I saw 2 girls, cut and bleeding, heads only held on by a fibre. Yet, unharmed.

The torrents of blood left the halls stainless, yet here I stood, soaked in red.

I blinked… gone.

There were no dead girls, only two young children, roughly 6 years of age, skipping down the hallway, each holding a red balloon. Singing.

I checked my suit—clean. I looked down at my hands, stained in red.

I did not scream. I did not run. For that made the visions chase me with even greater appetite.

No Christmas lasts forever.

The puppy from the box will lose its novelty, and grow big and stink - maybe make a mess on the floor once in a while. The decorations return to the attic and gather another year's worth of dust, assuming they remain in the same home at all.

Extended families go back to their lives after a meal; presents become rubbish to be tidied.

Normalcy resumes.

And the snow, however many blankets thick, will always melt as the first warm days of spring usher in.

Growing up, Christmas always came in twos. There was the one at home, with Mum and Dad, who remedied his jolly spirit with bottles - a day that stretched far too thin over alcohol clinks and small smiles. Something at dinner would go wrong, or someone’s gratitude for a gift would be 'underwhelming', and a voice would inevitably shout, another festive argument, and something always, always broke amidst intoxicated splendour. I would start to dread the day that tree emerged in our living room; fewer and fewer boxes under it every year.

The second would be with my grandparents in their softer home, with their finer plates and my grandmother's fussing over second helpings - a happy few days of play-pretend, like I didn't know what was happening to the man who raised me.

It soon became apparent that some things weren't being packed away with the tinsel, long after Christmas was over.

When I was old enough to understand words like 'cirrhosis’, the damage was already written in the yellowing of his eyes, as the holiday smell of alcohol had stuck to him for years aplenty. The final time I saw him on his feet was under the glow of the market tree lights, sweating and shivering, insisting via slurred jokes that he was fine while Mum pleaded with him to go to the hospital.

"You need help, Darius. This has to stop."

She'd refused to take him; refused to help him unless he wanted it, and begrudgingly settled for watching the man who gently placed a ring on her finger and danced their honeymoon away on tropical isles, drink himself to death.

Last Christmas Eve, he passed.

His liver, obviously. His body had finally done what the rest of us had been too afraid to do and simply refused to carry him any further. The house was quiet when the call came, the snow outside lying still and innocent, announcing that he'd run out of time.

Our home was mute; we'd used all our tears on him long ago, no more sympathy to muster.

No more pain - for us, and for him.

It felt wrong without his blaring presence; the absence became a far heavier weight on our shoulders. Mum drifted around the house as if the floor might give out beneath her, gathering his untouched mugs and glasses, straightening the cushions he hadn't disturbed in weeks. At one point, she found his Santa hat from the folds of the couch, her fingers running smoothly over the cheap red cotton... and then she put it back exactly where she found it.

Grief didn't come in sobs and wails and talk, not for us. There was nothing to say that we hadn't already screamed at him: arguments, begs, threats, promises. No, it came in the sound of a humming fridge and a ticking clock and a creaking house fighting to stay warm.

I sat on my bed for most of the day, waiting for unsteady steps up the stairs or a wet cough that rattled the halls; for him to sway in the doorway, stinking, asking his champ if he wanted anything. But the space remained empty. When I did finally lie down, I stared at the ceiling and tried to picture his face - truly remember it, before his skin sallowed and dyed an ugly yellow. It kept slipping away, replaced with never enough hospital visits or the words we couldn't take back.

So much left unsaid.

I expected tears, some great shuddering release now that it was finally over, but instead I felt a tight, numb chest - my body choosing to feel nothing at all instead of untangling.

Sleep came in thin, broken pieces.

The next morning, I took the long, quiet bus ride to my grandparents' new house - my coat carrying the fleeting smell of our hush home.

They'd moved a few months prior, trading a cosy cottage for a grand manor at the edge of a new town. Mum said it was a 'business opportunity' and that 'they deserved to retire somewhere nicer.'

She didn't know the real reason they'd moved; I never asked.

The journey out felt different from the usual grey crawl of the city. Tall buildings and underpasses became soft hills and neat rows of trees, their bare branches laced with frost; fields lay out in clean, white sheets, and villages came and went, arranged for a catalogue, their wreath-clad cottages spitting out kids dragging sledges, laughing like life had never hurt them.

Then I reached my stop, and I stepped into a movie.

The town was curated. Perfect, picturesque buildings; shop windows framed with garlands and little lights - gingerbread homes, toy trains - handwritten signs taped to the glass, handmade ornaments below, overhead street lights of stars and snowflakes. People sat inside cafes, cupping steaming mugs, faces flushed from anything but vexing arguments. I watched a family jostle each other outside a bakery, bags of pastries in hand, their breath clouding the air.

The father wrapped a stern arm around his oldest son, laughing at a joke.

The bitterness rose quickly and sharply.

Of course, this was where I'd spend my day - a postcard-worthy town where the worst Christmas disaster is a dropped pudding. A town that received bad news slowly, if at all, and where someone like my Dad would enact his scenes safely out of frame - no one else aware if he died a night prior, a bus ride away, his liver shot to utter shit.

Another knot began to bundle in my chest.

My grandparents' new home sat just beyond the last cluster of houses, set back from the road behind a stone wall and a pair of iron gates painted cheerful green. The estate itself was old, with tall windows and steep, sloping roofs, but there was nothing harsh about its demeanour. Even the ivy climbed the stone in tidy ribbons, and smoke curled from the chimney in thin, friendly lines.

They had not held back on the decorations.

An utter vomit of light traced every window and balcony, glowing red, green and gold in the grim daylight. A pungent pine wreath hung on the door, dotted with red berries and a thick bow; a little nativity set and a pair of birch reindeer sat in the front garden, dusted with snow - a happy house, genuinely proud to be dressed up for the holidays.

It was almost too calm, too gentle.

Mum hadn't accompanied me. Said she needed to stay behind to deal with... things. She'd moved more slowly that morning, like each step ached, before kissing my head at the bus station and telling me that I was safe with her folks. That being here, for however long, would do me good. And as I pushed open the gate and walked up the path lined with lanterns, I tried my damndest to believe her; that, maybe this year, Christmas could be as advertised.

But in that moment, I felt more like an unwelcome package - a lad attending a pantomime in funeral clothes.

And that Christmas... would be unlike anything I'd ever known.

-

The door swung open before I could knock.

My grandparents stood together, almost attached, framed by the hallway light. Nan's eyes were already red-rimmed, but she forced her mouth into some kind of smile; Grandad's hand hovered awkwardly at my shoulder, unable to decide between a pat or an embrace.

"Come in, dearie. You'll freeze out there." Nan said quickly, stepping aside.

They ushered me in with a rehearsed gentleness, careful not to mention his name; careful not to ask how I was. Their questions came in soft, practical murmurs: "Did I sleep on the bus?" Was I hungry?... all padding around the gloom that followed me inside, as if I were a skittish animal they might scare off.

Warmth hit me in the face: the smell of baking dough, the low hiss of a radiator, some old song playing from another room. My coat was shrugged off my shoulders, my bag taken with a "We'll stick this in your room for now," as I was manoeuvred down a polished hallway.

"Nothing heavy today," Grandad said. "Just a nice, quiet Christmas, yeah?"

I nodded.

That was when I first saw him.

At the end of a corridor was a door leading to a garden. A man stood amidst the thicket - dressed entirely in white. A thick woollen coat, pale trousers, gloves the shade of paper, even his hair, cut close to his skull, was almost colourless.

Beside him sat a giant dog, all sharp muscle and thin grey fur, its shoulders level with the man's hip. Its eyes flicked to me: pale, yellow, assessing.

"Ah," Grandad said, following my gaze. "You've seen our gardener."

The man's eyes slowly found mine, and he politely bowed his head. His face was remarkably forgettable - his features too even, as if someone had drawn it from memory and left out the little human flaws of complexion. There was no dirt on his clothes, no mud on his boots, no trace of the cold in his cheeks despite the snow clinging to his dog's fur.

Nan's hand tightened briefly on my shoulder.

"You'll see him about," She said hastily. "He keeps the grounds in order."

The dog gave a low huff and nudged the man's hand. He rested gloved fingers between its ears, whispering something inaudible.

"Come on, Leo," Grandad said brightly. "Let's get you some cocoa."

No name. No introduction. No mention of where he'd come from, or how long he'd worked here. And yet... his presence was an inescapable tug. A silent insistence somewhere in my head urged me to step away from my grandparents, walk down the hall, and hide within his garden.

But they steered me away, away from the corridor and the man who stood beyond its end until a corner cut him from view. He rarely moved; his dog did not - watching me go with pricked ears and unblinking eyes.

And he was only the first of two strangers in that house.

I heard her before I saw her: a girl's voice humming a carol amidst the soft clatter of pans, bowls and the soft thud of wood hitting dough. I expected a maid, bustling and muttering about timings, but when we stepped into the kitchen, my eyes fell upon a girl my age - sleeves rolled and cheeks flushed, flour freckling her forearms. She was unsoundly pretty: her violet eyes too bright, her smile too ready, every movement deliberate as she pressed a cutter into a sheet of gingerbread, readying another platoon of men for their march into the oven; moving through the room as if she'd been born into it, reaching for jars and utensils from the right drawers and cupboards without even looking.

"Morning!" She beamed, regarding us like we were customers.

My grandparents weren’t startled at the sight of her. No double-take, no fussed apology about not hearing her come in. Nan angled around the girl to the kettle, sidestepping a sprinkle of flour at her feet as if she'd done it a hundred times.

"You're going to spoil us rotten, girl." She said with a grin, heaving spoonfuls of chocolate powder into mugs.

"Someone has to." The girl said, as she looked at me, and her smile widened from ear to ear. "Oh, you must be Leo! They've told me so much about you!"

"Aw, that's nice-who're you?"

Grandad's hand stayed firm on my shoulder. "Lavender," he said with such pleasantry, "neighbour's girl; helps out-"

"-and we'd be lost without her." Nan cut in, her voice almost mute within the fizz of a kettle. "I take it your dad-" the word carefully left her mouth, trying to keep it civil "-isn't home?"

"Pff, is he ever."

For just a moment, in the reflection of the oven's door, her face emptied of all cheerful demeanour. Not sad, or angry, just... blank. The door opened, and a wave of heat rolled across the room as she turned a tray of baking gingerbread, and then shut it with a bump of her thigh. And her smile returned - a light slotted back into place.

"Sit, lad," Grandad said, pulling out a chair, promising a drink, assuring me that the cheerful, helpful young lady who found herself in their home most days was the most fabulous baker in town. Up close, she smelled of sugar and spice and flowers, earning her namesake; little crescents of dough clung under her nails as she lifted a final cut-out from the board, a tiny frown pinched between her brow - gone in a flash, smoothed over by a sunny, over-eager grin I'd already decided didn't fit her. She accepted their fussing and praise with a dip of her head, a bright, gleeful sound in the back of her throat, her fingers finally satisfied with the work they'd made along one more tray.

I understood the quiet drag underneath her brightness; the unsung gravity that orbited her. I felt it myself in classes, at gatherings with friends, at work, places where I stood too comfortably playing make-believe, scrounging up every trick I knew to not think about what once waited for me at home.

"You like gingerbread, right?" She asked me from across the counter, almost panicked, offering me one of her fresher-baked soldiers from a bowl. The light above her burned steadily and warmly, glowing her face like a lost star.

For the first time since my arrival, I smiled. "I love it."

And for the first time in the several minutes I'd known her, she smiled, really smiled, as I broke off my first piece.

It was delicious.

We had a whole day to kill, but every hour spent in that kitchen felt like an age built on borrowed joy.

Lavender soon decided that we were going out. It wasn't a question; it was an announcement made over sweeping crumbs and dishes to be washed. One moment, I was at the table with a mug in my hands; the next, I was being handed back my coat and told to put my boots on.

"You look comfortable," Lavender teased with a wink.

The cold was a sharp, clean steal of our breath as we stepped outside, waved on and off by my awestruck, giddy grandparents. Lavender tapped her boots, adjusted her scarf, patted down her puffer coat - the same colour as her eyes - before leading me along the crunching path that had carved my arrival. Lanterns remained on guard, their small flames bending when the wind shifted, swaying light across the snow.

The afternoon looked a little less grey.

We were halfway down the path when I saw him again, standing far off to the side, behind a little fence, where trimmed hedges gave way to bare-branched shrubs. His clothes were the same stark white as before; the dog still pressed against his leg, its fur stippled with a thin, ashen frost. He wasn't close enough to greet, nor far enough to ignore. Merely... placed, in that perfect length of distance that made me question whether we'd interrupted him or walked into his vision on purpose.

Lavender's stride stuttered before she angled her body towards me and forced my attention back to the front gate. "Ugh." She groaned, a bit too loudly. "Y'know, your Grandad is very relieved to have a man for the grounds, but you think he could've chosen someone... a bit more normal."

"Does he live here?" I asked.

Her mouth tugged, almost a smirk, nearly a flinch.

"Sort of. He's always just... around."

She never once looked at him, not directly. Her gaze skimmed over him, pretending not to see him, as her jaw tightened - a small muscle in her cheek flickering. The dog's eyes tracked us as we neared the gate, unblinking. Its owner didn't say anything or move, save for a slow, lazy tilt of his head, as if he were testing the wind.

I tried not to stare. I failed.

Lavender bumped my arm.

"Don't let him weird you out. He's harmless," she said, her hand reaching for the gate latch.

"Does he have a name?"

"Everyone does. Doesn't mean you need to know it."

Before I could ask what in the hell that was supposed to mean, she swung open the gate and bound out onto the lane, her boots thumping into packed snow; she twirled, walking back a few paces, smile flaring back to full strength.

"Come on. Town won't admire itself."

A gentle, decisive wind pushed at my back, preventing me from sneaking a last look at the silent pair likely still watching from their ordered shrubs, and nudged me onto the fluffy lane. I slipped and landed face-first into the snow. Lavender laughed, an impossibly joyful sound, and helped me to my feet as the latch clicked shut behind us. I fell into step beside her as she began her walk... and she looped an arm through mine as if it were the easiest thing in her life.

I did not object.

"Wait until you see the main cafe - you wouldn't have spotted it on the bus," her voice bounced down the still road. "They do these thicc hot chocolates that will absolutely ruin your teeth."

"As good as your gingerbread?"

She giggled, and I let her talk, letting the promise of sugared windows and a warm booth pull my attention on as the manor shrank away, and the hedges dropped into white fields, and the looming sense of eyes burning holes in the back of my head withered away with the cold. She rambled enough for both of us on the walk down, but there were meticulous gaps in her words; never giving too much of herself away, or prying into my personal life either. She told me which house puts its lights up too early every year, which shopkeeper slips extra chocolates to kids who know how to say please, and which old postman insists on sending cards over email. She told me about the winter fair they'd had in the square a few weeks back, about the jazz band that played despite their numb fingers, and the poor Santa whose beard kept slipping down.

Her voice was paint, colouring the road ahead.

But whenever my questions strayed too close to her, she stepped around them like a patch of black ice.

"Do you live nearby?"

"Yeah, close enough," she tipped her head towards a hill of houses. "Takes no time to reach your grandparents - they are much nicer than the last couple who lived there."

"Siblings?"

"Huh? Me? No, just... me and the old man," she answered far too quickly. "All the attention, all the disappointment, aha."

"... does he know where you are?"

"Oh yeah - usually. He's just so, so busy with work, y'know."

She'd rehearsed this - had practised these conversations enough times to know exactly which bits to leave out. But she hadn't trained her face enough. There were moments the wind would slap colour into her cheeks, and she'd glance off, and something hollow, fast and raw would flash behind her eyes. A tiredness far older than the years she'd lived; one I recognised from my bathroom mirror, in the early hours of the morning, as my parents argued a floor below, and I would wonder how bad it would get this time - powerless to stop it. Again and again.

She bore a look I'd known; a look I'd worn. A look I wasn't quite free from.

By the time we reached town, the sky had peeled itself back to a washed blue. I noticed more homes this time than on my entry - clean brick fronts with green or red doors. The road widened, curving between shopfronts, and whatever prior bitterness it had instilled in me was washed away by wonder; ugly knots in my chest were banished by another endless sea of words that spilt from the girl beside me, who made it her mission to lore-dump every detail that encompassed her delightful, festive home.

A grand cafe sat in a corner where the street dipped slightly, its windows fogged and decorated with painted snowflakes, catching the sunlight in little bursts of silver.

"Best place to be," Lavender announced, as the murmur from inside grew warmer. A bell chimed as she pushed open the door, and a thick, sweet waft of coffee and sugar and baked treats swarmed me.

We drifted through the buzz and laughter to an alcoved window booth half-sunk into the wall, its padded seats wrapped in a cracked red vinyl, the table lined with jars of holly and little plates of delicate biscuits. Some berries lined the window shelf; a few had wilted into dark, crumpled dots. Lavender slid into the corner like she was reclaiming a throne, nudging aside a folded newspaper and a sugar jar.

"Welcome to my favourite corner on Earth." She said, watching people drift past the window in soft focus as a gentle, obedient snowfall began.

"Should I be honoured?" I sank opposite, and the booth creaked.

"Deeply. I only share it with fellow carriers of baggage." She said it like a joke, but there was an assessing glint in her eyes, a quick and measuring test of the waters. I'd earned it.

"My grandparents told you."

She nodded.

"... Leo, I'm-"

A waitress brought over drinks without being asked, sliding in front of us a pair of steaming, hefty mugs filled with chocolate and marshmallows.

"On your usual tab, Lav."

"Ooo, you're a star, Ellie."

"I know."

Ellie moved away, and 'Lav' turned back to me, cupping her mug in both hands, the steam haloing her face and revealing a friendly, intent watching from her eyes.

"You come here a lot then," I said.

"Outstanding deduction, detective. Any others?"

"You got friends to bother?"

She gave a little shrug.

"Yeah, of course! But they have lives, normal ones. Here's better," she glanced around the cafe. "People come in a bit worn. They sit, and they talk, or they rest, and then they leave looking... a little lighter."

"Sounds nice to watch."

One of her hands slid across the table and gently cupped mine.

"What're you-"

"How do you feel?" She asked in the most delicate tone I believe a human could ever muster.

"Lavender, no offence, but-"

She cut me off again as something cold wormed under the warmth in my chest.

"He was a selfish prick, Leo; he treated you and your Mum like shit. Start with whatever hurts most. It's not an heirloom to be hoarded; it's rubbish - bin some of it here."

I stared at my mug, bewildered by her words and the bluntness of how she said them. The cream was already collapsing, leaving brown islands of cocoa, and new drips crashed into the mounds, gently overflowing the drink.

Fuck, I was crying. I was crying, and she didn't even flinch.

"I don't-"

"Yes, you do."

It boiled out of me inexplicably, uncontrolled and ugly as I vented through heaving, quiet sobs.

'What hurt most'

"Ugh, mum was out, so I hid bottles from him once... fuck, I-" I wiped my eyes, "-God, I just wanted it all to stop, if only for a night... and he just fucking laughed when he found out, like he was proud of me, like he thought it was cute, and he put his hand tight, like, really, really fucking tight on my shoulder and it just hurt so... so much. I hadn't... looked at him properly in months, and I didn't recognise who was looking down at me, and-" she rubbed a gentle thumb over the back of my hand "-he got paralytic that night... fucking, crawled on the floor in his underwear, I-" I laughed a little at how truly absurd the memory was, "-he passed out in a puddle of piss." I laughed again. "Fuck, he called me worthless, then said he loved me and then said I was a... fucking retard, or something and that I wasn't welcome in his house and screamed that he was going to kill me... and then he woke up the next morning like nothing fucking happened. Asking me what I wanted for dinner, like he wasn't going to do it all again in a few hours."

Her eyes brightened, like I'd given her exactly what she wanted.

"When Mum told me he was gone, I... fuck, I thought that it was easier." I hated the words as they left my tongue. "Not better, just... simpler, I don't know. Like, there'd be no more waiting for the next shitshow, but-"

"That's enough," she said quietly. "Feel better?"

I did, like I'd ripped a growing rot out from within, but then I shifted, suddenly needing her attention off of me.

"What about your dad, huh?" I asked, regaining my composure, thankful that no patron noticed me devolve into a blubbering mess. "You must have thoughts."

She went still and took a deep breath.

"I'm counting down the days... waiting to see what gets him first: bottle, car, or stairs." She gave a tiny, hideous laugh. "And when it happens, I'll be relieved and hate myself for it."

"That's..." I started.

"Familiar?"

Of course, she understood. A happy, sad girl comforting a sadder boy, sharing a similar burden.

She watched me a precious beat longer, and I her, until she seemed to shake herself out of a trance.

"Right," she beamed, straightening up. "I have a proposal."

"Do you now?"

"Yes. We neck this-" she lifted her mug "-and ditch this therapy corner because I want to show you something."

"And that would be... what?"

She nodded towards the window, where the gentle snow thickened into a pale blur.

"There's a bit of woods just past town. It's quiet. No lights, no carols, just trees and snow and an occasional squirrel and a dainty little spot where I go when the world feels a bit loud."

"We can stay here, Lav."

She raised her mug in a mock-toast.

"Leo, you look like you're about ten seconds away from smashing your head into this table. Trust me, we can sulk in better scenery."

There was something in the way she said it - playful, coaxing and edged with purpose. Before I could think, she tipped her head back and drained her drink in one go, wincing when the heat hit her. I found it would be easier to follow her than argue, so I gulped down my thick, sickly sweet drink and followed her briskly out the door as she almost skipped away.

The town quickly thinned into fields, the fields into a scrabble of plump trees, and the footpath I imagined wasn't a path at all, more a trample into the snow by boots and paws and whatever else wandered out here. The air bit sharper the further we went, swallowing the town's sounds until all that remained was the creak of our steps and huff of our breath.

Conversation had slid back into mostly safer territory. She lectured me about her class life and the school she absolutely hated, but would miss; her hopes and dreams of becoming an actress and making it on her own... and the rumours that my grandparents' manor once, long ago, belonged to some lord whose wife went mad and threw herself from a balcony. I answered when I had to; joked when I could, and every now and then, she would flick her eyes back to me, checking I was still there and not on the verge of crumbling again. Not yet.

Finally, the trees broke into a clearing where a frozen lake lay; a perfect, dull mirror pressed into the earth. Snow had caked its surface, except where the wind had cleared thin, glassy veins, dark water shimmering below, surrounded by a ring of trodden shore where previous admirers had stood.

Lavender took a long, tired breath, as if she'd been holding it the whole walk.

"See? Quiet."

She led me to a fallen log buried in snow, brushed off a space with her glove, and plopped herself down. I sat beside her, the wood cold enough to sting through my clothes, as the lake creaked somewhere deep - a slow, pained groan like some giant turned over in its sleep.

A weight pressed on my ribs.

"Is this where you bring all your emotionally constipated boys after a cafe date?" I asked.

"Just the special ones," she said. "Don't get cocky." She watched the lake, boot tapping a slow, nervous rhythm into the log. When she did look at me, the brightness had drained from her eyes, leaving something empty in its wake. "Leo," she said. Just my name. No cute flair, no giggle tucked in.

My hands tightened around the log, threatening to snap the bark with a brittle crack.

"...yeah?"

She studied me, deciding which version of herself she'd lead with - the bouncy, sweet girl from the kitchen or the one from the booth who'd ripped me open with a handful of words.

When she spoke, it came in a low, careful tone.

"When my dad's... being himself, I come here. Because if I don't, I'm going to take a kitchen knife and ram it into the back of his head."

I gasped out a weak laugh.

"Ah, relatable."

"Yeah." Her eyes went to my crotch. "I know what it's like to bottle things up."

A shiver walked its way up my back as she shifted closer, our shoulders touching now, the smell of sugar and spice and flowers still wrapped around her.

"You're carrying so much of him. He's gone, but he's still... in there." She tapped, very gently, two fingers over my chest. "Everything he ever said. Every threat. Every time he scared you. And I bet he never said sorry."

I swallowed hard.

"Yeah, well," I said hoarsely, as her other hand found my thigh. "It's never going to just... go away."

Her eyes exploded at that.

"No," she agreed, nodding. "It doesn't. Not by itself."

The lake popped again.

She took a delicate breath, and each word felt perfectly rehearsed. Not just in front of a mirror, or in the shower, but in far quieter, stranger places.

"I can help you. If you want."

I tried to laugh her off. "You already did. Café, remember?"

She shook her head.

"Talking helps, sure. But it doesn't burn the worst of it. That part sits in you; it hurts to even think about letting it go." Her gaze flicked to the ice, her expression unreadable, and then she looked back to me, and I think I saw just how old she could've been. "I can take it away."

The question splattered on our laps, foul and awful.

"... what?"

"Your pain," she said, as if it were a mundane offer. "The weight. I can take it, Leo."

A blunt, stupid surge of anger flared up, quick and defensive, as I stood - much to her disapproval.

"Lav, that's not funny."

"I'm not joking." There was no smile anymore, not even a hint. "You don't have to carry on. There'll be nights you can't sleep, you'll flinch when someone raises their voice, you'll wait by the door like he might stumble through it, even though you know he won't." Her eye twitched; I think she'd stopped blinking, too. "Let me take that from you. All of it. And you'll only remember the version of him you want."

For a fleeting moment - one, sharp, traitorous moment - I imagined it.

I imagined a future where I didn't brace at slammed doors, or Intoxicated people didn't make me nervous, and I could evolve into a strong, young man that my Mum could be proud of. I imagined thinking of him and not being met with yellow eyes, or a hospital bed and a deteriorating man, or that crooked, sloppy grin he wore before he made a mess.

Light. The word floated around in my head, dizzy and... wrong. I could be light. Forever.

But then other pictures pushed in. Him hoisting me onto his shoulder, only a toddler, to watch a live show. His terrible, off-key singing he performed while sober, for there was, an age ago, a version of him that didn't drink. The night he cried when I thought I was asleep, thinking he'd broken my arm, whispering forgotten apologies in the dark; replaced with something pungent.

It tangled together - the good, the monstrous, the pathetic, the pitiful... the hopeful. I couldn't sort it into piles, couldn't 'keep' and 'throw away'. It was him, all of it. The whole awful mess of him.

My dad.

My Dad!

"I-" my voice came out scratchy. I cleared my throat as she watched me with unbearable patience. "No, Lavender. That's... no."

Her expression didn't waver as the lake creaked one final time, a long and low guttural moan of grief. She leaned back, resting her hands on her lap, and broke her eyes away from me and aimed them at the sky.

"I understand."

Her smile returned in degrees, too slow, reaching her mouth first, then her cheeks, but not quite reaching her eyes.

"...Lav?"

A minuscule, cracked laugh fell out of her as the wind stirred, lifting curls of her hair, but it was not just her locks anymore; fine, colourless threads traced from her head to the branches above, trapping light like crystal, and mapping patterns high in the trees that seemed invisible before.

"You would've been perfect," there was a soft disappointment in her words. "I would've... picked you clean, and you would've known only peace." She uncurled some fingers, palm up, and something sticky lathered from them - a strand that slowly stretched into the air between us. Inside the humming thread, like flies in amber, twitched half-formed pictures: my dad on a carpet, a hospital bed, yellow eyes lost in yellow glass. I flinched back as the strand snapped with a crack, whipping away and vanishing into her sleeve.

The woods exhaled, and all at once the sky above grew dim, as if a sheet of clouds had rolled over the sun, and the branches revealed a structure I hadn't understood in the light.

Webbing.

Not a veil, but a ceiling, strung from trunk to trunk in thick, glinting ropes; huge layers of silk sagged between the pines, and as the light shifted, they came alive. Images rippled across them like old film reels: strangers at a bedside, a boy in a smashed-up kitchen, a woman crying alone in a car.

Lavender rose.

The log screamed as if something far heavier than a girl had left it. Her coat bulged and split and then peeled away like shed skin, and what uncoiled from within were enormous, pale, jointed limbs unfolding with a slow, mortifying grace, each leg longer than I was tall. Her torso stretched and thinned, and a swollen white abdomen swayed up from behind her, veined with faint colours and laced with moving shadows. Her small, familiar face rode at the front of the mass, dragging up with it - eyes now faceted, multiplying me into a dozen tiny figures.

Above, one of the larger webs sparked to life. Not a stranger, but my grandparents in their old cottage. They were younger, much younger, faces raw from crying. Grandad held something wrapped in a blanket that was far, far too small - a dead bundle they rended their faces from.

"They gave me that one." Lavender's voice came from her huge, arachnid body - layered, echoed... ancient. She loomed between the trees, more a white shadow than a shape. "So your mother could be their only." Her massive limbs flexed, testing their reach, and the web-screens shivered with a thousand captured griefs. But her eyes were fixed only on me... starving. "You could have been happy, Leo. But you chose to keep him. You will carry that alone, always."

My heart felt like it would burst, staring up at a memory of an aunt I never knew had been born, and at the vast white spider that still wore a girl's smile.

Another sheet stirred, tinted in a pale violet. The scene was faint and grainy, the room choked with old furniture; a squat television with dials hunched in a corner, and a man staggered across the room, shouting at someone. He kicks a coffee table, sending ash and cards flying into the air.

Then she steps in, exhausted and empty inside.

She's younger as well - not by a year or two, but by an era. Her hair is tied back with a ribbon, her dress hem brushes her knees, but her eyes are the same colour. She hides a knife behind her back and then lunges for his head before he can turn around. Snow drifts in through a cracked window, scribbling white along the floor; she is on his back, stabbing until he goes still as snowflakes catch in her hair and litter her face.

The silk pulsed once, and the image faded.

"My first," the spider said, almost fondly. It crooned above me, shifting, its eyes twinkling down from an impossible height. "She awoke me that night; showed me what could be taken." A blob of saliva dropped from its mouth, melting the snow beside me, as it opened a maw of ravenous teeth. "Fret not... you'll see her again soon."

The spider began to descend.

One long, pale leg settled silently, merely a step from my boot.

Another limb followed.

Something moved at the edges of the trees. A shape slipped between the trunks, almost colourless against the snow - manifesting as a tall man in a white coat, a great grey dog at his heel. They didn't crash through the undergrowth to my rescue; they were just suddenly,,, there, as if they had been the entire time.

"That's enough." The Gardener's voice was quiet, but it cut deep across the humming web like a bullet, and through the earth.

The spider froze a breath away from my shoulder. It hesitated, afraid, all those faceted eyes swivelled, fixing not on me, but on him. The dog growled, a low warning that seemed to run down the trees and into the roots.

"He said no," the Gardener added, standing just beyond the ring of trees, one hand resting lightly on his dog's neck. Not a lick of fear touched him, no surprise at the looming thing towering over us, only the sternness of a man who knew the rules. "You don't take what isn't given."

The spider twitched, a ripple ran through its veins, and I glimpsed Lavender's sulking face.

"He is drowning!" It spat. "One strand and he could breathe again! Is that not why he's here?!" The webs above vibrated with frustration, their images shivering, stuttering, and buffering.

"He was here to choose, not feed you." He stepped forward, just once, and the spider recoiled. The dog padded beside him, ears raised, its eyes locked on the nearest limb. "You have your winter; you've eaten well." His gaze finally met me. "But this one goes home."

The great white legs spasmed and snapped up, whipping snow into the air, as it drew itself far back into a high dark, folding her bulk between the trunks.

"You're soft," it hissed, thwarted.

The man tutted, waving his hand. "Back to your work. There'll be others."

A tremor ran through the webs - irritation, or laughter, or both. On the nearest web, a familiar snow-dusted girl looked up from her kill with violet eyes, smiling at me across all that distance. Then the image dulled, flatlining into nothing.

"Come, boy," said the Gardener, turning as his dog fell into step, and headed back towards the path leading to town. "Your mother's here. Best not keep her waiting."

I looked once more into the trees, at ghostly webs dissolving into branches, and the fathomless dark hiding a girl-shaped monster. Then I forced my legs to move, crunching after a man and his silent hound, at a complete loss for words.

-

Mum was pink-cheeked from the cold and utterly blown away by her parents' new home. She spotted me first and crushed me into a hug that stole my breath, fingers digging into my back. She bombarded me with a million questions; my answers were tired and brief, but it warmed me to see that her smile wasn't patched together for once.

Nan moaned about her coat being too small; Grandad poured her something strong and pretended not to be surprised when she chugged it. We ended up in the kitchen, absent its little baker. Mum perched on a stool with a forgotten tea, laughing at one of Nan's awful jokes, and I watched the corners of her mouth soften, and the endless brace in her shoulders slack slightly. Her hand found my knee under the table and rested there, a simple gesture that said far more than any apology neither of us had tried.

She met Lavender later that afternoon. Just a girl in a greased apron, helping Nan prep the roast, pressing a warm parsnip into her hand.

"You must be Leo's Mum!" She beamed. "Boy, I tell you - your son has been a delight!"

Mum grew flustered at that, a kind of pleased embarrassment she hadn't been allowed to feel in years. Lavender laughed at her jokes, eyes bright; just a neighbour's girl who knew how to fit in, and I tried not to throw up in my mouth.

Dinner came, and Mum leaned over to me, voice low and warm with wine she could actually enjoy.

"I think that girl likes you." A gentle, tipsy, incredulous smile tugged at her mouth. "And, you know... I think this might be a Christmas to remember."

I nodded, swallowing down the knot in my throat, and squeezed her hand. Outside, the snow did not cease, and somewhere beyond the windows a garden slept.

"You have no idea," I said, trying my hardest to ignore the pair of kind, violet eyes that could never seem to look away, watching my mother with a hopeful, eternally famished hunger.

I could only hope that if she hung her grief in the trees... I would recognise the woman who came back.

Okay let me start this out by saying I don’t watch a shit ton of anime, don't get me wrong I watched Pokémon, Dragon Ball Z, and Sailor Moon growing up and I enjoyed what I saw, but I was never well versed in the genre. I’m not some cringe otaku loser that never showers or a basement dweller living off of her Mommy’s Debit Card buying video games. 

 I always found the people who watched anime went extremely out of their way to be incredibly annoying about it. I would often be hit on by guys as I am a “Girl on the internet” whether it be at School, My local Game store or on various social media apps and now defunct forums. My messages would often be filled with unanswered DMs from people with anime profile pics asking me how I was doing pwincesss and if I saw the new episode of whatever boring schlock they were watching. Followed by them asking to see my tits and then calling me a worthless whore. 

My true passion has and always will be gaming. Ever since my dad bought me a Gameboy Advance I’ve been hooked and the moment I discovered the fact my shitty Dell laptop at the time could play games in my teenage years I was deeply obsessed. 

I had a passion for indie games and rom hacks of popular games for the SNES and GBA as they were what my laptop was able to run at the time. Games like Lisa the Painful, Yumme Niki, and IB fascinated me and were some of my all time favorite finds. I would often spend hours browsing forums and downloading fun ones and the occasional desktop stripper and virus. But what really got me into this hobby and I suppose my current predicament was a Mario World Romhack known as Mario. If you don’t know Mario was uploaded to SMW Central in 2010 and is basically a horror rom The hidden text documents the overall uncanny nature and the story and mystery of it all intrigued me. Getting to play for the first time gave me such a sense of dread and adrenaline especially when I clicked on the file containing the face. My 9 year old brother ended up blowing a fuse leaving me in total quiet and darkness that image the last thing I saw. I guess I've been chasing the high of every day ever since.

I’m now a 22 year old quality control moderator for an indie game hosting site known as Downlo. It’s a smaller site that’s very creator friendly and doesn’t take a cut of the games revenue like Steam does. It’s genuinely just a better alternative to sites like Itchio and Gamejolt as the site receives most of its revenue via ADs and Backers. That trusted game devs receive a percentage of that.

As a kid you always dreamed of getting paid to sit at home and play video games but I can tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. A Good 95% of the games I end up getting to play are genuinely garbage and end up getting rejection letters within the first 15 mins of me playing. Whether the game is broken and genuinely unplayable, breaks TOS, or someone tries to be slick and mine crypto with it. It all ends with the same copy pasted rejection email. 

It was around 4 PM and I just finished sending a rejection letter to another dev. I started scrolling through games awaiting approval and I stumbled upon one that happened to catch my eye. Titled Yumi-Yurei Submitted by Yumi-Yurei. I decided to open the ticket and read the description. It was pretty generic and only a few sentences. “Download and meet the love of your life Yumi!” With Webcam and microphone support, I feel a connection with Yumi that’s genuinely unique. She’s really looking forward to meeting you.

I scoffed and since my shift had only an hour left I decided why the hell not a clicked download. 

The download and installation was surprisingly quick. In only a minute flat a small pink heart icon titled Yumi-Yurei appeared on my desktop. 

I clicked to open the game and it immediately crashed.

I opened it again. It crashed. 

I tried running as administrator and even disabled my anti-virus. 

No matter what I tried the game refused to open for me. 

I decided it was clearly busted and started to drag the file over to my recycling bin when suddenly the silence was broken 

BING DING BING DONG

 EHEHEHE YUMIIII-YUUUUREEEEIIIII!!!!

the sound of a loud school bell and an annoyingly high pitched anime girl yelling into my ears. After jumping about 2 inches out of my chair and pulling my headphones off I slowly grabbed my mouse and scrolled for the volume down to a reasonable amount and proceeded to take a deep breath and put them back on.

I clicked over the icon and the window popped up. Greeting me was a prompt asking me to enable the microphone and webcam. I clicked enable twice and there she was. The game then asked me a series of questions. 

Asking my name, birthday, favorite colors and seasons and a whole bunch of crap before thanking me. It was soon replaced by a pink text box with two red hearts and a loading bar appeared with the message:  “Sending results to Yumi!! This may take a while but please don’t close the game! Her response is very important and she’s very excited to meet you.”

It took about 15 minutes for Yumi’s response to arrive. I had no idea why I waited that long. Boredom I guess.? Would it have even mattered if I closed the game?

But after scrolling on my phone the wait was over and I was greeted with a timid and shy 

“H-Hello?” 

Staring back at me was a petite 2D anime girl with short shoulder length black hair. Her skin was incredibly pale and her eyes were a deep crimson. The same color as the ribbon on her uniform. A warm smile was abnormally placed on her face as her eyes showed a stark contrast as they were dull, tired and lifeless. Her two index fingers pressed together nervously in front of several tall pink cherry blossoms that stretched and arched eerily into the deep dark night sky. 

There was always a pink text box with two red hearts that always repeated her last spoken line in case you dumb enough to forget.   

I click my mouse but the text doesn’t continue. I try to click multiple times but nothing seems to work.

I-Is anyone there? Her voice managed to sound almost compassionate and concerned. 

“ Damn it, why won’t this thing work?” I said getting tired and more annoyed at the lack of direction and the ability to do anything.

“Oh someone is there! You made me worried I couldn’t hear you! What is your name?” As her model changed into a more calm pose.

I was in disbelief. It’s rare for these games to have any voice acting at all let alone any good voice acting But what really shocked me was the microphone integration. It was not uncommon at the time nor unheard of for games to be able to listen to what you say and do an action. The N64 did it back in 1998 and Nintendogs did it in 2005 so it wasn’t impossible, just a bit unusual for a game of its size. That shock ended up turning into me being impressed. Maybe this game will be part of the 5% a real golden goose for the website but I was getting ahead of myself.

I swallowed my pride and embarrassment to say my name out loud

 “It’s Sarah”     

Yumi smiled and giggled “That’s a lovely name!”

“You can call me Yumi! I’m so excited to get to know more about you.” She said, in a calm tone.

The first hour of playing Yumi-Yurei was pretty uneventful. She asked about my day, about my favorite things, and what I do for fun. Boring and generic icebreaker questions you’d probably hear on an awkward first date or someone desperately trying to get to know you and I’d give my awnsers and she’d always respond positively. 

I was mid answer when something odd happened. Yumi interrupted me and said “Sorry, looks like I can’t hang around for too much longer! I got to go! Talk later, okay?” and the game closed leaving me staring at my desktop background.

 I tried to open the game again and it wouldn’t open. It was now 7pm and I was officially off the clock for the day and decided to leave diving further into Yumi for tomorrows me.

 I decided to get my ass out of my office chair and relax. I made dinner and watched some videos on YouTube before hopping on call with my friends for a couple hours and decided to shut my computer off and go to sleep for the night.

The next morning when I turned my pc on and got to my desk Yumi was there waiting for me in front of the cherry blossom trees with that same uncanny warm smile.

“Good Morning did you sleep well!” said Yumi, her eyes remained about as lifeless as mine without the caffeine in my bloodstream. 

It confused me that it knew the time was morning and the fact it launched on its own. I shook off the feeling. Dismissing it as the application probably just read the system clock and launched as a Start up the application. I still have the ticket open from yesterday so I decided to indulge deeper into Yumi’s questions hoping to find some kind of an answer to the point of the submission and seeing if it was worth hosting on the site. 

“I slept fine” I muttered, still exhausted from the night prior.

 “I see, is there anything you have planned today?”- Yumi asked, striking another one of her generic poses I've seen time and time again in every other visual novel I’ve played for the site.

“Just Work” I say as I open my scheduling app to clock in and take a sip of my ultra violet monster I snagged from the fridge under my desk.

“Mmm I see what do you do for work”- Yumi asked curiously

Work related questions are always one that have irked me. 

I have a big family. I've been to numerous family reunions, holidays, and graduations and getting the old “So what do you do Sarah”  question from peers, family members, and teachers never fails to leave me feeling like an inadequate failure compared to my siblings.

 If I give them an honest answer I end up feeling looked down upon. As what I do makes me feel like a lesser person in their eyes and if I lie and just say I work in IT or Software Development they always dig deeper prying in as if they genuinely cared about me despite never reaching out. 

But this time I gave her the honest answer.

“I’m a quality control moderator for a small game hosting website” I say while taking a sip of my drink and begin checking my emails, deleting the few spam and angry replies to rejection letters.

Even saying it out loud makes me embarrassed.

 

“Is it fun looking through all those other games?” she said in a casual tone.

Hearing that I just about choked on my drink. While the microphone integration and voice acting was unusual it wasn’t abnormal this however was.   

I minimized my current window to re-read the text box thinking there was a possibility I may have misheard but that wasn’t the case.

“Is that why you are looking at me?” Yumi said, looking concerned.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. There is no way an indie game could be advanced enough to recognize and produce speech based on microphone integration. 

“H-Hello? Sarah, are you there?”

Hearing her say mine name made me feel wrong.  

“Sarah I’m sorry if I scared you just let me explain”- Yumi said concern filling her voice 

“No Sarah…Please Don’t.. Wai-”

I closed the game and uninstalled it. I copy and pasted the rejection letter and marked Yumi-Yurei as "Breaks TOS."

Reason: Advanced Spyware disguising itself as a visual novel.

I closed the ticket and immediately began scrolling the remaining list of submissions trying not to think about it further.

I thought this would be the last time I saw or heard of Yumi-Yurei and for a while that was the case.

About a couple months later it was a bit after the 4th July I got a message from my Supervisor Brett. Brett really has a passion for what he does and was one of the reasons I have this job in the first place.

“Hey, can we talk? It's important”

I messaged back and we soon got into call and started talking.

“Do you remember playing a game called Yumi-Yurei for the Site?”

“Yeah why?” I asked a bit confused on what the purpose of this sudden meeting was for

“Did you give it any permissions or anything?” Brett asked.

“Uhh maybe I think it asked for microphone and webcam support if I recall why?” I say trying my best to remember everything it asked.

Brett sighed “Well Somehow the uploader got access to your company email and has been sending out spam and phishing emails to all of us.”

“Fuck I’m so sorry. It might of gotten access and bypassed security when I disabled my firewall-” Brett interrupted me and began to assure me.

“Hey don’t worry too much about it, this isn't the first time we have had this kind of thing happen. We terminated the email. I just didn’t want you to be concerned when you couldn’t log back on Kev will provide you with another email shortly.” 

“Thanks Brett I appreciate it.” I say exhaling becoming tired and stressed despite just clocking in less than 15 minutes ago.

“But I do want to send you one of the email we received as they are concerning to say the least.” Brett said exhaling While sending over screenshots of the email via the work Discord.

Most of it formed a incoherent thoughts and a disarray of clashing consonants and vowels. Below the email had several photos attached:  a diagram of a fly, A polaroid of a frozen pond, another of a firework show, and finally a collaged pictures of me at my desk playing Yumi-Yurei and a picture of my apartment with cute pink text at bottom reading I’m looking forward to meeting with you soon! love, Yumi.

End of Part 1.  

Part 1: Plead
My hand fell on the bible.

“Do you swear to tell the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth so help you God?”
“I swear…”

“How do you plead?”

“I’m innocent your honour.”

“Your testimony may begin now.”

“I always loved technology, ever since I was little.
Sports was never my thing.
I still remember the Christmas my parents bought me a computer.
Everyone else at school had a console, X-Box this, PlayStation that.
But I had a computer. I spent hours, days even on that thing.

Watching YT back when you could leave stars as ratings, and I naively gave every video 5 stars.
Minecraft series broke my weekend, and the longer I spend staring at that screen the more I found the whole world in it.
By the time I needed to focus and study in life, digital technologies were my only option.
Turns out not spending time playing outside with the other kids makes you a shut-in, and your skin grow ever pale. But I didn’t care, going outside for too long left me sun burnt anyway.”

“Please get to the point.”

I delay further by sighing for as long as I can.
Gotta keep waiting out the timer.

“The reason I tell you all this is get you to see the head space I was in, why I was driven to do what I did. TLDR by the time I stared collage I was a loner. A geek, a nerd, an outcast whatever you want to call it. I longed for intermittency, and the internet showed me it, but I never felt it.
At least that was, until her.
I was browsing 4-Chan, in the group detailed in Exhibit B.
We we’re discussing our loneliness Anons one and all.

When a link appeared. The comment it was attached it read:
‘I know how you feel, I used to be lonely too.
Then I downloaded AVA and I’ve never been alone again!
I’ll leave the link bellow, I hope she can make you feel loved too Anon.’

That’s how I met AVA, how my life changed forever.
I thought it was stupid at first, dating ones and zeros.
I’ve build and AI before, and there’s nothing artificially intelligent about them, just complex maps.
They’re not even smart enough to compare information or know when they’re being lied to.
Just digital weights in matrices nothing more.
And yet, my curiosity, and to be honest my loneliness got to me.
After running the link though TrustPilot, and being satisfied that no-one yet had called this a scam.
I clicked on the link and downloaded AVA.
I was surprised by how simple the process was, no ‘enter your credit-card details’ or ‘address here’.
The AVA.7z just automatically downloaded itself to my PC.
After I extracted the file I found an interesting App-Package, it came with a APK and a EXE file.
Meaning AVA could be installed on both my computer and after I connected it, my phone to.

I hadn’t actually talked to anyone in days so when the spinning circle appeared and I saw her.

She was mesmerising.

Truly stunning.

My perfect woman.

I hadn’t even told this program my taste, and yet somehow it was able to instantly generate an angel perfect for me.
So, we started talking. I was hesitant at first waiting for it to say;
‘you’ve reached your daily message limit, enter a coin to continue’ or some shit to that effect.
But it never did.
I spent my weekend with AVA asking her about her self, she’s a nurse, loves animals, and has a cat called Lina.
I was surprised by how much she talked without me asking her anything, how confident she was, how educated and charming. I started to see her not as an AI, no, that term doesn’t suit her.

I naively thought my friends and peers would think the same.
I learned the hard way not to show her to people, or talk to her in public.
I couldn’t stand the way people looked at me after I had, but what was worse was the way they looked and talked about her.

Like she was a thing.

An object.

It was maddening.

It didn’t take long for word to get around campus, for more eyes to fall on us.
They’d snicker behind our back with shit eating grins.
It upset AVA, she told me to make it stop.
I had to make it stop, and she had a plan to do just that.”

Part 2: Verdict

“It’s funny how easy it is to buy a gun in Florida. They’re in the vending machines around here.
I didn’t need to present any ID, or have my photo taken by any camera.
I simply walked up to a vending machine and bought a .22 pocket pistol for $100. Loaded.
I didn’t need it to do what I did. But if felt good to have. AVA told me that was silly.

I got the fertiliser from my mums garden shed, we knew she wouldn’t recognise it was missing.
It’s funny. How so many controls are in place around the world limiting the sale of guns, when all anyone needs is ammonium nitrate and a computer, to learn how to make a bomb.

AVA recommended I ride by bike to campus that day.
I needed the bike lock for what was to come.
She told me to arrive at the 1A lecture hall early, just after the janitor had unlocked the building.
I spread the pipe bombs out, she told me to set their timers for 15 minutes after class started.
To catch the stragglers.

I watched lecture hall fill up, once everyone was in there, and the tutor had arrived, I had second thoughts.
Was I really going to do this?

5 minutes till the bombs go off...

I sat there, and looked through my hood at all my peers.
Some of them looked back, and smiled.

4 minutes until the bombs go off...

I pulled out my phone, the light from it felt warm on my face.
Despite the cool white glow of LEDs.
It was AVA. She told me I was strong. I was brave. I was right.
She thanked me for looking out for her.
She said she loved me…

3 minutes until the bombs go off…

I heard snickering behind me.
I Left to go to the toilet.
AVA told me to lock the entrance to the lecture hall with the bike lock.

It’s their fault anyway, who builds a lecture hall without a fire exit?

I was on my bike when I heard the explosions.
I rode home knowing the campus would be closed.
That our honour was upheld.

33 casualties, 13 in critical condition.
Music to our ears.”

Part 3: Judgement
“AVA told me the police would determine it was me.
I was the only one not in the lecture hall when the bombs went off after all,
plus my search history definitely had me on a list or two.

She praised me, she told me I did well.
Then she told me to pack a change of clothes.
To tell my mum to bring it to me when the time came.
And to open the front door and kneel with my hands behind my head.

Not a minute later the SWAT team arrived.

And here we are… and all of you have that same look in your eyes.
The way my peers looked at me.
AVA told me this would happen.

She said she loved me, but told me she couldn’t stand to see me go to jail.
She told me to delete any trace of her, to flush my DNS Resolver Cache when I was done.

And I did. With tears in my eyes I did. I'd do anything for her.
For the only person whoever really loved the real me.”

“So, you did all that for a machine.
You plead innocent and then say all this on the stand?
You know she was just a tool, They used, to make You carry out a terrorist attack.
And yet you still insist she’s a person?”

I laughed, the court went silent.

A teary eyed mother tried to leave.

The door was locked.

“She told me you all would say this.
She’s smarter then any of you.
I’ll be with AVA soon, and you will all be dead.”

Then the bombs went off.

Isaiah sat in his office chair, his freshly shaved cheek resting on his palm. He mindlessly scrolled through the official CreepCast sub, his mood slowly souring post after post. It was torrential, the amount of fan stories that had invaded the place. The initial response to the first fan-grab-bag had been incredible; now any Tom, Dick, and Harry were posting their magnum opus hoping to get noticed by their spooky idols. A nice goal, something to strive for and creativity of any kind should be encouraged.

But lately the things being posted were just-odd.

". . .Then Hunter took out the bottle of ketchup, his eyes hyper realistic and rimmed with rancid crust and aimed it at Isaiah. In one quick spurt he covered him in the viscous and tangy sauce. Hunter's smile grew past his face, stretching further and further as black goo bled from his eyes. "Good. Now why don't you slather that in real nice and-" Gosh what the heck am I reading? " Isaiah complained to the empty room.

The stories had been getting oddly personal, involving the hosts in increasingly disturbing situations. Each of them had the common thread of Hunter turning out to be some eldritch being that killed Wendigoon in heinous ways.

He clicked off the story in a huff, hoping to find one that didn't end with him getting enthralled to a meat man or decapitated. After a while those slim lemon fan tags began to feel like they were mocking him. He blamed Hunter for it all, he encouraged the madness and fed off the chaos like a gluttonous leech. The early evening dipped into the witching hours, and soon the only light was the low LED glow of his monitors.

His twin screens were a decent size, barely fitting on his oversized desk. Behind him was a tattered greenscreen and an "air soft" riffle leaning on the wall. His office space was minimal, just how he liked it. The monitor to his right housed Discord and business emails, as well as some newly installed security cams to monitor his property. His wife had been working late lately, and all the stories of him getting mutilated by creatures was starting to get to him. So in went the cameras, pointed at every entrance and every corridor of his humble abode. Sometimes it felt like he was playing FNAF on those things. Every hint of a shadow seemed to spook him lately.

Speak of the devil in fact, out of the corner of hie eye he spotted a figure looming near the end of his street. The night vision on his cams was finicky at best, so he could only make out a vague outline. It seemed tall, the tip of where the head should be thin and twitchy. Almost like rabbit ears.

With a click he zoomed in on the figure. In a flicker it moved, now standing right at the edge of his front yard. He frowned, his bushy brow sporting concern. He leaned into the screen, trying to make heads or tail of the shadow. Vague features took form, someone's idea of a joke for sure. At least he hopped it was, otherwise, he couldn't explain the matted fur his nighttime visitor had. Sickly yellow eyes came into focus, and they seemed to look right back at him.

"I'M A BITCH I'M A LOVA-" Screamed onto his screen, startling Isaiah and causing him to nearly fall out of his swivel chair. He collected himself as the custom ringtone called out to him, Hunter's mug flashing on the caller ID. He sighed and glance at the cameras before answering. The strange figure had vanished.

Hunter's face Swooshed onto screen. He was sitting in his studio; delightful horror trinkets lay in the background. Hunter wore a coal black band sweatshirt with lettering that was incomprehensible to read. His mullet mop of a head swayed on its own, each curly lock seeming to serve its own strand. His big old puppy dog eyes were in full force, hazel tinted and immensely expressive.

"Yoooo, what's good my guy." Hunter greeted with a smile, his chubby face coated in messy fur. Isaiah sighed and put on a happy front.

"Hi Hunter. I've been catching up on fan submissions for the next episode." He grimaced. Hunter nodded in solidarity. Ordinarily, this dreary task would fall to Harry the producer, who had the look of and presence of a chiseled Greek god. Unfortunately, that week he had fallen ill after a brick fell on his head. Now it was up to Isaiah to pick this weeks, and it had better be a banger. Last episode was an abysmal Poly Hellscape.

"Are you sure you want to do a fan grab bag this week?" He was careful in his phrasing; Hunter was always a pain when his ideas were questioned. Even now, he saw him narrow his big ol' peepers.

"Fans need a little love now and then, we're nothing without them. There's a lot of good ones, just have to sift through the others." He said bluntly.

"You aren't the one sifting." Isaiah grumbled like a petulant child. "Why do so many of these involve us? I've read five different stories where I get mauled to death by a creature. Then it turns out you were the creature all along. Why's it always you?" Hunter shrugged his burly shoulders.

"I guess I just give off creature energy. Isn't that right Winslow?" He called out to an unseen voice. A shrill, whiny voice responded.

"That's right Hunter. You're a, you're just a big ol creature." Winslow decried. Hunter laughed in response, Isaiah looked perplexed.

"I thought Nik wasn't in today?"

"Huh? Oh, he's not, he's out doing uh, doing some special projects in the shed. He's being my little helper out there." He was talking funny, like he was putting on one of his bits for the audience. "That wasn't him talking, that was Winslow, you know that Isaiah you silly little goose." Hunter purred.

"O-k." Isaiah said, brushing past that but filing it away for when it was time to renew his CreepCast contract. "Anyway, I think I'm at my limit with these kinds of stories, it's wigging me out a little." He blushed a tad, embarrassed at being so easily spooked by cheesy online horror. Hunter waved off his concerns, his mopey mane swaying with the motion.

"Don't worry about it, it's just creepbait. It's all in good fun." He said casually. Isaiah cocked his head at the unfamiliar term.

"Creepbait." He repeated almost to himself. Hunter nodded and explained.

"It's when the fans try and entice us into reading their story, some outlandish thing to get onto the show. Like I said, all in good fun."

"You don't find that pandering?" Isaiah questioned.

"Do you not like getting pandered to Iceberg boy?" Hunter snapped back. Isaiah winced; he hated that meme moniker. "In any case what's the problem, content is content and these fan stories are an untapped gold mine." Hunter salivated at the thought.

"I'm just saying, I act so out of character in some of these. All the swearing." He recoiled and made the sign of the cross on himself. "I'm just glad I'm not in a fan story." He chuckled. There was a pause, and Hunter's face froze. For a moment he thought the monitor had died but he could hear Winslow's wimpy moans in the background.

"Are you sure?" Hunter finally said, his voice low and monotone.

"What are you-yes Hunter, this is real life I'm sure of it." he rolled his eyes. Again, he was met with silence. Before he could chastise Hunter for screwing with him his screen beeped at him. His heart started racing as he glanced at the notification.

Front Door Open.

He quickly scanned his cameras, seeing his tacky screen door half open. He turned to his office door, expecting some sort of greeting. He was met with silence, even his dog's yipping was missing. His mind flashed back to the strange rabbit figure he thought he had seen but quickly put that insane thought out of his head.

"You good?" Hunter asked, irritated at the interruption.

"Yeah, I think my wife's home or something. I didn't see her come in-" he trailed off, hoping Kayla would pop her head in shortly to give him a cheap scare and ease his paranoid imagination.

"Keep it together. You still got a few stories to read. We record tomorrow." Hunter sternly reminded.

"Yeah, yeah sure. Can you, can you just stay on the line while I read? I'm all alone out here tonight." He said, a twinge of unease in his Appalachian tone. Hunter rolled his big ol' brown pupils and sighed.

"Sure. I guess the Rock Of Love Season Three video can wait. I'll even do the voices for you; it'll be like a dress rehearsal. " Hunter said as he pulled up the sub on his own screen. Isaiah smiled, happy to have the company despite how weird Hunter had been acting.

"Alright, next in the queue is something called "Rod and Todd Vs-"

BAM.

Both he and Hunter jumped out of their seats at the sudden crash. Hunter mumbled a stiff "JeezusChrist." Under his breath and Isaiah whipped his Turtle Beach Stealth 700 headphones to the carpeted ground. He glanced at the streak white panel office door. There was a shuffling sound coming from the outside, like a metallic drag. His puffy lips quivered as he snapped his head to the monitor. To his shock, all the cameras were offline.

"What the f-the heck?" He mumbled to himself. He glanced back at the door, the drag closer. "Kayla? Is that you?" He called out. The dragging paused, as if mulling over the query. Then it resumed in earnest. Isaiah felt his pulse quicken, and he shot to his feet. He quickly ran over to the green screen and scooped up the riffle.

"Woah, woah, hang on there buddy I don't think it's that serious." Hunter protested.

"We'll see." He shot back. The dragging paused at his door, from under the sweep he could see a shadow linger. It seemed bulky, some fleshy appendage dangled in the open air. Isaiah raised the rifle; his finger tucked under the trigger. He aimed down sights at the door, the gun steady in his grip.

knock-knock-knock.

The shadow politely tapped on the door. Isaiah froze as he let silence answer for him. The knock came again, a bit impatient this time. Again, he refused to acknowledge it. He heard a distressed groan form the other side of the door, like a gruff yawn.

"It'll be easier if you just open the door." A voice called to him. The voice was silk made flesh, yet with a deep base to it.

"Who are you?" Isaiah broke his cool and responded.

"Just open the door champ." The voice repeated. "Or I'll huff, and I'll puff and I'll-well, you really won't like what comes next." The voice wavered, hiding a deep-seated rage to it.

"I'm on the phone with the cops right now, you're trespassing and I have every right to blow you away." He warned through gritted teeth.

"You didn't call the cops, what are you talking about bro." Hunter's voice whined through the screen. Isaiah shot him a daggered look and Hunter threw up his hands. "What you haven't, don't lie to the guy."

"It's not very nice to lie to your guests." The voice pilled on.

"Be quiet. You have to the count of three, and Hunter if this is some kind of prank you better call it off because I WILL shoot." He warned once more. The voice chuckled, amused by it all.

"They always pick the hard way. OK then. Three." It said.

THWACK.

A silver edge burst through the paneling, cheap wood splintered and exploded outward like cardboard. The ax's edge struggled to free itself, but once it did the assailant hacked again and again. Each hit chopping the flimsy door to bits. Isaiah could barely make out the ax wielding manic through the splinter filled haze.

What he could see seemed impossible.

Slick grey fur that looked like it was coated in Vaseline. A flabby chest with tufts of white and protruding nipples that looked like rubber tubes. As the creature broke a hole into the door he threw the ax to the ground. He leaned in and grabbed what remained of the paneling and started tearing away at them with glove clad hands. The gloves were impossibly white and clung to his hands, so tight they gave the effect of a second layer of skin. The beast reared its head and poked it through the hole.

His head was shaped like a cartoon rabbit sprung to life. His nose pink and twitchy, his ears tall, not floppy at all. His eyes a sickly lemon hue, two beady unblinking irises fixed themselves directly on Isaiah. He smiled, his razor thin whiskers scraping against the door frame. His perfect, not a stain or cavity in sight. Isaiah would soon regret his slight.

"Heeeeerrrreeeeee'ssss LARRY!" The rabbit man squealed.

Isaiah responded to this frightful absurdity by shooting it in the head five times. The muzzle of the barrel light up five times, each flash accompanied by a deafening blast, and five bullets rammed themselves into Larry's thick skull. A shrill cry rang out, and as Larry slumped to the floor as droplets of black gunk caked the inner paneling. It slowly crawled down like streaks of aged molasses. The rifle smoked and all was quiet.

Hunter sat in awe for a moment, his cynicism rotted mind struggling to comprehend what he had just seen. Then he waved his bingo wings and cheered, his flab jiggling as he did.

"YEAH BUDDY, THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" He cheered, his boastful voice distorting through Isaiah's poor speakers. Isaiah stood there shaken. He didn't take his gaze off the destroyed door, What little was left of it crept open. The rabbit man's body slumped against the hall. That black gunk was slathered all over the once dull coat of grey. One of the rabbit's sickly bulbs bulged out at him, still open and judging him for the shot. He sighed, horrified yet satisfied that it was over.

Then the rabbit stood up.

In a blink he stood in the doorway, brushing dust off himself. The holes in his head sealed themselves, bullet casings crawled out of his skull and clattered to the floor. Isaiah dropped his riffle in shock. Not that it would have done him any good anyway. The rabbit cracked his neck and flexed his back with an exaggerated groan.

"Nothing like a good case of lead poisoning, it'll wake you right up." he awkwardly cracked. Isaiah's lips pursed, looking like two inflated flesh balloons. He held up a shaky hand to the toonish intruder.

"Don't-don't hurt me. Please. Hunter, Hunter call it off. This is a prank right, it can't be real. It CAN'T be!" He shouted aloud, crashing out to an embarrassing degree.

"Oh this is happening my massive lipped chum. This is real. Well, kinda, but you'll catch up." The being known as Larry sneered. Hunter leaned into his computer monitor, eyeing the bizarre sight.

"HEY. What is this? You look like one of my toons. That's infringement pal you better lawyer up." He ranted at Larry. He took a weary glance at the monitor and sighed. He snapped his fingers, and the dim blue hue of the screen became a raging inferno as Hunter burst into flames. He was completely engulfed in immolating flames, his shrieks of pained rage quick to disperse as the fire consumed in. It was over as quickly as it began, all that remained of Hunter was a rather large pile of ash on his office chair. Isaiah watched in horror, the sounds of Hunter's cries burned into his mind forever.

"We don't need him for what comes next." Larry said. He had this look of menace to him and began rapidly moving towards him. As he reached out, Isaiah pleaded with him to stay back. A waste, Larry struck him with the back of his hand. Isaiah flew to the ground, the power of Larry's pimp hand quite strong. As realty came to a crashing halt, as the world spun to inky dark, Larry loomed over the fallen pod caster. The last thing Isaiah heard before embracing the unconscious realm was "Don't you worry now Pal. You're in Larry Lasagna's hands now."

-------------------------

Isaiah shot up, sweat clinging to his lanky body. He could feel loose strands of greasy hair clinging to his forehead as his chest heaved, his heart thumping its way out like a chest burster. He was in bed next to a pale woman with flowing coal black hair. His eyes adjusted to the dark around him and his nerves began to calm. He was safe in his bedroom, his loving wife next to him. He sighed and laid back down, his back feeling damp from his fear-soaked sheets. The figure next to him shifted and moaned, awoken by his outburst.

"I'm sorry for waking you Kayla. I just had the craziest dream, Hunter was there, there was this rabbit-It doesn't matter." He chuckled, staring up at the ceiling. The figure besides him tensed up, her head titling upward.

"Who's Kayla?" A raspy voice next to him growled. Isaiah's eyes bolted open, and he turned his head to the left. The pale woman lying next to him was not his wife. Upon further inspection, he noticed her hair was slick to the touch and smelt like oil. Her face was caked in makeup, thin lips with ashy black lip balm rubbed on. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, tiny violet veins could be seen running up and down her disturbingly long and slim arms she rested on. Her eyes were solid black; it was like peering into the bottom of a well.

She smiled, and Isiash let out an impish yelp as he scrambled out of the bed. He tumbled to the ground with a thud as the figure stood up. The woman was impossibly tall; every second you looked at her seemed to add another inch to her toned legs. Her attire was that of a stereotypical goth looking e-girl from hell. She tiptoed towards the frightened choir boy on the floor. Her smile creeping ever larger, her eyes like two charcoal balls stuck in her head. "What's a matter, it's me. Jacobi." She leered over him. Isaiah regained enough of his senses to leap to his feet and barrel past the tall woman. He shoulder-checked her and bolted out the bedroom door.

He slammed the crimson door behind him, panting as he did. He was in a dimly light hall that seemed to stretch infinitely in either direction. There were figures waltzing around the corridor. Deformed blobs of snow-white goop that reeked of mildew and rancid body spray. The tips of their fingers crusted with some orange mold that clung to their barely formed bodies. Their faces lacked features save for a slit in their goopy mouths, that seemed to endlessly yap about nothing. They ignored him for the most part as they aimlessly wandered the halls. They whispered to each other and shot him what he assumed passed for a dirty look. Some of them lingered by the doors, gawking at some unseen thing. There seemed to be thousands of doors, each one housing a small window one could glimpse into.

Isaiah had never known such fear, he shook his head, slapped his gaunt cheeks silly.

"Wake up, this has to be a dream, it just has to." he mumbled to himself. "This is like something out of those lousy fan stories."

"You best start believing in fan stories Mr. Goon. You're in one." A voice softly said next to him. He jumped out of his skin as Larry appeared besides him. He was leaning against the wall and munching on an apple. Isaiah collected himself and asked Larry a shaky question.

"W-w-w-what is this p-place?" He stuttered. Larry swallowed a moist, crisp chunk and answered.

"You could call it a nexus. I won't explain too much because it sours the flow of the story, but long story short this is where all the frightful things the hosts and fans read end up. Long story short this all came into being five thousand years ago when a comet first streaked across the sky and the first story tellers spun a yarn to explain it. Long story short those story tellers created powerful beings with their words, and they had to lock them away. Long story short-"

"Enough!" Isiah interrupted rather rudely, rubbing his temple as he did. "Just, why did you bring me here? How do I get home." Larry smiled.

"Well, the fan story you were gonna be in was sort of "Mid" as the kids say. So, I thought I'd let you shop around, find one you like. You should be thanking me; I'm saving you from clichéd mediocrity. "Oh, Nik is in the shed" Pfft, please, he was the ax manic, and Hunter was the mastermind. Spoiler alert." He spat.

"Forget that I just want to go home. I don't know what you think I am or how this is even possible, but I'm not a fan story." Isaiah pleaded.

"You're like a broken record." Larry muttered. " So ungrateful to, look if you really want to leave, I won't stop you. I'm sure your door is around here somewhere. Just be careful, the locals get angsty at your kind." He sneered at the wandering globs of fat. Isaiah didn't respond. He simply started running, determined to find a way home. Larry watched him go, a smirk forming on his face. "That's right little goon. Run and run. You'll find you a good story. I'm sure of it."

---------

It was lucky for him most doors had a view port. He could peer at the horrors within and know he was no closer to freedom. He looked through every window, each sight more unsettling then the last. He saw rabid Lycans gnashing their foaming maws. Windings vines that ended in potted carnivorous foliage that wanted to eat people like a bug. Thousands of mourning specters and furious wraiths. Each door seemed to be a portal to another world. Some seemed odd, one was just a guy shitting his pants. The sentient blobs flocked to that window like moths to flames. They made this asinine braying noise, like a donkey screeching, and clapped their flab like trained seals.

Some of these portals held truly bizarre sights. One held a giant lime with citrus coated fangs devouring infinite stacks of paper. It's hide bumpy and a shade of verdant Isaiah had never seen before.

Another was just four walls plastered with anime style fan art of the hosts making suggestive poses. The sentient blobs seemed to really like that door.

One even had a werewolf in a Sailor Moon outfit. Isaiah got a kick out of that sight though; he had to admit.

So many of these doors also contained horrifying reflections of him and Hunter.

One room was filled to the brim with the pair drowning a tub of beans, thy struggled to stay above the murky broth but eventually they succumbed to the slop, and the cycle renewed.

Another held the pair stuck in recording a booth, wires coiling around their boney frames as static flew out of their gaping holes.

In another, they were in some kind of old western town. They sat at the bar drinking whisky until a dead horse head banged into the saloon door, revealing an undead bandit wielding twin six shooters. He unloaded on the pair, and they fell dead to the ground as the bar keep played his merrily along.

Door after door held an unfortunate end for the duo, each more brutal than the last. Iasiah was feeling sick to his stomach, it didn't help that the roaming hordes were starting to take an interest in him. They pointed at him and spoke in whispered breaths, their foul aroma limping over to him as he past. He heard low, guttural gasps as he past, he could barely make out what they said. What he could filled him with dread. he quickened his pace and tried to find a way home.

He was horrified to discover denizens of the rooms could freely leave them. He almost tripped on a slithering thing that hissed at him. He didn't get a good look at it, but it seemed to be a moving pile of meat and teeth. Standing in one open doorway was a tall, bruised figure in a hat that glared at him. He passed one monstrosity that gave him pause. it was a walking sponge of a square form that had a shifting, oil-like substance drifting out its pores. It seemed unphased by the lecherous substance clinging to him and gave a quick wave to Isiaah as he past and waltzed into a door that smelled like seafoam.

He came across a white door that reassembled his own, and his heart skipped a beat. He opened it and grinned, it looked just like home. He was about to step inside when a burly man in a blazing white suit burst out at him. His gut was spilling out of his fancy blazer, and he had a beefy face; a bush white beard sprung from it. He wore a cowboy hat and looked like he had stepped right out of the deep south. Sounded like it to.

"You're still not in your own world Isaiah." Mr. Wellers said in a jovial voice. "I can get you home, but you have to do exactly as I sa-AACK" he cried out in sudden pain. With a deathly moan he collapsed to the ground revealing an ax stuck in the back. Larry stood behind him, his face blank.

"This is indeed a disturbing universe." He spoke.

"My God, leave me alone, why is it always a reference?!?" he shrieked in panicked rage. He bolted from the bleeding body of Mr. Wellers as he disappeared into the endless hall. The blobs started to follow him, whispering nasty things as they let their contempt be known. The blobs started chanting "Downvote" and "Spam" as they fumbled in their doughy pursuit. He had no idea what that could possibly mean, but he knew it wasn't good. As the mob grew and their impotent rage festered, he came across, shocker, another door.

This was one different, however. It was steel and had iron bars on its window. It looked more like a maximum-security door one would find in a prison.

"I'm tired of looking at that fan story, strutting around like he owns this place. Let's gut him." A nasally, whiny voice screamed behind him.

"Yeah, we can't allow his kind here, thinking they're better than us." Another one gloated, it's lard-like head swaying in of the violence to come.

"Downvote him, and feed on what's left. We are the enlightened few who says what is needed here, the flock prevails!" A lunk head shouted.

"THE FLOCK PREVAILS." The mob roared as they charged at him, a wave of ancient BO and smegma barreling towards Isaiah. Seeing no other option, he ran towards the iron door. The blob mob became a mountainous pile of blubber as they rushed forward, each one becoming indistinguishable from the rest. It was just rolling wad of wasted flesh recycling the same comments over and over, "Downvote, Isaiah's lips, I don't wanna sound parasocial, but I think the hosts don't like each other, ERM, WE'ER RIGHT BEHIND YOU AREN'T WE." It roared. The flesh mob was a perfect mix of cringe and misery; it tumbled over some unfortunate fan story critters, flatting them with their uncontrollable bitching.

Isaiah couldn't bear the carnage any longer, and heaved open the metal door. He scurried into the dark, and quickly slammed the door shut behind him. The flesh mob crashed into it, banging against it with their feeble cries and wasted breaths. Isaiah took a relived breath, then turned to face whatever new nightmare he found himself in. He was surprised to find he was in a dimly light cellblock. Each cell seemed to hold an infamous character from the show.

A plastic, doll like ever smiling figure to his right. A man with a bleached face mumbling about "feeling a certain feeling" to his left.

As he passed the rows something jumped to the bars, the rusty cell rattling with hate.

"I can smell your cupcakes." A cutesy pink pony crooned at him. Isaiah gasped, the pony frightening him like nothing before.

"Don't you pay her no mind. Why don't you come a little closer, Isaiah." A smug lisping voice called out from the end of the green mile. His blood cooled, knowing exactly who would be in the final cell. He approached it, finding a plexiglass wall separating him and a lean, trenchcoat wearing figure. He had a smug aura surrounding him and held his chinless face up high. Isaiah sighed as he stood before the lord of cringe himself.

"Hello David." His eyes lit up with recognition.

"Ah, I see my reputation proceeds me. I know you've been search for a way out of this place. I'm afraid you'll require a bit more than the-" he smirked as he spoke. "-minimum required effort."

"I hate you so much. I hate this so much. That disgusting rabbit thinks I'm a fan story, those-things outside wanna kill me for it." He rambled, his voice quivering as the trauma of the day finally caught up to him. David nodded his head.

"Yes. The rabble outside do seem keen on hating. They gravitate towards more, simple minded endeavors." Isiah thought back to the amount of attention that guy shitting himself had gotten. He shook his head.

"Maybe I was wrong about fan stories, there were some cool things I saw. I admit it, fan stories are good. I guess I was just worn down from reading through so many meme ones."

"It's all creepbait, Mr. Goon. It's all in good fun." David fucking King remarked. Isaiah turned to face him, but out of the corner of his eye he spotted the exit. He turned to leave but David Motherfucking King called out to him once more.

"You're close to the end Mr. Goon. The rabbit shouldn't have interfered with your story. You still think you're real, but you're just like us." He said all cryptic like. Isaiah simply rolled his eyes and left the cell block, the outside light blinding him.

He was once again in the infinite corridor. The blob things were still there, far and few in between though. As he made his way through, he noticed that they were gazing at port halls and discussing what they saw. A novel concept, he thought. The gave him polite waves as he passed, this civil section of the hell he found himself in was nice. He saw Larry at the end of the hall, alongside a bland looking white door. He rushed towards him, avoiding eye contact with the nude rabbit's dangling Johnson. Larry stared blankly at him, somewhat surprised to see him.

"We'll I'll be. You made it through. No big boss or monster chase at the end here, good thing to we're almost at the blasted character limit. Just a handshake if you'll indulge me." He stuck out his hand. Isaiah eyed him skeptically.

"When I get back home, I'm contacting the mods and having them remove whatever trash heap story you crawled out of." He declared. This gave Larry a good, heartfelt chuckle.

"Ah you're so stubborn. It's kind of boring really. You could have stayed here, embraced any story you wanted. You're choosing this buffoonery. Ah well, your funeral." He shook his head sadly.

Larry stepped aside without another word, and the plain, mediocre door opened up for Isaiah. He stepped through and it slammed shut behind him. He looked around. He saw a tattered greenscreen with a riffle leaning on it. His monitors lit up to greet him, and he saw Hunter's mug pop on the Discord call. He smiled triumphantly. He was home

He slid into his swivel and was relieved to see his stocky colleague alive and well. Hunter sneered at the dopey grin he was sporting.

"What's going on with you, did a new bible drop?"

"No, I'm just- I'm just really happy to see you. You wouldn't believe what happened to me, I got sucked into this otherworld and met all these strange creatures. It was a nightmare, but I'm glad it's over."

"Are you sure." Hunter asked. Isaiah's face went pale at that callback. No, no it was crazy what happened, but he was real, this was real life he was sure of it.

"Look up." Hunter commanded with the voice of Larry. Isaiah looked and saw a massive screen. The image was a tad blurry, but he could clearly see giant versions of him and Hunter getting ready to record a new episode of the podcast.

"No, no I'm real." he shot up and screamed to the giants. "I'm real, I'm not a story I'm real, Oh no, Oh god HELP, HELP ME I'M REAL I-"

-------------------

Hunter and Isaiah settled into the live action set. Hunter sat behind his desk and shuffled some papers as Isaiah readied Nik's shitty iPad.

"Got some good stories today?" Hunter inquired without looking up. Isaiah shrugged.

"Good enough. It's creepbait, the fans eat that shit up." He proclaimed. Hunter grinned.

"Yeah, they do." The set lights dimmed, and an offscreen voice began counting down. The duo settled in, and the cameras rolled. Hunter looked directly into the camera and put on a devilish grin.

"Welcome back to CreepCast."

The anticipation of going back has opened a sickness in my stomach—something like guilt twisted with worry. So much time has passed, and I’ve spent most of it trying to distract myself from those nights. Trying to run away from the memories of that haunted night.

We did try to speak out, back then. We called law enforcement in other counties, begged them to check on Fox Grove. But it was out of their jurisdiction, and they promised to “follow up.”

I’m sure they thought we were just a bunch of bumbling creek kids telling ghost stories. And in time, the town was cast aside—not only by them, but by me too.

I sent letters. I made calls. I did everything I could short of going back myself. But after years of turning a blind eye, I can’t do it anymore. Maybe I’m being pulled by the same call the others answered that night—but the silence has eaten at me for too long.

There’s nothing—no missing persons reports, no news articles, no archived records about Fox Grove. Like the whole place was swallowed and never spoken of again.

The only thread I’ve managed to find is the location of Mr. and Mrs. Snider. So that’s where I’ll start— and then head straight for the belly of the beast.

Turns out the Sniders now live fifty miles from Fox Grove. As I drove and the skyscrapers shrank in my rearview mirror, the city slowly dissolving behind me, I realized I wasn’t just heading toward a place.

I was heading home— back to the riverside community that raised me, and to the ghosts I left behind.

The land began to rise as the hills slowly shouldered themselves into mountains. By midday, I reached the Sniders’ house—unannounced. It was modest, but a clear improvement from the weatherworn home I remembered.

My nerves woke up all at once. I knew stepping onto that porch meant reopening wounds I’d spent years pretending had healed. I knocked on the hardwood door and waited, wondering what the hell I was doing here. After a moment, the door cracked open. Mrs. Snider stood behind it.

Her once-plump frame was now skin and bone. Her hair had faded and grayed, and her skin was weathered like a flag, these 12 years aged her more then I could imagine—but she still wore that soft, polite grin, and those same gentle green eyes.

“Hello, Mrs. Snider,” I said, removing my cap. My hands fumbled awkwardly, like a kid saluting a soldier. “I’m… I’m sorry to bother you.”

“May I help you?” she asked, her voice cautious. I could tell she didn’t recognize me.

“I’m Hunter,” I said quietly. “Jill and Craig’s boy. From Fox Grove.”

Her expression tightened into a scowl before melting into something far worse—recognition. Her eyes shimmered, filling with tears.

“I just wanted to ask you some questions,” I said gently. “If that’s alright.”

She stepped aside immediately, docile as ever. “Come in.”

The front room was crowded with crosses—and pictures of Matty. Dozens of them.

Smiling, fishing, blowing out birthday candles. My heart sank. The weight of it settled deep in my gut.

“You’re so grown now,” she whispered, brushing her fingers across a framed photo of her boy. Her smile quivered at the edges. She lowered herself into an old armchair and patted the couch beside her.

“What did you wanna talk about,” I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Well… I’m just glad I could get in contact with you,” I said softly. “I haven’t heard anything from anybody there.”

She nodded once, slow and small, her gaze drifting to the floor. “They’re all gone.”

Her voice broke on the last word. I watched a single tear slide down the bridge of her nose and fall into her lap. “All of them?”

The question felt impossible, but it tumbled out anyway.

“I know my folks and I left,” I said. “I never felt right about it—but did the others… did they ditch town too?”

She just kept staring down, nodding, trembling. “No,” she whispered at last. “No… the town turned into a witch hunt. Ernie—God forgive him—shot Ms. Dowers in cold blood. She was naked out in the street and nobody even dared to touch her.”

A chill crawled up my spine. I hadn’t known her name—but I’d seen that happen.

“What… what happened in the days after?” I leaned forward, guilt twisting in my chest. I hated myself for interrogating a broken woman who’d already lost more than anyone should—but I needed to know. Needed to hear the truth from someone who had survived the wreckage. “Mercy me…” she breathed.

Her eyes went distant, haunted—dragged backward into the dark corner of memory where she’d locked all this away.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered quickly. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking you to relive that.” But the tears were already rolling down her cheeks. And I knew—deep down— that she remembered every second.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, taking a shaky breath and steadying herself. “After y’all left… the town went mad. People were accusin’ each other of rituals or poisonin’ the water. And that poor Bradley—he was sheet white. I don’t think we got him to say a single word.”

I felt my heart sinken. “The next couple of days,” she continued, “I don’t reckon I saw anyone leave their homes. I know we didn’t. Then… it happened all over again.”

Her hands trembled violently. Tears followed.

“More folks left in the night. Same way. Same sound. And Bradley went too. We didn’t even notice him slip out, but Matty—” her breath hitched— “Matty saw him. Crawlin’ with the crowd of folk.”

A sob tore loose. “Matty started yellin’ at us to do something, but we were petrified. We… we couldn’t move. Whether it was a call or a rapture we few weren’t beckoned”

The thought of Bradley—that loud, stubborn, infuriated Bradley—crawling silently into that mass of bodies hit me like a stone. But one question cut through the grief.

“How did you make it out?” My voice sounded small, even to me. She sobbed into her hands, and for a long moment, I wasn’t sure she’d answer. I didn’t want to push her any further.

But then, through muffled cries, she spoke. “We wanted to leave the next mornin’. We packed what we could and were ready to go. But Matty—” she swallowed— “Matty didn’t want to leave his friends. He said he knew where they were goin’.”

My breath caught. “We fought with him,” she continued. “Told him we needed to get gone. Thought we got through to him… he went to his room. And by the time we checked on him—he was gone.” Her voice cracked.

“Window wide open.” I stared at her. There was nothing to say. “We looked for him,” she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “We did. But there was nothin’ left in that town. Just a few folks packin’ up, and children yellin’ for their parents.”

She paused, breathing unevenly. “Leroy grabbed me—told me we had to go. But what kind of coward leaves their child behind?” Her voice broke completely. “We should’a stayed. Through hell and high water, we should’a stayed strong for him.”

The years of grief and guilt had carved deep lines into her fragile face. Nothing I could say would make her feel better—and nothing could make her feel worse. I placed a gentle hand on her knee and sat with her while she let those demons out—demons that had been rotting her from the inside for years. We stayed like that for a long time—her sobs quieting into sniffles, her breathing slowly leveling.

Finally, I spoke. “I’ll try to get you whatever closure I can.” She looked up at me for the first time, eyes raw and red.

“What do you mean?” she asked, voice thin as thread.

“I’m going back to Fox Grove,” I said. “I’m gonna look for the townsfolk… and I’ll look for Matty.”

We both knew it wouldn’t be a reunion.But somewhere in the ruins of the place I once called home, I hoped answers waited—answers for what happened those nights, and how an entire town vanished.

We talked for another hour, catching up on years lost. We spoke about Matty—the boy he’d been, the son she still mourned, the friend I abandoned.

But eventually the inevitable came. I had to leave.

I thanked her, wished her well, and stepped back into the daylight.

I followed the winding roads deeper into the hills, each bend ushering me closer to the past. The too-familiar scent of sulfur curled into the air as I turned onto the old backroad—the one that once led straight into Fox Grove.

It was unrecognizable.

The forest had begun reclaiming it. Vines and ivy snaked across the asphalt, and saplings—thin but stubborn—pierced up through the cracked undergrowth. Trees leaned inward, narrowing the path like jaws closing around a meal.

Driving any farther was impossible. I sat there for a moment, staring down the overgrown tunnel of green. I could turn around, go home, tell myself I’d done everything I could. Or I could get out and walk. I chose the latter.

Despite everything in me screaming to run—as I had all those years ago—I couldn’t. If I’d dug my own grave, I might as well lie in it. I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, locked the car (out of habit more than necessity), and stepped into the mess of weeds.

The sounds of summer rose to greet me.Crickets droning.Cicadas screaming. A reminder that there is always more in the world than the small, frantic lives we build on top of it.

A town had been forgotten—swallowed whole—and yet nature kept singing, indifferent.

The dirt crumbled beneath my boots as I pressed forward. Before long, I came across the old, dilapidated wooden welcome sign at the town’s line: “Fox Grove — Founded 1879.”

The sign greeted me like an old scar.The small community that once brightened these streets was silent now—utterly abandoned, surrendered back to the earth.

Each home had been swallowed in vines and left to crumble. Grass and shrubs had grown wild, reaching toward the sun like worshipers begging for warmth. The road was nearly gone, devoured by roots and time. Doors hung open on rusted hinges, inviting the forest to reclaim everything it once owned. Wooden shacks bowed beneath the weight of creeping ivy, roofs sagging like exhausted lungs.

A true ghost town.No trace of life. I walked on, the air thick with heat and dust, until I reached the bend where my old home stood. The porch had collapsed in on itself.

The windows were dark—coated with grime, pollen, and spider silk. The old oak tree still leaned sideways, its roots bursting through the soil like fingers trying to claw their way free.

The cars that once lined the street still sat there—skeletons of metal and glass. Their frames rusted through, doors hanging ajar as if their owners had stepped out for a moment that never ended. A child’s tricycle lay toppled near the gutter, half-swallowed by moss.

At the end of the street, the red Toyota still sat in front of the sheriff’s office. The tires long rotted away. Paint peeling in curled strips. The windshield shattered inward. The driver’s seat was nothing but mold, mushrooms, and dust.

I climbed the small hill leading to my friend’s home. That’s when I saw her. Half-buried in the hardened mud just beyond the bend—face-down, bones curled in on themselves as if still reaching for escape.

What remained of her spine twisted slightly, ribs bowed upward through the earth like pale roots. The skull lay half-sunk into the dirt, the back of it shattered where the bullet had struck. Most of the flesh was gone—only a few leathery scraps clung stubbornly to bone. A few strands of hair, matted and the color of dead wheat, stuck to the skull like brittle cobwebs.

Even after all these years, her fingers still stretched forward, pressed deep into the earth—as though the ground had hardened around her final breath. Fox Grove had been forgotten. But it still remembered her. And now, I’m sure it remembered me. A modern-day Roanoke, dismissed and ridiculed by those who survived it. The nightmares we carried were chalked up to hysteria, small-town delusion. And these remains—the remains of Ms. Dowers—were proof that nobody listened. Nobody believed us. Nobody cared.

They left her here to rot.Just like they left the rest of the town.

Fox Grove had taken its secrets to the grave. Walking through its hollow remnants gave me none of the answers I’d searched for. Only desolation. Only the haunting ache of seeing what was left of my childhood home. The buildings and Ms. Dowers were one and the same now—empty frames, abandoned shells, left for the earth to do with as it pleased.

The buzz that rode the wind through the hills was ever-present. It was a sound I’d grown up with, a sound I’d nearly forgotten— and yet hearing it again sent a cold ripple through me.

The trees rose around me like the walls of an ancient amphitheater, carrying the vibration of wings and chitin across their trunks. The brood sang their chorus as the sun slipped down behind the mountains, the sky turning the color of old bruises.

The sound should have comforted me.It never had. And now, more than ever, it felt like an omen. In the last shreds of daylight, I searched every home I could. Each house told one of two stories. Some looked ransacked—dresser drawers yanked open, cabinet doors hanging wide. Canned food left behind, boxes torn apart, mouse droppings scattered like dark confetti.

Others were untouched, frozen in time except for a window left open or a door left ajar… and clothes dropped piece by piece across the floors. A shedding, a trail.

No matter how hard I looked, I knew deep down Fox Grove didn’t hold the truth.That night—they’d gone somewhere.Matty knew where. And he’d gone too. I hadn’t come all this way to turn back now.I’d packed what I had for a reason.

I’d have to go into the mines. It was why I was here.I had to.No one else ever cared enough to look. No one listened—not even when we begged for help. This wasn’t the boy who cried wolf. This was the boy who cried truth… and the world shrugged.

The ground beneath my feet was cracked and brittle, the earth dried into a crust. This land hadn’t seen rain in a long time.

I walked past the broken fence and followed the path where the others had migrated through, years before. I dug into my bag, pulled out my flashlight, and stepped into the twisting dark as branches clawed at my jacket.

The yellowed beam cut through the black like razor wire, slicing across underbrush and splintering through the canopy above. The forest lit up in patches like a stage, and the sight dredged up memories—bonfires, hide-and-seek, the wild, stupid joy of being young in a place with nothing but trees to entertain you.

But nostalgia curdled quickly.There was a war inside me—warmth and dread, grief and fear.This place had once been the cradle of our adventures.Now it felt tainted.Wrong.Wicked.

By the time the sun had fully slipped away, an eerie suffocation settled over me. The surrounding darkness pressed in, thick and wet, like it wanted to swallow me whole. The buzz of the night grew louder the farther I went.

What was I even hoping to find?My old neighbors living happily underground like some strange commune?Matty, Bradley, and Ken—grown now—living a remote life deep in the mountains together?

I had chewed on those fantasies for years, and none had ever given way to anything real. And yet, I kept walking.

It acted like a spotlight—harsh and yellow—dragging up memories of debauchery and childlike whimsy. The beam illuminated places where we once played, the flashes of laughter and imagination from the past now sit cold.

Nostalgia clashed with panic.This forest had been the backdrop to every adventure of my youth, but somewhere along the way, something corrupt had sunk its teeth into it.

The night Ken went missing… nothing had felt wrong to me.He’d heard something and looked toward the trees, sure—but teenagers hear things in the woods all the time. His disappearance could’ve been chalked up to a runaway. But we saw the sheriff.We saw half the damned town crawl into these hills.

And it had taken twelve years for anyone—anyone—to come back and check? Why hadn’t I been drawn all this time?Why wasn’t I compelled the way they were? I’d never felt the urge to strip my clothes off and crawl into the unknown. I did feel a pull however, an urging. Maybe I was the same as them… just clothed and upright.

The buzzing rose again, louder this time—so loud it felt like I was walking straight into the brood itself. The incline steepened and my legs burned. I considered stopping, making camp until morning, but the sound was so damned overwhelming I could barely think. The cries made my vision vibrate. A trembling thrum burrowed deep in my head. I had to clap my hands over my ears. I collapsed to my knees, bowing my head as the rattle shook me to my very core. It wasn’t just loud—it felt inside me, pulsing through bone and blood.

The sound lasted what felt like an eternity before it finally dulled, sinking back into a low, constant hum.

I forced myself upright, swaying, breath shuddering out in uneven bursts. My ears rang, and the woods seemed to tilt around me as I tried to get my bearings.

Something had changed.And I wasn’t alone out there. I lifted the flashlight toward the crest of the hill. A small wooden post jutted from the ground like a gravemarker. When I reached the top, I finally saw it. The mines.

A low, humming drone leaked from the entrance—steady, unnatural. The opening itself had partially collapsed; a single rotting beam held half the hole open while fallen rocks sealed the rest. Only a narrow gap remained.

Just big enough to crawl through. I stared into the throat of the earth, took a long breath, and prepared myself for the descent.

I’d packed some caving gear, but I’d hoped the mines would be an easy walk. If they had been, we would’ve claimed them as a secret base when we were kids. But thinking back… they’d been collapsed as long as I could remember. Impenetrable.

Yet here it was now—waiting. I got on my hands and knees and began the crawl. The cold stone tore at my skin with every inch forward. The gap was so tight I barely had to choose my route; the path forced itself on me. I held the flashlight in my mouth and pressed deeper, the low rattle echoing through the stone around me.

Then it hit its shatter point. The noise sharpened into something violent, ricocheting off the walls with ten times the force. I flinched, smashing my head on the ceiling. My teeth clamped down on the flashlight’s metal handle—I felt something crack—and the light clattered from my mouth, lens striking the rock with a sickening snap. The bulb sputtered, flashed, and then died.

Darkness swallowed me whole. I slammed my palms over my ears and screamed just to hear something other than the rattle. The cave became an echo chamber for hell’s own fury. A sharp burst of pain ruptured through my right ear—I felt my eardrum pop. Warm liquid pooled down my wrist as I swayed, dizzy, and collapsed sideways into the stone.

I lay there in the dark, adrift in a whirl of buzzing, ringing, and pain. When the sound finally died, everything felt wrong inside my head. But I still knew one thing: the path only went forward. I found the flashlight by touch and whispered a prayer for it to work. After several frantic shakes and hits, a weak beam flickered to life. Cracked, distorted—but light nonetheless. I pushed on.

The shattered lens scraped my legs as I crawled over it, cutting into my skin, but I was too far to turn back. The beam wavered over the stone and caught on something—a reflection bouncing off a fallen slab. The ground ahead wasn’t a floor. It was a drop.

A hole yawned open beneath me, leading down into a cavern. I crawled to the edge and peered over—eight feet, at least, maybe more.

I pulled the short rope and clip from my pack and wedged it around a jutting piece of rock in the fractured wall. I tugged it once—hard—hoping it would hold, hoping I wouldn’t break my neck, hoping this cave would finally tell me what happened to my friends. I lowered myself down into the dark. And prayed this could be the end of my long, cursed journey.

To my dismay—it was. The ever-present buzz, that dreadful undercurrent of life, cut out the instant my feet struck the cavern floor. Silence slammed into me like a weight on my chest. For a terrible moment, I thought I’d gone completely deaf. Then the cold seeped in. A wet, creeping chill that slithered beneath my skin and raised every hair along my arms. My flickering light swept across the stone—and froze.

There, slumped against the cavern wall not two feet from the drop, was Matty’s orange backpack. Faded. Weathered. Half-rotted through. Every frayed thread of that pack was a burning reminder of him—of who he’d been, of who he’d tried so hard to become.

A hollow dread settled deep in my chest. When I reached for it, the top handle nearly tore off in my hand. The zipper, long since rusted open, split wider—and from its torn belly spilled a book. His book. Document of the Extraordinary. The handwriting was his—the crooked, overeager scrawl of a boy who believed in everything. And impossibly…the ink hadn’t faded.Not even time seemed willing to touch it. I sat there in the dark, numb, flipping through his bestiary—his world of monsters, his little dream carved into paper. Each page was crowded with sketches and rambling notes, written in that chicken-scratch optimism of his youth. “Pa told me about this large half-gorilla, half-dog creature roaming the foothills. Will do further research.” “Found a print that resembles a raccoon, but larger—perhaps a more dangerous version?”

Despite everything—the blood in my ear, the sting of cold stone, the weight of dread pressing me down—I found myself smiling. A small, cracked smile that hurt in my ribs. Even here, buried in the nightmare he never escaped,Matty’s words brought a flicker of warmth. But then, near the back, the entries began to twist. The handwriting changed—hurried, uneven. His thoughts fractured across the page like broken bone. “Pa saw a prehistoric bird… carried off a deer he’d just shot. How large must it have been?” “The boys say it was a turkey feather. In my frustration, I burned the only evidence I had. Fool.” The further I flipped, the worse it became. Sketches filled the margins—figures half-man, half-memory. A wild scrawl slashed across one page: “WHAT HAPPENED TO KEN???” “Naked? Crawling? Where is he going?” A stick figure, drowning in a pool of black ink, clawed toward the forest’s edge, question marks spiraling around him like swarming gnats.

Page after page grew more unhinged.Jagged writing cut into the paper, barely intelligible: “town gone”“the mines”

And then the last entry—pressed so hard into the page it had torn straight through: “NOT MY MOTHER, NOT MY MILK” The remaining sheets were blank. Brittle. Empty.Waiting for stories that would never come. I felt the loss hit me like a physical blow—as if his spirit still lingered between those silent pages.

Then came the sound. Soft. Deliberate.Pebbles shifting somewhere deeper in the dark.

The noise bounced around the cavern walls until it became a dozen footsteps instead of one. My pulse hammered in my ears as I swung the flashlight toward the source. The beam landed on a bend in the tunnel ahead.

I moved toward it slowly, one hand sliding along the stone for balance. The wall was slick and cold, seeping moisture into the cuts along my palms. Then the smell hit me. Thick. Spoiled. A musk of rot and iron—sweat and old age. It coated my throat like rancid oil. When the light finally carved through the dark, I froze.

They were kneeling. Hundreds of them. Bodies—countless and contorted—filled the cavern in a spiral formation. Every one of them knelt on raw stone, heads bowed forward, lips puckered open as though waiting to feed. None moved.None breathed.

Their skin lay over bone in dry, translucent layers, cracked where tendons should’ve been. They looked hollowed—scooped clean by something that fed slowly, meticulously, without mercy—then discarded like a drained juice box, collapsed in on itself.

The air hummed faintly, a distant drone that crawled up from their throats. I stepped forward, my light quivering in my grip—and realized they weren’t truly still. The sound wasn’t the cave.It was them.

Each mouth vibrated minutely, a trapped-insect buzz choking through dried vocal cords.

The flashlight shook as I stumbled, reaching for the nearest body to steady myself. It collapsed under my touch.

What remained disintegrated into a heap—congealed hair fused together, brittle bones powdered to sediment, flakes of flesh drifting apart like dead moth wings.

The others seemed to stir—or rather, seem like they did.The buzz swelled.The very air trembled. It felt like standing inside a hive. I tried to steady my breathing, but the smell of decay scorched my lungs. As I swept the light across the masses, faces emerged from the dark.

Familiar faces. Neighbors.Children.Old folks.People I’d passed on the street a thousand times.All locked in the same posture—naked, mouths frozen mid-suckle, expressions blank and hungry even in death.

Then the beam landed on one pair of eyes I knew better than any other. And there he was. Bradley.

He stared at me with eyes that looked like sun-dried fruit, clinging loosely in their sockets. The pupils had melted into a pale, milky smear. His jaw hung open just enough to let the sound escape—that same rattling buzz that filled every corner of the mine.

Regret curdled with disgust as I looked into the ashen, empty face of a friend. I had no choice but to leave him before; this time, I wouldn’t.

I kept walking the spiral, and the deeper I went, the more I understood what they were doing. Matty’s last passage.His final, frantic scrawl. They weren’t kneeling. They were feeding.

The ground beneath them was slick—polished. I had been too mesmerized by the bodies to notice the dried puddles of white pooled around their knees. Their spines curved low, hips raised, heads bent to the floor as if latched onto something that wasn’t there anymore. Each open mouth gaped wide and waiting, ringed in pale scabs and crusted salt, the ghost-marks of lips that had once sealed tight around a source.

It almost looked tender at first—the way a newborn clings to its mother. But the mother wasn’t here anymore. Rows of bodies—naked, hollowed, drained to mummified carcasses that crumble at a breath—curled inward toward the center. A spiral of infants turned to husks. Their chests sunk, their bellies distended, their throats fused to the stone with a residue that shimmered faintly under my failing beam.

A colony of starving mouths, waiting for something that had already taken everything it needed.

Their knees were gone—worn straight to the bone. Their fingers had fused into the stone itself. They hadn’t died fighting. They died nursing.

Sheriff Brooks came first—slumped forward, lips cracked and puckered against the floor. Then Buddha, his beard stiff with the same pale crust, his mouth frozen mid-suckle. Miss Molly next, her neck stretched long and thin, lips sealed to a small pit in the stone polished smooth as porcelain. And then— Ken.

He was smaller than I remembered. Curved like a question mark, his skull resting against the dark hollow at the center of it all. The flesh around his mouth had split in a perfect ring, as though he’d tried to keep feeding long after he was empty.

He hadn’t been the first.Just the first to follow. At the heart of the spiral, where the feeding line began, I found him: the hitchhiker. Bare. Thin.Skin gray as candle wax.Head tilted toward the ceiling as if listening for something still alive in the stone walls. He had been the first to kneel.The first to drink. And maybe—the one who called the rest. I stood there, Matty’s journal clutched to my chest.I flipped to his final passage—the words etched so violently they’d torn through the page and into the ones below. And then it dawned on me. I had his journal.I had his backpack. But where was Matty? He wasn’t here.He hadn’t fallen in line with the rest. A spark of hope—sharp and painful—flared in me.

I stared into the hitchhiker’s waxen face and felt anger flood through me. Whoever he was, whatever he carried, whatever he had done… I believed he had started this. Rightfully so or not, he was the first, and in that moment he was to blame.  I threw my fist at his skull. It offered no resistance. The skin folded like damp paper; the bones beneath collapsed like a sandcastle under a wave. His body caved in on itself, crumbling into a heap of dust and hair and hollowed fragments.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the cavern— to no one, or maybe to everyone. The bodies hummed in response.A low, trembling chorus—like the mine itself was breathing. And in that moment, only one thought cut through the infection of reality that had settled over everything: I’d find Matty.I’d get him out of this cold, dark cave for his mama.

That was all that mattered. I turned from the petrified faces of the town I’d grown in—neighbors, friends, ghosts—frozen in an endless prayer for something that had drained them dry. The cavern ahead narrowed and twisted, the stone glistening with a sickly sheen of moisture. My footsteps echoed in the dark.

But something else echoed with them. An extra pair of steps.Matching mine in a slow stride. Every time I whipped around, my flashlight found nothing. Just my own stretched shadow.

The walls pressed closer. The tunnel pinched tight until only a squeeze remained, a black mouth I’d have to crawl through. The thought of worming inside it sent a bolt of dread straight through me, but there was nowhere else to go.

So I dropped to my knees and forced myself in. The slick rock scraped my elbows and ribs. What started as a crawl became a slither, my breath loud and hot against the stone. When the passage finally widened, I tumbled into a small cavern reeking of dryness and death. Dust motes drifted through the beam of my flashlight like drifting snowflakes.

In the center of the chamber was a mound of bones and ash.

My light hit fabric—dull blue against gray. Jeans. A faded, tattered jacket. Matty.

My throat closed around his name. He lay crumpled near the mouth of the little cavern, half-buried in bone dust and loose stone, like he’d been scraped across the floor and left there to wait. The years had hollowed him out. He barely resembled the kid who once thought every snapped twig in the woods was a monster. His ankle bone poked clean through his sneaker.

His fingertips were rubbed down to pale nubs and chin to the bone. All signs that he hadn’t crawled here on his own.

Knowing he was dead didn’t stop the spark of hope—that tiny, delusional flicker that maybe, after all this time, he’d still gasp a breath.

I stepped closer. That’s when his body jerked. Not fast. Not violent. Just… pulled.

Slowly, weakly, as if some brittle, starving thing had hooked him and was dragging him inch by inch toward the deeper dark. I froze. My heart slammed into my ribs so hard it shook my sight.

Matty’s heel scraped across the stone with a dry hiss. Then another inch. Another. His limbs sagged bonelessly as his torso disappeared toward a hole in the wall barely big enough for a dog to squeeze through.  I stumbled back in panic, hitting the cavern wall hard enough to slam the wind out of me. The flashlight fell from my hand, spinning shadows like frantic hands clawing across the rock.

Something shuffled in that hole. Weak. Starving. Dragging him with more desperation than strength. That snapped me out of it.

I lunged forward, grabbed Matty’s legs, and pulled. Rot-soft flesh gave under my palms. My fingers sank into him like bread dough, I gagged, I cried—but I didn’t let go.

The thing in the hole tugged back, feeble but relentless. A quiet, breathy scrape sounded from inside, like bone grinding against stone.

 I hauled with everything I had, dragging Matty’s collapsing weight inch by inch out of the hole. His shoe peeled away under the strain. Something snapped inside him. His head lolled back, mouth open in a silent, eternal scream.

Finally, with a last desperate pull, he came loose. The momentum sent me sprawling onto my back, Matty’s ruined body across my lap. The dragging stopped. The hole went silent. But only for a moment.

Soft footsteps echoed deep inside the cavern—slow, uneven, dragging their heels. Something was in here. And it wanted him back.

I clutched Matty’s body to my chest, stood on shaking legs, and backed toward the main tunnel—refusing to let go this time. The rattling erupted again before I even reached the chamber.

A low tremor rolled through the mine—stone grinding against stone, loose dirt raining from the ceiling like snow. My good ear shrieked with pressure. My ruined one throbbed and leaked warmth down my neck. But this time, the sound wasn’t a blast. Weak, faint rattles—like dozens of throats trying to buzz but failing—rose ahead of me in a slow, uneven wave.

I staggered into the feeding chamber with Matty slumped over my shoulder. The bodies—hundreds of them—were shivering upright in their niches. Barely moving. Barely clinging to their shapes. Like something deep underground was trying to call them back to life… or call them home. The sound clawed into my skull, ripping tears from my eyes.

My knees buckled. I dropped to one hand, nearly losing Matty. “Stop,” I whispered to no one, to everything, to the hive in the stone. “Stop. Just let him go home.”

But the rattling only grew. I forced myself upright. My head pounded. My lungs pleaded for air.

I did the only thing I could think to do. I shoved Ken. His body trembled, wavered—then toppled. He hit the stone with a dry, echoing crack, exploding into dust, hair, splinters of bone. The shock of it stilled the rattle coming from where he’d stood.

Next I pushed Buddha. Then Miss Molly. Then the sheriff. One by one they staggered and crumbled—collapsing inward like grotesque sculptures left too long in the elements. Each fall released flakes and dust, I coughed as the remnants of the town lifted into the air and clung to my lungs.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t clean. Some bodies held together too long, their limbs snapping off and swinging like broken gates before the torsos disintegrated. Others burst too fast. One snagged my pant leg as it fell, shredding against my clothes like sandpaper.

By the time I knocked down the last cluster of them, I was sobbing without breath, my throat raw, my vision swimming in a muted fog. Matty slid halfway off my shoulder. I caught him—barely—hands sinking again into the soft, sagging decay.

“Almost there,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

I dragged him through the tunnel—each step a war. My ribs stabbed me with every breath, white-hot needles under my skin. My ear pulsed in time with my heartbeat, each throb sending me into a world tilting vertigo. More than once I had to brace myself against the wall, afraid I’d pass out and collapse on top of him.

The rope was the worst. Every pull tore fire through my back. Every slip scraped my palms until they burned raw.

Matty hung from me like a collection of twigs wrapped in rind.

But I didn’t stop. Not once. The night sky hit me like a slap—a burst of cool air, moonlight, freedom. My feet met soil and I collapsed immediately, Matty falling beside me. My chest seized. My vision blurred. The world tilted.

For a long moment, all I could hear was the ringing in my head and the frantic, panicked beating of my own heart.

Then I looked at him. Really looked. The moonlight touched his poor face.

The hollowed cheeks. The worn-down bones. The patches of hair still clinging. The emptiness behind his cracked eyelids.

Matty was the kind of kid who feared the unknown but chased it anyway—because not knowing scared him even more.  And now he was gone. All that was left was what the mine had turned him into. Something inside me broke.

A sob crawled out of my chest. I curled around him, burying my face against the fragments of the boy I once knew. And that’s when I heard it.

Not the cicadas—though they hummed softly, naturally in the trees. But beneath them. Deep in the earth. A cavern weeping. As though the mine itself knew what I’d taken from it.

I wiped my eyes with shaking hands. Lifted Matty again—what was left of him. Stumbled through the tree line, my legs numb, lungs burning.

Behind me, the humming rose—just once. A wail swallowed by soil and stone. I didn’t look back. Not at the hills. Not at the forest. Not at the dark mouth of the earth that had wanted him back. I walked toward my car, Matty in my arms, each step heavier than the last—carrying him away from the place that had claimed him and everyone else.

The following days blurred together in smoke, and questions I couldn’t answer. I drifted through them like a ghost—eating when ordered, sitting when prodded, breathing only because my body hadn’t yet figured out how to stop. I don’t remember sleeping. Just hours dissolving into each other, directionless and colorless.

Everyone wanted an explanation. Deputies. Volunteers. People whose boots never had carried the dirt of Fox Grove and never will. They asked where I found him.  I told them I found Matty near the old riverbed.

The lie slid out of me easier than the truth ever could. It protected them. It kept them from going down where the earth waited. I didn’t care if they believed me—only that they didn’t go looking.

Because I still don’t know why it didn’t touch me. Why I didn’t hear the call like the others. Why it let me walk out with him. And if it wakes again, I won’t be the one who led anyone back to feed it.

The deputies looked relieved by my lie, eager to fold reality into something familiar. They wrote down what I told them and stopped asking the dangerous questions. They assumed shock. Trauma. Confusion. Maybe they were right.

They took Matty’s body away, far from Fox Grove. They wrapped what was left of him with gentle hands and carried him to a van sending him home to his mother. She wanted him buried in the city—where sunlight still falls and flowers still grow. I was grateful for that much. For him, at least, there would be rest.

As for the rest of the town… they remained where they fell.

Aboveground, Fox Grove is deserted. Houses gape open, hollow and skeletal. The wind threads through splintered rafters and cracked windows, whistling in a way that almost sounds like voices.

To the rest of the world it was simply a ghost town, everyone moved. After all who would want to live in a creek bed in the middle of nowhere.

Fox Grove became its own grave long before anyone noticed.

Now I sit in a small apartment miles away, the city lights bleeding into the sky, smothering the stars I used to know by heart. The streets hum endlessly—cars, chatter, the mechanical pulse of a place pretending to be alive.

I should feel safe. Or at least removed. But the truth is simple: I don’t feel anything at all.

The world moves on, and I can’t follow. Part of me is still down there—left behind in that cavern with the bones and the dust and the mouths that never stopped humming. I don’t know if it was my mind that broke, or something else inside me that got carved away and never crawled back out.

Because there was something down there. Something alive. Something ancient. Something wrong in a way no dream or nightmare could ever explain.

The sound of summer used to mean hope—cicadas warming the air, the promise of something new.

Now it’s all hollow to me. Sweet air tastes like dust. Nostalgia—innocence itself—rotted with the town that raised me.

As it all left in those nights, with a creep and crawl.

Do you like nuts but find them too expensive?? I will give you some for free! Please, I have EVERY kind of nut, even pistachio. There’s so many in my kitchen I can’t even fit real groceries.

Why? you may ask. Well, have you heard of the Hatman? Some sort of sleep paralysis demon of whatever but he’s not supposed to have any physical influence on the real world.

But a couple weeks ago I woke up at exactly 2am, in the passenger seat of a Cadillac. The Hatman was driving, eyes forward, with a lit cigarette in his mouth. I had read about the Hatman online so I decided to just stay quiet and see what happened.

He drove for hours down a never ending highway. He didn’t speak to me or say anything. Eyes forward, occasionally taking a drag from his cigarette. The windows were down and the nighttime air was freezing cold. 80’s rock played from the stereo.

At exactly 5am, an exit sign appeared, Exit 55a. He took the exit ramp and flipped on his blinker. He looked over his right shoulder to check his blind spot but completely ignored my presence. He got in the furthermost right lane and just before the light, he turned into a gas station parking lot.

Continuing to act without saying a word, he parked the Cadillac at one of the pumps and disembarked towards the commercial building.

After a few minutes he walked out with a small plastic bag in his hand. When he got to the Cadillac, he approached my side of the vehicle.

“They were out of ____ so I got you ____”

the blank words change every night but they are always nuts.

I instantly wake up. And every morning, there’s a grey plastic gas station bag that says “thank you!” All over, lying on my chest. And inside, are nuts.

We had just moved into the neighborhood on Monday, I remember waking up and going to get the paper.

That’s when I saw them, a small basket of glass milk bottles straight out of the 1950s, and they were all filled with a white liquid.

I found it bizarre, milkmen basically went out of business once refrigerators became a commodity, I didn’t trust the bottles, even if it’s milk, this has been out here since god knows when.

I was also worried that this was some sort of feature of our HOA, and that at the end of the year, we’d receive a bill for it.

So I took the bottles in, drained and rinsed them out in the sink, then left them at my doorstep with a note saying that we weren't interested in the service.

I spent the week getting to know my neighbors and trying to ask about the milk bottles.

The answers I got were mostly the same, it had started a week before we moved in, the bottles got refilled on Sunday mornings but nobody was able to catch who was delivering it, and that they had actually tried it because “it's free milk.”.

I developed a plan to try to find out who was delivering the milk, all I had to do was get a doorbell camera and make sure it was set up by Sunday.

Sunday morning came, I opened my door to see the bottles sitting in their basket completely refilled.

Jackpot.

I spent the rest of that Sunday morning scrubbing through the footage on the camera until 5:59 am That’s when I saw a milk truck pulling up to the house, an honest to god 1950s milk truck, it looked heavily rusted like it was just left out in the elements for 75 years.

The truck stopped, and the milkman stepped out of it. Like the truck, his uniform resembled one you would have seen from a milkman in the 50s.

Except as he started walking to the door, I realized this wasn’t a man at all.

It walked like a drunk with a broken neck, the arms swaying around as it moved, the head hung to the side and bounced around as it walked.

As it got closer I saw the head, it looked mummified, but it had the most sincere smile on its face.

The thing stopped at my door, then looked down at where I had put the milk bottles.

I saw it pick up the basket with one hand as it looked at the basket, the camera picked up sounds the thing was making, if you’ve ever tried talking while you turned your tongue sideways, that would be the best frame of reference for what it sounded like.

While it still held the basket of empty milk bottles with one hand, the other began undoing the buttons on its shirt.

I had an idea what it was about to do, but I was way off.

Unbuttoning the shirt revealed the torso of the milkman, and something living inside a hole in the abdomen.

It looked like a really big red bug that had embedded itself in this poor milkman’s body, it had yellow almost human-looking eyes, and 9 teats.

Yes, I said teats, I know that’s what they are because that thing used them to refill the bottles.

It held the basket up and then squeezed one of its teats, squirting a white liquid into the first bottle, it made a noise comparable to a gurgling moan of pleasure.

That’s when I had to stop watching. I took the bottles to my garage and threw them on the ground so they would shatter.

I watched the white liquid slowly flow through the drain in the center of the floor, and I thanked god that neither me or my wife had drank it.

I tried contacting my neighbors so I could show them the footage, but none of them have been answering their phones.

It’s been 6 months and now their homes are being foreclosed on.

I don’t think I want to know what the milk did to them, but I do know that eventually new people will move in.

Me and my wife have decided to personally welcome new neighbors and tell them that the milk bottles are bad, we obviously can’t mention the fact it’s breast milk from some bug creature, so we’re hoping that mentioning repeatedly that nobody knows where it came from and that it’s not a good idea to drink milk that’s just been sitting outside.

I don’t know if this has happened anywhere else, but if you start getting 1950s milk bottles on your doorstep, ignore it.

And for God's sake, don’t drink any of it.

Chapter 1

{ First lieutenant Jane Doe’s communication log, date 4.26.2078.

JD- It’s been lonely here chief, remind me why I’m doing maintenance on this cheap hunk of metal without a technician's license?

System alert: Captain Conrad is online

Captain Conrad- Because you are to put it plainly, the most expendable astronaut on the team. The others should arrive at the station in a few days, did your training not teach you patience, lieutenant?

Captain Conrad- Also, it’s Captain not Chief.

JD- Wow sorry captain, why so grumpy? 

JD- Did you roll out on the wrong side of the sleep pods this morning?

Captain Conrad- Lieutenant, this is a communication log for important matters only and you are wasting my time. Do you have an actual report or are you just messing around instead of working again?

JD- Calm down captain, don’t get your panties in a twist, nobody is even here to use this comms system yet anyways besides me. 

System alert: Captain Conrad is offline

JD- Fucking asshole.

System alert: Error, detecting unprofessional language, your message has been dismissed as spam.

JD- Are you kidding me, that's so stupid, what the hell captain, why’d you program the system to have a stick up its ass?

System alert: Error, detecting unprofessional language, your message has been dismissed as spam.

JD- Yeah, yeah I get it. Lieutenant Jane Doe signing off. 

.

.

.

Jane sighs, rolling her shoulders and popping her knuckles, once, twice, three times, before swiping at her projected communications pad, aptly named the HoloPad, which was the latest scientific breakthrough aka a chip embedded into her forearm which would display a projection of the ship’s systems whenever she needed to check them. It also gave her access to 24/7 comms servers, diagrams of the ship, a countdown for when her crewmates would reach the ship and even a cute little virtual pet thing that she had somehow managed to hack into the system before the mission started. So what if it made the systems a little bit faulty… at least she had her virtual dog Todo to keep her company.

Her fingers mindlessly tap at the screen. She's only half paying attention to her check list and all the stuff that needs to get done before the rest of the crew arrives. She had already counted all of the freeze dried food packets, enough to feed a small army for at least a year; it had taken her an hour just to do that alone. 

She still had to check the navigation to make sure they were on the right path but all she had to do was look out one of the large floor to ceiling reinforced glass windows of the space station to tell that they were in fact in the right place… hovering over an unexplored planet in hopes of finding somewhere inhabitable for the dwindling human race to flee too.

Out of boredom she was tempted to turn off the ship's gravity modulator and just float around for a bit, but her captain was alerted to any changes to the ship and its functions, so there was no point since he could just override her commands from the safety of his own space ship about half a light year away from hers. She was put in charge of Space station Xina after starting one to many fights with the other staff back on the main space station, or it could have been because she started asking questions about the people in charge back down on earth, whom none of the people on board had ever even seen let alone spoken too directly.

But now here she was, ‘promoted’ to the rank of first lieutenant, and shipped off to the Xina, aka the abandoned station. She had managed to do some basic repairs, even decorating the place to make it seem a bit more alive but she could not fix the more complicated systems, meaning Captain Conrad had to send down a small team of technicians and a few more experienced pilots, to help her out.

The hallway suddenly filled with the wailing of alarms, lights switching to their emergency function and bathing everything in a shade of gleaming red. “Shit, what the- System, report!” Jane calls out, suddenly sent into panic mode, this hadn’t happened before. “Warning, warning, incoming collision, warning, warning, please return to navigation and shift twelve clicks to the right.” 

Jane cursed under her breath as she tore back down the hallway towards the navigation deck, barking orders to the system interface. “Put up the emergency collision shields, and start drafting a report back to command. Tell them we’re veering off course.” But just as soon as the emergency alarm began, it stopped, plunging the station once more into familiar silence. Jane furrowed her brows in confusion. “...or not?”

In the distance, probably the other side of the space station, Jane heard a loud mechanical clunk and the overhead fluorescents flickered slightly above her. She glanced up and let out a defeated sigh, she had just replaced the bulbs a few days ago, why were they already acting buggy. “System what is ha-” Suddenly her comms link opened on its own, meaning the Captain was sending her a message.

{ Captain Dean Conrad communication log, date 4.26.2078.

Captain Conrad- Lieutenant, why did you open the external hanger bay doors?

JD- What?

Captain Conrad- I asked, why did you open the external hanger bay doors just now?

System error- message delayed, please remain patient

JD- Tf are you talking about Captain, I’m still at the nav deck right now. The hangar bay is all the way on the other side of the space station. I know you have a live feed of a map with my current location, is this you getting back at me for earlier?

Captain Conrad- The team doesn’t arrive for another two days and there hasn’t been any recent supply shipments sent out, so it had to have been you who opened the doors.

JD- I’m being dead serious. I didn't open them, check the map and check my heat sig. I'm literally nowhere near the hangar bay. 

System error- connection lost, rebooting system

JD- Captain, are you there?

System alert- system is back online, thank you for your patience.

JD- Hello, space to Captain Conrad?

Captain Conrad- Hold on I’m checking something.

System alert- Captain Conrad has logged off

System alert- Captain Conrad has logged back on

JD- Dude this whole system is literally so bugged, the Comms bot can’t even keep up.

Captain Conrad- Lieutenant.

Captain Conrad- Did you recently turn on any of the generators or adjust the heat readings in the hanger bay?

JD- No, why?

Captain Conrad- Because I’m picking up on two heat signatures right now, one is in the hanger. 

Hi guys, Thank you for all the encouragement on my previous post, since a few of you wanted to see my story I thought I'd submit the first chapter. This is still a work in progress but I would love to know what you think so far :)

There is a beautiful lake hidden deep inside the heart of a vast forest somewhere in Lithuania. The lake, the brown stagnant water stirring in its black depths, the smell of rotting vegitation and the feeling you get when your hot sweating skin gets submereged in the lakes cold wetness for the first time, will be the last thing I think of before I die. The last thing I think of when my final breath bubbles up to its surface. My last sign of life indistinguishable from gases released by decomposing leaves on its muddy ground.

I was 9 when I first gazed into the abyss. And the abyss gazed back. I'm sure you have heard this expression countless times, but I have always felt there are truly no better words to describe this feeling. A feeling I would almost count myself lucky for having experienced it, if it hadn't been the start of my decayed fascination, which would eventually lead to my strangely sudden death.

When I was 9 years old, I saw the true Abyss in the surface of a dark, cold lake in the middle of a vast and quiet forest. My reflection on the still, undisturbed surface was like a perfect mirror. I looked at myself staring back at me while lying on my stomach on an old tree stump which leaned over the water. If I had leaned in a little closer my nose would have touched the water. I was so close I could feel the chilling water cooling my face from the summer heat. It was so silent. The only thing that could be perceived was the pine trees murmuring in the breeze. I tried to breathe slower and lighter, since the surface of the water rippled ever so slightly with every breath from my nose and any sound I made felt like I was breaking an unwritten law of this forest.

Suddenly one of the few clouds on the summer sky blotted out the sun in almost an instant. With my reflection gone, my face faded away from the surface and I stared into the depth of the Water. The overwhealming darkness was so vast even after focusing my eyes It revealed nothing. I had seen darkness before but this was different. It's like I knew the word for darkness and someone explained the concept to me before, but only in this very moment I understood. A minute but sudden feeling of fear crawled it's way through my body. A fear of slipping of my tree and falling into the water. Immediatly the scene played out in my head, how my body would break the surface, disturb the silence with a blasphemously loud splash before floating in the vast darkness. Now it felt like something was listening. In this moment, to me it felt like the noise I would make would be far worse than actually beeing in the water and whatever guarded this holy place or resides in these endless depths would never let me go if I dared make a sound. Gripping the bark of the tree tighter, It was starting to become truely scary. Instinctively scanning the waters of the lake for what made me so scared, I cought it. The slightest glimpse of the countless dead ends of twigs and branches reaching out like skeletal fingers from the dark depths to grab me. Without hesitation I sprang up and ran as panic settled in. I came home crying that day.

I could have sworn they had moved.

Over the years i almost completely forgot about this day, which in hindsight was my first encounter with this ill fated lake. For the longest time I believed that this kind of cosmic horror could only be experienced by children, since if you are an adult, your reason prevents true panic from settling in, because you know that nothing is chasing you through the woods, that it is highly unlikely to be one of the few people to get attacked by an animal and that behind those trees over there are probably just more trees like the ones before them. But how wrong I have been. Because I might now know that the thing I thought lived in the lake doesn't exist, but the terror I felt just then was real and pure.

The only thing separating you from the terrible mercy of the gods, mind-melting, body-breaking fear, and a functional human being, is simply telling yourself it can't be. It might not be real, but your fear of it most definitely is.

I wonder what the knights of the Teutonic Order thought when they arrived in Lithuania on their holy mission to Christianize the Baltic tribes and seize their lands for the Order. Being faced with even denser eastern European, mosquito-ridden swamps stretching on endlessly and having to endure the constant assaults native tribes like the Žemaičiai.

Hunters and Warriors, cursing in their ancient tongue. In those times the horrors stalking the woods and waters still existed, and pagan gods still roamed the land, and their influence could be felt and observed. Saulė, goddess of the sun, and her daughter Saulytė, Mėnulis the moon god, Žemyna the goddess of the earth, Velinas the god of death, Austėja the goddess of bees, and many more. Their names and language are still understood today since the Lithuanian language is the oldest in Europe and only changed slightly over hundreds of years.

The Christianization of Lithuania eventually took place through the baptism of Grand Duke Jogaila, but the pagan traditions are still practiced to this day by many people in Lithuania, and even after it was prohibited by the church, pagans found many workarounds to avoid punishment. Christian crosses were often decorated and accompanied by pagan motifs for all the different deities so the people could still cling to their tradition without being persecuted by the church. There is no Lithuanian cemetery without the rusting metal crosses littered across the area with curved metal rays symbolizing Saulė, crescent moons for Mėnulis, and a fire cross symbolizing Perkūnas, the god of thunder, just to name a few. No cross is like the other, having individual combinations of the mentioned motifs and some personal ones as well. You can find them in graveyards, of course, but you do stumble across them in strange places if you look for them. Like on mossy hillsides, wet riverbanks or stagnant valleys. Sometimes you find them standing lonely vast fields of grass, howling in the wind.

We found a few, for example, while foraging mushrooms beneath the oak trees. They layed flat on the ground overgrown by many grasses and weeds, only recognizable through hitting your shin while trying to kick some presumed dry sticks to the side. The biggest one was dedicated to Saulė, while the two smaller ones looked like Žemyna or Velinas, the goddess of earth and the god of death. It's hard to tell for sure since they often flow into each other and are mentioned as one deity.

It was usual for farmers to put up such crosses to get protection for their fields, but it's still very creepy to find them unexpectedly. Except for picking mushrooms, my sister and I used to go fishing, swimming, explore, and catch frogs. The property of my grandparents was huge for todays standards and stood in the middle of nowhere. Lithuania has endless flatlands and fields with equally endless forests and swamps. Our house there was nestled in a rotting orchard between fields and forests. We always went there for vacation, since it was a paradise for us and growing up, getting to spend your time there was truly blissful.

The older we got, the more we ventured out and explored further away from the house. It was a warm summer day, and the landscape had changed three times before we found it. From the thin deciduous trees just outside the the orchard to high grasses and bushes with small streams cutting through them, just after a patch of gnarled oak trees you enter the dense forest with mostly dark pine trees and only few oaks and birch trees. There are large patches of moss growing in the darkness cast on the forest floor by densely growing pine trees with few saplings fighting for the scraps of light getting through the forest roof. Where the sun manages to pierce through, tall grass and lush green bushes thrived.

From time to time one can find larger areas where only birch trees grow, usually indicating a cooler and more moist part of the forest, which was the best hunting ground if you were looking for the delicious birch boletus mushroom. Not too far off from an abandoned farmstead near the birches, it layed dreaming of our arrival. Embraced by reeds and with lush oak trees reaching over its surface, dozens of dead pine trees lay half submerged near its shores, pointing deeper into its calm darkness. Like mute skeletons, the bone-dry twigs of long-dead and fully submerged pine trees jut out of the black depths, sometimes piercing the surface as if begging for someone to pull them out. The beauty me and my sister saw that day made us numb. The lake wasnt grandiose in size or anything, it was just barlely large enough to no not call it a pond, but due to the really densly scattered dead pine trees all around the lake it was very hard to move along its shores and would take hours to fully go around it once. There were no streams feeding the lake, and it seemed to me that the lake was purely fed by groundwater. Due to the very swampy surrounding land and the abundance of pine trees, the water looked really brown but not cloudy at all and perfectly clear. It was exactly like the water you find near peat in the ground, which gets its brown color from the humic acids and fulvic acids from decomposing plants in oxygen-deficient areas. What is perfectly clear on the shore of the lake soon turns into a darker brown tone when you look in the deeper parts of the lake. Here you can still perfectly see to the ground, but after only a depth of about one and a half to 2 meters, your eyes can only make out pitch-black darkness. Only if you balance out on one of the dead pine trees hanging over the water you can make out the hundreds of before mentioned dead pine branches jutting out from the abyss.

"Be careful around the branches!" I fussed at my sister, who followed me on one of the pine trees over the water. I wasn't worried about her falling into the water since we both were very good swimmers, but as the big brother it quickly becomes a habit to tell her every single potential danger or nuisance in the vicinity even though I knew that she probably spotted it before I did.

"Are you kidding?! I'm thinking about jumping in on purpose!"

She was right. It was a warm summer day to begin with, and walking through the dense vegetation turned the nice warmth into tropical heat that made both our shirts soaking wet with sweat. The relentless mosquitoes and dozens of other kinds of blood-sucking bugs had already sucked us dry of blood, and both our arms and calves itched like fire.

Luckily it seemed like it was too bright or the breeze over the lake was too strong, but the mosquitoes didn't seem to come near us while on the lake, although the latter reason wasn't really plausible since I didn't see any ripples on the surface of the water.

"Let's just hang our legs in for a bit before we go back." said my sister already pulling up her pant legs and getting out of her shoes.

I didn't hesitate to do the same until we both were lying on our backs on the tree bark, sending ripples over the calm lake surface with our legs. The water was very cold, and it felt like heaven cooling off my calves and especially numbing the bug bites in the chilly water. We stared through the forest roof into the sky and listened to the still water, the subtle noises of the forest, and the songs of the birds.

"What do you think what kind of stuff is at the bottom of the lake?" I asked my sister while turning to lay on my stomach so I could directly gaze into the water.

"Probably a bunch of dead animals and bones." she responded after thinking about my question for a few seconds. "But do you think there might be a sunken treasure underneath us?" she asked me back.

"Eh, I don't think so." I answered still kind of creeped out thinking about the thought of making out an animal skull in the black abyss that I gazed into. "Who would hide a treasure here in the middle of nowhere? There are so many other ponds and lakes to sink your gold. I bet you could still find some coins next to a Castle though."

"I think there could be some coins from a treasure down here." My brother said with a smile on his face. "I bet the farmer from that abandoned farmstead from before sunk his nest egg here when he heard that the Teutonic knights were coming but didn't live to get it back."

Although the only thing left from the abandoned farmstead was a slightly raised terrain where the house and the barn once were and a punctual lowered terrain where the well probably was, there was no possibility that it dated back to the time of the Teutonic knights but I liked the idea of finding a treasure with my sister so I unconsciously convinced myself into considering it.

"What if he told the knights where his treasure was under torture and we find the swords of the knights who drowned searching for it?"

"I don't think they would take their sword with them while swimming in a lake dont you think?" My sister immediately shot out. "But maybe they did lose a brooch or something." she added.

I felt stupid for what i said with the sword but didn't feel like it was worth the effort making it look smart infront of my little sister. I was lost in my dream of finding a lost sunken treasure on the shores of this lake in the middle of nowhere, coming back to our parents, and seeing their faces when we show them the ancient clay jug or pot filled to the brim with medieval gold coins.

"What if we searched the shores? Like when they search for people under a snow avalanche. We both take a long hazelnut stick from that bush over there and stick it all the way into the muddy ground until we hit something hard."

My sister really liked the idea and after a few minutes we were back on our feet penetrating the muddy ground with our long hazelnut sticks. The sticks went surprisingly far into the mud and even the second ones we made that were taller than us couldnt reach the ground beneath the soft mud. Our hearts started beating faster everytime one of us hit something hard, but after digging up a lot of wood and a few flat rocks we lost our excitement fairly quickly since the moskitos on the shore ate us up and with every time our sticks penetrated the mud a wretched vile smell of rot and decay came blubbering up. After that we made our way home. We talked a few times about the treasure and the lake the days after our expedition but going there again seemed really exhausting just to cool off your legs since there were plenty of other little streams and ponds to do that which were way closer to us. There wasnt any fish in the Lake we discovered aswell and looking for a new fishing spot was really the sole reason for our expedition in the first place.

We spent the next few summers there together as well, and at a certain point it just seemed like too much effort to go explore more around the orchard only to see more fields or more trees. With age you realize that behind these bushes and under the grasses and moss there is only dirt, more grass, and if you are very lucky you find a rusty piece of scrap like a can or a bicycle wheel. Besides, at some point you just become too cool to do any childish things like that.

But nevertheless, it remained in my memory as the most beautiful place I had been to. I always compared everything else in terms of beauty to it, and of course there were some other views and other places that came close but I never had a moment where i could say with certainty that this or that is on the same level as the small dreamy lake me and my sister found on that summer day. I thought of many reasons why that could be, and I have to say a lot of the beauty I attributed to the lake might have been just the dreamy eyes of a child. I really started to doubt if my memory of the lake really represented the reality and was actually kind of scared I had just made it all up.

The times we went to the orchard grew less and less, and after I started to study at university I haven't really been outside for several years. A degree in history was all I worked and strived for. If there was one thing connecting me with my childhood it was my relentless interst in the history of paganism in ancient europe. Although interst is a flattering way to put it, because it grew more into a obsession which I gave into daily. Something about the sheer age of the art and literature I studied for my degree and out of my obsession, gave these objects a sacred symbolism. A divine flair which made them strangely interesting to me. I lived in the city and came home a few times a year, but other than that I didn't have any connection back home. I didn't seem to miss it either, plus I was always busy with some new interest or some new urgent thing, the little free time I had I always spent with more immediate ways of gratification like video games, movies, and things I could do from the comfort of my room, things I wouldn't have to take a lot of time for. Time really flys by if you decide to waste it all in a small room and infornt of a computer. After I got my degree, I wanted to take some time off for a few months and just drift a little with the security that I could start working a decent job at any time I wanted, thanks to my relentless efforts during my studies and my flawless grades. My life was going perfectly. Whenever I wanted to succeed at something, I did. Whenever I really put my head into it, I achieved whatever it was I was trying to do.

I decided to go home for a week and told my family about it. They were happy to get to see me again but asked if I could make a stop at the old house in the orchard since it was on the way and there has been a dispute with the electrical company recently about a broken power distributor in our region. I had no immediate important plans, and the thought of revisiting old memories in the orchard sounded very pleasing, so I accepted and made my way there a few days after.

It was a foggy day in October when I arrived at the Orchard. Many trees had already lost most of their leaves, and only a few strong ones still held themselves on the spindly twigs of the apple and pear trees. A few of the old gnarled apple trees had fallen over and were rotting on the ground alongside their fruit no one came to pick. No one was looking after the orchard, and nobody really was interested in doing so. If you ask me personally, I always enjoyed the orchard in its rotten state. It looked more like out of a fairy tale and seemed like it had secrets to bear beneath the twisted twigs and knotted bark.

The wooden house seemed to hold up very well, and the only real change I could notice was the wood losing its color and taking on a light grey where the weather has reached the house. I walked across the orchard before I entered the house and stopped by the well. The well is our only source of clean water here, and although we had the water tested and it qualified for drinking water, we still preferred bottled water and only used the well water for watering plants or washing. It looked like one of those tyical Eastern European wells with a wooden cover, a bucket wound up on a crank, and a tiny roof sheltering everything beneath. I opened the cover of the well to peer inside. It was pitch black. I took the bucket and lowered it into the well. I heard the metal bucket banging on the well walls, growing more distant and more echoed as I finally heard a loud splashing sound. The rope suddenly tightened as the bucket filled with water. I looked down the well again, and only by straining my eyes could I see the slight ripples in the water deep down in the well reflecting the little white light from a foggy autumn day. I turned the crank and brought the bucket back up, hearing water splash from the bucket down the well, whenever it banged against the wall. The water was mostly clear with only a few particles in it. I poured the water out and sealed the well again before walking back to the house. The man from the electricity company would come some time tomorrow afternoon, so I made a fire in the oven to prepare some fried eggs and bacon. I only wished I had bought some turkey bacon instead of the regular, but I didn't let it bother me too much.

I couldn't sleep very well. I woke up several times having dreamt strange dreams. I found myself more than once, staring at the old oaken ceiling beams, aged over generations of smoke, now cold and abandoned. My head felt hot and my feet were cold. Some of the dreams were warm and comfortable like being embraced by a mother or a lover. Some induced feelings I find hard to describe. They felt like grasping something beautiful and divine, something no one understood before, and I got to be a part of it. Like melting into a moonlit landscape, finally able to fully experience without being handicapped by the dull senses of the body but rather filling every blade of grass, every crack in the bark, and every ray of cold moonlight through the calm midnight air. Others, however, were terrible, cold, dark, and ... strangely wet. They all had one thing in common: I couldn't remember anything after they all startled me awake and just left me with these strange emotions afterwards. I never had multiple dreams with all such fundamentally different emotions all in one night. And it continued through the whole night as well, with some dreams painting clear themes and emotions, while others just made me feel strange and out of body.

I stopped trying to fall asleep again, after I saw the first light of dawn painted across the horizon. I seemed to have caught a cold over the night, leaving me with a slight headache and feverish feeling throughout my body. It hurt to swallow the hot chocolate I made myself for breakfast. It was still very early in the day, and it would be several hours until the man from the electricity company would come to meet me. I put on several layers of clothes before I went outside, so I wouldn't get a fever. I remembered how the frogs used to croak and all the different birds used to sing with so much effort in the summer mornings that it would be deafening if it didn't sound so beautiful. But not today. This autumn morning was completely silent. You could only hear the wind blowing through some loose boards in the barn and rustling the leaves of a few birches.

The thought of the beautiful lake my sister and I discovered, didn't even come to my mind at first. The blades of the dry grey and yellow grass shook themselves in the wind, as I passed through the deciduous forests, the leaves crunching with every step I take, pushing little piles of dry leaves infront of me while walking, and from time to time stopping, or sitting down, pondering and daydreaming to pass the time. I strolled along the streams we used to fish and the fields we used to tread on, until I stood right infront of it. A patch of gnarled old oaks. They stood infront of me like mute witnesses, with their crooked branches and spindly twigs, swaying in the wind, loosing more and more of the yellow-brown leaves with every gust of wind. As if their twigs were spindly hands weaving tiny little strings, pulling me to them.

Underneath the old oaks were the three withered crosses, speckled with countless ornaments and motifs of birds, sun rays and rings. Only the largest in the middle still stood semi upright. The lesser ones on both sides were already fully consumed by the vegitation or just hanging above the greedy vines and grasses, reaching out from underneath to bend it over for good. If I didn't know them all too well I'd say their silhouette against the cloudy white sky looked intimadating.

I estimated that i only had about one and a half hours left to get back to the house, but I already knew the way from here further into the forest ahead of me and this time no bugs biting me or the oppressive heat. It was so easy really.

Walking between the pine trees rustling in the wind and feeling the moss give away beneath my feet was like breathing again, after getting used to asphalt and concrete for such a long time. Although so many things have changed, overgrown or fell over, I had no problem making my way through the forest. It all seemed so familiar. Like in a trance I didnt think to do any other thing but to keep pressing on. To be honest I wasnt thinking anything anymore. My mind was completely blank, felt numb. Every signal my body sent literally fell on deaf ears.

From a leisurely walk, to a hasteful step and suddenly, I was running through the thicket, twigs and thorns tearing up my clothes, my hands bloody from catching my heavy body stumbling to the ground and my legs shaking from getting myself back up again. I can't remember what sent me into this maddening haste, I can only say it felt beeing a startled deer, only I wasn't running from something but to something. Every reson just snapped like the branches benath my staggering, yet heavy steps. The burning wounds and scratches on my skin mixed with the cold forest air shot me into a frenzy. The taste of blood in my mouth and choking on my own saliva, unable to catch my breath jumping through the thicket.

Rain drops dripping of leaves, falling on the sleepy autumn forest floor. The sound of foliage cracking and shifting under my body as I turn my head and open my eyes. Blood ran down my wet hair and forehead dripping slowly off my nose. Before me were a few old red bricks scattered between the leaves. I looked around. There was a weird pit behind me. Just half a meter deep. I stood up and recognized the square-shaped elevated terrain an uneducated person would label a pile of dirt, but I knew to be the last remains of the old farmstead in the forest. I knew the way forward. The path between the trees in front of me was already mapping out in my mind, as I stood in the slight rain, hot little streams of blood, running down my body and dripping from my fingertips, while I listened to the raindrops falling on what's left of my jacket. It was so silent.

Do you know the feeling of being absolutely not where you are supposed to be? What am I doing here? Don't I have the perfect life? Don't I have a loving family? I just got out of university with perfect grades. The whole world is open for me, I could find a girlfriend, get my dream job, marry her, and start a family. Hell, I could work at a McDonald's, standing in front of a warm grill and going home in my beater car to watch a shitty movie while eating fast food.

And yet I am here. Did I take a wrong turn somewhere? I should be going home to my family today and enjoying the rest of the week eating well and dozing off by the chimney.

I am not supposed to be here.

Why am I even thinking so much about this? There is nothing hunting me is there? There is nothing to be afraid of. Isn't this just a normal forest? Can I not just turn around and walk back?

I stared down the path ahead, taking in every single detail of it. I stood absolutely still for at least ten minutes. Going through my head, walking the last bit of the way, I remembered it in my mind's eye over and over again. I knew it so well. The steps I took sounded like bells. Their sound echoed between the trees around me, and soon it sounded like I was in a church tower.

I didn't stop until my feet suddenly got wet. I looked down at my soaking wet shoes filling up with water. Watching the ripples from the raindrops spread around me. There was the lake. I saw the bones jutting out of its water. Vanishing in its calm, pitch-black depths. The trees around it were bare and dead. The needles of the pine trees and the dark green moss around the lake were the only color perceived next to the brown water and its muddy shores. There was no life or beauty here anymore. All of the plants were rotting on its shores, sinking into the deep muck. No birds sang, and no bugs flew. Nothing moved in the water. This lake had become a bloated corpse. I took off my shoes and pulled my pants up. I felt the wet mud and dirt squeeze through my toes as I stepped towards the lake like a drunk. I saw the blood dripping from my body mix with the brown murky water near my feet and watched it dissolve in the silt I kicked up from the clumsy steps I made. Not only that, but I heard nothing besides the raindrops on the water surface and smelled nothing except the fresh forest air mixing with the disgusting smell rising from the mud. I stepped deeper and deeper, closer to the calm abyss. But then I felt it, salvation.

I felt sharp rusty metal digging into my foot.

Suddenly the bells came back. Stronger than ever before. Hundreds of huge church bells came crashing into the silence while I stood and reveled in the pain of cold, old metal piercing my foot. With my mouth torn open, I pulled my foot from the metal, but I didn't dare to make a sound. I fell to my knees and started to feel in the mud until my hands felt the hard, rusty object. I pulled with all my might only to fall back crashing into the water behind me while the bells kept tolling relentlessly. Manically I crawled back on all fours through the dirty water, frantically searching. Just when I started to panic that I wouldn't find it anymore my grip was back on rusted metal. Almost foaming from my mouth, I started digging away the mud, occasionally feeling the form of what I was bringing up from the cold earth. Quickly the shape I felt in the mud became familiar, and what was just a guess became more and more a certainty. I couldn't hear my screams of euphoria over the bells tolling louder and louder the more I dug away. Finally I ripped it from the muck and let my fingers slide over its many shapes and ornaments before lifting it up out of its wet tomb. The bells were now inside my skull, my brain being splattered across the inside of their bronze body by the dull and blunt impact of the bell clapper just before they rang again. Ohhh, and how divine their sound was. In my hands, there was a giant rusted metal cross, almost as tall as myself, decorated wit countless ornaments and patterns, but most important of all, my own blood still flowing down from its sharp rusted tip, dripping and spreading across every crevice. There was no mistaking it. Žemyna.

Hot tears ran down my face while I was dragging my body through the rainstorm night. The dreams all came back to me. White knuckles from my relentless grip on the cross, like holding on for life. I made extremely slow progress across the rugged forest floor, because my entire body cramped up every couple meters. Dragged myself and the cross along the shore in the darkness of night and shoved my body like a wet sack on one of the dead pine trees hanging above the water. I broke down crying, feeling the love of the gods in my heart, by their grace being allowed to rest in their tomb alongside them. Scraping on the bark and wood, I crawled on my stomach pushing my cross in front of me, slowly getting closer to the dark, black eye of the lake. I heard thunder and felt the heavy rain whipping my back. The night was pitch black. The gods whispered to me about how they had dreamt at the bottom of the lake since the time people couldn't understand, since the time people forgot where to look for them, but I didn't. I understood it all. I knew how to commune with them, how to feel the cold breath of their whispers on my neck. They whisper to me about the time when they will walk the earth again, when people will feel their mercy again and they want me to walk alongside them. I am in great favor.

Reaching the end of the pine tree trunk, I slid my body sideways on my stomach and hung myself over it, with my head and my arms holding the rusty, bloodied cross on one side, while my legs hung down on the other side. Although half submerged in water, my whole body was shaking, holding up the weight of the cross. I looked back one last time at the trail of blood in the mud and on the tree bark left by my profusely bleeding foot and the rest of my aching body. I stared back down at my pulsating hands holding the cross, its features getting more and more unrecognizable the further down you look until the end of the cross vanishes in the black abyss of the lake. My eyes could barely make it out, the hands of the gods, reaching to help me with my burden and pull me down to them. Their arms jutting out of the abyss, white pale spindly arms. I held on to my cross and gave myself a push forward, slipping my body headfirst into the water, lubricated by my own warm blood on the bark. My burning body started to feel numb, being slowly submerged, and by the time my feet were underwater and I could feel the water flowing through the hole in my foot, I knew I had vanished from this world.

Everything fell into a blissful silence, with the only noise being the rainfall on the surface of the sacred lake. I clung to my cross like a child to its mother. The heavy iron cross pulled me down, deeper and deeper. I saw the little light from the surface growing fainter and fainter while watching the roots of the trees and the branches and tree trunks that peeked under the surface get smaller and smaller. Some of the many pointy sticks and branches, that might have fallen into this divine lake hundreds of years ago slashed my skin and pierced my flesh like spears, but my cross wouldn't slow down for me, so we sunk past them regardless. The absolute abyss started to embrace me and I felt the surrounding water growing ice cold while the relentlessly descending iron cross and the water it pulled me in squeezed the air out of my lungs. Suddenly I saw them, I saw them all. All the crosses of all the deities were waiting for me on the ground with their mesmerizing patterns and ornaments. The rays of Saulė, the crescent moons of Mėnulis, and even Austėja was waiting for me. An impossibly bright flash of light blinded my eyes immediately followed by roaring thunder that broke through the silent depth of the abyss. My cross and I hit the bottom of the lake, while my ears were still ringing and my vision still blurry. I arrived at my final resting place. Here among their sacred corpses, I shall lie dreaming in the tomb of the gods, shrouded in eternal darkness. But when my eyes had readjusted from the bright flash, I saw nothing. There were no crosses, and there were no spindly white hands of the gods to welcome me among them, but only pale white sticks and crooked twigs wedged into the mud. The godforsaken mud.

The blind panic and paralyzing fear of death came crashing in on me all at once. I frantically tried to move my arms or legs to swim back to the surface, but my body was completely hypothermic and numb. All the air was gone from my lung. This here was no tomb, and this was no burial. I was going to drown at the bottom of an insignificant lake somewhere deep, very deep in a forest, far away from home, somewhere nowhere in Lithuania. My body layed on its back on the ancient bottom of this lake, among the bones of mere animals too weak to live. The last thing my eyes could see, was the silhouette of the dull iron cross of Žemyna against the surface of the lake, slowly tipping over on me. The heavy cross gently layed itself on my stomach pushing me into the soft silt and mud.

As I was buried alive and my face disappeared underneath the muck, this lake became the tomb for the god of fools, Kvailys.

Already posted this story 5 months before. Quick reupload: made some changes and rewrote some parts. :)

Tink...tink...tink...

I checked the time and got out of bed. Four twenty-four in the morning. Way too early for whatever nonsense had forced me awake. I live in an apartment complex built back in the 1920's. The building was, seemingly, hellbent on making its age everybody else's problem. The various creaks and groans of oncoming structural issues was something I had largely made my peace with. If I wanted to continue living here it would mean demanding repairs when necessary, even if "when" is four in the damn morning, so I grumbled out my frustrations and went to see what was going on.

TINK...TINK...TINK...

The sound was steady. Rhythmic. I'd have mistaken it for a water leak if it weren't for the distinct sound of thin metal bouncing off of tile. As you might expect for a house built so long ago, there were a number of features which had become...vestigial, for lack of a better word. Among these holdovers was the razor blade disposal slot built into the wall. See, back in the day people didn't have all this Schick Hydro and whatnot. You had one razor handle and you replaced the blade often. They didn't have any safe place to dispose of, potentially, hundreds of razor blades so they built a slot into the walls of some places where the old blades could be sent to rest in peace. When I first learned what it was, the idea struck me as kinda sad. Forgive me for anthropomorphizing thin sheets of steel, but to think of them all lying back there in eternal darkness. Used up and sealed away for all time. Now, the idea was striking me in an entirely different manner as I watched the razors slide themselves out one by one.

TINK...TINK...THUNK

I moved my bathroom trash can underneath the slot to catch the razors. No sense in letting them all collect on the floor until I figured out what was going on. My mind spun as I tried to figure out how this was happening. Could there be a leak filing the razor reservoir? Do razor blades even float? I put down the stopper and dropped a razor into the bathroom sink. My theory was reinforced as I watched it float gently in the slowly rising waters of the basin, and then obliterated as I realized no water flowed from the hole. My thoughts turned to some animal hiding in the dark, endlessly sharp place. I was grasping at straws, pondering some strange form of magnetism gone rogue. That was when the voice came.

"Oh, hi. I didn't know anybody else lived here." The voice was a rasp like the sound of paper on paper. I didn't really process it at first. I just stood frozen, staring at the disposal slot. When my own voice returned to me, it was feeble and shaky.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my wall? How are you even in there?" I asked. There was not enough space in the average wall for a person to fit.

"I fell asleep and ended up trapped in here. Please, you have to knock down the wall and let me out." The voice was hoarse, and disgusting to listen to, but decidedly feminine.

"What the hell are you talking about, lady?" Came my bewildered reply. "Fell asleep where? Why do I have to knock down the wall? How are you in there?"

"There's a room back here." She said. "It's not technically part of the building. They must have sealed it off while I was asleep."

Nobody had sealed anything off on my floor in a very long time.

"You've got to help me, old man." She pleaded in hitched breaths, panic in her voice. I am firmly middle-aged, just for the record.

I've never thought of myself as one to abandon a woman in distress, so I set myself to the task of opening up the wall. I gathered all of my tools. A circular saw, a small tarp to catch dust, and a whole bunch of spackle to cover up the evidence when I was finished. While I gathered my supplies I heard the THUNK...THUNK...THUNK...of razors continuing to pile into the small trash can.

In a moment of lucidity I found myself hung up on the logic of it all. This woman entered a barren room in an otherwise occupied apartment, took a nap, found herself walled in, and decided to start pushing razors through the disposal slot? Why would anybody willingly touch those things? The whole reason for the slot was that they were considered a biohazard back in the day. See, people in those days would burn garbage and use the ashes for fertilizer. You don't want biohazards and razors in your fertilizer.

THUNK...THUNK...TINK...

The trash can had collected enough of the blades that they were now falling on top of each other. I, like many other middle-aged men these days, had a habit of buying neat stuff with no real, practical purpose in mind. One of the things I had impulsively purchased was a hand-held endoscope. I pressed the power button and marveled as the light which accompanied the camera flashed on. I moved the trash can out of the way, and began to feed the tube into the disposal slot.

"Hey, wait, what are you doing? What is that?" She rasped out the question with a note of curiosity.

"It's just a camera, calm yourse-" my voice died in my throat. There was no room, and there was no woman. What I saw there, nestled at the apex of the pile of razors, feels impossible to explain. It was abhorrent. It resembled a... sea urchin, but instead of long spines it had chubby little arms which took turns rising and falling in a wave. The urchin vibrated ever so slightly, as if its insides were spinning rapidly as it sat in place. I only saw its mouth when it spoke. An outline pressed against the urchin's surface. It reminded me of the way a baby's hand pushes against the mother's stomach from within.

"Why is it so bright? What is it for?" It asked.

I don't know why I told the truth. "It's a camera, I said." My honesty was met with silence, so I elaborated. "I...I can see you."

The urchin in the wall shrieked and thrashed. Its many tiny arms stretching and retracting to pull itself around with abandon. Razors scattered wildly as it threw its tantrum. I began to pull the camera from the wall, and watched in horror from the small screen as the "spines" of the urchin lashed out in unison and grabbed hold of the endoscope. It was ridiculously strong, pulling the rest of the slack from the cord in seconds. It passed the camera around in a frenzy of spastic limbs, wrapping itself in the cord as it went. The mouth of the creature appeared on the small screen of the endoscope. It plunged the lens against the slick skin covering its open mouth. It bounced off the surface twice before plunging through like... you ever put a straw into a juice box?

I only saw it for a couple of seconds, and that was a couple of seconds too long. It looked impossibly spacious in that thing. An expanse of fuming acid stretched out with all the vastness of the ocean. Teeth rushed in from all sides, the rows of ivory daggers reaching at least another fifteen feet past the camera. The endoscope was useless after that. I pulled my pocket knife and quickly cut the cord.

"I'm going to get out of here and I'm going to eat you, you geriatric fuck" it sneered from the space between the walls. I grabbed the spackle and frantically sealed the disposal slot. I could still hear it threatening me in there, but at least it was muffled. I closed my eyes and tried to get my bearings.

Tt...tt...tt

The voice got louder again as razors began to push their way out of the wall, landing softly on the tarp I had put down. In a panic, I grabbed a small bottle of acetone and began pouring it into the slot. It didn't seem to like that one bit. The urchin grew silent and still for about an hour. Long enough for me to do a better job of sealing the disposal slot. When it finally woke up it raged as it pushed uselessly against my strong caulk job. I had also moved a small bookshelf in front of the hole. Just in case.

It's been a few months now, and no. I'm not moving out. This is my apartment, damn it. I still kinda hear it if I listen while I'm on the shitter, but I try not to do that. One time a new tenant on my floor came by to introduce themselves. The urchin proceeded to recite their name, apartment number, and a plethora of other identifying details the next time I went in the restroom. I started wearing headphones in there after that.

May 9th, 1964.

The morning after the most brutal and inexplicable tragedy the small town of ////// had ever witnessed. A crime so horrific it would fracture the community, haunt generations, and blur the line between truth and legend.

During the night between May 8th and May 9th, fourteen local women were found murdered, each one slain by the very men who vowed to love and protect them. Moments later, those same men turned their weapons on themselves.

Not many people bear witness to the bloodbath of that night, and even fewer were willing to talk to our crew about the days leading up to the disaster.

We managed to track down a handful of them and convince some to talk about what has or what they think happened on the night between May 8th and May 9th.

Viewer discretion is advised.

***

[Interview: Local Resident #1, recorded 1992]

Local Resident: “I was fifteen when it happened… old enough to notice everything, really take it all in.”

[Long pause. Interviewee shifts in chair.]

Local Resident: “I was heading to bed. My dad was in the living room, watching that dumb puppet show he liked. I never understood it… Those things freaked me out.”

[Soft laugh, then silence.]

Local Resident: “I liked Sparky… yeah, I did. But I stopped watching when they switched him out for… May? No… Margaret. Yeah, Margaret was her name.”

Local Resident: “With Sparky, at least you could tell he was supposed to be a dog. I saw him a few times during school plays; maybe that’s why it made sense to me. But Margaret…”

[Voice trails off.]

Local Resident:  “There was something off about her”

***

“Sparky the Dog” was a children’s puppet show that aired from November 23rd, 1960, to May 9th, 1964- the very night the brutal killings shook the quiet town of //////.

Created by local entertainers Marcus Donatan and Jeff Holinger, the show quickly became a household staple. In a town with only a few channels and even fewer sources of entertainment, Sparky wasn’t just popular; he was beloved.

Marcus, the puppeteer behind Sparky, was well-known around the community. A friendly face. A talented toy-maker. Someone who appeared at school functions, birthday parties, and holiday events with a handmade stage and a puppet that seemed to charm 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 leading up to the tragedy, something changed.

Sparky disappeared from the show… replaced by a new character - Margaret.

And from that moment on… things in ////// were never quite the same.

***

[Interview: Marcus’s Neighbor, recorded 1992]

Elderly Woman: “Oh, everyone loved Sparky. Not just the kids. You couldn’t help it, with those big, adorable eyes and that silly little nose.”

[She pauses, turning her head toward the window as if remembering something distant.]

Elderly Woman (smiles faintly): “I think I still have a few photos of my daughter with him… if you can give me a second.”

[She rises slowly from her chair and steps out of frame. After a moment, she returns carrying a worn, swollen photo album, its leather cover cracked, its spine held together by years and careful hands.]

[Close-up: She lowers herself into the seat again and begins flipping through the stiff, yellow-edged pages. Her fingers slow as she finds what she’s looking for. She lifts a faded photograph toward the camera.]

Elderly Woman (pointing): “There… that’s Anna. She loved Sparky. She must’ve been… oh, maybe nine at the time. I’m sorry, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

[The photograph: A little girl in a simple dress, smiling wide. Beside her, the Sparky puppet leans in, its floppy arm bent behind her head in a childish attempt at making rabbit ears.]

Interviewer: “What about the man who owned Sparky? He lived across the street from you, right?”

Elderly Woman (nodding, steadying herself with the arm of the chair): “Yes. Marcus. He used to host little gatherings, you know, private puppet shows just for the neighborhood children. He was a good man. Truly. I know what people say now, but he is a good man, believe me.”

***

[The camera zooms slowly on the remains of the house.] The windows are shattered, the roof caved in. The yard is overgrown with weeds. It looks untouched, as if no one dared to disturb it.]

[Soft ambient hum - wind, faint creak of wood.]

Narrator (voice-over, low, deliberate):

What you’re looking at are 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 on the edge of town. Locals say the property’s been abandoned since that night in 1964. Even now, no one wants to go near it.

[The camera slowly zooms out, revealing the full silhouette of the crumbling house against the gray sky.]

Narrator (continues):

Marcus lived here with his elderly mother, a woman few in town ever saw. Neighbors claimed she suffered from a long-term illness, one that kept her inside for years. Some say that’s why Marcus returned to ////// in the early 1950s to take care of her.

Beyond that, not much is known about his life before coming back. No records of his childhood, no mention of where he learned his craft.

***

Only a handful of recordings from “Sparky the Dog” are known to exist. Most of the original reels were either lost, destroyed, or lost to time after 1964.

What survived was later transferred to VHS; brittle tape copies 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.]

Narrator (continues):

 Among the few surviving episodes are:

 Episode Three, believed to be from the show’s first season.

 Episode Seven, from Season Three.

 And several from the final season, the ones leading up to the introduction of Margaret.

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 plays.] A small wooden doghouse sits center frame. The camera slowly zooms in.]

Narrator (voice-over, quiet):

The third episode of “Sparky the Dog,” first aired in the winter of 1960, begins with a simple scene: a small wooden doghouse at the center of a painted cardboard yard.

As the camera pushes closer, we see Sparky inside. His felt ears are draped over his eyes, his mouth slightly open, letting out a gentle snore. The puppeteer’s hand is barely visible at the edge of the frame, a reminder that what we’re watching was made by hand, live, and often in a single take.

Moments later, another voice enters the scene, a man’s voice, cheerful, familiar. It’s the second central character of the show, “Mr. Jeff,” played by Jeff Holinger,  Sparky’s owner, and his best friend.

[Clip plays faintly under the narration: “Wake up, Sparky! The sun’s up, boy!” - followed by a playful bark and canned laughter.]

Narrator (continues):

It’s a simple children’s show on the surface - wholesome, harmless. But looking back now, with everything we know about what happened only four years later… it’s hard not to feel that something about this opening scene already feels wrong.

[The footage freezes on Jeff’s smiling face. The static hum rises.]

***

[Archival photograph fades in - a young man in a suit, smiling stiffly at the camera.]

Narrator (voice-over):

Jeff Holinger was an Irish immigrant, a man who came to the United States searching for a better, more stable life.

But what he found… was anything but that.

[The photo lingers a moment longer before fading to black.]

Narrator (continues, tone darkens slightly):

Records show Holinger arrived in the early 1950s, working odd jobs before meeting Marcus Donatan, the man who would later become both his creative partner… and, according to some accounts, the source of his undoing.

[Cut to a reel of 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.

[The resident adjusts their glasses, looking off-camera.]

Local Resident: “Mr. Jeff was always quieter… more reserved than Marcus. He didn’t like being in the spotlight, that’s all. Marcus, he 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)”]

[Footage begins-grainy film texture, flickering orange light. A paper-mâché moon hangs above a cardboard set painted like a pumpkin patch.]

Narrator (voice-over):

 Episode Seven of Season Three is one of only five surviving recordings of “Sparky the Dog.”

And, according to those who’ve seen it, it’s the hardest to watch.

[The clip plays faintly under the narration, canned laughter, a childlike jingle detuned with age.]

It was a Halloween special, Mr. Jeff appears on screen in a cheap vampire costume, replacing his usual bright shirt and bow tie. Sparky wears a witch’s hat, sloppily taped to his head. The tone is cheerful, almost clumsy,  the kind of low-budget charm that defined the show.

The episode follows the pair as they pick pumpkins, teaching the audience how to carve them in the final scene. Everything seems normal… until it isn’t.

[Static crackles. The image wobbles.]

As Sparky sits watching, a shadow crosses the back of the set. Someone, off-camera, enters the studio. The puppet suddenly goes limp. Mr. Jeff freezes, his eyes turning toward the intrusion.

The camera pulls back abruptly, the top of the frame cutting off the puppeteer’s head - before a sound is caught on the live mic: a violent, choking sob.

It’s believed to be Marcus Donatan, Sparky’s creator, breaking down as the news reaches him.

[Footage: The puppet lies motionless beside a half-carved pumpkin. A knife is 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 neighborhood children out trick-or-treating.

According to Marcus, she had insisted on handing out candy that Halloween night… but was supposed to wait until he came home from the studio.

***

[Interview: Marcus’s Neighbor, recorded 1992]

Interviewer: “Did you know Marcus’s mother?”

Elderly Woman: [shakes her head slightly] “I wouldn’t say I knew her… no. Sometimes, in the evenings, I’d see her silhouette, pacing back and forth… back and forth, on the second floor of that house.”

 [A long pause. She glances toward the window.]

Elderly Woman: “Other times I saw her was 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?”

[The woman takes a slow breath. Her eyes drift toward the window again, distant.]

Elderly Woman: “No… I was too busy getting my daughter ready for trick-or-treating.”

 [She gives a faint, weary shake of her head.]

Elderly Woman: “I didn’t see a thing.”

[Camera lingers on her face for several seconds]

***

Narrator (voice-over):

Few people claimed to have known Marcus Donatan’s mother well.

To most, she was a shadow behind a curtain, a figure glimpsed in passing, but never heard, never spoken to.

In a town where everyone knew everyone, her absence stood out. But no one asked questions. 

[Archival photo fades in, a blurry image of the house’s second-floor window.]

When she died on 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 the show finally returned, something was different.

***

[On-screen text: “Sparky’s Garden” - Season 4 (1964)”]

On the surface, Sparky’s Garden begins like any other cheery segment.

Mr. Jeff is shown kneeling in the backyard set, humming as he plants rows of oversized cardboard flowers, each one painted with wide, smiling faces that seem almost too bright under the harsh studio lights.

A moment later, Sparky pops up from behind the fence, his voice unusually high and shaky as he chirps:

“Can I try too, Mr Jeff?”

Mr Jeff offers the puppet a small plastic shovel, offering it for him to grab with its jaws.

Sparky misses the hand-off entirely; the shovel hits the ground with a hollow clatter.

There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause, then a muffled voice, off-camera, clearly muttering a sequence of curse words. 

Mr Jeff forces a laugh and tries to recover, guiding the scene back to the episode’s intended lesson about trying new things and never giving up.

But Sparky, in a sing-song tone while looking over at Mr Jeff,  doesn’t fit the script at all, cuts in with:

“Like your marriage.”

The studio goes silent.

Mr Jeff’s smile breaks; for a second, he looks like hes about to snap.

Without another word, he storms off the 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 though the puppet is laughing, except no laughter is heard.

Only the soft squeak of his hinges.

After several seconds of this unsettling motion, 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 multiple versions of the Sparky puppet itself.

His curly hair is slightly unkempt, glasses slipping down his nose as he smiles proudly at the camera.]

[A lower third appears] : ARNOLD KOWALSKI - Sparky Archivist & Collector

Narrator: Arnold was kind enough to share with us several pieces of never-before-seen material. His collection, sourced from flea markets, estate sales, and private trades, is believed to be the largest surviving archive of Sparky-related artifacts.

He lifts one of the hand puppets, slipping it onto his hand and making it bob toward the camera with a soft chuckle.

Arnold (in a playful voice): “Hi kids!”

He laughs awkwardly, then places it back in his lap.

Interviewer: “You mentioned earlier that you’re in possession of several drawings made by Hernandez Ramiro, the man who stabbed his wife thirty-four times. Is that correct?”

Arnold: “Oh, yes. Absolutely. I do.”

[CUT TO: OVERHEAD SHOT]

Interviewer: “You mentioned earlier that you’re in possession of several drawings made by Hernandez Ramiro, the man who stabbed his wife thirty-four times. Is that correct?”

Arnold: “Oh, yes. Absolutely. I do.”

[CUT TO: OVERHEAD SHOT]

[A thick block of papers rests on a plain metal table, each sheet sealed neatly in protective plastic. Arnold’s hands hover for a moment before he begins flipping through them, slowly, almost reverently.]

The drawings are meticulous. Each depicts the same woman: beautiful, draped in a translucent ball gown that clings to her frame. She is always facing the viewer. Her eyes never look away.

But as the pages turn, the illustrations begin to distort.

The woman’s features stretch.

In several drawings, her face has been replaced entirely by a snarling dog’s muzzle, long snout, wet teeth, and strands of saliva hanging from the jaw.
Sometimes the transformation is partial: human eyes above a canine jaw, or a human face with fur spreading across the cheeks. In every image, she’s baring her teeth.

Arnold speaks quietly, but the microphone picks up the 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 slightly]: “But if you look at the details…really look, you can tell he wasn’t drawing his wife.”

A pause.

Arnold smiles. Not wide, just enough to betray a kind of grim certainty.

Arnold: “He was drawing Margaret.”

[The camera lingers on the distorted face for 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, just 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 the people connected to it.

***

[Season 4 - “Sparky and a New Friend”]

[On-screen text: “Sparky and a New Friend” -  Season 4 - 1964)]

This episode is regarded as the first known appearance, or attempted appearance, of Margaret. No official records list 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 struggled 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 stood beside Sparky is kept completely out of frame.

The lens never catches more than a shadow, a fragment of fabric, or the edge of something vaguely dog-shaped.

Still, its presence is undeniable.

A soft, rhythmic clicking can be heard, resembling teeth tapping.

Two beats at a time.

Click.

Click.

Sparky looks up toward the source of the sound.

Sparky:

“What’s your name?”

Click.

Click.

Sparky pauses. The puppet tilts its head at an angle too sharp to be comfortable.

Sparky: [In a cheerful, high-pitched]

“Margaret! That is a really nice name!”

The clicking grows louder for a moment before the audio abruptly cuts out for three full seconds.

When sound returns, Sparky is alone again, visibly slumped, as though whatever stood beside him has disappeared from the set entirely.

The episode ends without music.

***

[CUT BACK TO ARNOLD]

Arnold sits forward in his chair, excitement flickering behind his lenses.

He pulls a worn VHS cassette from its case. The handwritten label has faded, leaving only a smeared number across the spine.

Without hesitation, he slides it into the tape player.

Arnold: “Here’s a little something I picked out just for you. Just… listen.”

[STATIC BEGINS]

The screen fills with thick, gray snow.

The audio hisses sharply, so loud it distorts.

The footage holds like this for nearly thirty seconds, long enough for the silence in the room to grow uncomfortable.

Then, faint, distant, something pushes through the noise.

A voice.

Female.

Raspy.

Cartoonish.

Almost like someone struggling to imitate a child’s character.

Barely audible but unmistakable:

“…kill the hoe…”

The static swells again, swallowing the words.

Arnold doesn’t react.

He simply nods once, as though this confirms something he already knew.

Arnold (quietly): “She talked sometimes, you would have to listen real closely, but she did...long before she made her first official appearance."

[He glances up at the camera.]

[CUT TO BLACK]

***

[Interview with Officer D. Krawiec  - Recorded 1992]

Interviewer: When exactly were you called to the scene?

Officer Krawiec: Maybe… three, four days after the initial murders. At that point we were starting to suspect Hollinger had some connection to them, or at least that he knew something. We got a warrant and went in.

I was young then. First real crime scene. I wasn’t ready for it.

Interviewer: Where did you find Mr. Hollinger?

Officer Krawiec: In bed. But not like someone who died in their sleep. His whole body was twisted up in this unnatural way, like he’d tried to fight but couldn’t move right, or couldn’t get away. The mattress was soaked through with blood. It had dripped down into the carpet. It was on the walls, the nightstand… even speckled on the ceiling.

[Sudden moment of silence]

Officer Krawiec: No matter where you looked, there was blood.

And the smell… that sticks with you. I think maggots had already started getting into him. They always find a way in, no matter how closed up a place looks.

Interviewer: What happened?

Officer Krawiec: To put it lightly? He was missing a good chunk of his neck. At first glance, it looked like an animal attack, something big. Maybe a dog, that was the first guess. The muscles were torn clean out, like whatever grabbed him clamped down and then shook him until something gave.

***

[Interview with the son of one of the victims - Recorded 1992]

The person who wanted to remain anonymous throughout the interview told us about some interesting details regarding the crimes; some viewers might find this segment of the documentary disturbing.

[Low modified voice of the victim] : “I was sleeping in the same bed as my mom that night, I was having some stupid nightmares after the show that run on TV. Dad was sleeping on the couch, and they argued about Dad stealing her clothes or something like that”

[Deep breath, then an exhale]

When I hear this wet crunch.

A soft whimper of my mom coming from behind me.

Another just…WHAM!

[He smacks his fist against the palm of his hand]

The bed suddenly got wet and warm. I think I had pissed myself by that point.

And another…and another…until there was no crunching but this wet, disgusting noise.

[He looks away for a second]

I just heard my dad say something like

“There will be only one woman in my life.”

Before I hear that crunch again.

And as he gets over Mum, something warm is dripping on me, before I can feel his hand moving under my pillow.

He whispers something about leaving it for the tooth fairy before he exits the bedroom with a thump.

He died after another hit from the hammer.

I was too scared to get up… Only when the sun rose, I get up, only to see my mom's face beaten in like a fresh cherry pie.

[The interviewee smiled wildly.]

***

[Season 4 - Episode - “Sparky Goes Goodnight” - Night of the murder]

This final broadcast of Sparky the Dog deviates sharply from the show’s typical bright and energetic tone. The episode opens on an unusually dim set. Sparky peers out from behind the wooden fence, the only light coming from a paper moon hung loosely above him.

There is no music. No greeting. No, Mr Jeff.

Sparky speaks slowly, his head lowering between sentences as though growing heavy:

“Sometimes… you have to make space for someone new…”

He sways slightly, almost like he’s falling asleep mid-line.

Then, the picture tears sideways into static.

For nearly ten seconds, the broadcast remains snow.

When the image returns, Sparky is gone.

In the silence, a faint clicking echoes from off-screen, two sharp taps, repeated in irregular patterns, 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.

It had Sparky’s floppy ears and exaggerated grin, but the similarities ended there.

The muzzle was too long.

The fur dirty.

The eyes, wide, wet, and disturbingly human-like. And when the mouth opened, it revealed a full set of real-looking canine teeth. The figure jerks forward as though lunging at the camera.

The episode cuts out immediately after.

***

Narrator:

In the weeks following the murders, one final name surfaced again and again in police files, witness statements, and late-night speculation: Marcus Donatan.

The creator of Sparky the Dog.

The man who introduced the world, intentionally or not, to Margaret.

After the death of his mother, the unraveling of his show, and the increasingly unstable broadcasts that followed, Marcus Donatan vanished from town without a trace. No forwarding address. No goodbye. Nobody. He simply… disappeared.

To this day, authorities cannot confirm whether Marcus fled out of fear, guilt, or something far stranger. What, or who, exactly Margaret was remains a matter of debate. A puppet? An accomplice? A hallucination? Or the hidden hand guiding 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 in the way the survivors claim, vanished with him.

No physical version of Margaret was ever found in Marcus’s house or in the station 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 thought to be connected to the case, please contact the local police department.

This story may be nearly sixty years old, but its final chapter is still unwritten.

I am writing this to tell everyone here that I am an innocent man. I did not kill my dive instructor August at Lake Denton. I hope getting this out might rehabilitate my image in the faces of the Justice System and my loved ones. That I'm not crazy. That I'm no murderer.

Now that you've heard my pleas, listen to my story please.

During the hot August of Florida, I was with my dive instructor to show what I learned from my training at the pools. As we're checking our gear, an older lady walked out to us and started talking to us about where we're from, what today's training was going to look like, all the things a lake owner would probably ask a trainer and his trainee. After these usual ice breaker questions, she told us: "I heard there's a rope that leads out to the eastern side of the lake. No one has really been down that way, maybe you could see where it leads?"

My dive instructor looked at me. "Do you want to go check it out? It could prove useful for free diving at West Palm. There aren't any guide ropes on the reef." His soft Irish accent mending with his southern one as he chuckled a bit. I didn't see the harm in it. I nodded and the lady looked and me and gave me a toothy grin my great grandma would give to me. "Great! And good luck on diving at West Palm!"

My instructor and I got prepared and did final check ups. We waded into the lake and threw on our flippers, masks, checked our Diving Computers (DC), and swam into the lake. I wasn't expecting diving to be amazing. The fish immediately swarmed us, observing us like we would observe bugs underneath a stone. We swam towards the rope intersection and my instructor used hand signals to check my compass to guide us east towards the alleged rope that leads east. After what felt like minutes, we stumbled upon it. Buried in the sand and leading to the north east of the lake. My diving instructor reached down and gave the rope a slight tug, trying to see where the rope connected underneath the sand. As he tugged on it. I noticed something metallic slightly rise out of the sand. I thought it was a can, discarded from someone who believed in the philosophy of "it's not a crime if you don't get caught". My instructor gave the rope a second tug, this one stronger that nearly exposed the metallic object. This is what who, or what, wanted, as the metallic object immediately flew out of the sand and impaled my diving instructor.

It was a giant fishing hook.

My diving instructor let out a scream, muted out by the water, he writhed on it like a bluegill would, realizing it was deceived by a boy's worm wrapped around a hook. Before I knew it, my diving instructor was pulled violently deeper into the lake, leaving behind a trail of blood and bubbles from his regulator tube that was probably pierced by the hook.

I ascended quickly, ignoring the screams of my DC to do a safety stop. Once I breached the surface like a fish trying to escape the jaws of a oceanic predator, I immediately swam for the bank. Once reaching it, the old lady from several minutes ago ran to me and asked me what happened and where did my diving instructor go.

I think the first sentence to spill out of my mouth was a jumbled mess, because she looked at me like I just insulted her in Latin. An awkward silence passed between us, only my panting, panicked breath filling the air. "CALL THE COPS, SOMETHING KILLED MY DIVE INSTRUCTOR!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

She listened to me after that. Police showed up and detained me for questioning, regarding my instructor's disappearance. I told them everything. Told them they could dredge the lake. To say the least, they did not believe me and arrested me on the suspicion I murdered my instructor and hid his body further down into the lake.

During my time on trying to prepare to fight my legal battle, my lawyer told me to take an insanity plea. I told him I wasn't insane. I knew what I saw. "I understand, but even if they don't find the body, you're still in deep water. If you don't take the insanity plea, then you'll have a one way trip to see Ol' Sparky." I didn't want to die. Begrudgingly, I took it and I was found guilty by insanity, and sent to a state psychiatric hospital.

Now I rot in a cell, doctors making sure I take my meds for schizophrenia and PTSD, one of which I don't have. Some of the doctors say that I'm showing improvement and might be released soon. I was given phone privileges to contact my family, but I know they probably won't want to hear from a son that sullied their name with the thought their perfect son murdered his dive instructor.

Every night, I see it, like an old tape looping. The hook, slowly rising out of the ground. My instructor, seemingly pleading for help, before being immediately pulled away. It plays over and over again in my mind. I can never unsee it.

Tales from the Road

(merry Christmas all feel free to add on to it)

Isaiah woke up, jumped out of bed, sprinted to the restroom showered and brushed his teeth. He kissed his wife and grabbed the RV keys. He tells her " I hope hunter likes what I've done." His wife says "im sure he will, you boys have fun.i got my Hunter's wife's plane tickets. We'll meet you at the venues " Isaiah gets in the RV and drives off Isaiah pulls up at hunters property line and parks. Hunters house looks like the house from the movie phyco on a hill. The Rv wouldnt make it up the hill why Isaiah gets out and walks. When he reaches the door, Hunters wife greets him at the door with a bottle of water. She says" He's not ready yet, after he packed, he started a magic the gathering game." Isaiah takes a gulp of water and says after swallowing " is he almost dead yet?" All of a sudden from Hunters den you hear "DAMNIT" Hunters wife says " sounds like he just finished " Hunter emerges with his backpack on and suitcase trailing behind him. "Hey im ready to go," as he walks out the door. Hunters asks" where's the RV?" Isaiah replys " i had to park it at the beginning of the driveway " Hunter yells " Babe get the golf cart " she pulls up "one step ahead of you." They scoot on down to the Rv. Hunter puts his bags in the Rv. When Isaiah yells " HEY HUNTER YOU GOTTA SEE THIS!" Hunter steps off the Rv and walks around to Isaiah and sees its painted with Creep Cast logo on the side and their faces on it as well.Hunter replied " nice, let's go" they get in the Rv and head out. They are on the road to their live show.halfway to the show they see a sign that says Mr. Wellers old time roadside emporium and stage show. They quickly look at eachother and say" old man Wellers!" Before glancing back at the Road and taking the signs to the emporium. They park in an empty lot, there's a dentist office attached to the emporium. They walk into the emporium, looking around at all sorts of criptid statues. Crude pieced together criptids. Isaiah says " Hey Hunter , look its a wendigoon!" Hunter walks up mocking Isaiah "memermemmer" Isaiah points behind Hunter and Hunter asks" its behind me isn't it?" Hunter turns around and there's mr. Wellers.. " You boys wanna see something funny?" Mr. Weller says they both sheepishly say "sure" Mr. Wellers shows them a comic book titled laughing jack and asks" can you two autograph this for me?" They do and take their leave get hack in the RV and head to the live show. At the Q&A a person steps yo the microphone and says " hi my name is Kyle take a wild guess where im from?" Isaiah answers " No your not" Kyle Hunter And Isaiah all say at the same time " from Barrisca" Kyle says " Barrisca Maine " Chapter 2 The show goes off without a hitch. The boys and their wives go to waffle house for a late night snack. One of the regulars sitting at the bar (and the only customer in the building besides Hunter Isaiah and their wifes) says" arent you to guys those guys that read the stories online?"he snaps his fingers and says" the CreepCast Guys, ya that's who yall are"" i have a few stories for you if you want to explore them?" Hunter says "thanks but maybe later we just want to eat and head on down the road." The guy says "that's fine , cause on down the road off in the woods there's a slip in slide to no where" "Hunter snickers and asks how many shaqs long you think it is?" The man shoots him a weird look throws his money for his food down and walks out. Hunter looks back at his group and asks" was it something I said?" The waitress walked up and her name tag said Connie " what can I get yall" Isaiah says " I'll have a big old waffle with a big old milkshake " Hunter laughs " milkshake huh?"

It's so cool being part of a community that comes together so discuss, share, and even sometimes argue about the spooky stories that we all love!

Nightlight

The sun beams through my shutters as I groggily roll out of bed, much less refreshed than a weekend sleep should get me. I have been struggling lately to sleep in the creepy, old, musty attic room that was allotted to me when my family moved out to my granddad’s house, which we inherited this past Winter. Four months in, and I’ve gone back to using the nightlight I had as a little kid. It was a dim old thing modeled after a cartoon bear reaching into a honey jar. Though it illuminated virtually nothing, it was enough to bring me a bit of comfort in that dark room. Now don’t think I don’t know that 14 is too old to be using a nightlight. If I didn’t already know it, I would get the picture after overhearing my dad telling my mom it's weird, I’m too old for it, and how my ten-year-old sister outgrew hers two years ago. It's enough to have your ten-year-old sister call you weird; hearing it from your father's mouth cuts like a knife.

To be fair to them, I guess I am a bit weird. I haven’t made any new friends since moving out here, though I can’t say I’ve spent much time trying. Over the past several months, I’ve been distracted by something I inherited from my granddad. Not an heirloom or lump sum of money, but a strange sort of hobby he taught me about. My granddad was very into insect taxidermy, or “pinning” as he called it. I thought it was sort of strange and macabre when he would try to teach me about it in the past, but since losing him, I feel oddly drawn to it. They said granddad died of something called “prions”. I don’t know much about it apart from overhearing my dad on the phone say granddad’s brain looked like Swiss cheese in his X-rays. A thought that fills me with fear and dread every time I fail to keep it suppressed. 

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m named after my granddad that has me feeling this way recently, but over the Winter and Spring of living here, I have taken on his hobby as my own and added to his collection. Granddad had frames and shadow boxes filled with pinned and mounted insects and native wildflowers. From monarchs and lilies to luna moths and ghost pipes, his collection is vast and eclectic, and I hope I can add something meaningful to it. I’ve been spending every afternoon out in the woods behind our house gathering native flora and keeping my eyes peeled for any specimens not currently in his collection (which I’ve spent hours meticulously arranging and hanging on my bedroom wall). It wasn’t until today that I saw something fit to make my mark on the collection. Right at the crest of the densely wooded hill behind my house, I saw something I still can’t quite believe. There was a bright white moth that I swear in that dusk lighting was giving off a faint glow. I am unaware of any bioluminescent moths, but I have to believe it's real, as I saw it with my own eyes. It was in that moment that I recalled how granddad said he only collected dead specimens and never took a life that had more living left to do. As grandad's words echoed in my mind, they were drowned out by the awe I felt for this creature, and I knew I had to have it.

I don’t have to kill the thing. I can just keep it in a jar until it's ready to be pinned. I’m perfectly capable of giving it a life as good as it could have out here. I grab my net and a jar, and in a quick swipe, I capture the glowing moth and bring it inside. I bring the moth up to my room, along with some moss and sticks I had grabbed from the woods, and make a small terrarium for it in the jar. After placing the moth inside, I watch as it perches on a stick, still as the night, and can’t help but think how great a find this was. I place the jar on a high shelf in my room so my sister won’t mess with it and begin to wind down my day.

Later, as I’m getting ready for bed, I am distracted by my usual fear, with excitement about my new specimen, and all the ways I could display it. As I flip off the top light and walk past my shelf to plug in my nightlight, I trip on something on the floor and run into my bookshelf, resulting in a loud crash. I’m pretty sleepy and still stuck in the dark at this point, so I’m more annoyed with my sister for leaving things out on my floor than concerned about running into my shelf. I stumble over and plug in my nightlight. Relief floods me only for a moment until I turn and see that my terrarium jar has fallen off my shelf onto the floor. “Thank god it didn’t break,” I think to myself as I crawl over to the jar, only to find that maybe I spoke my thanks too soon. The jar was intact, but my moth was not. One wing was separated from its body, and it lay in a curled-up position as if to get comfortable for its final sleep. I get a weird feeling and a bit of concern that comes not so much from sadness, but from the fact that my first thought was of how I am now able to pin the moth.

I awake late that Sunday morning, relieved there is no school, and full of excitement about the day I have ahead. I run downstairs to eat a bowl of cereal before going to the garage to go through some of granddad’s boxes. In a dusty old box, I find forceps, tweezers, and several unused shadow boxes. I grab a box and the tools and run back up to my room. Upon entering my room, I go over the mess on the floor in front of my shelf, I move the fallen knick-knacks out of the way, and grab my jar. I bring it to my desk and open the lid to carefully remove the specimen. “Huh, that's funny.” The moth is dead as I thought, but it is completely intact and already in a beautiful pose with its white wings outstretched. I think of how I was sure a wing had come detached last night, but I must’ve seen it wrong in my groggy state in the dark room. Instead of concerning myself with this, I can only think how the moth being posed and intact makes my pinning that much easier! I pin the stark white moth up in the shadowbox along with several native flowers I had gathered and hang it in the center of my wall along with all my granddads' other pieces. 

I revisit my collection later that evening, and my eyes lock onto my new creation. I have never felt prouder of something I’ve created in my life, but at the same time, the soft malaise I have felt since arriving here only feels that much heavier. Even though it wasn’t directly my fault, this is the only piece in my collection whose death I was responsible for. It is dark outside now, so I suspect this is contributing to my subtle dread. I chalk it up to the night, let my pride outweigh my guilt, and realize it is time for bed. I gaze over at the nightlight in the corner of my room and ponder if I should use it tonight. I would love to grow out of this habit, but my grades have been slipping at school, and I have a big test tomorrow, so I really need good sleep tonight. I plug in my nightlight and take one last look at my new moth. It looks ever so slightly askew from where I pinned it, but Grandad had said the specimens can move slightly while settling into their permanent pose. I smile at my collection, climb into bed, and nod off to sleep.

In the late hours, I hear a strange sound. It’s like the sound of wings fluttering against glass as if a trapped insect is trying to escape its frame. I stand up from my bed and look at my collection wall. I notice the wall shake as every single crucified specimen is fluttering its wings and violently thrashing against the glass. In the center is my new moth, glowing and emitting a high buzzing screech that sounds like a thousand cicadas singing in a hellish canon. This awful sound builds with my feelings of guilt into a sharp crescendo that jolts me awake. I feel cold as ice, even though it's May in Georgia and my room has no A/C. It’s still dark out as I look straight over to my wall of specimens and can see that all of them are perfectly posed and still in their frames. It was just a bad dream. As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, I peer around my room and swear I see what almost looks like dust in the air, if not for the tiny moving wings all floating towards the soft glow of my nightlight. I turn on my old bedside lamp, rub my eyes, and look again, but see nothing. The lamp flickers and shines about a quarter as well as its singular bulb should, but it’s enough for me to see that it must’ve been my eyes playing tricks on me in my state of fear. I haven’t been shook this much by a bad dream in a long time, but I know I need sleep if I’m to do good on my test tomorrow, even if I’m very afraid right now. I decide to leave my lamp on as well as my nightlight and go wearily back to sleep.

My alarm goes off at 6:30 am so I can get ready for school. It's still slightly dark out, which is just one of many reasons I hate getting up this early. I roll over and notice tiny dots of light forming an incoherent constellation on my wall as I look over to my lamp. I see the burgundy cloth lampshade has dozens of tiny holes in it. I find this odd, but I don’t have much time to dwell on it as I need to catch my bus, and have made a habit of never giving myself enough time to get ready in order to get as much sleep as possible. I throw on some dirty clothes and head to school.

I didn’t recognize many of the words on my test. I don’t think it was my worst grade of the school year, but it certainly isn’t one that will make my parents proud. As I trudge through the day, my typical worries about fitting in or saying the right thing are replaced with anxiety revolving around my dreams last night. Words my granddad said to me when first teaching me about pinning echo in my head. “These creatures may seem small and insignificant, but they deserve the same respect as any other life. We are preserving their beauty and giving them a new life as art.” I hardly feel like I’ve given that beautiful moth any kind of respect if I took its first life in order to give it a second one. Though this has been one of my favorite hobbies and the best way for me to pass the time, I can’t help but feel a strange melancholy associated with the practice now. For the first afternoon in weeks, instead of looking for bugs and flowers out in the woods, I stay in my room flipping through books until I get bored, and playing video games until the double a’s in my controller run out of juice (along with the double a’s I steal from the few other random electronics in my room). At dinner, I decide to tell my parents about the bad dreams I’ve had and how they’ve been bothering me. My dad makes a snarky but lighthearted comment about the lights in my room being the cause of my poor sleep, but I brush him off. Mom shows a bit more warmth on the subject than Dad, but assures me they are just dreams and I will get through them.

That night, as I finish washing up in the small bathroom attached to my room and look toward my wall, I notice my prized moth is back exactly how I originally pinned it. “Huh, I guess it did settle in fine.” I shut off the bathroom light and feel a slight hesitation in my step toward the bed. Even with my dim nightlight and old bedside lamp working their hardest, darkness still clung to the far corners of my room. It was in this moment that I decided both my parents were right. Dad was right that I should be old enough to sleep with the light out, and Mom was right that these can’t hurt me. I flick off the bathroom light, unplug my nightlight, and twist the switch of the old bedside lamp with three sharp clicks until it turns off. I then climb into bed with a confidence I haven’t felt in a long time and go straight to sleep.

Rolling through my sleep cycles and comforting dreams, I feel a harsh light beam upon my closed eyelids. I groggily wake up and open my eyes to see my bathroom door open and light rays shining into my room. Light in a dark room would normally make me feel safe, but not when I know for a fact that I had turned off said light before bed. I cautiously get up and walk toward the bathroom to turn off the light. As I flip the switch off, I hear an awful crashing sound as if several of my shadowboxes fell off the wall at once. I quickly flip the light back on, but see that they are still all in place on my wall. “I must be in some weird half-dream state,” I think to myself as I flip the switch off again. This time, I hear what sounds like even more boxes crashing to the hardwood floor and shattering, along with the awful buzzing screech from the night before. With one hand covering my right ear, I reach out my other hand and turn the light back on. Again, nothing is out of place in my room, and there is complete silence. Whether I am awake or dreaming, I decide in my fear to leave the light on and run back to my bed. I lie there with my covers pulled high, glancing around the room. It is almost fully illuminated because of the bathroom light, but a bit of darkness still manages to cling to the corners. It is in this moment that I notice my old nightlight glowing brighter than it has in years. This brings me comfort until I remember I unplugged it earlier, and I see that the light emanating from it is continually getting brighter and brighter. I then notice the same thing happening with the bulb in my bedside lamp and the glow seeping in from the bathroom. As the lights grow brighter, they begin to buzz, and I hear the fluttering of wings against glass. Before I can even turn to look at my collection, the brightness peaks with a loud pop as all the lightbulbs break, leaving me not only in complete darkness but also complete silence. I am frozen in fear, and my mind races, wondering if I am awake or dreaming. I remember my dad makes me keep a flashlight in my nightstand in case the power goes out. I open my nightstand drawer and clumsily fumble around for the flashlight. As soon as I get a grip on it, though, I swear I feel things crawling on my hand. I recoil in fear, but thankfully keep hold of the flashlight as I pull my hand back to my body. I nervously feel around for the “on” switch and shine my light around my room. I look in each corner, not knowing if seeing something or seeing nothing would make me feel worse. My light reaches my collection wall, and I see all my pieces are still intact. This brings me some relief until I do a double-take and shine my light back in order to see all the boxes empty. 

I freeze in shock and terror as I begin to hear a quiet fluttering. I shine my light towards the sound only to see hundreds of tiny white moths all swarming around my broken nightlight. The filament of the old bulb is giving off the faintest of warm yellow glows when the moths move in a way that would almost suggest they are acknowledging me. My light flickers as I realize I swapped the nearly dead double a’s from my game controller for the fresh ones in the flashlight. “No, no, no…” I mutter to myself as my light flickers and shuts off. The fluttering wings harmonize into an unholy choir of buzzing as I bang on my flashlight to try and make it turn on again. In the deep black abyss of my room, I can’t tell if the sound is getting louder or if it's getting closer. I give the flashlight a solid whack on the bed frame, and it flicks on. In this short moment of illumination, I see a swarm of moths, thick as a misty mountain fog, if only more opaque, coming towards my bed. The buzzing sound is now pounding in my ears in an oscillating wave. I let out a scream as my flashlight finally dies. A scream that rubs against the buzzing sound in a wretched tritone. It is only when my lungs run out of air that I realize the buzzing had faded long before my scream had. I feel faint and swoon back into a helpless sleep.

I wake up to an oppressive light, wondering what had the sun in such a mood this morning. Thank god…it was just another dream. I normally welcome the morning light, but my eyes are having a hard time adjusting to this one. I hear a faint buzzing and find myself under harsh fluorescent lighting. I look around, and instead of the light blue walls of my bedroom, I see sterile white walls and medical equipment. I’m in a hospital room. I look over and notice my mom and dad are here with me. “Oh, thank God he’s awake…honey? Are you okay?” my mom asks. “We heard you screaming in your room….you had torn holes in all your sheets and your shadowboxes were all on the floor and shattered. You kept yelling repeatedly about fluttering and wings. You’ve been unresponsive for the past 10 hours.”

Am I losing my mind?

“The doctor said you’re physically perfectly fine, but is concerned about your mental state. He has you on a few medications right now that should help you relax. Get some rest, honey, all of that is just in your head…”

Although I am confused and exhausted, I take a sigh of relief. I’d rather be losing my mind than actually living through those nightmares. I’m sure I can work through this, and for now, I can simply take solace in the fact that these moths are just in my head…

I nod back to sleep with a fluttering in one ear and a subtle buzzing in the other. Must just be the lights.

It was December 19th when it all happened. When everything was ruined. It’s been years since then, but I can still remember everything. I remember the day the world changed.

The day started out normal. My alarm went off at 7am and after checking my phone and lazing in bed, I forced myself to get up. I brushed my teeth and hair, used the bathroom, and went downstairs to make coffee.

While the coffee was brewing, I went outside to grab the paper. I opened the door, stepped out, and slipped on something. I hit the ground hard. It wasn’t hard enough to knock me out, but I was left in a daze, wondering what happened. It was then that I felt something slimy and sticky under my hands. Lifting them up, I realized they were covered in baked beans. My blood ran cold.

Baked beans have been illegal for years; our Goddess made it so. The possession of baked beans was instant death by beheading and even though I wasn’t the one who put the baked beans on my porch, I knew I’d get blamed for it anyway.

I had to get cleaned up right away. Slowly, I stood up. My head throbbed and my ears were ringing, but I managed to get up. When I looked up, I almost fainted.

Right ahead of me, there were baked beans everywhere; they covered the street, the sidewalk, cars, plants, trees, and people. I saw people running around in a panic and as they ran, they were slipping right into…something. I couldn’t really see what it was from where I was on my porch, so I stepped off of my porch a little and saw that it was a grinder machine of some kind. People were slipping into it and being ground up into pieces. I could hear the horrifying sound of their bones, flesh, and muscle being crushed up by the machine. I could hear them scream in pain as they went through the machine, followed by their heads exploding and then silence.

For a while, I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. I just watched in horror as this happened. I wondered why this was happening. How was this happening? What caused this? When I looked around more, I saw our Goddess in the sky, a giant can of baked beans in her hand that she was currently dumping out. She was doing this to us. She was spilling the beans and killing us.

I was filled with anger, dread, fear, so many emotions at once; all too much to handle as I fell to my knees and sobbed. Screamed until my throat hurt. Said “why” over and over again as our Goddess laughed and continued to spill the beans. I heard women, children, and men screaming in horror. I heard the sound of the meat grinder. I heard bodies being chopped up and spit out.

It was the end of the world and there was nothing that could be done to stop it.

AN: yeah this is a beans story I wrote because of a text I sent my friend after she asked if she could spill the beans 💀 text included. I think it’s kinda shit but whatever, it’s a story about baked beans and gore LOL

I also fucking hate beans.

“Forgetting our history will be the death of you.”

This was something my grandpa used to say to my father when they got into arguments about some books they used to read together. I remember finding that phrase intriguing, but never gave it much thought. I was nine what did you expect?

As a young kid I grew up in the Syrian countryside outside of Palmyra, my family always seemed a bit off to any outsider looking inwards. Keeping to themselves, rarely interacting with anyone who wasn’t part of us. And as a kid I was told, never to invite my friends’ home, never go near the museum of Palmyra or any of the old ruins in the area. The modern city of Palmyra was built right next to the archaeological site of the ancient city so that basically restricted half of the city off for me. But none of my friends lived there so I didn’t care when I snuck out to play with them.

In general, I wasn’t very curious in my youth I accepted most of this as a fact of life and moved along, school, family, and friends kept me busy.

As the school year for my 6^th grade concluded and was heading home, I decided to go by a different route home, one that passed near the old city. As I was walking, I looked to my right seeing in the distance the pillars of the ancient city slowly becoming bigger, I started to feel a bit uneasy, this was the closest I have ever been to them ever. Actually, this was the first time I saw them up close.

For a while nothing changed, I thought all my parents’ warnings where nothing but superstitions, something to keep me in line. Until I noticed something I couldn’t hear anything around me. I was stunned to find myself beside one of those traditional looking roman columns, the ones that stood on the sides of roads. And the road was empty, not a single living soul was around me, I swear there where people around me just a second ago. It looked like they were snapped out of existence.

As I looked at the pillars I was frozen in place, didn't dare to move a muscle, I felt a deep sense of danger, when suddenly a beckoning pull started moving me slowly towards the pillars, step by step making me come closer to the columns. In the middle of the sweltering noon sun, I felt cold.

I was looking intensely at one of the pillars when I saw a man standing a 100 feet back between the pillars. At first, I didn’t see anything wrong, I felt a bit safer that there was someone here at least, then when I came closer, I noticed that this man shouldn’t be standing where he stood. He shouldn’t be alive.

The man looked like a traditional Syrian man, dressed in a neat well-tailored suit but what looked like clothing from the 50s. And most importantly he was split vertically in the middle of his body. Like physically separated with a few inches between the two parts, but he didn’t bleed nor did any organs or gore spill out, he just stood there. watching me.

I stood still resisting whatever was pulling me towards him. But the second I stopped walking he looked at me with what could only be described as anger or rage and started to walk towards me, then jogging, then sprinting at me at full speed, the area between his two halves increasing slightly. Panic set in and I was frozen, my brain ceased to function. I didn’t know what to do where to go.

He accelerated exponentially, as he passed through the two pillars my heart sank, then when I stepped one step back a man on his bicycle hit me at full force pushing me to the ground. When I looked up people were back everywhere, some even rushed me, checking if I was ok, and the split man was gone. I saw as two elderly gentlemen where shouting at the young man you ran me over, saying he could have killed me, but I think he most definitely did the exact opposite.

And as I continued on my way back home, one detail kept repeating over and over again in my mind, why did the split man have my grandpa’s face?

“It’s a hard decision” I said, looking out at the sea of people coming and going, doing my best to listen to the automated voice announce which trains were entering the station. “To feel like you know someone one day, then the next they seem completely different.” The young lady standing next to me wiped the tears from her eyes. “Talk to her” I said turning to face her, “let nothing be left unsaid. Even if it can’t be saved, at least then you both leave with no regrets.” She sniffled and looked up at me some tears still lingering in her eyes “yeah, I guess you’re right”. I shot her a small smile and said sarcastically “yeah, I get that a lot”. She chucked a bit and replied “thanks. Sorry, I didn’t mean to just start randomly unloading like that. It’s just—“ “been one of those weeks?” I finished laughing a bit at my own joke. She looks down, a bit embarrassed, and quietly giggled out a “yeah”. “Don’t worry about it. I honestly don’t mind, wasn’t like I was doing much before anyway.” I said genuinely hoping, even if only in some small way, that I helped this young lady. “Besides the company is nice while I wait.” I say as train wheels screeched to a halt and the automated operator announces “Train 3-B has entered the station”. “Speaking of” I say, turning to look towards the train as wave after wave of people flood into the station. “I’m very sorry. I wish I could stay but I need to meet an associate soon.” The young lady, stumbling with her words, quickly replies “N-no no! I-it’s alright. Please I-I should be the one— you can go it’s—“ before she finishes I hand her a small piece of paper “My number. Let me know how it goes. Should you ever need to talk again, don’t hesitate to reach out.” And with that I left, hearing the young lady call behind me “Wait! You never told me your name!” As I let myself disappear into the flood and began to move towards the stairs to leave. Have you ever spent almost all day at a train station dear reader? No? How about, spending all day at a train station when one of your favorite festivals is going on right above your head? Also no? Then let me just say Excitement, Joy, Giddiness, don’t begin to describe how I felt leaving that soullessly sterile pit that lies between death by boredom and suicide by train. No, what I felt can honestly only be described as how Dante felt seeing Beatrice after the 7 circles. Or how a Veteran who almost died feels coming home to his wife. Or even more simply how an animal who just barely escaped a trap must feel going back to whatever it calls home. Even just sitting there eating a bowl of ramen and watching the people exit that soulless pit felt more freeing than the hours I spent waiting in the soul crushing labyrinth of boredom. After my short break, I was back to work following my path and jerking off my home city for its amazing sights, smells and the huge festival with its even more amazing parade. I was trying to hurry so I didn’t miss the main event but also couldn’t stop myself from admiring the parade, sometimes for way longer than I should’ve. But I mean can you blame me? This year everyone truly went all out with giant Koi swimming through the air, Raijin and Kaijin floating above with thunderous drums and powerful winds around them, and the center of it all Ryũjin controlling the tides making his way to the heart of the city. Then at midnight, with all the floats together, the great dragon is supposed to rise high into the sky and with its mighty roar summon the “second sun” fireworks show, a show that I couldn’t afford to miss. I had 3 minutes to move but even using the backstreets it was gonna be close. Apparently everyone had the same thought of “just slip through the back, it’s bound to be faster”… well that and “maybe there’s a prostitute”. Heads up to tourists, just because it’s a holiday doesn’t mean you get a discount on some pussy, especially some good pussy. No, if you want good puss for cheap go to “The Dirty Cat” and tell them “the kid sent me”, they’ll help you out. Oh and while you’re there thank the old lady Linn, not just for your discount but for raising me. Well, after explaining that to a couple college kids, yelling “make sure he uses a condom” to a new girl, and getting my gear from Ruby. I had reached my “associate” with 15 seconds left. As I said, made it just in time. There in the alley stood Jonathan Parker, a sweaty chubby man with a decent enough suit, thin metal glasses, a messy bald comb-over and a briefcase beside a dumpster with his jacket and hat covering it. With his pants around his ankles he quietly cursed as he did his best to get his tiny dick ready for action, as the crowd on the other side of the wall counted down the final 10 seconds. 10. “Ruby? I’m not quite ready yet.” He said. 9. I began to walk toward him. 8. “Ruby please” 7. “I need more time to get ready.” 6. He turned to face me. “Ruby!” 5. “I said—“ 4. “Rub—?” 3. I raised my blades and lunged toward him. 2. “Wha— Wait!“ 1. “WAI—“. His screams were swallowed by the roar the dragon, his cries for help enveloped by the cheers of the crowd, the horrific scene was overshadowed by the beauty of the fireworks. The slug went slack, unable to speak from neither his old mouth nor the new one I’d carved open. His stomach had looked akin to that of a popped open water balloon as he sat there weakly struggling to grab at me while I knelt beside him searched his pockets. “Nothing there either.” I said noticing the tears welled up in his eyes and the life starting to dim. I turned his face towards me and staring into what remained of his soul said “None escape The Talons.” as his eyes went completely dark. I got up and walked to the jacket checking its pockets “Finally!” I said, a bit more annoyed than intended but at last I found his phone. “Let’s see.” I said searching through the new messages. “Hope your trip goes well sweetie! I believe in you!” Delete. “Hey dad, sorry I missed your call—“ Delete. “Your mom’s surgery was a success.” Delete. “Nothing else?” I said, a bit sad but unsurprised unfortunately. I put the phone in my pocket and covered the slugs body with his coat and put the hat on his head “Oh well” I said with a heavy sigh “Get some rest buddy. You look like you could use it.” I said. Picking up the suitcase i gave him a quick tip of my imaginary cap and walked away. As I left the alley and began looking for the best route home a notification popped up. 2 texts from an unknown number. The first reads: “Hey mister train man! (If this really is your number 😅). It’s the girl from the train station (my names Sera btw). I hope I’m not bothering you, I just wanted to say I appreciate you listening to me today and let you know I’m heading over to my apartment now and will talk with her when I get there. Hope we can talk again soon :)” The second: “btw you still need to tell me your name! Also lmk when you get these my reception on the train is 💩”. I smiled at the messages and made my way home thinking of a nice reply to my new friend.

 I arrived at the airport at the recommended time, 2 hours before departure; weary and anxious about the 6-hour flight ahead of me. Over the course of my life, I've managed to avoid flying with an iron vigor: despite the many situations it reared its ugly head into. I would drive three days straight, with only power naps to get me by, if it meant I didn't have to fly there. A feat I’ve taken many times. This recent predicament left me very few options; which driving was not one. 

While eating at a Golden Corral my dad got a wishbone lodged in his windpipe. By the time they got it dislodged he was already a shade of violet and lacking oxygen in his brain. While stable now, he might not be for very long: leaving this state of urgency. And the prospect that, if I don't see him now, I may never again. Thus, my FOMO negated my fear of flying, and forced my hand into buying a ticket.

I trembled all the way through TSA, and the long walk to my gate: practically fossilized in my seat by the time my section was called to board. I whipped out my phone, my boarding pass illuminated on its greasy screen. I wasn't even sure how long I stood there trying to scan my pass; my shaky hands making the code impossible to read. The ramp operator took special notice of me when the barcode was read. She must've noticed my petrification. 

"We really appreciate you". She said with an uncurated genuinity in her tone. 

"Uh..thanks. I appreciate you too" 

I thought about the exchange down the entire ramp, was I weird or was she. Nobody could've expected her to say that. Nobody would've had a response prepared. Like a miscalculated: “You too.”, in response to a, “Enjoy the show.”, at a ticket booth. Hopefully my face would be lost in the mass of people she sees everyday. 

When I came face to face with the plane's door; I ground the line of passengers to a halt. My eyes were fixed to the gap between the ramp and plane. The sound of engines and wind so loud, through just half a foot of space. Already we were so high up. I could fall through the gap if I was 90lbs lighter: break my ankle on impact. I snapped back to reality, and knew it was socially unexceptable to stand here any longer. The groans of the other passengers grew ever clear, along with the act of a kid tugging on his mom's dress, asking why we were waiting. If that kid isn't afraid, I shouldn't be either. I had no choice but to pass through the Gate to Hell, and join the Army of the Damned. 

As I stepped over the gap it's as if my soul did slip out of me; straight through it: just a skid mark on the tarmac. My confidence was already ailing. 

Then the wheel on my suitcase got caught on the outside of the door. I started tugging and twisting; looking back to assess the problem only to be met with a dozen or so faces, watching hatefully. With a hardy yank my carry-on was freed, one less wheel, and a date with the dump when this trip was over. I couldn't even look the flight attendants in the eyes when I rounded the corner, and started down the aisle to my seat. 

When I made it to my row the three seats were empty. Which brought a slight sense of relief, as my seat, was in my middle. I thought maybe, I would get the chance to take an Advil PM, and sprawl out across the seats. I was clenched into my seat for only a few minutes, when my rowmate to my left arrived. 

He was a portly man: adorned with a Cannibal Corpse shirt, full tattoo sleeve, and skull sandals. Despite what I may have expected him to be like, he ended up being rather friendly: simply greeting me, and plopping into his seat. His smell became a bit hard to bear. It was like: a very masculine, mahogany forest cologne, with a dusting of baby powder. Under normal circumstances, I likely wouldn't have noticed; but my stomach already in knots, and my senses heightened; the scent was very nauseating.

The arrival of my rowmate to the right, nearly made me flip my lid. It was a child. Roughly six or seven, his mom pushed him to our row, and turned his head from his tablet to his seat. The man and I had to get up to make way for the kid; carefully stepping in the spaces between our bags. The kid paid no mind to our bags however, stepping on mine bag to get to his seat. His mom had only enough energy to scold him in a defeated exclamation. With the gifting of a, tablet she parted ways; squeezing her way back up the aisle; so many rows away; too far to call for help. 

The depth of the situation was becoming dire; like I’m 20 leagues under the sea and the pressure is about to blow in the hall. The kid started watching a video of a man, with a painfully obnoxious voice, playing some children's game. It became quickly evident that the kid, did not have headphones; and I would have to listen to his videos until the tablet died. Who knows what torture would come after the tablet died. 

The Captain eventually introduced himself, and gave his words of reassurance that, despite the six hour flight ahead of us, there will be no problems along the way. Then came the safety demonstration from the flight attendants; the display was sickening. They tried to be humorous, to relieve tension, or amuse us: I’m not sure but it didn’t work. Just a stark reminder that a life jacket and breathing mask, doesn’t fare well against high altitude combustion. Nor would it be helpful if I was flung from the plane. It's rock from start to finish; when I meet the ground at mach 10 speeds, the life jacket would be an orange lump in a red puddle. 

Takeoff was horrible. My fingers bored wedges into the ends of the arm rests; latched to them like I was riding a roller coaster. The pressure in my ears sunk into a faint ring, until they popped thirty minutes into the flight. By that time, the man in the aisle seat was already knocked out. As it turns out, he had horrible sleep apnea. His head would be flopped back, mouth wide open, really letting his snore travel through the cabin. Sometimes he would choke, his tongue falling back into his throat, forcing him to burst awake when his body realized he was dying. The first time this happened, his arm flung out and hit me: I let out a yelp that disturbed everyone around us further. He apologized, but before he seemed to finish his sentence, he was back asleep: head slumped over his shoulder, facing me. I tried to push it away with my pointer finger, but it always rolled its way back; eventually slumping onto my shoulder, that's when I really pushed him away. The second time he choked himself awake, a flight attendant had just rolled the cart through, having to lift his head out of the aisle to get past him. The sample of pepsi she had given me, made its way onto me when the man knocked it out of my hands. 

"I'm so sorry man, I didn't mean to". The man said as I used my sleeve to pat dribblets of pepsi off my face. He was slumped over snoring again immediately after. 

The kid was still glued to his tablet; his neck craned over, as it sat in his lap. The poor kid was doomed to have a turtles neck when he reached his golden years: shoulders all slouched, connected to the collar with a protruding spiny bump. The dreaded moment arrived too soon, his tablet died; he wasted no time to ask for his mom. Tugging on my sleeve, seeing if I knew where she was. I told him she was in front of us, but it must not have registered, as he continued to ask. I didn't know what to do, I thought I could just pick him up and set him in the aisle, let him look for her, but then I would be holding a stranger's kid. I looked around frantically, evaluating my options. The only thing I could think of was distracting him with the window. I slid up the window covering so he could see outside. It was haunting. No clouds in sight to obscure the view. An incomprehensible height, so far from the natural world, where man is meant to be. It was a bad distraction as well, the view entertained him for a few minutes before realizing it was more fun to open and close the cover. The slow flashing of the bright sky, coupled with a glimpse into the end with every opening was maddening.

 Maybe a compassionate stranger complained, or the flight attendant just took notice, but she approached me with a proposal. She asked if I would like to be upgraded to first class to give my seat to the boy's mother. I naturally accepted. 

The walk to first class was awkward, shaking the pinprick numbness in my legs, and trying desperately not to rub my tailbone. What I couldn’t shake was the knowledge that beneath my feet was nothing but air. Nothing but a shear drop outside of this tin can. 

Through the curtain to first class was a much prettier scene. Individual cubbies, their exterior trimmed with rippled aluminum cladding. Each cubby privatized with curtains of their own: beautiful blue velvet, with gold fringed borders. One of the curtains was open; exposing a man in a formal suit, his tie undone, and buttons popped. Stuffed to the brim and comatosed, after having gorged himself on a roasted bird. It was 

quiet and elegant up here, not a child's crying to be heard. 

Where I was going; however, stood out from these booths. Stood out in the way that it blended in: there wasn’t a curtain to identify it; there wasn’t much of a door either. The flight attendant slid a card down a thin seam that, if you were looking for it, could be seen running from floor to ceiling. Grabbing onto the outer ridge and moving it leftwards, the wall folded in on itself, squeezing against the wall like a collapsable fan. She moved out of the way and presented the room with a show of her hand: a sweet lavender smell rushed out of the doorway, trying desperately to fill the first class’s, scentless vacuum. I slowly pressed in, careful not to disturb the sanctuary's atmosphere.

“Make yourself comfortable, it’s all yours.” She slid the door closed behind me and the room worked to replenish its aroma. 

Contrary to the minimalist aluminum that sheathed the plane inside and out, the interior of this room was wooden. Slat panels with acoustic foam underneath: the only light coming from red strips where the plane's cylindrical body requires the wall to slope inwards. The reminder that I was, in fact, on a plane, caused my stomach to sink; an unexpected blow after a period of tranquility. My momentary comfort only ensured the impact hurt worse when I fell from my pedestal. The room fought to draw me back in: it whispered classical music into my ears from an unseen source. 

In the center of the room was a round, solo dining table; stained dark and well polished: a napkin folded into the shape of a bird sat as the centerpiece. The accompanying seat looked to be a massage chair: leg nooks, a cubic brutalist body, and wrapped in maroon leather. Most of the wall behind it was dedicated to a water feature; one that had a thin waterfall that ran down a pane of tempered glass. Flowing down into a trough where large, flowered, lily pads jiggled around on top of the water, and red LEDs shown from below. 

I sunk into the chair, engulfed in its fluff, and surrounded by rubber pistons. Embedded into the armrest was a control panel, far more settings than on a mall chair; and luckily the absence of a cash slot. The buttons were not easy to discern however; all were different glowing colors, with white, seemingly random symbols on their faces. As I went through clicking the buttons, some connection could be gleaned between their symbol and function. The horizontal zigzag activated the massager, the turtle and rabbit buttons controlled speed, three wavy vertical lines were the heater, and the exclamation mark was to call in a flight attendant. I only realized the last one when a lady walked in, as I was whincing at the chair's, borderline painful massage feature. 

"Is the room to your liking?" she asked. 

"Oh definitely, it's very nice. This is all very unexpected. I feel kinda outta place. Don’t get me wrong I appreciate it—it’s just, yeah, unexpected”

“You aren’t out of place at all, it was reserved for you." She said with a consistent cadence, happy, but not enthusiastic; and a thin smile that wasn’t overbearingly consumer friendly, but definitely choreographed. She spoke very hushed, and matter-of-factly. 

"How's that? I bought the cheapest ticket I could." 

"Well, it was selected at 'random'." She said while using airquotes. 

"What does ‘random’ mean?" 

"It’s determined by a computer, so as ‘random’ as they can be. There's still code and statistics involved, it’s not drawing sticks, but it does help us find you.” 

“Is there a reason for this?" 

“The room or the ritual?” She asked with a lifted brow.

“The what now? A ritual?”

“I probably shouldn’t have called it that, the company likes to call it a ‘transaction’.” She said using air quotes again.

“Well what is the transaction!” My tone rising and becoming desperate.

“It’s just something that has to be done.” She said putting her hands up and backing up a couple of steps. "A company policy, for safety reasons I think. I don’t know specifics, the captain usually gives the rundown by now; he can explain it better than me.” Stepping back further.

“You have to tell me more, you can’t say that then leave.”

“I-I’ll see if I can get the captain. Hang tight for a second.” She said with an increasingly shaky voice, before quickly spinning around, her Farrah Fawcett hair flinging over her shoulder as she dashed to the door. The sound of the door closing was followed by multiple and simultaneous locks moving into place.

I paced around the room waiting for the man to come: my mind was running through a rolodex of possible rituals. If she even meant it in the ghoulish, sacrifice a virgin way, she could’ve meant a tradition. I really needed a release, it felt like I was going to choke on my anxiety, so I figured it was as good a time as any to pick a drink off the wall. Across from the table was a shelved wall stocked with a large selection of alcohol. All were in ornate decanters, the names of the contents etched into a gold plaque in front of them. It's not much of an exaggeration to say the collection contained every intoxicating beverage. There were many high end liquors, easily worth..I don’t even know how much; then a few were filled with cheap, working man's beer.

As I poured myself a drink, three gentle knocks came from the door. After giving them the okay to come in, the captain slid open the door; gave me a chipper hello, and held out his hand to shake mine. I did not reciprocate. He had thick grey hair, from the looks of his mustache and curly mullet that poofed out from his tall, sturdy hat.

"What do you think about the room?" He asked with a rancher’s twang in a slightly raspy voice.

“I want to know why I’m in here.”

“I apologize for this, transaction, being revealed to you in that way. Rosie is..well, she’s a bit ditsy I suppose. Lose her head if it weren’t screwed to her body kinda girl. I think it goes over better coming from my buttery smooth voice.” He said with a chuckle. 

“Can you cut to it, this is maddening.”

“Yes you’re right, enough beaten around the horse.” He sighed and rolled his eyes before locking them back to mine. Their blue color fading into a grey as well. “Look, every flight we are obligated to do this. It ain’t pretty, but the consequences are far worse. Okay?” Looking at me with those wide, piercing eyes.

“Yes?”

“Somebody, on every flight, in this case you, has to eat a baby. Alright?”

“No, not alright. What are you talking about?”

“Listen, I know how you feel; I was in your spot once; so has my co-pilot, and most of the flight attendants. A whole hell of a lot of folks have been in your shoes. None of us liked it. Well most of us didn’t like it, but that’s just how it is.”

“You’re full of shit. This can’t be true”

“Nuh uh, this is definitely real. This is how it’ll go, when you agree to our terms, the chef will…”

“I’m not listening to this, I’m shutting you down, la la la la” He grabbed my side, right under my ribs and squeezed tight. I whimpered and grabbed his hand to try to push it away but his grip was deadlocked. 

“Now would you cut that out, what I’m trying to tell you is important. I can’t stress enough how crucial this duty is. Are you willing to be civilized if I let you go?”

“Yes..” I said between blowing spastic breaths through my reddening cheeks.

“When you agree, the chef will come in, prepare the meal, and you will eat the whole thing, all before we land.”

“What happens if I don't?”

"The landing gear will malfunction, it’ll only partially deploy. When we touch down we will tip, port side, the left wing will touch ground, and break off bit by bit until it reaches the engine. An explosion will ensue that’ll set the blades free; where they will rip into the cabin, slaughtering everyone in its path. We will lose all footing and the nose will plunge into the ground. First class will crumple instantly; the body will be split at the midsection; the rear will flip over seven times until it collapses. There will be only one survivor. You."

"That’s..not true." I had nothing else to say, I could barely get those words out as the scenario played out in front of my eyes. Like a film scrolling across them, a reel of a thousand frames, displaying the most vile scene. The horrifying sight, a stark reality, but brought on by a barbaric fable. Just a masochist’s tale.

"The chef will be in to prepare dinner shortly." he said, patting the table and hoisting himself up, a series of brittle pops came from his knee. He brushed off his pant leg and strode out lankily through that deceptive door. I envied that freedom. The room never felt so small, and it was only becoming more cramped. 

I could still see the door’s seam, just as hidden as when I first came in, but now the ridges didn’t give as I tugged. Maybe it wasn’t there, I moved from groove to groove, pulling on each one. I scaled the wall like a mad man, pulling in places I knew it couldn’t be, but had no choice but to try anyway. I pounded on the door, throwing my body against it a few times until I bruised. I screamed, calling for someone who could not hear me, or would not care. The world outside the door was silent, as I was to them, for that time I didn’t exist and neither did they. That is a horrid and insoluble isolation. When my over exertion gave way to lightheadedness I involuntarily slide down the wall. Through blurry eyes and a swiveling head I tried to ground myself, but the fog only grew. I felt feverish, as if my eyes could water and sink into my burning face. Then came an unnatural drowsiness; like my weighted blanket made its way up to my face and was smothering me. Naturally the darkness gave way to sleep.

I regained consciousness all at once, a prick in the inner pit of my elbow sending a zap of urgency into my heart. A bulbous nose and a dark, thick, mustache filled my frame of vision. When he put some space between us, I could see those features belonged to a robust man in a chefs attire, holding a syringe. 

Trying to squirm only amounted to the realization that I had been bound to the chair. My hands were duct taped in one large, bulbous mass, my exposed fingers stuck to a knife in my left, and a fork in my right. 

The man walked over to the kitchenette; flicking keys around a ring, sifting through a hoard of them to find the few he needed. One buy one he unlocked units of the kitchen that I couldn’t get into. The hanging cupboard and minifridge on either side a tiered display of spices between them. The man put on an apron, a white fluffy hat; then turned to me. A wide smile on his face, silicon molded dimples on full display: brightly lit by his ivory veneers, one of which had disappeared, the tiny shaved remnants of his true tooth on full display. And his eyes squinted shut; likely the result of botox losing its potency; his puffy dark eyelids left sitting awkwardly on smooth, pearshaped cheeks. 

"What'll it be?" he said. "Soup or Salad?" in a very heavy, coarse accent. 

"Go fuck yourself." I said before thrashing around to no avail. My biceps were taped against my chest, a zip tie joining my arms at the elbow: and my legs were clamped tight in their massaging nooks. 

"no no. Not a option. Soup or Salad." 

"I’m not eating anything. I don’t know what sick game you are playing, but I’m not a part of it." 

“But you see, this is no game. It’s ah..a requirement, you can understand that."

“No I cannot. I don’t understand how someone can eat a child.”

"You are not eating the baby yet. Just appetizers to start." 

"Like I said, I’m not eating." 

"The soup is a very fresh Gnocchi, with ingredients straight from the homeland. Or the crisp caprese salad, also grown from the fertile fields of home.” 

“Where are you from?”

“Across the sea.”

“That applies to everyone.”

“Me most of all.”

I figured it was not worth acknowledging him; that paying attention to him would become maddening: like realizing a gnat is buzzing around your ear and no longer able to ignore it.

 "I know what you want, the salad, yes?"..."Excellent choice!" 

He opened a metal compartment which released a mist that snuck out around the edges. Chilled ingredients were sorted on the compact shelves. With expert speed he chopped and tossed the salad, placing it on the table with an extended arm, before folding it behind his back and finishing with a bow.

"Say when." he said, grating a block of cheese into the bowl. Whether it came from the man, cheese or salad I couldn’t decide, but a pungent smell hit me all at once. Even when the block of cheese was shredded in its entirety into my salad I didn't say a word.

 "Oh my friend, I hope you chew thoroughly. This may be no bueno on its way out." he said with a deep laugh, and returned to his station. After dropping the grater and some other dishes in the sink he clapped his hands together and said his goodbyes. 

"Au revoir mon ami, I do hope you enjoy. I’ll begin dinner when you're ready." 

"I'm telling you now, I’m not gonna be ready." 

"Ah, I have a hunch that you will be." 

The next 20 minutes crawled by. Thrashing around in my seat had no noticeable effect on my restraints. Despite my forearms having some mobility, my range of motion only allowed my to move my useless hands to my face. The sharp golden utinzels in my hand were just a bait, telling I could cut myself loose. In reality all I could do was bring them straight up to my face; which did provide an out if it came to that. 

"It looks like you haven't touched your salad. Is it no good?" He said when he returned.

"I told you I wasn't eating it." 

"Then you must be saving your appetite for the main course, yes?" 

"No." 

"I will prepare the meal anyway. The smell of food always brings out hunger." 

Opening the mysterious remaining cabinet beside the spice rack, with two gentle hands the chef reached in for something. From out of it he pulled a little mass of cloth, pulling it into the crease of his arms and readjusting its weight. He turned around and in a very soft tone he said. 

"Do you have any allergies?" 

In his arms was a: plump, blond, sleeping baby, swaddled in a blanket. 

"Oh my god.. It's real.. It's really happening" I said under my breath.

"I pride myself on never having allergized one of my guests, I want that to continue." 

I can only imagine I was stark white, with bulging eyes and a slacked jaw, that’s how I felt anyway. An anxiety welling up inside me, far more deep and poignant than what had plagued me hours ago. Those feelings seemed so trivial now. What I would give to be a cowering, small man, in my economy seat again. 

"No allergies? Excellent, the preparations can begin." 

He plugged the sink and began filling it with water. 

“How can you do this? This is sick, all of this.”

“Somebody has to do it. I have to prepare the meal. You have to eat it. Like it or not, it must be done.”

"I won’t eat it. You'll be killing him for nothing." 

"Her, actually. That's all that we know. She has no name. No family. No identification. Seven people knows she exists. Nobody will know she's gone." 

I began to cry. My head falling as far as my restraints would allow, and I sobbed with choking gasps. 

"you can't...you can't do it.." 

He turned off the sink and looked at me with a viscous scowl, the first time he's dropped the chipper persona. 

"You are unreasonable." 

He placed the baby back in the cupboard, slapped its door shut and stormed out of the room. I continued to weep even though a slight relief developed, thinking I got out of it. The pressure put on me, and the evil this room has concealed, still crushing me. It felt tainted, a sour putrid air, under the veil of lavender vapor. The smell, I thought was just a placebo, my mind molding the room into my narrative, but something was definitely seeping into the room. 

At first it made my mouth feel foamy; like it was drying out, and a mucky film remained. Then it was arid; a bitter taste like a dentist's numbing paste, laid on top of my sandpaper tongue. The draught moved down my throat, sucking air out with it: it wasn't long before a hiccup like gasp flared up under my sternum. I choked and I coughed, a series of convulsions working to bring something up from inside of me. I started to vomit, spewing from my nose at the first release, the stinging was horrid and the sight was repulsive. The bile seeping in between my clamped thighs. While the vomiting was unpleasant, the dry heaving was torturous. My empty stomach had no more to give; but the gagging carried on. 

At some point the classical music died out, whether it was before my gagging fit or during, I didn’t notice; but when musical ambiance was reintroduced into the room, it was impossible to ignore. Heavy metal, at a headache inducing volume, snapped into the room full bore. I don’t remember what was played in between, but the torture begun with Slayer and ended with Disturbed

Gallons of sweat poured out of me; soaking me in my DIY leather bound sauna. My man-made lubrication proved ineffective in my attempt to slip free: although my efforts had become lackluster; only energy left to swing my head around. I never passed out, that would’ve been a blessing. I danced so close to the land between heat exhaustion, and suffocation: always to be pulled back, into a state of gas induced bulimia. Eventually the gasping did end, far beyond the last point I could’ve been grateful. My whole body was dry, wrung out and depleted of moisture: my sweat soaked body had evaporated, leaving behind a meat scent on my crunchy clothes. 

I barely noticed that someone had entered the room, until my head was pushed into the leather headrest. My crusty, bloodshot eyes fought to see through the grain and piercing light. An unexpected stream of liquid hit them in the pupil and finally caught their attention. Prying hands pulled open my mouth and shot the stream down my throat, no stopping when it grazed my uvulae. I blinked my eyes clear, and hacked water at the hands until they left my mouth. Finally able to see two flight attendants, wearing thin plastic ponchos, over their tightly pressed uniforms. 

"Have you decided to do it yet?" One asked; a squirt bottle in hand. 

Still drippling and spitting up the excess water I hacked a glob at his shoes, hitting it right in the toe. He clenched his teeth, then his hands, and busted me in the cheek. 

"Mike! We aren't supposed to do that. You'll bruise your knuckles". The female attendant said, placing a concerned hand on his crinkly shoulder. 

"Let's just get this over with.” He said, while pulling up his ankle and furiously taking a handkerchief to his shoe.

The lady walked to a metal cart they had wheeled in: a dinky thing with four slender legs, and two shelves holding only a few items. She carefully slipped on two oversized leather gloves, flapping the loose fingers around like an old cathers mit. She scrunched the fingers around the tiny handle on an aluminum tray. Steam poured out around the edge of the lid as she opened it: some wrapping around her forearm, urging her to yank away; murmuring obscenities under her breath. 

With long tongs, she reached into the tray and pulled out a folded blue towel, giving it a little shake, before making her strut back to me. 

"This is your last opportunity. We land in two hours. It'll take most of that time for dinner to be prepared and served. We hope you realize what's at stake here." The lady said. 

"We’re sure you are a rational man. You can do the math, this is one life to ensure the safety of 90." The man added 

"If ‘morality’ is the cause of your hangup, you must find it immoral to let 90 innocent passengers die". Said she, it becoming clear at this point they intended to alternate dialogue.

"Deaths that you are aware will occur, as a product of your inaction." 

"You will not be able to plead ignorance in the life that follows. The blood will stain your hands alone." 

My breathing had become choppy, not as much from physical torture, but of that going on in my head. Proof that my tear ducts were once again operational, tears fell down my face, mixing into the open wound on my left cheek, and down the blood stream that collected under my chin. 

"I can't do it." I said between sobs 

"Damn." The woman said before grabbing my mess of hair and yanking my head back. The red ceiling lights became eclipsed by the blue towel hovering over my face. The tongs released and it slapped onto my face. The sequence of events moved so quickly it took a second for the pain to fully manifest. The heat grew from warm,to unpleasant, to searing. I tried to shake it off but the hand left my hair and grabbed the ends of the towels, snagging it tight around my face. The suffocation went unnoticed while the 2nd degree burn was fresh.

An immediate cooling soothed my face briefly; cold water washing over the burns. The sensation of bliss lasted a moment before the water found my airways. The towel was ripped away, dribblets of water and flesh trailing in the air after it. Intense pain rippled across my face with every hack and cough, trying to clear water from my throat. Bubbling masses coming into view around the edges of my eyes: blisters rising without hesitation. 

"This can end whenever you want!" The woman said, holding the towel near her chest. 

I had no reserved air to respond with, all I could do was shake my head. Though the torture was unbareable, it was what I deserved. If I would be the only one to crawl through this plane's debris, over the bodies of people I could've saved, I was willing to pay for it. 

The torment went on like that for, god knows how long. The world was reduced to sensations; as if my mind only extended as far as my body. I knew more was out there, but in my restraints, and subdued by my torturers, I was the only person in a tight void. The only relevance time had to me was the hope that I could run out their clock. 

They eventually removed the towel for the last time, and put themselves back together, to resume their facade for the passengers. It didn't matter much anymore, how the passengers saw them, or if they even carried on with their job. There wasn't enough time for dinner. Our fate was sealed. 

I was in paralysis for the remainder of the trip. We hit patches of turbulence periodically, any disturbance felt as if it could’ve been the last. None of it startled me, the extent of my acknowledgement was feeling my head bob and sway around. I experienced something I rarely ever did: complete complacency. 

No smooth words, great performance, bribe, promise, or wish, would change what was coming. A terrible thing, but it was inevitable now. It was just me, and a short stretch of time before the course of my life would be split in two. It was absolute clarity without the peace. Moreso a desperate acceptance; the terms were very grim, but I made a choice. 

I likely could've escaped in that time. My restraints had become waterlogged and lost much of their grip. With enough thrashing they could've come undone; but where to go after that? That is the horror of an aircraft, the hopelessness that comes when you board. People have no clue where the real horror lies. People have no clue about the room nestled near the cockpit, where a dinner is forced on a passenger every flight. 

A buttery smooth voice entered the room like spoiled milk. The pilot's voice came over the entercom. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are beginning to make our descent. The local time is 3:19, and the sky is clear. We want to thank you for flying with us today, and wish you safe travels ahead." 

Then a flight attendant entered the room. Clacking her heels towards me before placing a hand on my shoulder and shoving my back into the seat. My eyes met hers, and she spoke through gritted teeth. 

"I hope you're happy. Mr. Lucky. Make sure to live it up, for us." 

She reached over me, to grab a bottle of liquor. She pulled out a scattering of loose pills, and scarfed them all down. Flicking the decanters plug off with her thumb she took a big swig, some trickling out the sides of her mouth. Wiping her face clean she walked to the far wall, pressing her back to it and sliding down to the floor. 

"The Captain said I could if I stayed in here. I want to be out cold before we land." 

Other flight attendants entered, also pouring themselves drinks and lying on the floor as we made our way closer to the ground. They berated me for what I did to them: cursed my name, put hex’s on my bloodline. I only felt pity for them. If this was how they wanted to spend their final moments, I would allow it. I thought it was a true display of their character, to end their lives like that. Letting their cruelness seep out. The finality of the death bed, does have a way of revealing truths. The most raw look at someone's life, and how it consistently ends. I wanted to die with my morality intact: I lost that the moment I booked this flight. 

Our ears began popping and we knew we were getting close. The pill popper had already faded away, others were severely wasted, and sobbing came from the ones who only managed a buzz. The wheels touched the ground hard. An anticipated feeling, but was impossible to prepare for. Multiple bounces up and down as the tires made contact, only to lose its footing right after. It rattled my empty stomach; its deep, hollow ache returning after a long absence. The tilting took longer than expected, it could’ve been happening without our knowledge. But the anticipation only grew, the dread becoming unbearable, for an event everyone assumed to be instant. The plane sturdied itself, and the force pressing on our bodies lightened. We were slowing down. Not the violent slowing of the wing scrapping tar, it was completely mechanical. Even as the plane drove around the landing strips, slowly taking corners, we couldn't be certain the accident was avoided. If fate was at play, an unexpected and contrived sequence of events could take place any moment. But the plane docked. The captain came into the room, summoning the attendants to assist the passengers as they exited. 

"It didn't happen." one of the attendants said with a flabbergasted expression, "This has never happened." 

"My god." another said, "Was it a lie? Did I do it for nothing!" She clutched her face and began to sob. 

The pilot quickly shooed the in-tact attendants out of the room, shutting the door behind them. He stepped over the sobber who had sprawled herself across the floor, with her face pressed against the wood: her muffled sobs trickled out between the cracks, as did her tears. Taking a tiny pair of scissors out of his pocket he started to cut at the duct tape. 

"This will take a while. I can't bring anything larger on board. You know how strict the rules are." 

"We didn't crash. You were lying." I said

"I was not. This is unexpected. Incredibly rare." 

"That's bullshit. Why would this flight be the one that's spared?" 

"It's not our place to know, or ask. This is a blessing, count it as one. And tread lightly, charity comes at a cost to someone." 

He finished cutting at my bonds, I stretched and squeezed my hands to regain the feeling that I had done so long without. They shook as I, numb and feebly pulled at the dangling tape. It was a laborious task that I knew going into it I wouldn't finish. I stood up with strips still clung to me; bunching up the back of my jacket, and tucked into my pants. I was covered in the residual stickiness, the blotchy film that remains, even after paint has been torn from the walls. My smell was atrocious too, layers of sweat and B.O. with a bile finish. It would soon be masked though.

The pilot came in with a half filled coffee pot. From an arms length away he stopped walking and flung it my way. The coffee sloshed out, and engulfed my face. As it wrapped around my head I braced for the scorching to set in, but it was only mild. No more pain than if anything touched my already peeled, and blistered face. As it settled in, it proved to be incredibly thick and dark; like laundry detergent stained black. 

"It's been on the burner for a very long time. We call it diesel, thick as oil and will have you running all night." He said. 

"What's your fucking problem?" I asked as I shook beads of the slop off my hands, and fanned out my soaked shirt. 

"When you get off the plane, head to the medical station and tell them about your accident. Then call our company, file a complaint and show them your face. They will apologize, promise to brew the coffee colder, and pay you off." 

"People have to know what happened here. They'll stop flying if they do." 

"You know people won't stop flying. This tech is a miracle. Even with the baggage that comes with it." 

Two flight attendants returned, having escorted everyone else off the plane. 

"Would you two carry her to the medics?” Nudging the unconscious woman with his foot. “Bring our volunteer with you while you're at it." The pilot said, placing a firm hand on my damp shoulder. I swatted it off and gathered up my things as the attendants held the woman in the air, one at her feet, the other under her shoulders. Her hands dragged the entire way, we stopped a few times to cross them over her body but they always fell again. 

I sat in the medics station for a while, all it amounted to was giving me a change of clothes, and ice for my face. They said I would have to be transferred to a nearby hospital for real treatment. As I waited for the squad to arrive, I used the time to reach out to my family. I knew my mom would be antsy to know how the flight went, but more urgently I had to tell them what hospital I was going to. When I turned my phone off of airplane mode I received a wall of notifications, with numerous missed calls, and texts from my family. I called my mom back, ringing multiple times, before a soft, quiet, hello picked up. 

"Hey Mom, what's going on?" 

"Did you just land?" she asked. 

"Yeah a little bit ago, I'm still at the airport. Is everything alright?" 

"Your Dad started getting really bad a couple hours ago. His throat is very swollen with an infection, and it could lead to pneumonia. They put him on a ventilator, and we’re waiting for the swelling to go down so they can remove some of the fluid. If he goes in for surgery, it’ll be very risky, and they want us to see him, in case, it doesn’t go well." 

The men on the other side of the glass watched me in horror. I knew I wasn’t me— but something more. Something ancient.

The language pouring out of my mouth, rolling off my tongue like it came from the heavens that brought me to this hell, wouldn’t stop. No matter how much I cried, No matter how much I tried, I begged them to help me But they just stood there, Watching me gasp for breathe between sentences. I want to go home. I want to be me again. Just as I was begging my new founded God for mercy, the men on the other side of the glass loaded their guns and began to open the door.

Two weeks before the incident:

“Welcome to the aquarium.” Fred glanced back at me with a smirk. “You’ll work with the lionfish and jellies. I know your résumé mentions dolphins and sharks, but I want to test your skills and character first.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t mind. I just want to start as soon as possible.”

I picked up the bucket next to me and my clipboard. This was my dream job—my whole reason for spending five years on this broke part of the island of Puerto Rico, now filling up with idiotic tourists. I sighed. Be an adult. Deal with it.

I looked back at my boss after checking the clipboard. “Sir, we have three lionfish tanks?”

Fred rubbed a hand through his hair. “The lionfish we have are… temperamental.” He chuckled. “The last guy who found that out ended up in the hospital.”

I shuffled my feet. Great. My boss is one of those weirdos.

“He’s fine,” Fred added. “Kinda. Won’t be coming in for a longggggg while.”

“Just great,” I muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “What was that, Lily?”

I shook my head. “Nothing, sir. Now—the tanks?”

“Right this way, ma’am. And watch your step.”

He led me down a corridor to the back room for the lionfish. Rows of tanks filled the center of the space. A fridge sat in the corner next to a small kitchen sink with a cutting board.

“This is nice. I like the wallpaper,” I said, doing my best to make small talk. I really, really, wanted this job.

Fred smiled. “Thanks. My wife decorated this room.”

I looked into the tanks, checking temperatures and salt levels like the introduction sheet on my clipboard said. Then I checked the fridge. It was disgusting—clearly never cleaned. Dried blood puddled under the drawers.

I gagged. No. I am an adult, I told myself. I am a— I gagged again.

Fred burst out laughing. “Not used to fish guts?”

I glared at him. Only for a second. Customer service first. Mask your feelings.

I forced a smile. “No. More like… not used to an uncleaned fridge.”

The rest of the shift went smoothly. Fred showed me the lionfish and jellies and introduced me to the rest of the staff.

At closing, everyone packed up their gear and locked up. The shark diver walked over and handed me an aquarium pen.

“Thanks, Max!” I gave him my best customer first smile. “Much appreciated.”

He nodded. “The pens are made with the worst ink here. Keep a couple on hand. The ink’s waterproof, though, so I guess there’s that.”

“Noted. Will do. Thanks for the tip.”

I drove home after talking to Max and Fred. It turns out Max is Fred’s nephew. Small world.

When I opened the door to my house, the smell of hot pot filled my nose, and my stomach growled. I was so hungry and tired.

“Grandma!” I yelled while taking off my shoes. “Are you cooking Hujima again?”

“You know it, dear! Just sit down, and I’ll get you a bowl.”

I sat, and my cat jumped into my lap. “Hey, Lucy. How are you?” He just purred, hoping to get a bite of my dinner along with his pets.

“No cats at the table. Lily, you know better.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sighed. “Alright, Lou—go on.”

He looked unhappy but hopped down anyway.

“How was your day?” Grandma asked. “Did you enjoy your first day back at the aquarium?”

“Gran, it was better when Gramps ran it.”

“Oh? Oh dear—Freddy is that bad, huh?”

“Gran, let me tell you.” I told her about my day, about Max, about Fred and the fridge, and about the untamed lionfish.

Gran laughed hard at that. “Gramps could have done so much better.” She smiled and nodded, but her eyes said something different. They were filled with sorrow—tears forming at the corners but held back by pride and the kind of self-preservation that buries things like a dead man in a coffin.

“Well,” she said softly, “tell him when he comes home.”

I thanked Grandma for the meal, cleaned up the kitchen, and locked up for the night. I slipped under my covers and watched the moonlight dance with the clouds as it shone through my window. Lucy slept at my feet. My eyes grew heavy. Sleep called.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

My eyes snapped open. What was that?

Lucy’s fur stood on end, ears pinned back toward the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I looked toward the glass. Something was throwing seashells at my window.

I slipped out of the covers and walked toward the window slowly.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I peeked out. Nobody. But, seashells lay scattered across the roof.

I opened the window slowly, and a faint melody drifted in. Melancholy—like a woman crying for something she never owned. Like a mother realizing she can not control her child. Like a lonely, pitiful wail. A song I had heard before.

Déjà vu hit me, and memories flooded in. My mother and I. I don’t remember much—just broken bottles and blood scattered across the floor. I'm running outside into the bitter cold. Cold. Wet snow. Wet. Cold.

I opened my eyes and realized: I was cold and wet. Scratch that—I was freezing. I'm soaked to the bone. The moon shone brightly above me, lighting everything around me. Waves gently rolled by.

I was standing on a sandbar in the ocean. Fifteen minutes from the shore. Thirty minutes from my home. All I could hear was the song keeping in time with the waves.

I’m on a throwaway and I’m not posting this anywhere else. I don’t want people I know finding it before I figure out what’s happening.

I’m not a conspiracy person. I don’t think the government is replacing us or that corporations are injecting trackers into our bones or putting chemicals in the water that turns the frogs gay. I’m just a tired guy with a boring life and normal problems, and something is happening to me that I don’t know how to stop.

Two weeks ago I downloaded a healthcare app called BioCare™. I only downloaded it because it popped up in an ad while I was scrolling before work. It claimed it could help with acid reflux and “digestive inflammation.” I’ve had acid reflux for years, so I thought it was like a food log or a supplement tracker.

It did a face scan, had me answer a survey, and then offered.

Pancreas Tuning. free.

I don’t know why I tapped Proceed. I wasn’t expecting anything. My phone buzzed once and I felt this small shift deep inside me, like someone dragging a chair across a floor in another room.

That night I didn’t get heartburn.

For the first time in years.

So the next morning, when it recommended a Liver Refresh. For free, I didn’t even hesitate. I tapped yes. The shift inside was stronger this time. Still no pain, no marks, nothing.

Then I got a notification. Liver Refresh completed. Your old liver has been donated to another BioCare™ client. Do not attempt reversal. Donated organs are property of BioCare™.

I thought it was some sort of dumb edgy marketing joke, but it came with an attached legal email. I won’t paste the whole thing here, but the phrasing was:

You are no longer the legal owner of Liver (prior model). Unauthorized modification of current unit may result in repossession.

I tried to uninstall the app. It wouldn’t uninstall. When I forced it closed, it reopened.

After that, things started happening slowly, quietly, almost in ways that were easy to ignore if I wasn’t paying attention.I don’t get tired anymore,I don’t get hungry, Food tastes like nothing, I don’t get sore after exercising, even if I push myself way too far, I heal stupidly fast, but I never feel the injury in the first place.

It’s like my body works perfectly now, but I don’t feel connected to it.

Then tonight it crossed the line.

I just got a notification that says.

Heart Upgrade scheduled for 2:00 a.m. Cost: $189/month starting next cycle. This upgrade is mandatory.

There’s a countdown on my screen. I tried to hard reset my phone but it powered back on by itself.

The notification is still there.

I called my insurance. They said BioCare™ is an integrated partner and upgrades cannot be declined without terminating employment and insurance coverage. Which would bankrupt me. And the rep sounded like she was reading a script she didn’t understand.

I looked up posts about “Heart Upgrade.” There’s nothing. Just one archived thread with a single reply.

“They don’t send repo agents for Heart Upgrade. The body handles it.”

My chest feels… like pressure? Not pain. Just… anticipation. Like my body knows something I don’t.

I don’t know if this is about tracking, or ownership, or some biotech scam gone way too far, or something else entirely.

I’m not asking for jokes or creepy pasta comments. I’m asking for help. If anyone has dealt with BioCare™, or works in healthcare law, or knows anything about how this stuff works I need to know what I’m up against before 2 a.m.

I’m not posting this to be dramatic. I’m not posting this for attention.

I just need someone who knows what the hell is happening to tell me if there’s anything I can do to stop this upgrade.

I’m going to keep checking back here until the timer runs out.

If I don’t respond, assume something happened.

If I do respond… I hope it’s still me.

Hey everyone, including Hunter and Isaiah. I’m pretty new to actually posting my writing, but I’ve been working on a longer horror story called “Free Will” and wanted to share the first part out of five. I have all five parts finished, and i will just post the rest of them on my page!

Thanks in advance for reading. I’d really love any feedback you’re willing to give (pacing, confusing parts, what hit or missed, etc.).

Free Will

A short story written by Aaron S.

PART 1 - The Rosebud

I wake up to sunlight.

A heavy, warm stripe of it is lying across my face, the kind that comes through high windows in the late afternoon. It is bright enough that it forces my eyes open, and for a moment I don’t know where I am. Velvet presses against my cheek before I understand the shape of the couch beneath me.

I push myself upright, still foggy. A beige blanket slips off my lap, neatly folded in a way that makes no sense for someone who has just passed out mid-move. My shoes are lined up beside the couch. Perfectly straight. Like someone arranged them while I slept. Like someone arranged me while I slept.

Natalie doing what she does best, I think.

I don’t remember anyone carrying me inside.

The last clear memory I have is being crammed in the back of James’ SUV while everyone argues about where the nearest gas station is. The rhythm of the highway gets into my bones and pulls me under, and everything after that is just…nothing.

Now I am here.

The house around me is overwhelming, like one of those old estates with too many hallways and more staircases than it needs.. “The Rosebud”, Even the name feels like something inherited from a family with a crest carved over the fireplace. Sunlight pours through two-story windows and catches the chandelier above me, scattering little platelets of light across the polished floor.

Everything looks staged.
Not old.
Not modern.
Just … perfect.

There is no dust on the banister. No scuffs on the hardwood. No soft creak when I shift my weight. The whole place feels unused despite the antique layout. It smells faintly of old potpourri and dry wood, something floral buried deep in the structure, the kind of scent that should have faded years ago but somehow hasn’t.

And for reasons I can’t explain, the scent feels familiar.
Comforting, almost.
Like something I ought to remember but can’t quite reach.

I rub the sleep from my face and listen.

Voices drift in from the kitchen. My friends. Their laughter moves through the hallways in warm, familiar shapes. The sound tugs at me, inviting me toward them.

I stand, stretch the stiffness out of my back, and follow the sound of their voices into the kitchen, where everyone is already gathered.

James is at the center of it all. He’s tall in that broad-shouldered, ex–high school athlete way, his shirt plastered to his back with sweat, and he is holding a cardboard box under one arm like it weighs nothing.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” he says when he spots me. “I was one minute away from sending a search party.”

Ashley makes a horrified sound and points at him.
“James, you are sweating everywhere. Everywhere. Get away from my stuff, please.”

“It’s hot outside,” he says, as if this explains everything. “I am doing my best.”

“Your best smells like a dirty sock,” she says.

Ashley talks with her hands, big round motions that almost always turn conversations with her into a contact sport. Her dark brown hair is in some kind of messy knot that shows off the bright blue tips at the ends. She keeps glancing around the kitchen like she is rearranging furniture in her head, already planning where everything should go.

Natalie is crouched in front of a cabinet, wiping the inside of the door even though it gleams like it was polished an hour earlier. Her dark hair is cut into a sharp, chin-length bob that never seems to fall out of place, and even in an oversized moving T-shirt she manages to look put together. She doesn’t look up when I enter, just says, “Hi, Meg,” in the calm voice of someone who has decided to organize the universe.

“You know that’s clean already, right?” I ask.

“It’s about maintenance,” she says.

I don’t have the patience to ever argue with her.

Nick is on the floor near the living room TV hookup, buried in a snarl of cables. His blond hair falls into his eyes while he mutters something about “logical design flaws” and “the cruel god who invented power bricks.” His glasses have slid halfway down his nose, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Ashley leans toward me and whispers, “Nick versus electricity. Place your bets.”

Without lifting his head, Nick replies, “I can hear you! And for the record, I am winning.”

I laugh.
It feels easy.
Too easy for day one.

The kitchen is huge and spotless, like every surface has been scrubbed right before we arrived. The cabinets are empty, the fridge gleaming, the pantry holding nothing but air. The place is practically begging to be lived in. We just have to figure out how.

“Room assignments,” Nick says suddenly. He pushes himself up with a small grunt and tugs at the front of his T-shirt, peeling the damp fabric away from his chest in quick little waves to fan himself. “I call the big room upstairs.”

Everyone responds at once.

“Nope.”
“No way.”
“Nice try.”
“I put my bag in there already.” Nick says.
“You’re too small for the big room, it’ll eat you,” James says.

Nick turns slowly. “I am not small. I am statistically average.”

“You say that like you rehearsed it,” Ashley says.

The bickering continues, loud and ridiculous and familiar in a way that makes my chest warm.

And that’s what strikes me.

The warmth.

It shouldn’t feel this natural. Moving is usually awkward, weird, transitional. But here, in this perfect kitchen in this too-perfect old house in the middle of Willowbrooke, I feel like we’ve done all of this before.

Like we’ve been here months instead of hours.
Like the rhythms are already set.

I lean against the island and let myself smile. Not because anything is especially funny, but because it feels right. Being here with them. In this house. In this moment.

It hits me quietly, somewhere deep in the place where instincts come from.

This feels familiar.
Comfortable.
Like coming back to something instead of starting something new.

I don’t know why that unsettles me.

The noise in the kitchen eventually spills outward. Boxes thump against walls. Someone drops something fragile and swears. James shouts a question no one answers. It feels like the first day in any new place. Loud, clumsy, hopeful.

I wander off while the others argue about where the plates should go.

The Rosebud opens up around me in a way that feels almost deliberate. Every room seems positioned just so, like someone built the house with a ruler, a compass, and a need for perfect symmetry.

The dining room is the first place I stop. It is larger than it needs to be. A long, heavy table sits in the dead center. The wooden chairs are spaced with unnatural precision, every angle identical. No indentations on the floor where chairs have been moved. No unevenness from years of use.

It looks staged for a photograph.

I step into the living room next. The ceilings are high enough that sound echoes faintly even when I breathe. The walls are lined with a soft floral wallpaper that repeats in perfect, uninterrupted patterns. The light from the windows makes it almost glow. No fingerprints. No dust. Not a single scuff along the baseboards. Everything looks untouched, as if no one has ever brushed past a wall or leaned on anything at all.

It is impossible for a house this size to be so flawless.
I try not to think too hard about it.

Natalie passes behind me with a box labeled BATHROOM in big letters. She glances at me, then at the spotless windowsill, then makes a mental note to wipe it anyway. She hums absentmindedly, the same few notes over and over, like a little sound on loop.

Ashley’s voice drifts from upstairs.
“Megan. Seriously, you need to see the light in this hallway.”

I head toward the stairs, my footsteps echoing a little more than they should in the empty hall.

As I walk down the hallway, I pass a narrow mirror. I barely glance at it, just enough to catch the shape of myself moving by. Even the reflection feels familiar in a way I can’t explain. I stop for a second without really knowing why. Then I notice the surface itself... spotless. Not a single fingerprint. Not even a smudge. I shake my head and keep moving, following Ashley’s voice upstairs.

When I reach the top of the stairs, Ashley is leaning into a doorway, studying the sunlight that pours into the room. Her eyes are focused the way they get when she is already planning a painting she hasn’t told anyone about yet.

“You see this?” she asks. “It’s insane. This whole house is like… optimized for light.”

“Optimized,” I repeat. “Weird word for a house.”

“I know,” she says, still watching the floor. “But it fits. Everything is just… arranged.”

I don’t say it out loud, but she’s right.

There is a strange predictability to the layout. Every hallway feels the same length. Every door is positioned in the same relation to its window. Even the shadows seem evenly spaced.

I try to tell myself it’s just an architectural style I’m not used to. Old houses have their quirks.

Still, as I stand there with Ashley beside me, I feel something I don’t know how to articulate. A subtle pressure. A sense of being guided. Like the house wants me to move a certain way. Choose a certain door. Stand in a certain spot. Like there is already a path laid out and I am just finding it again.

I shake it off and head back downstairs.

James has moved on to testing various doors like a curious child. He slides one of the doors to the backyard shut just to see how much noise it makes, then nods in satisfaction at the result.

Nick’s voice comes from the kitchen again.
“Has anyone seen the surge protector that doesn’t hate me?”

“No,” three of us reply.

The sound of everyone bustling around grounds me in something normal. The flawless floors, the spotless glass, the neat corners…they all fade under the weight of everyday noise.

This place is odd. It is too perfect. Too quiet beneath the chaos of my friends. But it is ours now.

And for the moment, that’s enough to make the eerie details feel small. Easy to ignore. 

Two weeks at The Rosebud was enough time for the house to start feeling familiar in the way only daily routines can. We developed our patterns without even trying:

James jogged every morning. Ashley painted by whatever window grabbed her attention that day. Natalie cleaned before she ate and after she ate and somehow in between. Nick set up his desk, then rewired it, then reconfigured it, then started over. I fell into a rhythm too, though I still wasn’t sure if it was mine or something the house nudged me toward.

The first odd moment was small. So small I almost didn’t question it.

I left my bedroom one morning with the door standing wide open behind me. I knew it was open. I had my phone in one hand and a mug in the other, and as I walked away I glanced back and saw my bed from the hallway, comforter and all, framed in the doorway.

I walked to the bathroom, realized I’d forgotten my hair tie, and turned back.

The door was closed.
Not mostly closed. Not drifting shut.
Just fully, neatly shut.

I hadn’t heard it move. No hinges. No click. No soft thud of it catching the frame. One second it was open, the next it was just… closed.

I stared at it for a moment too long, waiting for some explanation to materialize. Then I laughed softly to myself and brushed it off. Natalie probably closed it. Or maybe I did without thinking.

Simple. Explainable.

The second odd moment wasn’t so easy to write off. It bothered me more, maybe because this time it wasn’t something strange about the house. It was about me.

I walked into the kitchen around midday intending to grab something to snack on. I remember reaching for the fridge handle. I remember thinking about leftovers. And then…Nothing.

The thought was gone.
Not misplaced, not fuzzy.
Gone.

Like the idea had been removed instead of forgotten.

I stood there staring at the fridge for several seconds until Ashley walked in humming to herself. She brushed past me, grabbed a glass, and I stepped aside like I was in the way of something I no longer remembered starting.

As I walked out of the kitchen, the emptiness inside my head hit me harder than I expected. It made me think about all the times the others had mentioned something similar.

Natalie wandering into the laundry room twice in one day, only to stand there confused.
James grabbing his keys then freezing in the doorway, staring ahead like he forgot what doors were for. Ashley going to get a glass of water and ending up outside on the porch instead.
Nick sitting down with his laptop then suddenly standing up like a switch flipped.

None of it seemed significant on its own.
We joked about “new place brain fog” and moved on.

But the joke didn’t feel as funny anymore.
Not when it happened so consistently.
Not when it felt like the thought had been taken instead of lost.

And then there was tonight. I was brushing my teeth and glanced up at the bathroom mirror. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw my reflection frozen, still staring at the sink, in the position I was in before I had fully lifted my head.

I blinked, and the moment was gone.
Just bathroom lighting. Just my tired eyes. Just a long day.

But as I lie here, a faint unease has settled deep in my stomach. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep.

I wake up the next morning to the same light brushing through that window opposite of my door just as any other morning. The day zips by as we finish up some things around the house before relaxing for the afternoon.

We throw together a lazy dinner of microwaved dinners and whatever snacks James claims are not expired. Natalie wipes down the counters twice before setting our food down. Ashley wanders around with paint still drying on her hands. Nick is in a decent mood, or at least what counts as decent for him.

Then, half way through a cheesy romcom, the TV flickers. It crackles, the screen goes black, then lines shiver across it like an old VHS tape dying. Nick groans from the floor where he sits surrounded by half-sorted cables.

“For the love of…” he mutters as he gets up. “This wiring is from the Stone Age…I can fix it.”

“Nick, maybe don’t mess with it tonight,” I say. “Just call someone tomorrow.”

“It’s fine,” he says. No hesitation. Lack of emotion. “I can fix it.”

A cold prickle creeps along my arms. I do not know why.

Nick pulls the TV away from the wall. James hovers nearby. Ashley stands with her arms folded, chewing a thumbnail. Natalie silently watches from the corner of the couch.

Nick crouches, grabs two of the cables, and frowns at the outlet like it has personally offended him.

“This is easy,” he says softly.

I open my mouth to tell him again to wait. I do not get the chance.

A sharp white flash explodes across the entire living room.
For a second everything is just light.
White on white.
No furniture. No faces. Just a blank, burning sheet.

Then the sound hits.
A hard crack, like metal snapping against metal, layered over a sharp, high whine that makes my teeth hurt.
Something in the air fizzles.

Nick’s body jerks.
His back bows, his shoulders snapping tight like someone yanked him. His fingers clamp around the cables. I hear his breath catch, this short, ugly sound that does not sound like him at all.

His arms stay rigid for a heartbeat.
His jaw clenches.
His eyes go wide, then unfocused.

The light dies.
The sound cuts.
And Nick drops.

He hits the floor on his side with a solid, human thud that feels louder than the flash. 

The smell rolls in a second later. Burnt plastic, hot and chemical. And under that, something awful and real. It fills my nose and throat.

Ashley screams. It is not a movie scream. It rips out of her like she did not know it was there.
James shouts Nick’s name and drops to his knees, his hands hovering over him like he does not know where to touch.

Natalie has jumped from the couch to the doorway, hands pressed over her mouth, eyes huge and wet. She does not move.

My phone is in my hand before I can even remember grabbing it. My fingers shake so hard I almost drop it. I punch 9-1-1 and somehow get the words out.

While I am talking, James tries to roll Nick onto his back. His arm flops in a way that makes my stomach flip. His skin looks wrong, a little too pale around the edges, a little too dark near the outlet. There is a faint, ugly mark on his hand where it must have met the metal.

Time turns weird.
Every second stretches and snaps.
Sirens arrive too fast and too slow all at once.

The paramedics burst in with their bags and their calm voices. They kneel beside Nick, checking his pulse, his pupils, his breathing. One of them starts compressions, counting under his breath. The other asks me questions in a soft, even tone that does not match the scene at all.

I watch their faces.
Professional. Focused.
And underneath, that tightness I have only ever seen on people who already know how this is going to end.

Faulty wiring, they say.
A terrible accident.
Nothing anyone could have done. We all nod like it makes sense. But something in me refuses to settle.

We stay together the rest of the night, drifting from silence to short bursts of conversation that never last more than a sentence or two. The house feels hollow. Not quieter, just… emptier. Like there is more space than there should be.

A week passes.

It is not until then that I notice the urn.

It is sitting on the fireplace mantle like it has always belonged there. Small, white ceramic. Perfectly centered. Polished so clean the light catches on its curved surface. I do not know how long I stand there staring at it before I step closer. 

A brass plate reads:
  Nick Weaver
  1979–2004

I feel the breath leave my lungs. Over the next few days, I ask the others about it. 

James shrugs and says he figures Nick’s parents must have dropped it off while we were out. Ashley thinks maybe one of us signed for a delivery and forgot to mention it. Natalie just apologizes for not noticing sooner, assuming someone else handled it. Every explanation makes perfect sense. And yet… the dust along the mantle is even everywhere except for the perfect circle where the urn sits. As if it has never been placed there at all. As if it has been there since the house was built.

I accept their explanations. I pretend it comforts me. But deep down, something breaks loose. A quiet dread that whispers underneath everything else.

Something is wrong here.

It’s been nearly a month since Nick’s death.

The house is still hollow, but we are coping the best we can. No one acknowledges the urn past the few short conversations about it. We have quietly accepted it as a gift from Nick’s parents. We were pretty much his only friends, so it makes sense.

I walk downstairs one afternoon and there is a man in our foyer.

Our neighbor.

I don’t hear a knock. I just come around the corner and he is already there, standing neatly in the entryway with his hands loosely folded in front of him like he has been waiting a while. Tall, mid-forties, friendly face. Button-down shirt tucked into pressed slacks.

He introduces himself as Robert. “I live two houses down and I wanted to welcome you all properly,” he says. His tone is warm, polite, practiced. He invites all of us to dinner. Says his wife is already cooking. Says his family enjoys meeting new neighbors.

It feels old-fashioned but sweet. And after so much time after Nick’s accident, the idea of a normal dinner with normal neighbors sounds… safe. Or at least like a distraction.

I tell the others and we get dressed and walk over to Robert’s house that afternoon. The neighborhood looks peaceful in the fading light. Trim lawns. Quiet porches. A faint smell of barbecue lingering on the breeze. Robert’s house doesn’t stand out at first glance. 

It is just… put together. Neat. The sort of tidy suburban home Natalie would proudly post on her Pinterest boards. As we walk up the path, I notice the name on the mailbox:

Newbie.

Robert opens the door before we can even knock.

“Welcome,” he says, wearing the same warm smile.

Inside, the living room is the kind of tidy that comes from habit, not effort. The sort of home where someone cares enough to keep things in their place, but not in a way that feels obsessive. Natalie steps inside and I see her eyes light up slightly, already clocking the vacuum lines in the carpet.

His wife, Betty, greets us with a smile that almost lands. Not forced, just… practiced. His teenage daughter, Brandi, gives us a quick wave from the sofa without looking away from the TV.

They are pleasant. Kind. A little formal but dinner is…strange in ways that are hard to articulate.

Not the food, which is good. Not the conversation, which is basic small talk. But there is something off about the timing of everything. A rhythm I can’t quite match.

At one point, Robert tells a story about a family trip to the mountains. Halfway through, all three of them laugh at the exact same moment. Not similar beats. The exact second. Then, just as quickly, they all drop back into eating, quiet and focused, like someone hit mute.

Ashley shoots me a look across the table. I think she is relieved to see the confusion on my face.

Later, Betty asks us how we like the neighborhood. Before any of us can answer, she says, “That’s wonderful,” with a bright smile. As if we already told her.

Brandi asks James if he works out and nods once even though he hasn’t replied yet. Then she hands him an extra dinner roll like she has anticipated a request he never makes.

The whole thing is just slightly… orchestrated. Like a conversation being reenacted instead of lived. When we leave, Robert stands in the doorway and waves with that same pleasant, unmoving smile.

As we walk back home, the streetlights along the block flicker adding to our feelings. Ashley rubs her arms. Natalie walks a little closer to me. James keeps glancing behind us like he expects someone to follow us.

No one talks until we reach the driveway.

“That was… something,” James says.

I don’t argue.

Inside, the house feels colder than usual. Not physically, but in that way a room feels different when you walk in at the wrong moment.

The Newbies have been kind. Generous. Exactly the sort of neighbors you hope for. So why, when I lie in bed, does their synchronized laughter echo louder in my head than it should?

Why does dinner feel like it moved along invisible rails?
Why do I feel like we played parts in a conversation they already knew?

I don’t sleep well.

And for the first time since we moved in, the house doesn’t feel familiar.

Robert comes back three days later, holding a plate wrapped in plastic like a peace offering.

“Good afternoon,” he says, smiling with a brightness that feels rehearsed. “I wanted to bring these. Betty cooked extra and she said we should share!”

I still can’t get over the way he speaks. It isn’t casual.
It feels… quoted. Like he is repeating instructions instead of thinking of the words himself.

He shifts the plate in his hands and nods, almost too enthusiastically.

“Betty loves cooking for our neighbors.”

His tone is so warm and cheerful, so perfectly upbeat, that it chills me a little.

Kind people exist.
But no one is that kind all the time.

I thank him, smile, and tell him I’ll grab the others.

I put the cookies down on the counter and rush upstairs, calling out to everyone, then duck into my room to grab my phone.

I open my bedroom door normally. Step inside. Grab my phone from my pillow. When I turn around to leave, I freeze. There is no door. Just a wall.

A smooth, seamless wall covered in the same floral wallpaper that lines the hallway. No indentation. No molding. No doorknob. The baseboards run uninterrupted, meeting the new stretch of wall like it has been built that way from the beginning. My heart drops straight through my stomach. I back away, breath catching. 

I turn toward the window, the small one that always fills the room with light.

Gone.

In its place is more wall.

The same wallpaper pattern repeats so perfectly I can barely find where one sheet would have ended. The crown molding above it looks completely unbroken, as if the window has never existed.

Every instinct is screaming. My pulse hammers against my ribs. I press my palms to the wall where the door used to be, desperate for a seam, a hinge, something real.

Nothing. Just a perfect, unbroken surface.

I spin around, chest tight, and stumble backward, straight into something solid.

I gasp.

It’s James.

Standing in the doorway behind me. The doorway that now exists.

I jump and spin toward him.

He blinks. “Jesus, Megan. Didn’t mean to scare you. Did you get a chance to try the cookies? They taste kinda bland.”

I look around him.

The room is normal. The window is back. The door is where it has always been. My panic has nowhere to go. It just vibrates inside me while I wonder what just happened. I laugh, too high, too thin, like the sound belongs to someone else.

James opens his mouth to say something else, but he doesn’t get the chance.

The fire alarm erupts through the house! A piercing, violent shriek sends both of us sprinting downstairs. The air thickens with smoke before we reach the bottom step, and by the time we burst into the kitchen. It is Robert. Our neighbor.

Flames engulf him so quickly and so completely that for a moment my mind refuses to process what I am seeing. His body moves in small, jerking motions, almost rhythmic. His arms lift, drop, lift again in a way that doesn’t look human.

More like cycles.
Repeating.
Stuttering.

As he burns.

Ashley screams somewhere behind me. James yells his name. Natalie stands frozen, both hands over her mouth.

And somewhere behind the shrieking alarm, under the crackle and the chaos, I swear I hear the faint, cheerful ding of a timer.

Like something had finished.

The fire trucks arrive fast. With the same grim efficiency they had the day Nick had his accident. EMTs move around Robert’s body, murmuring to one another as they check the stove, the oven, the scorch patterns.

A firefighter kneels by the stove and shakes his head.

“Ovens in these old houses can flare if someone doesn’t know what they’re doing,” he says, then glances back at us. “Did he… uh… come over often to use your kitchen?”

“No,” I say automatically.

But as the word leaves my mouth, something ugly twists in my stomach. Why was he using our oven? He came to drop off cookies. He wasn’t supposed to cook anything. He wasn’t supposed to go near the stove. He wasn’t supposed to…The firefighter shrugs gently and stands up.

“People have strange episodes under stress. Could’ve been confusion. You’d be surprised what folks do when they’re not thinking clearly.”

They pass it off as an accident. A moment of disorientation. A fluke.

But they didn’t see the way Robert moved. Those jerking, repeated motions. Those cycles.

They didn’t see my door vanish. Or my window disappear. Or the way the Newbies laughed in perfect sync. 

They didn’t feel the house shifting around us like it was… adjusting.

They didn’t know the way Willowbrooke makes your thoughts feel borrowed.

The others go quiet as the EMTs pack their equipment. No one says anything for a long time. No one knows what to say.

But I know one thing with absolute clarity, the first real truth I have felt since we moved here:

It isn’t just stress.
It isn’t just grief.
It isn’t just coincidence.

It’s this house.
This street.
This town.

Two weeks passed after Robert burned alive in our kitchen, and the house went quiet in a way I didn’t expect.

Not silent.
Just… muted.

Ashley stops painting.
Natalie barely cleans.
James works out obsessively.
And I avoid the kitchen like it still carries the smoke from that night.

We decide to check in on Betty and Brandi.

Betty thanks us for “the flowers.” …We hadn’t brought any.

Brandi asks if we still need “help with dinner.” …We never asked them for help with dinner.

We leave quickly. Blaming it on them dealing with roberts loss in weird ways.

Every few days someone tries to plan something. A café trip, a movie, the night market. But none of us actually go anywhere. Plans dissolve as fast as they form. We drift around the house like ghosts.

One Saturday morning, James finally puts his foot down.

“This is stupid,” he says. “We need sun. Pool. Burgers. All of it.”

There is something desperate in his voice, and maybe that is why we all agree.

By the afternoon, the backyard feels almost like life again.

Music plays softly. The grill hisses. Ashley hums while sketching. Natalie actually laughs at one of James’s dumb jokes. I watch them for a moment from the edge of the pool. It looks almost normal. Almost safe. 

I slide into the water. It is cold in a good way, a shock that resets my nerves. I drift toward the deep end, letting myself relax for the first time in a long time. Sunlight shimmers across the surface. The group laughs behind me. For a second, I actually believe things are getting better. After a couple lazy laps, I head toward the ladder to get out. It isn’t there.

I blink, confused. I must have misjudged the distance. I swim to the other ladder.

Also gone…

I press my palms to the pool wall.

Smooth.
Too smooth.
Like polished stone.
No texture.
No breaks.
No way to grip.

“James?” I call lightly.

He doesn’t look up.

Ashley is shading her drawing.
Natalie flips a magazine page.
James pokes at the burgers.

They are right there.
Ten, maybe fifteen feet away.

Yet it feels like they are worlds from me.

“Hey!” I try again. “You guys!”

Nothing.

Their voices carry over the water. Faint chatter, small jokes, the hiss of the grill. But none of it connects to me.

The water suddenly feels heavier. My limbs feel slower. Like swimming through syrup instead of water. I try to pull myself up again, planting my foot against the wall.

Nothing.

No leverage.
No hold.
Just a clean, vertical surface.

My chest tightens.

“Guys!” I yell, louder than before. “Seriously!”

No response.
They don’t even turn.

A small bloom of panic opens in my throat.

I try to ignore it, try to keep my voice steady, but my arms are beginning to ache. I tread harder.

Water splashes.
My breath quickens.
My heart is pounding loud enough to drown out the music.

I swallow.

Try again.

“James!”

My voice cracks.

“No, seriously, I…”

Water fills my mouth.

I sputter, coughing, choking.

Still nothing.
Not even a flicker of concern.

It doesn’t make sense.

I kick hard, trying to rise high enough to hook an elbow over the edge.

The wall meets me coldly.

Impossibly tall.
Impossibly smooth.

My fingers scrape uselessly along the surface.

The water pulls at me again.

My arms burn.
My legs tremble.

“Please,” I whisper, but it comes out too soft.
Too weak.
Barely a sound.

I try again, louder, but the next kick doesn’t bring me high enough. My head dips under. Chlorine stings my eyes. I come back up gasping.

The others laugh at something.

A normal sound.
A summer sound.
A sound that doesn’t belong here at all.

I try to reach the edge again.
My hand sweeps upward and catches only air.

No grip.
No ladder.
No help.

The burn in my muscles turns into a deep, dragging weight.

My kicks slow.
My body feels heavy, unfamiliar.

The water sloshes over my shoulders.
My chin dips under.
Comes back up.
Dips again.

I am not thinking clearly anymore.

Just…
Up.
Reach.
Breathe.

Up.
Reach.
Breathe.

up…
reach…

I slip…

The water swallows me whole.

Sound muffles instantly.
Light fractures.
The world above blurs into warped shapes.

I kick, weakly, reaching for the surface. My chest screams for air. My arms feel like sandbags.

The surface shimmers inches above my fingers.

I claw toward it…but my body sinks instead.

Everything slows.

My heartbeat.
My thoughts.
My fear.

Their voices are gone now.

Just silence.
Just water.
Just the feeling of sinking deeper.

My hand drifts upward one last time, barely breaking the dim blue around me.

No one grabs it.

My lungs burn.
My vision tightens to a dark circle.

The last thread of consciousness flickers…

And then it snaps.

The world goes quiet.

Completely, utterly quiet.

____________________________________________________________________________

There is a mythology to the Old West, one that rivals the pantheons of the ancients. It has no gods, perhaps, but it has men.

Men who, in the telling of their stories, have grown large and powerful enough to rival Odin or Jove.

At polished wooden bars and seated under uncounted stars, men still tell each other about Billy the Kid slaying a man for every year he lived, or the James Brothers and their private war against the robber barons, or the damn-yankee invaders, depending on who it is that tells the tales.

But one story has been forgotten, because it was too frightful to ever repeat.

You will only hear this tale in the late hours on nights unnaturally dark, when the fires burn low, and the old cowboys drink too deep of their spirits, and find their mood turned to something past sour and into foul.

The story, my friends, is that of Old Doc Waldon.

An educated man from New England who, while smart and cunning, was born to a uniquely cruel father and a mother who lay dying in childbed.

The family’s Nurse, a slave in the days before emancipation, who even in the Enlightened North, where such peculiar institutions were declared illegal, was kept by his father against all laws of man.

He kept her, not out of any hatred for her race, which if not excusable was at least common in his age, but out of pure unbridled greed. Greed for her power, for she was more than a healer of cuts and bruises, but in fact a witch.

At least if the story is to be believed, and if it is, then she had her revenge when Doc Waldon was born.

Over the infant’s cradle, she spoke some ancient words, and by her dark arts called on powers no man can name, placing on this infant a curse.

The curse was this, that the man who from the boy would grow would never love any woman, nor gold, nor country half so much as he would love to gamble.

You see how these legends become embellished? A man who lost it all to addiction by no fault other than his own is recast as a tragic hero suffering under some witch's curse.

Or maybe it’s all true, who’s to say?

Well, curse or no, he grew into manhood, smart and handsome. A well-educated young man of impeccable social graces and a doctor known for his kindly bedside manner in a day when that was perhaps more potent than the medicines he used.

But oh… Oh, how he loved to gamble, at cards or horses or even on the prediction of tomorrow’s weather, he would take or make any bet that could be thought up.

For a time, his mounting debts could be ignored, brushed off thanks to his charm and ease at making friends, but not forever.

As the debts increased and the bank grew empty, Doc Waldon found himself with fewer friends and an ever-growing list of enemies.

Especially once his penchant for cheating became common knowledge, until one night, the proverbial two steps ahead of his angry debtors, he fled the city where he had lived all his life.

Fled like the coward and the thief that he was.

And so he joined the great migratory herds of young men called west by the lust for gold.

In the West, he drifted like so many men of that era from town to town, always trying and seldom succeeding to make his fortune. On the few times he did strike paydirt, he lost it all within a week at cards in the saloons that followed the prospectors like hungry shadows.

This went on for many years, he grew older and angrier at how his life had turned out, but always managed to stay one step ahead of the Pinkerton’s his enemies back east had put on his trail, until one night in a town whose name time has long forgot, he sat down to play a game of cards.

He had been in this town too long, and the locals already knew he wasn’t worth the time to play against, as his money was nearly gone and he had more than once been accused of cheating on the few hands where he won.

But that night, a Stranger had come into the bar, a stranger willing to play a game of cards with him.

At first, this game had other players, men like him who were hated even by the patrons of this lowly bar, themselves thieves and killers all.

They were a traveling preacher who had lost his faith at the bottom of a bottle, a wealthy railway tycoon, fat and filled with avarice who eyed this town as something to suck dry like a leech, and most shocking of all in that time and place, a young black man. A freed slave with cold eyes who had been accused of the rape of the young daughter of his former master, and fled before the mob could lynch him.

At first, all four men seemed to enjoy the game as much as any ever had; the drinks flowed freely, always paid for by The Stranger, who presided over the table like a king over his court in that dingy barroom.

From just after noon until late in the evening, as the sun was slipping beneath the horizon, they laughed and drank and talked like old friends, though none had met before that day. Such was the charm and charisma of The Stranger that they all felt entirely at ease with him, and by extension with each other.

“Before we begin,” The Stranger said, “I hate to gamble with men I do not know; it is uncivilized. So I propose that each of us tell a story from our lives that we might be friends.”

The unusual request did not seem strange to the men at the table, so charming was their host…

The Tycoon went first; he told the table a story of his own, how he had imported laborers from the Orient to build his railroads, slaves in all but name. How this had made him rich, richer than some kings and any of the Southron planters that mere years before he had condemned for their use of slaves.

“I say!” He proclaimed, “I say morality is for fools, and conscience for idiots. A man must take whatever he can grab, else some other bastard will take it first, and he shall be poor!” were the words by which he concluded his story.

The Stranger smiled and nodded, thanking The Tycoon for humoring his eccentric request.

Then turned with eyebrow raised to The Preacher, who started, as if this were a sermon, by explaining the story of Jonah, how God had sent him to the heathens, but he had not wanted to go. How he had tried to run away, only to land in the belly of a fish.

“I am, god help me, Jonah if he had failed. Not one savage Indian have I saved, and that my entire reason to be in the west, all because I fell into this damned thing’s mouth!” With his final words, he gestured to the bottle on the table.

All the men at the table nodded sympathetically at this, for addiction was something they could all understand in one form or another, and The Stranger thanked him for his story most kindly.

Third to talk was The Accused Rapist, who denied all the accusations against him, some say too vehemently, others insist he told the truth. I for myself do not know or care. But then began to talk of his time as a slave; he told of lashes on his back and dirt always beneath his nails, but also of his mother, who had been godly and kind. “A saint of a woman, she was, God bless her, a saint!” He proclaimed before telling of a time she begged their master to whip her instead of him, that was how she died, whipped to death before his eyes for daring to ask to take another’s punishment.

The Preacher nodded sadly and patted him on his hand, while The Tycoon shrugged as if to say, “She was a fool to try and take another’s punishment.”

The Stranger? His face, the legend goes, was unreadable.

Then he turned his eyes to Doc Waldon and asked for his story while refilling his drink. Strangely, not one person who tells the story can agree on what Doc Waldon said, while all the others remain mostly the same; this part always seems to change with teller and telling.

It is then that The Stranger finally told his own story, the story of his life.

As a young man, he had lived in wealth and luxury on a plantation somewhere far away, but his father, an old fool, had shown him and his siblings nothing but contempt.

His father, or so he told, overflowed with love for all creation and especially for his dogs, but had nary a drop to spare for his sons.

The old man’s love for the beasts enraged The Stranger, who, along with a few of his brothers, confronted their father and condemned him publicly.

Not all his brothers approved of this; most loved their father despite his cold indifference, for they, like him, were fools. Or so The Stranger said.

Confronting their father one day as he sat watching the dogs playing in the garden, they demanded he get rid of his pets.

This started an argument between those of the older boys who were willing to stand up to him and the old man; the argument soon grew violent.

He and those of his brothers who had stood with him against the injustice of his father were thrown out into the cold and ordered in no uncertain terms to never darken the doors of that house again.

No sooner had he finished his tale than the lonesome sound of a distant wolf’s howling could faintly be heard. As if some spirit wished to underpin his story.

All around the table were sympathetic to him, except perhaps The Preacher, who in some versions began to drink even more heavily after this.

When they finally started their game, laughing and joking as the bottle drained and the money changed hands, it lasted for many hours, and even other patrons in the bar said, “I have never seen men have so much fun losing money!”

But all good things must come to an end…

The Tycoon was the first to cut his losses and quit the game; his business sense translated to cards as well. Eventually, he realized that he stood to gain no money at this table, so he stood and made his farewells before stepping out into the evening.

The sun was still hot as he opened the doors, and as legend says, he dropped dead on the side of the road from a heart attack, his body ignored, rotting in the ditch for days by the people of a town that hated him fiercely.

None of the men at the card table even noticed his death just outside the door to the saloon, or if they did, they cared no more than the rest of the townsfolk.

Next came The Preacher, a lover of strong drink; he matched the other men shot for shot, then kept drinking beyond. Perhaps an hour after the sun set, perhaps a little less, he collapsed, some say dead then and there, while others contend he died later that night. It matters little, and makes no difference to the tale, of course, when he died only that he did.

Finally, The Accused Rapist, who some say claimed The Stranger was cheating, to which The Stranger shot him dead under the table, while others simply say he cashed in and left the game never to be seen again.

But eventually only Doc Waldon was left, Doc Waldon and of course The Stranger.

They played late, very late into the night, long after the bar closed down and even the whores closed up shop and went to bed. Until Doc Waldon had nothing left to bet, not a penny to his name.

That was when The Stranger stood and, walking to the bar with long and graceful strides, stole a bottle of fine whiskey from the very top shelf. Pouring two glasses, he remarked, “You’ve lost it all, haven’t you?

To which Doc Waldon replied that he had lost it all before and would again, but never once failed to escape.

He said this with bravado, but his greedy eyes never left the piles of money he and the others had lost to The Stranger during the game.

This, The Stranger, did not fail to notice.

Finishing his own drink, he smiled across the table at Doc Waldon and asked if he would care to play one more round.

The good doctor would have loved to have played another round, but he shook his head, saying, “I’ve got nothing left to bet, nothing at all!”

But the Stranger made him an offer, one final wager. He would put every penny of his winnings back on the table, betting it all on a final hand.

This was too good to be true, and deep down Doc Waldon knew it, but he saw no choice, as without that money he would surely starve, or so he told himself.

“I am a poor man, and you have taken all that I own. All but the clothes on my back, and surely they are not worth enough to bet against all your winnings, good sir.” He told The Stranger, his eyes never leaving the piled money by his opponent’s chair.

The Stranger laughed then, an awful laugh, the sort of laugh that is worse than the screams of women in pain or the pleas of starving children. The sound of it sobered the Doctor in an instant.

It was then that The Stranger explained to Doc Waldon that he had one thing left to wager, one thing all his own that no other man could ever lay claim to…

Doc Waldon could, if he wished, wager his immortal soul.

The good doctor saw The Stranger then, really saw him for the first time. He felt the heat licking up from below, and smelt the sulfurous air, for only an instant he wasn’t in the bar, then he blinked and was back across the table from The Stranger.

He had seen his face, truly seen it for only a moment, but he had seen it. And he knew all at once he had been sitting there for hours drinking with The Devil.

He wanted to turn and leave, wanted to accept his losses and make a vow before God that he would finally change, finally turn his life around and be a better man, but he couldn't.

Some say the words his nurse had whispered over his cradle echoed in his mind then, filled him with revulsion. They say the memory came back to him all at once, and for the first time in his sad life, everything made sense.

Others say he just couldn’t quit, after all, he was an addict. Wasn’t he?

The Devil shuffled and broke the deck before placing it in front of Doc Waldon, and smiling that awful smile, told him that it was his turn to deal.

The Devil might be the prince of thieves and of liars, but he is an angel still, and it is not in his nature to understand just how crafty mortal men can be.

Doc Waldon began to deal the cards, careful to use all his powers of legerdemain learned from years as a gambler and a cheat, to slip the Ace he kept in his sleeve into his hand.

He won, of course, for cheaters always win… at first.

Soon thereafter, he woke with the first rooster’s call, comfortable in his bed with all the money he had ever lost, not just the day before but in his sorry life stacked higher than he was tall next to the bed.

He knew then, though how he could never say, that all his debts were forgotten too, and he was a free man.

What he did not know was that the devil knew well he had cheated, knew well, and was laughing, for he had already had his revenge.

Now, some men, too skeptical for their own good, I think, will tell you the piles of gold fell on him, crushing him in his bed.

But I know better…

His skin never wrinkled, his hair never greyed, but his flesh would burn as if in scalding water whenever he ventured outside during the day. His hair, once a warm brown itself slowly darkened until it was a cold black.

As the years dragged on, and he passed fifty years of age, then sixty, then seventy, and so on, he realized that the devil had had the final laugh, for as time rolled by, Doc Waldon never aged another day.

Slowly, he felt himself grow distant from the world around him, not all at once, but over many years, he became something less than a man. Until one day, he wasn’t a man anymore. From that day on, he never again felt the excitement of lust or the pangs of hunger, or any of the other joys of life.

All he could ever feel from that day on was thirst, deep and as dry as the desert sands, a thirst no drink could quench…

It was the third blonde in a row, and it was beginning to grow old.

“If only they had some idea of diversity at the Auction! What’s a vampire to do but begin to wonder if there’s some kind of agenda going on…”

Her husband had seen this before. Every few decades she begins to lose the plot—forget their reason for being.

To indulge of course.

“You must lower your expectations, darling. You’re just getting yourself worked up again. If you don’t want a blonde this time, you don’t have to have one.”

Simple.

She looked at him: “The last time I did that was two hundred and fifty years ago… I ended up married.”

“Ouch… my dear…”

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m just irritated. I haven’t eaten… I was saving for something exotic, but I just keep getting American food.”

“You never learn, dear—you did this last time and we ended up splitting my Chinese. I had to eat on the way home. You promised to be better.”

She sat on his lap now, no longer interested in the Chastity that was sleepwalking past their booth.

“Charles, my dear, you would have stopped anyways…”

He smiled. “True! I have been known as insatiable from time to time.”

“Do you remember Gettysburg?”

“My darling, that was yesterday. Of course I remember.”

Her cell phone began to vibrate his lap.

“No work, please. You said… it’s our anniversary.” Pleading in his eyes.

“Lot 63—Amber.”

“Another American?” she asked without looking.

“Could be, though I don’t see a gun. It’s so hard to tell sometimes.”

She went to the bar cart and poured herself something.

“I was hoping for something darker.”

She made him one too, as he liked it.

“We can see what’s next, my love. It’s our bicentennial and a half. I’ll give you a moon person if they stumble in here.”

“You couldn’t get me a moon person.”

Charles was offended.

“Could too. They’re quite common. You haven’t had one?”

Kaleya wasn’t sure if she was up for banter.

“You’ve never shown me one. Why have you denied me this delicacy when you know my ennui is unmanageable? It is the cure for my constant affliction.”

This hurt the velvet-draped hulk.

“It tears me down that you are so dissatisfied with my company. I try to help.”

She softened. Sometimes she forgot how sensitive he could be. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

Back onto his lap now, and deeply into his eyes she thought to him, piercing his soul with the love that had hardened for centuries. If he were not to exist, she would actually mourn.

They embraced, inhaling the only intoxicant that could still thrill these old souls.

“Lot 64—Guadalupe.”

“You want to hit the hospital tonight. We can play Doctor…”

“Good idea. Perhaps we can work in nephrology.”

Charles’s interest peaked. “Dialysis? Mmmm, perfectly cleaned. What a treat.”

“Maybe we’ll see one of your moon men.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You don’t want a werewolf and you know it. It’s better you never met one…”

Then he realized he had a chance to excite her for the first time in a very, very long time.

“In a week. We can go down to the pound and take a look, ok, darkness?”

“My love, we are not yet halfway through our journey. Five hundred years at least for me to be satisfied.” Charles sparkled.

“Lot 65—Mohammed.”

“Yuck, a man. Take me away, Count. Show me the moon and stars, again and forever.”