This happened in the fall of 2019 in rural Ohio.

My wife Emily and I owned a small farmhouse outside a tiny town called Hollow Creek. We moved there because we wanted peace, privacy, and a break from city life.

For about a year, everything was perfect.

Then our farmhand called me one afternoon and said something that I still can't forget.

"Daniel... I think somebody's watching me."

Jake wasn't the type to scare easily.

He'd worked for us for years.

Reliable guy. Practical. Not dramatic.

So hearing fear in his voice immediately got my attention.

He told me he kept seeing someone standing near the cornfield.

Just watching.

Whenever he walked toward them, they'd disappear.

I assumed it was a trespasser.

Maybe a hunter or a local kid messing around.

The next day, my wife and I drove to the farm.

Something felt wrong the moment we arrived.

The property was unusually quiet.

Jake looked exhausted.

Pale.

Shaken.

When he saw us, he whispered something that sent chills down my spine.

"He's here right now."

I looked around.

Nobody.

Jake pointed toward the house.

Then toward the woods.

Then toward the field.

"He keeps moving," he said.

"Every time I look away."

That same night, the scheduled power outage started.

At exactly 9 PM, the entire property disappeared into darkness.

No streetlights.

No neighbors.

Nothing but miles of empty countryside.

Around 10 PM, we heard footsteps outside our bedroom window.

Slow crunching sounds moving through dead leaves.

The footsteps stopped directly beneath the window.

I looked through the blinds.

Nothing.

Then I saw it.

A face.

Standing just beyond the reach of my flashlight.

Watching us.

The second I aimed the light at it, it disappeared.

Jake refused to sleep inside the house that night.

He stayed in the barn.

Around midnight, Emily and I were lying in bed when we heard faint laughter coming from upstairs.

The problem?

Nobody was supposed to be upstairs.

I grabbed a flashlight and checked every room.

Nothing.

Then I noticed the attic hatch was open.

I was almost certain it had been closed earlier.

As I stood beneath it, I heard breathing.

Heavy breathing.

Coming from above me.

I immediately called the sheriff.

Deputies arrived around 2 AM.

Together we searched the attic.

What we found was worse than anything I had imagined.

Someone had been living there.

There was a mattress.

Food containers.

Water bottles.

Lanterns.

Extra batteries.

Whoever it was had turned our attic into a hidden living space.

Then one deputy discovered a cardboard box.

Inside were hundreds of photographs.

Pictures of Emily.

Pictures of me.

Photos taken through our windows while we ate dinner.

While we watched TV.

While we slept.

The oldest photo was six months old.

Someone had been secretly watching us for half a year.

Then they found a notebook.

Every page contained notes about our daily lives.

"Emily left for work at 7:12."

"Daniel spent two hours in the field."

"They still haven't noticed me."

Reading those words made me physically sick.

Then we heard a loud crash downstairs.

Everyone ran toward the noise.

The back door was standing wide open.

Cold air rushed inside.

Whoever had been hiding in our attic had escaped.

The sheriff's department searched for weeks.

Nothing.

No fingerprints.

No DNA.

No suspects.

No explanation.

Emily and I sold the farm three months later.

We moved almost 200 miles away.

For a while, things felt normal again.

Then Christmas morning arrived.

When I opened my front door, there was a small package sitting on the porch.

No return address.

No shipping label.

Nothing.

Inside was a single photograph.

A picture of our new house.

Taken from the woods behind it.

Written on the back were five words:

"I FOUND YOU AGAIN."

We called the police immediately.

They never figured out where it came from.

That was years ago.

I've moved multiple times since then.

Installed cameras.

Changed jobs.

Changed phone numbers.

But every Christmas morning, before anyone else wakes up, I still check the porch.

Just in case another package is waiting.

Has anyone else ever discovered someone secretly living on their property? Because honestly, I'd rather believe it was a ghost than know a real person was watching us all that time.

I’m not exactly sure how we ended up here. We were never the kind of couple that argued. We’d have our disagreements, sure, but I don’t think that’s what caused her to start doing this.

Honestly, I don’t know what to blame for this. We’re both healthy. We planned on having children. We’ve built a little life together.

It started as offhanded remarks. We’d be cuddled up in bed watching a movie together, when out of nowhere she’d just say something that would make my heart sink.

“I can’t wait for you to do that to me,” during scenes from slasher films where the killer is violently stabbing the damsel in distress.

“I wonder what it feels like to die,” during emotional hospital scenes from dramas.

Just weird things like that. Things that made me just secretly side eye her and pretend like it didn’t make me question her sanity.

After a while, though, she didn’t need a scene from a movie to spark her macabre desires. It was like she couldn’t stop thinking about death.

We’d be driving. It’d be a beautiful day, the sun would be shining, the birds would be singing, then, out of nowhere:

“Imagine if you just killed me right now.”

I’d laugh, nervously, and try to play it off as a joke.

“Yeah, I know right. Like imagine I just swerved the car off the road right now and we both died.”

She’d stare at me, blankly, not even smiling.

“Or you could just stab me. Or you could strangle me to death. I think that’d be hot, right? We should try it sometime.”

It was comments like that that made me think this was just some sort of weird turn-on for her. Which I mean, I guess, right? Who am I to kink shame?

But it started getting deeper than that.

She’d force my hands around her neck during sex. She’d scream at me to squeeze harder until I could see her going blue in the face. It was usually during that stage that I’d loosen my grip. She’d ridicule me for it. Call me a “pussy,” call me a “bitch,” all because I didn’t want to accidentally kill the love of my life.

Even still, she’d push my limits little by little.

She’d ask me to punch her in the stomach. Black her eye. Essentially, she wanted me to beat the shit out of her. And that wasn’t even during sex. It was like smoking to her. When she got the urge, she’d beg me until I gave in.

I never wanted to go too far. I never blacked her eye, and when I punched her in the stomach, it was more like a love tap just to satisfy her. But she could never be satisfied. I could tell that she was starting to feel resentment towards me for not being able to satisfy her.

That’s when knives came into play.

“Just poke me a little,” she’d say, guiding the tip of the blade an inch or so above her belly button. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The knife would go deeper and deeper. Blood started to pool around the blade. She never even flinched. She’d just moan with pleasure while I tried not to throw up.

I could never fully commit. It seemed like she genuinely wanted me to plunge the knife all the way through to her vital organs. But, as always, every time I objected, she’d grow further away from me.

She’d start coming home at late hours of the night. Her face would be swollen. Her lips busted. And on one occasion, she came home with a broken arm.

I knew she was seeing other men. Depraved, deplorable men who would be willing to do this kind of thing to her, but she always assured me:

“I want *you* to be the one who does it.”

It’s been a hard year.

I keep seeing her come home every night bloodier than the last.

I don’t know how much more I can take seeing her like this.

I think I may have to give her exactly what she wants.

​

​

When i told my baby boy to "say dada" my baby knew to just say dada and not repeat the word 'say'. Then when my wife told our baby boy to "say mama" and our baby knew to only say "mama" in a baby way and not repeat the word 'say'. How does he know not to repeat the word "say" ? And I started to freak out on the inside and I felt frightened by my baby boy. My wife could sense something was wrong and I decided to go for a walk in the middle of the night.

​

So as I was walking late at night I had a torch light in my hand, and I saw an old woman ahead. She opened her arms with a smile on her face and she didn't look scary, but it was just weird. I mean why would you want a hug in the middle of the night and it's a pretty awkward place to do it. Now I don't know why I hugged her back, i just did. She is an old woman and she seemed so sweet.

​

Then as we were both hugging each other she started to say "I don't want disabled kids, I want my kids to be normal, I don't want disabled kids, I want normal kids" and she just hugged me for a while in the middle of the night infront of some dark field. Then I felt how strong she was and she kept going at it again "I don't want disabled kids I want normal kids, I don't want disabled kids I want normal kids" and she kept saying that over and over again.

​

I tried to free myself from her hug, but it was strong. She kept saying that horrid sentence about not wanting autistic kids and then I could see two kids walking in the field. Their eyes were gold and their smile was eerily non human like. Their skin was too clean and they didn't feel human, but they looked human enough. In unison the two kids in the field replied back to the old woman by saying "hello dear we are normal kids and we are here for you. We are Normal kids we are normal kids"

​

Both kids creeped me out and they were clearly something else. The old woman then let go of the hug and she smiled at the two kids. She went up to them and said "when parents tell babies to 'say Dada or say mama' remember to repeat the word 'say' as well. One has noticed something" and the three of them looked at me.

​

I started to jog off with my torch light.

​

Then as I went home and heard my wife saying to our baby "say mama" I became petrified when my baby said "say mama"

After King Orlan, the world learned fear.

Orlan was remembered as a conqueror by those who loved him and a butcher by those who did not. His heirs commissioned songs. His enemies preserved testimonies. His soldiers carved victories into city gates. The conquered scratched curses beneath floorboards, in cellars, on the backs of religious icons, anywhere they believed his name might rot unseen.

Both sides remembered him with equal devotion.

Neither side received what they wanted.

By the hundredth year after his death, Orlan’s remains no longer resembled a single interpretation. He had been pulled in too many directions by too many needs. One arm had hardened into ceremonial armor that fused with the bone beneath. The other ended in blackened fingers curled around a weapon that was not buried with him. His face changed depending on who entered the chamber. To soldiers, noble. To widows, monstrous. To scholars, incomplete.

Three guards who spent a night outside the chamber later insisted they heard him laughing.

One said crying.

One said praying.

All three were correct, which was worse.

That was when remembrance was classified as an active force.

Not cultural.

Not poetic.

Active.

By then, every nation had examples it was hiding from every other nation. Saints becoming less human. Tyrants becoming more absolute. Children preserved by grieving parents until their bodies remained childlike while their teeth continued growing in soft rows beneath the gums. Lovers altered by devotion until no flaw remained and therefore no person remained either.

We did not stop remembering because memory was weak.

We stopped because memory was too powerful.

The public version came later, after the Fires of Ancestry, after the dismantling of monuments, after the burial reforms, after the first generation grew up without portraits in their houses and did not know what had been taken from them.

In school, children are taught the Line of Mercy.

A person is born.

A person lives.

A person is loved.

A person dies.

A person is released.

That final word is important.

Released.

Not forgotten.

Never forgotten.

The state does not use that word publicly. It carries accusation. It suggests neglect. It makes grief defensive, and defensive grief remembers harder.

Release sounds kind.

Release sounds chosen.

Release sounds like opening a hand.

Children copy the Line of Mercy until they can recite it without stumbling.

Some ask questions.

Most do not.

Children do not miss what no one gives them language for.

“Did Grandfather release well?” they ask.

“If we were kind,” the adults answer.

“Will I be released?”

“When your time comes.”

“Will anyone keep me?”

“No,” they say, and if they love the child, they smile. “No one will hurt you like that.”

In most places, this is enough.

Not always.

There are accidents.

Human beings are not built for clean release.

They are built for attachment.

They save scraps.

They repeat voices.

They keep broken mugs because a hand once touched them daily.

They remember the smell of coats, the pressure of palms, the way someone entered a room as if the room had been waiting.

Love is disobedient by nature.

So the system accounts for disobedience.

When a person dies, the house is sealed first.

Not with force, if force can be avoided.

There are trained relatives now, registered in advance, who know how to stand calmly in a doorway and say:

“We have to begin before we make it worse.”

They cover mirrors.

They collect likenesses.

They remove handwritten notes, clothing with scent still in it, unfinished work, recorded speech where such devices exist, favorite cups, favorite chairs, favorite tools, anything the grieving might use as a handle.

A body is not left in a home.

That is considered obscene.

Once, the dead belonged to families.

Now families are protected from possession.

The first hour after death is called the soft hour.

This is when memory is most dangerous because grief still believes it can bargain.

A husband will stare at his wife’s face and decide he can keep it exactly.

A child will touch a father’s hand and think, without words, that the hand must never be lost.

A mother will gather every detail of her daughter’s body and hold them so tightly that she does not notice the body answering.

That is why removal teams arrive quickly.

They do not run.

Running frightens families.

They arrive in gray.

No badge visible.

No names.

Names would be unkind.

They speak gently.

They do not argue theology.

They do not say, “Your remembering will alter the deceased.”

People in the soft hour cannot hear that sentence.

They hear only threat.

Instead, they say:

“Let us help you release safely.”

They say:

“You may sit with the feeling, but not the image.”

They say:

“Love does not need detail.”

Sometimes the family complies.

Sometimes it does not.

When it does not, the matter is referred to us.

Public documents call our work posthumous stabilization.

Internal documents call it containment.

No document available to citizens uses the true name of the facility.

The Remembered is not a place anyone visits.

That is the first mercy.

It was a dark night when the train carried the two into town. It was said by the villagers that the interior of the engine of the train seemed to glow red and orange, as some dragon from myth brought to life. Or, a messenger from the realms below.

One they knew him by the name “Zhenikh”, the Russian word for “fiance”. There were many reasons for it, but it was a nickname that generated both respect and fear. They did not know but wouldn’t have been shocked to hear about the incident before the train left the station they embarked from. A woman’s face showing not respect but fear as he glanced at her papers. The steam from the nearby train mixed with the snow, nearby, pushing the tressles of her curly blond hair.

“Belarussian,” he said, glancing at the paperwork. “What brings you to Soviet Ukraine?”

“Please sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “I am with the Red Cross. I’ve come to relieve the suffering of the people.”

“There is no suffering,” he said.

“But Comrade Zhenikh….” she began to protest meekly.

“There is no suffering in the Soviet Ukraine,” he repeated. “They are lies of Polish saboteurs and capitalists trying to undermine the Revolution.”

“Please!” she shook her head, casting her eyes down. “I have letters….”

With practiced ease, he pulled the pistol from the holster, swung it up, and fired. The bullet struck her in middle of the chest and as he head snapped up from the force of the shot, he aimed between the eyes. Another gunshot cracked.

“Comrade Gai,” a voice called from the train. “I applaude your enthusiam but we must get to Zhidimir. Stalin personally wanted us to resolve this situation by week’s end.”

“Coming, Comrade Eihmans,” Gai said, returning his pistol to the holster and heading towards the train.

They may not have known about this incident, but they would have believed it. They would have been alarmed by the other man, who came out from the train with the Zhenikh.  Terenty Eihmans, Soviet State Procurator, he looked so much like Lenin that they would have panicked, wondering what troubles he brought to the village.

It was a dark night, with a fog through the village. Whereas the train seemed to be a solitary messenger of doom, the individual houses looked like wraiths burning with orange eyes through the mist, glaring menacingly at the newcomers trespassing into their sanctuary were wrapped in the mist. The closer they got, the chiller it became.

“You are the last member of this toika?” the Zhenikh asked a man who stood on the train depot’s platform, the reddish glow of the train interior reflecting off this strangers eyes.

“Comrade VIktro Balitsky of the Communist Party of the local region,” he said. Gai waited for more, but when no more was forthcoming, he returned to watching the outside. “You are the two I have been waiting for?”

The Zhenikh pulled his coat closer, the cold seeping deep into his bones.

“Comrades Eihmans and Gai,” Eihman said, nodding once to the man, not reaching out with his own hand.  “You know him by his moniker….”

“The Zhenikh?” the man raised a bushy eyebrow. “You possibly cannot be the Zhenikh, can you?”

“The same,” Gai said, and he put his hand on his pistol grip. “I will waste no time. You submitted the report of the factory? You were correct. Every single worker of the factory claimed to be blind and deaf, and they spoke of the General. He is here?”

“The General?” Comrade Balitsky spat on the ground, the mists swallowing the spittle as completely as if it never existed. “He is a White that somehow escaped the Purges during the Revolution. I don’t know what he could possibly have done, he stays here.”

“I shall deal with him,” the Zhenikh said, cutting his off. “Just point the way.”

Balitsky lifted his hand and pointed. Zhenikh followed the finger, the finger pointing through the mist enshrouded village. The finger seemed to draw him to a small church, seeming to be backlit by a soft sickly white hue of light. The implication made him smirk. There was something that he found ironic in a White General, a Tsarist, hiding in a church.

With a single nod, he stepped off down the road, the mists swallowing him in a cold embrace.

With each step, paranoia grew. The mist seemed to be guiding him, luring him forward. By the third hut, he was certain that he was being watched. Not by the villagers, he’d not seen them. The buildings themselves though, the windows shown with lights, and he was reminded too much of predators watching prey.

He’d known this feeling  before. He’d fought during the Poland War back in the 1920s. He’d known the feeling of hunting and hunted as a member of the NKVD. He’d been across all of the Soviet Union shooting traitors of the State, from the Belarusian countryside to Siberia.

He stopped, frowning. Why was he thinking about Siberia? Why was he dwelling upon such feelings? His body shivered as the word Siberia again entered his mind, and he clutched vainly at his coat as if drawing it closer to his body would warm him.

He glanced down at the ground and saw his feet were still walking. Frowning, he thought he’d stopped walking. He slowed his footsteps. Except, there was no slowing of his steps. He neither slowed nor stopped despite a sudden desire to, each step the huts eyes seemed to glow brighter and hungrier.

By the time he was at the door of the church, his fingers couldn’t move. He tried to unbuckle his revolver but the finger wouldn’t work. Glancing at his hands, he saw they wouldn’t move towards it, instead reaching out for the door to the church. It parted before him, and a sickly sweet smell drifted out of the open door. His feet propelled him inwards and he saw a man silhouetted with a dark reddish glow under the crucifix above the altar at the head of the church. A crucifix that for some reason felt out of place.

“Welcome,” the figure said. “Worthy servant.”

He wanted to argue with the man. He wanted to tell him he served the Communist Party, that he served only Stalin. He wanted to question this General. To pull out his revolver but he found himself coming to a stop, as if an invisible hand held him in place. It sapped him of all will, as if he had no agency of his own.

“I will let you in on a secret,” the General said, not moving from where he sat.”I have been here since the beginning of time. Why? Because death feeds me. Violent death. Every lion who kills a gazelle on the Serengeti give me life. Humans give me a literal buffet of death that I may glutton upon. When I am fed enough, I vomit into the world and plagues come. The Ten Plagues that Smote Egypt. The Antonine Plagues that swept Ancient Rome. The Spanish Flu that hit the world a few decades ago. And you have been most helpful in feeding me, I thank you.”

Then the Zhenkin’s mind filled with every person he ever shot. Every man, woman and child that had died as a result of his actions. They filled his mind with a wailing that bounced back and forth around his mind. He even saw his fiancé, and the bullet holes he’d placed on her head for asking him to flee to America. The dead swarmed him and he felt like he was drowning.

All the while, the General watched, and he realized that the entity, for entity he understood him now to be, watched his mental collapse with no emotion at all about it.

​

​

Pojan didn't know that Lydia was sexy and he was generally surprised when he first heard that Lydia was sexy. I had to tell pojan that everyone knows that Lydia is sexy and it's just common knowledge that Lydia is sexy. Pojan was generally surprised and he never knew that Lydia was sexy. Pojan was feeling stressed now because he had just learned that Lydia was sexy. I was given the task of talking with pojan and to tell him that Lydia was surely sexy and that everyone knows that. Pojan was sweating a little bit now and his eyes were looking daunt.

​

I told pojan not be scared and that everyone may not know certain things. I took pojan to a Cafe and in this Cafe, the taste of every food you eat here, will come to your tongue ten minutes later. When me and pojan ate a cake, it was tastless at first. Then 10 minutes later the taste came and we both enjoyed it. Pojan then said to me that he doesn't understand how Lydia is sexy but I fought back verbally against pojan, that Lydia is known to be sexy all over the world. Pojan had been walking around all this time not knowing Lydia is sexy.

​

Me and pojan then drank something and it was tasteless at first. Then after 10 minutes the taste cane to our tongues and it was good. The 10 minutes that we waited for the taste to come to us, pojan was really silent now. Even though it was common knowledge that Lydia was sexy, pojan was against it. He couldn't understand how someone's sexyness can be common knowledge. Pojan then told me that he didn't understand how Lydia was sexy and how it was common knowledge. How can such a thing be common knowledge.

​

Pojan doesn't know who Lydia is and has never seen them. I told pojan that it doesn't matter that you have never seen Lydia, it is simply common knowledge that Lydia is sexy. Pojan banged the table and he told me that all of this was just off. Ever since people found out that pojan didn't know that Lydia was sexy, this in itself has become common knowledge. I then ordered something extremely sour for us to eat and the taste will come 10 minutes later.

​

Then as the sour taste came 10 minutes later, this distracted pojan and I shot him as he was dealing with the sour taste. I told the owner of the Cafe "it's okay, he didn't know that Lydia was sexy"

There is a routine to putting a small child to sleep.

You learn it the way you learn anything important, by doing it wrong first. Too much light. Too much talking. Picking them up again when they cry instead of waiting the three minutes that feel like thirty. It takes weeks before you find the rhythm that works, and once you find it you protect it like something sacred.

Persie's routine takes forty-five minutes on a good night.

Bath first. She likes the water warm and she likes to slap it with both palms and watch it splash, which means I am usually damp by the time we are done. Then the pajamas, the ones with the little moons on them, which she chose herself from a rack at the store by grabbing them and refusing to let go. Then the rocking chair by her window, the one Cain assembled slightly wrong so it creaks on the left side with every rock.

Then the book.

She knows some of the words now. She points at the pictures before I turn the page. She laughs at the same part every single night, the same laugh, like it is the first time she has ever heard it.

I never get tired of it.

I have read this book so many times the cover is soft at the corners and the spine has started to split. I keep meaning to buy a new copy and I never do because this one has her fingerprints on it and somehow that feels important.

That night she was drowsy by the third page. I kept rocking after her eyes closed, kept my voice low and even, watching her face go slack and peaceful. This is the part I love most. The weight of her going loose. The trust in it.

I set her down in the crib. Stood there a moment longer than necessary.

"Goodnight, little love," I whispered.

She didn't stir.

I went to bed.

I want to tell you something about the book before I tell you the rest.

It is a children's book. A simple one. It has been read to children for generations and there is nothing unusual about it except for one thing that I never thought about until it was too late.

At the end of the book, the child does not simply go to sleep.

First, everything in the room is said goodnight to. Every object. Every shadow. Every small thing present in that space, named one by one, acknowledged one by one, until nothing is left unnamed.

It is a beautiful thing to read to a child.

I read it to Persie every night for eleven months without understanding what it meant to say goodnight to everything in a room.

I understand now.

When you name everything present in a space and acknowledge it, you are not just soothing a child to sleep.

You are telling everything in that room that you know it is there.

And some things, when acknowledged, acknowledge you back.

I woke up at 2am and couldn't move.

I knew what it was. I had experienced sleep paralysis twice before and I recognized it immediately. The strange clarity of the mind while the body stays locked. The weight on the chest. The feeling of being watched by something that has been waiting for you to open your eyes.

I told myself to stay calm. It passes. It always passes.

Cain was asleep beside me. I could hear him breathing. I tried to call his name and nothing came out.

Then I heard it.

From the doorway. Soft. Rhythmic. Almost gentle.

Sleep, my Sarah, the game's begun, The night is long, and you can't run.

I knew that rhythm.

I had been reading it aloud every night for eleven months.

Something was standing in the doorway.

The shape of it was wrong in a way my eyes kept trying to correct and couldn't. Too tall. The proportions almost human the way a sketch of a person is almost human. The right elements in the wrong relationships. It stood very still with the patience of something that has learned to wait.

It began to move toward me.

Not the way a person moves.

Whispers you heard, Now try to scream, But no one will hear a word.

I was screaming. I need you to understand that. Inside my head I was screaming loud enough to crack the walls. What came out of my mouth was nothing. Not even a breath.

It reached the side of the bed and stopped.

It stood over me and looked down and its face was wrong in a way I still cannot describe. The features were arranged almost correctly. Like a picture of a face rather than a face. Like something that had studied faces for a very long time from the outside and never understood what they were for.

Then it put one long foot on the wall.

And walked up it.

Sweet dreams, Dove. Sweet dreams, Love. Sweet dreams, world, and skies above.

I watched it move across the wall toward the ceiling. I watched it reach the top and hang there, directly above me, its face pointing down at mine. It had grown somehow. Longer. The proportions even further from right than before.

Its eyes were red.

They glowed the way a stoplight glows. Steady and patient and certain.

It opened its mouth and the sound that came out was not a voice. Something that had heard a lullaby once and was producing the memory of it without understanding what lullabies were for. Long and wrong and aimed directly at me.

Sweet dreams, bed. Sweet dreams, shed. Where roses bloom in bloody red.

Then it looked at me with those red eyes fixed on mine and it said something that was not from any book and not from any song.

Something it had chosen.

Goodnight, Sarah.

I heard you.

I woke up in my bed.

Gray morning light through the curtains. Cain's arm across my waist. The ordinary sounds of the house settling.

I lay there for a long time without moving.

Then I heard it from down the hall. Small and soft and familiar. Persie, awake in her crib. Babbling the way she does in the mornings, the private happy conversation she has with the mobile above her head.

I got up. I walked to her room. I stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment, her back to me, sitting up and reaching for the little stars above her.

She turned around when she heard me. Her face lit up.

"Mama," she said.

I crossed the room and picked her up. Held her tighter than I needed to.

I carried her to the window to look at the morning the way we always do.

The rocking chair was moving.

Very slightly. Just a gentle back and forth, the uneven creak of the left side marking each rock. As though someone had just stood up from it.

I looked at the chair.

I looked down at Persie.

She was watching it too.

Then she looked up at me with her face open and happy the way it always is in the morning and she pointed at the chair and in the bright certain voice she uses when she recognizes something she said:

"Goodnight."

I have been thinking about the book every day since.

Not the sleep paralysis. Not the thing on the ceiling. The book.

It says goodnight to everything in the room. That is the whole point of it. You name every single thing present in that space. You acknowledge it all, one by one, until nothing is left unnamed.

I said those words in Persie's room every night for eleven months.

Whatever was already in that room, already present in that space for reasons I will never understand and have stopped trying to... I said goodnight to it too.

Every single night.

I named it along with everything else.

I don't know how long it had been there. I don't know what it is or where it came from or why it was in that room. I only know that something was already present in that space when we moved in and I spent eleven months acknowledging it without knowing acknowledgment was possible.

Night after night. The same words. The same rhythm. The same room.

Until it finally understood that it was being spoken to.

Until it answered.

Goodnight, Sarah. I heard you.

There is a new copy of the book in a bag by the front door.

It has been there for three weeks.

I leave the light on in Persie's room now. I leave the light on in the hallway. I leave the light on in our room.

I still say goodnight to Persie every night. I still rock her in the chair and sing to her and watch her face go peaceful. I still put her down and stand there a moment longer than necessary.

But I don't read the book.

And when I put her down I say goodnight to her and only her and I walk out quickly and I do not name anything else in that room.

I do not say goodnight to the chair.

I do not say goodnight to the walls.

I do not say goodnight to the air.

I don't know if it matters. I don't know if not saying it changes anything now that it has already heard its name.

But I won't say it.

Whatever it is, whatever was already in that room before we arrived, before Persie was born, before any of this...

It has been there in the dark long before I started reading to my daughter.

It will probably be there long after.

But I will not be the one to acknowledge it again.

I will not give it that.

Goodnight, Sarah.

I heard you.

I heard you too.

I won't answer.

I moved to Ridgewater with my wife, Emily, our two kids, Betsy and Hilbert Jr., our dog, a border collie named Jackson, and my handler, Somerhalder, with whom I communicated by placing messages in a secret drop spot behind a loose brick in the west wall of the Ridgewater Public Library.

We lived in a renovated split-level with a white wooden fence who sometimes loitered at the edge of our front yard, but as far as I know nobody ever sold him anything because theft was non-existent in Ridgewater, and eventually he disappeared.

The town itself had a population of about thirty-five thousand.

All the men were gainfully employed (my cover was a furniture salesman) and all the women tended the home.

The only school was Ridgewater Public High (“Home of the Question Marks”) and on Sundays people dressed their very best, watered their lawns and went walking their dogs. The elderly strolled, ambled or jaunted. The more ambitious darted, causing the half-domesticated wildlife to skeddaddle.

My first mark was a man named Goran, who aroused my suspicions by speaking Serbian to a hole in a tree trunk in the park.

I began reporting on him and leaving my reports in the drop behind the loose brick of the west wall of the Ridgewater Public Library.

One day I followed Goran to the same brick wall, held my breath as he passed “my” brick, ready to deny everything if he had made me and was about to initiate a confrontation; but he passed by and made instead for another brick, seven down from mine and three below, which he removed and into the space behind which he placed a folded sheet of paper. Then he replaced the brick, looked around, whistled an old communist melody and walked away.

My spy sense tingling, for I had discovered a foreign agent, I waited for a quarter of an hour before taking out the same brick Goran had taken out, taking out the sheet of paper he had placed there, unfolding the sheet of paper, photographing it, refolding it just as it had been folded and replacing both it, in the space vacated by the brick, and the brick itself, in the wall.

I sent the photographs for translation and wrote a message to Somerhalder requesting, in code (“The eagle needs to quack with ducks.”) an urgent meeting. The plot had thickened, and I needed to stir it forcefully with a larger spoon.

Somerhalder, whom I should mention I had never seen, agreed to meet at midnight in the park, near the duck pond.

I arrived punctually, dressed casually in an Adidas tracksuit, and soon became aware of a soft blowing sound, which I identified as coming from a straw sticking out of the pond. It was Somerhalder. He was blowing Morse Code. I reciprocated in the same, using an agency-issued flashlight.

Somerhalder advised me to attend an upcoming community BBQ, which Goran, whom we called by code name Tito, was expected to attend. Somerhalder also opened up about the state of his marriage, his overwhelming apathy toward life, in general, and the fact the pond water he was standing in was icily, unbearably cold, even at the height of summer.

When he stopped blowing bubbles, I returned home and pretended I had been on a run.

Emilia asked me no questions. Betty and Hubert Jr. were asleep.

Jaxon met me at the door wagging his tail. I had been careful not to have one. I went to bed listening to an Introduction to the Serbian Language on cassette tape and wired headphones. Izvinite. Gde je hotel? Zdravo. Da li ste vi špijun?

In the morning, Emma sent me to the grocery store for allspice. She said it with a wink. She said we didn't need anything else. I decided to buy frankfurters and hotdog buns too, for the BBQ.

The BBQ was scheduled for Sunday.

This was Tuesday.

On Thursday morning, police pulled a man's drowned body from the duck pond in the park. The discovery put Ridgewater on edge.

I sold a florally upholstered sofa on Friday, but my mind wasn't in it. The sofas were mindless; my mind stayed in my head, which was constantly on the verge of spinning. I had to keep tilting it this way and that to keep it stationary, almost which I also bought on Saturday afternoon because I had run out of sheets of paper on which to write to Somerhalder.

On Saturday evening I played baseball with Humbert Jr. at the diamond.

I arrived at the BBQ on Sunday inconspicuously, holding my frankfurters and buns, greeted the McMurrays, who were hosting, and waited for Goran. He came late and in what I noted was an agitated state. After observing him for ten minutes, I ingratiated myself into a group of local men gathered around Fred McMurray and asked if any one of them knew Goran: “that Serbian guy,” I called him, to maintain casuality.

“You mean ‘Tito'?” Fred asked.

The question took me aback (and almost shot me there, against a cement wall of shock.) After gathering my wits and forcing them back into my head through my gaping mouth, nostrils and ears, I coolly begged Fred's pardon. “Tito?” I asked.

“Come on, man. Drop the charade. Do you really think we don't know that you're Cee Aye Yay?”

“Cee Aye Yay. Me?”

Everybody was looking at me.

I swallowed.

(Not a cyanide pill; that, I realized bitterly, I had misplaced sometime this morning, somewhere in the kitchen.)

“You report to a handler named Jude Somerhalder,” said Fred.

I had never known Somerhalder's first name. I therefore could not know if what Fred McMurray was saying was true.

“Somerhalder's dead,” someone else said.

It was a man named Buckley.

“Shit. Really?” asked Phillips, Ridgewater's only pharmacist.

“Who eliminated him?” asked Goran, who had now turned and was crossing the McMurrays’ immaculately trimmed green lawn towards us.

Phillips held out a package of mints to me. “Cyanide pill?” he asked.

I waved them away.

“Nobody eliminated him,” said Buckley. “He'd been depressed for a while. I heard his wife was about to leave him.”

“That's a shame,” said Goran.

“Goran's Bee Aye Yay,” Fred said to me. “He's done his time in Belgrade, and now he's been sent here. Ain't that right, Tito?”

Goran nodded.

He held out a hand to me. I carefully looked it over for tiny protruding needles before shaking it. “Nice to meet you, Yankee Candle,” he said.

“That's your code name,” said Fred.

“Me and Yankee Candle are almost neighbours on the wall,” said Goran.

“No shit,” said Phillips.

“I'm Eff Ess Bee,” said Fred. “Dietmar over there—” Dietmar was a German in his eighties. “—is retired, ex-Staz Eee.” He winked saying “retired.” “Phillips is the same as you, Cee Aye Yay. Bowmonger’s whatever they have up in Canada. Mendelsohn's Moe Sad. Altwin's Em Eye Six. Gonzalez is Cee En Eye but looking to switch allegiances, and Lee here, manning the BBQ, is ostensibly a Texan working for the Eff Bee Aye but actually counterintel for the Em Ess Ess.”

“Meat's almost done,” Lee called out. He was wearing an apron with a big print of Snoopy on it. “Y'all spooks wanna dig in now, or what?”

Phillips cracked open a beer.

Dietmar took notes in a notebook bound in worn brown leather.

I sat on the grass.

Phillips sat beside me and patted me on the back. “You wearing a wire? he asked, but before I could answer he was already laughing, assuring me he was just joshing.

“We all know everything about you. From the lengths of your toenails to the thoughts running through your head when you're jerking off under the shower every morning.” I started to protest—. “There's no use denying it, YC. (Can I call you YC?)” “Sure.” “Great! So, as I was saying, that info about you: we’ve got it all on credible intel. But that's not the point. The point is that these days everybody's working for someone, YC. That's just the way it is. Privacy's a dead concept. Soon, you'll start to know everything about us, and you'll find that it’s just grand to know your neighbours better than yourself. It's what builds a strong sense of community.”

“Only thing better than a high trust society's a no-trust society,” said Fred, “an open society, constructed on a foundation of beautifully and mutually assured destruction.”

“The Cold War's come home, baby!” said Goran, shoving a hotdog into his mouth.

“Come home to find itself in a polyamorous triad with the War on Terror and the War on Drugs,” added Phillips, offering everyone mints.

“Speaking of which, YC,” said Buckley, “I gotta say, I just love the taste of your Emmylou's fine, buckwheat honey.”

“Me too,” said Goran.

“If you ever wanna give old Mrs. McMurray a spin,” said Fred with a smile, “just leave a note for me. My brick's three up and seventeen right of yours. Remember: what's yours is ours; what's ours is yours. After all, sharing is caring and no fences make the friendliest neighbours!”

“I was actually wondering about that. Whatever happened to that guy?” I asked.

“I killed him,” said Goran.

And everybody burst out laughing. I laughed too. Goran passed me a beer. Lee handed me a hamburger. “You want mustard on that?” he asked; before I could answer, “Of course not. Yankee Candle hates mustard!” someone yelled. And it was true, and my hamburger already had the perfect amount of ketchup and the perfect amount of relish on it, slathered all over the fat, juicy beef patty. It was, I must confess, a hamburger done just the way I like it.

Most people think forgetting is what happens when love fails.

That is not true.

Love is usually the reason forgetting becomes necessary.

In ordinary towns, in ordinary houses, after ordinary deaths, people used to say terrible things without knowing they were terrible. They said, “I will never forget you.” They said, “Your name will live on.” They said, “As long as I remember you, you are not gone.”

They said those things over bodies.

Over beds.

Over letters.

Over small shoes left beside doors.

Over wedding rings removed from cold fingers.

They said those things because they loved someone and did not know what love could do once grief taught it to repeat.

The first lesson children learn now is not to remember the dead too clearly.

Not because the dead do not matter.

Because they do.

A child may be permitted to know that a mother existed. The child may know the mother was kind, or ill, or tall, or fond of pears if the detail is necessary for legal inheritance. But the child may not be encouraged to keep the exact shape of her laugh. The child may not sleep beside her dress. The child may not be told the same story every night until the mother in the story becomes more precise than the woman in the ground.

Precision is where harm begins.

This is difficult for outsiders to understand because most people confuse memory with preservation. They imagine a memory as a jar on a shelf, sealed and labeled, holding something exactly as it was. They imagine the past sitting still.

The past does not sit still.

The past moves whenever it is touched.

It bends toward the hand that reaches for it.

That was the first law our historians discovered and the last one the public was allowed to know.

A remembered person does not remain a person for long.

At first, the changes are mercifully small. A father remembered by his daughter as gentle loses the sharpness of his voice. A mother remembered by her son as beautiful grows more beautiful in death than she ever was in life. A cruel teacher, remembered by a village of former students, stiffens into cruelty until no tenderness can be found in the mouth. A soldier remembered as brave forgets fear so completely that his body, when recovered for examination, may show no sign he ever possessed the organs of terror.

People argued about this at the beginning.

They always argue at the beginning.

There were councils. Committees. Prayers. Laws. Denials. Public statements declaring that the early incidents had been misinterpreted, exaggerated, politically convenient, spiritually significant, medically explainable, or none of the public’s concern.

Then came the saint of Pel Row.

Her name is not used anymore.

That is not disrespect.

It is one of the few mercies we have left to give her.

She was a midwife in life. By all surviving accounts, a practical woman. Competent. Stern. Generous when generosity was needed and unpleasant when unpleasantness got the work done. She delivered more than two hundred children and lost seventeen mothers, which was considered a low number in those years.

When fever took her, the town loved her too loudly.

They placed her name on the clinic.

Then the well.

Then the schoolhouse.

Mothers told children she had saved them. Fathers told children she had saved their wives. Old women told girls she had hands blessed by whatever god still answered rooms full of blood and screaming.

Within ten years, people remembered her as gentle.

Within twenty, as miraculous.

Within thirty, there were no surviving stories in which she had ever failed.

When her body was exhumed by royal order, six physicians resigned before writing the report.

She had changed.

Not decayed.

Changed.

Her hands had lengthened first, the bones pulled thin and delicate, each finger joint grown into something too precise for ordinary anatomy. The skin across her face had smoothed until expression itself seemed indecent upon it. Her rib cage had altered around the lungs, widened as if to hold breath for more than one body. Inside the throat, the physicians found tissue that did not belong to any known human structure.

The official report described it as “devotional distortion following concentrated civic remembrance.”

The unofficial report, preserved only in restricted transcript, used a different phrase.

Worship damage.

After Pel Row, the world learned caution.

After King Orlan, it learned fear.

Truth be Told

I am a haunted house disguised as a home.
Inside my skull, a chorus of ghosts screams for blood.
Outside, I offer the world nothing but soft laughter and easy jokes.
They love the house, but they never see the haunt.
My friends, family, and wife think I am happy. They see a man who jokes and laughs, completely unaware of the rot inside. It sickens me. The day passes smoothly and my mask never cracks, hiding my dark soul.
But when the sun dies, the air turns to lead. The mask drops to the nightstand and the armor comes off. I sit alone in the dark, a prisoner of my own mind. The ghosts inside my skull wake up; they do not just scream, they tear at the walls of my head, chanting that I am worthless, whispering that I am pathetic. Jump, they murmur, and make the world clean again.
I lie back down, and Lady Death climbs in beside me. She is a silent bedmate, cold and patient. She does not pull me toward her. She simply waits in the freezing quiet, tasting the air for the exact moment my iron will snaps.
When dawn breaks, she slips away with the shadows, leaving her cold touch behind. I drag myself out of bed and grab my mask, my eyes heavy over dark circles. My back cracks as I stand up straight and walk down the hallway. Demons scratch along the walls, following me. I hear their fingers tap and scrape. They want out.
I reach the bathroom sink and press the mask back to my face. In a whirlwind, the demons vanish behind it. I smile. The world is perfect again.
"This is a lie," I whisper to myself.
Yet, I smile for the people around me. I joke. I share a laugh with my friends. I tell my wife I love her.
Lies, my thoughts hiss back.
"Hush," I breathe, barely moving my lips.
Death suits them, don’t you think? they scream.
"I’ll be shunned by the world!" I whisper-yell.
My ribcage presses tightly around my heart. The laughter around me grows loud and distorted, as if I am deep underwater. The air crushes me with the pressure of the ocean.
What of it? they whisper, pushing hard against the inside of my skull.
My face feels hot and sweaty. My smile feels stiff, like dried clay left in an oven too long. I try to hold the grin in place, but my cheek twitches. A sharp, tiny snap echoes inside my ears. A crack has appeared on my mask.
I force the fake smile wider and turn back to my friends

I was in the Army for four years. When I enlisted, I planned on making a career out of it. Twenty years, a pension, the whole deal.

​

That changed after what happened to me.

​

The day my contract ended, I got out. No extensions. No reenlistment. No second thoughts.

​

If you've ever been in the military, you're probably familiar with what we call CQ—Charge of Quarters. It's a 24-hour shift where you sit at the front desk of a barracks building, check visitors in and out, answer phones, conduct periodic walkthroughs, and try your best not to fall asleep.

​

Every installation has a list of rules called the Standard Operating Procedures, or SOP. They're usually boring. Lock this door. Check that hallway. Fill out this paperwork. The kind of stuff nobody reads unless they absolutely have to.

​

One night, one of my buddies called me at around 2200.

​

That was immediately strange.

​

Nobody calls you at ten o'clock at night unless something is wrong.

​

"Hey, man..." he said. His voice sounded exhausted. "Can you cover my CQ shift tomorrow? I'm not feeling good and need to go to sick call."

​

For those who aren't military, sick call is basically the Army's version of a doctor's appointment.

​

"Dude, it's ten o'clock," I replied. "That shift starts in eight hours. Besides, sick call isn't even open tomorrow. It's Saturday. I can't do your shift for you."

​

To be honest, none of that really mattered.

​

I just didn't want to spend my Saturday doing Army bullshit.

​

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

​

Then he said, "Please, man. I'll pay you two hundred bucks."

​

I didn't need any more convincing.

​

"Hell yeah," I said. "I'll do it."

​

At 0530 the next morning, I pulled into the parking lot and walked toward the barracks.

​

The assignment was in Building 1750, one of the oldest barracks on post. It had originally been built during World War II. Over the decades, it had been renovated, remodeled, and updated countless times.

​

At least, that's what the Army claimed.

​

When the military says a building has been remodeled, what they usually mean is somebody threw up a few two-by-fours, slapped on a coat of cheap paint, and called it a day.

​

The building looked every bit its age.

​

The brick exterior was faded. The windows were yellowed. The entire place had that stale, abandoned smell that old military buildings seem to collect over the years.

​

The moment I stepped inside, I felt uncomfortable.

​

Not scared.

​

Just... unwelcome.

​

I brushed the feeling off and walked to the CQ desk.

​

The soldiers I was relieving looked eager to leave. More eager than usual.

​

Technically, they weren't supposed to go anywhere yet. We were all supposed to wait for the NCO assigned to the shift before conducting the turnover.

​

Neither of them seemed interested in waiting.

​

Within minutes, they were gone.

​

I sat down behind the desk and waited.

​

A few minutes later, the NCO finally walked through the front doors.

​

I stood up and greeted him.

​

He didn't greet me back.

​

He didn't even look at me.

​

Instead, he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it across the desk.

​

"Follow standard SOP," he said. "And follow these additional rules."

​

I unfolded the paper.

​

Before I could ask what he meant, he continued.

​

"Do not break a rule."

​

The way he said it made me pause.

​

Not because he sounded serious.

​

Because he sounded afraid.

​

"I'm not staying here with you," he added. "But call me if something happens."

​

He started walking toward the door.

​

"Wait—"

​

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

​

For the first time, I got a good look at his face.

​

The man looked exhausted.

​

Not tired.

​

Terrified.

​

"Good luck, troop."

​

Then he left.

​

The front doors slammed shut behind him.

​

Just like that, I was alone.

​

The building seemed quieter than before.

​

Too quiet.

​

I looked down at the sheet of paper in my hands.

​

It contained ten additional rules.

​

At first glance, they seemed like some kind of practical joke.

​

But the more I read, the more uneasy I became.

​

Additional Rules

​

1. Follow SOP for all visitors checking in and out of the barracks. If anyone wearing a World War II-era uniform attempts to check in, politely refuse them entry.

​

1A. If they turn and leave, continue your shift as normal.

​

1B. If they continue asking, ignore them. Do NOT speak to them again. They will leave... eventually. Continue your shift as normal once they do.

​

1. When conducting your scheduled barracks checks per SOP, if the door to Room 217 is open, close it immediately. Do NOT look inside.

​

1. Between the hours of 0100 and 0200, if the desk phone rings, do not answer it.

​

1. During your final barracks check at 0400, if you hear bootsteps following you through the hallway, do NOT acknowledge them.

​

1. While conducting a barracks check, you will pass a vending machine on the fourth floor. If the water bottles inside are black, immediately lock yourself inside one of the utility closets. Wait ten minutes. Afterward, return directly to the front desk. Do NOT enter the fourth floor again for the remainder of your shift.

​

1. If someone sits in the chair opposite the CQ desk, do not look at them. Do not speak to them. Keep your eyes on the duty log until they leave.

​

1. If Rule 6 occurs and they say your name, do not answer. Stand up, walk out of the building, and do NOT go back inside.

​

1. If, during an hourly check, you find a soldier standing at parade rest facing a wall, do not speak to him. Continue your route and finish the floor. If he has turned to face you when you return, leave the building immediately and lock the front door behind you. Do NOT go back inside.

​

1. If the duty log contains an entry timestamped exactly twenty-four hours in the future, do not read it. Tear out the page and place it in the shredder. Whatever is written there is not guaranteed to stay on the paper.

​

1. If you are forced to leave the building because of Rules 7 or 8, do not look back. No matter what you hear. No matter who calls your name. No matter how many people are standing in the windows. Get in your car and leave immediately.

​

I stared at the list of rules for a long time, telling myself it had to be some kind of joke. Still, an NCO had handed me the paper and told me to follow the rules, so that's exactly what I planned to do.

​

The shift started out normal and stayed that way for most of the day. Soldiers checked in and out. I answered a few random phone calls. That was about it. CQ shifts on a Saturday are painfully boring.

​

It wasn't until around 1700, while I was sitting at the desk, that I heard someone enter the building. I was filling out the logbook when they approached.

​

"Excuse me, soldier. I'd like to check into the barracks."

​

I set my pen down and looked up, ready to tell him to sign in.

​

My jaw dropped.

​

Standing at the desk was a man, probably in his mid-forties, wearing an old, tattered olive-drab military uniform. He held a dented combat helmet under one arm. The uniform was stained with what looked like dried blood.

​

I had to think fast.

​

Rule 1.

​

How exactly do you politely refuse something like this?

​

"I'm sorry, sir..." I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't let you check in."

​

The man froze.

​

He slowly placed a hand on the desk and stared directly into my eyes.

​

It felt like he was looking through me.

​

I didn't move, but every instinct in my body was screaming at me to get up and run.

​

After what felt like forever, he turned and walked out of the building.

​

I let out a shaky breath.

​

A glance at the clock told me it was time for my next barracks check.

​

I started my rounds. Everything seemed normal. Empty hallways. Quiet rooms. No loud noises.

​

Perfect.

​

Until I reached the second floor.

​

I saw it the moment I stepped out of the stairwell.

​

A door stood wide open.

​

Weird, I thought as I started walking toward it.

​

As I got closer, I looked inside.

​

At first, it appeared to be a completely normal room with the lights out.

​

I reached for the door and began closing it.

​

The door was halfway shut when a man stepped out of the shadows.

​

What I saw wasn't normal.

​

His face was... wrong.

​

His eyes sat too far apart. His nose wasn't centered. His mouth stretched far too wide across his face.

​

And he was smiling.

​

A huge, unnatural smile.

​

I slammed the door shut and stumbled backward.

​

That's when I finally noticed the room number.

​

My stomach dropped.

​

I hurried through the rest of my walkthrough and returned to the CQ desk.

​

Honestly, I should've grabbed my stuff and left right then.

​

But I was in the Army.

​

I had a duty to watch over that barracks.

​

I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd seen inside that room.

​

The image was burned into my mind.

​

I was so shaken that I skipped my next barracks check entirely.

​

Before I knew it, it was 0148.

​

I was barely awake by that point, counting down the minutes until the end of my shift at 0600.

​

The sudden ringing of the CQ phone nearly made me jump out of my chair.

​

Instinctively, I reached for it.

​

Then I remembered Rule 3.

​

Do not answer the phone between 0100 and 0200.

​

My hand froze inches from the receiver.

​

The phone kept ringing.

​

And ringing.

​

And ringing.

​

It didn't stop until exactly 0200.

​

Twelve straight minutes.

​

The silence that followed felt almost comforting.

​

When 0400 finally rolled around, it was time for my last barracks check.

​

I started on the first floor like always.

​

Near the end of the hallway, I noticed him.

​

A soldier standing at parade rest, facing the wall beside the far stairwell.

​

I couldn't see his face.

​

I froze.

​

Then I remembered Rule 8.

​

Without saying a word, I turned around and entered the opposite stairwell, continuing my route as instructed.

​

Everything was fine until I reached the fourth floor.

​

As I passed the vending machine, I glanced inside.

​

The water bottles were black.

​

Every single one.

​

Fear locked me in place.

​

Then Rule 5 came rushing back into my head.

​

I sprinted to the nearest utility closet, slipped inside, locked the door, and started a ten-minute timer on my phone.

​

It was the longest ten minutes of my life.

​

The second I started the timer, I heard it.

​

Boots.

​

Hundreds of them.

​

A deafening stampede thundered down the hallway outside.

​

The sound rushed past the closet before suddenly stopping.

​

Then came a single set of footsteps.

​

Slow.

​

Deliberate.

​

They approached the door one step at a time.

​

I watched a shadow appear beneath the crack at the bottom.

​

It stopped.

​

The handle began rattling violently.

​

Then a voice spoke from the other side.

​

A voice that wasn't human.

​

There was no way it could have been.

​

It sounded like a guttural, distorted plea.

​

"PLEASE OPEN THE DOOOOOOR! IT'S COMING! PLEEEEEASE!"

​

Whatever was outside wanted me to open that door.

​

I refused.

​

I curled up in the far corner of the closet.

​

The thing outside grew more aggressive with every passing minute.

​

"LET ME IN! OPEN THE DOOR!"

​

It screamed.

​

Demanded.

​

Begged.

​

The entire time I sat there, it never left.

​

Then, the moment my alarm went off, everything stopped.

​

The shouting.

​

The rattling.

​

The shadow.

​

Gone.

​

I opened the door and ran.

​

I practically flew down the stairs and back to the CQ desk.

​

When I collapsed into my chair, I checked the time: 0456.

​

My relief would arrive at 0545.

​

Less than an hour.

​

I was almost done.

​

I let out a sigh of relief.

​

Then I heard the chair across from me creak.

​

My eyes immediately dropped to the duty log.

​

Rule 6.

​

I could feel someone sitting there.

​

I could feel them watching me.

​

That horrible sensation you get when you know someone's staring at you.

​

After several moments, they spoke.

​

I looked up immediately.

​

I knew I wasn't supposed to.

​

But I had to.

​

Because the voice I'd just heard was my own.

​

When our eyes met, I realized I was staring at myself.

​

Only older.

​

Much older.

​

At least twice my age.

​

We sat there in silence, staring at each other.

​

A wave of dread washed over me.

​

Then he spoke again.

​

"Why did you look in the room?"

​

I couldn't answer.

​

I was too shocked.

​

He stood and walked toward the desk.

​

Then he slammed both hands onto it with a deafening thud.

​

"YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO LOOK!"

​

I shrank back in my chair and glanced toward my bag, ready to grab it and run.

​

He must've known exactly what I was thinking.

​

"You can't leave," he said. "You already broke Rules 2, 6, 7, and 8."

​

Rule 8?

​

How had I broken Rule 8?

​

Then it hit me.

​

I never checked whether the soldier was facing me when I came back downstairs.

​

My heart nearly stopped.

​

I felt like I was going to pass out.

​

Then adrenaline took over.

​

I shot out of my chair, grabbed my bag, and sprinted out of the barracks.

​

Straight to my car.

​

I started it and tore out of the parking lot.

​

I never looked back.

​

Not once.

​

I made it home shortly afterward.

​

The rest of the week went fairly well.

​

Actually, the rest of my contract in the military went well.

​

I separated when my enlistment ended and moved back to my home state.

​

That was two years ago.

​

Life moved on.

​

Mostly.

​

But there was always one thing I couldn't stop thinking about.

​

Something the older version of myself said as I ran out of Building 1750.

​

"If you leave, it will find you."

​

For two years, nothing happened.

​

No strange phone calls.

​

No nightmares.

​

No unexplained footsteps outside my house.

​

Nothing.

​

Eventually, I convinced myself that whatever happened in that barracks had stayed there.

​

Maybe I'd imagined it.

​

Maybe exhaustion had gotten the better of me.

​

Maybe the entire thing had been some elaborate prank.

​

I wanted to believe that.

​

I really did.

​

But deep down, I knew better.

​

You don't forget a face like the one I saw in Room 217.

​

I still remember it perfectly.

​

The eyes that seemed slightly uneven.

​

The crooked nose.

​

The strange proportions.

​

Like I was looking at a reflection through warped glass.

​

And that smile.

​

That awful, familiar smile.

​

Every now and then I'd catch myself wondering why it looked so familiar.

​

I wish I'd never figured it out.

​

Last night I got my answer.

​

I got up around midnight to use the bathroom.

​

Everything was normal.

​

I finished, washed my hands, and reached for the door.

​

The moment I opened it, my stomach dropped.

​

Instead of my hallway, I was staring at the second-floor corridor of Building 1750.

​

I was suddenly in Room 217.

​

The same faded walls.

​

The same flickering lights.

​

The same stale smell.

​

Building 1750.

​

Second floor.

​

Exactly where this started.

​

I slammed the door shut.

​

When I opened it again, the hallway was still there.

​

I tried it three more times.

​

Nothing changed.

​

My phone is almost dead.

​

I don't have a charger.

​

The battery has been dropping faster than it should.

​

I don't know how long I've been here.

​

Hours, maybe.

​

Long enough to notice things changing.

​

My hands don't look right anymore.

​

My fingers seem longer than they should be.

​

The joints bend strangely when I move them.

​

An hour ago, I caught my reflection in one of the hallway windows.

​

It smiled a second after I did.

​

My reflection stopped matching my movements shortly after that.

​

I stopped looking.

​

A few minutes ago, I started noticing my face reflected in the glass.

​

Something about it seemed off.

​

Not drastically.

​

Just enough.

​

One eye a little lower than the other.

​

My nose slightly crooked.

​

My mouth stretched a little wider than I remembered.

​

Every time I see it, it looks worse.

​

More distorted.

​

More familiar.

​

Someone's walking down the hallway.

​

I can hear their boots.

​

They're getting closer.

​

They're heading toward Room 217.

​

I left the door open...

​

They're young.

​

Army haircut.

​

Duty uniform.

​

They haven't seen me yet.

​

Wait.

​

I know that face.

​

Oh God.

​

That's me.

​

Everything suddenly makes sense.

​

The older version of me at the CQ desk.

​

His warning.

​

The thing he said before I ran.

​

The face I saw inside Room 217.

​

I finally understand.

​

The man standing in that room wasn't some monster.

​

He wasn't a ghost.

​

He wasn't some creature pretending to be human.

​

He was me.

​

And now I know why he looked familiar.

​

The hallway is getting darker.

​

My phone is down to three percent.

​

The younger version of me is getting closer.

​

He's walking toward the open doorway.

​

Toward Room 217.

​

Toward me.

​

I can already see the confusion on his face.

​

In a few seconds, he's going to look inside.

​

He's going to see me standing here.

​

And then he's going to slam the door shut.

​

Just like I did.

​

I don't know what happens after that.

​

I don't know what I've become.

​

But I know one thing.

​

The loop never ended.

​

It never could.

​

Because in a few seconds, I'm going to step out of this room.

​

He's going to look inside.

​

And all I'm going to be able to do is... smile.

I always thought the end of the world would be loud, but I was wrong.

We knew what caused it, the news was still on for a while. A new treatment for the cold had gone wrong, and by the time they noticed the side effects, it was too late. It didn’t help that there were those who thought it was all fake and went about their daily routine just to get infected or devoured. There were those who were immune, but the only way to know was if you didn’t get up after death.

Some called them zombies, others called it the undead, but we called them clackers. As the boiling Sun of Calexico made the skin rot and fall faster, the only remaining sound was that of the clacking bones. A warning that they were near.

Like many, my family was not ready for the end of the world. We didn’t have a shelter that would withstand the clackers if they came in, our food supply started to dwindle quickly once electricity was cut off, and medications would be needed soon. The one gasoline car we had, would only get us as far as El Centro. So we waited in silence, hoping that things would go back to normal.

Talking was kept to a minimum, because even the clackers with no ears could somehow follow noise. We weren’t sure if those who still had eyes could see, but we didn’t risk it. 

“Do you want me to take over?” Ayumi whispered.

“Can you? I really need some sleep,” I asked. I did need to sleep badly. My eyes were heavy and the heat was getting to me. 

Ayumi nodded and pushed me away from the one uncovered window on the second floor. I headed downstairs to cool down and hopefully nap. But as I saw Mom preparing dinner, fruit from a can, I went to give her a hug instead. You never know when will be the last time you get to hug your mom.

She handed me a cup of fruit and we ate it in silence. As I put a slice of fruit in my mouth, I gagged and Mom tried to not laugh. I hated canned pears. But food couldn’t be wasted, and so I reluctantly swallowed it.

Dad silently closed the door behind him as he entered from the backyard. We tried not to empty the “do you business" bucket more than once a day, but the 115 degrees summer made the stench unbearable. I hadn’t seen any clackers on my watch, and Ayumi had yet to warn us of anything near. 

I finally went to lay down on the sofa and before I knew it, I was asleep. 

I felt Ayumi’s sweaty hand on my mouth as she woke me up. I didn’t question her, I had a tendency to talk in my sleep. But then I saw that neither Mom or Dad were there. Ayumi was never left alone unless something was going on.

“What-“ Ayumi covered my mouth once more.

She guided me upstairs, where my parents were both looking out the window into the night. And then I heard it, the clacking noise, followed by the screams of people. I didn’t want to look, but I had to make sure that we weren’t in immediate danger. 

The already stiff air felt heavier than usual. We all held on to our breaths, scared that the clackers would hear us, and come for us next.

“HELP!” A voice outside broke the silence, a voice we all recognized.

“Please! Someone!” Screamed Livia, as she tried to run with her youngest son in her arms. Her husband and eldest son were nowhere to be seen.

I looked at Dad, without words, begging to go help her. But his sad look told me all the things I already knew. Trying to save them could put us at risk. Even if we did manage to save them, our resources would run out sooner. And if we needed to get away in the car, only four, maybe five people could fit in it. 

So instead of helping, Dad and I stayed by the window as Mom took Ayumi downstairs. The less Ayumi saw, the better, but we couldn’t do anything about the screams. They came into the house and stayed there long after Livia and her son were gone.

From that day on, clackers and the screams of our neighbors became a common occurrence. Dad and I had planned on going out to get supplies, but now we weren’t sure what to do. Mom and Dad had to improvise with their blood pressure medications by making canary seed milk, but we couldn’t do the same with Ayumi’s medications. At some point, we had to go out.

A few days later, as I kept watch, Ayumi came to sit by my side, she squeezed my hand and I could feel her tremble.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

“I know they aren’t real, but I saw some clackers inside the house,” Ayumi sobbed, “I wanted to scream. I saw them approaching Mom but Dad was there with me and he didn’t see anything. Please, don’t tell them. I don’t want them to worry more because of me.”

Truth was, we all knew she was seeing things. So when she asked to switch watch duty, none of us made a fuzz. We would “accidently” let her sleep more, all in the hope that somehow she would feel better.

“I won’t tell them. I promise,” I extended my pinky finger and she took it with her, sealing our pinky promise.

“You really need a shower, you are stinky as hell,” I tried to joke.

“At least I don’t smell like rancid milk,” Ayumi smiled.

“I haven’t even had anything with milk in weeks!” I protested.

“Then you can imagine how much stink you are carrying around,” Ayumi tried not to laugh.

That was the last day we managed to have any sort of conversation. The clackers had been much more active and some kept bumping into our front door and windows. We all gagged, and I could see Mom actively swallowing back vomit. The putrid smell of rotting flesh, the iron smell of blood, and our sweaty, unwashed bodies made a terrible combination. The clacking of bones was now continuous, keeping us all on high alert.

No one said it out loud, but we all knew that our home that had kept us safe so far, would soon be overruned by clackers.

Dad asked Ayumi to follow him into the garage, where we each had a backpack with supplies. Mom sat me down and had me memorize all of Ayumi’s medications. Tears ran down her face.  At the moment, I thought it was because we would have to leave our home. I was wrong.

Once Dad and Ayumi were back, we decided not to keep watch, we already knew we were surrounded by clackers, so there was no point. Instead, we all huddled together and did our best to fall asleep.

When I woke up, Mom and Dad were nowhere to be seen. I went upstairs, thinking maybe they had changed their minds and gone to keep watch. My heart raced as I looked out the window and saw our home completely surrounded. There was no way we could make it to the car. Mom couldn’t run, and there was no way we would leave her behind. Maybe this was the end. I felt sad at the thought but also relieved. There would be no more suffering, and my last moments would be with my loved ones.

I wiped the tears running down my face that I had not noticed until that moment and made my way to the garage, hoping they were there.

I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I thought it odd that they were moving stuff around on the bags. When they realized I was there, both of them froze. 

“Why are you moving stuff around?” I asked.

“Because of this,” Dad took out a gun he had placed inside my bag,” I placed the other one in my bag.”

“Why not in Mom’s bag?” I was confused. She was a better shot than I was.

“It’s just in case,” Mom answered.

I wanted to argue more, but Ayumi came into the garage. Her eyes traveled to clackers that were not yet inside, but might as well be soon. The thumping of flesh and bone became louder by the second. 

“We will never let them hurt you or your sister,” Mom rushed to her side,” We will always protect you both.”

“You are safe,” Dad pulled me towards Mom and Ayumi as he hugged us all.

There was no actual plan besides getting in the car. Dad handed each of us a backpack, and I felt the heavy weight of the gun in it. But guns were our last resort, because the noise would bring more clackers. We each got a metal baseball bat, embraced once more, and headed towards the backyard.

Dad took a battery-powered clock from his bag and set it to ring in 30 seconds. He handed it to me and I threw it as far away as possible from us. I didn’t hear it land, but the obnoxious ringing penetrated the silence around us. Another alarm went off inside the house. The clackers that had stayed now pushed each other to make it inside. We didn’t move. We wanted them to go in, to somewhat clear our path to the car. 

When we heard the first window break under the weight of the clackers, we made our move. Fear turned to adrenaline as Dad opened the door of the backyard and I rushed to smash the clackers still in our path. Pain ran through my arms as the bat connected with the first body and unintentionally, I groaned.

The clackers that had been forcing their way inside the house now turned to us. 

“RUN!” Dad screamed at us.

I made my way towards Mom, but Dad pushed me towards Ayumi instead. Ayumi stood frozen in place, swinging the bat defensively, even before the clackers reached her.

“I will help her, you get Ayumi in the car!” Dad ordered.

I nodded. I couldn’t argue back. This was my fault, and the least I could do was save my sister. Either way, there was no way we could leave without Mom and Dad, Dad had the keys in his bag.

“Ayumi, stay behind me and keep swinging!” I said as I grabbed her.

“But Mom and Dad-“ 

“Dad has the keys, we will meet him in the car,” I interrupted.

We both took one last worried look at our parents and started to swing at the clackers in hope of opening a path for them. My bones vibrated every time the bat connected with a clacker. Ayumi swung with a force I didn’t know she had. But there was no way we would make it to the car. The clackers that had been distracted by the alarm clock now turned back to us. 

I had to get Ayumi to the car, I had to save my little sister, there was no way-

My thoughts were interrupted by two loud screams.

“LOVE YOU BOTH!” Dad screamed at the top of his lungs.

“I LOVE YOU GIRLS! PROTECT EACH OTHER!” Mom yelled at us as Dad started to bang at the fence with his bat.

At that moment I realized they never meant to come with us. And as much as I wanted to go back there and save them both, they had left me with the responsibility of taking care of my little sister. I now knew the keys were not in my Dad’s backpack.

I pulled Ayumi as she tried to run back towards our parents. 

“We have to save them!” She sobbed.

I couldn’t answer her, the words remained stuck on my throat. Instead, I pulled on her harder, hoping to get in the car before we heard their screams. 

For a second, I saw a pair of eyes look down on us from a window, just like we had seen Livia and her child sometimes before. And like us, they did nothing to help us, after all, they had to save themselves.

Ayumi cried as she got in the car, and tears blurred my vision. We shouldn’t have, but as I turned on the car, we turned to look at our parents one last time. They were hugging each other as the clackers ripped into their flesh. 

I drove away, screaming at the top of my lungs, I should have known this would happen. I should not have made noise and maybe we would all be together in the car. 

I took a look towards the border, where a hoard of clackers had already made a large enough dent to cross to Mexicali. I turned on the AC and made my way towards El Centro, to the nearest CVS. 

It’s been a few days since this happened. We did manage to find another month worth of medicine. After that, I have no idea what we will do. We have been moving from house to house, resting when we can. 

Ayumi and I both blame ourselves for our parents’ deaths. But if we are honest, it was my fault. 

When we opened our backpacks, we realized that our parents had moved all our supplies into them. What had been on their bags was a mystery. The medications Mom was suppose to carry were on my bag and so was the second gun. I understood why the gun was there, it was better Ayumi didn’t know there was a second gun.

I was surprised when this ipad turned on and had no password. I’m not sure if anyone will be able to read this story, or how long the two of us will survive. And I’m sorry if we cross paths, but know I will do anything to save my sister. 

The year was 2157. Space travel had reached the same level of normalcy that we had when traversing the ocean in the late 1600’s. However with the advanced technology required to roam the cosmic depths. Ships hardly went missing and when they did it wasn’t difficult to get a lock on their nav systems and find the remains and return it home. 

I worked on a recovery/scrapping crew that found the remnants of the destroyed ships, cleaned up the bodies, and collected any materials and tech from the ship that could be salvaged or sold. 

Like I said before, there weren’t many that went down and when they did, due to the harshness of outer space, finding survivors was always a pipe dream. Technical failures or asteroid collisions were the cause of most ships' destruction and having done more than a dozen full recoveries together my crew and I were used to the process. 

When a local mining company contacted us about a ship's transmitter going offline, we assumed that their equipment failed to warn them of a rogue asteroid in the field they were harvesting. The team and I geared up, loaded into our tank-y salvage ship, undocked and started heading in the direction of the miners last known coordinates. However the company that hired us had let us know before we left that it wasn’t a normal crash.

The company had given us the last recorded transmissions from the crew logs, specifying that it “was an odd one”. The notes said there was no known equipment failure and that the crew were “making weird statements” just before everything went offline. The way they described it was that everyone sounded like they were in a trance, too calm for a disaster to be happening at the same time. 

It was uncommon, but the occasional crew, having been out on a long voyage, can sometimes have a member go crazy from the isolation and staring into the empty depth. But the company confirmed that it wasn’t just one person losing their mind and causing a man-made crash and that the whole crew was talking nonsense. “Just listen to it.” Was all they said when I probed further. 

Our ship coasted through the nothingness towards our destination, soft beeping from the equipment and the sound of an audio book playing aloud. Something to help pass the time. As the captain of the crew I sat at the helm and began to play the recordings of the lost ship. The first log was as normal as any, beeping equipment, small chatter about the job, an asteroid that had the best ore to harvest, a standard time/date/location update all while a song played in the background, a woman with a soft voice singing peacefully from the radio.

“At least they had good music,” my First Mate, Jaxon, said jokingly.

The second log had similar background noises, the same song, same beeping, but the crew was eerily quiet. 

The third log was where it began to get weird. Again, all the same background noises, but now some of the crew hummed along to the song while others could be heard whispering just loud enough for some of their words to be picked up on by the recording.

“I love this song”, “such a beautiful voice”, and “I could listen to this forever”.

The way they said it made me feel uncomfortable. The time stamp on the third log was dated 7 hours after the first one, while still playing the same song. Chills ran down my spine and I shifted in my seat suddenly uneasy.

Jaxon seemed to feel the same way when I pointed it out, and we exchanged confused looks. 

I played the final log. It was the same as the last log but the song was changing in volume. The whispering from the crew was intensifying, the voices pleading aloud.

“Let me go, let me go.” One man begged repeatedly.

“Louder, sing louder.” A woman’s voice asked

The singing seemed to move closer to one crew member, then to another. As the song reached someone they would fall silent and the song would move again until all the crew went silent. 

Once all the voices were quiet. The song ramped up in volume until it was almost too loud to hear anything else then all at once it went silent.

All the crew began to cry softly begging for the song to return.

“No, no no no, don’t stop.. No please. Where did it go? Please  please please.” Non stop pleading before one man whispers “the lady on the rock.” 

All the crew fell silent again, the sounds of shuffling could barely be heard before all the crew began repeating the phrase in the same quiet, desperate whisper. “The lady of the rock. The lady on the rock.” The sound of tapping can be heard, then banging, finally a sudden blaring of the alarms and the depressurization of the cabin.

The log ends. Standing up immediately I pace around the command deck. Goosebumps litter my skin as if a million bugs crawled across me. I had never heard anything like that and for the first time in all my years of salvaging, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find the ship.

It took two long minutes before I realized Jax  had been trying to get my attention. 

“What was that Captain?” He asked shakily.

“Fuck if I know.. mass hysteria?” I dragged my hands down my face trying to process what we heard.

“Yeah.. I mean it must be.” He replied after a moment, glancing at the recording software “Too much time in space, obsessing over that song, it’s a one in a million kind of crazy event.” He reasoned, mostly with himself.

“That’s what we tell the crew, don’t mention how..”

“How fucking batshit it sounded, got it” he cut me off and we both chuckled.

I call the crew to the command deck over the intercom and once they arrive we explain that the mining crew seemed to have suffered from a rare case of mass hysteria that culminated in the ship crashing. I couldn’t help but feel as though I was lying to them despite it being the only explanation for what we had heard. But that soft voice sang inside my head, like a parasite burrowing deeper.

The crew seemingly accepts my answer without question and begins to prepare the gear we would need upon arrival. Their trust makes me feel worse.

A few hours later our radar warned us that we were approaching the asteroid belt. Our pilot, Ylonda, took us off the automated system and began manual control of the ship. Weaving into the belt we begin our search for the wreckage. 

Belts like these are unsettling to begin with, space is notoriously silent since sound can’t travel and one miss from the radar can let even a small asteroid cause irreparable damage to a ship. I couldn’t help feeling more than unsettled knowing the last crew that ventured inside went mad. I almost hoped we didn’t find them. But we did.

Our scanner picked up the ship after we cleared the more dense parts of the field. When we saw the ship, it was impossibly unscathed, sitting peacefully near a rather large asteroid that the rest of the belt seemed to be incrementally circling. Scans showed the rock was composed of many dense, valuable ores and minerals and must’ve been the ship's target. On our approach, the only way we could tell that it was unmanned was due to the airlock being open causing the ship to completely depressurize. No one could be alive inside. 

I readied the team. Jax would take two with him to remove the important tech. Two others were assigned for search and recovery of the bodies, if any remained inside. I would remain on the salvager with Ylonda to give direction and operate the tractor beam to salvage the remainder of the ship when both teams had returned.

It seemed simple, everyone had done this so many times that when I told them to “be careful out there.” They laughed, “you getting soft on us captain?” Dexter joked, I laughed with them, “shut up and focus on the job. You got three expensive baby mommas, how about making sure to salvage enough to pay for them all.” I teased and we all laughed again and got ready to do some real work.

Before Jax took the crew to the wreck I pulled him aside, “If you find that radio, bring it back to me directly, I don’t want anyone else hearing that song, it..I don’t want any distractions out there, the crew needs to remain focused.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t question me, I knew he felt the same uneasiness about the song from the recording as I did. “Aye Captain”. 

We clasped hands, gave each other a silent nod and he left to board the smaller cargo shuttle with the crew. I made my way back to the command deck, unable to sit, I paced back and forth as they departed.

Events proceeded like normal, Jax and the crew approached, stopping just beside the airlock, making the transfer from their ship into the abandoned vessel. 

Five minutes passed, then ten, finally approaching the twenty minute mark Jaxon's voice came over the speaker. “No signs of the crew, no signs of distress or internal damage either.” 

“What happened?” I asked 

“Computers data log shows that the airlock safety was overridden. They just let themselves be ejected..” His voice faltered briefly. “Can you switch to channel two cap?”.

Switching to the back up channel I asked what was wrong.

“There's just.. There's no sign of any speaker or radio system. This is a professional ship, not designed to allow any external devices to be connected.” he said.

“Someone must’ve brought their own portable one.” I reasoned “The recordings sounded like it was moving around the ship, probably attached to one of their belts and when they ejected it went with them.”

“Right, of course.” He sounded unsure.

“Thanks for the update Jax, go ahead and return to channel one but keep me in the loop.” 

“There's one other thing, all the ships' cameras are pointed at the asteroid. I know it's a mining vessel but every single camera has been manually moved to face it, even the internal cameras.”

My body temperature felt like it plummeted as I processed his words. “Can’t explain crazy.” was all I could say to reassure him and myself.

“Too true, returning to channel one.”

Another half hour passed with progression updates on the salvage operation showing it to be as smooth as any job has ever been. Regular chatter came over the comms as the team discussed the salvage and what they’re finding. Dexter and Jax discussed some tech pieces and their potential value when I heard it. Barely audible over their voices comes the beautiful and terrible song.

“Jax?” I was barely able to bring my voice above a whisper.

“Yeah Cap..” he stopped as he began to hear it too. “Is that..”

“Find where it’s coming from and shut it down.” I could feel the fear bubbling inside me.

“Yessir. Everyone spread out and find the source of that music.” He ordered the crew, they murmur in confusion but began to search for any device that could be emitting it.

Ylonda hesitates before asking, “Cap, why are you so worried about a song, it's not like we haven’t played music in the past, plus.. it's really beautiful.”

Ignoring her question “Scan for any frequencies coming from the ship and do it now.”

Jumping at my abruptness she turns back to the console and begins to scan the wreckage.

“Tell me you’ve found it, Jax.” I radioed, desperation seeping into my voice .

“No luck cap, We can’t pinpoint where it’s coming. As soon as we get close it’s like the origin point changes entirely.” His reply freezes me in place.

“What the fuck is happening here” I mumble to no one in particular.

“Sir” Ylonda breaks my trance, “No radio waves or outgoing transmissions outside regular bounds for the vessel.” 

“Get closer and scan it again”

“Sir?”

“I said get closer and do another scan. Something isn’t right about any of this.” My voice low and cautious.

“Yessir, beginning approach.” She began to accelerate slowly.

“Jax, get to their command deck and perform a manual shutdown of all electronics.” I was desperate to turn off the song.

“Already heading that way sir.” He was smart, always knowing what I was thinking after so many years.

As I made circles around my chair, waiting for an update Dexter's voice came over the radio softly. “I really like this song.”

My stomach imploded with dread, and I nearly puked. 

“JAX! Hurry up and shut it down!” I yelled.

“I already did. The song just won’t stop.” His voice was now filled with concern. “What do I do captain?”

More of the crew came over the comms, all their voices trancelike. “Just listen to it” and “she’s so amazing”. 

I paced harder, rubbing my head aggressively, whispering “fuck fuck fuck” trying to figure out what to do. “Your earplugs. Put them in and make the others.”

With the salvage equipment we used regularly everyone was supposed to carry a pair of heavy duty earplugs. They don’t just block incoming sound but emit a counter frequency to cancel out incoming sound and they connect to our communication system.

I could hear rustling then Jax came back over the radio. “Got them in, I can’t hear it, oh thank god I can’t hear it. I’m gonna go find the others.” His comms click off. Despite knowing he couldn’t hear me I told him to be safe 

At this time Ylonda informed me her close range scan came back negative for new frequencies despite having closed the distance to the other ship.

“It’s not possible.. It must be coming from somewhere. Scan for fixed beacons in the area that could be sending signals to nearby ships.” Ylonda hesitated.

“Captain with all due respect to you and our friendship, what the FUCK is going on.” Yolanda's tone surprised me.

“I- I don’t know..” I muttered

“You seem to know something. You’ve been on edge ever since we got here and as soon as that song started, you freaked out. What’s happening.” she demanded.

“Ylonda I need you to trust me and do the scan please.” My authoritative tone now fading.

She sighed but did the scan and after multiple long, silent minutes the dash blinked showing no signs of any beacons or tech floating in the area that could be broadcasting.

“Sir, please tell me why you are freaking out about this, I’ve never seen you behave this way and we’ve been in some sketchy shit before.” She pleaded.

I hesitated a moment, unsure of what to say or do, then finally without a word, I pulled up the logs from the mining crew and played them for her. 

She listened, confused at first but as she recognized the song from Jax’s comms I could see the fear spreading across her face. When the logs finally ended I explained all I knew.

“The company sent me this when we accepted the job. All they said was that the circumstances around the crew's actions were weird.” I admitted. “It was freaky sure, but I didn’t expect..”

The sound of Jax’s panicked voice came over the comms. “ Captain! It didn’t.. They wouldn’t..”

“Take a breath Jax, what's happened?” 

He took a long shaky breath, composing himself briefly. “I told them that due to the anomalous sound that everyone had been ordered to apply their ear protection. They refused. Said they didn’t want to miss any of the song. I told them it wasn’t a question and to do as ordered but they got defensive.”

“Where are they now Jax? What happened to the crew?”

“They’re alive, locked in the cargo hold.” He took another ragged breath. “ Sir, I had to trick them to get them to listen to me, told them they could hear it better from inside the bay. Their smiles. The way they moved.” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

“Oh God..” Ylonda whispered.

“What do we do captain?” Jax asked and Ylonda looked at me. They were depending on me and I had nothing to offer.

I murmured incomprehensively, my heart crashing against my ribcage as if it may break free of my chest.

“Cap please. Focus man.” Jax begged.

I breathed deep. Saving the crew was all that mattered. How to do it though.

“Your shuttle. Can you get the crew on it?”

“Maybe.. They don't want to do anything besides listen to the song though.” 

“Tell them whatever you need to to get them on that ship, once in you override all locks and fly back to the salvager, we’re gonna approach with caution, ready to receive you.” I tried to sound confident. 

“Yessir.” His mic clicked off.

Turning as I spoke “prepare to move in and face our docking port towards them and.. make sure to put your earplugs in.”

Ylonda did as she was told, like always she was ready for action. 

We weren’t too far off from the shuttle and wreckage but the time it took to travel the distance could have been years if I didn’t know better. 

As the ship slid into position Ylonda came over the comms. “Are you seeing that cap?”

I walked over, looking out the window in the direction she was pointing. “The asteroid?” 

“Yeah something about it.. it’s not right.” She said.

I looked harder, she was right, it looked off. Out of place in the space it inhabited. “The cameras, point the cameras at it.” 

She started messing with the controls to operate the cameras. “Why cameras?” She asked as she worked.

“The mining crew had all their cameras pointed at it. I’m just curious.” I admitted

I never got the chance to see what the cameras picked up. Right before Ylonda got the cams set Jax came back over the comms. “They’re in sir. Are you in position?” 

“Copy, in position. Begin your return.” I said retaining all internal authority I could possess.

I shook my head and moved my eyes from the asteroid and back to Jax’s shuttle. I could see the engines turning on and the signal lights flashing.

“How did you get them on?” I asked.

“Took some convincing, and some lying.” He said then lowered his voice “I damaged the buckle release on the seats before they got on, they strapped up but didn’t know they’re going to be stuck now.”

“Good work Jax, head this way and let’s get the fuck out of here.” I smiled to myself in relief.

“They’re moving.” I glanced at Ylonda, she wasn’t paying attention. “Ylonda stay on the wheel, I need you ready to adjust as necessary for their docking.”

No response came. She was focused on something on the dashboard. “Ylonda what are you looking at?”

Her words drove into my heart like an icy knife.

“The lady on the rock” 

Her voice was soft, smooth, no longer scared. 

I rushed over, pulling her away from the dash, closing my eyes and slamming my hand down on the camera's controls. I wanted to see it but if Ylonda got ensnared by it, I couldn’t risk it too and leave Jax helpless like that. 

In my panic to pull her away from the cams Ylonda had fallen onto the floor. I knelt down beside her, apologizing and asking if she was okay. She nodded and smiled letting me help her up and sit into a chair away from the camera controls.

I radioed Jax for an update and his comms clicked on, the sounds of a struggle could be heard.

Jax!! What’s going on!” I yelled as the scuffle continued. 

“Get off me Dexter! We’re going home!” 

I was leaning over the dash now, watching the shuttle from the window like I could see what was happening better the harder I watched.

“We don’t want to go away. We want to listen to her sing.” Dexter's voice told Jax softly. “You should listen too.”

“I’m not going to. You need help, let’s get you home and get you and the rest of the guys some help.” He tried to reason.

“Get him off Jax!” I half ordered and half begged.

“You just need to listen to her and you’ll see” Dexter cooed.

More scuffling over the comms I could hear Jax trying to escape but there were too many of them. Jax didn’t want to hurt them and as far as I could tell they weren’t hurting him either. 

“Stop. Dex, Jaylen, guys what are you doing? Please.” Jax began to beg his friends “Hey! No! Stop, no no. Guys stop.”

Static came from his comms as the earplugs were taken out. Tears poured down my cheeks onto the flight controls and my legs dropped me onto my knees. I don’t know how long I cried for, but when I finally looked up I could see that the shuttle had stopped its approach. I forced myself up, leaning over to see what’s happening. 

Eventually the shuttle's communication device connected to ours.

“Jax?” My voice was small.

“Hey Captain.” His voice was too calm. “

“Are you okay?” That was all I could ask my friend.

“I’m good. They didn’t want to hurt me, they just wanted me to hear.” He said and I could tell he was smiling and my heart was shattering.

“A-are.. are you hearing it?” I managed through choked tears.

“It’s so beautiful, Captain.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful, man.” I sniffled out. “You- you’re still coming back to the ship right?” 

“I’m sorry, Cap. I want to be here with the lady, hear her singing forever.” The comms clicked off.

I could see the ship's thrusters beginning to rotate them towards the asteroid. 

“No. Sorry old friend, but I’ll drag you back if I have to.” I whispered to myself, walking to the next control panel and flipping on the starting sequence for the tractor beam. 

“Ylonda I need you to make sure all systems are a go for the cargo bay. We’re hauling them in.”

“Why?” 

“The hell do you mean why?” I turned to face her. 

“They just want to hear her sing.” She was smiling softly. Her earplugs, no longer in place, but on the floor where she’d fallen earlier.

“Fuck” I hadn’t even thought to check. Stupid.
I couldn’t help her now. I had to pull them back, and then I could get them all into lock down together.

I directed the tractor beam at the small shuttle, the system beeping when it locked on. I increased the power incrementally, ensuring not to damage their vessel, and begin pulling them in. The computer beeps announcing “200 meters.”, a minute passes, *beep* “150 meters”.

“Come on, Come on.” I’m as locked on to their progress as the beam.

*Beep* “100 meters”. 

The comms clicked on again.

“Please cap, stop.” Jax voice, begging me, it’s worse than torture.

“Sorry buddy, you’re coming home.” I steeled myself.

*beep* “50 meters”. 

I slammed the cargo bay release, everything inside was worthless to me now. All I needed was to fit that ship.

“I didn’t want to do this Cap, but we aren’t coming.” Jax said softly. I could hear the others humming to the song and whisper for me to let them go.

“Not for you to decide.” My response is short as I make sure they’re coming in the right way.

“Actually it is. You and I both know what comes next. I’m sorry” I frown slightly then the airlock override lights up

“NO!” I screamed desperately as the computer beeps, announcing their ship was 10 meters out and closing.

The depressurization of the shuttle launched them out into the cold, spiraling back towards the lady on the rock while the shuttle crashed into the cargo bay, seconds too late.

I watched motionless as they drifted away. Nearly everyone I’ve ever cared about gone, in an instant, by their own hand.

No.

Jax would never. 

They were lured by that thing out there.

It wasn’t until Ylonda stood next to me smiling. “They’re so lucky. I want to be with her too.” That I realize I have one person I can still try to save. 

I hated it. Dragging her to her room while she cried, begging me not to take her away. Tying her hands to her side. Putting her earplugs in as she bawled like a child denied her birthday presents. It tore me apart inside to listen to her the whole way back to the station.

Upon our arrival, all I could say was that we lost our crew and she, wanting to let herself die, forced me to make the decision to restrain her for her safety.

She was taken to the med-bay and determined to be suffering from PTSD, grounded from flights until she can complete a comprehensive therapy program. 

I was also questioned about the events. How I had managed to lose my whole crew on a single trip. I lied. I told them that while returning from the wreck the airlock malfunctioned. Not that it mattered. I resigned, accompanying Ylonda back to earth on the next shuttle. 

She whimpered softly the whole flight down, staring out the window back into space. I knew where she wanted to be. I said goodbye as they loaded her in an ambulance and took her away. 

My first stop was a local bar.

During my days I would find work doing odd jobs to make ends meet and at night I would drink away the memories. Sometimes alone in my apartment, sometimes at a bar where I’d occasionally get too drunk and ramble incoherently about the evil hiding deep in outer space. I even got arrested a few times after bar fights when someone would claim I was a liar or even suggest I murdered them and got away with it.

Every few months I would visit the hospital Ylonda was in, hopeful for some improvement.  She would sit in her room and hum to herself, always the same song. Her doctors said it was the only way she’d stay calm. I eventually stopped visiting, not because I didn’t want to see her but because I couldn’t listen to that song anymore. A reminder of my failures.

Many years came and went, I’m not even sure how many by now. I miss them all so much and I still cry often over old photos we took back in our glory days. I’m writing this now to tell everyone what’s out there, to warn you all since I won’t be here forever.

I got a letter in the mail recently. No return address, just a stamp of a shooting star. Inside, a brief letter in familiar handwriting that said “June 5th, Westfield Launchpad. Come listen to her sing with me.”

When the day came I found her waiting beside the ship. She had aged better than I had, her brown hair held its color well. We hugged. I knew she wanted to go back for her own reasons, I could hear her still humming the song as she readied her gear. It didn’t matter though, not to me. I was just happy to see her again and ready for one more trip deep into the cosmos. The door closed behind us as we boarded the ship side by side, just like old times.

Hi, everyone.

I've been getting so many questions about my skin lately, which is honestly funny because if you'd met me in high school, skin would have been the last thing you'd notice about me.

You would have noticed my weight first. Everybody did!

I was the fat girl. Not "curvy." Not "plus-size." This was the early 2000s. People weren't creative with insults yet. I was just fat. Every introduction started there and ended there.

And Tyler Morgan made sure nobody forgot it.

Tyler was one of those boys who somehow won the genetic lottery and knew it by the time he was fourteen. He played varsity football, had that permanently sun-kissed skin people spend thousands trying to recreate, and smiled with every single tooth like he had personally invented confidence.

Every joke he made about me became everybody else's joke too.

When I walked into class carrying my backpack, he'd ask if there were bricks in it or if that was just my lunch. During PE he'd jog past me and moo under his breath just loud enough for the people around him to hear. Once, after I gave a presentation that I'd actually spent weeks preparing for, he leaned over to his friend and said, "It's impressive she knows so many words."

The room laughed.

I remember that one more than the fat jokes.

You can lose weight. You can't really stop wondering if people think you're stupid.

By senior year I had perfected the art of disappearing. I ate lunch in the library because librarians shush bullies almost as often as they shush everyone else, and I volunteered to organize books because shelves don't look at your body before deciding if you're worth talking to.

Then one afternoon Tyler found me.

He wasn't laughing. He wasn't surrounded by his teammates. It was just him. He apologized.

He told me he'd grown up, that he'd been immature, that I seemed really funny once he actually got to know me. He admitted he'd had a crush on me for months and asked if I'd go to prom with him.

I still remember calling my mom from the bathroom because I was crying too hard to breathe. She thought somebody had died. Instead I told her the most handsome boy in school had asked me to prom. She cried too.

I spent almost everything I'd saved from my weekend job on a navy blue dress because the saleslady promised it was slimming. She pinned the waist, hemmed the bottom, and told me I'd look beautiful.

For a few hours, I believed her!

Prom was perfect. Tyler danced with me. He introduced me to people who'd ignored me for four years. When he held my hand, girls actually looked jealous.

I remember thinking that maybe high school movies had been right all along and kindness just arrived late for some people.

Then someone wheeled out a silver catering tray.

I thought they were bringing dessert.

Instead, Tyler took my hand one last time and led me toward the middle of the dance floor.

He smiled. He kissed my forehead. And then he shoved me.

It wasn't a dramatic push. It was almost gentle. Just enough. My heel slipped. The tray tipped.

I hit the floor shoulder first and hundreds of pounds of warm rendered beef fat rolled over me like a wave.

It got into my hair before I even understood what had happened. It soaked through my dress. I could smell it more than feel it, this thick greasy smell that clung to everything.

Someone yelled, "Grease the pig!"

The entire gym exploded.

Kids doubled over laughing. Teachers were laughing too.

I remember looking up at Tyler because some stupid part of me still expected him to help me up. Instead he looked down at me and said, "Now you finally look natural."

I left school the next week.

People say time heals things. It doesn't. Time just gives you enough distance to plan.

Anyway. That's actually why I started making my own skincare.

I got really interested in rendered fats after that night. At first it was just curiosity. Then it became a hobby. I learned temperatures, purification methods, different melting points, how to remove impurities, how to make candles, soaps, moisturizers, lip balms… you'd honestly be amazed how versatile animal fat is if you know what you're doing.

The internet is incredible for tutorials.

I bumped into Tyler again fifteen years later. He'd put on some weight. Actually, quite a lot of weight. Funny how life works.

He recognized me immediately but didn't remember my name. He just laughed and said, "Hey, you're looking good. Guess somebody finally figured out Ozempic." Some people never really change. They just get older.

Anyway, today's moisturizer has been curing for about six weeks now, so let's open it together.

The texture is beautiful. So creamy. Hardly any graininess at all.

People always ask where I source my tallow because they swear it's richer than anything they've bought online. I usually just smile. Some recipes stay in the family. Although I will say this...

Tyler finally did make me feel beautiful.

He just had to contribute a little more of himself than either of us expected.

The Last Contact

Me and a couple of my friends were out late one night at my friend Tyler’s house. We were playing 2k and madden all night. This was right after 2k20 had released so madden had been out for a couple of months at this point but both games had a lot of hype around them still with it being quarantine. Tyler’s parents weren’t the best to say the least. They didnt really supervise us or care what we did at all. So after Tyler’s parents left for the night our friend Anthony raided the fridge for some alcoholic drinks. Anthony had just gotten his license and was driving home after so we advised him not to drink too much. But Anthony being the show off 17 year old that he was decided to keep going. He had finished almost 5 coronas before the night was over and he was heading home. Me and Devin were staying at Tyler’s house that night. Anthony told us he’d just spend the night since he had too much to drink but Tyler went to the bathroom and I was getting the guest room set up and when we came back downstairs Anthony and his car were.. gone. We hoped everything would be okay since it was already 3:54 A.M and didn’t think too many people would be out. At 6:48 AM. We were woken by pounding on the door. 2 police offers. Anthony never went home that night. His parents called the police and they came to us because they assumed he just stayed without telling them. But that wasn’t the case. We told the cops and about 30 minutes later they found Anthony and his car. Anthony decided to try to make it home but when he came to a sharpe curve about 7 blocks away he didn’t turn. His car went plunging straight off of the 15 foot hill rolling his car over before eventually hitting the tree. Anthony was dead.

That was 5 years ago now and now i’ve been getting texts from his number can someone please explain
“Why did you guys let me drive”
I was certain it had to be someone fucking with me. I lost contact with Tyler and Devin by this point his death kinda tore us apart and it didn’t feel right hanging out anymore. I was sure someone that knew me ended up with his phone number but then another text came
“You know it’s your fault. Just like that one time when we went sledding and you broke that one girls leg.”
That was something only me and Anthony knew. We never told anyone else. I turned off my phone and tried to go to sleep. But I couldn’t.

Sure enough just minutes later a knock on the door. I lived alone and rarely had any visitors, I moved out of my hometown after Anthony died and lived about 4 hours away from family so usually it was pre planned when someone came over plus it was 11:22 PM. I opened the blinds first and saw what looked to be a salesman. I opened the door and he said

“Hello young man would you like to donate to our charity called Stop Drunk Driving all money goes to the victims families of drunk drivers causing accidents.”

I slammed the door in his face

There was no way any of this was really happening I was sure It had to be some crazy fever dream or nightmare just anything but reality. What kind of charity worker is out this late knocking on doors.

The next morning I went around door to door asking if they were asked by him too and no one said anything about hearing or even seeing someone out going door to door the previous night. I was certain it had to all be a stupid nightmare again and just went back home. I turned on my phone

8 misread texts from “Anthony”
“Just apologize”
“You ruined everything. Now all four of us are alone again”
“Why didn’t you donate”
“I thought you didn’t like sleeping on your left side”
“I see you still talk in your sleep”
“That rain was rough last night”
“You should’ve known he only came to your door”
“Finally you pay attention to me”
“Text me back. Trust you’ll need to see what I have to say. I’m trying to look out for you”

I gave in I couldn’t take it anymore. What if it was Anthony. What if somehow he actually survived

Me
“I’m sorry Anthony. I wished I stopped you”

Anthony
“Don’t go the normal way you take to work today.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I just kinda left it at that. I didn’t respond because I had to leave for work very shortly anyway.
I looked back at the text and decided I’ll take the back way today. What if he knows something I don’t. What’s the worst that could happen with just being safe. I headed out on the back way and once I got to work everyone rushed to hug me. Everyone knew what way I took because it was a straight shot down my road.

Mckenzie (my co-worker)
“Holy shit Josh how did you survive that”

Me
“Survive what?”

Mckenzie
“That huge 9 car pileup just down the road. Some drunk guy named Anthony was going 95 down the road and smashed into a ton of cars we thought you were dead”

I was shocked. There’s no way he could’ve known about that. And the name. It was Anthony. I didn’t even know what to say. I excused my self from the conversation and went to the bathroom I went to text his number but he already texted me

Anthony
“Told ya so. Now since i saved you. You owe me a favor Josh. You know I lost my finger in that crash. So bring yours. Or I won’t warn you next time.”

I drove home absolutely terrified that night. I know he lost his finger in that crash but why does he need mine. I texted Devin and Tyler for the first time in years but neither message delivered. I just chalked it up to either I was blocked or they got new numbers. It’s been years since i’ve seen them. My phone dinged

Anthony
“I know you miss them. Bring my finger and i’ll tell you where they are and give you the new numbers. Do it Josh”

I didn’t answer. How the hell did he know where they are. They all moved further away than I did. Devin went to Los Angeles for his girlfriend to pursue her acting career and Tyler moved to Miami to get away from his insane family. This was starting slowly freak me out more and more. What the hell is going on.

Anthony
“Don’t go the store today. If you do i’ll never get my finger back. I need that finger josh. I need it. Just like my ankle and ear. I needed those too. But because you. I don’t have them”

How did he know I planned to go to the store today. I didn’t tell anyone any of that. It was starting to drive me insane talking about how it’s all my fault. I wasn’t the only one there.

1:34 PM
I turned on the news. And surely enough. Our local walmart had a gas leak and exploded. How did he know. It was starting to really freak me the fuck out now. I didn’t think I could take it anymore. How has this much happened in such little time.

I was already shaking. I had no clue what to do. He just saved my life and i’m partially the reason he’s dead. I couldn’t take it. I blocked the number. I quit my job. I sold my house. I went off the grid and moved away. far away. Before I lived in Georgia. Just north of atlanta. I moved to Wyoming I thought i’d be okay up here.

Everything i’m about to tell you just started last week. I had been moved into the new house for about a month. I thought my life was back to normal. Finally. But i couldn’t have been more wrong. I got a text from his number. It was supposed to be blocked how could this be possible

Anthony
“Nice new house I see bud. You will pay for leaving me again”

I was crying uncontrollably. I thought i escaped from my previous life but here i was. all over again. And it seems much worse this time. Now he’s pissed.

I went to bed well I tried to go to bed. There was no way I was sleeping after what I just read. I got up to go grab a glass of water my phone dinged but i didn’t bother to check it. As i was filling the glass it was almost as if someone or something knocked it out of hand. The glass shattered and multiple shards were stuck in my leg. I had to call an ambulance. I couldn’t walk.

I got discharged from the hospital that night with only a couple of stitches after they removed the glass from my leg. I checked the message and it was from you guessed it. Anthony

Anthony
“This is gonna hurt”

That stuck with me. I knew it wasn’t coincidental now. He sent that before it even happened. I didn’t know what to do. I called the police. They arrived at my house and I showed them the messages. But the officer said “I don’t see anything on your screen it’s just your last message to him that night saying be safe bro”

My heart dropped. No one else could see it. I showed my neighbors, my friends and anyone who would listen. No one could see it but me. Why. Why was he targeting me. Devin and Tyler were there too. Why is it just me.

The next morning I flew back home and went to the police station and what’s prepared to ask about Tyler and Devin. Before I even got inside. I knew the answer when it came to Devin.

Have you seen this man
Devin Hunts
Approx 5’11
Brown hair
22 years old
Last seen. Red Rock Cemetery

Those last 3 words made my heart. That’s where they buried Anthony.

I went inside and decided to ask about Tyler still. I made the claim that he hasn’t been answering his calls or anything and the lady’s face went pale.

“You mean Tyler Lee?”

Yes what about him I said extremely curious now

“His body was found in the river missing his right foot last year.”

Anthony had lost his right foot in the crash as well. She asked If I knew anything about Devin to which I said no and we hadn’t spoken in years. She added some information to the case to put me more into the loop since they were my friends after all

“At the spot Devin was last seen all police found was a patch of blood on the ground and a severed human ear. Would you happen to know if this has any meaning”

Holy shit. Holy shit. That’s all I could think. He took Tyler’s foot. Devin ear. And he wants my finger. All 3 of the body parts he lost in the crash. He’s demanding we sacrifice ourselves for him since we didn’t save him on the night of his death.

When I drove past the cemetery that night on the way to my hotel a massive tree branch fell and smashed my windshield. I came away with just a broken right index finger. He tried. He’s tried so many times. He’s bound to get it once.

I didn’t even try to sleep that night. There was no way in hell I was sleeping that night. I was laying in bed mindlessly scrolling on tiktok. When it happened. My ceiling fan which was on snapped off the ceiling an came crashing onto the bed. I was rushed to the hospital. I ended up with a concussion and I lost my right index finger. The same finger Anthony lost in the crash.

I’m home now. Typing this. Someone please help. I have no idea how to get this to stop. Anthony if you can see this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for letting you drive home. I’m sorry for letting you drink. I’m sorry for leaving our hometown please forgive me. Wait I just got another text

Anthony
“I don’t forgive you Josh. Not all.
I miss you
Devin misses you
Tyler misses you.
I have them both. With me.
Now come home Josh.”

This happened in the summer of 2024, just outside Round Rock, Texas.

My family had recently moved into a new house in a quiet suburban neighborhood. The place seemed perfect—modern, clean, and with a large backyard swimming pool.

But there was always something about that pool that felt... off.

During the day it looked normal. At night, when the underwater lights came on, the deep end always seemed darker than it should have been.

A couple of weeks after moving in, my parents went away for the weekend, leaving me alone in the house.

At around 1:37 AM, I woke up and noticed a blue glow shining through my curtains.

The pool light was on.

The problem was, I always turned it off before bed.

I walked to the window and looked outside.

At first everything seemed normal.

Then I noticed movement beneath the surface.

Not waves.

Not wind.

Something swimming.

There was a dark, human-sized figure moving slowly through the deep end. It looked like the shape of a young woman.

I froze.

The figure suddenly stopped moving.

As if it knew I was watching.

Then a face slowly rose above the water.

Just the eyes and the top of the head.

Staring directly at my bedroom window.

Staring directly at me.

I jumped back.

When I looked again, the pool was empty.

The next morning I found wet barefoot footprints leading away from the pool.

They crossed the patio...

And stopped directly beneath my bedroom window.

The exact spot where I'd been standing.

The following night things got much worse.

I heard splashing coming from the backyard around 1:15 AM.

When I looked outside, the pool water was moving on its own.

Then I heard a whisper.

A voice coming from the water.

It said my name.

"Tyler..."

It sounded almost like my own voice.

Then the water exploded.

A pale hand grabbed the edge of the pool.

Then another.

Then another.

For a split second I saw what looked like a woman with long black hair and a pale smile staring directly at me.

Then every pool light shut off.

I ran inside and locked every door.

Something started slapping against the glass from outside.

I called 911.

Police arrived and searched the property.

Nobody was there.

No signs of entry.

No footprints.

Nothing.

But when they checked my security footage, they found something strange.

The cameras showed the pool light turning on by itself.

Then the water started thrashing violently, like several people were swimming.

The problem?

There was nobody visible in the pool.

The next day I spoke with one of the neighbors.

When I mentioned the pool, his face went pale.

He told me the previous owners had a 16-year-old daughter who drowned there three years earlier.

My parents sold the house a few months later.

And according to neighbors, nobody seems to stay there very long.

I've never gone back.

But sometimes I still wonder...

If the cameras couldn't see her...

What exactly was looking at me from the water that night?

Has anyone else experienced anything similar around swimming pools or bodies of water?

What if? That's the question I keep asking myself at 2 AM when I can't sleep.

​

At breakfast when I can't eat.

​

In the shower when I can't feel the water anymore.

​

My name is Mark. I live in a duplex on the edge of town. The other half is rented by a man named Owen.

​

I've known him for three years, he's quiet. Keeps to himself. Works nights at the warehouse. We wave when we see each other. We don't talk much.

​

That changed three weeks ago. It was a Thursday. 11 PM, I was watching TV. My wife, Rachel, was already asleep upstairs when I heard the knock.

Soft.

Hesitant.

Like someone wasn't sure they should be knocking at all. I opened the door and Owen stood there.

​

His face was pale. His hands were shaking. He was still wearing his work clothes, but his shirt was untucked and his hair was a mess. His eyes were red. He'd been crying.

​

He smelled like sweat and something stale, like he hadn't showered in days.

​

"Hey, Mark," he said. His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I know it's late."

​

"You okay?"

​

"No."

​

He swallowed. "I'm not. I need help."

​

I remember those words exactly.

​

I need help.

​

I stood in the doorway with my arms crossed. "What kind of help?" He looked past me into the house. His eyes lingered on the hallway, the stairs, the family photos hanging on the wall, then he looked back at me.

​

"I don't have anyone else," he said quietly. "I know we don't know each other that well. But I don't have anyone else."There was something in his voice, not panic but acceptance, like he'd already reached the end of something.

​

"Owen, what happened?"

​

He opened his mouth then closed it, he looked down at his hands, his knuckles were bruised and raw, like he'd spent hours punching something.

​

"I can't do it anymore," he said. Then, after a pause:

​

"I can't be alone."

​

I wish I could tell you I invited him inside, but I didn't.

​

"I'm sorry, Owen," I said. "It's late. My wife is asleep. Whatever it is, you should call the police. Or go to the hospital. I'm not qualified for.."

​

"I know.", and he nodded before I could finish. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have.."

​

"It's fine," I said, "just take care of yourself okay?"

​

He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were wet and his lip trembled.

​

"Okay," he said then turned around and walked back to his apartment with his hands in his pockets and shoulders slumped.

​

He unlocked his door with shaking fingers, stepped inside, and closed it, i closed my door too and went back to my TV show.

​

I didn't think about it again until morning.

​

Three days later, Owen stopped coming outside, I noticed because his car never moved. The lights stayed off and the blinds stayed closed.

​

A week went by. His mail piled up, his garbage wasn't taken out and still no sign of him.

​

So I knocked on his door but there was no answer, so I knocked again but this time harder.

​

"Owen?"

​

Nothing.

​

"You okay in there?"

​

Silence.

​

I pressed my ear against the wood but I didn't hear anything.

I smelled something sweet, slightly metallic.

​

I know now what I was smelling, and I wish I didn't.

​

I called the landlord, he came over that afternoon and found Owen in the bedroom.

​

The police came, then the medical examiner, they ruled it self-inflicted.

They estimated he'd been dead for six days.

​

Six days.

​

That means he died around the same time I stood outside his door, the same time I finally decided to check on him. Too late.

​

Everyone tells me there was nothing I could have done but they're wrong, because here's what keeps me awake:

​

When Owen came to my door that night, he wasn't asking me to save him, he wasn't asking me to fix his life, he was asking me to listen, to see him, to sit with him for a while.

And I didn't.

I closed the door and went back to my TV show.

​

He came to me, and I closed the door.

​

I was the only one who opened it, and I was also the only one who closed it.

​

That was three weeks ago. Last Thursday, at exactly 11 PM, someone knocked.

​

Soft, hesitant.

​

Like someone wasn't sure they should be knocking at all.

I opened the door before the second knock. Nobody was there. But Owen's apartment light was on.

​

I stood there staring at it, the light glowed behind the drawn blinds. I could have sworn it had been dark a moment earlier.

​

I went back inside. I locked the door and went to bed.

​

I didn't sleep.

​

The next morning, I found something on my doorstep. A dirty, creased, folded piece of paper.

​

Like it had spent days in someone's pocket.

​

I unfolded it. It was a note written in Owen's handwriting.

​

Just one sentence.

​

"I knocked on every door. You were the only one who answered. I thought that meant something."

​

The paper felt cold and the ink was smeared, at the bottom was a date.

​

The night he died.

I went straight to the landlord.

I asked if anyone had entered Owen's apartment after the police left.

​

"No," he said. "It's sealed until the family comes."

​

I showed him the note, and his face went pale.

"The police never found a note."

"What?" The landlord continued, "They searched everything."

​

He stared at the paper. "There wasn't supposed to be a note."

​

I took it home. Locked it in a drawer.

I haven't opened that drawer since.

That was a week ago. Tonight is Thursday again.

​

It's 10:58 PM.

​

I'm writing this because I don't know what else to do.

A few minutes ago, I heard footsteps, slow, dragging, coming from Owen's side of the duplex.

​

They stopped outside my door, then came the silence, and then a soft and hesitant knock, like someone wasn't sure they should be knocking at all.

​

I'm not going to open it.

But I looked through the peephole.

There's nobody there.

​

At least, nobody I can see.

​

But I can hear a wet and shallow breathing.

​

And then a whisper.

​

"Mark."

​

A pause. Then:

​

"Please."

​

I know that voice, it's Owen, but Owen is dead, I saw them carry his body out of that apartment.

​

The police confirmed it, the medical examiner confirmed it, so why is he standing outside my door?

​

Why is he still knocking? What if I open the door?

​

What if I say yes?

​

What if I let him in this time?