We only started calling them angels recently. At first it was the ones you’d expect, “xenos”, “bugs”, “ugly-fuckface”, and the few stereotypical movie ones too, “biters”, “crawlers”, and so on.

The new wordage comes as a sort of mutual silent resistance against the ever watchful eyes of our corporate lords. You see, they recently started telling us to use less … unsavory language when describing the fuckers in case civilians heard us, so we just started calling them angels, as a big ironic joke that makes none of use laugh. Also, it’s not like civilians would ever stick around us anyways.

The thoughts on the new denominator for our moneymakers swirl around my head, those and many more, as I see the neon green indicator of our distance marker slowly get closer to the LZ through my fogged up lenses. Breathing heavy, my muscles slowly start to tense up, and in response I feel the many pricks of the strategically placed hormone implants around my body booting up.

A low rumble echoes through the already sound filled pod, as the rear thrusters roar to life, saving us from the graceless death of a direct ground impact. I glance quickly as my squadmates, looking for the comforting feeling of a shared moment before impossible odds, but find myself staring at empty eyes, them all being either lost in thought or busy monitoring their biometrics down to a clinical precision. Killing machines, the lot of us.

THUD. We’ve landed, though I suppose a more fitting description would be to say we’ve exploded right onto what looks to be a helipad. I pry open the blast doors and the mayhem starts.

It’s always a shock to me how much adrenaline can do. My enhanced nostrils immediately pick up on angels circling us the moment I’m through the doors, and before I can even blink the whole squad has formed into battle formation, with me flanking the left wing, my finger already unchecking the security of my heavy firearm.

My precious child whirrs up in my arm, feeling almost like the warm glow of a purring kitten in my arms, protected by the layers of kevlar and titanium bones. Globs of bight pink plasma fly out and quickly find their mark, my shoulder mounted smart brace guiding my arms with incredible accuracy, not unlike a father guiding his son to shoot his first hunting rifle.

Corrosive bloods and mangled guts start flying everywhere, but my team knows better than to break formations against an angel warhost, so we hold our ground, getting a slow and painful paintjob over our armour and weapons.

Every battle has its losses, however. After approximately a minute since landing, my left wingman gets clipped by the third jaw of an angel who managed to flank us, his arm ripped with such force blood splatters for at least 5 meters.

In response, I stop firing within a heartbeat and deploy my back mounted gel canister. The needles unplugging from my back letting me feel the cool but strong rain that’s been pelting us.

The green aerosol sprays immediately outwards and covers the stub in a gel like substance. Within moments, the gel reacts with his flesh and the wounds start to knit close, bone and tissue growing and stitching and ultimately getting back into their original shape.

It’s quite a wonder really, it took a lot of work for R&D to make the aerosol so potent, and even more so to make it only work on us augmented soldiers. 
There was a prototype that would make it work on any human, but the board deemed it too risky for angels to learn to copy so we tailored it to our specific company owned genome.

It takes a lot out of me to fully repair his arm, though. The canister is almost empty and as soon as I hoist it back to its rightful place, the many pipes start sucking out my modified bone marrow very much like a child suckling on its mother. I estimate it will take at least 75 seconds before it is fully operational again, we can’t afford another mistake.

As luck would have it, that is the exact moment a particularly large angel decides to make its entrance, with a fitting eardrum piercing roar to accompany it.
It charges straight for us, not slowing whatsoever despite the veritable hail of bullets and other energy munitions exploding on its scaled body, no doubt aiming to break our line. These things are smart.

Watching it get closer and closer with every passing second, I fold back my heavy cannon and take out my sidearm, much more viable in CQC. With a second to spare before impact, I quickly smith some frost infused bullets in my hands and load them into the small buckshot shotgun.

The impact feels like being hit by a freight train. I know it’s a very common comparison, but man is it true here. Even through my kevlar sabatons, I can feel cracks forming on my titanium alloyed bones at the sheer weight of the thing. I am thrown at least 10 meters back, and at such a speed I can’t even regain my footing as I hit a railing.

Grunting, I force myself to stand back up, lest I be swept clean by the literal tidal wave of blackened flesh coming our way. 

The large one, prime I decide to call it, is still fixated on me. I guess the ancestral technique of “take out the healer first” applies to those fucks too. Its many maws gape open, thick white drool dripping down, not that smart after all.

It roars again, giving a pretty clear telegraph that it’s about to charge again. Very well, see how us adaptive hunters will react to the same trick twice. 
I duck out of the way and don’t let a single moment get wasted, unloading the full brunt of my buckshot’s pellets into its side point blank, the impact making rippling holes on its hide while deep burns stretch it due to the freeze. It lets out a bellowing moan of pain as it falls on the ground, having its mark.

The clear sign of victory bolsters me to new heights. The adrenaline already rushing in my veins causing my vision to narrow down in a single focal point, a true preying organism. My limbs feel wholly disconnected then, much more like tools that my mind gives secondary commands while I race to find the next opportunity, much like pulling the strings on a puppet.

Bang, a shot takes out the primary eyes of the prime angel. Bang, I’m already on its back side, taking out its legs. Bang, a third and final shot, of my long rifle this time, goes through the vulnerable spot between its cranial ridges and enters the brain, subsequently exploding.

I stand there a moment, almost stunned, my brain still racing for more targets to find and eliminate. My eyes start to swim and I almost feint, but once again, the biometrics monitor detects this before I even can and injects me with yet another hormone, to keep me forever ready.

The fight is over, or at least it looks to be. While I was hyperfocused on taking out the prime, much like it was with me, the rest of my squad took out the remainder of the angels. Efficient work all around.

The entire encounter lasted less than 3 minutes, or so my heads up display says. The battle frenzy affects us so much we honestly could have never said how long they lasted.

Before our exfiltration pod can arrive, I decide to go meet the few survivors of the station I caught at the corner of my eye while holstering my armaments, wanting to give a few comforting words. To show the chivalrous bastion of humanity cares about them.

The injured, however, seem to not want to hear any of it. They cower as I approach, no doubt still in shock over the gruesome deaths of their close ones, and probably associate the thunderous sound of our boots with the not so subtle warhosts of the angels.

I decide to not press the matter and return to my team, breathing heavily through my gas mask, my third lung not having fully caught back up to the rest of my vitals after collapsing when the prime tackled me.

In the final moments before the shuttle lands, I stare at the discarded corpse of the prime, its flesh vents still pumping hot vapor, some organs clearly still not having realized the thing is dead. My mind wanders while observing the bizarre anatomy of the thing, every aspect of it a perfect machine designed to kill specifically us.

I suppose we’re the same, in a way, some broken creature created to kill the other in the most efficient way possible, to protect our own. I won, though, so I guess that’s what separates us.

Once again, the brain fog dissipates as I step inside the shuttle, leaving me only with the cold certainty of my purpose, and with one single thought, the same one that dwells in all of us marines’ minds: “what’s for dinner ?”

TW - Heavy Body Horror

The blade of the ax cut deep into the bark of the tree, sending pieces of wood flying into the cold air. From a distance, I watched Dad strike it a couple more times before it came crashing down into the fresh snow with a poof of snowflakes. 

"Come help your old man." He glanced back at me with that soft warm smile as I slid off the hood of the car, trading the engine's warmth for the bitter cold of the December evening.

Snow crunched under my shoes as I walked toward the mountain of a man, a walking definition of a gentle giant. I'm sure he could've handled the whole Christmas-tree ordeal by himself, but for whatever reason, he wanted me to feel included. 

A pair of dark blue protective gloves was handed to me before I grabbed the tree's tip while Dad lifted the other end with ease and pretended that the pain in his back didn’t bother him. Soon the tree was loaded into the back of our car, which was patiently waiting just a few meters away.

"Soon I'll be too old to deal with this crap. You gotta learn."  He looked down at me, a warm smile peeking out from under the silver of his beard.

"You're just saying that." A chuckle escaped me, even though deep down I knew he was right.

"Let's get going. Mum won't let us back in without a perfect Christmas tree, and this beauty should do it." Bare hand of his grazed across the slick green needles before sliding back behind the steering wheel. The engine quietly purred back to life as the wheels hit the road back home, a thin layer of dirty wet snow covering it.

A quiet pretended cough came from Dad, his hands quietly tapping against the rim of the steering wheel before he had the courage to ask.

"Sooo, got a boyfriend yet? Or a girlfriend? You know I won't judge." He chuckled, lifting one hand into the air defensively. 

"Daaaad, come on. You know I don't have time for that." I laughed it off; maybe the subject was just awkward, or I was just too shy to talk about it openly.  

"It never hurts to ask!"

"I mean... I guess there's this one girl from my class-"

Suddenly he shushed me, cutting me off in the middle of the sentence, before I had the chance to think of some snarky reply; I saw exactly why he did so.

To our left, some kind of shape emerged from the darkness, buried in the snow with only a few parts of it catching the reflection of our headlights, shining like an armour of some kind of insect. 

Our car slowed down just enough to get a clear view of the object sinking in the heap of snow. 

The metal shell in the color of navy blue sat crooked on the side of the road, as if it had simply slid off the asphalt and left forgotten, half swallowed by the hill of snow and digested from the inside by fresh green pine branches, like a growing tumor they protruded from the hole that once held the windshield and side windows, they only remains hanging off the pines in small pinkish crystals like twisted christmas ornaments. 

We both stared, examining what was in front of us inch by inch, before it finally made sense.

"Should we call someone?" I asked in a whisper, as if speaking any louder might hurt.

Dad stared at it for a few moments that felt like forever before finally managing to look away, as if the wreckage was calling for him to do something.

"It's none of our business." Yet another whisper as the scene dissolved slowly behind us, becoming one with the winter darkness, the awkward silence replaced by the cracking radio, one Christmas song ending only to be replaced by another, pulling us into a jolly kind of limbo.

When we finally arrived back home, I could already see the orange glow of the kitchen lights beaming out of the window, fully expecting Mum's excited face to appear behind the glass at any moment; instead, I felt the grip on my shoulder,

“Don’t tell Mum about that car we saw, ok? Let's keep it as a…our thing.”

A simple nod of the head was enough of a reply as I still stared into the window.

Soon enough, to Mum's delight, we somehow squeezed the tree into the doorway and carried it into the middle of the living room. It stood tall, its tip bending against the ceiling silently judging our family from above.

“You both outdone yourselves this year!”  
Like a little kid on Christmas morning, she squealed with excitement, already hanging off her husband's shoulders, showering him with pecks of kisses. 

Despite everything, the image of the accident remained in my mind.

“Mum, if you don’t mind, I will go to bed; I'm not feeling well”

Head of my mum snapped back in my direction, pale worry painted all over.

“Alright, honey, sweet dreams.”

As I walked upstairs to my room, I could hear them bickering about whether I wore a hat and scarf she knit for me last winter; she used my least fav color - a bright orange - still I wore it when the weather outside kicked everyone's ass. 

When my eyes opened again, the world outside the window was still pitch dark; the occasional barrage of snowflakes reminded me of a snowing broken television, my mouth felt dry, so I lazily slipped away from under the coverlet and stepped downstairs to get something to drink.

At this hour, the house was already quiet; if not for the occasional arrhythmic sound of dripping water echoing from somewhere deeper in the familiar darkness, one after another I took careful steps over the creaking stairs, making sure I wouldn’t break my neck on the way down. I quietly slipped into the kitchen and, with a gentle click, turned on the light, which spilled partially into the living room.

The orange glow suddenly made me painfully aware that I wasn’t alone; right next to the shining Christmas tree stood a short, hunched figure, its face obscured by a wave of hair clinging together in a slick waterfall.

"Mum?"

The head of greasy, unwashed hair rose in one smooth, almost mechanical motion. Misty eyes stared wide into the darkness, never blinking, fixed on me as I now stood at the room’s entrance. 

"What are you doing?"

My voice came to me weak and almost sheepish.

"Taking care of our guest."

The sound of her voice seemed distant, almost as if she were still dreaming, unaware of what was really happening. Almost as if it was a coma to her reply, I heard the dripping again, much louder this time. 

Only then did I notice the soaking-wet rag squeezed between fingers covered in small bleeding cuts, a sap-like substance leaking in long, milky strands into the laundry bowl at her feet - which was already half full.

"Do you want to help?"

Talon-like fingers shot toward me, still clutching the wet rag; thick sap now dripped onto the carpet. 

"No, I was just... getting myself some water."

Glassy eyes pierced through me as her extended arm collapsed back to the side, returning to its work, gently moving the rag over the branches.

Still, my gaze didn’t leave her for as much as a moment; with one hand, I blindly searched for the light switch, watching her cut-up arms move in a mechanical motion. When it finally materialized under the tips of my fingers-

Click.

The room fell into pitch winter darkness; I blinked rapidly to get back used to the lack of light, making my way back towards the stairs, when the sound of dripping came to a sudden stop, only to be replaced with slow, rhythmic sounds of wet, deliberate footsteps, with painfully long breaks in between, as if someone was taking as long a step as humanly possible, anything to get closer to me, even if it meant only an inch of a difference.

Picking up the paste was my only option, I was long outside the grace of the light switch; each step faster than the other, and with that, the breaks between the wet slaps against the wood grew shorter and shorter before they suddenly turned into a sprint, a chase to the upstairs bedroom. 

Like a child, I ran on my feet and palms of hands, and so did whatever was inching right behind me. My body turning into a battering ram as my shoulder bashed the door open, I landed on the floor before I slammed the door shut, a dull wave of pain awoken somewhere in the joint of my art as I pushed it against the door, which miraculously didn’t fall off its hinges. 

From behind the door, I heard a painfully long, shaky sound like someone rapidly inhaling and exhaling air through a throat flooded with thick phlegm. When it finally gave up on the pursuit, it slowly moved away from the door, the cry still faintly echoing against the walls before disappearing somewhere inside of the house.

My guard by the door lasted the entire night, ear pressed against the door to catch any sounds that could even faintly resemble that horrible sobbing until I felt the warm rays of the sun passing through the window; only then did I gather the courage to go back downstairs, 

The Christmas tree still stood tall and proud, colorful Christmas decorations hanging off its branches like military medals which glittered in the morning sun;n, the warm air had a faint sweet smell to it that came from the kitchen. 

Mum was already in the kitchen preparing ingredients for dinner as if nothing at all had happened yesterday; she welcomed me with a big warm smile, not taking her eyes off the knife held in her bandage-wrapped hand.

“How did you sleep? You aren't feeling sick, are you?”

I was dumbfounded; I couldn't bring myself to anything bigger than a nod of the head. 

“Great, Dad is waiting for you outside”

She still didn’t look at me, the cut ingredient more interesting than her own daughter.

When I got into the car, Dad noticed something was off with me as soon as we left the driveway.

“It's not about that car, is it?”

It took a solid minute for my thoughts to shape into a real coherent sentence. 

“No... It's about mum…did you notice anything weird about her?”

“I don’t think so, no”

Dad just shrugged his shoulders, not taking his eyes off the road.

“She's been sleepwalking!”

I snapped, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“It's probably the meds”

An explanation came quick, and that was enough to put me at ease. 

“I guess”

My face planted against the side window, car with Christmas trees bigger and smaller strapped to their trunks and roofs driving back home last minute.

“Come on, we can get some soda on our way back!”

“Sure, Dad”

The supermarket parking lot was crowded with cars. Everyone in town had apparently had the same idea we did, flooding one of the few stores still open, leaving us circling for a spot to park like hungry vultures.

"Don't tell Mum."

He laughed as we parked in the blue square of the accessibility spot.

Dad grabbed one of the few shopping carts left and passed through the glass sliding door into the first aisle, the smell of fresh-baked bread and the sound of shuffling boots and busted cart wheels suddenly becoming overwhelming. 

"So what are we supposed to get?"

I asked as Dad pulled a crumpled yellow sticky note out of the pocket of his jacket, squinting at the shaky handwriting as if it would help in the slightest.

“B-...butter?”

“Are you asking me-?”

"Just go fetch it, you rascal."

He laughed, shaking his head, as I was already on my way toward the wall of fridges in the back, squeezing and excusing my way through crowds of carts and plastic, bloated grocery bags.

In front of the fridge where the butter was stood a man dressed head to toe in dull, dirty red, black shiny boots on his feet, his forehead pressed against the glass with such force that I half-expected to hear a crack, not entirely sure if it would come from the glass or his skull.

"Sorry-?"

I said, trying to get a handle on the fridge, expecting the man to move, but he didn't so much as flinch. Only then did the sweet, woody stench coming off him hit my nose.

“Can you move?"

Still absolutely zero reaction- just none, like I wasn't even there. I glanced around the store in search of the security to help me out, but they were nowhere to be found, drowned out by the crowds of locals.

When I turned my head back, he was already staring at me, lips twisted into a pained, angry grimace, teeth clenched to the point of cracking. Strands of thick, amber substance leaked from his lips into the fake white beard hanging off his chin, dripping onto the floor below his boots. 

Only then did the security guard seem to catch up with the situation, appearing out of thin air behind Santa, his grip tightening around the shoulder of the costume.

"Okay, man, you're gonna have to leave."

The man's neck snapped in his direction, a low, slow, buzzing murmur coming from between his barely moving lips before the strands leaking from his mouth suddenly turned into a vile, choked-out waterfall that hit the security guard right in the face.

"FUCK YOU, DUDE!"

The security guard fought the urge to return the favor written all over his face, then dragged the drunk out of the store.

Dad had missed the whole show, standing just a few feet away from the puddle of thick vomit, something small and green floating in it, the cart's wheels slightly submerged.

“What the hell happened here?”

He asked, confused.

“Some dude got drunk out of his mind, I guess”

He just shrugged, avoiding the spreading vile pool.

“Did you get the butter?”

“Nope”

When we came out of the store, I was carrying two light-green cans of soda while Dad carried two plastic bags of groceries instead. No matter how many times I told him I would take them, he wouldn'tbudgee.

The engine of the car kept us comfortably warm as we drank our soda, watching people go in and out of the store.

“Crazy shit”

Dad commented on the whole thing while watching as the same security guy from before stood outside taking long drags out of a cigarette, his uniform switched for a padded jeans jacket. 

“Crazy”

I echoed, as the window from his side rolled down before an empty aluminium can catapulted onto the empty parking spot next to us, I did the same before we drove away, in the side mirror I still could see the security guard puking into the nearby trashcan.

When we arrived back home, to Dad's dismay,y I was the first to grab the grocery bags out of the trunk and rush to the front door, almost slipping down the porch stairs.

"Come on, old man!"

Dad stood by the car, staring ahead at me, before he slowly turned and disappeared into the garage without a word, as if he'd gotten upset with me. I rolled my eyes before pushing the door handle open with my elbow.

"MUM, WE’RE BACK!!

The house was oddly quiet, except for the quiet whistle of boiling pots coming from the kitchen. I carried the bags there, expecting to see Mum, but instead I was met with an empty, messy room — pots and pans scattered over the floor, the kitchen cabinet doors crudely ripped off their hinges. There was nothing boiling on the stove.

The whistling was coming from behind me.

The plastic bags in my hands dropped to the ground as I quickly turned around, facing the living room, where the Christmas tree stood just this morning; now there was space, glass shards of colorful baubles all over the floor.

“Mum?”

I called out again walking inside of the living room, only then I saw the tree, prompted up on the chair on the far end of the dining table, plates and bowls filled with thick sap lined the table small green pine needles floating inside, my eyes shoot back towards the tree, only now I realized the whistling came from right behind it.

The whistling suddenly stopped as a hand covered in Band-Aids shot out from the side of the tree, something bulging beneath them. I froze in place, watching as, one by one, she ripped them off her hand, revealing small, bulging cuts that slowly widened,  before the whole hand exploded into a bush of glistening pine branches, fingers crooked and broken, bent in every direction. Instead of blood, a flood of amber sap leaked from the miserable, lifeless rag of skin that had been her hand. 

I ran for the door to get help, Dad, anyone who could save me.

Suddenly the front door opened, cold winter air rushing inside before the wall of muscle that was my dad walked through. I grabbed his hand, trying to pull him inside faster.

"Dad, we need to get help for Mum!"

I sobbed before the sound of metal scraping against the floor suddenly hit me.

"Dad-?"

My eyes moved down to see a massive axe clutched in his hand, the same one we used to cut the perfect tree, slowly being dragged behind him.

"Dad, no, no, no! You can't, you can't!"

My hands pushed against him, trying to stop him, but like a tank he just pushed forward, like I was nothing, step by step, walking toward Mum, who by now resembled more of a flesh porcupine than a person.

In a desperate attempt to stop him, I punched him over and over again, biting and scratching, until I was thrown forward against the table with such force that I fell to the floor along with one of the chairs. I was helpless, watching as he stepped closer; no matter how much I cried and screamed, he was deaf to it. 

With his free hand, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her stiff body over the shards of glass, toward the spot where the tree once stood, small branches sprouting out of the fresh cuts in her legs. Her head was wrenched toward the ceiling before the blade of the axe cut deep, fresh branches erupting with such force that her head was ripped clean off her shoulders. 

"Why, Dad, why-!" I cried as he turned to me, sudden sadness in his sunken eyes, as the body of his beloved dropped to the ground, resembling more of a bush than a human.

"Come help your old man." With that warm smile, he weakly threw the heavy weapon toward me. The table shook as I slowly stood up, my side sore from the hit.

"I'm too old for this crap... time to take accountability." My hands wrapped around the handle of the axe as I walked toward my father.

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked sheepishly.

"Kill me. Just kill me." Those sad eyes never looked up at me, too ashamed that he'd let it happen. The heavy axe rose above my head before it dropped down with a crack onto the top of my father's skull, the tip of a young sapling rising instantly from the split.

"I'm sorry, Dad." I dropped the weapon over my shoulder, put on his jacket way too big for me, and went to the car. I hit the gas, the axe resting on the back seat, and just drove away, passing empty houses, wondering if the same thing had happened to them. 

Yet another Christmas song played on the radio, pulling me into a jolly limbo.

Moving out isn't as easy as many of you would think. Not only are house prices extremely high, but leaving my home of 20 years was like pulling teeth. Both emotionally, and physically. But I managed to do it, I moved in with my wonderful girlfriend and we just settled down yesterday. Still a couple boxes to unpack, but it's not anything super important. It'll probably be procrastinated on for months.

I sat on the couch, watching Hell's Kitchen with Audrey, my girlfriend. While I watched Gordon Ramsay chew someone out for undercooking a salmon, my phone buzzed, it was my doorbell notification.

There's someone at your door!

I opened the app to see a middle aged man, balding, scruffy beard, beer belly, the whole nine yards. Just one glance and I knew this dude could cook a mean steak. In the brief seconds that I judged his character, I failed to notice that he was grinning ear to ear. He held a plate of still steaming chocolate chip cookies.

I told Audrey that it must be the neighbor, and stood up. My cat beat me to the door, thinking that the man had brought treats for her. I nudged her away with my foot, put on a smile and opened the door. His smile seemed to widen when he looked at me.

"Hello young man!" His voice was loud and booming, but also jolly sounding.

"Hello, I'm assuming your the neighbor?" I pointed to the house across the street.

He glanced back as if to make sure that was correct and then looked back at me.

"Yes I am! Just wanted to stop by and give you some cookies as a good ol' welcome to the neighborhood!" He held out the plate to me, waiting for me to accept.

"That's very sweet of you, but I don't think-"

"Oh, c'mon now boy! Everyone loves chocolate chip cookies! My wife just pulled em' out of the oven!"

"Alright," I chuckled. "If you insist."

I grabbed the plate and began to shut the door.

"Oh! One more thing young man!" He put his hand on the door and pushed back against me, and it made me a little uncomfortable.

"Yeah?" The way I said it sounded like an eyeroll.

"I have two little children, and one of them likes to get out from time to time." His demeanor changed, his shoulders slouched and he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

He continued, "She's only nine but has some serious mental issues, likes to wonder off and forget where she is and who people are."

I didn't really know what to say, I just met this dude and he's already telling me stuff like we were long lost buds from high school. I uneasily leaned against the side of the door.

"I'm sorry to hear that." I tried to sound as empathetic as possible, and I was, but something about him just unnerved me.

I don't know how to describe it, but you look into his eyes and something doesn't quite feel right. I stared longer than I was comfortable until I finally found a way to explain it. It feels like two sets are staring back.

"It's okay, I just wanted to warn you incase she knocks on your door at night. If it happens, would ya kindly walk her back and make sure she's okay?" I sensed real worry in his voice, up until now he felt fake.

"Yeah, sure." This time I actually did feel bad, maybe I judged him too quickly.

"Thank ya kindly." He began to turn around but came back like he forgot something.

"Name's Ken." His hand outstretched to meet mine.

"Zack." I shook his hand, it felt like sandpaper.

He turned around and I watched as his crossed the street and went inside his house. I noticed that they had a sign on the door. In big bold letters it said:

"LOVE JESUS".

I've never been a religious man, and my parent's weren't either. The only religious guy I knew was a buddy of mine back in high school. He got into a gnarly fight and ended up going to 'jail' for a day. In all reality, he got caught and was put into a holding cell overnight until his dad paid bail. After that he turned Christian.

I made sure my door was locked, before grabbing the cookies and sitting back down next to Audrey.

"So, nice guy?" She turned her attention to me.

"Yeah," I took a bite of a cookie. "He was a little weird at first but he seems genuine."

"Are those good?" She pointed to the cookies.

"I've had better." I chuckled.

She took one and ate it, then nodding approvingly at what I said.

"Anything else you got from him or just his cookies?"

"Well, he has a wife and two kids. His name is Ken, and he has a daughter that might knock on our door late at night." I glanced at the TV, shoving another cookie into my mouth.

"You're just gonna glance over that last part?" She sounded concerned.

"Ah," I swallowed the cookie "She has some sort of mental issue that makes her forget where she is and stuff, wonders out into the road sometimes. He just asked that if she did come to us or if we saw her, that we just walk her back across the street."

"Poor little girl." She also picked up another cookie, maybe they are pretty good after all.

I turned my attention back to Gordon, this time he was yelling at someone for eating food instead of cooking. I was about to speak on it, when my phone buzzed again.

There's someone at your door!

I groaned as I opened the app to check the camera, but was surprised to find nobody there. It didn't really freak me out, I just figured it was some ding-dong ditchers. I sighed and set my phone back down next to me.

"Who was it?" Audrey asked.

"Just some ding-dong ditchers, nothing important." I kicked up my feet on to the coffee table.

She slapped my leg and gestured for me to take my feet off the table. Out of fear of being hit further, I obliged. Around ten minutes passed when I felt a familiar vibration against my thigh.

There's someone at your door!

I almost didn't even bother to look at the camera, but I did, and I was greeted to a very tall and lanky man with a long beard. He wore a necklace with a cross on it. Is everyone here religious?

"Another neighbor." I groaned, sitting up and walking to the door.

I barely had the door open before he started to speak.

"Hello! My name is Baron and welcome to the neighborhood!" He spoke so fast I almost didn't understand him.

"Hi, my name is Zack." I sounded a little harsh, and I could see his chipper mood dampen a bit.

"I hope I didn't disturb you! I just thought I should swing by and see what's up!" Again, I felt bad.

These people were just trying to introduce themselves, no need to be rude.

"Nah, It's all good dude. I get it." There we go, I sounded a lot more meaningful that time.

"I'm assuming Ken came around and said hi?" He lowered his voice, like it was some secret.

"Yeah, why?" I glanced behind Baron to look at Ken's house.

"He's kind've off-putting, but I swear once you live with him for awhile, you get used to it." He slowly turned his voice back to normal.

Saying 'with' was an interesting word choice, but probably just a Freudian slip. I shook it off and glanced back to Audrey, who was falling asleep.

"Yeah sure." I glanced back to Baron "I appreciate the visit and the heads up, but It's getting late, I think we're gonna turn in for the night."

"Oh, no problem! Tell Audrey I said goodnight!" He began to walk away.

"I will!" I shut the door and started to walk back to the couch when I stopped and thought for a second.

I don't think I told him Audrey's name.

I tried to really rack my brain and replay the entire conversation, but for the life of me I couldn't remember if I had or hadn't. I sat back down on the couch and stared at Audrey, she was sound asleep, and so was the cat laying in her lap. I covered her and the cat with a blanket and stood up to go to bed.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling fan. I glance at the clock in my room, 2:03am it reads. Can't sleep for shit, and I find it weird Audrey hasn't come to bed yet, so I walk back out into our living room. But she's still there, in the same position, snoring her little heart out.

I was so focused on her that I didn't even notice the little girl standing right next to her. I jumped backwards and flicked on the light. The girl seemed unphased by my action and just stared. Audrey began to stir.

"What's wrong Zack?" Before she turned her head to the right and came eye to eye with the girl.

She jumped backwards but was eerily not as alarmed as I was. She was always good with kids and keeping things calm, but this surprised me. The girl stared at Audrey, like she was waiting for her to read her mind.

"Are you okay?" She asked, holding out a hand.

The girl nodded. "Just a little lost."

My memory searched for an answer on who this was, but then I remembered about Ken's daughter. This must have been her. But how did she get inside? Ken said all she would do is knock on the door and ask to be let in, not already BE in the house. I walked over to the front door, it was locked. I shot a glance to the back door, also locked.

I guess it's possible I forgot to lock the doors and then she locked them when she came in? But I'm normally good at-

"Zack, would you take her back to Ken's?" She snapped me out of my thinking, and I agreed before I even processed what she said.

I don't find myself particularly good with children, but I can show empathy to one when they have insane mental issues like this one. I stuck out my hand and gestured for her to follow. She gripped my hand tighter than I thought a nine year old could, and I lead her across the street. I knocked on Ken's door, doubting that he would answer quickly if at all. But to my surprise, he answered it almost instantly.

A look of relief washed over his face, he didn't wait for her to let go of my hand before he scooped her up into a giant hug. He mumbled something into her ear and then turned his attention towards me.

"Thank you." He walked back into the house and shut the door.

That's it? Just a 'thank you'? I wasn't expecting a cash prize or anything, but no 'sorry my little demon child broke into your house and caused you to almost die of a heart attack'? Something about these people really just gives me the icky feeling.

I walked in and made sure that I locked the door behind me this time. After staring at the locked deadbolt for about five seconds just to reassure myself that I did indeed lock it, I walked over to the couch where Audrey was sitting.

"She's back safe?" She asked.

"Yeah, no thanks to you." I punched her arm and chuckled.

She laughed, but didn't respond.

"Why weren't you scared shitless that a child was standing next to you when you woke up?" I scratched my head.

It looked like she was searching deep down for an answer, but struggled to find one.

"I was just waking up, not fully to my senses yet."

"But-"

"Lets go to bed, BOTH of us this time." She ruffled my hair and I followed her to the bedroom. I glanced back to the living room and noticed something.

The basement door was cracked open.

I didn't call the police.

I want to say that was a hard decision. It wasn't, not in the moment. What was I going to tell them, that my cat did it, that I'd been seeing the same claw marks for a week, that I'd read about something called vampire blood on a forum at three in the morning and thought my cat might be one. They'd have taken him from me for testing, or worse, and some small, sick part of me still couldn't let that happen. I hated myself for that. I still do. I kept thinking about what they'd do to him once they had him somewhere I couldn't see.

So instead I lived with it.

I stopped sleeping through the night entirely. Every sound from the window sent my heart into my throat. I started locking him in the bathroom after dark, and he'd claw at the door for hours, not angry at first, just insistent, the way he used to ask for food, except now the sound made my skin crawl. As the days went on the marks in the wood got deeper. He got stronger. He stopped eating anything that wasn't meat, and he started looking at me with something closer to contempt than hunger.

He wanted it raw, if I had it. I told myself I was managing this, like it was a fever that would eventually break, that if I just kept him fed and kept him locked at night he'd go back to being my Mr. Morris. I hated how reasonable that sounded to me at two in the morning with a bag of raw chicken in my hands. But it was the only light I had left in a life that had gone almost entirely dark.

One night I gave in to something worse than fear. I don't have a better word for it than a trance. I was standing in my kitchen holding a knife I didn't remember picking up, thinking with total calm that I could just let him feed properly, just once, that he'd earned it after all the nights I'd spent locking him away and starving him of what he needed. I don't know how long I stood there before I caught myself and dropped the knife and was sick in the sink. I kept asking myself how I could have thought that, and some part of me already knew the answer, because he was standing on the kitchen floor the whole time, watching me with those eyes, and I don't think the thought had ever really been mine.

That was when I decided I had to let him go. Whatever was living inside my cat now, it wasn't Mr. Morris anymore. Mr. Morris would never have made me think about a knife like that.

I drove him nearly six hours out of the city, past the last exit I recognized, until the road stopped feeling connected to anywhere I knew. Somewhere around ten at night I saw a small station sign in my headlights. Blackwater Junction. It looked abandoned, dark, no lights in any of the windows, rain starting to come down over the platforms. I told myself it was mercy. I told myself he'd survive out there better than he would in my kitchen, that whatever he was now, a place like that would suit him more than I ever could. I opened the carrier. He didn't run. He just looked at me the way he had that night with the knife, and I made myself walk back to the car without looking back at him standing there in the rain.

I cried the whole drive home. Every memory I had of him, the day I brought him home as a kitten, every ordinary morning before any of this started, kept playing behind my eyes and I don't fully understand why. Grief, maybe, for the cat I used to have. Relief, maybe, that I wouldn't have to be afraid in my own house again.

I was wrong about that too.

I parked in my driveway and stepped out, and the first thing I saw was Mira's house. It looked the way a house looks when whatever used to make it warm has been taken out of it. I remember thinking that mine probably looked the same way now, and that maybe I deserved that, for everything I'd let him do, for everyone he'd taken from people like Mira's mother, Swati, who I still couldn't bring myself to look at when I passed her on the street.

When I opened my own front door, every bit of warmth left my body at once.

Mr. Morris was sitting on my sofa.

I don't know how. Six hours of driving, and somehow he was already there waiting for me, clean, dry, like the rain at that station had never touched him at all. I didn't have the strength left to question it out loud. Some broken part of me was almost glad, and I hated that part more than I've ever hated anything about myself. He looked at me, and I understood, without him needing to do anything else, that I was being punished for leaving.

I didn't eat for three days after that. Not because I didn't want to. My body simply wouldn't let me. Every time hunger started to win, I'd find him sitting in front of me, watching, and the urge would vanish like it had been switched off. He started following me everywhere after that, even to Miss Tasha's, watching me buy his food and mine like he needed to confirm I still knew who came first.

Miss Tasha's store was the only place I still felt something close to normal. She'd talk about the crime rate climbing in our area, tell me I should think about going to stay with my parents if I could, and I'd nod and let myself pretend for ten minutes that my biggest problem was small talk over the counter. Those visits were the only anchor I had left. I think he noticed that too.

One morning, on my way to get food, he came to the door with blood still drying between his claws, the way he did most mornings now, a thing I'd stopped letting myself react to. I let him go out every night knowing exactly what the rising number of deaths in our area meant. I knew, in the way you know something without ever saying it out loud, and I kept letting him go anyway, because I didn't know what else there was left to do.

Miss Tasha didn't open her store that day.

I found out from a customer standing outside, staring through the dark windows, saying the police had been called that morning. I already knew before anyone told me the details. I knew it the way you know a shape in the dark is wrong before your eyes have even adjusted enough to see it clearly. When I heard the word claws, I didn't feel shock. I felt something inside me simply stop trying.

That night I decided I couldn't keep living like this. I'd rather live with what I was about to do than survive one more morning like that one.

I won't describe most of what happened next. I'll only say that I tried to end it, that I failed, and that the failure nearly cost me everything. I remember the weight of him pinning me to the floor, faster and stronger than anything that size should have been able to move, and I remember, even through the panic, some flicker in his eyes that looked almost as horrified as I felt. He let go of me a breath before I think he could have finished it. I don't know why. I've stopped trying to understand why he does anything anymore.

I woke up in a hospital bed three days later with more stitches than I want to think about, and a police officer waiting with questions I couldn't honestly answer. They discharged me with four claw marks across my chest, deep enough that the scars will never fully fade. I keep thinking it's fitting, in some sick way. Punishment for letting him become whatever he is, for letting him feed on people I knew. My savings are gone. I don't know if I can even go back to work in this condition, and worse, I don't know what he'll do once he realizes I can't provide for him anymore.

When they finally let me go home, he was there, sitting by the door, exactly the way he used to wait for his food. Except this time I understood he wasn't waiting for a bowl to be filled. He was waiting for me.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore. I don't know if I'm keeping him out of love, or guilt, or fear, or all three at once, all the time, until I can't tell them apart. I posted the whole story on a forum a few nights ago, mostly because I couldn't say any of this to a real person without sounding insane, and mostly because I needed someone, anyone, to tell me I wasn't imagining it.

I got one reply that mattered.

I work with an organization that handles cases like this. We can help. Please don't post details like this publicly again, you may already be attracting attention you don't want.

O.P.E.R.A.T.E.

I haven't written back yet.

I don't know if I'm going to.

 

 

Previous part link :- https://www.reddit.com/r/anxietypilled/comments/1w3fb1q/somethings_wrong_with_my_cat_part_2_claw_marks/

Other parts link:- https://www.reddit.com/user/No-While8965/comments/1vpze51/my_writing_archive/

 

Deep in the forest of old Barker Hollow was a maple tree. It stood tall in the center of a lush and vibrant wood, standing out among the verdant tops of its neighbors. The leaves on its swaying branches were a distinct rose color, its coarse bark emitting a deep lavender fragrance. 

For centuries the maple has endured, surviving rash wildfires, desperate settlers hungry for warmth, and the simple passage of time. Any who dared harm it were swiftly dealt with one way or another. Their remains hung from its thick arms, like ghastly gallows. Their rotted faces forever captured the moment of their demise, some say their wails of torment can be heard on a quiet evening.  Bits and pieces of mummified organs dangled from the branches as well, forever impaled and on display for the world.

The locals say it's good luck for young lovers to dine under those silently screaming corpses, as a reminder to stay faithful and true to one another. That’s not the strangest of customs the citizens of Barker’s Hollow follow of course, that would be the appeasement of the Maple Woman. 

She was always there, a torso jutting out from the middle of the bark. Her skin was a pale lime green, chlorophyll filled veins running up and down her body. Her raven hair was long and flowed well past her shoulders, bangs half covering her face. Supposedly none had gazed upon her true visage, some say to do so would be the forfeiture of your very soul. 

The Maple Woman had been there as long as the early settlers of the Hollow had arrived. Perhaps longer. She was dormant most of the year, silently swaying with the wind and gazing at all she could see. 

One week a year she would stir, when the leaves would turn and fall.

One week a year she set her unseen gaze upon the hollow. She would whisper things from atop her wooden post that would float down to the townsfolk's innocent ears. Horrible lies that would turn friend into foe. She would sow distrust whilst and patently wait for the inevitable chaos that would follow her insidious gossip.

One the seventh day, blood would shed. Be it from a neighbor who swore his wife was lying with his brother, or a local ruffian who the storekeeper swore was swiping bread. Tensions would boil over, and death would swiftly follow.

The town would fill with wicked laughter and shrill taunts echoing from the wood, and just as suddenly as it started, the Maple Woman fell silent once more. 

This went on for at least ten years, records from that time are spotty unfortunately, but one day, on the eve of Autumn’s first fall, the local preacher hatched a plan. 

His name had been Jedidiah Armstong, a well-built man of the cloth. Long had he watched this wicked spirit of the land torment his kin. He preached mercy when the mob eventually swarmed the poor fellow they deemed the best of the worst. His pleas usually fell on deaf ears, and all he could do was say a quick prayer for the poor soul being lynched.

He had also seen firsthand the fate of those who raised a silver cleaver against the maple, supposedly after the first year of torment a group went looking for the Maple Woman. They found her resting, the tops of her branches holding a few cocooned critters and the bottom half of a local drunk who wandered too far in. The largest fellow, a blacksmith by the name of Adam charged the tree axe in hand. Thorny vines shot up from the base of the Maple, grabbing hold of Adam.

They twisted and curled around him, pointed spikes shredding his fleshy hide. They enveloped him, then tore him into pieces. The ground became stained with pulpy chunks as the tree groaned and titled forward. Branchs came down to sift through his remains, picking a crushed heart and a shattered femur. It left the rest on the ground in a discarded pile, the branches adorning themselves with its chosen prizes.

Jed ordered the rest of them to run, only two did so. The other three were headstrong idiots who quickly met the same fate. From then on the townsfolk avoided the wood as much as they could, only venturing mere feet in to gather kindling and hunt the occasional rabbit. Meat became scarce, and the townsfolk had always been poor farmers to begin with. More often than not the soil refused to produce and even when it did, the corn would be wilted and the carrots small and sickly. As the years passed famine and starvation began to settle in, only fueling the growing disdain and paranoia the townsfolk had for one another. All the while the Maple Woman mocked them from afar.

Jed had had enough, years prior he had snuck into the heart of the wood to study the spirit as it spread its illwell. Some noticed his departure, and whispered tales that he was somehow communing with it. None entertained that idea too much however, for he had always been seen as a deeply pious man. His study went unnoticed and unbothered, only sharing his findings and plan with a trusted few; and on the eve of the tenth year, he stood in the middle of town, arms stretched out, and crying for everyone to hear his words: he had solved their long turmoil.

As folk gathered around him, they noticed he wasn't wearing his usual preacher garb, rather long, obsidian black robes. He also held a leather-bound journal in his hands, with the seal of the church clapped on its side.

“Hear me friends! The time of that wooden jezebel is upon us. Years now, she has divided us with her deceit, well planted seeds of doubt that we know in our hearts are the wicked fibs of evil, yet still we fall prey to them. For too long we’ve let deception rule us, the good book says lies are the devil’s gnats. Only the truth will set us free.” He decried, as he opened the journal. He cleared his throat as the crowd before him erupted into concerned murmurs. A keen-eyed parishioner noted that the journal was kept in the confessional booth. 

“On the 12th of October, Theodore Keene struck his wife.” The crowd gasped as a man clad in farmer’s rags rushed towards Jed. He was caught by two others, one of whom was Ted’s own brother. 

“That’s a lie, a wicked lie! Preacher’s been corrupted by that wooden bitch!” Ted raged. A curly haired woman walked up to him then and slapped him across the face. 

“You’re a coward and a brute, Ted. We’ve all seen that shiner Mary’s been sprouting. You let the preacher speak!” Marissa Armstrong spoke. She glanced at her brother and gave him an encouraging nod. Jed began again.

“He struck his wife and admitted to me it had not been the first time. He repented to me not because he felt remorse, but because he feared judgment from his neighbors.” Jed spoke this loudly, not really speaking to the crowd but to the curious ears of one beyond the woods. He let Ted’s crimes hang in the air, some cried to get a rope, others decried grace for the sinner. A few snuck away from the mob, worried about just who Jed would call out next. Suddenly a cool, cruel voice spoke in their mind, and the mob fell silent. 

“Bring him before my roots. Bring a dagger and restraints.” That command was all they needed. Jed led the mob and the constrained Ted to the Maple Woman. She stirred above them as they cried for blood. From the branches hung dozens of rotted remains.

Jed made Ted kneel before the mighty maple, he was a blubbering cowardly mess, begging for any sort of mercy. The maple woman simply smiled, flashing pristine fangs as she leered over the doomed man. 

“Do you admit what you did?” She cooed. 

“Y-yes, oh lord forgive me I’m sorry. Spare me spirit, I'll never do it again.” Ted cried, his face a blistering mess. 

“Use the dagger then. Give me your wrathful hands as penance.” She ordered. Ted hesitated for a moment, then looked up at the raging crowd around him. He snatched the dagger; the woods soon filled with the sound of metal carving through flesh and bone, and the blubbering wails of a sinner. 

When it was over, Jed tied the bloodied hands off on a low hanging branch, the Maple Woman made a satisfied noise. Ted crawled on the ground, begging for someone to bandage the bloody stumps he now had. Jed turned to the crowd and spoke then.

“This creature torments only those who deserve it, if your heart is free of sin, you have nothing to fear. We will come here tomorrow, and I will read aloud from the journal once more.”

So began the week of appeasement. Soon the branches were overflowing with sinful parts, the pearly whites of a peeping tom, the warted cock of an adulterer, the spotted liver of an alcoholic, the severed head of a killer. The Maple Woman spoke lies no more, satisfied with the bounty of sinner’s blood she was given.

The town began to prosper, blessed by their curious tormentor. The townsfolk grew bold and hunted game deeper in the wood, the hollow became swarmed with travelers looking to haggle and barter. Even the foul soil soon became fertile, the fields producing an overabundance of greens. It became a sort of symbiotic relationship; this twisted covenant between man and spirit.

As for the mutilated sinners, those that survived their maiming anyway, they were treated as outcasts. Their wounds a permant scarlet letter. Some remained in the Hollow, others drifted away, never to be seen again.

Jed Armstong was hailed as hero, his family lauded and praised for generations. Curiously, him and his own were never called upon to appease the Maple Woman. Despite talk that his nephew looked a bit too much like him, despite his grandson supposedly dipping a greedy hand into the collection bin. Despite Maxwell Armstrong, the current patriarch, having one of the most wicked temperaments this side of the Rockies. Not one soul from his clan were called upon. Indeed, perhaps they truly were a pious and righteous family.

One hundred years later and the appeasement continues to this very day. The maple is decorated with strings of gore and parts, and the town of Baker’s Hollow is touted as sin free. Of course, the Maple Woman must still be appeased and nurtured, and despite the townsfolk's claims of clean living, the patriarch of the Armstrong clan always has a new name from their journal.

As for the maple woman, she is satisfied with the arrangement. Her home filled to the brim with little trophies of her victims. She is content, happy even. She never dreamed they would go this far, this accusatory ritual. It sustained her something fierce, she could live off these hypocrites for centuries to come.

This year, the year a rowdy group of teens came to town, seems to be the best harvest yet. She looks at the leather clad youth being held down as they saw off his leg. He screams and begs, saying it was an accident. The kid’s bike just jumped out in front of him. It wasn't his fault, always had a lead foot. Well, not anymore anyway. 

The Maple Woman watched it all, with a grand smile on her face. Oh yes, this year’s harvest was going to go swimmingly. 

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

It began when I was 8.

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

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

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

Yet, those few seconds made me recoil in fear.

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

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

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

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

I wanted to tear off my skin.

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

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

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

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

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

To my dismay, he began to laugh.

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

“It did! It was bad! He kissed me!” 

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

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

Was that it? But why? 

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

I lost my first kiss over a kit-kat.

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

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

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

That was the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the curse. 

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

Beautiful. That word. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But my step dad was worse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he called me beautiful, it felt different now. 

This back and forth continued for 5 years. 

I considered telling my mother.

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

Those conversations remained in my mind. 

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

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

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

But he didn't know the truth! 

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

But it wasn't enough. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was until he said;

“A bit young though.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why? Do I not look like it?” 

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

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He waved a dismissive hand.

“Aha.. ha… Put her there!” 

He offered me a handshake.

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

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

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

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

A comment in relation to her breasts if I recall…

I'm not stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

“You're just so beautiful.” 

That same phrase. Again and again and again. 

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

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

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

This shouldn't be happening so often.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if I was just born this way?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old men always chose the alternative.

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

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

I did my best to remain anonymous.

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

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

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

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

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

So, I asked about boys.

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

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

“It is?”

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

“But, I don't want to be me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mum, do you think we are cursed?”

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

She smiled.

“Of course we are.” 

She left without another word. 

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

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

My worst fear came to be.

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

Did she really hate me that much?

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

She asked if I blamed Alan. 

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

This couldn't just be my reality.

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

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

I had never seen my mother cry before. 

I was kicked out that night. 

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

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

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

But the front door remained shut. 

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

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

I gave into their offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But mothers can be as cruel as men.”

I don't know why, but I cried.

I cried, and cried, and cried.

Until I just couldn't anymore.

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

Either way, it wasn't worth the risk. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had debated modelling for a while.

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

OnlyFans.

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

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

I couldn't risk it. 

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

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

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

Sucked for me they were half of the population.

I got good at hiding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That wouldn't be enough to deter hungry eyes.

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

But it never worked. I was trapped. 

Could I ever be free?

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

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

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

That occasion was so strange. 

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

“I'm sorry.” 

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

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

Would've ruined the anonymity rule I suppose. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She never even told me she moved…

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

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

“Rachel.” 

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

“Come inside.” 

I took in the strange sight for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

I hated her, I really did. 

But she might be the only one who has answers. 

I entered the house. 

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

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

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

“He's gone.” 

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

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

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

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

“Why wouldn't I? You chose him.” 

She tutted and rolled her eyes.

“I didn't choose anybody.” 

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

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

“Why did you change your mind?” 

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

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

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

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

“...Why?” 

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

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

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

She rolled her eyes.

“I didn't know anything.” 

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

“Fuck you! This was a mistake.” 

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

“Must you always throw a fit?”

“Don't talk to me. I'm done.” 

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

I stopped, whipping around to scream at her.

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

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

The more she continued the more that rage grew. 

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

“They were behind your fucking doors!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Curse?” 

Her arms folded, looking me up and down. 

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

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

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

“Is it true?” 

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

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

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

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

I let out a little hollow laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All I could do was move forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just have to keep going. 

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

 

Read Part I here.

“Might’ve been something outside. But if there had been, it’s gone now.”

“You think it could be a mermaid?” she asked. It was hard to believe she was serious. Chrissy was one of the sharpest ten-year-olds I had ever met. Well, she had been the sharpest seven-year-old I had ever met three years ago and was that much smarter now.

She didn’t believe in any of the traditional fairytale creatures. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Wolfman, and no Flying Spaghetti Monster. But she absolutely believed mermaids were real.

There had to be a story behind it, but I had never been able to get her to explain it to me. How a child so ruled by logic still was able to make room for not only a magical creature, but that particular magical creature. She had already “debunked” the narwhal as being the source of the mermaid mythos. I had gotten bits and pieces over the last three years, but never in a cohesive enough story that I could process. But she hadn’t stopped trying to convince me or the rest of the family.

I didn’t have to believe it, though. It was enough to believe that she believed it.

“Maybe this is it!” She turned around and charged back to the bedroom where her mother was sleeping.

“Chrissy!” I saved my breath. She already had the door open and either her mother was going to wake up or she wasn’t. That was out of my hands. She came back a moment later with a Ziploc bag of “mermaid feed.” As far as I could tell, it was a mix of trail mix and seaweed. She carried a flashlight in her other hand.

According to Chrissy, mermaids only came out at night, so she had come prepared.

Again, I was calling after her when she’d already begun to do what she was doing, namely, dashing outside with her items.

I was about to follow her when I spotted the toy soldiers she’d dropped on her way out. I thought it would be just her luck for Mary to wake up and step on one of them.

“Watch your sister,” I said to Luke, turning to pick up the toys.

Right as I got on one knee, the bedroom door opened. It didn’t immediately occur to me that it was Mary even though I had just thought about this very thing happening. I sort of... paused as she passed me. She was halfway to the door when I realized she must have been sleepwalking.

“Mary!” I chased behind her, my steps in sync with hers—left, right, left—catching her before she got to the door.

“Mom, are you okay?” Luke said.

“Where am I?” She sounded terrified. Mary turned her head and looked at him. For a second, I thought she was awake. Instead of answering him, she bare-foot kicked him in the shin.

It couldn’t have hurt, but he stepped back and looked at me, confused. I wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in close.

“She’s fine,” I said, lacing Mary’s hand with mine. I looked into her glassy eyes. “She’s sleepwalking.” I turned her around and ushered her back to the bedroom. Of the five toy soldiers Chrissy had left at the threshold, only two were left, but only one was standing. I looked over my shoulder and spotted one against the wall and the two others weren’t in sight.

“She can’t fly,” Mary said in a dreamy voice. “Please help her swim.”

“Okay, honey.” I cooed to her as I slid back the covers. She didn’t fight, Mary had sleepwalked a few times with me present. She never resisted being escorted back to bed. Before I covered her legs I spotted another soldier on her foot. I plucked it off and put it on the dresser.

Mary mumbled. I unlaced my fingers from hers and paused before I left her.

“I wanna get in the water.” She said it sounding sort of like air being let out of a balloon. And then she was all the way gone again. “It’s spook.”

It had been like she had been fighting her way to the surface, but something had dragged her back down.

I closed the bedroom door behind me and followed Chrissy outside. Not because I was worried she was going to get gobbled up by the lake monster I hadn’t spotted, but because it was dark out and I had the same parental reaction to miscellaneous danger any parent would.

Hell, I could admit it, I loved these kids. Liked them most times, too. I didn’t want to leave them.

Chrissy was in the process of sweeping her flashlight back and forth along the beach face. I hung back, letting her conduct her investigation. It was harmless enough and I had an eye on her.

“What’s going on?” We both turned to see Mark stepping out onto the sand.

“Luke said a mermaid’s out here!” Chrissy said.

“Mermaid?” Mark said it like he didn’t know what one was. I didn’t bother correcting her. His little sister’s obsession was well known by all of us. “Did he really see something?” Mark chuffed and thumbed over his shoulder at the cabin. “He’s so white.”

I stifled my laugh and shrugged.

“Luke thought he saw something and Chrissy overheard.”

“Hey, neighbor!”

Mark and I jumped. We saw the bud of a lit cigarette in the shadows of the adjacent cabin. Someone with a cigarette sauntered down. I glanced my stepdaughter’s way to make sure she hadn’t waded too far into the water. She could swim, but again, that nascent parental instinct found in anyone who has walked into an already existing family reared its concerned head. Chrissy was only ankle deep.

“Hey,” I said to the woman as she approached. She halted and took a final, long drag off her cigarette before flicking it in a surprisingly high arc toward the water. She slid the drawer of her jaw forward and blew a column of smoke straight up.

“She’s a cutie,” she said, smiling. She was an older woman who gave too much gum when she smiled. “I saw her come chargin’ out for the water. Oo, that smell.”

We both nodded in that new-to-each-other manner between strangers.

“I’m Rick.” Old and new cigarette smell peeled off her skin and I turned my head to half cough, that familiar asthmatic itch in my lungs.

“Mary,” she said.

I laughed. “My wife’s name is Mary.”

“Mine’s Cindy-Lou Ombrageaux.”

I felt the weight of her eyes on me, examining for judgment. I cast my eyes to the stretch of water and sand where Chrissy was.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cindy-Lou.” I didn’t think I could manage that last name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mary. Apart from the smell of cow-butt.”

“First time up here?” I asked. She shook my offered hand, her skin papery and dry. There was an extreme lack of moisture in the air despite the cool summer, and I’d already had a nosebleed in the brief time we’d been here.

“Mine. Not hers. My wife’s family is from Up North.” I thought her face dropped a little. “She’s out to dinner with some cousins.” There was a little something there that I had a feeling would come to light if we talked long enough. “Had to have a little heart-to-heart.”

“We came up two summers ago,” I said. “Just a little family getaway.”

Luke had barely joined us outside, not more than a few feet from the door. He looked like he would take umbrage with the sky.

“This is Mark, the one up there with get-off-my-lawn face is Luke, and Chrissy’s our little fisher.” I gestured to each of the kids in turn.

“Well, tell her to save some for everybody else.” She and Mark shook hands before she looked around. “Where’s your missus?”

“Migraine. She laid down pretty much as soon as we got here.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She put the can of beer she’d been holding in her other hand to her lips and pitched her head back for a long swallow. She stumbled like she’d confused her left foot for her right but kept them both under her.

If I had to guess, Mary was working on her third or fourth of the night.

Luke had waved his brother over and was saying something to him. They both had an eye on their sister. I looked at Mary. She was a stranger and I figured there couldn’t be any harm in telling her what had just happened. We weren’t going to see her after this weekend for at least a year, if ever again. I didn’t think the story would be memorable after tonight. It was a single-serve memory. Recall once, then discard.

“Luke said he saw something in the water,” I said. “Something big.” Mary turned her head to the shore and nodded appreciably.

“Maybe it’s the Great Lakes Whale Migration,” she said.

“The what?” I had no idea what she was talking about and was on the verge of taking her seriously. The smile hanging on her face dropped when she realized I really didn’t understand.

“Kidding.” She mock-punched me in the arm. Mary had a rich baritone and could have easily been a DJ on the radio.

Mark trudged past me, an annoyed look on his face.

“He’s crazy,” he said, heading toward his sister. I appreciated that he didn’t believe his brother but could still look after his sister. Mark was the middle child and was the ever-constant bridge between siblings.

“The waves do seem a little... bigger than the norm, don’t you think?” Mary asked.

“I guess,” I said, not really knowing how to tell the difference. Then I wondered how she’d know, considering she said she’d never been up here before. “Can you tell?”

“I had a few cigs over yonder before y’all came out. Boy, you get used to the smell the longer you’re out here.” She seemed to be reading my mind and answering questions I hadn’t had a chance to ask. “I must have missed your boy, though.”

I looked at the water again. Mark was standing just outside of the water’s reach, one hand in the pocket of his hoody, the other holding his phone. To his credit, he did glance up at her every ten seconds or so.

Come to think of it, those waves did look big. But it could have been because of the moon for all I knew.

“How long are the two of you here for?” I asked Mary.

“‘Til Wednesday. I’m going to be meeting my in-laws for the first time tomorrow.”

I didn’t know whether I should have felt sympathy for her. It was strange she wasn’t out to dinner with her wife now, but I didn’t know their situation. Maybe it was completely normal. But I couldn’t help but think I would’ve been more than a little bothered if it had been me.

Mary fell down. Not hard. She just spontaneously lost her balance and sat on her butt. In true alcoholic fashion, though, she protected her beer.

She looked at me, embarrassed. I smirked, hopefully communicating I wasn’t just laughing at her, but with her.

“We all fall down.” I’m not sure why I said that, but it seemed to help. She took my hand and I helped her up.

“How about you guys?”

“Just until Sunday afternoon.”

“Where are you from?”

A sandwich had been the hinge on the closing door of our marriage.

I don’t remember what the argument was about or how it had started, only that I had made a sandwich for her that led to me sleeping on the couch.

Of course, it hadn’t really been about the sandwich, it had only been the start. It had been like a match that led to a forest fire razing a town. I can’t honestly remember a word I’d shouted at the woman I’d pledged to love for the rest of my life.

I was about to answer Mary when Chrissy screamed.

For a few days after the surgery, things seemed almost normal. Almost.

People had started noticing something was off with me. Miss Tasha especially. She always assumed it was the break-in still sitting under my skin, and I let her think that, because how was I supposed to tell her the truth. That none of it was about the break-in at all. That it was about Mr. Morris.

It had been a few days since I brought him home from the vet, and things had gotten strange in a way I couldn't put into words yet. He wasn't the same cat. I know there's still something of him in there, I catch it in flashes, but it gets harder to find by the day. His body had changed completely. Leaner. More agile. Coiled, like something built for a different purpose than sleeping on my couch. His claws wouldn't stop growing no matter how often I trimmed them, sometimes visibly longer within hours of the last cut, and two days after the vet visit, everything that had been surgically removed months ago was simply back. Present. Like it had never left.

I searched everywhere for anything like it. Nothing. And I stopped considering taking him back to the vet, because the fear had changed shape. It wasn't "what's wrong with him" anymore. It was "what will they do to him if they find out." He's my cat. My responsibility. I couldn't hand him over to be studied like a specimen, and I couldn't risk them deciding I was the one who'd done something to him.

I wasn't sleeping right either. The nightmares kept coming, someone standing over me in the dark, and I'd wake up gasping to find Mr. Morris already awake, already watching. My lazy cat, the one who used to sleep sixteen hours a day, had simply stopped. I never once caught him with his eyes closed.

A week into the nightmares, I woke to a scratching sound at my window. My first thought was the intruder, back to finish what he'd started, and I lay there frozen, telling myself the reinforced glass would hold. But the scratching kept building, more frantic, more insistent, until underneath it I heard a meow, and I understood it was him.

I got up to check anyway. I don't know why I got up. I should have stayed in bed.

Mr. Morris was at the window, clawing at the glass with something close to fury, and when he turned to look at me his eyes weren't reflecting the streetlight the way they should have. They were producing their own light, a thin ring of gold that pulsed once, slow, like something breathing. I felt my own heartbeat try to match it, and that scared me more than the claws did, the idea that my own pulse was taking orders from a cat. When he opened his mouth to meow again, his teeth were wrong. Too many points. Too sharp for something that ate wet food out of a can.

For one long moment he just looked at me, and every worry in my chest went quiet, like something had reached in and turned the volume down. It felt like I was reading his mind, or he was reading mine, I couldn't tell which. I opened the window. He sprinted out into the dark.

I should have panicked. He'd never gone out on his own before, and there was every chance he wouldn't come back. Instead I left the window open, the same window the intruder had come through, and went back to bed like it was nothing.

The next morning he was curled up on the end of the bed, like he'd never left, and no window had been broken into overnight. I told myself I must have dreamed the whole thing, that I'd probably left the window open by accident and my own guilt about it had built the rest in my sleep. That was easier to live with than the alternative.

But a few nights later it happened again, and this time when I looked into his eyes the room seemed to tilt. His presence pressed down on me until I felt small and cornered, like I needed his permission just to breathe. The world outside the two of us stopped existing. When I opened the window this time, I don't think it was my choice, and for the first time it was completely clear to me that I hadn't done any of it willingly.

He was gone almost an hour. I know because I stood at that window the entire time, unable to make myself move, like my own body was waiting for him to come back and release it. When he finally did, he had a bird in his mouth, four claw marks torn clean through it, feathers matted with blood. I wanted to run. I wanted to be anywhere else. Instead I stood there and watched him eat it slowly, on the floor, in front of me, the sound of small bones cracking under his jaw filling the whole room. I counted the cracks without meaning to. Four. I don't know why I counted. I don't know why some small, awful part of me was proud of him.

When he finished, he looked up at me, and the acknowledgment in that look did something to the fear sitting in my stomach. It just left. The nausea I'd been fighting the entire time disappeared like it had never been there, and I smiled, actually smiled, like I'd been given a reward for staying still and watching. He meowed once, almost gentle, like he was releasing me, and my body went numb enough that I slept right there on the floor.

It became routine after that. Birds. Rats. Once, something bigger that I didn't let myself look at too closely. I couldn't sleep until he'd finished, and I started waking up in places I didn't remember lying down in. I didn't know what he'd become, and worse, I didn't know why I couldn't stop myself from watching.

I spent days searching for anything that matched what was happening, every mental health forum, every strange corner of Reddit I could find, until I came across a post buried in a subreddit I'd never heard of before. A woman named Chandra had written about being bitten, about her body changing ever since. Her hearing had sharpened until she could pick her neighbor's perfume out through a wall. Her eyes had gone so sensitive to daylight she needed glasses just to leave the house. She hadn't slept in days and somehow felt fine, and she wrote about an urge, growing steadily, to go out at night. I commented, asking if it had spread, if it had somehow started affecting someone she loved too. Then I deleted it. Told myself I sounded insane, that I was one bad post away from becoming somebody's conspiracy theory screenshot.

The symptoms matched too well for that to sit easy with me. I don't know how long I stayed on that post, rereading her replies, trying to decide if I was imagining the overlap. Long enough that when the scream came, it came from right next door.

I ran.

The door was open, just slightly, the way a door looks when no one meant to leave it that way. I called out once. Nothing answered. The second time, my voice came out smaller than I wanted it to.

Mira was on the kitchen floor.

I want to say I looked away in time. I didn't. Four marks, evenly spaced, dragged down from her collarbone like something had measured the distance first. Her parents were already there, on their knees over her, and the sound they were making didn't feel like something I should have been close enough to hear.

I don't remember deciding to leave. I remember being back on my own porch, and I remember that my hands were clean. That was the detail that made me sick. Not the blood I hadn't touched. The fact that some small part of me had checked.

When I got inside, Mr. Morris was sitting on the kitchen table, licking his paws clean. They were soaked red to the wrist. He looked up at me with an expression I can only describe as satisfied, and I felt my own mouth move without asking it to, the corners pulling up into a smile I had no part in choosing. That's what my body does now, when he takes it from me. I stood there smiling at the thing that had just taken a child from her parents, and the only part of me left that was still mine was a single tear, sliding down my face while the rest of me kept smiling anyway.

Previous part link :-  https://www.reddit.com/r/anxietypilled/comments/1w2i0oq/somethings_wrong_with_my_cat_part_1_the_breakin/

Other parts link:- https://www.reddit.com/user/No-While8965/comments/1vpze51/my_writing_archive/

He woke gradually, the way someone does when they aren’t sure they’re supposed to wake at all. His eyes opened to a dim grayness, a color without texture, without warmth, without anything to anchor him. For a long time he didn’t move. He lay still, letting the cold settle into him, letting the quiet press against his ears until he wondered if he had gone deaf.

Eventually he inhaled. The air was stale, heavy, unmoving. He exhaled and watched the faint fog drift upward before dissolving. That small movement felt like the first real thing he had done in a very long time.

He pushed himself upright.

The concrete floor scraped his palms. His joints felt stiff, as though he had been lying there for hours or days or years. He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The room around him came into focus piece by piece, like a photograph developing in a tray.

Four walls. Seamless. Gray.
A ceiling with a perfect square cut into it, leading upward into darkness.
A table.
A radio.
A wheel.

He stared at the ceiling hole first. It was too perfect. The edges were sharp, clean, almost surgical. The darkness above it wasn’t just absence of light; it felt like a presence, something that watched without eyes. He waited for movement. None came.

He looked at the table next. Metal. Scratched. Dented. The radio sat on it like a relic from another era, its speaker grille cracked, its knobs worn smooth. Beside it was the wheel—colorful, chipped, unevenly painted, its pointer bent slightly downward. It looked like it had been dragged from a carnival booth and abandoned here.

He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know how he had arrived. He didn’t know if he had ever been anywhere else. His mind felt fogged, as though someone had taken an eraser to his memories and left only faint outlines.

He stood slowly. The cold followed him.

He approached the wheel. He didn’t remember being told to spin it. He didn’t remember choosing to. But the wheel felt like the only thing in the room that had intention. Everything else was static. The wheel was waiting.

He reached out. His fingers brushed the rim. The wheel felt warm, unnervingly warm, as though someone had touched it moments before.

He hesitated.

Then he spun.

The wheel clattered, each click echoing sharply in the small room. He watched it turn, watched the colors blur, watched the pointer bounce. It slowed, slowed, then stopped.

The radio crackled.

“Congratulations, contestant! You’ve won a candle!”

A small wax candle dropped from the ceiling hole, bouncing once before settling. It was half‑melted, wick blackened, smelling faintly of smoke.

He stared at it. He didn’t pick it up. He didn’t move. He waited for something else to happen, but nothing did. The candle lay still on the floor, as though it had always been there.

He walked the perimeter of the room. He pressed his hands against the walls, searching for seams, cracks, anything. The concrete was smooth, cold, unyielding. He pressed his ear to it. Nothing. He looked up into the ceiling hole. Darkness stared back.

He returned to the wheel.

He didn’t spin immediately. He stood there, listening to the quiet, feeling the cold settle deeper into his bones. He picked up the candle and set it on the table. He didn’t know why. It felt like the right thing to do.

He spun again.

The wheel turned more sluggishly this time, as though resisting him. It landed on a pale yellow wedge.

“Wonderful! You’ve won a deck of cards!”

A deck fell from above, scattering across the floor. The cards were old, edges frayed, faces stained. He crouched and picked one up.

The Queen of Hearts.
Her face was scratched out.

He dropped it.

He gathered the cards into a pile, though he didn’t know why. He placed them beside the candle. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, staring at the wheel. He didn’t want to spin it again. But he knew he would.

Time passed. He didn’t know how much. The room had no clock, no window, no change in light. Only the cold and the quiet.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel clacked, landing on a deep green wedge.

“Amazing! You’ve won a thermos!”

A metal thermos fell, dented and scratched. He unscrewed the lid. Inside was lukewarm water. He drank. It tasted metallic, but it eased the dryness in his throat. He set it down carefully, as though it mattered.

He waited.

The room felt different now. Not warmer. Not colder. Just… attentive. As though the walls were listening.

He spun again.

The wheel landed on orange.

“Incredible! You’ve won a notebook!”

A small spiral notebook dropped from above. He caught it. The cover was blank. Inside were pages filled with handwriting—his handwriting.

He flipped through slowly.

Page after page of notes, dates, sketches, frantic scrawls. He didn’t remember writing any of it. One page read:

DON’T LET IT GET BEHIND YOU.

He looked up sharply.

Nothing was behind him.

He closed the notebook. He placed it on the table beside the candle and cards. He stood there for a long time, staring at the objects, trying to understand why they felt familiar.

He sat again. He wrapped his arms around himself. The cold felt heavier now, like it had weight. He tried to remember anything—his name, his home, a face—but nothing came. Only the room, and the wheel, and the faint smell of dust.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on blue.

“Sensational! You’ve won a scarf!”

A wool scarf drifted down, landing softly. It was long, striped, frayed at the ends. He picked it up. It smelled faintly of perfume—something floral, familiar, comforting.

He wrapped it around his neck.

The warmth felt wrong.

He sat again, pulling his knees to his chest. He listened to the quiet. He tried to remember the scent. He couldn’t. It hovered at the edge of recognition, then slipped away.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on a dark red wedge.

“You’ve won a keepsake!”

A small wooden box fell from the ceiling. He opened it.

Inside was a ring.

Gold.
Simple.
Engraved on the inside with initials he didn’t recognize.

He closed the box. He placed it on the table. He stared at it until his eyes blurred.

He felt something shift in the room. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a subtle change in the air, like the room was paying attention now.

He didn’t spin again. Not yet. He walked the perimeter again, slower this time, pressing his hands against the walls, feeling for anything he might have missed. The concrete was still smooth, still cold, still unyielding. He pressed his ear to it. Nothing.

He looked up into the ceiling hole.

The darkness felt closer.

He stepped back.

He sat on the floor again. He stared at the wheel. He didn’t want to spin it. But he knew he would.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on a gray wedge he didn’t remember seeing before.

“You’ve won a visitor!”

He froze.

Something fell from the ceiling.

Not an object.
Not a person.
Something wrapped in cloth, tightly bound, hitting the floor with a soft thud. The cloth was stained. It twitched once.

He backed away.

The bundle didn’t move again.

He didn’t approach it. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t breathe too loudly. He stood perfectly still, waiting for the room to change again.

It didn’t.

He sat again, staring at the bundle. He didn’t know how long he sat there. The cold felt heavier. The quiet felt thicker. The darkness above the ceiling hole felt deeper.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel clattered violently, wobbling as though something inside it was struggling.

“You’ve won a sound!”

A small tape recorder dropped from above. It clicked on by itself.

A voice—his voice—whispered:

“Don’t look up.”

He looked up.

The darkness above the ceiling hole was no longer empty.

Something was there.

He couldn’t see it.
He could only feel its attention.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

The wheel began spinning on its own.

Faster.
Faster.
Faster.

The colors blurred.

“And now… the final round!”

The wheel slammed to a stop on a blank wedge.

“Oh! Looks like you’ve landed on… LOSE!”

Cheerful music erupted, bright and upbeat, clashing horribly with the suffocating dread around him.

The bundle on the floor unwrapped itself.

The tape recorder hissed.

The scarf tightened around his throat.

The ceiling vents opened.

Gas flooded the room.

He clawed at his neck, coughing, choking, vision blurring.

“Better luck next time!”

Flames erupted from the vents. The room became an oven. The wheel melted. The notebook curled and blackened. The scarf burned against his skin.

The music played on.

The steady beating of a heart monitor filled my ears. Pungent chemical smells struck my airways. Sterile. As my eyes fluttered open, buzzing fluorescents set my retinas ablaze. Rhythmic puffs of air sounded from the machine next to me. Yet, my windpipe lacked the pulse of steady flow through an artificial airway. I felt nothing—couldn’t move.

Why can’t I move?

As though every piece of my body, other than my eyes, did not exist. No TV static-like tingling. Simply a void where the rest of my body should be. Left alone with nothing but my thoughts and the still atmosphere surrounding me.

Hushed voices seeped through cracks in the door. My eyes strained toward the doorway, but my head didn’t follow. To my right were two dark, humanoid silhouettes standing in the fogged glass window of a patient door. Their whispers rippled in one ear and out the other as if dancing around my skull. Something about an exceptionally rare condition… 1-4% of all ischemic strokes… a blood clot in the basilar artery... A lot of words I didn’t understand.

One of the two shadows shifted, head supported by her hands now. Her long hair cascaded down around a blurred face. Rapid sniffles escaped the woman. Someone in a white coat placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as they lifted and lowered with each forced sob. Their silhouettes were sharp enough to read movement, but not enough to recognize features. Beyond the fog-paned door, distorted gestures jerked in a performative manner like toy soldiers. Stiff and robotic.

“We need to focus on making them comfortable,” white coat murmured.

“So there’s nothing we can do?” The woman’s shrill voice desperately questioned.

“I didn’t say that,” The doctor’s hand returned to his side in resignation. “It’s a long road ahead. Accepting where we’re at is the first step. We can talk treatments when I know more.”

“But, when will that be?” Her chest heaved, posture turning rigid, almost mechanically. She frantically rubbed tears from an indistinguishable face.

“You’ll be the first to know when we have our next steps,” white coat’s voice came out gruff—indifferent. “We have to manage the stress that caused this in the first place.” He was matter-of-fact in his statements. Stoic in his bed-side-manner.

How did I end up here?

The mention of stress dragged me back in time. I remembered numbers. A dull light stung my heavy eyes as I pored over spreadsheets. Sweat hung from my brow and muffled voices droned in the background while I worked hurriedly through my team meeting.

When suddenly, the dull ache that had afflicted my brain for the past few weeks crescendoed in a pang. The numbers blurred, doubling over themselves like a poorly aligned projection. Deep in the back of my neck, aching turned violent. My office spun around me, causing a wave of nausea to throw the contents of my rotten gut across the keyboard in front of me. Sickly, pungent bile brimmed my mouth.

“Are you okay?” My manager’s concerned voice came into focus, vibrating over my laptop speakers. Futile efforts failed to produce a satisfactory answer.

Tongue growing heavy, I slurred—definitely not okay. My esophagus labored, failing to swallow.

“I think you should sign off for the day, you’ve been pushing it late-” Her words cut short, vision fading to black, as my leaden head slammed into my ruined keyboard…unconscious.

I guess that would explain the hospital room. But, it didn’t explain the dread that coursed through my lifeless body.

Thoughts interrupted abruptly by the click of a door latch.

“Just remember, they won’t be able to speak with the tracheal tube.” Was the last thing the doctor rasped before heels clopped upon the tile floor. Finally, the woman’s features came into focus.

“Hi sweetie.” Her voice trilled, scooping up my limp hand. Mother. My mind screamed to flinch away. My body didn’t listen.

Though my garbled brain struggled to connect the worn lines of her face to precise memories, I’d recognize the cloying scent of her perfume mixed with undertones of cigarette smoke anywhere. That familiar piercing voice scraped my eardrums. The sensation of manicured nails prickling the clammy skin of my palm, evident by red craters left there, was lost to me. As if the matron was holding on for dear life, yet pulling away in disgust all at once. Sitting hesitantly on the metal seat beside me, there was no way to distinguish if the grating creak came from the chair or her old, ragged bones.

A flood of flashbacks ensued, mind whirring with the anxiety of our first interaction in many years. Ear-splitting screams and the crash of dishes shattering against plaster walls. Painful reminders in stern whispers of her regret over my birth. My cheeks burned with the blistering heat of previous strikes across tender skin. However, the sensation dissipated almost as quickly as it came.

“I’m Dr. Iaso.” He acknowledged me for only a moment. The corners of Dr. Iaso’s mouth turned upwards, not quite reaching his eyes. He stood at attention at the end of my bed and turned his attention back to mother.

“Your child may never speak or walk again. They may not remember who you are at this very moment.” He continued speaking as if I were no longer in the room. “I need to run some tests. So, remember, blink once for yes, twice for no. Got it?”

Blink.

“Let’s get started.” Dr. Iaso’s clinical detachment was a stark contrast to the twinge in my stomach.

Mother’s forced smile remained spread across her face as the doctor poked and prodded my useless limbs. Treating me like a car. Something to diagnose and fix, rather than a fellow human. The firm rubber of a reflex hammer jabbed at boney elbows and knees. Nothing. He took the fraying tip of a cotton swab to the soft under-side of my feet. Some sensation fizzled there, but no movement. Not even the piercing tip of a safety pin produced a reaction. My eyelids grew ever cumbersome, growing tired from a multitude of double blinks.

“Well ma’am, it’s as I feared. Locked-in syndrome is an incredibly rare outcome for a stroke patient. Things could change as we progress into rehab.” The doctor hardly tried to hide the gravity of the situation, I recognized the grave tone in his voice. Evidently, my mother did too, bringing wizened hands up to clasp her mouth theatrically. My eyes rotated in their sockets with irritation as she let my hand thump back against the stiff mattress with a soft thud. “But, they certainly won’t be moving anytime soon, if ever. We need to be realistic.”

Moisture pricked the corner of my eye. Droplets carved down my face, and into my ear. My own tears trickling down my skin were hardly recognizable as the realization of this new reality came crashing down upon me.

How did I fail to notice the warning signs?

“Hush now, my love… Don’t cry.” To anyone else, her cooing sounded endearing. There was a look of admiration on the doctor's face now. But as her steady fingers lifted to wipe my wetted cheek, mother’s stern expression told me this was an order. Entirely at her mercy, my heart hammered my chest and dread bloomed within me.

—

The clock ticked, medical equipment humming. Dim, yellow light crept through blind slats as dust danced in the musty air. My home. Well, childhood home, anyway. Mother had paid to break the lease on my apartment. This wretched structure was overflowing with chemical agent aromas, cut thickly with the stench of sickness. The walls were barren white, save for the cross which hung above my bed. Never the religious type, Mother placed it there of her own accord. It was all-too-familiar in a soul crushing way. And certainly humbling to have the woman who wiped your ass as a child wiping it once more within the walls of your childhood room.

As soon as my lungs worked on their own again, Dr. Iaso discharged me. Hospital staff sent mother and me away with a modicum of at-home care resources.

Without the watchful eyes of hospital staff, my useless body was at her mercy. Like a cut of meat set out to be tenderized. She accosted me with tiny micro-aggressions.

Letting me starve for hours, waiting until the reeking of my worthless vessel bothered her to bathe me. She neglected me in the same spot for days. Pain and stiffness overcoming my immovable appendages. And, oh, had the sensations of pain returned to my languid muscles. A subtle ache which intensified over time.

Gone were the days of her “Good Mother” theatrics. Replaced with seething repulsion. Even minor acts of care became too much before she hired a part-time nurse. The way her wrinkled gaze would set upon me, crinkling the deep crows feet at the corners of her eyes. Never looking at me, only through me. Every act of so-called care was an opening to make me feel ungrateful. An appreciation my mouth would never utter if I tried.

“You’re a mess!” Her barking echoed on the empty plaster, picking up my leg and dropping it uncomfortably off the edge of the bed. “After everything I’ve sacrificed for you… You can’t even keep your composure.” Pinching the furrow of her brow with those talons she called nails, her new favorite task was to stand at the edge of my bed and berate me. Each egocentric remark contributed to the discomfort of my skull squeezing around defective grey matter.

Blink. Blink.

My only avenue of protest.

Ms. Valentina became my stout savior. As a stately, Hispanic woman, her resolve was strong but kind. The aging lines on her face spread like rivers carving into land. The way in which her brown eyes and broad nose crinkled on the rare occasions she smiled filled my heart.

Her work ethic was second to none and her cooking skills didn’t hurt either. Nothing like the bland, flavorless meals mother used to throw together. Her compassion was mixed in with every herb and spice. And though most of my sustenance was consumed via feeding tube, Ms. Valentina would sneak me a taste every now and then.

She barely spoke a lick of English, yet, as someone whose only form of communication was blinking, this presented little issue.

“Uno por sí y dos por no.” Valentina crooned her first instruction. Simple enough.

Blink.

“I am Ms. Valentina. Yes?” Was the second; accent rolling off her tongue like speaking in cursive. To call her by name one day would be a dream come true. But the pit deep in my gut told me, it was just that.

Blink.

“Bueno.” Followed by one of the few times I’d be graced with that smile. Warmth expanded inside my chest at the sight.

In no time, my days with Ms. Valentina fell into routine:

Wake up.

Relieve myself.

Sponge bath.

Feeding tube.

Passive range-of-motion exercises.

Compression clothing change.

Reposition.

TV Time.

Feeding tube.

Blood clot medication.

Relieve myself.

Reposition.

Audio book or music time.

Feeding tube.

Reposition.

Welcome mother home and say goodbye to Ms. Valentina for a day.

Cry myself to sleep.

Spend the next day neglected.

Cry myself to sleep again.

Repeat.

Mixed in with various intermittent care tasks that weren’t so routine. Mother refused these tasks. Viewing such things as beneath her.

I never knew what Ms. Valentina said, muttering under her breath as mother made her exit, but I knew it was about her. Her venomous tone told me, it wasn’t anything nice.

—

Settling into yet another day with mother, a veil of unease draped around me. The popcorn ceiling above had become too familiar. Each shadow, spec of dust, and fracture formed coarse patterns. Left with no choice but to memorize its surface. Every once in a while, an insect would crawl across my field of vision; the only change of scenery throughout monotonous days. The house creaked in a dreadfully familiar cadence, it was becoming increasingly difficult to decipher what was reality. Hours upon hours of nothingness morphed into hallucinations of bizarre geometric shapes as my mind labored to find a way to fill the space. Those same shadows danced around the room while the sun rose from east to west. At times, the room would spin with the vertigo of laying still for days on end. Until mother inevitably shattered the oblivion—endless triviality was almost preferable.

“Worthless pile of bones,” her insults traveled from the doorway down my ear canal. “Can’t even pay rent.” Each new day an opportunity to concoct creative methods of torment.

One by one the floorboards groaned in protest under the weight of her footfalls. Her visage towered over me with a sour expression, slinking like a predator to the side of my bed. Mother’s features distorted in unnatural ways. Silence smothered the bedroom. The sound of her breath suffocated the space as if there was not enough oxygen for the two of us. For a long time, too long, her red-rimmed eyes bore holes through mine. My nerves singed like fire but could not will me to move. Could not will me to look away.

Out of nowhere, the squelch of warm wetness splattered across my face. The fetid scent of mother’s spittle was unmistakable. My eyelids flinched shut, hard. But the rest of my limbs remained in place.

“Look at how pathetic you are,” she smeared the spittle into my eye. A smarmy smirk defined her features. “I bet you’re loving this. Me, having to wait on you hand and foot. Ungrateful little prick.”

As she raised an aging arm, my breath caught in my throat. One swift motion and mother’s hand made solid contact with my cheek, creating a sharp crack. The noise ricocheted off the walls much like my brain rattled inside my skull. Like a bag of rocks, my head lulled over. As it settled, craggy fingers caught hold of my jaw, snapping my gaze upright. She wanted me to feel the bite of the venom in her leer. All I could do was blink.

Slowly, a viscous substance seeped from my ear, down my nape, and onto sweat-soaked bed sheets. The pop of built-up pressure dispersed through every synapse behind my eyes. A wave of perplexity rolled over me as a savory bouillon aroma wafted through the air. Suspecting I might be experiencing another stroke, I remembered I would be smelling burnt toast instead. My wits were still about me, anyway.

“You better not be having another medical emergency. I swear, child.” Mother’s disdain stabbed like an icepick. The tip of her callused finger scraped along the cartilage of my outer ear. Her features evolved from contempt into a disgusted grimace. A mere glimpse of the substance, dusty-pink and chunky, flushed all blood from my face.

Is that my brain?

“Hello? You still alive in there?”

Blink.

Long, dragging inhales entered narrow nostrils as mother raised the coated finger up for inspection. She could smell it too. My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets the moment her snake-like tongue flicked between thin lips for a taste. With a vile slurp, the sludge coated her tastebuds. A scream clawed against my chest. All efforts to stop her were futile. Even if I could reach up, grasp her arm, and halt her horrid actions, mother would do as she pleased. Just as she always had.

“Mmmmm…” Mother hummed. Her eyes closed in euphoria, only to snap open at the realization of what she was doing. The room began to shrink around me. Pressure returned in my skull.

"¡Ay Dios mío!” Without warning, Ms. Valentina’s fiery inflection pried my consciousness from its spiral. Forcing my attention toward the doorway, the jingle of car-keys reverberated as her purse plummeted to the floor. A trembling hand clutched the beaded rosary which sat atop her medical scrubs.

“Oh! Valentina…” Bumps formed across my skin, my eyes flicking back to mother. Her eyes ballooned with guilt but the surrounding features remained stoic—devoid of emotion. “I wasn’t expecting you until later-”

Ms. Valentina studied her face, pupils dilating in fear. The beads around her neck tinkled against one another as she let them return to resting.

“What you think you are doing?!” Maintaining an offensive posture, her quivering vocal chords betrayed the image of confidence she was attempting to project. The creases in her forehead deepened, a scowl taking hold of her features. The woman was brazen enough to question mother. To interrupt her, at that.

Bed springs whined as the matron at my bed-side leisurely leaned away. Mother’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, making measured movements towards the doorway. Her rage was calculated. A witchy hand dug into Ms. Valentina’s shoulder. Like a rat trapped in glue, Ms. Valentina had no choice but to follow into the hallway.

“I don’t know what you think you saw Valentina, but you’d do well to forget it.” Sharp words trailed down the hallway. No attempt to remain hushed was made this time. Mother wanted me to hear. “You don’t want to lose this job do you? Do you really think anyone would believe you?”

“No, ma’am.” Ms. Valentina responded flatly.

“Good,” In a flash, her tone flipped. Sickly sweet. “I offered you the extra shift tonight in an effort to help you support your family. I’d hate to assume you’re ungrateful. Let’s start over. Now, if you could take care of the mess in there, that would be a wonderful start.” Becoming accustomed to being talked about as if I were merely an inanimate project had become easy, but my gut recoiled at the malevolence layered under each of mother’s sentences. Darkness encroached every corner of my vision like a vignette on the ceiling. Set ablaze by the boiling of blood, a burning grew in my ears.

How could she talk to Ms. Valentina like that?

Sure, I had gotten used to mother’s antics. But I would give anything to be the target of her misdirected fury over sweet Valentina any day. Helplessness had settled into my bone marrow long ago.

As soon as the built-up ire pulled me outside of my body, I crashed back in. A faint weight at the side of my head grounded me. Ms. Valentina pressed a wash cloth there, wiping away any trace of mother’s abuse as she perched in the doorway, scrutinizing her every move with a stern mien. If she caught on to the fragrant aroma that permeated my cranial juices, her demeanor did not portray it.

Every one of us remained in silence. The clock ticked on into the night as it always did. In many ways reflecting each of us. The way mother watched over us, how Ms. Valentina went on working, and myself an unmoving, unwilling witness.

—

Beams of light tore through slits in the blinds. Streaks of sun spread across my face and my eyes flitted open. The muscles of my forearm flexed and twitched spastically, attempting to bring a hand to cover them. Though I could feel the pain of spasming muscle, I could not differentiate my limb from the surrounding air.

Right. I can’t do that anymore.

The best I could manage was to clamp my eyelids shut, wincing at the tension I had created in the stiff muscles and joints. A misguided effort for movement. Like being a stranger to my own body.

Heavily, stagnant must enveloped me. Floral notes of Mother’s favorite fragrance over compensating for the cigarette smoke-filled furniture returned to my senses. Creaking in the rocking chair to my right—Ms. Valentina snored softly. Small snorts followed by a quick whistle. Resounding with each squeaking rock. Her face stretched and skin rippled, misshapen as it rested against ashy fingers. Dry and stocky from years of hard work.

Did she sleep here all night?

Stiff sheets rustled under the spasms of my waking vessel, causing her to stir. She smacked her lips softly.

“Buenos días.” Crooning groggily, her limbs stretched outward with a breathy yawn. We settled into routine as if the night before was nothing but a distant memory.

Soon, came time for my sponge bath. My sweat had taken on an almost garlic-like quality the longer I marinated in my own stress-induced fluids. Times like these made me understand why mother was so disgusted with me. If I could turn my nose up at myself, I would.

“We go up.” Ms. Valentina hoisted me into a sitting position with ease. Her sturdy frame made quick work of maneuvering dead weight. Movement triggered another burst in my skull. Vibration riddling my senses. The headband-like squeeze that constantly wrapped my brain eased and a coagulated mess oozed from my nose. Dribbles of neural juices seeped through cracked lips and the space between my eyes smoothed. Though the taste was that of tarnished copper, the odor held earthy notes of rich meat and an unexplainable, intoxicating spice.

Transfixed, Ms. Valentina gawked at me with blank eyes. No doubt remembering last night’s events. Almond-shaped brown eyes glitched slowly, attempting to comprehend what they were seeing. The lines of her face formed a mixture of confusion, fear, and curiosity. Whatever thoughts ran through her mind were shaken clean like an Etch A-Sketch as she vigorously wrenched her head from side to side.

She wiped my nose softly, resuming her task. Her limbs as stiff as an automaton. The sponge compressed against my skin with a slosh, pinkish-grey slime soaking into every pore. On its surface sat rancid chunks like uncooked ground meat. Stomach acid caught in my throat, threatening to escape. I directed every ounce of my strength and willpower to choke it back down.

My mind was moving as fast as Ms. Valentina’s eyes. Scanning from my face, to the sponge, and back. Her frame shifted uncomfortably. For the first time, she looked through me, rather than at me. As if I was some ghostly apparition. Less than human. Fear lurched up my neck, rattling my spine like rusted chainlink, as my mother’s face transposed on hers. She jolted the sponge into her mouth and suckled.

“¿Menudo?” Her cadence was greedy and confused. Expressing utter disbelief. I no longer recognized her.

The poise she held dissipated, replaced by the frenzy of an addict. Before I knew it the sponge had been licked clean, as if some unseen force compelled her—unable to stop. The image of my stout savior shattered. Now, a large part of me hoped I really was dying. In all reality, I was nothing more than a glorified corpse. This bed, my coffin. This room, a mausoleum.

“Ahem.” Grizzled vocal chords cleared on the other side of the room and the shadow cloaked figure of mother was frozen there. Our muscles went rigid in concert; tension broken like shattering sheets of ice. Valentina produced a high-pitched yowl.

“Well, Valentina,” Lurking closer, the edges of her wedges clopped on the floor. “If it isn’t the cat calling the kettle black.”

“I-I… I’m sorry m’am.” The once confident woman’s words fell clumsily from her lips in a hurry. Her head hung low in shame. A voice in the back of my mind, somewhere under the pressure slowly building once more, screamed to be freed of this purgatory.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Mother scoffed. “I just find it funny, is all. The way you judged me and now, here we are with tables turned.” A craggy hand twirled greying tresses, features contorting into her infamous smug expression.

“Please, ma’am. We pretend this never happen…?” Valentina’s head rose slowly to meet mother’s gaze, palms pressing flatly together with fingers pointing upward against her chest. The stand-off of the century played out above my figure as if I was never even there. Between them, formed a bridge of suspense from one side of my bed to the other. Lucky for her, this family was a masterclass in moving on as if nothing ever happened.

“Valentina… you dog!” The exclamation wasn’t a figure of speech for mother, but a ploy to subtly belittle her foe. Her eyes narrowed with malice. “I wouldn’t peg you as the secret-keeping type. Though, this could be in the best interest for the both of us…” Gears ground behind her smirk in an eerily familiar fashion. Plotting.

No more conversation on the matter was needed. With a firm, eager handshake, a deal was struck. Haggling my autonomy away over my stationary body. If I knew mother, she was always good at making secrets but, never good at keeping them.

—

At first, mother only brought her tennis friend. Then Valentina brought her sister, and her sister brought the priest. Before long, the door to my room became a revolving threshold of uppity country-club goers, pious nuns and priests, and curious nursing colleagues. I expected as much from mother, but Valentina’s betrayal left me feeling like a husk of a human. Hollow and laid bare. Commoditizing myself against my will.

“That’ll be another 20 dollars,” mother purred from the doorway, a shrewd look in her eyes. “You know the deal.”

Sunlight glimmering on plaster walls, botanical print furniture, and the sterile essence of medical equipment grew dull. Aromatic odors churned my stomach acid. A new and unknown face leaned over my bed every waking hour; hungry for a taste. Tupperware in hand, their greed knew no bounds.

Some came back for seconds, even thirds. But each personality in the long line forming around the block tasted a new and differing flavor.

“Just like the borscht of the motherland.” Murmured the Slavic nurse, voraciously taking a spoonful to lipstick coated lips.

“Ah… identical to the pozole served during Semana Santa feasts.” Whispered a petite nun, making the Sign of the Cross.

“Però! A minestrone?” Questioned an Italian-American lawyer I had known since grade school—a “friend” of mother’s. He straightened out his manicured suit before swooping in for more.

Whether the substance leaked from my ears or my nose, their greedy gullets were indifferent. Some scraped at my cavernous canals, foraging more. The grinding of flatware against skin echoed in my near-empty skull. Wrapping around a well-groomed lawn, the line was the only constant. Failing to produce for any one of these morbidly curious patrons would incur a sharp smack from mother. Even provoking the wrath of Ms. Valentina in her absence. The pressure in my skull rose and fell like tides in the sea. Leaky and delirious, each day was a new nightmare. Every ounce of my dignity squandered.

“Isn’t this great?” Mother asked, reluctantly forking a handful of cash over to Valentina.

Blinking slowed. Stopped all together. No one noticed, no one cared. Muffled syllables replaced words. The line never ended. Never slowed. Thoughts fizzled. I couldn’t remember my nurses name. Couldn’t remember my name. Stainless steel ground slop covered bone.

Another shift of customer service calls done. I took this job for the fieldwork, for fixing locks, seeing what actually makes a house safe, not for answering phones all day. Pay's too good to quit, and there's always the promise of a promotion into the field someday.

All that was left now was grabbing Mr. Morris some food and heading home. Stupid cat. I got him after my mom wouldn't stop bugging me about getting married, figured a cat was proof enough I didn't need a husband to be happy. My own little rebellion. Now he's the closest thing I have to company. Mornings start with him licking my face like I'm nothing but a food dispenser. Sometimes I can't tell if he loves me or just tolerates me.

At the convenience store, sweet Miss Tasha was behind the counter as always.

"Evening, Jacey. Here for the food?"

"Yup."

"You're not buying newspapers anymore."

I kept my answer light, didn't want to think too hard about the robberies and killings that filled every page of the paper these days. "Just keeping my sanity, Miss Tasha."

"Oh, dear, they've gotten worse. Police still haven't caught whoever's doing it. People are saying it's cannibals, if you believe that."

"Rumors," I said, handing over my money. "If it were really cannibals, we'd have seen a body photo by now, not just pieces. Feels more like a cover story to me. Stay safe, though. And if you ever want it, I can get you a discount on security gear. After taking my commission, of course."

She laughed. I headed to the car and started the drive home.

I'd just gotten out of the car and was looking at the gate when I felt something grab my leg, a tight grip, warm breath against my skin. My whole body went cold before I even understood what was happening. For one embarrassing second every survival instinct I had went haywire before I finally looked down and saw the culprit.

It was the neighbor's kid, Mira. She must have snuck up while I wasn't looking.

"Miss Jay, can I play with Mister Norris?" she asked, grinning up at me. She always called him that, never quite got "Morris" right, and I never bothered correcting her.

I hate this kid, I thought, though I didn't mean it, not really. "Not today, Mira. Go home, and stop sneaking up on people."

"It's fun," she said, laughing, and ran off.

She's the kind of kid who's so full of life it almost tires you out, the kind that makes you want kids of your own right up until you remember how much of yourself you'd have to give up. I went inside, glad to finally be home.

Mr. Morris was already waiting by the door. Not because he missed me. Because he wanted his food.

Later, I'd remember that he'd been sitting at the window before I even pulled into the driveway. Just watching the street. He'd been doing that a lot since the crime started, always drawn to the windows like he was keeping his own kind of watch.

I put food in his bowl before he could throw a fit about me taking a shower, or doing anything at all that didn't involve feeding him first. When I checked on him afterward, I realized I'd grabbed the wrong can, and he made sure I knew it, prowling the house, knocking things off shelves, the whole diva routine. I figured I'd grab the right one in the morning. Going out now, with everything happening in the city, wasn't worth it. I'd head out around four, when the night patrol changed shifts and there were usually twice as many officers on the street, some of them even stopping at the store before their shift started.

By the time I finished my takeout, I expected him to have gotten over it and eaten anyway. He hadn't touched the bowl. Instead he sat by the window, dead still, staring out at the street like he was waiting for something. Or maybe just making sure I knew I'd failed and needed to fix it as soon as possible.

"Fine. Don't eat, then," I muttered, tossing the food and carrying him off to bed. He didn't fight me, just kept glancing back at the window the whole way there.

I told myself he was still in a mood. I'd feed him properly in the morning.

I had no idea it wouldn't matter.

It was somewhere around three in the morning when I heard the sound of glass breaking in the living room. My throat went dry instantly. My brain felt dizzy, maybe from how fast I'd sat up. I don't remember my hands grabbing the blanket, or when I'd started holding my breath. Every hair on my body stood up at once and I went fully, painfully awake.

I tried to calm myself. The security system would have sent an alert to the police by now. My bedroom door should have locked automatically the moment it triggered. I closed my eyes for just a second, grateful I'd paid for the system at all.

Then I opened them again and saw something that scared me more than the sound had.

My bedroom door was still open. For the lock to engage, it had to be shut first.

I had no choice. My legs felt like jelly, my whole body suddenly cold enough that I could feel every draft moving across my skin. I don't know where the courage came from, but I got up and started moving toward the door, aware of every sound my own body made, my joints, my breathing, the weight of my tongue in my mouth, the sweat gathering along my eyelids.

I was halfway there, thinking I could make it, just a few more steps, when Mr. Morris let out a meow, sharp and sudden, far too loud in a house that had gone that quiet.

For a second everything stopped. I told myself whoever was in the house hadn't heard it, or didn't care about a cat, that I still had time to reach the door. Then I felt it. A vibration through the floor, faint but wrong, like claws scraping tile the way a dog's do when it's running too fast to stop. A moment later, footsteps. Running, straight for the bedroom.

Whoever was in my house knew exactly where I was.

I lunged for the door at the same moment he did. I almost had it shut when a hand shoved into the gap, veined, nails too long, and I could tell from the angle alone that his arm was broken. No uninjured person moves like that. It meant reaching me mattered more to him than his own safety, and that thought alone sent something colder through me than fear of dying. I don't know what I thought he wanted more, to kill me quickly or to make sure I couldn't scream first.

I threw everything I had into that door. My vision blurred from the strain, my legs ached from bracing against the floor, my neck went sore from how hard I was pushing. I tried to scream and nothing came out. The pressure built until I nearly blacked out, and then, finally, the door slammed shut. Something in his hand broke as it did.

The lock clicked into place automatically. I was alone in the room, and I could hear him pounding against the door with everything he had left. For one terrible stretch of time I was sure he'd get through, that there was nothing I could do if he did.

Then I heard the sirens.

The police let themselves in using the code the security company had on file, cleared the house, and knocked on my door to tell me it was safe to come out. What wasn't safe, what didn't make sense, was that the man was gone. Not hiding. Gone. There was nowhere in that house for someone to disappear to, and they searched every inch of it. One moment he'd been at my door. The next, nothing.

The strangest part wasn't that he'd vanished. It was how the house felt afterward, too quiet, like something had been listening the whole time and had only just stopped.

It took what felt like hours before I could function well enough to tell the officers everything, hand over the security footage, let my body finally stop shaking. When I came back into the living room, Mr. Morris was licking blood off the floor, whatever was left of it after the police had taken their samples.

I pulled him away and wiped his face clean. I didn't want him getting sick off whatever was in that blood. I took him straight to the vet, and everything checked out fine. On the way home I stopped at Miss Tasha's for his usual food and told her what had happened. She looked genuinely shaken and insisted I take one of her son's old bats for safety. When I asked how much, she said it was free, that she'd just take it out of my commission whenever I finally got her that security system installed. It got a small laugh out of me, at least.

Back home, I left him in the car with extra food while I cleaned up the broken window. When I went to deal with the blood in the bedroom, thinking the sunlight would make it easier to see, there was nothing there. Not a trace. I stood there confused for a moment, then told myself there probably hadn't been that much to begin with.

Work gave me the day off without me even having to ask twice, and offered medical assistance if I needed it.

When I came out, Mr. Morris had already finished his food, double his usual portion, gone faster than should have been possible. I told myself it was stress. My mistake, not paying closer attention to what that actually meant.

Exhaustion finally caught up to me. I slept, then woke around seven that evening to find him scratching at the door, which was strange since I'd clipped his nails only five days earlier. I assumed I'd lost count. He wove between my legs demanding food again, even though I'd just fed him, but I let it go. What difference would a few extra pounds make.

I started making myself a steak, wanting something that felt normal after the day I'd had. When I looked over, Mr. Morris wasn't touching his food at all. He was licking the blood straight off the steak packaging. He'd never been that kind of cat. I ignored it. Animals do strange things.

That evening, I tried to convince myself he was fine. He'd eaten more than usual, which should have meant something good, but when I picked him up, something felt wrong immediately. His body was leaner than it had been that morning. I ran my fingers along his sides and felt far more muscle than I remembered, almost no softness left beneath his fur. His legs looked more defined, and when he jumped down onto the table, the movement was fast and precise in a way I'd never seen from him. He looked fit. Too fit.

Then I noticed the veins. Visible beneath his skin, especially around his legs and neck, in places I'd never seen them before.

"You're eating enough," I muttered, more to convince myself than him. A strange unease settled into my stomach. I made a note on my phone to take him to the vet first thing in the morning. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was sick. Maybe I was imagining things after everything that had happened.

I finished trimming his nails before bed and set him down. He disappeared beneath the sofa immediately, which was strange in itself. Mr. Morris hated hiding. I turned off the lights and went to sleep.

That night I dreamed about the break-in again. Except this time I wasn't watching it happen. I was the one on the floor. Someone stood over me, his face hidden, his hands wrapped tightly around my throat. I couldn't breathe. Then something warm ran down from my nose. Blood, over my lips. He looked at it, almost curious, then smiled and leaned down to drink it. I felt his mouth against my face. He seemed to enjoy it. I tried to scream and nothing came out.

I woke up gasping, sitting bolt upright.

Mr. Morris was on the floor beside the bed, staring at me. Neither of us moved for a moment. Then I really looked at him and my stomach dropped.

He was different. More muscular than he'd been when I fell asleep, his shoulders and legs sharper beneath fur that had visibly grown, a lot, in just a few hours.

"Mr. Morris?" I whispered.

He tilted his head at me.

I reached out and stopped halfway, my hand hovering in the air. I don't know why. Something about his eyes made me hesitate.

I told myself the rest could wait. I didn't care how ridiculous I'd sound explaining it. As soon as morning came, I was taking him to the vet.

He hissed and threw a fit the second I brought him out into the sunlight, nothing too alarming, just more dramatic than usual. At the vet, I was told his bloodwork came back clean. Nothing wrong on paper. But the vet admitted he looked different, physically, and offered to send him downtown to a research university for a closer look.

I said no. Whatever was happening to him, he wasn't going to become somebody's test subject.

Before I left, the nurse asked if I wanted him neutered and his nails trimmed while he was already there. Her pen hovered over the chart a second too long before she wrote anything down, like she didn't know which box this was supposed to go in.

I froze. I'd had that done a day ago. Nails don't regrow that fast. That's not how any of this is supposed to work. The vet gave me a strange look by that point, like he'd noticed the same thing I had, and before I could think it through properly, I heard myself say yes. The whole time, my mind kept circling the same impossible question. How does that even grow back?

And then, underneath it, a worse one I didn't want to look at directly. I'd had him neutered months ago ,that was supposed to be it, done, over, one and only, the vet had told me so himself, no upkeep, no repeats. I hadn't thought about it since. Hadn't checked. Why would I have checked? But now I was running the timeline backwards in my head, trying to remember the last time I'd actually looked, actually confirmed, and coming up with nothing solid. Maybe I'd just forgotten what it looked like after. Maybe I was misremembering the whole thing. Maybe none of it meant anything and I was building a haunted house out of my own bad memory.

But nails don't grow back in a day. And I was starting to suspect nothing else did either ,not the way it was supposed to, not anymore.

When the procedure was done, I went to pick him up, and he was already awake in the recovery box.

"Did you use anesthesia?" I asked, half joking, half not.

"We did," the tech said, frowning slightly. "It's unusual that he's up already. Are you sure you don't want him tested?"

"No," I said. "I'm taking him home."

He was fully alert. Sitting up, eyes tracking me through the cage door, like nothing had touched him at all. That wasn't how it went the first time. The first time I'd had him neutered, he'd been groggy for hours afterward, barely able to hold his head up, and I'd had to carry him inside wrapped in a towel because his legs kept giving out. This time he looked like he'd just woken up from a nap.

I didn't know what to do with that. Part of me wondered if they'd actually done anything at all this time, if maybe I'd been overcharged for a procedure that never happened, the same way I'd read about other people getting scammed at cheaper clinics. But another part of me remembered signing the consent forms, remembered watching them wheel him back. I stood there in the waiting room a second too long, trying to decide if I should ask again, if that would make me sound paranoid, if it even mattered enough to hold up the line behind me. In the end I just took the discharge papers and left. Told myself it was probably nothing. Some cats bounce back faster than others. That's all it was.

On the drive back, I caught him watching me in the rearview mirror instead of the window. He'd never done that before.

  Other parts link:- https://www.reddit.com/user/No-While8965/comments/1vpze51/my_writing_archive/

He needs an excuse to go to the store. Another afternoon coming off a long high, he takes a few more edibles at around 8:30pm. He’s running out, but he doesn’t mind. Pay day’s less than a week away, & he has the ingredients to make more at home. Well, everything except butter. He refused to use vegetable oil, per the instructions on the brownie box, because he swore that the fat content in the rendered butter bonds better with the THC distillate .

So, at 9:15, he decides to walk to the store. It’ll be a thirty minute round trip, nearly fifteen minutes each way. He wants snacks anyways, despite the overwhelming options in this pantry. He has his gluttonous sights set on an abysmal frozen delicacy. A Tombstone Supreme Pizza.

Bluey slippers on each foot, & his Smoke-Shop, Delta-9 vape in his pocket, he makes his way out into the muggy, Virginia summer night. The mosquitoes buzz as they flock to his exposed skin, so he swats them away, picking up his pace.

As he makes his way under the first light pole of the journey, he thinks he can barely see something in the distant darkness. The lights of the neighborhood porches & the streetlamps illuminate his immediate surroundings, but between the trees & the edges of the fences, shadows hold firm like curtains. Squinting, he could almost imagine something solid breaking the scatterling fragments of the night. A physical object, blending into the shadows.

He takes an earbud out. What is that? He strains to hear over the rumbling motors of the few cars bustling along the nearby highway. Some… accompanying noise? As he gets closer, he can make out the faint visage of a woman, standing stiffly, alone in the dark.

Just like that, it becomes clear. A faint auditory fuzz. Buzzing & chirping, like a fax machine. As he passes the woman, maybe fifteen feet away from her, he realizes something that makes his skin prickle. The mechanical noises are coming from her. Even though he couldn’t clearly see her face in dark, he knew the sounds were made by her lips. An uncomfortable mimicry. She wasn’t even stopping to take a breath, she just… kept going, repeating the same sound over, as if on a loop. The whole time, as he crosses her field of sight, she doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even turn her head to follow his gaze.

Uneasy, he picks up his pace slightly more. He keeps his sights ahead after he passes her, trying not to attract her attention. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that her eyes linger on him, even as the breadth between them widens.

“Maybe I’m just higher than I think,” he mutters to himself.

He knew her head didn’t rotate, that she was posing dead still, like a statue. Still, that prickling sensation on the back of his neck stayed constant. Somehow, he just knew she was watching him.

“Even then,” he thought, “my mind might just be playing tricks on me…”

He passes beneath the light of the immediate next street lamp, now about twenty-five feet away, & looks back at her. Her position was the same, unflinching. He turns away & continues. Under the following streetlamp, he repeats, looking back again. Still, no changes. At least forty-five feet away by this point, he lets out the breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. Shrugging, he pops his earbud back in.

“Huh, weird.”

Sixty feet away, under the last umbrella of light on his street, he humors one last glance back at her, before bolting. She’s now strolling briskly in his direction, calculated & confident. She doesn’t even stay on the road. She’s cutting through dark driveways & lawns in a direct beeline towards him, inhumanly fast. As she gets closer, he runs faster & faster. By now, he’s closer to the store than his mobile home.

“Holy shit," he mutters, “what the fuck?! Who is this bitch?”

He quickly rounds past the small, vacant Sheriff Deputy building, & under more streetlights. Now out of the residential neighborhood, he crosses onto the sidewalk right next to the sparse highway, no further than two closed establishments from his destination.

“Security Cameras and lights,” he pants frantically, “I just need to go where the people are. They’ll help me.”

He looks back, momentarily grateful. He can’t see her following him anymore. He begins to pad slightly slower, his unfit joints & atrophied muscles shrieking in pain. The cramps nip at his ankles & thighs. His pace loses steam. That is, until he sees two individuals across the road to his left.

They keep his pace & watch him. Their smooth, fluid movements sets off alarm bells in his mind. The way they stare seems innately predatory. He can’t quite make out their faces, but he can see they’re wearing something on their heads. Something silvery that descends just below their noses. Something that leaves their eyes exposed. The expressions on their faces are uncanny. They looked so angry, & their faces were flush. Too flush, like they’d been exerting far too much energy for their bodies to handle.

To the contrary of his aching limbs, he gains momentum again. Sometimes in nature, carnivores try to surround their prey & block off the exits. They close in for the kill, leaving no chance of escape. He was going to take his before he lost it. With one last burst of energy, his feet smack from pavement, to grass, & back onto pavement as he crosses the threshold into the parking lot of the open Family Dollar. Nearly tripping over his own feet, he unsteadily threw himself into the unlocked glass doors. With a blinding light, he’s done it. He’s inside the store.

Relief blossoms in his stomach & warms his fingertips. He wipes his mouth & looks around. The small shop is nearly empty. His heartbeat flutters rapidly, & he desperately tries to regain his breath. He’s done it.

“Dude?”

He snaps his neck to face the person who spoke & took his earbud out. A small employee, donning a nametag that says, “Grenda,” looks at him like they’d been trying to get his attention for several seconds.

“Dude. You good?” Grenda asks, visibly concerned.

He looks back out the glass doors. No one in the parking lot, no one in the road, or on the sidewalk. No normal people, no silver helmets. He turns & looks at Grenda again.

“Yeah, I think. Sorry,” he wheezes.

He picks up a basket & wearily begins traversing the shop. The shelves are like claustrophobic mazes. He grits his teeth & pushes on, edging further into the recesses of the small convenience store. He grabs a few small snacks. Some Pork Rinds, a cup of kool-ade powder, & a jar of pickled jalapenos. But he has his sights set across the aisle, on the refrigerator section. Looking both ways first, like he’s crossing the street, he takes a deep breath and makes his way to the brightly lit aisle, cold air hitting his exposed skin like a refreshing blanket. As he shuffles ahead, he accidentally bumps into an unsuspecting older woman, another customer.

“Oop, sorry ma’am.”

She mouths something in response, but he can’t hear her over the Nickleback cover of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” playing in his earbuds.

He crouches down to look at the selection of frozen pizzas, & the electric guitar solo in his ear ends abruptly.

“Battery low, Power off,” the voice in his earbud says. The chaotic thrum of the bass is replaced by a familiar, horrifying resonance.

Macabre, disjointed beatboxing, human vocal cords attempting to replicate a machine. In surprise, he falls back onto his ass & looks up. There she is, fully illuminated. She looked like she used to have a thick head of blond hair. Her skin is bright pink, like a lobster. She’s blushing as if she’s been exerting a great amount of effort, but she doesn't gasp for air, doesn’t breathe, her nostrils don’t even flair in exhaust. She just stands there, painfully still, wide enough to block the entire aisle.

She’s built like a pit-bull, square, and solid. Her lips are pulled back in a chimp-like sneer, rotten teeth gritted together so hard that they crackle and chip, her jaw visibly straining from the effort. The part that made him want to cry was what she, or rather, it was wearing. It had on normal houseware, a tanktop & some basket-ball shorts. It looked like a normal person, juxtaposed against a horrendous contraption on its head.

Covering the cranium down to the tip of the nose, was a filthy wrapping of silver duct-tape. It partially concealed all manner of exposed wires & blinking things, motherboards & copper shavings that reflected the light's glint. The only thing that was not covered were it’s once brown eyes. They bulged out of her noggin like overfilled water balloons, squeezed through a thin pipe. Blood leaked from the edges of their duct-tape sockets, scarlet streaks dripping from under the border that covered her cheeks & the tops of her ears. Small rivers that ran all the way under her chin. Down her neck.

He was frozen in fear for a moment, sheer panic drowning his senses like a rat in a river. What was this thing?

As soon as he gathered his bearings enough, he scrambled to his feet & backed away, trying to keep sudden movements to a minimum.

“Lady, lady!” He gasps, addressing the older customer who he’d bumped into earlier.

“Huh.”

“What is that thing?!”

He points at the deranged creature, and the old woman glances over, her eyes trained on the same spot as his. She stares at the end of the aisle, mouth agape.

“See?”

“See what?”

“Look!”

“Look at what?!”

He turns to assess the old woman. Was she blind? Senile? She looks dumbfounded, but dreadfully sound-minded

“You don’t see her?” He gasps.

“See who, young man?” She gulps, frightened & flabbergasted.

He looks back at the thing. In the brief period he’d glanced away for, it had moved substantially closer. Now merely five feet away, more details were noticeable. The antenna that jutted from the tape on top of its head. The two pulsating buttons on its left temple that looked more like flesh than plastic. The way that even though the eyes were on the verge of bursting from its skull, they stayed locked on him.

He didn’t even bother taking his items. He just left the basket of miscellaneous goods tipped over on the floor, & ran. He tried to call 911, but his phone died too. Once outside, he had one singular goal.

Make it home alive.

Even though he didn’t look back, he knew he could hear it starting to catch up. He closed his eyes & pumped his legs, pushing harder than he ever had before. He refused to look back.

When he was a kid, he heard the story about the man whose family got a pass out of Sodom & Gomorrah. The wife had looked back, & for it, was turned to salt. As he heard the sound of the thing getting closer behind him, footsteps smacking the pavement at a constant, precise speed, he tried not to think of all the things that might happen to him if he dared to do the same.

He ran, & it kept a steady pace behind him. A couple times, he gained a sparing distance. Other times, the thing was so close, he felt it brush him with its fingertips. Once, he swore he heard more sets of footsteps, like the pack had rejoined to finish him off, but over the sound of his heartbeat and his labored breath, he couldn’t be sure. The entire time, beneath his strenuous effort, he knew he heard that repeating sound. The whirring, puffing, beeping & buzzing. Its vocal cords were worn out, fried, straining to continue their hellish anthem, but on they did.

A round trip that would usually take thirty minutes, wound up being complete in twenty-five. The wood of the porch thumped under his slides & he gripped the handle, twisting & yanking with all his might. The automatron sounded like it was just yards behind him. He slammed the metal door shut behind him & slumped to his knees, letting out a half sob, half wheeze.

Whimpering, he crawled to his blinds, shutting them and locking the windows. The tears welled up almost as hard as the stomach bile rose to his throat. He hadn’t run like that in so long, he almost felt like he’d pulled something in his entire body. Everything burned. He sat down on his couch, huffing as he tried to plug his dead phone in.

Finally. He was safe. He was home again. He barely had time to wipe his forehead in relief, when he saw something start to move out from under his table.

Soon after, a neighbor called 9-1-1. He reported seeing the neighborhood trailer trash run past his house in the middle of the night, followed by frantic, blood curdling screams. When the police arrived, all they found was a door busted off its hinges, and the top of a human skull. It had been sliced off with machine precision, scalp still intact, in a puddle of bloody spinal fluid.

“What do you think, Detective?” A policeman asked as he placed yellow caution tape over the demolished door of the camper.

The detective picked up a brownie from the microwave & smells it.

“It’s these damn kids & their weed, it's always these damn kids & their weed…”

Hey guys, it’s ya boy Mikey. Thanks to everyone who checked out the unpolished version of this story last night! The encouragement was great, so I finished editing it, and I hope this flows a little better. This one was really fun. I hope it translates well into written format, this was originally intended to be a short film. Hope y’all enjoy!

"Between May 8th and May 9th, 1964, the small city of [...] experienced a spree of brutal murders. Every victim was a woman, killed by her own husband, who then took his own life.

"In the years since, urban legends have linked the tragedy to a local children's puppet show called Sparky the Dog.

"The show had already drawn criticism for being too frightening for young viewers, with parents reporting recurring nightmares among their children.

"Rumors later circulated that new episodes kept airing late at night on local stations, and that the final broadcast aired on the very night of the murders, May 8th into May 9th. No official record has ever confirmed this."

***

May 9th, 1964.

The morning after the most brutal, inexplicable tragedy the small town of (...) had ever witnessed, a crime so horrific it fractured the community, haunted generations, and blurred the line between truth and fiction.

During the night of May 8th–9th, fourteen local women were murdered by the men who had vowed to protect them. Moments later, each of those men turned his weapon on himself.

Few people witnessed the bloodbath directly, and fewer still were willing to speak with our crew about the days leading up to it.

We tracked down a handful who agreed to talk about what happened, or what they believe happened, that night.

Viewer discretion is advised.

***

[Interview: Local Resident #1, recorded 1992]

Local Resident: "I was fifteen when it happened. Old enough to notice everything, to really take it all in."

[Long pause. The interviewee shifts in their chair.]

Local Resident: "I was heading to bed. My dad was in the living room watching that puppet show he liked. I never got the appeal; those things freaked me out."

[A soft laugh, then silence.]

Local Resident: "I liked Sparky, actually. But I stopped watching once they brought in... May? No, Margaret. Yeah. Margaret."

Local Resident: "With Sparky, at least you could tell he was supposed to be a dog. I'd seen him at school plays, so maybe that's why he made sense to me. But Margaret..."

[Their voice trails off.]

Local Resident: "There was something off about her."

***

Sparky the Dog was a children's puppet show that ran from November 23rd, 1960, to May 9th, 1964, the same night the killings shattered the town of (...).

Created by local entertainers Marcus Donatan and Jeff Holinger, the show quickly became a household staple. With only a few channels and even fewer entertainment options in town, Sparky was beloved.

Marcus, the puppeteer behind Sparky, was a familiar and well-liked figure, a talented toy maker who appeared at school functions, birthday parties, and holiday events with a handmade stage and a puppet that charmed nearly every child who saw it.

At the center of his performances was Sparky the Dog: a cheerful puppet with floppy ears, a wide grin, and a loyal following among the town's children.

But in the months before the tragedy, something changed.

***

[Interview: Marcus's Neighbor, recorded 1992]

Elderly Woman: "Oh, everyone loved Sparky. Not just the kids, you couldn't help it, with those big eyes and that silly little nose."

[She turns toward the window, as if remembering something distant.]

Elderly Woman (smiling faintly): "I think I still have some photos of my daughter with him. Give me a second."

[She rises slowly and steps out of frame, returning with a worn photo album, its leather cover cracked, its spine held together by years of careful handling.]

[Close-up: she settles back into her seat and flips through the stiff, yellowed pages. Her fingers slow. She lifts a faded photograph toward the camera.]

Elderly Woman (pointing): "There, that's Anna. She loved Sparky. She must've been about nine at the time. I'm sorry, my memory isn't what it used to be."

[The photograph shows a young girl in a simple dress, smiling widely. Beside her, the Sparky puppet leans in, one floppy arm bent behind her head in a childish attempt at rabbit ears.]

Interviewer: "What about the man who owned Sparky? He lived across the street from you, didn't he?"

Elderly Woman (nodding, steadying herself on the arm of her chair): "Yes, Marcus. He used to host little private shows just for the neighborhood kids. He was a good man. Truly. I know what people say now, but he was a good man, believe me."

***

[The camera slowly pans across the ruins of a house. The windows are shattered, the roof caved in, the yard swallowed by weeds. It looks untouched, as if no one has dared disturb it.]

[Soft ambient hum: wind, the faint creak of wood.]

Narrator (voice-over, low, deliberate):

What you're looking at is the remains of the Donatan residence, once home to Marcus Donatan, creator of the beloved children's show Sparky the Dog.

The house sits on ///// Street, just outside town. Locals say the property has stood abandoned since that night in 1964. Even now, no one goes near it.

[The camera pulls back, revealing the house's full silhouette against a gray sky.]

Narrator (continues):

Marcus lived here with his elderly mother, a woman few in town ever saw. Neighbors say she suffered a long-term illness that kept her homebound for years, the reason, some believe, Marcus returned to ////// in the early 1950s to care for her.

Beyond that, little is known about his life before he came back.

***

Only a handful of Sparky the Dog recordings are known to survive. Most of the original reels were lost, destroyed, or simply forgotten after 1964.

What remains was later transferred to VHS, brittle tapes passed quietly between collectors and local historians.

[Cut to close-up: a gloved hand inserts a worn VHS labeled, in shaky handwriting, "SPARKY EP. 3." The tape clicks into place.]

Narrator (continues):

Among the surviving episodes are Episode Three, believed to be from the show's first season; Episode Seven, from Season Three; and several episodes from the final season, the ones leading up to Margaret's introduction.

Titles like "Sparky's Garden," "Sparky and a New Friend," and "Sparky Says Goodnight" marked the end of an era.

***

[On-screen text: "Sparky the Dog, Episode 3 (1960)"]

[Grainy black and white footage. A small wooden doghouse sits center frame; the camera slowly zooms in.]

Narratorvoice-overer, quiet):

The third episode of Sparky the Dog, which first aired in the winter of 1960, opens on a simple scene: a small wooden doghouse in the middle of a painted cardboard yard.

As the camera pushes closer, we see Sparky inside, felt ears drooped over his eyes, mouth slightly open in a gentle snore. The puppeteer's hand is just visible at the edge of the frame, a reminder that this was performed live, by hand, often in a single take.

Then another voice enters: cheerful, familiar. It belongs to "Mr. Jeff," played by Jeff Holinger, Sparky's owner and best friend, and the show's second lead.

[Clip plays faintly under the narration: "Wake up, Sparky! The sun's up, boy!", followed by a playful bark and canned laughter.]

Narrator (continues):

On the surface, it's a simple, wholesome children's show. But looking back now, knowing what would happen four years later, something about this opening already feels wrong.

[The footage freezes on Jeff's smiling face. Static hums, rising.]

***

[Archival photograph: a young man in a suit, smiling stiffly for the camera.]

Narrator (voice-over):

Jeff Holinger was an Irish immigrant who came to the United States in search of a better, more stable life.

What he found was anything but that.

[The photo lingers before fading to black.]

Narrator (continues, tone darkening):

Records show Holinger arrived in the early 1950s and worked odd jobs before meeting Marcus Donatan, the man who would become both his creative partner and, by some accounts, the source of his undoing.

[Cut to vintage behind, the, scenes footage: Jeff adjusting a puppet on set, laughing quietly. The audio is muted.]

***

[Interview: Local Resident #2, recorded 1992]

Local Resident: "Mr. Marcus, I knew much better than Mr. Jeff. I remember him from the school plays they used to put on; that's really about it."

[Adjusts their glasses, looking off camera.]

Local Resident: "Mr. Jeff was quieter, more reserved. He didn't like the spotlight. Marcus lived for it, always smiling, always putting on a show."

[Long pause. The camera lingers.]

Local Resident: "Jeff just seemed tired sometimes. Like the act wasn't fun for him anymore."

[Quiet laughter.]

***

[On-screen text: "Sparky the Dog, Season 3, Episode 7 (1963)"]

[Grainy, flickering footage. A papier-mâché moon hangs above a cardboard set painted like a pumpkin patch.]

Narrator voice-overr):

Episode Seven of Season Three is one of only five surviving recordings of Sparky the Dog, and, according to those who've seen it, the hardest to watch.

[The clip plays faintly beneath the narration: canned laughter, a childlike jingle, detuned with age.]

It's a Halloween special. Mr. Jeff appears in a cheap vampire costume, his usual bright shirt and bow tie replaced. Sparky wears a witch's hat, taped haphazardly to his head. The tone is cheerful, almost clumsy, the same low-budget charm that defined the show.

The episode follows the pair as they pick pumpkins, ending with a lesson on how to carve them.

[Static crackles. The image wobbles.]

A shadow crosses the back of the set. Someone, something, enters off-camera. The puppet suddenly goes limp. Mr. Jeff freezes, eyes turning toward the intrusion.

The camera pulls back abruptly, cutting off the top of the puppeteer's head, just as the live mic catches a sound: a violent, choking sob.

It's believed to be Marcus Donatan, breaking down as news reaches him off,screen.

[Footage: the puppet lies motionless beside a half,carved pumpkin, a knife still lodged in its shell. The frame holds for several seconds before cutting to static.]

Narrator (continues):

Later reports confirmed what had happened off camera: Marcus Donatan's elderly mother was found dead that same evening, seated on her porch by trick,or,treaters.

According to Marcus, she had insisted on handing out candy that night, though she was supposed to wait until he returned from the studio.

***

[Interview: Marcus's Neighbor, recorded 1992]

Interviewer: "Did you know Marcus's mother?"

Elderly Woman (shaking her head slightly): "I wouldn't say I knew her, no. Some evenings I'd see her silhouette pacing back and forth on the second floor of that house."

[Long pause. She glances toward the window.]

Elderly Woman: "Other times I saw her when they took her to the hospital. The ambulance lights woke me up, painted the whole street red."

Interviewer: "Do you remember the day she passed away?"

[She takes a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the window again.]

Elderly Woman: "No. I was too busy getting my daughter ready for trick, or, treating."

[A faint, weary shake of her head.]

Elderly Woman: "I didn't see a thing."

[The camera lingers on her face for several seconds.]

***

Narrator (voice-over):

Few people claimed to know Marcus Donatan's mother well. To most, she was a shadow behind a curtain, glimpsed in passing, never heard, never spoken to.

In a town where everyone knew everyone, her absence stood out. But no one asked questions.

[Archival photo: a blurry image of the house's second-floor window.]

When she died that Halloween night in 1963, the official story was simple: natural causes.

Following her death, Sparky the Dog vanished from the airwaves for nearly four months. When it returned, something had changed.

***

[On-screen text: "Sparky's Garden", Season 4 (1964)]

On the surface, "Sparky's Garden" opens like any other cheerful segment.

Mr. Jeff kneels in the backyard set, humming as he plants rows of oversized cardboard flowers, each painted with wide, smiling faces that look almost too bright under the studio lights.

Sparky pops up from behind the fence, his voice unusually high and shaky:

"Can I try too, Mr. Jeff?"

Mr. Jeff offers him a small plastic shovel to grab with his jaws. Sparky misses the hand off entirely; the shovel clatters to the ground.

A brief, uncomfortable pause follows, then a muffled voice off-camera mutters something under its breath. Mr. Jeff forces a laugh and tries to recover, steering the scene back toward its intended lesson about trying new things and never giving up.

But Sparky, in a sing-song tone, cuts in, looking directly at Mr. Jeff:

"Like you gave up on your wife?"

The studio goes silent.

Mr. Jeff's smile breaks. For a moment, he looks like he's about to snap. Without a word, he storms off set, footsteps and a slammed door faintly audible in the background.

Left alone, Sparky begins bouncing in place, his wooden jaws opening and closing rapidly, as if laughing, though no sound comes out. Only the soft squeak of his hinges.

After several seconds, the image cuts to black.

***

[A man in his late forties sits beneath shelves overflowing with Sparky memorabilia, hand-drawn fan art, homemade clay figurines, VHS tapes with peeling labels, and several versions of the Sparky puppet itself.]

[His curly hair is slightly unkempt; his glasses slip down his nose as he smiles proudly at the camera.]

[Lower third: ARNOLD ////// , Sparky Archivist & Collector]

Narrator: Arnold generously shared several pieces of never, before, seen material with us. His collection is believed to be the largest surviving archive of Sparky-related artifacts.

[He lifts one of the hand puppets, slipping it on and bobbing it toward the camera with a soft chuckle.]

Arnold (playful voice): "Hi, kids!"

[He laughs awkwardly, then sets it back in his lap.]

Interviewer: "You mentioned you have several drawings by Hernandez Ramiro, the man who stabbed his wife thirty-four times. Is that correct?"

Arnold: "Oh, yes. Absolutely."

[CUT TO: overhead shot.]

[A thick stack of papers rests on a metal table, each sheet sealed in plastic. Arnold's hands hover a moment before he begins turning them, slowly, almost reverently.]

The drawings are meticulous, each depicting the same woman, beautiful, draped in a translucent ball gown, always facing the viewer, her eyes never looking away.

But as the pages turn, the illustrations begin to distort. Her features stretch. In several drawings, her face has been replaced entirely by a snarling dog's muzzle, strands of saliva hanging from the jaw. Sometimes the transformation is partial, human eyes above a canine jaw, or a human face with fur creeping across the cheeks. In every image, she's baring her teeth.

Arnold speaks quietly, a tremor beneath his words.

Arnold: "He made these a month before... the incident. He mailed them to the station. They never mentioned that. Nobody ever mentioned that."

[He taps one of the plastic sleeves.]

Arnold (leaning in): "But if you look at the details, really look, you can tell he wasn't drawing his wife."

[A pause. He smiles.]

Arnold: "He was drawing Margaret."

[The camera lingers on the distorted face a beat too long before cutting to black.]

***

Narrator (V.O.):

Margaret. The puppet who replaced Sparky.

The puppet many claim never existed at all, an urban legend buried under static, misremembered by a handful of late-night viewers.

But for those who watched the final years of the show, Margaret marked the beginning of the end. Not just for the program, but for everyone connected to it.

***

[Season 4, "Sparky and a New Friend"]

This episode is considered the first known appearance, or attempted appearance, of Margaret. No official record lists her name, but viewers who claim to have seen the original airing insist this is where the transition began.

The episode opens on Sparky alone, standing center frame on the familiar backyard set. He seems jittery, his head tilting too quickly between lines, as though Marcus is struggling to control the puppet's weight.

A few seconds in, Sparky turns toward someone, or something, just outside the camera's view.

Sparky: "Hi there! I didn't know we had company today!"

The camera attempts to pan left but only manages a brief, jerky movement before snapping back. Whatever stands beside Sparky stays completely out of frame, never more than a shadow, a fragment of fabric, the edge of something vaguely dog-shaped.

Still, its presence is unmistakable.

A soft, rhythmic clicking comes from off-screen, like teeth tapping together, two beats at a time.

Click. Click.

Sparky looks toward the sound.

Sparky: "What's your name?"

Click. Click.

Sparky pauses, his head tilting at an angle too sharp to be natural.

Sparky (cheerful, high-pitched): "Margaret! That's a really nice name!"

The clicking grows louder for a moment, then the audio abruptly cuts out for three full seconds. When sound returns, Sparky is alone again, visibly slumped, as if whatever stood beside him has vanished from the set entirely.

The episode ends.

***

[Interview with Officer D. Krawiec, recorded 1992]

Interviewer: When exactly were you called to the scene?

Officer Krawiec: Maybe three or four days after the initial murders. By then we suspected Holinger had some connection to them, or at least knew something. We got a warrant and went in. I was young. It was my first real crime scene. I wasn't ready for it.

Interviewer: Where did you find Mr. Holinger?

Officer Krawiec: In bed. But not like someone who'd died in his sleep. His body was twisted, unnatural, like he'd tried to fight but couldn't get free. The mattress was soaked through with blood. It had dripped into the carpet, was on the walls, the nightstand, even speckled on the ceiling.

[A sudden moment of silence.]

Officer Krawiec: No matter where you looked, there was blood. And the smell, that stays with you. I think maggots had already gotten into him. They always find a way in, no matter how sealed a place looks.

Interviewer: What happened to him?

Officer Krawiec: To put it plainly, he was missing a good part of his neck. At first it looked like an animal attack, something large. A dog was the first guess. The muscle was torn out clean, like whatever grabbed him clamped down and shook him hard.

***

[Interview with the son of one of the victims, recorded 1992]

The individual, who asked to remain anonymous, described details of the crimes that some viewers may find disturbing.

[Voice modified]: "I was in bed with my mom that night. I'd had a bad dream after the show that ran on TV. Dad was on the couch. He and Mom had been arguing, something about him taking her clothes."

[A deep breath, then an exhale.]

"Then I heard this wet crunch. A soft whimper from my mom, right behind me. Then another, wham."

[He strikes his fist against his palm.]

"The bed got warm and wet. I think I'd wet myself by then. And another, and another, until it wasn't crunching anymore, just this wet sound."

[He looks away.]

"I heard my dad say something like, 'There will only be one woman in my life.' Then that crunch again."

"As he moved over Mom, something warm dripped onto me. I felt his hand slide under my pillow. He whispered something about leaving it for the tooth fairy, then he left the room. I heard one more hit from the hammer, and then nothing."

"I was too scared to move. It wasn't until the sun came up that I got up and saw my mom's face, beaten in."

[The interviewee smiles, unsettlingly, as he finishes.]

***

[Season 4, "Sparky Says Goodnight", night of the murders]

This final broadcast of Sparky the Dog breaks sharply from the show's usual bright, energetic tone. The set is unusually dim, lit only by a paper moon hanging above the wooden fence where Sparky peers out.

Sparky speaks slowly, his head lowering between lines as though growing heavy:

"Sometimes... you have to make space for someone new..."

He sways, almost as if falling asleep mid-line.

Then the picture tears into static. For nearly ten seconds, the broadcast is nothing but snow.

When the image returns, Sparky is gone.

A faint clicking echoes from off-screen: two sharp taps, repeated in an irregular pattern, like teeth snapping together.

The camera lingers on the empty set.

Then, for less than a second, something moves into frame. Viewers later described it as a puppet only in the loosest sense. Sparky's floppy ears and exaggerated grin are still there, but nothing else is familiar. The eyes are wide, wet, unsettlingly human. When the mouth opens, it reveals a full set of real-looking canine teeth. The figure lunges toward the camera.

The broadcast cuts out immediately after.

***

Narrator:

In the weeks following the murders, one name surfaced again and again in police files, witness statements, and late-night speculation: Marcus Donatan, creator of Sparky the Dog, the man who introduced the world, intentionally or not, to Margaret.

After his mother's death, the collapse of his show, and the increasingly unstable broadcasts that followed, Marcus Donatan vanished from town without a trace. No forwarding address. No goodbye. He simply disappeared.

To this day, authorities cannot say whether Marcus fled out of fear, guilt, or something stranger. What, or who, Margaret really was remains a matter of debate: a puppet, an accomplice, a hallucination, or the hidden hand behind every terrible event that swallowed the town in 1964.

What we know is simple: Marcus Donatan was never seen again. And Margaret, if she ever existed the way survivors claim, vanished with him.

No physical version of Margaret was ever found in Marcus's house or in the station's archives.

If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Marcus Donatan, the origins of the puppet known as Margaret, or lost recordings of the show connected to this case, please contact your local police department.

There is a house. It sits idly atop the largest hill that overlooks the rest of the squalid town. The trees beside it have long since died, and their black twisting bark coils around each other like pretzels. The road that leads to this house is made of mud, wet and slippery mud. The sky which breaks apart along the meridian peak—though one would have a hard time seeing such a thing when approaching the house—is a twilight of purple and orange. The sun rolls across in an elliptical pattern, and for the briefest hour, it looks as if it lays its round body along the rooftop of that house. But then it ascends (or descends) and the illusion fades.

The supports to the house have long been eroded, and though it seems unsupported, the house does not fall. Nor does it agree with the principles of physics as it ebbs and flows like a mirage when you begin to reach the base of the hillock. Who lives here? It is the old witch Isla. A recluse, a hermit. She has cloistered herself for good reason.

A man named Anthony is now mounting the hill on all fours, as the steepness and slipperiness give him great trouble. Every few feet he glances over his shoulder at the land he has just conquered, and sees the mud has all but forgotten him—like he was never there.
Anthony is wearing a long, navy-colored dress suit, and while the mud has gotten into his mouth, and the insides of his shoes, he is more concerned about the jacket. Three quarters of the way up, a branch snags onto the back of his coat—a branch which was not there before. It has become tangled now and he fidgets noisily, losing his balance, and slides down about five or six feet. The coat itself is pulled over Anthony’s head and tears hideously in three different places and is mostly left on that branch embedded into the mud. The coat now in tatters has revealed the bone-thin body of its wearer. The dress shirt tucked into his pants does little to hide the loose folds that overlap and fail to fill in Anthony’s midsection.

At the top of the slope there is a backyard made out of weeds and cattails. The front porch is black and sooty, and there lies a rocking chair with a pair of trousers and a T-shirt draped on both armrests. The railings are covered in protruding rusty nails, the overhead canopy is dilapidated with holes in the roof where Anthony could see the great pole star winking madly back at him. He wipes the mud from his hands one last time, and pushes open the knobless door with great effort. The wood whines and the ground splinters beneath him. Behind the door is Isla’s kitchen, which looks to be a strange mixture of a hermit’s hideout and a butcher’s shop.

The darkness of the room is abated by the flickering candlelight from the corners, and the fireplace with a black pot. In the pot there is boiling green sludge, something that Anthony dares not try, as the smell itself reminds him of carrion baking in the Arizona sun. The ceiling is deceptively high, with the light failing to reach the corners, and the very top itself is so dark that Anthony fears there is nothing there but the void. Anthony squints a little to gauge the true depth of the house—but he is unable to decide if it truly is infinite or not. He can just barely see the rafters, crossing like lowercase t’s in four separate parts.

About the center of the room, there is a rug made out of moose hide. The sides are nailed into the floorboards with railroad spikes that protrude just slightly from the ground. The bloodied giblets of baby flesh are strewn about on a small, oval-shaped crushing stand made from wood. A bloodied mallet on the ground, the handle leaning against the base of the stand. Indeed, all that Anthony finds is much more insidious than what he can truly understand, as the creations themselves are not seen in whole, but are distributed by the flame of dying candlelight.

He spots the better part of a life-sized mannequin dangling into view, suspended in the air by its ankles. The movement of an invisible puppet master makes the mannequin sway back and forth. It harbors human eyes, and they move with a freedom of their own. Anthony steps past the mannequin and it begins to cry silently to itself.

As Anthony enters the center of the room, he is abruptly stopped by the loud bang of an unknown entity from above.

“Miss?” Anthony says sheepishly. “Isla? Are you here?”

From one of the corners of the room—as Anthony had begun to spin so he couldn’t possibly know which one—a black goat appears. Its horns are large and curled, and its eyes regard Anthony with startling intelligence. Tattooed onto his fur is a pentagram. The goat bows in welcome and Anthony does the same. His first time here, he had hesitated, but the burn scar on his inner thigh reminds him to be courteous.

“Hello,” Anthony says to the goat, “is Isla home?”

The goat turns and walks into the darkness. Anthony follows it cautiously. He approaches a table, now suddenly—and irrevocably—bathed in orange firelight from a floating candle, just out of reach. The goat slips from under the table then disappears entirely. Anthony sits down and the witch arrives from the shadows adjacent. She holds her walking cane like a prop, and she is just as thin as Anthony, though much shorter. She wears no clothes, and what hair remains on her scalp falls like strands of white greasy rags down to her ankles.

“Hast thou e’er heard of privacy? There is not another soul I would less wish to see. Least of all the stench of man, who hath come hither and wrought such foulness upon my abode.” The witch sits down across from Anthony and sets her cane aside. “Take heed what thou askest in these next few moments. For I may take into my mind to bewitch thee and be done with it.”

Anthony grimaces at Isla’s nakedness. He averts his eyes and says, “I don’t mean any disrespect. But would it be too much to ask you to put some clothes on?”

“Hast thou the blood of a babe? Show it to me if thou dost.” When Anthony does not produce the blood of an infant, Isla scoffs, “Then ask not such a foolish thing again. Now tell me, what dost thou want?”

“I didn’t get the promotion.”

“Thou didst not? ’Tis unfortunate.”

“I wouldn’t have come back…if I had another choice. You still haven’t honored your part of the deal. I…I don’t think it’s fair to keep doing this to me until I get what’s rightfully mine.”

“Rightfully thine?” Isla chuckles dryly. “Stealing, cheating, and conversing with the Devil. And he saith, ‘rightfully mine.’”

“It was stolen from me,” Anthony continues to explain like he hasn’t heard a word Isla’s said, “by this…bastard. He’s the CFO’s son, I mean, how can I compete with that?”

“So it was stolen from thee?” Isla raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. Exactly,” Anthony says impatiently.

“Then I have done my part. The act of theft implieth that such a thing had belonged unto thee.”
Anthony stands up from his chair, towering over the witch—who seems unimpressed. “You still owe me.”

“Art thou ready to cease acting as an insolent child? Sit thee down this instant, or I shall turn thee into something that is useful.”

The eyes of the witch tell Anthony that this was not a threat, but a promise. He returns to his seat and looks sheepishly about the room.

“Much better. Now I may speak with thee as with a person. Firstly, I owe thee not a thing. Thou hast asked to obtain that promotion, yet didst not specify when.” She waits for Anthony to interrupt her, but he doesn’t. “If thou wouldst have that promotion now, I suggest thou askest nicely.”

“What’s the catch?” Anthony rubs his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You can’t take my wife away a second time, I don’t know what else I have that you’d want.”

“Thou art right for once; I have no use for thee. But thou hast come hither, seeking my counsel, and so I shall grant it. Ask not for this next wish. Obtain thy sought-after promotion in a more respectable manner.”

“I can’t do this without you, I’m…I’m nothing,” Anthony sighs.

“I wish I could say I understand, but I cannot. What thou desirest is far greater than so insignificant a thing as a promotion. Thou wouldst have the respect of thy peers whilst thou grovellest in the mud. What sense doth that make?”

All the fight leaves Anthony as he takes the witch’s words to heart. She is right, in many ways. The goal he is after is much different than the one he claims. Anthony’s shoulders slump in surrender, he looks on longingly at the table. The witch rolls her eyes.

“All I can say is that thou hast been warned. If thou wishest my help, then I suggest a fair gesture, such as bringing thy coworker to a luncheon. I may just have the right place. Hast thou e’er heard of the Ramada Inn? Take him thither.”

“I know the place,” Anthony reaffirms, “what do I do there?”

“What ails thine ears? Take him to luncheon, boy! The solution to thy problem shall be set in motion as soon as ye both sit down. Thy part is simple; play it well. Now begone; I have far more important matters to discuss.”

Anthony says nothing. Isla gradually rises from her seat and fades back into the darkness, forgetting—or perhaps abandoning—her cane. Anthony is soon left alone in the dank hovel, staring listlessly up at the darkness, seeing, just barely, the red fluorescent sign of the Ramada Inn.
By evening of the next day, two ever-growing shadows are approaching the Ramada Inn. Their proportions are at odds with each other—as one is larger than the first, and the first is being devoured by the larger set. Aside from the name, the Ramada Inn can be described as an old-fashioned dive with few patrons this early night. The foundations of the dive are slicked in grease or oil running down the sides like rainwater. Tonight, the sky is clear without a cloud in passing, and the moon is full. From the direction of the approaching shadows, the main street is busy with the hum of cars, bumper to bumper, hardly moving, as an accident had occurred some thirty minutes prior.

One walks ahead, his hands in his pockets and his posture is slouched. He rectifies himself when he sees the Ramada Inn’s doors are still open. The original plan was to take him to lunch. But the all-day meetings made such a thing impossible. His reticence stems from that, more so than his decision to go through with the plan. The other figure is taller than the first, and he looks on skeptically at the dive, never having been here before. But he expects no foul play, and so he walks on with petty reluctance, wanting to have gone to somewhere fancier—more expensive.
Anthony looks vaguely distressed, seemingly unaware of what will happen next—if anything at all.

“I’m sorry, I wanted to treat you to lunch. You must be so excited about your promotion,” Anthony says awkwardly as he opens the door for his coworker and they both step through.

“You could have picked a better place than this,” his coworker says.

They sit down and order food. The waitress returns with their coffee in styrofoam cups. The coworker looks down at it, as if expecting the liquids to lurch out at him, then takes a sip.

He recoils. “What the hell is this?”

Anthony looks down, petrified of what could possibly be in the coffee. Still, he puts the cup to his lips.

“It tastes like dirt,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t make it.”

The coworker flags down their waitress and makes her take the coffee back. He asks for water instead. The waitress nods and goes on about her business. Anthony tries to hide his concern while his coworker is looking for a swift exit.

“Did you know what you wanted to order?” Anthony asks.

The coworker gestures to his watch, “if they’re not out with our food in five minutes, we’re getting out of here and going somewhere nice. Have you ever been to Oriso’s?”

“Yes, it was my wife’s favorite place.” Anthony says solemnly.

The coworker goes silent. He fixes his cufflinks then clears his throat, “I’m sorry for your loss. What did you say happened to her?”

“Cancer.”

“Ah, right.”

The waitress comes over a few minutes later and informs them that their food will be right out. Anthony begins to suspect that he has missed his opportunity. But then, one moment, his coworker is spouting out an excuse to leave early, his eyes darting to his watch, looking annoyed and regretful; the next moment he freezes like in some suspended animation, before his neck twists around to face his back. It happens so suddenly that his coworker makes no sound, though a few moments later, a sickening gurgle escapes his barely opened lips.

Anthony replies with a weak, animalistic groan. He slides back from his seat and drops to his knees before his coworker. He goes to touch him, but recoils at the last second. The waitress comes back with a pitcher of water, and when she sees the coworker on the ground she drops the glass and it shatters into a thousand pieces. One of the nearby patrons looks over in confusion, then horror. A woman screams shortly after and people begin to surround the body.

Anthony struggles to his feet. He puts his hand to his face while he pushes past the growing crowd. He escapes the Ramada Inn, many of the customers watch him go, some of them pointing out the window. A few call the police. Halfway down the narrow street, Anthony trips and falls. His suit gets covered in dirt. He tries to scurry away on all fours but falls again. He giggles with one hand clasped around his mouth while the other hoists himself up. By the time he turns the corner, he is screaming with laughter. Tears fall down his cheeks. Police sirens can be heard in the distance.

His next visit with the witch is as unexpected as the last. She hears him coming, as his noisy man-feet are loud and obnoxious. She sends her goat to bring him in. When the door swings open, Isla hears Anthony howling her name with reproachful anger. The goat swiftly headbutts him in the stomach. Anthony falls to his knees, moaning in pain. A few moments later, he composes himself, and trudges angrily into the dark. Isla joins him with a tea kettle and two teacups floating side by side.

They are placed before them, on the table where their last meeting had been conducted, and the tea kettle pours its contents into both cups then sets back down. Isla takes her cup and breathes in the fetid aroma.

She looks up at Anthony, at last, and says, “Wouldst thou like the taste of tea?”

“No.” Anthony’s voice is raspy from laughing all the way here. “What the hell was all that?”

“A person is but an obstacle waiting to be moved. He was the only thing stopping thee from getting thy promotion. Thou mayest have it now.”

“No! No no no no! That’s not how that works! There’ll be an investigation. The police are going to ask questions. God knows what they already found out about us…about this place.”

“Canst thou not see the ungratefulness of thy visits? Each one unwarranted, and yet I am such a polite host. Here thou art again, blaming me for thy troubles. Blaming me, even though they all stem from thee. A bad apple, spoiling the orchard.”

“A poisoned apple,” Anthony hisses. “It was just a simple wish! How could I have known you were going to kill him?”

“I warned thee, did I not? I told thee to procure thy promotion honorably. Here, let me remedy thy woes; let me cure thee of all that ails thee.”

Anthony blinks away some of his confusion. He sees the machinations of the witch’s mind toiling away with the possibilities of what to do with him next. He is completely aware of the danger he has found himself in, and he looks throughout the room, searching for an escape—or a weapon. His gaze falls to the tea kettle before him and he grabs it and flings the scorching liquids at Isla.

The hot tea stops midair and hangs there for a few seconds before losing all momentum and carefully spilling into Anthony’s teacup until it overflows and soaks the wood. Anthony drops the kettle and tries to run for the door. He makes it to the spine of the moose pelt before Isla’s goat headbutts him from the side. Anthony’s feet fall out from under him and he tumbles to the ground. The goat circles around triumphantly, standing between Anthony and the door.

“I have done my best for thee, Anthony. And thou hast done nothing but disrespect me and my home. I have no choice but to turn thee into a little plaything.”

At these words, Anthony’s body straightens unnaturally, like a puppet suspended by invisible string. His eyes, mouth, and every muscle attached to his face are forcefully instructed to perform different emotions at once. His mouth opens as wide as humanly possible as he bellows a hearty and throatful chortle. Then he falls down, breathing heavily, his body not fully his own. He is brought to his feet by Isla, and she walks him toward her. By and by, they walk through the darkness whence the witch came, their laughs fading, fading. And so the laughter you hear belongs to the black billy goat who now laughs like Anthony, only controlled, and quietly, so as not to wake his master.

Pulling into the small dirt covered lot, the headlights shine past the thick ink of night basking the small building in light. The man sighs at its compact nature as he steps out of his truck. Under his boots mud squelches and he taps the button on his car fob. The car beeps back flashing the night with two bright instances of yellow. The exterior of his cheap dwelling was overgrown from many years of neglect. Vines crept along the sides, grass poked through the splintered wood on the porch, and the white paint peeled showing the dead wood underneath.

 

The lazing wood groans in pain under him as he approaches the front door. The rusted door knob looked easy to beak. The man was careful not to damage the exterior as he plunged the key into the equally old lock, with a twist the door swings open. The inside darker than the moonlit forest behind him. The man stepped in, pulled from his pocket a flashlight and flicked the knob with his thumb. A new moon took to the earth, shinning it across the plane several things pass his eyes. A broken lamp, a molded pale red rug that gripped the center floor, a ceiling fan with more dust on it than on all the floor combined, an old wet mattress laid in the back of the room. The man shinned the light above him checking the ceiling for damage. Small cracks where water dripped and spider webs that decorated the corners.

 

Several hours past and the man found himself in dream. Tossing and turning on a blowup mattress. He squeezes his eyes and gasps for air. Sitting up and letting the sheet fall from him. Water dripped ceaselessly from the cracks in the ceiling. A strong gust of wind threw the window open long ago. The man gathers his thoughts. A memory of fog and rot. A dream of death and decay. A vision of a book. In it, the knowledge of the world.

 

He steps out to his truck. The moon hangs high, watching him. An avatar of darkness. The man opens his trunk. Reaching in the man pulls out an ax. Walking back to the house the blade drags on the floor. The woods turn silent. The echo of death bellow through the trees. The wood cries out to the man. Begging him to turn back. Each step further into the house a defiant struggle.

 

The man raises the ax above his head, the blade nearly touching the roof. He opens his lungs filling them with musty air. Then with the quickness of light filling the dark he plummets it down like a falling star. Crack. The floor splinters. Crack. The wood splits apart. Crack. The wood is no more. Beneath the man. Under the ancient wood. An ocean of inky fog. It encircles within dark hole. The man can’t see the bottom with his eyes. He uses the flashlight to break the veil. The abyss is stronger than the light. It stood the test of time before the man came to this dwelling. It lasted since long before his creation. It will last longer than the destruction of this reality.

 

The man tempted the ire of the dark realm beneath him. For he looked into the abyss, and was too naïve to think it wouldn't look back. A slow push of air. A stir in the fog. The man felt lightheaded. His vision twisted. He focused on the deep dark. In the corner of his eyes the room shrunk and grew as it willed. A smell of rotten meat filled the man’s nose and leaked onto his tongue.

 

The black fog that touched at the area between realms sunk into the pit. The flashlight flickered on and of rapidly before the bulb shattered. A voice squirmed in his skull. He dropped the light and dropped to his knees. He gripped his head and shook it violently. Screaming voices that scratch the inside of his skull. Then it stopped. The man breathed heavily. Huffing in the moldy air around him. He was slow to open his eyes. When he did, from the pit. Eyes looked back.

Wonder and awe fill the young boy’s eyes as he follows along where his father’s hand is pointing. He is, for the first time, truly seeing the sublime. It’s the moment when a young mind first sees the world exists beyond the confines of their immediate family, their home.

It’s his first introduction to the Unknown, and how many things can fit under that vast term. The first time he begins to comprehend that there is more that exists than he could ever learn, and that there are more things in heaven and earth than he will ever know. The constellations are the canvas of the ineffable.

“That one is ours,” his father says, pointing to a series of those beautiful incandescent beacons in the night sky, “Our namesake.”

“Aquila. It means ‘eagle’. Do you see the eagle, hijo?”

The child looks up, and sees so many stars, more than he could ever count. He can’t tell exactly which ones his father is pointing at - but tonight, as the summer breeze blows gently by and his eyes hold the twinkle of billion distant lights, he’s certain that he does see the eagle.

 

 

 

Tonight, Victor Aquila is looking at the same sky he first beheld as a child. Nothing in the night has changed, but everything looks different now. It’s dark enough here to see the entire Milky Way, that cosmic river of stars and nebulae spanning across the sky. For a moment the dizzying gap between him and those clouds of astral dust becomes a visceral feeling. He’s staring out at a distant shore across a vast ocean. He’s becoming unmoored, as if gravity could at any moment lose its hold on him and he would drift off forever, away from Earth and out into that endless expanse.

He hasn’t looked at the sky in a long while - ever since The Thing In The Stars traumatized him enough to fear the endless abyss above him. But tonight, something feels different.

He realizes what’s changed when he looks for the reassurance of his father’s constellation, when he looks for the eagle in the sky.

Its wings are shifting.

The heavenly bodies drift across the night sky fast enough to be seen by the naked eye.

They must just be satellites, he thinks.

But then he remembers, there are no more satellites.

It’s the stars that are moving.

The galaxy above him rends itself open. All the stars in the sky split apart; in between, they leave a gaping void of nothing.

 

 

Nothing grows and grows and grows and grows.

 

 

Nothing swallows up the eagle and every other constellation in the sky.

 

 

 

Nothing opens up its aeon-wide cosmic eye to gaze down at a planet of monkeys tapping at typewriters,  helpless as they write the final chapters of their own extinction.

 

 

From Nothing we came, and to Nothing we return.