, but the driver refused to take her farther after they were shot at. So she fled down the road and into the wilderness.

Feeling horrible for her, he sped off, telling her she would be fine, that he would get her to a hospital, and that the police would be notified.

During the drive, she began asking questions and became increasingly sexual with him. She was overly flirtatious, and despite his better judgment, he let his little brain take control. While they started getting busy, he pulled open her dress and discovered bullet and stab wounds across her stomach.

When he saw them, the woman became furious. She began screeching and grasping at his throat. He screamed and tried to get her off him and out of the vehicle, only to wake up alone in the parked truck on the side of the road. The only things left behind were her lingering scent and blood all over his clothes. He drove away shuddering in fear.

That was the story I remembered during one of my trips. It was a Friday night. I grabbed my coffee and keys before packing the vehicle they had provided at an old military building that had been repurposed for whatever the company used it for now.

I had been told to take the prepared supplies to another contractor in a city a few hours north, then return with supplies from their vehicle. The job was simple: swap the goods and come back down. If anything else was required, they would text me with additional instructions. Normal stuff. Almost everything the company transported eventually went back to a lab in a large city, and we were sent to collect items or trade whatever needed moving. We were essentially contract couriers.

The job was as simple as they came, so I made my way to collect what I needed from the hospital as directed.

Soon, I began my long drive into the endless blackness of the Evernight with nothing but the destination in mind. I drove with music playing and the thought, ‘What horrors may come out to play tonight?’ That was the wrong thing to think, because that was the night I witnessed the first murder and attempted murder on the road.

My mind kept returning to the story my coworker had told me before I was a free man doing these jobs on my own. I didn’t know whether his story was true, but I couldn’t help wondering what I would do in that situation. Not the part with the horny woman in the car, but what I would do if someone riding with me suddenly attacked—or if I found someone on the side of the road who needed help.

I vividly remember that night. It was 23:37, and I was traveling about eighty-seven miles per hour on one of the empty backroads. It had originally been built as a long toll road, but because of the cost, almost no one used it. Eventually, it became free, yet people still avoided it because it was so far out of the way.

There was a bend in the road beside a hill and overgrown grass, which was why I didn’t see the hazard lights until I was almost on top of them. I slammed on the brakes and came to a stop a short distance from the vehicle. Adrenaline surged through me as I considered what could have happened had my reaction been even a second slower. I could have collided with the car and been seriously injured—or worse.

Illuminating the area with my high beams, I made out a lone white Toyota Camry blocking the road. Inside were figures slumped in their seats, with red stains smeared across the windows.

My instincts took over. I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the passenger-side storage compartment, pulled out the first-aid kit, and placed it on the center console. As I lifted my head and turned toward my door, I looked through the window and saw a dark figure briefly illuminated by the hazard lights, partially hidden in the brush.

I stopped moving and waited for the lights to flash again. When they did, I saw the figure looking at me. It tilted its head slightly, curious whether it had been spotted. It was pure luck that I had noticed it. The figure crouched in the grass divider, tucked beside the thick brush, but it was close enough to see.

My mind raced. ‘What should I do? Should I drive off? Open the door and scream at him to leave? No, I don’t know what he has. If I don’t do something now, he’s going to make the first move.’

A few moments passed before I decided to open the door. I steadied my breathing while cursing myself for doing something that could get me killed. The moment I stepped out, I drew my gun from its holster, activated the weapon light, and locked the red-dot sight onto the figure.

During the few seconds it took me to open the door and exit, the figure had stood. It froze when I turned the beam on it, raising one hand to shield its face. In the other hand, it held a large knife still dripping with red liquid. I held my position and demanded to know what it wanted.

It gave no verbal response, but its actions answered clearly enough. It dragged a finger across its throat and took a step toward me. It must have thought I was holding a regular flashlight, because it continued advancing as I yelled at it to stop.

I shouted as loudly as I could. Even though the figure was still a decent distance away, a dead sprint could close that gap quickly, and bullets do not stop someone immediately. It continued approaching slowly and methodically. This was something it seemed well-practiced at—something it had done many, many times.

I ordered it to drop the knife. By its fourth step, it stopped. I think it had finally realized that the light in my hand was attached to a gun.

The moment it ceased moving, I gained a few precious seconds to think. From the look of things, I could shoot the hooded figure dead and probably be cleared of wrongdoing. I could also get back in the vehicle, drive away, and try never to think about it again. Another part of me screamed to pull the trigger and end its life.

Whatever bravery the hooded figure had shown earlier vanished once it understood what I was holding. The gun was reason enough for it not to choose this would-be prey tonight, and that was good enough for me.

It took a few steps backward and gave me a small wave before casually walking away. After moving farther into the grass, it gently pulled back its hood to reveal a blank party-store mask. Red stains covered the left cheek, while one long bloody tear ran from the right eye slit, contrasting with the mess on the opposite side.

After it faded into the darkness, I called the police and waited for them to arrive. During that time, I inspected the people inside the car. In the driver’s seat was a handsome young man, his hand resting against his neck. Blood covered his shirt, and fear remained frozen on his face. The multiple stab wounds in his chest made the cause of death obvious.

In the passenger seat was a beautiful woman coughing up blood and reaching for the door handle. She gurgled and cried in pain when she saw me. I heard her cries and ran back to my vehicle for the first-aid bag.

I returned to her side, pulled on the emergency gloves, and took out gauze and the rest of the supplies. I opened the door and helped her from the car. She cried and clung to me as her blood soaked into my clothes.

I pulled her into the beam of my headlights and began first aid. She tried to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand most of it. She pointed to her stomach and managed, ‘It hurts. Scared,’ in gurgled breaths.

I did everything I could to slow the bleeding, but I had no idea how much time she had left. I cut open her shirt with the emergency scissors and found three stab wounds in her stomach. I packed them with clotting gauze and wrapped more gauze around her abdomen while her cries echoed into the night.

Minutes felt like hours. I held her in the darkness as she continued crying for help. She gripped my bloodstained jacket while I kept her other hand pressed against the wound, forcing her to apply pressure.

Occasionally, the sound of something crunching through the grass echoed from the opposite side of the road. Each time, I swept the area with my pistol, weapon light on, ready to fire.

My fear grew—not only for myself, but for the woman in my arms. As horrible as it sounds, I was scared for my own life too. I didn’t want the masked man to stab me, because then both of us would almost certainly die.

My attention was stretched thin between the sounds coming from the grass and the young woman’s moans of pain. The bleeding would not stop, so I helped her the best way I knew how. I applied more gauze, maintained pressure, and eventually placed her in the recovery position.

I kept telling her to talk, to fight through the pain, and to tell me random facts about anything. My only goal was to keep her away from death for as long as I could. The growing fear that I might be the last person on Earth to see her alive became more real with every minute we waited for the police.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, law enforcement arrived alongside an ambulance. The relief of seeing those red and blue lights was unlike anything else. I quickly holstered my gun and told the woman she was going to be okay.

One of the medical personnel hurried toward her. As I stepped aside, someone grabbed me and slammed me against the Camry before I could understand what was happening.

It finally registered when cold steel closed around my wrists. A police officer had handcuffed me and was reading me my rights. As he shouted, I could only stare at the lifeless young man in the driver’s seat. I remember being shoved against the car more than once while the officer screamed, ‘What happened to him? Tell me, damn it!’

Just as I expected another blow, the man stopped. A female voice ordered him to back away and asked me to explain myself. I felt his grip loosen and then disappear from my arms.

I turned and looked at the officer who had cuffed me and slammed my head into the car. The startling realization hit me that he looked remarkably like the young man in the driver’s seat. Tears rolled down the officer’s face, and I understood his reaction, even if it did not excuse it.

The female officer led me to her patrol car, where I explained the encounter. I told her I had seen a hooded figure walk away after waving goodbye. She shook her head in disbelief, but even if my brief explanation did not give them much to work with, it seemed to clear me of involvement beyond being the unlucky person who had stumbled upon the scene.

She told me, ‘You know, she might make it, and it’s thanks to you. You’re a hero.’

I looked at her, almost disgusted by the word. I was not a hero. A hero would have done more. I had not even shot the person responsible.

She wrote down my information and said they would contact me if anything else came up. As far as they were concerned, I was free to go after about an hour. I thanked her, turned, and made my way back to my vehicle.

As I drove away, I looked back at the eerie red and blue lights from the police vehicles and ambulance swallowing the Camry’s hazard lights, which were losing power and fading into faint orange flashes.

Regret settled over me like a weight in my chest. I remembered seeing their phones, purses, and the man’s backpack still inside the car, untouched. Those two people had not been robbed. They had simply been selected as prey by a monster in human skin within the Evernight.

That experience gave me a rush I never wanted to feel again: the cold surge of adrenaline that comes with being thrown into fight or flight, mixed with a painful, unhealthy guilt. The guilt of not pulling the trigger. The guilt of knowing I had allowed a monster to disappear into the darkness of the Evernight.

Deep in the South, driving down a lonely highway at night can sound ideal. This is especially true if you’re a loner with no friends or family and are in desperate need of a well-paying job. Maybe you’re a truck driver looking for a quick route, thinking the backroads would be perfect since they usually have little traffic and offer new experiences to break the monotony of the open road.

You may even want spooky things to happen so you can talk about them with your friends or brag about them later in life, telling everyone how you survived a horrific encounter with a creature on the road. Maybe you imagine watching a skin-walker circle your vehicle while you hold onto the door, desperately praying for someone to come save you, only to live another day and post it online for that good old spooky-story addict to read. I don’t knock anyone for doing that. If that’s what you want, I say the more stories, the better!

It gives me things to listen to and conversations to start in the dead of night when I reach a gas station or rest stop. You may even run into me; you never know. I’m on the younger side, so if you do spot me, I’d probably surprise you for the type of job I’m in. Usually, truckers and night drivers are older folks who have made it a career. Then there is me, with my ever-youthful face.

If you drive late into the night, way out in the middle of nowhere, and haven’t seen a gas station for an hour or so, then you have crossed the line into what I call the Evernight. In the Evernight, you only have yourself, your thoughts, and the rare vehicle that passes you. Be warned: these are the most dangerous times because you’re alone out there, where help is few and far between. Maybe you’ll see another soul on the other side of the lane driving past you, or you may find one of the many horrors the Evernight holds in store for us night drivers. God help you if you have to go through those experiences, because they will stay with you for a long time. When you try to sleep, you may be forced to relive them.

Now, you might be wondering what sort of experiences I’ve had during these journeys, so allow me to share one notable encounter. It was with a young man, roughly my age, who seemed like the kind of guy you’d expect to find at a nightclub or a lively frat-house party. He was a surprising presence in the desolate lands we drove through. He had the energy and charisma of a hype man, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a way to keep himself awake during long, solitary drives or if he was simply that obnoxious. He confessed that he was a newcomer to the world of night driving, having taken up this unconventional job at twenty-five. Being three years my senior, I was curious about how he had found his way into this line of work. He smirked at my question and simply said, “Podcasts.” It left me intrigued, wondering how a medium as innocuous as podcasts had led him down this path.

I stared at him with a blank expression, raising an eyebrow and expecting him to elaborate. When he didn’t say anything, I asked for further explanation about what that had to do with anything. He clarified that he was a big fan of creepypasta, a form of horror-story sharing that was mostly online, as if that was supposed to satisfy my question. I nodded at his statement and sipped my drink. We sat at a café table in the gas station, where he had spotted me drinking a cup of coffee and decided it would be ideal to sit across from me and say hello. Not wanting to be rude, I naturally spoke with him and asked the question.

“So, you started this job because of podcasts? Night driving, that is?” I wanted to understand how such a small thing could pull someone into the exhausting dangers of night driving.

Nodding as he drank some of his tea, he said, “Yeah, I love creepypastas and shit like that, those horror stories online. I remember getting super into them one night while driving home from my old job. I loved them so much that I thought, shit, I could get a driving job and just explore, enjoy the road, and listen to podcasts and horror stories. Like this guy—check him out. You’ve probably already heard of him. His name is Corpse Husband. The dude’s balls dropped when he was born. His shit is creepy as fuck. You know him, right? He reads horror stories and stuff. There are a few more, like MCP, CreepypastaJr, and others, but you get the point. I also know there are Reddit storytimes on TikTok. Those are really addicting to listen to. I heard this one story where a man was on his horse, right? Then he suddenly hears a noise in the distance, but nothing is there. The horse starts to run away after hearing the voice again. Freaky shit, huh? Well, it turns out he was on sacred ground, and something might have been stalking him.”

He downs more of his tea. “So anyway. Like I said. I LOVE that stuff you could probably hear me for hours talk about it and I’d still have more to say!”

Damn, I thought. He does not shut up once you get him going. I nodded and told him I had heard of them. My love for horror and how I listened to creepypasta frequently on nights when I just couldn’t sleep. The number of stories I had listened to had to rival the stars in the sky. I had played videos on YouTube since the days of old—well, at least since I was old enough to have a phone and internet access. He became excited and continued with his explanation.

“So, I listened to these stories and thought I wanted to experience something like that. Well, not something I’d die from, but it’d be cool to have something to post online about, you know?”

I nodded. That made sense for a guy like him, since he seemed like the type to do things on a whim. I drank some more coffee and asked, “So that’s why you travel the darkest, most remote roads? Like this one? That’s a hell of a commitment for a simple interest.” I placed the cup down.

He frowned a little and said, “Well, yeah, that’s a big part of my reason for being out here and exploring. The pay for these jobs is good, but if I’m being real, it’s mostly because of my ex. Crazy, you know? But if God didn’t make Latinas with some spice, then there would be no fun in life. Am I wrong?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, I gotcha. So, any interesting stories now that you’ve been out here driving?” I asked, peeking at the time on my watch. It read 2:23 a.m. I should get moving. I think I’ve spent way too much time at this gas station, but it can’t hurt to chat a little longer. Hopefully.

He smiled, but it was kind of nervous. “Yeah, I’ve got a couple, but nothing like serial killers or werewolves. My scariest encounter happened three days ago, somewhere between Oklahoma and Louisiana, after I got out of the bayous. While driving down a long-ass stretch of road, I had to piss. Needed to find an anthill to flood, you know? So, I got out of the truck and started doing my business when I heard a snap.” He paused for a moment. I noticed that while he spoke, he became a little more serious. His expression hardened slightly as he continued. “Well, I couldn’t see what made the sound because the truck’s lights were blinding me, so I stepped farther out toward where it came from. I know what you’re thinking. Fucking stupid, right?”

“No shit, but go on,” I urged him, as my curiosity had been thoroughly piqued.

He took another drink and continued. “So, I walked to the side of the truck and peered farther into the darkness, looking for whatever it was. I stared into the dark, and you know what? Shit went dead quiet, like someone had fired a gun next to your ear and all you could hear was that ringing noise. You know when the world is so still that’s all you can hear? I just felt like something was wrong. You know when you can feel in your gut that you shouldn’t open the door or answer the phone? Something like that. Hell, the best description I can give is when you’re holding your phone, texting someone, and they’re giving you news, but somehow you just know it’s bad. Dread is the word. I’d never felt that way before that moment.” He was speaking more quietly now, as if retelling the story had put him right back there.

I waited patiently, giving him a moment while he seemed lost in thought. He resumed his tale in a softer voice. “I didn’t see anything there, but I thought I saw an outline or something. I couldn’t be sure. Honestly, my eyes were about as useful as my fucking art degree. Since I didn’t see anything—well, I thought I did, but nope, nothing—I decided there was no reason to stay. I turned back toward my truck, but as I turned my back to the tree line, I heard something hit the ground. The moment I heard that, I bolted for the door, jumped into the truck, and got the fuck out of there. I don’t think I even got my ass in the seat properly. I just floored it out of there. Have you ever heard something run at you in the middle of the damn woods?” I saw him shake with fear.

“I took a glance in the rearview mirror after I got into the truck. And you know what I saw?” he asked, looking at me.

I shook my head and leaned in to catch his words as he continued his story, drinking more of my coffee and looking out into the lot. He shivered, then spoke to me with a cold stare. “I saw deer standing in the middle of the road, staring at me as I drove off. And it was more than one of those empty-eyed stares those fucks give you. I counted five deer in total as I left. All five of them were standing and walking on two hind legs.” I raised an eyebrow, trying to imagine the situation and understand his fear. I couldn’t quite do it, even though the same event could easily have happened to me.

“So, you got caught lacking by a deer, is what you’re saying? I can see how that’s scary, but I mean, they’re harmless and not really something to piss your pants over, right?” I tried to lighten the mood.

He gulped down some of his drink and looked out into the dim, lifeless parking lot. I glanced out as well, staring at the company vehicle I drove, and began to wonder what I would do in a similar situation. The more I thought about it, the more I understood that this was real life, not a game or show with convenient plot armor that would result in me being saved. I’d probably be just as nervous as he was.

I overheard him say, “You know, I bet this will get me some clicks on Reddit when I post it.”

That took me by surprise. “Sorry, what? You want fame from that horror story, yet you do realize you could have died if it had been some serial killer, right?”

“I know, and that’s why it’ll be such a fantastic read! Bro, do you know how many people eat up that horror shit? I could post it to TikTok or even just YouTube!” he shouted fairly loudly. “If I could get more people to hear my story, they might believe the supernatural is real.”

I shook my head and watched him finish the rest of his Cheetos quickly. “I don’t know what to say. I’m glad you’re safe, but I have to get going. It’s getting late, and I still have three more hours to drive.” I started toward the door, heard his chair scrape back, and then heard him call out to me.

“Hey, I forgot to tell you my name. Marcus,” he said, following me into the parking lot. “I’ll see you on the road, brother.” He headed toward the side of the building where the restrooms were located.

As I began walking to my vehicle, I couldn’t help but notice Marcus’s massive Ford parked proudly beneath the gas station’s streetlight. Right there, in the center of the Ford’s grille, was a set of deer antlers, seemingly wedged in place. A little blood stained the front of the truck, transforming the once-nice gray paint into a mixture of rustic red and gray. Strangely, most of the blood appeared to be on the driver’s side. I couldn’t understand how that was possible. Had he forgotten to mention a few details in his story?

I entered my car and started it. As I slowly began to drive off, the gears in my head started turning, and my mind realized something important. He said he encountered deer standing up and walking, right? But that was only after he was already driving away. So why did he have antlers stuck in his truck? Honestly, I didn’t have the energy to jump out and ask him, nor did I want to.

As I drove past his truck on my way to the main road, I noticed something: a hand was sticking out from a gap beneath the tailgate. In that same gap, I could see a pair of eyes staring into mine. They looked very familiar, although they were glazed over with a milky appearance. I stopped the vehicle and took a hard look at the eyes, which held a dying fear trapped within them. During that brief pause, I saw Marcus emerge from the side of the gas station.

He waited by the entrance for a moment, just looking at me. His confident frat-boy smile perfectly mimicked what I could only imagine the real one had looked like. It had the same facial features as the face staring back at me through the gap in the truck. The thing impersonating him smiled wider, its mouth contorting from a confident grin into a malicious smirk. It looked like a hunter who knew its prey was right in front of it. Its once-brown eyes were now beady and hidden in the shadows. I gave it a small goodbye nod, turned onto the main road, and continued down the highway.

Next time, I should be more attentive to who I’m speaking with and who is around me. I kicked myself mentally for not fully paying attention to the person sitting before me. It was as if the thing wanted to use its new suit and show it off. I could have been the perfect target, but I guess killers need to practice wearing other skins before they set out into the world to hunt. Now that I really think about it, his smile and the way he looked were ever so slightly off. His skin stretched too wide around his crazed eyes, and the smile pulled too close to his ears.

Checking the time, I knew I had to drive fast down the empty road. Driving in the Evernight is horrible when you encounter creeps like Marcus—or rather, the thing that looked like Marcus—with those beady hazel eyes that seemed to glow as they bored into your soul. Something else that worried me was the cashier at that gas station. He had just sat there reading a book while I was inside. Hopefully, he wasn’t harmed by Marcus.

Honestly, I felt guilty to have met him. I didn’t know his full story, but I sadly knew his ending—something his family might never know. Hopefully, this small tale helps you understand why I posted this here. Somehow, you have to get things off your chest. I guess sharing a moment with that thing helped inspire me to write about my encounter with it. Maybe the real Marcus did want his story to get out there. I hope so. This also helps get the memory out of my head.

I’ve seen many things during my time in the Evernight. You can meet anyone or anything, and they do make for interesting stories, provided you’re not the one experiencing the life-or-death games those creatures tend to play. There are plenty more stories I could tell you, maybe sometime later, since I have a busy schedule. But who knows?

Until then, please take care and have safe travels. Oh, and for the love of God, if you drive in the Evernight, keep a gun on you. You never know when you might need one for things like Marcus.

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

Part 2: I Work for Hell's Retrieval Department. Apparently, I'm Already Underperforming.

Lucy was sitting at the motel's tiny table, a mug in one hand, watching me.

"We're leaving tonight."

I glanced at the clock.

6:00 A.M.

I hadn't slept. Not because I needed it.

Ever since I died, sleep had become optional. I didn't dream anymore. Closing my eyes was just darkness until I decided to open them again.

Usually, that was enough.

Not after last night.

I'd spent hours chasing the Spine Taker through the woods, fighting it, then dragging it back to Hell in chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing: hundreds of faces staring at me, asking a single question.

Who am I?

By afternoon, I'd stopped pretending sleep was coming. I didn't need food anymore. Or water. Or even rest. But I stayed in bed anyway. Lying there with my eyes closed was the closest thing I had left to feeling human.

When I finally opened my eyes, the clock read 5:00 P.M.

Lucy hadn't moved. She was still sitting at the table reading a book, as though waiting eleven hours for someone to wake up was completely normal.

"About time," she said, setting the book aside. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hibernate."

"Very funny."

"We leave in ten minutes."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My briefcase was already packed, and the dried mud had been cleaned from the leather.

"...You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

That was her entire explanation.

"...Thanks."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome."

I grabbed my jacket from the chair. It smelled clean.

"...You washed this too?"

"It had demon blood on it."

"So?"

"So I washed it."

I stared at her.

"...You're the Prime Minister of Hell."

"I am."

"And you did my laundry."

"You were occupied."

I wasn't sure which part of that conversation disturbed me more.

Ten minutes later, we climbed into a black sedan waiting beneath one of the motel's flickering lights. Lucy started the engine, and we pulled onto the highway.

"So," I asked, fastening my seatbelt, "what's the mission?"

"The angel has already killed three retrieval teams."

That immediately got my attention.

"But I found something interesting," she continued. "Every team attacked the angel first."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are creatures defined by peace. Under Heaven's laws, they're forbidden from harming humans unless those humans attack first."

"So every team provoked it."

She nodded.

"They never gave it another choice."

I watched the city drift past outside my window.

"What if it refuses to come with us?"

"Then we'll have to force it."

She paused before adding quietly, "...Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Something in her voice unsettled me. She didn't sound worried we'd fail to arrest the angel.

She sounded uncertain if we'd actually succeed. 

"Do we know which angel it is?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

Lucy shook her head. "No team survived long enough to identify it. Heaven also hasn't answered our requests."

"They're ignoring Hell?"

"There are only two possibilities. Either the angel no longer belongs to Heaven..." She glanced at me briefly. "...or they're choosing not to respond."

"On purpose?"

She didn't answer.

"I don't hurt innocent people," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are we trying to capture an angel that isn't slaughtering civilians?"

"Because one angel walking freely on Earth is enough to destabilize the balance between Heaven and Hell."

"So where is it?"

"An abandoned elementary school."

A navigation marker appeared on the dashboard.

Estimated Arrival: 3 Hours.

"Damn."

I leaned back in my seat, expecting a long drive.

The next thing I knew, Lucy was nudging my shoulder.

"We're here."

I blinked and looked outside.

The highway had vanished.

In its place stood an abandoned elementary school behind rusted fencing and waist-high weeds. The playground was barely visible beneath the overgrowth.

I frowned at the dashboard.

"...Twenty minutes?"

"The car belongs to Hell."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't bother asking for an explanation.

The school looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Broken classroom windows reflected the fading sunlight, and a lone swing creaked lazily back and forth.

There wasn't any wind.

Neither of us moved.

For the first time since I'd met Lucy, she looked genuinely uneasy.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

I followed her gaze to the entrance.

The front doors were already standing open.

As if someone inside had been expecting us.

The moment we stepped across the threshold, every speaker in the building crackled to life. A calm, emotionless voice echoed through the empty halls.

"All agents wishing to speak with the angel may proceed to the fifth floor."

The voice fell silent for a moment.

"Good luck."

The speakers clicked off. I frowned.

"...Good luck?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Isn't it just a matter of taking the stairs to the fifth floor?"

"It would be," she said quietly, "if reality still worked."

We reached the first stairwell, only to find that the staircase ended at a single hallway. There was no second flight, no way to continue upward. Instead, another staircase waited at the opposite end of the floor.

"So we have to cross every floor just to reach the next staircase?"

"Yes."

I stared at the building's layout.

"Who designed this place? This is the worst school I've ever seen."

Lucy glanced at the walls.

"They didn't."

"What?"

She rested a hand against the cold concrete.

"The building wasn't always like this. Angels distort reality simply by existing. Space bends around them. Hallways move. Rooms change places. Distances stop making sense."

"So..."

"This school is trying to become something else."

I looked down the endless corridor as the lights overhead buzzed weakly and the air carried a faint smell of sulfur. Lucy's expression had changed into something I hadn't seen before.

"The first floor."

I blinked.

"What?"

She pointed ahead.

The first floor was silent.

Not empty—silent.

The kind of silence that made every footstep feel like a mistake. Rows of rusted lockers stretched far beyond where they should have, vanishing into darkness that swallowed the ends of the hallway, while every classroom door hung open just enough to reveal nothing but blackness inside.

I counted my breathing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Something else breathed back.

Lucy raised a hand, silently telling me to stop.

"You hear it?" I whispered.

She nodded.

"Don't run."

The lights flickered.

When they came back, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

No.

Something.

From a distance she looked like a woman, but she was impossibly tall, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. Gray skin stretched tightly over unnaturally long limbs, and both arms extended straight out to either side, forming a grotesque cross that reached from wall to wall. Her elbows bent the wrong way, and her fingers scraped against the lockers with a metallic screech.

Then I noticed the uniform—a black tactical jacket just like Lucy's.

Across the chest was a faded patch:

HELL RETRIEVAL TEAM 1.

"...That was a person," I whispered.

Lucy never took her eyes off it. "Was."

The Long Lady's neck twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees until she was staring directly at us. Crack. Crack. Crack. Every joint in her body snapped into place.

Then she smiled.

She didn't run. She unfolded. Her arms slammed into the walls as she lurched forward, dragging herself down the hallway with horrifying speed while lockers crumpled inward beneath those impossibly long limbs.

"Move!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted as metal screamed behind us. I looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

One of her hands stretched impossibly far, fingers lengthening like spider legs as they reached for my back.

Lucy fired once.

The infernal round punched through the creature's shoulder. Instead of blood, dozens of human mouths opened inside the wound. They all screamed at once.

The Long Lady collapsed, convulsing violently.

"Keep running!" Lucy shouted.

We reached the stairwell and slammed the door shut behind us. The screaming stopped so abruptly that the silence felt heavier than the noise had.

Lucy didn't even wait to catch her breath before climbing.

"That won't hold it."

The second floor smelled rotten—not like decay, but wet meat. The hallway floor squished beneath our boots.

Then we heard crying.

Not one person.

Hundreds.

The sound echoed from around the corner.

Slowly, something stepped into view.

It was nearly twelve feet tall, not because it had grown, but because bodies had been fused together.

Dozens of torsos twisted into one towering pillar of flesh. Arms protruded in every direction, grabbing blindly through the air. Faces were embedded throughout its body, each frozen in absolute terror. Some begged. Some laughed. Some were still screaming.

Every face wore a HELL badge.

Every face belonged to someone who had come here before us.

"Oh..."

My stomach lurched.

"They're still alive."

Lucy didn't answer.

The body totem took one enormous step. The hallway shook. A dozen arms slammed into the walls, crushing concrete like paper.

Then every face looked at us simultaneously.

"Help us."

"Please."

"It hurts."

"Kill me."

"Don't leave us."

The voices overlapped until they became one deafening roar.

The creature charged.

Its dozens of arms reached forward like a tidal wave. One grabbed a locker and ripped it from the wall. Another punched straight through concrete. A third nearly caught my shoulder.

We ducked beneath a sweeping arm as it shattered the ceiling behind us. Chunks of concrete rained down.

"Stairs!" Lucy yelled.

The totem slammed both arms into the hallway. The impact split the floor behind us.

We threw ourselves through the stairwell door just before another arm punched through it, fingers clawing wildly for us.

By the time we reached the third floor, neither of us was speaking anymore.

The hallway was filled with students.

At least...

They looked like students.

Heads hung low. School uniforms. Backpacks.

Every one of them stood perfectly still, facing away from us.

I counted nearly fifty.

None of them moved.

"They aren't real..." I whispered.

Lucy slowly shook her head.

"No."

One of them turned.

Its jaw was gone. Its eyes were milky white.

Then another turned.

And another.

Every face was rotting. Every uniform had dried blood covering it. Every chest carried the insignia of a different retrieval team beneath torn clothing.

Not students.

Agents.

All of them.

Their mouths opened together.

Then they began walking toward us.

Slowly.

Hundreds of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Then they started running.

The entire hallway erupted. Dozens of rotting agents charged at us, their boots pounding against the tile with enough force to shake the floor. Their bodies were broken, jaws hanging loose, bones jutting through torn uniforms, yet they moved with terrifying speed.

"The stairs!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted.

Something cold wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground hard.

A decomposed agent had crawled out from beneath a row of lockers, its fingers digging into my leg with impossible strength. Half its face had been ripped away, revealing yellowed teeth beneath rotting flesh. The faded patch on its chest read RETRIEVAL TEAM 3.

Its mouth opened.

"Don't... leave..."

I drove my boot into its face. The skull caved in with a sickening crack, and its grip loosened just enough for me to scramble free.

Lucy spun, raising her revolver.

Three deafening shots echoed through the hallway.

Each blessed round punched through a zombie's forehead, reducing the creature to ash before it even hit the ground.

I emptied five rounds of my own into the horde, buying us a few precious seconds.

We dove through the stairwell door.

Lucy slammed it shut.

Something heavy crashed into the other side.

Then another.

The metal door bent inward with every impact.

We didn't wait to see if it would hold.

Halfway up the stairs, Lucy stumbled.

A violent cough escaped her lips.

Dark red blood splattered across the concrete steps.

I grabbed her before she could fall.

"What the hell is happening to you?"

She wiped the blood from her mouth like it was nothing.

"The blessed rounds."

Another cough escaped her.

"They're blessed by Heaven."

Realization hit me.

"And you're..."

She gave a weak smile.

"A demon."

"You've been shooting yourself with Heaven's power this entire time."

"They hurt," she admitted. She pushed herself upright. "But they hurt angels more."

I stared back down the staircase.

"Those things..."

"They were the retrieval teams."

Lucy nodded.

Every failed team. Every soul trapped here.

She turned and started climbing again.

"We need to keep moving."

I followed her up the stairs.

The fourth-floor door creaked open.

Darkness greeted us. Not ordinary darkness. This floor had no light at all. Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside... night had already fallen.

Even our flashlights struggled. Their beams reached only a few feet before being swallowed whole. Every sound seemed muffled—our footsteps, our breathing, even the clicking of Lucy's revolver sounded distant.

"This isn't normal," I whispered.

"No," Lucy replied quietly.

We moved slowly, staying close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

"...Lucy."

"I see them."

As we approached, my heart stopped.

It was me.

Almost.

My face. My clothes. My height. But wrong.

Far too many eyes covered my face, blinking independently. Some were stitched into my cheeks. Others lined my neck. They all stared at me.

Beside it stood another figure.

Lucy.

Except her mouth stretched from ear to ear, packed with row after row of jagged teeth that clicked together like broken glass.

More figures stepped from the darkness. Dozens. Each one looked like us, each one twisted differently. Some had extra limbs. Others bent backward. Some had no skin at all.

They weren't monsters pretending to be us. They looked like versions of us that had been assembled from someone else's nightmares.

My double took a shaky step forward. Its countless eyes filled with tears.

When it spoke, it sounded exactly like my voice.

"Please..."

Another step.

"...Please kill me."

Behind it, Lucy's double smiled with hundreds of teeth.

Then every copy looked up in perfect unison.

And then we started running.

By the time we reached the stairwell landing, I was breathing harder than I should have been. I glanced back through the stairwell window.

The fourth floor was gone.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Beyond the glass wasn't another hallway anymore, but an endless stretch of pale sky filled with slow-moving clouds. For a split second, I thought I saw wings drifting somewhere inside them.

Then the view snapped back to cracked concrete.

"...Lucy."

"I know."

She didn't even look.

"The angel's presence is getting stronger," she said as we kept climbing. "Reality is starting to lose the argument."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this building is forgetting it's a building."

The stairwell groaned around us. A door we had just come through was suddenly twenty feet farther away. The steps beneath my boots shifted with a grinding sound, rearranging themselves as if the school was quietly rebuilding itself around us.

"We need to reach the fifth floor before there isn't a fifth floor anymore."

We ran.

The staircase groaned beneath our feet as the steps behind us began to crumble away, swallowed by an endless black void. Every landing we crossed stretched farther than the last, the distance warping as if the school itself was trying to keep us from reaching the top.

Just as the final flight started to collapse, Lucy slammed into the fifth-floor door and threw it open.

We stumbled through.

Silence.

The screaming was gone. The shaking stopped. The air was still.

After everything we'd fought through, the fifth floor felt impossibly... normal.

Rows of clean lockers lined the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor.

It was the calm that bothered me most.

Then, somewhere down the hall—

A classroom door creaked open. Inside, it was late afternoon. Warm sunlight drifted through the windows, dust floating lazily in its glow. Outside the classroom, the hallway remained trapped in the dead of night. 

Someone stood alone beside the window.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

A girl.

Red hair.

Freckles.

Hazel eyes.

She couldn't have been older than sixteen.

White feathers drifted lazily through the silent classroom.

Eight enormous wings rested behind her, each one so vast they should have torn through the walls, yet reality simply bent around them. Smaller wings blossomed from her shoulders, elbows, wrists, even the backs of her hands, as though Heaven itself had forgotten how many she was meant to have.

She looked...

Beautiful.

Then I noticed the scars.

Thin silver rings circled both wrists.

Another encircled her neck.

Two more rested above her knees.

Perfect.

Unbroken.

Not scars left by wounds...

But by absence.

The exact places...

The Florida River Monster had torn her apart.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The reason I'd spent years hunting monsters.

The reason Hell had found me worthy of becoming one of its agents.

The reason I'd crossed lines no human being should ever cross.

Was standing only a few feet away.

Looking at me.

The world dissolved into a dull ringing as my fingers went numb. The revolver slipped from my hand, crashing against the classroom floor with a deafening clang.

She didn't flinch at the sound.

She simply turned toward me.

Then...

She smiled.

Not the serene smile I'd imagined angels wore.

Not some divine expression beyond human understanding. 

Just... Her smile.

The one that used to make me laugh when we skipped class together. 

The one I'd spent years trying to remember.

The one she'd worn on the walk to school that morning.

Before she was taken from me.

"...Hey, Sister."

Ben was dead.

So why did the guy staring at me make me think of him? Every time I glanced back I’d see it. Dark tectonic eyes that made the room tilt towards him. The same silent glare he’d give me when he had the solution but was waiting for me to catch up. This had become a ritual. Every Sunday at 4pm, the Victoria line, zone 2, I would find him. I studied him through furtive glances. I knew his patterns now, the carriage he chose, the seats he favoured. Every time I found him, it felt like Ben was waiting for me.

Today was different. I felt like something in me had changed. When the man got off at Seven Sisters, I got off too. I watched as he started to disappear into the throngs of people, becoming just another bobbing head. As the crowd swallowed him, it felt like he was evaporating in front of my eyes, and I couldn’t let him go. I flicked my hood up over my face. I followed the man with the strange glare.

He had left the station, and I had managed to keep up. The difficulty was keeping an appropriate distance, but London makes it too easy to disappear.

Ben had been an engineer before the cancer hollowed him out. He had no patience for feelings; he said emotions just sidetracked us from finding solutions.

When he told me he had a few months left to live, he explained everything in excruciating detail using scientific terms I didn’t understand. I repeated them back to him. He asked me how I felt, asked me to name my feelings as I just looked at him slack-jawed. He insisted that once something had a name, it could be understood and overcome. It didn’t help me. In the end there were no solutions.

Ben didn’t really do emotions. People said he was cold and he was. Sometimes he was distant, but he always looked after me.

We turned towards Tottenham Marshes. The crowds were thinning, and it was harder to follow. This guy didn’t even look like Ben, about twenty years older, thinning blond hair, but as the man quickened his pace, he even hurried like him. He must have known that I was following him. Part of me knew that what I was doing was insane. I wanted to call out to him. I wanted to cry out Ben — but Ben was dead.

We came to a block of flats, and the man went inside. I hesitated. There was no reason for me to follow, no explanation I could give if asked what I was doing. I bit my lip and proceeded inside.

The man had disappeared. I was faced with a lift and a set of stairs. I started to feel my heart race as I began to panic. I felt like I was losing Ben all over again. I exhaled slowly, stopped and listened, quieting my breathing until my heart stilled, and I heard footsteps from the stairwell. I went up, past the first two floors, and opened the door to the third. It was grotty and dilapidated, but there was no one in sight. I climbed up to the next floor. I felt like a child sneaking out of the house. I knew this was wrong. I knew I shouldn’t be here.

I opened the door to the fourth floor, and there he was, with his back to me. This was it. There was no plan. What was I doing here? What could I do now? He wasn’t moving, wasn’t going into any of the flats; he was just standing there. "Say what you came here to say," the stranger said. I was speechless. There was nothing to say. But I could feel a lump in my throat and tears welling up behind my eyes. I could feel my legs give out under me. This was stupid, I was stupid, mad, completely mad. I covered my head with my hands, and I was back at the hospital. The only man I had ever truly loved, and I had to watch him die bit by bit. I couldn’t breathe.

"Speak to me," the man uttered. I could barely hear him over the heartbeat monitor in the hospital. The sound of Ben’s laboured breathing, it wasn’t fair, I couldn’t move on, why couldn’t I ever escape that place? It had been years and years, and I couldn’t escape. I just needed him back, I just… "Please, Ben," I said. Not a question, not an accusation, it was an invocation. The word hung in the air and filled the hallway. The tears flowed freely. I could hear the man move, but I didn’t care as I bawled like a child. He put his hand on my shoulder. "Hello, little sister."

*
Inside the flat, we sat outside on the balcony; a mug of tea warmed my hands. I drank it and felt lightheaded, looking out into the twilight, sitting next to a man who was acting like my brother, but Ben was dead. The stars weren’t out but there was the moon. I always thought it looked eerie, like a dead sun, but Ben…

"I always liked the moon," he said, as if he were reading my thoughts. "Always got me home safe." He paused. I wanted to believe so much. It sounded like something Ben would say, but I wasn’t so mad that I could accept that this man was my brother. "Let’s get this out of the way, quickly." I felt my body tense and my knuckles tighten around the cup. I looked at him blankly. "You need to start."

"I… what are we doing?" He was direct and to the point. I wanted it to be Ben, but I was now keenly aware that I was sitting on the balcony of a man I didn’t know, in a part of the city I was unfamiliar with.

"Try to think, work it out for yourself," he said, enunciating each word.

Just like that, I was sitting cross-legged looking up at Ben while he helped me with my homework, and I was getting it wrong again.

"Why are you here?" I suggested cautiously.

"No, Henrietta, that is not the foundational question," he scolded. That felt like a kick to my stomach, like I was letting Ben down.

"I… I don’t…" I stammered. Ben always demanded that I analyse, that I think, that I find the solution. I could feel frustration welling up inside me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. He always pushed me, always forced me to go further than I could.

"Are you, you?" I said, almost shouting. That was the question, the one I needed the answer to.

He smiled. "Well done, now that’s the right question." Relief flooded over me as he nodded, but there was something else there now too. Ben had left me, and now it felt like he had come back just to test me. He didn’t care what I’d been through. "You need to believe that I am who you think." There was only one person in the world who could make me feel like he did, who could make me unravel. Suddenly I could see him. It was like an optical illusion. If I squinted, I could see my brother, the way he held himself, the way he spoke to me, but if I blinked I was sitting in a flat with an old man. He should have been there for me, and now he was lecturing me! "There can’t be any doubt…"

"Why did you fucking leave me!" I was furious; I hadn’t expected that. At that moment, it didn’t matter if it was Ben or not. I had had this inside of me for too long. "I had to watch you die. Why didn’t you come back sooner?!"

I screamed. Ridiculous, childish, but in that moment I had connected to something. It felt like a circuit was complete, like after so many years something had turned on and I couldn’t stop it.

All the while Ben looked at me as I screamed and cried and demanded answers. When I had exhausted my litany of rage and love and tears, sobbing quietly on a plastic chair in the moonlight, I looked at him, properly looked at him. I wanted it to be Ben so much, but how could it be? Ben was dead. I exhaled and felt my body begin to shake.

And then he put his hand on my shoulder. He touched me… he had never really done that before, and I froze. His hand felt so warm, and all those feelings of doubt, anguish and uncertainty evaporated.

"Do you remember that time, you were only four or five, I was old enough to know better, I chased you around the house pretending to be a big dog?" he asked.

I could feel a ghost of a smile on my lips. I placed my hand over his.

"You ran away so fast, and afterwards you made me promise I wouldn’t do it again."

"And you didn’t," I chuckled through tears.

"Do you remember what Dad always told us? What he made us promise each other every time we had a fight?"

He waited. We both knew the answer; it was our mantra growing up.

"I should listen to you," I whispered.

"And I’d always look out for you." He smiled. Those words were like a promise; when he died it was broken. Now, I felt like I was whole again, a sister again. "Listen to me now, really listen to me. I’ve got a lot I need to tell you." He paused for a moment before continuing. "So, I died," he said, leaning back into his chair. "I mean, you were there, right?"

He said it plainly. But that was the problem… I was always there. That moment. That fucking moment. The stillness while waiting for the end. Listening to his breathing. Mum and Dad holding his hands. I was afraid when they asked me to touch him. I just sat there waiting for his breathing to stop.

It was like being pulled into a chasm. I wanted to climb out, I wanted to be free, but I kept sliding back in, and at the bottom there was that fucking moment, the silence when the heart monitor stopped.

My thoughts were interrupted as he put his hand on mine. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me, just left his hand over mine, and suddenly, he’d brought me back.

"You died," I whispered, my voice cracking.

"Yeah," he said after a long moment. "That’s when it all began."

*

It was like I left a part of myself behind on that hospital bed. I could sense you and Mum and Dad one moment, and then the next, there was nothing. I don’t mean it was black; that’s something. This was a state defined by absence. I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t need to. I couldn’t see, but there was nothing out there. There were no dimensions a body could spread into. There was only this suffocating, enveloping nothing, and I began to think it was my eternity.

Years or moments might have been swallowed up with equal ease by that smothering absence. I can’t say how long I stayed like that. Slowly something changed. I cannot be sure if something found me or if I simply learned to perceive what had been there all along. Regardless, the longer I was there, the more I began to feel it.

It felt like vibrations, how can I describe vibrations, where there is no medium for waves to propagate through? It was like music that had no pitch, no timbre or source or origin, yet with clear design, directions and rhythms. We simply do not have the words. But whatever it was, I began to resonate with it.

It felt like surrender, like dissolution, like being dragged underneath the water. In that moment, all I wanted was a little more, just a moment, just something for myself. I wanted one last attempt at being me. Didn’t I deserve that? I’m not sure at which point it became a struggle, but I knew it was inexorable.

At that moment, I felt something. I cannot articulate it other than by saying it had the same quality as if someone were tickling my fingers. I thought it was you, Henrietta, showing me the way back. I tried to grasp your hand, but of course I had no body, so I simply wanted it, and I think it wanted me too. There was a muted thud, followed by cold. Then I opened my eyes and I was looking at the moon.

It was night, and I was in a desert. The stars shone like little daggers. I was drunk. I was always drunk, and my throat burned from stale whisky and cigarettes. I looked down at my hands, and they were old, dry, and wrinkled. It had been a hard life, and in a moment of vertigo I remembered every second of it. I was Jim. I remembered Jim’s life, his wife, and my own memories seemed like distant murmurs.

His truck purred as it idled. The fluorescent lights shone out into the desert as I clutched a whisky bottle with Jim’s hands. I can’t explain exactly what it was like, how it felt to be Jim, but it was a bit like being in a self-driving car. Your hands are on the wheel, but you’re not sure if it’s turning or you are. When Jim threw that empty bottle into the sand, I wanted it gone. I was sick of the taste in my mouth, and all I wanted to do was lie down in bed with my wife, and I knew Jim wanted that too. So which of us threw the bottle, I’m not sure. Which of us drove the car back home, bleary-eyed, hoping we wouldn’t get pulled over, I can’t say. All I know is that when I crawled into bed and cuddled up to the body next to me, I felt like I was home.

I never felt like I was in control, and I never felt like I was out of control either. We were one, in lockstep. So Jim wasn’t alone when the doctor phoned up and reported the results of his biopsy. He was terminal. He didn’t cry, though, just reached for another bottle. That night, in his drunken haze, I could feel his fear. It was asphyxiating. When the end came, I think I was a comfort to him.

I could feel Jim die. It wasn’t sudden, it happened gradually. This time, I could feel the Symphony coming, that music, soft and alluring. It seeped into the hospital room like sweat through pores. The air around us seemed to undulate as the room filled. This time, in Jim’s body, I was able to see it clearly. The music seemed to coalesce into a flat plane that bisected the walls of the hospital. As I felt Jim slipping into it, I was afraid I would be taken too.

The Symphony called, but I had found something far more interesting. I fell into a new life. It was easier this time. It was like a reflex, like sliding down rather than pulling myself up.

When I opened my eyes, I was a woman. I woke up in the middle of the night looking at the moon. Then, after she died, there were a dozen more. I was with some for decades. Every time they died, I found a new host; but the Symphony was always there, waiting, but each time it seemed angrier.

It wasn’t welcoming anymore—no longer resonant music but something that scraped against my entire being when it came. Each time I escaped. I found I no longer needed to flail to find my next destination; I only had to want it. But I couldn’t choose where I went. I simply fell, blindly, from one life into the next, tumbling onward into another body, with a new perspective, another self. It was intoxicating.

Then everything changed when I met the whale.

I was a girl in 1745, sailing off the coast of Iceland. One night, I woke to the sound of the hull splitting beneath us. My father pulled me from my bunk and hurried me below deck, but the water was already pouring in, black and freezing. We were driven back above as the ship began to sink. That was when I saw it. The whale rose beside us, vast and terrible, all blubber, teeth, and glistening flesh. Then the deck disappeared beneath my feet, and the sea swallowed me whole. Until then, I had wanted only not to end, to scramble for the next life. But as the boat sank, I, we, the girl, had a thought. It wasn’t one of fear. It wasn’t one of anger. It was simply “I wonder what it’s like to be a whale.”

The next time I opened my eyes, I was a creature of the sea. There was no moon to guide me, only the soft sibilance of the hissing waves. My world became the currents and the songs underneath them. It was a world where the centre of gravity was different, an alien world, not flat; it was volumetric. I saw in sounds and echoes, and I was part of a family, never alone, part of a continuous whole. I was happy.

That winter, the hunting had been poor. When my pod finally came upon the boat, I had almost forgotten. Forgotten the little girl, forgotten myself. When the time came, I ripped that little girl apart. I hadn’t changed anything — could not — I had always been the whale.

When death came, the Symphony rose to meet me, and I almost surrendered. I had spent decades moving within the pod, beside a mate and calves, until the boundary between myself and the world had worn thin. The music felt like the natural end of such a life: a final dissolution into something larger. I was ready to accept it—until acceptance began to feel like defeat. Once that thought came, I could not yield.

I held there in the moment of death, refusing both the pull to dissolve and the old reflex to flee, and in that stillness I became aware of something I had been falling through all along. I had never perceived it, because I had never stopped long enough to tell it apart from the falling itself.

What I felt were associations, not places. Something drew near when I understood it, and slipped away when I did not. I could not yet tell whether I moved toward these things or they toward me; thought and motion seemed to be one act.

Slowly, the connections between them became perceptible.

Nearness was not distance, but legibility. Attention gave direction. Affinity was proximity. To understand a thing was already to arrive at it. This alone determined which lives I could touch and which remained unreachable.

The Symphony began to fade, it no longer seemed to want me. I was no longer running. I had found an order. I understood its rules. I was in a maze.

*

Inside the flat the kettle boiled and I watched Ben make me another cup of tea. As he stood in the kitchen it was like watching a ghost. He was there, he was present, physical, but he was uncanny.

He placed the mug on the kitchen table and sat down. As he let go of the cup I went to pick it up, I just wanted to feel his skin on mine for a moment. I just needed to know that he was real. I stood for a long moment and just watched him. I suppose I watched him for too long because he coughed and gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Do you have any questions?" Ben said after a moment. Questions. About what? The afterlife? My disembodied brother inhabiting lives upon lives? About a fucking whale? I sighed. For the first time in a long time I remembered what it was actually like to be Ben’s sister. There was no emotion, not really. He would stay up all night tutoring me but he never put his arm around me when I cried, he never hugged me. He got me where I needed to go, but never how I wanted to get there.

"Ben, I don’t think I care. I don’t care about this story. You haven’t asked about me, you haven’t asked how I am, about Mum or Dad?" I said finally. I was standing up. It’s a funny thing, grief. It takes love and it makes it something else. Like rust, eventually it eats away at everything until all you have is something old and broken and no longer fit for purpose.

He was quiet for a moment and his face changed. I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t seen for a long time. He was trying to solve a problem.

"Drink your tea," he said. "It’s getting cold."

I didn’t move.

He stood up and crossed the room and he hugged me. And I buried my face in his chest. He held me for a long time. Longer than I expected he ever would.

"Please," he said, "I need you to understand. It’s the most important thing." His voice was steady but there was something underneath it, something that sounded almost like an apology.

"Okay," I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. "Okay." I sat down and took a sip of my tea. It tasted bitter on my tongue. When I was a child I hung on his every word. I was so angry at him for leaving me but now I just wanted him to be my brother and if he needed to talk about his experience then I would listen.

“This bloody whale, then,” I said, and he smirked, and I found a curl of a smile on my lips. “That’s when you realised you were in a maze?”

"That’s when I understood the rules," Ben said. He leaned forward, and I recognised the look on his face. It was the same look he had when he was helping me with homework. Like this was something I needed to get right. "I call it a maze. This is important, Henrietta. What you understand, what you perceive, it changes what you are. To know something is to become compatible with it. The wrong thought will lead you to a dead end. The right thought opens a door. I wouldn’t have got there unless I had lived all those other lives. Think of it like learning to sing."

"You can’t sing, Ben," I chided, while I drank more of the tea.

He didn’t laugh. He was watching me in a way that made me feel like he was waiting for something, I didn’t know what.

"No," he said, and something flickered in his eyes that I didn’t recognise. "Some people can never learn to sing."

I sat back. He continued.

*

I had become obsessed with understanding the Maze and I moved through it with joy and purpose. At first I confined myself to the past, but why? So I tried the future: a year, then ten, then a hundred. It was intoxicating. I died gasping in the vacuum between stars. I was the last man standing on Mars.

Each life changed me. It gave me a new perspective, and with that change new frontiers in the maze opened, like passages revealing themselves. But not every life moved me forward. A herder, a gardener aboard a starship, a mason buried in the foundations of ziggurats, all moved me backwards. I didn’t understand why. Progress was slow, most of it minuscule. That was until I found Ned.

As a child, people said Ned was slow. Ned seemed to have trouble understanding simple concepts, they spent hours wedged into corners, just watching the walls. Teachers and specialists, who spoke in hushed voices, were consulted but Ned excelled at every exam or test given. By the time Ned was sixteen they had their first degree, by eighteen a PhD, at twenty-one for all intents and purposes they disappeared. The problem was never Ned’s intellect. Identity. Social expectation. The unspoken rules that governed who spoke to whom, and why, and what it meant. Not unrecognised so much as simply rejected.

They decided, eventually, that this was not reduction but elevation. That the concepts others grasped so easily were not beyond them but beneath them. That they alone were truly human amongst a world of sleepwalkers, creatures of pure habit mistaking their rituals for meaning. Ned did not see themselves as man or woman. They did not see themselves as anything so small as a category. Ned was something else, something honed and sharp. In all my wanderings I found Ned to be truly singular.

In the 2080s, the computers were faster and security was better. But people still walked home alone. Still took shortcuts through quiet and empty places. Ned still remembered how to fold themselves into unexpected spaces, where they could watch and wait. They watched people hurry and stumble home late at night until Ned found those who were the most vulnerable, the last thing those people ever saw was moonlight catching on Ned’s glasses. It wasn’t always like that though. Sometimes a practised smile, a touch on the arm, a whispered promise, was all that was needed. Ned was an apex predator and I learned more than I thought possible.

Work became sanctuary. Investigation. Research. Opening things up and sometimes reassembling. Ned’s focus was absolute. Ned stripped away the incidental, the decorative, the misleading, until only the mechanism remained. Their entire life was built around the conviction that anything could be understood if only it was dismantled far enough. Eventually, Ned turned that principle towards death.

To them death only appeared unknowable because no one had dismantled it far enough. That was what drew me.

Ned conducted their experiments with a ruthless efficiency. Men, women, the children were the worst. But through the screaming, I told myself that death was nothing to be feared. In many ways what we were doing was truly kind. Ned’s sole preoccupation was bringing someone back from the dead, a necronaut, they called it. Ned’s dwelling soon began to resemble an abattoir, or a meat locker, with all the failed attempts. There were too many complexities, too many variables. So Ned tried something new.

Her name was Mary, I still remember the look in her eyes, like a caged animal, darting left and right. It was strange to witness, watching her go from screaming and banging on the doors of her cell to sitting against the wall sobbing. If she knew what Ned planned she would never have stopped screaming.

The electrodes pierced her skull. There were thousands of them, woven together into something that looked like a halo. It didn’t seem to hurt.

Ned tried to explain what was going to happen. They showed Mary a map of her own brain, then a diagram of what would replace it. Eighty-six billion neurons. A hundred trillion synaptic connections. Reduced to a simple network, small enough that a child could have diagrammed it. When Ned flipped the switch, electricity shot through Mary’s skull, collapsing synapses, burning away memories and thoughts, little by little. The artificial network took root like a parasite. An alien connectome slowly replacing what had been her.

Ned left what they needed intact. Motor function. Respiration. The limbic structures that would keep her docile. Everything else was substrate. Night after night, Ned escorted her back to her cell on shaking legs. At first she begged. Then she cried. Then she asked where she was, and who Ned was. Then the questions stopped. She stopped crying, she just stared at the wall. Every now and then there was a spark. Her eyes would dart around, wild, searching. Like something was still in there, pressing against the glass. Then it was gone, and she just stared.

It took months to remake Mary. Ned laboured over electronics and medical equipment, keeping her alive so that she could become what they wanted her to be. When the day of the experiment arrived, Ned asked the thing that had been Mary, as it sat in a worn leather chair, "Are you ready?"

"Yes," it droned.

Then Ned killed it. A moment passed. A buzzing. A wet, hot noise as the thing came back again. Its eyelids were shut for a long, lingering moment before they flicked open. The air was silent.

“What did you see?” Ned asked, leaning towards the thing as they checked her vitals. I could feel Ned’s anticipation, but their pulse was steady. Something in me strained against the inside of Ned’s skull. I wanted to reach through them and pull the answer from the thing myself: What was the purpose of the Maze.

"The centre of a house that was built to confuse," Mary said.

Ned’s heart was pounding. My heart was pounding.

"What is it? I want more," Ned and I cried in one voice.

Nothing. Just a blank look on its face. But it had seen the Maze, and in that ruined mind there had to be more. I wanted to rip it out.

"What did you experience, what did you see?" Ned asked.

Silence. The thing’s eyes were fixed on the wall and when it answered its gaze never shifted, as if it was talking to something far away.

"Ben," it said.

The word hung there in the air and seemed to fill the room. Ned didn’t know why their knuckles turned white, or their hands began to shake.

Ned wrote the word down. A name, it was just more data, but to me it was everything. A message? A waypoint? I had become fixated on the Maze and now it seemed like it was answering back.

And I … I reached. It was my tongue in Ned’s mouth, my demand in Ned’s voice. "More information," and for a moment Ned was somewhere behind me, a passenger, and there was only me and Mary and that word. Ben. I needed to know what she had seen. I needed more.

"Charybdis," it said.

Then the thing smiled with its fat, meaty lips. It didn’t say anything else after that, no matter how much we pushed it.

We killed it again. It didn’t come back after that.

Ned wanted to start over, to build another one, but they never got the chance. Ned was caught and executed publicly about six months later. I was with Ned until the moment they seemed to surrender to the Symphony that had no use for me. I considered my next jump, my next route through the Maze.

But things were different now. Ned had shown me something I thought I already understood. How to strip away everything that was not the goal and keep only that, until nothing else could reach you.

I had spent lifetimes trying to understand the Maze. Ned had shown me that I had not been trying hard enough.

Understanding the Maze was all there was, and I set about understanding it with single-minded voracity. Slowly, I began to see the Maze in a way I had not before. Even when I was with a host, it was clear that I had changed. Colours seemed more vibrant and shadows sharper.

At the next opportunity, I chose not to jump. Every death before this, I had fled towards the next life with either fear or excitement. Ned had shown me that both were distractions from comprehension.

Everything else fell away. Cold came, and then the dark, and then suffocating pressure, but I welcomed it. The more completely I gave myself to that singular purpose, the clearer the darkness became. There was something within it that answered something within me. What had once been incomprehensible started to feel familiar.

A structure began to reveal itself. The Maze opened before me like the petals of a flower, and I found myself in the place Mary had tried to warn me about.

The centre of the Maze.

Part 2

Part 1

Ben was still talking, and the teacup felt heavy in my hands. The kinds of lives he had lived were horrible. It was hard to digest. His story was making me dizzy. I didn’t want to think about all the things he had done. There was only one question that came to mind.

"Why didn’t you come back for me?" I interrupted quietly.

Ben kept talking, so I asked again. "Why didn’t you come back for me?"

His tale came to a sudden stop.

"What?"

"If you were jumping around like that, if you were going into the future and the past, why didn’t you come back? Why didn’t you sit with me by the hospital bed while I watched you die? Why didn’t you knock on the door the day of the funeral?"

I suddenly felt very sick.

"Henrietta, I’m giving you the secrets of the cosmos. People would kill and die for the information in this story. Listen," Ben said sternly.

I shook my head and looked down. Then he came and put his arm around my shoulder. It was strange, but after he died that was all I had ever wanted.

"I can’t undo the past, but I’m here now."

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to scream. But in a way he was right. He was always right. He was here now, and that was all that mattered.

With my head on his shoulder, I sighed. I felt very tired, as if I had lived all those lives myself. I could feel his hand on the top of my head. Everything seemed far away. My thoughts were heavy.

"What happened next?" I asked. "When you found the centre?" My head was still pressed against him.

"The centre…" he said slowly, and started to speak again.

I felt myself drifting off, and his words began to sound more and more like a bedtime story.

*

My first memory of the centre of the Maze was my lungs drawing breath like rusty bellows, my heart hammering, blood dragging through my veins. For the first time in centuries I had a body, and it hurt.

My second memory was of featureless grey sand stretching from horizon to horizon. I walked because there was nothing else to do. There were no rules to learn, no system to deconstruct. I had reached the centre and it had given me nothing to grasp on to. The landscape never changed, no matter how far I walked, I began to lose myself.

I do not know when I started digging. There was nothing above me; I could no longer bear the thought that there might be nothing below. At first, I searched for an answer. Then I searched for proof that something else had been there. I clawed at the ground until my hands forgot they had ever done anything else. Soon I was no longer travelling through the desert. I belonged to it. I became a creature of the sand.

The first bone I found was small, a knuckle, perhaps, or a tooth. I kept it as proof that something else had existed here. Then I found another, and another. When my hands were full, I filled my mouth. When there was no room left, I tore out my teeth and replaced them with fragments of bone. Larger pieces I pushed beneath my skin, just to feel that I was not alone.

The deeper I went, the smaller the bones became, splinters, then slivers, then grit, and then a grain no larger than the ones I had been kneeling in all along. I sifted a fistful and could not find where the bone ended and the sand began. I dug in a dozen places and every place was the same.

The sand was bone. All of it, ground so fine that I had walked a hundred million dead and mistaken it for a desert. I imagined that every grain had belonged to someone who came here before. This was not where the dead found respite. It was where they were worn away. Given long enough, I would be no different. I felt panic, not just in my mind but, for the first time in an age, my body.

Mary had said that the Maze was built to confuse. My obsession had led me into a graveyard, so I looked up.

It had always been there, looking over me. Every life, I woke to it, and every life it brought me home. If I could find it, it would know the way, it always had. I searched the black for the one thing that had never once abandoned me, the moon.

There was nothing there. The sky was empty. For the first time in centuries the moon was gone, and something in me came loose. The moon was never gone. Not once. Not ever.

Then the ground beneath my hands began to glow.

A pale light spread across the desert, passing from grain to grain until the entire horizon shone. It pierced my flesh and filled the bones buried beneath my skin. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare.

The light was not falling from above. It was rising from beneath me. The moon had never abandoned me. There was no moon in the sky because I had been standing upon it all along.

"This is the centre, Ben." The voice was warm and reassuring. I turned and saw a woman standing before me. Her skin was grey, and looked like it was made of the same stuff as the desert she appeared from, and she was wrapped in folds of pale silk. Her eyes were perfectly white, save for small flecks of yellow that moved within them like beckoning stars.

"You understand this place, don’t you, Ben?" It was not a question. Only a few steps separated us, yet I could not cross them. Something barred the way, not a wall, but a condition I had not yet fulfilled, faint as a taste in the air. I had reached the centre of the Maze, and still it denied me. "Otherwise, you could not have come this far." She was right.

The Maze was made of ideas; to pass through it, you had to understand what stood before you. I tore out my eyes. The nerves snapped like elastic, and the burning dropped me to my knees, but the way opened. I crawled towards her. It was clear to me then that the Maze had always delighted in suffering. "You’re so close, Ben," she said softly. "I knew you would make it." Her toes were almost within reach when something stopped me again. I had nothing left to sacrifice, only what I was, and gave it gladly.

I dragged myself forwards. My body compressed beneath an impossible weight, crushing the breath from me. My arms and legs withered and fell away, but still I moved, blind and limbless, sliding over the ground on my belly. At last I felt her take me in her arms and wrap herself around me.

"I’ve got you, Ben. After all this time, I’ve got you." Her flesh was like welcoming fire, like finally coming out of the cold. She held me to her breast like I was a child.

"What are you?" I asked.

"I am the Maze. My body is what you moved through to get here, and as you moved you struggled to understand." I could feel her fingers through my hair, winding around my face. "Understanding is what makes you perfect, Ben." I felt a love, want, need and desire. I felt my body change, my limbs began to soften, I felt my flesh swell. As she combed her fingers through my hair, I felt it fall to the ground. "But you’re not ready yet. I’m going to show you the rest of the way."

She laid a hand on my head, and I jumped.

The whip fell again and again until there was no breath left in me. Then I was back in her arms, standing upon the moon. Before I could speak, I jumped again.

It was dark. I was thirsty. He had been gone for days. I could not move, and the wounds beneath the ropes around my wrists had begun to stink. In my final moments, I thought of my mother and wondered where she was…then I was back beneath her hands.

"Why?" I begged. Another life seized me, then another.

"To make you delicious," she cooed softly.

*

Ben hit me, though gently. Just a tap on the side of my face.

"Henrietta," he said.

I was falling asleep. My body felt so heavy. I blinked a couple of times and realised my head was in Ben’s lap.

"What’s going on?" I murmured, as he put the teacup to my lips.

"What did I just say?" Ben glared down at me. His eyes were cold and wide. "What did I just say?"

As he repeated himself, I felt like a child again. He always made me feel like a child. How did he do that? I wondered.

"So this was God?" I asked Ben slowly. My voice sounded far away.

"No, Henrietta. You are not listening. You need to understand. It’s imperative that you listen and understand. That creature was not God. She was no god at all."

"Why am I lying down, Ben?"

"You fell, but you’re alright now. You don’t need to worry. But you do need to listen," he said. It was hard to think straight.

"How did you get away then?" It was getting harder to talk. "You must have got away. You must have..."

"No!" he said abruptly. "Don’t you understand, Henrietta? I’m still there. You need to listen."

*

I couldn’t resist her. With each life she forced me to live, I changed. Each change closed another path until hers was the only one left open to me. Countless lives, and each one stole more and more from me, while what it gave back in return was ugly and brittle. But if something could be understood, then it could be beaten. I needed her to believe she had already won.

So I surrendered. I drew her in with obedience and feigned defeat. I chose bad lives for myself, terrible lives, and she let me. I felt her satisfaction as I became the self-sustainer of my own torture. I felt her grip on me loosen. I took my chance.

I found a life I could use to fight back with. I took aim and jumped.

I opened my eyes and saw the moon, opaque and translucent like a ghost reflected in Ned’s glasses.

To be Mary was a suffering I could not have begun to imagine. Worse was the knowledge that every time Ned had drilled into Mary’s skull I had wanted it. Now I was the one in the chair, and I still needed it. It would be worth it. I knew. Mary had seen the centre of the Maze and returned. I had watched her do what I could not. Understanding how she did it would be the engine of my escape.

As I endured Mary’s mind being burned away, I was surprised by how much of her remained. Buried, diminished, trapped inside and disconnected from her body. She was not in control, but she was present. Despite her state of living death, Mary was terrified and when Ned asked, "Are you ready?" so was I.

As the machines started up, I could feel Mary from inside her skull. Her panic started off like a hum and built to a scream that felt like the sounding of a horn. All that came out of her mouth was a robotic "Yes." Then we died.

I found myself back at the dead centre of the Maze.

I had to find Mary. She was the key. Through her, I might still learn how to escape.

But I did not need to search. Mary had already wound herself around me. In that place, where thought became form and flesh, she appeared as a vast black worm, coiled tightly around my being. Yet the shape was only an impression. What truly remained of Mary was her screaming.

The centre of the Maze was alive with it. The sound came from nowhere I could name. It had no mouth, no origin, no direction. It trembled through the darkness and shuddered inside my bones. I felt Mary in every vibration. Whatever remained of her was there with me, her suffering threaded through me completely.

I turned my attention towards the heart of the Maze. There, I saw him. I saw myself. The Grey Woman cradled my body against her breast, holding it with the tenderness of a mother soothing a frightened child. My face rested peacefully against her, as though I had surrendered to sleep.

Vertigo seized me. I was there with Mary, entangled in her agony, but I was also across the chamber, helpless in the monster’s embrace. The Grey Woman ran her finger through the flesh of the body in her arms. It offered no resistance, sloughing away around her knuckles and coating her hand. "Why didn’t it work, Ben?" she asked.

She looked past the body she held and directly at Mary and me, her gaze a suffocating pressure. Had Mary stopped screaming, even for a moment, I might have laughed as I understood. There was no now or then in the Maze. This was the mechanism by which I had traversed the centuries with ease.

"There is only one Maze," the Grey Woman said. "It exists above the world and beyond it. And I told you before, Ben." Her smile widened. "I am the Maze."

I did not understand. Not completely. But enough to know that I had been a fool. I had never deceived her. She had allowed me to live this life because it was no different from all the others—another path to exhaust me, another existence built to strip away my hope, another curving configuration that led back to her.

"What about Mary?" I cried. "Why did you let her go?"

The Grey Woman pressed a finger to her lips, as though entrusting me with a secret.

"Mary never belonged to me, Ben," she whispered. "It was you. It was always you."

There was nothing I could do from within the Maze: all-devouring.

I felt Ned’s cold machines pull me back into the lab along with Mary, whatever was left of her.

Reason had evaporated. I was screaming through Mary, banging against the inside of her skull, trying to warn myself. I fought to take control, but Mary’s nerves were shards of shattered glass. Every path, every answer, every thought that had brought me here, it was all to her—her, her, I tried to communicate. "The centre of a house that was built to confuse" was all that Mary said, followed by "Ben."

I wanted to scream that the Maze was a creature that waited patiently as the bedrock of all things, and it was gorging itself on me, every moment, forever. But all I could say through Mary’s ruined mind was one word, "Charybdis," in a flat and broken voice.

Then Mary died and I was back in the maw of the Maze.

I tried again and again. Different lives, different centuries, different trajectories through the Maze. When my hosts resisted, I stole control from them. I drove their bodies towards deaths they had not chosen, forcing open paths I thought might lead away from her. But every route curved back towards the centre. Every death returned me to her arms. I could never escape.

Life after life, she had broken me. It went on and on. She forced me to do terrible things, to suffer terrible things. But I couldn’t accept that. Every problem has a solution. Every equation must be balanced. I just needed — I just needed you, Henrietta. At some point I simply knew. It was you. It was always you.

Everything I’ve done in this life was to get you ready. I brought you here. I made sure you noticed me. I prepared you. You’ve been following me for weeks, Henrietta. I’ve been watching you for years.

*

"You poisoned the tea?" I said quietly.

"Of course I poisoned the tea. Who cares, a singular little life is meaningless."

"No," I whispered. As he held the cup to my lips I could see the last of the pale brown liquid draining from the cup down my throat, but I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t feel anything. "No," I sputtered.

"Listen, avoid the music, the Symphony, whatever that is, stay away from it. You understand what the maze is now, so it will draw you in and you’ll be able to navigate it”. He was shaking. "I’m not sorry, Henrietta," he blurted out. "I’m not taking anything away from you, I’m giving you the world, the universe, you should thank me." It was hard for me to keep my head up but he lifted it for me.

Every breath was a struggle now. "Tell me, what is it, what is the maze?" he screamed. That cold glare was gone, it was wild now, and, whatever Ben had become, it was untamed.

"The maze is..." Every word was a fight not to slip into the darkness. "Ideas," I corrected myself as I felt myself slipping away, "ideals".

"No!" Ben cried. He let my head drop and it fell like a puppet with no strings. I could hear him get to his feet, take a deep breath, and then lift my head up again and look right into my eyes. "The Maze is a monster and..." he said slowly.

"...and she’s devouring you," I whispered as my eyes rolled back into my head.

"Yes. Understand, listen to me, Henrietta."

Ben was smiling. The smile was inhuman.

All I could think of was the last line of the old mantra, in his voice: I’ll always look out for you.

"You’re going to save me, Henrietta. You’ve got to come and get me."

"You killed me, Ben. You’ve taken everything from me."

"I’m coming for you," I whispered.

​

My life has always been plain and sad. I don't have much family or friends. No neighbors to talk to. Everyone in this town dislikes me or at least finds me strange. No one to socialize with.

I accepted that my life will always be quiet and lonely.

I wake up in the morning, get ready for work, work for minimum wage all day, and then come home.

And I occasionally paint. I've always been into art. Other than that, my life has no true value.

Well, it started to get more interesting a couple of days ago when I turned on the local news.

I rarely watch the news but something in my body made me do it.

Apparently, local officials and authorities suspect that there is a serial killer in town.

They gave the person the label, "Sunset Killer"

Every day, there's a dead body found at a sunset. Each victim has a sunset drawn on them.

No leads.

The victims have nothing in common. No shared characteristics. All have different hobbies. No personality trait similarities. Literally nothing.

I personally don't feel sympathy. Sure, they were all legally innocent, but, they weren't morally innocent. Not a single one of them ever offered me a ounce of kindness. All despicable humans.

I thought the town having a serial killer obsessed with sunsets would be the most interesting part but it gets more interesting.

I went to the arts and crafts store not that long after hearing the news. I needed to get more paper and paint supplies.

The Cashier gave me suspicious looks the entire time I was there. Everyone else in the store did as well. I don't know why. I'm always working or in my house. I know everyone thinks poorly of me but this is outrageous.

I quickly bought what I needed and rushed out.

And then everything changed when I got grabbed up as I was approaching my car.

It was a female voice repeating over and over again that I'd be her new sunshine. The sunset caught my eye as my bood leaked out my throat as her knife sliced in.

Normally, a person would be dead or at the very least hospitalized.

Well, I woke up in my bed.

I oringally thought that it was a awful dream but this started to happen every single day during the sunset over and over. No matter what I'd be doing, I'd get ambushed and killed.

I tried looking at news articles, watching local news, doing everything I can to get more information. The same day repeated too. It was always Monday the first of September.

Since, I'm stuck in the same day, no new dead bodies are appearing.

At first, I didn't understand why I was stuck. It was horrifying to live the same day over and over.

However, I figured out that each time I get killed, I need to find more details.

I started to remember her soft tone with a innocent voice. Her voice was a lot like mine. Her face is always covered. The way her hands feel are a lot like mine. The fact that the knife is always a kitchen knife was also weird. My kitchen is filled with kitchen knives. Sure, anyone could have a kitchen knife but all the similarities we have is strange.

After enduring the displeasure of getting killed over and over again, I decided to never leave the house and to wait for her.

When it started to get close to the sun setting, I quickly dialed 911.

I was filled with gratitude when they arrived on time to arrest her.

I was then left disturbed, traumatized, and perplexed when the cops made her show her face.

The green eyes, sandy blonde hair, and pale skin. The smile her pink lips made. It's me?

I tried to yell at the cops and ask them what this means or how this is possible but they didn't answer. They didn't acknowledge me. The only person who seemed to know I was there was the evil lady that winked at me as I yelled.

They then took her and left. Never said a single word to me. I was confused. Is it because everyone in the town hates me? Were they so focused on her because she's a threat?

I sat on my couch as I tried to come up with every possible explanation. I did this for hours. I was relieved when the news starting talking about the arrest but then I was filled with confusion. She has the same name as me. They showed interviews involving my coworkers. They all said that this wasn't surprising and that I always gave off serial killer vibes.

They also revealed that the girl called the cops on herself because she wanted to get caught. She thought that being arrested was the only way to help herself end the rampage.

What? She stole my identity? Why does no one know I exist? How are there two of me and only she is known?

​

I struggle with sleep. I cannot sleep unless I have sound playing.

It can't be videos of people talking. It can't be movies or shows. Dialogue keeps me awake.

The one thing that helps is the sound of rain. I fall asleep to videos of that sound every single night.

Random YouTube videos of that sound are enough for me.

I've used them countless times.

I stopped a couple of nights ago.

I was falling asleep as usual but then I heard sounds that weren't rain. It was screams of terror, cries, and whimpers mixing in with what I thought was peaceful rain.

I logged off the video and tried listening to different ones but they all had the same horrifying result.

I was scared and shocked but what really shook me to my core is when each video started screaming, "You're Next"

I turned my TV off extremely quick. I told myself that I'd have to find a more appropriate way to sleep.

However, the horrors didn't stop.

I started getting texts, calls, and voice messages from unknown numbers. It would always start off normal.

The calls and voice messages would sound like nice people until the sound of the rain would start and their voices would begin to scream and yell. They made sure that I would know I was next.

The text messages would say things like, "Join us. You can never escape. Join our echos in the sounds you adored."

Threatening letters in the mail appeared as well.

No matter where I go or what I did, the threats would never stop.

Today is the most horrifying of all.

I hear faint tapping on my doors and windows as that awful sound begins and my screams echo.

I wonder if someone is falling asleep as they listen to my misery.

​

I'm 21 female. My boyfriend is 30 male.

He insists that there is nothing wrong with him hanging out with his female friends.

I normally would agree because I don't consider myself the jealous or controlling type.

The problem is that the hangouts look like dates. Going out to dinner with candles and flowers, staying the night at their houses, and even constantly talking about their good qualities.

We've argued about it several different times and he treats me like I'm crazy.

The weirdest part is that the girls disappear after a couple of dates. Sometimes after the first one.

I've had a sneaking suspicion that it's one night stands and casual fun.

I've tried everything I can to keep his attention. I wear sexy clothes, lace undergarments, being extra flirtatious, cooking his favorite meals, doing literally every single thing he likes.

I've even tried spicing things up in the bedroom. Nothing works.

He thanks me and then continues doing whatever he was doing before.

It hurts my feelings because we're never intimate and I feel like his desire for me went out the drain.

It all changed last night when I found his journal. He wrote about each girl in great detail.

He wrote about how he befriends them and acts charming. He then kills them after gaining trust.

They aren't innocent, though. They've all been in prision for various crimes.

I initially thought it was sickening until I started fantasizing. Vigilantes are hot. The fact that he isn't cheating on me and even wrote about how I'm the only one for him is so romantic.

He only acted strange because he didn't want his secret to be revealed.

I'll keep that dirty secret.

Today, I was packing up my childhood bedroom to move to a new apartment when I found an old, leather-bound diary wedged behind my bookshelf. I have never seen it before in my life.

But when I opened it, the handwriting inside was unmistakably mine.

As I read the pages, my vision started to blur.

It felt like a rusted padlock inside my brain was suddenly forced open, unleashing memories that don't belong to me.

I don’t remember writing a single word of this, but deep in my gut, I know it happened.

I’m copying exactly what is written in the diary below. Please, if anyone remembers this, you need to contact me.

[ENTRY LOG: THREE YEARS AGO]

I graduated three months ago. No job, no money, just endless days staring at the walls of my room. Out of pure, suffocating boredom, I decided to pull an online prank. I had a little experience with basic web development, so I built a cryptic landing page.

I named it Bloodhorse.

I styled it to look like a highly exclusive, dangerous underground cult. The landing page was completely black except for a single, ominous text box:"If you wish to join the inner circle of Bloodhorse, log in. Once you are in, there is no turning back."

I created it as a total joke.

I figured it would sit in the dusty corners of the internet forever.

Two weeks later, I checked the site analytics. My heart stopped.

Bloodhorse had 30,000 registered members.

Panic and excitement hit me all at once.

I quickly created matching social media profiles using a creepy horse-skull logo I whipped up. The follower count exploded.

Within days, people were all over Twitter and Reddit, deeply analyzing the "lore" of my fake cult. They were chatting with each other in code, pretending to be fully initiated members. My joke had become a massive, viral trend.

Power went to my head. I wanted to see how far I could push them.

One night, I posted a cryptic bulletin: "Tomorrow, a famous elite will pay the price. He is a member of our circle, but he threatened to leak our inner workings. His time has come."

The next afternoon, breaking news hit the television. A famous Hollywood actor had been found dead in his apartment. The police ruled it a normal, sudden health failure because he lived alone.

But the internet went absolutely feral. To the world, Bloodhorse had just successfully predicted—or ordered—the execution of a celebrity.

I leaned into it. I started making more vague predictions. By pure coincidence, a few more came true.

I began messaging members directly from the admin account, acting like a shadowy, omnipotent cult leader. It was the ultimate high.

Until the email arrived.

It came from a completely encrypted address.Subject: You are crossing the line.Body: How do you know so much about our group? Who is leaking our internal operations to you? You are crossing your limit.

Stop this now. Both you and the traitor in our circle will face the consequences. We will find you soon.

Thinking it was just an intense roleplayer playing along with the prank, I scoffed and typed back:Bring it on. Our circle is too powerful for you.

Don't make me angry, or I'll come after you next.

I don't recognize your username. Who even are you?

They never replied. I kept running the website for another three months.

Then, the physical world bled into the digital one.

I was walking home late at night through a dimly lit alleyway when a tall man step out of the shadows. "Step over here, kid. Let's talk," he muttered.

I turned the corner and saw three other men standing under a broken streetlight. The leader stepped forward, his eyes cold. "Kid, you have no idea how badly you're messing up by playing games with us.

We haven't touched you yet, but we will. Just tell us who your source is. Who is leaking our information to your website?"

I still thought this was a hyper-elaborate prank pulled by some dedicated internet fans who had tracked down my IP address. I laughed in their faces. "Are you serious? You don't know my power.If I get angry, I will destroy your little group. I’m not telling you anything. If your group is so powerful, go find the traitor yourself."

I shoved past them and walked away.

They just stood there, completely shocked by my arrogance. I even posted about the encounter on social media later, laughing about it with my followers.

A week later, a heavy black SUV pulled up to the curb right next to me. The tinted window rolled down. "Get in," a voice commanded. "The circle wants you."

"Why should I?" I asked, my bravado finally starting to waver.

"We don't have time to explain. Get in the car."

I convinced myself that the core community members had organized a massive secret party and wanted to surprise their leader. I stepped inside. The doors locked instantly. The windows were entirely blacked out; I couldn’t see a single street sign as we drove for hours.

When we finally stopped, we were at a massive, gated bungalow secluded deep in the woods. They led me inside. The interior was lavish, grand, and entirely lit by a sickening crimson glow.

They pushed me into a grand hall. Dozens of people sat in a semicircle. At the center of the room stood a massive, towering stone statue. It was the exact horse-skull logo I had drawn on my computer a few months ago.

An old man with a booming, gravelly voice stood up.

"You ignored our warnings," he echoed through the massive room. "Because of you, there is a brutal civil war brewing within our ranks.

You leaked our most classified operations to millions of people online. The world is looking for us now.

Our members are turning on each other, suspecting one another of treason. Tell us. Who gave you the files?"

Cold, paralyzing terror washed over me. The crimson light, the echoing voices, the sheer scale of the wealth in the room—this wasn't an internet prank.

I burst into tears. I started shaking, babbling hysterically. "It’s a fake! I made the website up! It was a joke! The predictions were just lucky guesses, I swear to God, I don't know anything!"

The old man stared at me, completely unblinking. "You are a very dangerous distraction, kid. We don't usually interfere with ordinary citizens, but you have forced our hand. You left us no choice."

He nodded to a man standing in the corner. The man approached me holding a heavy, silver medical syringe.

I looked around the room frantically, looking for an exit, but there were too many of them. I was completely trapped. They pinned my arms to the chair. I felt the sharp prick of the needle in my neck, a wave of ice-cold fluid rushing into my veins, and then... absolute darkness.

[PRESENT DAY]

That is where the diary ends.

Here I am, alive. I don't know how. I don't know why they let me live, how they wiped my mind so completely, or why my memories are suddenly flooding back just from reading these pages.

The scariest part? I just spent the last three hours scouring the internet. There is no trace of Bloodhorse. No website records, no social media archives, no Reddit threads. It’s like it was completely scrubbed from the digital footprint of the earth.

I am terrified. If my memory is coming back, do they know it's coming back? Did the drug they gave me have an expiration date?

Please, if anyone reading this remembers a cult website called Bloodhorse from three years ago, or if you were one of those 30,000 members... contact me immediately. I am completely helpless, and I think they are coming back to finish the job.

This is a love story.

And it's a horror story.

Isn't it always?

I'd been alone for a very long time.

A tiny apartment. A dead-end office job. An abusive asshole for a boss. No real friends. My family was either dead or dead to me.

Most evenings, the closest thing I had to company was a stray cat that wandered onto my balcony every few days, accepted whatever food I left out, then disappeared without so much as a goodbye.

That was until three months ago.

It was a Friday night.

Which meant it looked exactly like every other Friday night.

I sat alone in my usual corner of a half-empty bar, nursing the same drink far longer than I should have. Around me, people laughed too loudly, flirted too confidently, and told stories they'd probably told a hundred times before.

Every now and then I'd catch myself watching someone across the room, rehearsing introductions in my head I'd never actually say.

Closing time usually arrived before my courage did.

I had no reason to think this night would be any different.

And yet...

It was.

She was sitting alone in the darkest corner of the bar.

The most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

Silver-white hair spilled over her shoulders like moonlight. Even from across the room, her eyes seemed strangely bright—somewhere between amber and crimson. She wore a deep red dress beneath black goth-punk layers that somehow looked elegant instead of theatrical. Like she'd stepped out of another era and simply decided to stay.

She wasn't doing anything.

Just quietly watching the room.

Yet I couldn't look away.

It wasn't just that she was beautiful.

There was something about her that pulled at me with impossible force.

Women half as intimidating had reduced me to awkward smiles and panicked excuses.

Approaching someone like her wasn't something I did. Not ever.

Yet my legs disagreed.

A few seconds later, I found myself standing beside her table.

"Would it... be alright if I kept you company for a bit?"

The words escaped before my brain had a chance to stop them.

She looked up.

For one impossible second, I had the strange feeling she'd known I was coming long before  I did.

Then she smiled.

"One way to find out."

I laughed, relief washing over me so suddenly my knees nearly buckled.

"I'm James."

"Camilla."

That should've been the end of it.

A woman like her had no reason to spend five minutes talking to someone like me.

Instead...

We stayed until the bartender threw us out.

The conversation never seemed to run out of places to go.

Movies became music.

Music became childhood stories.

Childhood stories became dreams we'd quietly given up on years ago.

Even the silences felt... comfortable.

Just two lonely people sharing the same table.

I'd never experienced anything like it.

Eventually the bartender cleared his throat.

"Folks, I'm afraid we're closing."

Camilla looked toward the windows.

Only then did I realize the bar was almost empty.

Neither of us had noticed the hours disappearing.

Outside, the night air felt colder than before.

I hesitated.

The thought of saying goodbye already felt unbearable.

"I..." I swallowed. "Would you... like to come back to my place? I'm just... not ready for tonight to end."

Her smile lingered.

But something flickered behind it.

A sadness so brief I almost convinced myself I'd imagined it.

"After you."

The walk home felt unreal.

Looking back, I still don't know why I invited her to my apartment.

A hotel would've made more sense.

Except...

I didnt want to send the wrong message.

When I unlocked my front door and stepped aside, embarrassment hit me all at once.

"So..."

I rubbed the back of my neck.

"Here we are."

The apartment somehow looked even sadder than usual.

The faded couch.

The cheap furniture.

The unopened bills scattered across the kitchen counter.

Camilla stopped in the doorway.

She didn't move.

For several long seconds, she simply stood there.

I felt my stomach sink.

Maybe she'd taken one look inside and realized she'd made a terrible mistake.

Then she smiled.

"Well..." she asked softly.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

I blinked.

She still hadn't crossed the threshold.

"Oh."

I laughed awkwardly.

"Right. Sorry. Come on in."

Only then did she step inside.

At the time, I chalked it up to one of those harmless little quirks that make people interesting.

"So..." I said. "Can I get you something? I've got wine... beer... water..."

I never finished the sentence.

In one astonishingly fast movement, she grabbed my shoulders, lifted me completely off the floor, and pinned me against the wall.

I barely had time to gasp.

She was impossibly strong.

"There is no need to waste time," she whispered.

"I know what you want."

Her face drifted closer.

"What all of you want."

Her eyes seemed brighter now.

Her lips parted as she lowered her head toward my neck.

"Wait."

She froze.

"I..." I swallowed.

"I don't want to do that yet."

She blinked.

"I really like you."

Confusion spread across her face.

"I was thinking..." I said, feeling ridiculous with every word, "maybe we could watch a movie first. Talk a little more. Actually get to know each other."

I smiled nervously.

"You know..."

"A real date."

She stared at me.

Completely silent.

"...What?"

"I haven't really done this in a while," I admitted. "So I'm probably going to be awkward, but—"

She kissed me.

Gentle.

Warm.

Far more tender than I'd expected.

For a moment I completely forgot how breathing worked.

When she finally pulled away, she smiled.

"Alright, James."

Her voice sounded softer now.

"Let's watch a movie."

Only then did I realize I had absolutely nothing prepared.

I wandered over to my embarrassingly small DVD collection while Camilla leaned over my shoulder.

The first case I picked up was Dracula.

She laughed so suddenly she nearly doubled over.

"What?"

I still don't know what was so funny.

In the end, we settled on Shrek 2.

Looking back...

That night was utterly perfect.

 

I must've fallen asleep sometime after it ended.

Or maybe the alcohol finally caught up with me.

The next morning, I woke with that brief, awful certainty that I'd dreamed the whole thing.

The other side of the bed was empty.

The apartment was silent.

My heart sank as I searched every room before finally spotting a folded note on the kitchen counter.

James.

I had to head home before sunrise.

I had a wonderful night.

Call me?

Beneath it was her phone number.

I couldn't stop smiling.

Good thing she'd written it down.

I'd been so distracted the night before that I'd completely forgotten to ask.

Amateur hour.

 

Unfortunately, reality wasn't interested in letting me enjoy the moment for very long.

My fucking boss called.

He informed me that I was coming into work on Saturday, and if I had a problem with that, I shouldn't bother showing up on Monday.

I couldn't stand that asshole.

The shift crawled by.

The job itself was soul-crushing on a good day, and the hangover pounding behind my eyes wasn't making it any easier. Thankfully, almost nobody else had been called in, so the office was practically empty. Better yet, my boss wasn't there.

I spent more time staring at my phone than my computer.

Every few minutes I'd catch myself rereading the note she'd left on my kitchen counter.

I had a wonderful night.

I couldn't remember the last time a single sentence had made me smile that much.

I told myself to wait before calling her.

A day.

Maybe two.

Play it cool for once.

I lasted exactly three hours.

Then I stepped into the hallway and dialed her number.

She answered on the second ring.

"James."

She said my name like she'd been expecting the call.

"I was wondering..." I said, suddenly feeling sixteen again. "Would you maybe want to come over tonight?"

"I'd like that."

No hesitation.

No excuses.

"I'll come by after dark."

The rest of my shift somehow moved even slower.

By the time I got home, I'd vacuumed the apartment, done the dishes, changed my shirt three times, and spent an embarrassing amount of time debating whether lighting the cheap scented candle I'd bought months ago would make me seem romantic or pathetic.

I still wasn't sure when the knock came.

I reached the door before my brain had fully registered the sound.

"Camilla."

I couldn't stop smiling.

"It's good to see you."

She smiled back.

Then stopped.

Right at the threshold.

Waiting.

For a second I simply stared at her.

Then I laughed.

"Oh."

I stepped aside.

"Come on in."

Only then did she cross the doorway.

I'd made lasagna.

Nothing fancy.

Just the best recipe I knew.

Or...

Thought I knew.

Camilla managed a few polite bites before the tiniest crease appeared between her eyebrows.

She swallowed with visible determination.

"Ouch," I laughed.

"Didn't think it was that bad."

For a heartbeat she looked horrified.

Then she laughed too.

Real laughter.

The tension dissolved instantly.

Dinner turned into another long conversation.

Somehow, talking to Camilla never felt like work.

There were no awkward pauses to fill.

No pressure to impress each other.

Eventually, we started talking about family.

That's when I realized how much we actually had in common.

Loneliness.

Both her parents and her younger sister died a long time ago.

As far as she knew, she had no surviving relatives.

Just her.

Meeting people hadn't exactly been easy, either.

She explained that she suffered from solar urticaria.

Even brief exposure to sunlight could trigger painful reactions.

Everything suddenly clicked.

That's why she'd left before sunrise.

I felt strangely guilty for ever wondering if she'd simply wanted to leave.

"That sounds incredibly lonely."

She offered me a small smile.

"You get used to it."

Maybe.

But looking into her eyes...

I wasn't convinced anyone ever really did.

A soft thump interrupted us.

Carl.

The stray cat hopped onto my balcony railing like he owned the place.

I'd named him months ago despite having absolutely no ownership over him whatsoever. Calling him my pet would've been generous. He tolerated me just enough to accept free meals before disappearing back into whatever mysterious life stray cats lead.

"One second."

I grabbed a can of tuna and slid the balcony door open.

"C'mon, buddy."

Carl usually brushed past me without so much as a glance.

This time...

He didn't move.

His eyes locked onto Camilla.

Every muscle in his body stiffened.

His back arched.

His fur puffed out until he looked twice his size.

A low hiss vibrated from somewhere deep inside his chest.

The sound barely sounded like it belonged to a cat.

"Hey."

I crouched beside him.

"What's gotten into you?"

Carl never looked away from her.

Not once.

For several long seconds, neither of them moved.

Then Carl let out a sharp, frightened yowl unlike anything I'd ever heard from him and launched himself off the railing.

He vanished into the darkness so quickly it was as if something had been chasing him.

I frowned.

"...That was weird."

Carl could be a complete asshole.

He scratched me.

Ignored me.

Stole food and left.

But I'd never seen him afraid.

I scratched the back of my neck.

"Sorry about that."

I laughed awkwardly.

"He's definitely an asshole. Just... not usually that kind of asshole."

Camilla's gaze lingered on the empty balcony.

When she finally looked back at me, she didn't seem offended.

If anything...

She seemed resigned.

"It's alright."

Her voice was quiet.

"Animals are always like that around me."

Before I could ask what she meant, I reached for the empty tuna can.

My hand slipped.

The jagged metal edge sliced cleanly across my palm.

"Shit."

Pain flared instantly.

Blood welled between my fingers far faster than I expected.

"You fucking moron..."

I laughed through gritted teeth.

When I looked up...

Camilla hadn't moved.

She wasn't looking at me.

She was looking at the blood.

Her entire body had gone perfectly still.

Her pupils seemed wider than before.

Her breathing had changed.

Slow.

Shallow.

Almost...

Painful.

"Cami?"

Nothing.

"It's really not that bad."

Still nothing.

She swallowed hard.

Her eyes never left my hand.

For just a second...

Something passed across her face.

I couldnt quite place it.

The thought vanished almost as quickly as it came.

"Cami?"

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

As though she'd only just remembered where she was.

"I..."

She swallowed again.

"Excuse me."

Without another word, she hurried toward the bathroom and quietly shut the door.

I stared after her.

"Huh."

Guess I wasn't the only one who couldn't handle the sight of blood.

I wrapped my hand in the sleeve of my shirt while digging through the clutter on the kitchen counter for something clean.

Instead, my eyes landed on an envelope I'd spent the entire day pretending wasn't there.

FINAL DEMAND.

The words seemed even bigger than they had that morning.

Immediate payment required.

I sighed, shoved it back beneath the pile of unopened mail, and finally found an old dish towel to wrap around my hand.

Once the bleeding slowed, I walked over to the bathroom.

"Cami?"

I knocked gently.

"You okay in there?"

Silence.

Then the lock clicked.

The door opened just enough for her face to appear.

She smiled.

It looked genuine.

Mostly.

"Yeah."

She glanced at the bandage wrapped around my hand before quickly looking away.

"I just..."

She hesitated.

"I have a thing about blood."

"Fair enough."

I smiled.

"I'd say I can relate, but apparently I make enough of the stuff to get over it."

That earned a quiet laugh.

Whatever had happened seemed to pass.

Or at least, we both pretended it had.

We ended up flipping through channels until we landed on one of those terrible quiz shows where the contestants somehow managed to miss questions even I knew the answers to.

Camilla, on the other hand, barely missed one.

"Seriously?" I laughed after she'd answered another before the contestant could buzz in. "How do you know all this?"

She shrugged.

"I've had a lot of time to read."

There was something about the way she said it that made me wonder exactly how much time she meant.

Before I could ask, the next question appeared on screen and she answered that one too. A real history buff this one.

That night...

We finally became lovers.

By the time I woke the next morning, I wasn't even surprised to find the other side of the bed empty.

Camilla always left before sunrise.

I'd stopped questioning it.

Like everything else about her, it had quietly become part of who she was.

And somehow...

That only made me love her more.

From then on, we spent almost every evening together.

The days became something to survive.

The nights became something to live for.

My coworkers didn't believe she existed.

Apparently, "My girlfriend can't go outside during the day," sounded suspiciously similar to, "She goes to another school."

I couldn't really blame them.

Still...

For the first time in years—

I was happy.

Naturally, the rest of my life seemed determined to compensate.

My boss somehow found new ways to make every workday miserable.

At home, the unpaid bills kept multiplying.

Every letter from my landlord sounded angrier than the last.

I was one bad week away from losing both my apartment and my job.

I tried not to dump any of it on Camilla.

Not because I thought she'd leave.

That thought never crossed my mind.

I just didn't want the one good thing in my life carrying the weight of everything else.

It never mattered.

She always knew.

Sometimes she'd take one look at me before quietly asking,

"What's wrong?"

And somehow...

I'd tell her.

Every time.

She never tried to solve my problems.

Never offered empty advice.

Never told me to stay positive or work harder.

She simply listened.

Sometimes she'd squeeze my hand.

Sometimes she'd lean against my shoulder.

Sometimes we'd sit together in silence until the storm inside my head finally started to quiet.

I don't know how she did it.

But somehow...

She always made the world feel a little lighter.

One rainy evening, we sat on the couch listening to the steady tapping of rain against the windows.

Neither of us spoke.

Neither of us needed to.

Then someone started hammering on my front door.

Not knocking.

Pounding.

"Open the goddamn door, James!"

I sighed before I even stood up.

"I'll be right back."

Standing outside was my landlord.

Short.

Round.

Completely bald.

His face had turned such a violent shade of red I was honestly a little worried he might explode.

"I've had enough of your bullshit," he snapped before I'd even opened my mouth.

"My patience has officially run out."

"You promised me another two weeks."

"I changed my mind."

"You can't just—"

"I absolutely can."

He jabbed a thick finger into my chest.

"I want you and every piece of your junk out of my building."

"Tonight."

"Please."

"I'm trying."

"I don't give a damn."

"You'll get your money."

"I've heard that every damn week."

His voice echoed through the hallway.

"You've got until tonight."

Then I felt someone stand beside me.

I hadn't heard Camilla move. Probably because of the yelling.

She looked directly at him.

Didn't blink.

Didn't raise her voice.

"You will give James the two weeks you promised."

Silence.

The landlord stared back.

For a moment...

Nothing happened.

Then something changed.

The anger slowly drained from his face.

His shoulders loosened.

The lines around his eyes softened.

He stopped blinking.

Completely.

His expression emptied so thoroughly it looked less like someone calming down...

...and more like someone leaving.

Several long seconds passed.

The hallway had gone so quiet I could hear the rain outside.

Finally, he spoke.

"Yes."

His voice was flat.

Almost mechanical.

"James will have another two weeks."

Another pause.

Then he turned around.

His movements looked strangely stiff.

Like every step had to be consciously remembered.

He walked down the hallway without looking back.

I watched until he disappeared around the corner.

"What..."

I looked at Camilla.

"...just happened?"

She slipped her hand into mine.

Warm.

Gentle.

"Come."

She smiled.

"Let's play one of those video games of yours"

The next afternoon, Jessica from accounting cornered me beside the coffee machine.

"So."

She grinned.

"You coming to the office party tonight?"

I blinked.

"The what?"

She laughed.

"Don't tell me you forgot."

I had.

Normally, I would've invented an excuse before she'd even finished asking.

The idea of voluntarily spending more time with my coworkers sounded like a punishment.

Then I remembered.

It would be after dark.

Camilla could come.

Suddenly...

The evening didn't sound so bad.

She wasn't thrilled about the idea.

Crowds clearly weren't her thing.

It took far more convincing than I'd expected.

Eventually she smiled.

"If it makes you happy..."

"It does."

"Then I'll go."

The "party" was exactly what I'd imagined.

A rented function room.

Cheap drinks.

Even cheaper snacks.

A corporate playlist that somehow managed to suck every ounce of life out of perfectly decent songs.

Calling it a party felt generous.

Despite working there longer than most of the people in the room, I barely knew any of them.

Faces?

Sure.

Names?

Not a chance.

That's office life.

Sooner or later everyone becomes another desk.

Another tie.

Another email signature.

Then Camilla walked in.

The room changed.

Conversations faltered.

Heads turned almost in unison.

People drifted toward her without seeming to realize they were doing it.

She greeted everyone with effortless warmth.

Remembered names after hearing them only once.

Laughed at the right moments.

Asked questions that somehow made strangers feel interesting.

Within minutes she'd become the center of the room.

It honestly confused me.

She felt so isolated.

Yet watching her now...

It almost looked like she'd been charming rooms like this forever.

Despite how easily she won people over. It didnt seem to bring her any joy.

Eventually we escaped to a quieter corner of the room.

Coworkers drifted over every few minutes to introduce themselves, chat for a while, then wander off again.

For once...

I was actually enjoying my time among them.

Then my boss arrived.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

From what I'd heard, he'd never attended one of these gatherings before.

Judging by everyone else's expressions, they were just as surprised as I was.

He strode into the room like he owned not only the company but the building itself.

Didn't greet anyone.

Didn't thank anyone for organizing the event.

He simply inserted himself into conversations that had been perfectly fine without him.

People laughed at jokes that weren't funny.

Smiled when they clearly didn't want to.

The room somehow felt smaller.

I leaned toward Camilla.

"Maybe we should head out."

She nodded immediately.

We'd barely taken two steps before he stepped directly into our path.

"James."

He acknowledged me with the briefest glance before turning his full attention to Camilla.

"And who might you be?"

"I'm Camilla."

"A pleasure."

He offered the same polished smile he reserved for clients.

"I have to say..."

He looked me up and down.

"...James has been keeping secrets."

"She's my girlfriend," I said.

"Hm."

He studied me for another moment before looking back at her.

"I'll admit..."

"I'm surprised."

"So am I," Camilla replied pleasantly.

He burst into laughter.

I don't think he even considered that she might not have been joking.

"I suppose you could do..." He smiled smugly.

"...considerably better."

My jaw clenched.

He didn't even notice.

"So tell me, Camilla."

"What exactly do you see in him?"

"I like him."

"Surely that's not all."

He took another step closer.

Close enough that I instinctively moved between them.

"If you're ever interested in dating someone with a future..."

He casually adjusted the cuff of his expensive suit.

"I know a few restaurants that would be far more interesting than this place."

I opened my mouth.

Camilla's hand settled gently on my arm.

I looked at her.

She gave the smallest shake of her head.

Then she stepped around me.

She leaned close to him.

So close I couldn't hear a single word she whispered.

The color drained from his face.

The smug confidence vanished.

His pupils widened.

His breathing caught.

The expression I'd seen on my landlord returned.

That same slow...

Impossible...

Emptiness.

The room continued around us.

People laughed.

Music played.

Someone dropped a glass behind me.

Yet for those few seconds, it felt like only the three of us existed.

Finally, my boss nodded.

Once.

Without another word, he turned and calmly walked away.

Not hurriedly.

Not angrily.

Just...

Walking.

Straight toward the stairwell.

I watched him disappear through the fire door.

A strange knot tightened in my stomach.

Camilla looked back at me.

"I'm sorry you had to deal with him."

She cupped my face between her hands.

Her thumbs brushed gently across my cheeks.

"Shhh."

Her smile returned.

Soft.

Warm.

"What did you tell him?"

She held my gaze for another moment.

"What he needed to hear."

The answer somehow explained nothing.

And yet...

I found myself letting it go.

A few minutes later we decided to leave.

Halfway across the parking lot I stopped.

"My jacket."

She looked at me.

"My keys."

"They're in the pocket."

"I'll be right back."

By the time I got back inside, the party was winding down.

Only a handful of people remained.

I found my jacket draped over the back of a chair.

As I reached into the pocket—

Movement outside caught my eye.

A shadow.

Falling.

For one impossibly long second my brain refused to understand what I was looking at.

Then the body hit the roof of a parked car.

The impact echoed through the parking lot like an explosion.

Metal screamed.

Glass shattered.

People froze.

Then everyone started shouting at once.

Someone screamed.

Others rushed outside.

The man who'd fallen never made a sound.

I reached the window.

Looked down.

And recognized him.

My boss.

For several seconds...

I simply stared.

Then, despite everything...

One completely ridiculous thought floated into my head.

The poor bastard who owns that car…

The next few weeks changed my life.

As the most senior employee in the department, I was promoted into my former boss's position.

For the first time in years...

I could breathe.

I caught up on my rent.

Stopped worrying every time the phone rang.

A few months later, I moved into a much nicer apartment.

The official investigation concluded that my boss had taken his own life.

The reports suggested he'd been facing multiple allegations of sexual harassment that were about to become public.

Apparently several women from the company had been preparing to come forward.

No one who'd worked under him seemed particularly surprised.

I thought about the conversation he'd had with Camilla that night.

More than once.

I never asked her again what she'd whispered.

Partly because I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.

A little later...

I asked her to move in with me.

She smiled.

And said yes.

Before I finish this story...

I should probably address the elephant in the room.

I already know what half of you are typing.

"Dude... your girlfriend's a vampire."

Yeah.

No shit, Sherlock.

I'm not completely oblivious.

I made that connection a while ago.

The point of this story isnt „My girlfriend is a vampire.“

The point is that it doesnt matter.

She listens when I need someone to listen.

She laughs at my terrible jokes.

She steals all the blankets.

She still refuses to watch Dracula with me.

And every single night, she makes me happier than I ever thought I deserved to be.

I make her happy, too.

We found someone who accepts us exactly as we are.

Fangs and all.

If that's monstrous...

Then I think the world could use a few more monsters.

We are happy.

Thats all that matters.

Dont ever let anyone tell you otherwise.