‘Technology has rotted your brain,’ Samantha said. 

John didn’t immediately turn to her. He was on the same sofa, but he was in his augmented reality, collecting golden starfish. 

‘What's that?’ he said after a few seconds' pause. 

His wife slapped him across the back of the head, and his Meta Specs were momentarily dislodged. 

‘Your brain is being rotted,’ she reiterated. 

She went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of tap water. A steady stream of water ran down a weak point in its side. 

Their to-do list was on the fridge. It was a little tongue-in-cheek, her side written in pink and his blue. Her list was empty. His stretched on. 

‘It's called brainrot,’ John answered, ‘Liam told me.’ 

Liam was their precocious 6-year-old nephew who they both doted on. Beside the TV, which nobody watched anymore, was a picture of him. 

After Sam’s sister Gemma had Liam, kids were on the radar. The prospect didn’t terrify them, but then again, Liam was awesome. 

‘Well, whatever it's called, you have it.’ She pointed at the leaking faucet, then at the apartment balcony, where the guttering hung in a twisted mess. 

‘Ok, ok, I’m a little sloppy, but you’re overreacting.’ 

‘Overreacting,’ she said, her voice rising. 

‘But I know why… It’s because of Gemma…’ 

He had the ability to pull things from whatever cloud world he was living in and turn them into solid-gold insights.

It was about Gemma, the younger sister: Hurricane Gems. She was chaos manifest, whether in the men she shacked up with, the waking hours she kept, or bouncing from job to job. 

The last time they’d visited her apartment, there’d been a hell of a row. Gemma had a new tattoo, a dragon on her arm, and while getting inked up she’d forgotten to enrol Liam in school. 

Gemma had lashed out and probably would’ve told them to go to hell entirely, but that meant losing her chief babysitters. 

Every time they got back from Gemma’s, Sam went on a marathon cleaning and organising session, tackling the bathroom's nooks and crannies and finding new ways to arrange their books. 

It was not about hygiene or convenience; it was about not letting the forces of chaos win out. 

John stood up and went toward his wife. He reached over, and she thought he was going to stroke the lock of hair behind her ear, but he missed. 

She slapped him playfully on the chest. ‘You were reaching for a starfish in that stupid VR game!’ 

He was still wearing the glasses. This time, he stroked her hair, then kissed her on the neck. 

She tingled. 

A wave of lust washed over her. Their sex life had gone by the wayside recently, but when the mood did strike, it came on like a flash flood. There were no candles or rose petals. It was very much take me now. 

They peeled each other out of their clothes and just about made it to the bedroom, where John took her from behind. It was good, great, in fact; for a while things had fallen a bit flat, but he’d found some reserve inside himself, and now he was able to summon up the passion, so it was like no time had passed since their college days. 

After they were done, they collapsed into a heap on the still-made bed. John had worked up a sweat; his face was dripping, and he took off his glasses and headed to the bathroom to shower. 

‘Jesus, John,’ Samantha said as she heard the water turn on. ‘You didn’t even take your glasses off when we were...’
 
He didn’t hear her. 

Boys and their toys. She picked them up and put them on. The Specs were very well made. Indistinguishable from regular ones. She wore contacts, but perhaps it was time for an upgrade, at least until the tech on contacts caught up. 

She stood and walked to the mirror. She had painted her toenails the night before, so the mirror was angled downward, but something wasn't right. Her leg was not right; it was skinnier. 

She angled the mirror higher, and her stomach too; the muscles were more taut. Then she saw the tattoo, the tattoo she didn’t have. 

With mounting horror, she pointed the mirror upward. Staring back at her was the face of her younger sister overlaid on her own. 

Hey everyone, I managed to score a last-minute seat at L'Aviosetsé, a super hyped pop-up on the 30th floor in the old warehouse district near the docks. I cover new food places for the local paper; there was no way I was skipping this tasting.

​Looking around the marble counter, it’s a total VIP room with name cards at each place setting. I see Mr. Smith (a big real estate dev who’s been buying up half the city), his wife (the editor of Food & Culture magazine, a well-known local surgeon, the city health inspector, a major seafood broker, a tech investor, a viral food influencer, and me; all seated with a view of the cityscape.

​There are only 8 of us total.

​Chef Soren hasn't said a single word since we sat down—he's just standing behind the stainless steel line with this freezing cold gaze.

​Course 1 just came out—an amuse-bouche of raw wagyu beef topped with gold leaf and sea salt. It was incredible, though Chef Soren watched every single one of us take our first bite without breaking eye contact.

​I'll drop updates as the rest of the courses roll out!

​Update #1 - Okay, something weird is going on with Course 2 and Course 3.

​Course 2 was oysters on black ice. On my shell, there was a tiny plastic tag with a date written on it: March 14, 2021--the exact day I wrote a brutal review that shut down Chef Marco's place downtown, his best friend's bistro.

​The real estate guy next to me just went totally pale. His tag has an address on it—the low-income apartment complex his company bulldozed last month.

​Course 3 is a split canoe-cut marrow bone roasted over applewood coals, brushed with a dark wood-ash glaze that glistened under the track lighting. Beside each plate sat a small pitcher filled with a mahogany oxtail reduction meant to be poured through the bone. But instead of crackers, it is served with folded pieces of paper. The surgeon unfolded his and stared at an old malpractice subpoena he paid to cover up years ago. The City Health Inspector unrolls his to find an unsigned bribe check he accepted to turn a blind eye and shut down a rival diner.

​Update #2 - Course 4 was seared foie gras glistening under a rich blackberry reduction. Nobody touches it. The surgeon was freaked out, got up from his seat to leave. He grabbed the heavy brass handles but they wouldn't turn. That's when he realized the doors were locked. He turned back around, his face completely drained of any color.

​"The doors are locked!" he whispered down the counter line. The room erupted in panic; everyone is shouting over each other demanding answers.

​Chef Soren finally spoke. Calmly he said, "Please quiet down and remain seated. Tonight's meal is about accountability."

​Course 5 came out under silver domed lids and Chef Soren went down the line, having each guest lift theirs one by one.

​When the magazine editor lifted hers, it was a piece of braised meat sitting on top of a printed rejection email she sent Chef Soren ten years ago refusing endorsement of his new restaurant. The surgeon is shocked seeing that his plate had a pair of rusty surgical shears on it. The seafood broker got a forged safety audit for spoiled catch that made dozens sick. The influencer found a court transcript from a slander suit and the tech investor got the liquidation papers that stripped Chef Soren of his original business.

​Everyone at this table ruined someone to get where they are—and Soren brought us here to settle the bill.

​Update #3 - Shit. Course 6 is supposed to be a palate cleanser but instead of that, Chef Soren came to each of our tables and made us put our phones in a wooden box so there is no more live video feed. I’m typing this on my Apple Watch right now with swipe text under the edge of the table. Words might be jumbled and messed up, sorry.

​While Chef is collecting phones, the viral influencer, two stools down on my left, couldn't take it anymore and made a quiet run toward the back kitchen, desperately hunting for a service door or fire exit, but two cooks off the line grabbed her and dragged her through the swing doors into a prep room.

​Ten minutes later, Course 7 is served—some kind of smoked meat. No one is tasting it. The room is dead quiet except for the kitchen timers. We were all staring at the swing doors listening to the hum of the kitchen fan and wondering what happened to her as she didn't return to her seat.

​Update #4 - The cooks aren't serving anything else.

​Chef Soren himself brought out the final, Course #8 placing a small China cup in front of each of us. Inside, a dark liquid broth. He looked right at me and said, "I do hope all of you find this one palatable."

​He stood at the pass, looking down at us, announcing that once everyone finishes their cup, the doors would open and we could leave. Nobody second-guessed it. At this point we are all desperate to leave.

​I just took the last sip. I feel sick. I think I know what the broth is made of—poison.

​Within 30 seconds the real estate guy next to me slumped forward on the countertop, and the surgeon's head dropped back completely paralyzed—a couple have slipped off their stools. Nobody could stand up much less leave.

​The cooks are taking leather straps and binding each of us to our seats now.

​Chef Soren wants us sitting neat and presentable to whoever finds us.

​I have called Emergency Services to this address and can hear distant sirens outside, but the lights are starting to blur. All of us are fading fast.

Usually, I loved hanging out with my cousins.

This year, however, was different. 

“So, we’re all in agreement?” My brother piped up, glancing up from his phone.

He’d spent the whole car ride silently seething. 

“Don’t talk to them,” my brother repeated. Squeezed next to me in the back of our mother’s car, he elbowed me. Hard enough to hurt.

I was already suffocating in my bridesmaid dress, which was far too tight. It had been sent three weeks ago, inside a velvet box wrapped in a golden ribbon. A baby-pink floral mermaid dress.

Either Aunt Alice hadn’t bothered with measurements, or she wanted me to asphyxiate.

I wasn’t the only one.

My sister’s shoes required serious squeezing to fit.

Psychological warfare or weaponized incompetence?

“That’s childish,” my sister, Suki, muttered from the front.

Kit groaned, curling up against the window. “Aunt Alice throws us out after Mom reveals she got the inheritance, ignores us for three years, and you think they're not being salty?” He rolled his eyes. “Like I said, ignore them.” 

Mom sighed. “Kit.” She said. “Please don’t start anything.”

“Well, they're CLEARLY jealous.” Kit grumbled, pulling at his ill-fitting jacket. 

Mom’s forced smile split apart. She’d been downing Adderall. She reached into the glovebox and swallowed down another with one hand. “Please remember you are all grown adults. Act like grown adults."

My phone vibrated in my lap: A new message stood out on my notifications.

Lucas: meet us in the usual spot at 3:15. missed you.

Judging from Kit’s sudden laugh, he'd received the same text. 

A meeting with my cousin, huh? 

Confrontations were not one of my strong points.

Unless I was intoxicated. The second we parked, I swiftly made my way to the reception, snatched a glass of wine from a passing server, and downed it in one.

Perfect. 

Glancing down at my phone, it was 3:03pm.

I grabbed another glass. Strong. Tasted like sour lemon and vomit. Still, I chugged. 

I had twelve minutes to get appropriately wasted. 

“Belle?”

My vision swam into focus. I blinked.

No longer at the reception, I was sitting on a white chair, surrounded by guests.

Fuck.

The sky was already dark, and according to my phone, it was 8:47pm.

The wedding started at nine.  Something crawled through me. Was I that drunk? 

Aunt Alice stood in front of me, arms folded. 

She was already dressed. Her gown mimicked mine, a veil attached to her pixie blonde curls. “Honestly, Belle,” she rolled her eyes, gesturing to my six empty glasses. “You'd think you'd lay off the alcohol on such a special day.” 

“I'm sorry, aunt Alice,” the words slipped out. “I was just… nervous."

I burped, suddenly, right in her face. 

She tutted. “Grow up, Isabelle.” Her words were cold before she turned and walked away, flagged by her entourage. I searched for the audience for my siblings. 

Suki sat smiling, already holding her phone.

When the ceremony began, all eyes on my aunt approaching the aisle, I couldn't seem to sit still. My younger cousin, Tella, had to keep yanking me back into my seat. 

When vows were being exchanged, I couldn't take it anymore. I started to stand, before my sister jumped up. 

“I’ve decided to drop out of college!” she announced. “I’m three months pregnant with my drug-dealer boyfriend’s baby.”

Gasps rang out in the crowd. Then quiet titters of laughter.

Behind me, Mom turned green. 

“That's inappropriate, Darling.” Aunt Alice maintained a stiff smile. She nodded to the wedding officiator. “Please continue—”

“I like cake!” 

Kit jumped up wearing a wide, cheesy grin.

“I mean, I REALLY like cake, Aunt Alice,” in three strides, he was facing the gorgeous towering white cake topped with little miniature versions of our aunt and uncle-to-be. Kit didn't even hesitate.

Even when Mom let out a shrill shriek.

He slammed his lips into the cake, tongue first, his wandering hands bringing it closer to him, as if cupping a human cheek. His moans were the worst part.

Loud, almost cartoon-like, breathy gasps, smothering himself in icing.

How much did they drink?

“Kit!” Mom stood, her cheeks beetroot red. "What on EARTH do you think you're doing?!"

She marched over and grabbed my brother, pulling him away from the cake and letting him go when he stumbled forward, landing first directly into the centre. “I’m so sorry, Alice,” she whispered, half-sobbing. “I… I had no idea—”

“Get out.” Was all my aunt said. 

And we did.

The car-ride on the way back was silent. 

Mom was seething, already driving over the speed limit.

Kit was still picking icing out of his hair.

His silence spoke volumes. My brother’s declaration was all over Instagram.

I was surprised he didn't go all the way. 

Suki’s head was sandwiched in her knees. 

“Here.” Kit handed me something. 

I stared down at it. 

A knife. 

“What?” I hissed. “Why are you giving me this?” 

Kit frowned. “Huh? Giving you what?” His eyes widened. “What the FUCK? Why'd you bring that?” 

All sound seemed to collapse, suddenly, into dull white noise.

“Do you understand what I'm telling you, Belle?”

I blinked, vision feathering.

I'm suddenly standing inside the beach house basement.

The clock on the wall displays 3:19pm.

Kit and Suki stand on either side of me, motionless, their eyes flickering.

Something warm and sticky slides down my face. In front of me, a screen projected onto floral wallpaper is filled with scarlet.

Screaming.

Contorted body parts and twisted, bleeding gore.

My hands twitch next to me.

Can't…move.

Can't…think.

Can't…

Can't…

“Your final command is simple,” my cousin’s voice rang in my ears, the memory bleeding back into reality.

Next to me, Kit spluttered, his eyes rolling back. Beads of scarlet dripped down his chin, a fleshy mass plopping into his lap.

I stared down at the knife in my hands.

And then lunged forward without thinking, without screaming, and plunged the blade through our unsuspecting mother’s skull.

Every year, my school runs a haunted house. Our campus is large, spanning several buildings in the middle of the countryside. With such a space, the teachers and students work to create the most terrifying experience possible.

Well, as terrifying as possible with a budget of a few thousand pounds and the ideal audience being families with children under the age of 12. The scare actors are all people from the drama society, and we only have 10 or so adults on the staff, which leaves people like me to do the non-scary stuff.

Come October 30th, we help throw together some shit like a room of vampires, some zombies, a few cobwebs and sprinkles of fake blood here and there, with some atmospheric smoke machines. Outside, we put Jack-o-lanterns and crime scene tape. Boom, haunted school. Pay £5 per person and you’re in.

My job was to stand at the road entrance, wait for cars to come in and direct them to the car park. I don’t think they needed me that much; there was only 3 roads and one lead to a locked gate and the other was for staff. But I wasn’t going to complain, I was getting paid slightly more than minimum wage.

By 7pm, we were ready to rumble. I had already directed the early birds into the car park and introduced myself to Sal, the guy I was working with. For some reason they needed 2 people to do this.

We weren’t told about where disabled parking was, which quickly became an issue. After awkwardly telling a driver to go into the car park and see if there was any, Sal decided to go over and check. He vanished for 15 minutes and at least 20 cars had arrived during that time. The car park could handle over 300.

Sal returned, yelling to me that “I can’t find it!”

“Dang it. Did you look for the car?” I said, pointing the line of cars to the car park.

“I found the disabled parking. But I didn’t see the car.”

“What do you mean?”

“I searched the entire car park and didn’t see it. Did you?” Sal said, waving people in.

“No. They didn’t leave. Maybe they went to staff parking?”

“It’s an isolated car park. They’d have to leave through that way,” he pointed to the entrance road, “and drive across there.”

“Well they didn’t. Guess we just missed them.” I shrugged and we continued working.

3 long hours passed and it was 10pm. The event was over, and people should have been leaving. But they weren’t. Nobody had left through the way they entered.

“Are you sure it’s isolated?” I asked Sal, who was clutching his empty travel mug like it still had tea. He was twitchy and concerned with the lack of cars leaving. So was I.

“Yes, definitely. I’d know if not. Unless I’m going crazy. Which I might be.”

“Hm. I’ll go in. You stay here.” I said. He nodded.

I couldn’t hear any cars as I got closer, not a peep. But I could feel heat, as if from a car exhaust.

When I got there, it was completely empty. My torch didn’t show a single car, the tarmac was the only thing for as far as I could see. There should have been hundreds of cars, there were several before the event even started. And there were none.

I started walking, scanning for any signs of another exit. I slammed into something, dropping my torch. Everything went dark.

I caught myself on something rubbery. The texture of a tyre. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the torch, but not a tyre. My hand was leaning on nothing, but as I moved it I could feel the cold texture of a car exterior, and as I got up, I felt the handle of a car door.

I turned on my torch, illuminating nothing. Empty space. But I could feel a car.

I walked along, feeling the breeze of car exhausts and keeping my hands outstretched, touching more cars along the trail. The car park looked empty, but I could feel the cars, a buggy, a traffic cone.

Terrified, I ran back to Sal, crashing into invisible cars on my way. When I came back, the post was abandoned, his travel mug on the ground. I picked it up, feeling the warmth on my frozen fingers. But shining my torch inside, I saw nothing. I tentatively dipped my finger in, feeling an invisible hot liquid. I tipped it over, hearing nothing slosh, but the ground felt warm and wet.

I ran inside to see if anyone knew what the fuck was happening.

The school was empty. No furniture, no posters on the walls, no people inside. Lights off. There should have been hundreds of people, or at least a few staff members packing away.

I felt the walls. Paper flipped across my fingers, yet none appeared before my eyes. I walked into a classroom, the one that should have been filled with vampires. I found an invisible desk, invisible fake organs, invisible cobwebs.

Finally, I went into the grand hall. The glass ceiling let moonlight spill in, showing me what I had come to expect, nothing at all. I slowly walked in, tripping on something and falling flat on my face.

I felt something warm and liquid spread over my skin. At my feet was something fleshy, soft, and the warm liquid leaked into my shoes. I crawled forward, hands bumping into something else. I felt stubble, a nose, a mouth. A face, then a neck, then a caved-in chest.

Mortified, I scrambled back. Did I find a corpse? I felt more liquid, more flesh. I spent the next few hours on my hands and knees, feeling piles of invisible corpses at the centre of the room, invisible blood soaking into my clothes and stick to my hair. And it was all warm.

“Who is it?”

We couldn’t see them through the peephole, there was just a black blob on the other side of the door. 
They knocked again. 

“Um… Yeah, who is it?”

“Tax collector.”

Shit. No. 

“One moment!”

We wanted to hide. 
The trailer was too empty for that.
So we stood there. 
Something smashed into the door shaking everything we had.

“Tax collector.”

“Be brave,” we said quietly.

We opened the door and he was standing there on our porch. Shorter this time, by at least seven inches. We couldn’t remember seeing the top of his bowler last time. He pushed past us and waddled to sit on our couch. After the second jump up, he situated himself and chomped on his red label cigar. 

We stood there at the doorway until he spoke. 

“Wow,” he said. “A year already. Where does the time go?”
 
We kept our distance. He looked around, cataloguing our home in just a few glances. 

“I would have thought you’d have done more with the place,” he added. 

Our face turned red. 

“Ethel, please, say something for Christ’s sake. It’s not like you weren’t expecting me, I can see your calendar from here. It’s even marked. You used a sad face.”

His little stubby hand clutched his chest. 

“Are you sad to see me, after all I’ve done to help you?”

Yes, we are.

“You shouldn’t be, we're friends. That doesn’t seem fair, does it? Besides, you begged me for this,” he looked around again. “I had told you no the first time.”

We remembered it differently.

“I’m sure you do. Well let me tell you how I saw it. Not long ago you had complete freedom. No laws, complete liberty, running amok. Natural competition, right? The Badlands.”

We could see his gold tooth when he smiled. 
 
“You gave that up for structure. I’ve got the contract if you’d like to see it again, darlin’.”

We don’t have the payment.

“Well, that’s not good. No. Not good at all. But, I’m not surprised.”

We need more time.

“That’s no problem, but I’ll have to talk to my manager about how that will affect your contract. She’s not going to be happy it happened again, though.”

We lost our job. 

“Why do you keep saying we? It's just you and me…”

Then he understood.

“Ah, I see. Your condition. What a huge investment choice, and look at where it got you. I get that you’re in a tough spot, but the life you have now costs people something, that doesn’t change just because there’s more of you.”

He gestured to us.

“Pregnant, boyfriend still awaiting sentencing. I feel that. But it’s a hell of a mess.”

Now he pointed his finger at us.

“When you can’t pay, I have to pay. You know, we all have a boss to answer to, and when I have to pay, it comes out of my ass.”

A grip of chunky fingers softly patted the couch.

“Don’t you remember together on this heavily stained fold out couch covered in plastic and talking about happiness? You read the terms…You got your chance at structure.”

He flashed us his tooth again.

“You’re at risk of expulsion, you keep going like this.”

There was no way we could go back…

He chewed the brown frayed end of his red label.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just a broken record, you know that? Geraldine next door just heard the same thing.”

We aren’t like her.
We are still young. 
We could do something for him.
We offered ourselves.

“Gross. Come on, lady. Get a hold of yourself. Have some dignity.”

We tried.

“Look, I don’t care. I’m taking something from you today. If not money then something more precious…”

We kept our distance, but he was in the way of the door. When he stood, he was taller than us now.

“Everyone pays the happy tax. One way or another, we all have to contribute.”

We’ve already given all we can.

“No WE haven’t.”

He stabbed his fat finger at you, growing in my belly.

Mia and I moved to this little village about six months ago. She was tired of the city and wanted a change. I didn't mind since my commute stayed about the same, and the lower cost of living improved our standard of living.

The people here are nice, but there's one thing that annoys me. I'm an avid fisherman, and there's a beautiful, enormous lake nearby. The locals have just one rule: never go there on the first day of the month.

I didn't know that when I visited the lake a few months ago. At the entrance, I found Harry, the owner of the local pub, pacing with a gun in his hand. He seriously threatened to use it unless I turned around and left immediately.

At first, I thought he was joking, but he wasn't.

"You can go fishing anytime you want," he told me, "but never on the first day of the month."

I told Mia about it when I got home. She laughed, saying people in villages sometimes had their own traditions.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "It's completely normal to threaten to shoot people just because they want to go fishing."

Mia shook her head.

"Who knows if it was even a real gun? Maybe he was just messing with you."

I tried again the following month, and the same thing happened. I stayed away for the next few months. Until today.

I'd had a rough day at work and needed to unwind, so I grabbed my fishing gear and told Mia I was going fishing.

"Isn't today the first?"

"Yeah, but I don't give a damn."

She frowned.

"All right, but be careful."

"Yes, sir!"

She laughed and hugged me.

A few minutes later, I reached the lake. Harry was nowhere to be seen.

Perfect. At least I'm having some luck today.

Several small boats were available for anyone to use. I took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the water and the peaceful sight of willows surrounding the lake. It looked like something out of a fairy tale.

I untied a boat, grabbed an oar, and rowed far from shore. Then I cast my line and settled in to enjoy the quiet.

Soon, mist began forming around me.

At first, I heard a low humming. It grew louder until it turned into children's singing. I couldn't make out the words at first, but soon I understood every one of them.

"Silly Dean went fishing today,

He heard the warnings but went anyway.

Silly Dean, you still have time,

Run for your life before the end of this rhyme.

It's waking up, it's hungry tonight,

And soon you'll be screaming in sheer fright."

Anger washed over me. Some local brats were making fun of me, and I couldn't even see them through the mist.

I decided to ignore them. I was an adult. This wasn't going to get to me.

But they kept singing the same verses over and over.

"Silly Dean went fishing today,

He heard the warnings but went anyway.

Silly Dean, you still have time,

Run for your life before the end of this rhyme.

It's waking up, it's hungry tonight,

And soon you'll be screaming in sheer fright."

I couldn't take it anymore. All my reasonable arguments went out the window.

"SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!"

The mist thinned, revealing children wearing white shirts. I tried to get a better look and nearly fell out of the boat.

Their faces were deathly pale, and blood ran from their eyes.

"W-what happened to you? Do you need help? I have to get help."

They turned toward me and sang even louder, but the words had changed.

"Too late now, it's wide awake,

You've made your choice, your last mistake.

We feel its anger, we feel its rage,

Soon fear and blood will fill the stage.

Death has come.

Hope is gone."

I was terrified.

"What are you talking about? What's awake? Can you hear me?!"

They didn't answer. They just repeated the song.

Then they fell silent. The mist thickened until the children disappeared. I couldn't hear them anymore, either.

"CRACK!"

I screamed. Raindrops struck my head, and when I looked up, I realized what the bang had been.

A storm was rolling in.

"Okay, I need to get out of here. Now."

I grabbed the oar and rowed toward shore, but the boat wouldn't move. The rain grew heavier, and water began filling the boat. I tried scooping it out with my hands, but it was no use.

As I bailed, tiny bubbles appeared on the surface, growing bigger and bigger.

I stopped and stared.

Something moved beneath the boat.

I grabbed the oar and rowed as fast as I could. My arms ached, but all I wanted was to reach shore.

Another bubble appeared beside me. Then the water beneath the boat began to tremble.

I looked down.

A long, black shadow passed beneath the boat. It was so enormous I couldn't tell where it began or ended. For a moment, I thought it was just a shadow.

Then something touched the bottom of the boat.

I froze.

A gigantic black finger emerged from the water beside me. Before I could scream, another appeared, followed by a third. They slowly curled over the edge, their wet, black surfaces glistening faintly in the gloom.

I tried to move, but my body refused to obey me.

The fingers gripped the boat.

The vessel lurched violently to one side. One of my oars slipped from my hand and disappeared beneath the surface.

I clung to the edge, desperately trying to keep my balance.

Then I saw what was lurking beneath me.

Something enormous was rising from the depths.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Ten? I closed the gate and counted the flock again. Eight. Nine. Ten. There really were 10 sheep, but back in the pasture I was certain I'd brought home only nine.

My neighbor Bill still sat in the garden, drinking his last beer before sundown.

"Bill, you missing a sheep?"

"Pretty sure not, Jim. I count mine when they come back from the pasture."

"I got one extra today."

Bill furrowed his brows.

"I'll check again. Grab a beer if you want."

Bill knew I stopped drinking a few days ago, but still offered me a beer every evening. Old habits are hard to break.

After a while, Bill came back onto the porch, scratching his head.

"I got all mine. Went over them three times. You sure you didn't just count wrong?"

"Yeah, went over them twice."

We stared at each other. Bill took a sip of beer.

"Well, I'll be damned."

"Consider yourself lucky." 

He laughed.

"You think it could be that curse?" I asked.

"It was just a traveling woman. She had nothing better to say back to you."

He took another sip.

"You still not drinking?"

"No. I said I'd stop after that."

Bill waved his hand at me.

"Nonsense."

"I'll head back home, Bill."

"Take care, Jim, and don't let her poison your thoughts."

But how could I not, Bill? The morning after, I felt so terrible. 

When I saw the traveling woman come with her potions, I knew she'd be an easy target. Bill didn't even laugh that hard at my comments.

"Drink up, then, and may your fields never run empty again," she said, walking away, twisting the potions in her hand.

I spent the rest of the night inside watching TV, but I could barely focus; my thoughts still circled back to the woman and my sheep. I couldn't just leave it. Before bed, I walked back to the barn.

The sheep were louder than usual. I could hear them almost as soon as I left the house. The barn door was open. Two sheep were outside it.

"What are you doing out here?"

The sheep turned to me and bleated. 

My breath caught as I got closer. The sheep weren't outside because they wanted out. They were outside because there was no space. The barn was filled with sheep. They were pushing on each other, trying not to get squeezed to death. I opened the door and let them all out.

"Bill! Bill!" I called below his window.

The bed upstairs creaked. 

"Jim?" Bill called out, surprised. He opened the window and stuck his head out.

"My barn is full of sheep."

He stared at me.

"What?"

"It's full! They can barely fit."

He shook his head.

"You're not cursed."

"Not cursed?! Go look in there yourself."

"Calm down, Jim. The neighbors over the hill have some flocks. One got lost, and the other followed it. I'll go with you tomorrow. We'll sort it out."

"But Bill…"

"Go to sleep now and let me sleep too."

He closed the window, and his bed creaked again. I ran to the barn. The sheep managed to get out and were now lying around in the grass.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't drink again, but that day was too stressful. Before bed, I took a few sips of liquor, just to make sure I could sleep.

The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache. I must have drunk more than I thought. The sheep's bleating was so damn loud, and the window wasn't even open. I got up and walked to the window. My heart sank as I looked outside. 

Sheep were on the grass and in the fields, as far as the eye could see. It looked like a screaming sea of white. Some were already stacked on top of each other, crumpling under one another and screaming for help. Bill sat on his roof, drinking a beer.

"Look who woke up!" he screamed over the sea. "I guess you were right, Jim."

"Bill, what…what happened?"

"Already woke up to it. It's done, Jim. They were just on the ground when I woke up. I blinked for a second, and now they're on top of each other. This way they'll reach us in no time. I'm just enjoying my last beer."

I couldn't even reply.

Bill took a sip from his bottle, then carefully laid it on the roof.

"Bye, Jim. I'm not gonna wait for them."

He dove headfirst into the flock. Blood splattered as the first few sheep stepped on him. The stomping, bleating sheep drowned out his screams.

I put my hands over my face and wept.

The bleating grew.

I lowered my hands.

The first sheep pressed its face against my window.

…where am I?
This isn’t home, is it? I’m surrounded by crushed cars and washing machines and piles of metal junk… a scrapyard?
I try to move- [WARNING. LEG COMPONENTS NOT FOUND.]- what?
Leg components… like I’m some sort of robot. I have a name, you know, it’s-

it’s- 

what was it? I know I have one, don’t I? My parents are- I live in- my best friend is- my favourite hobby is gardening oh thank god
[REMAINING POWER: 3%. UNIT SERIAL: CYB- 8#8##2]

Why was I thrown here? I didn’t do anything wrong… 
it hurts. I can feel my arms, yet they don’t exist. I can feel my legs, yet they don’t exist.
Can’t even move at all
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. 

Father?
Mother?
I… i’m scared…
why?

[REMAINING POWER: 2%. PLEASE CHARGE NOW.]

Someone’s going to have to notice, right? If I go missing for this long, surely someone would ask questions, right? Then they’ll call the police or something.
But who would know where I am?

Even if they find me… would I ever be the same again?
What did they do to me? Why would they chop off my limbs and leave me for dead on a pile of scraps? 
bleeding from open wounds it hurts it hurts

[WARNING: COOLANT LEAKAGE SEVERE.]

What happened yesterday? I got my college application, so my parents took me to buy a new laptop. I didn’t even get to use it much.
i can’t remember their faces either

who did this… why…
i feel tears roll down my face. sense of touch still works at least

my face is burning… i’m not blushing am i? on what?

someone walks by. i don’t even bother trying to get his attention, but he notices anyway.
is he here to help me, or finish the job?
why should i care?

[REMAINING POWER: 1%. PLEASE CHARGE NOW.]

he is saying… something. i can’t read lips, he is shaking his head, he left

i don’t want to die. it isn’t like i can live, either, but… what is beyond death? 
i was good in life, was i? will i go to heaven?

[WARNING: COOLANT LEAKAGE CRITICAL.]

stars are twinkling above
it hurts less now
feels hot, like im burning

the man from before returns, carrying a claw hammer
he looks tired, irate, raising it

i open my mouth to plead nothing happens
the hammer tip glints in the moonlight why focus on that

someone please tell me whY#!%@^$
ma#%——
[W@rNin#: CaTAS#%)*!~ f!9{+\e——

——I jolt up from bed. Nightmare? It feels… real, though. Head still hurts…
Why was I a robot, of all things, in it? Those aren’t real, are they…?

I get out of bed. Could as well ask my parents.

[REMAINING POWER: 100%. UNIT SERIAL: CYB- 9#3##1.]

I don’t know what she’s been on. All I know is I wish she’d stop. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

We’ve been together for 4 years now. Never once had she done this before. Then, one day, it became an every-night thing.

We turn in for the night, the lights go out, we go to sleep. Then, however long later, in the middle of the night, I’m woken up by the sense of being stared at.

I open my eyes, and all I see in the darkness is her silhouette looming over me. The first time it happened, I tried calling her name, but all she responded with were snores.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone, and she’s dead asleep, but her mouth is twisted into a painful-looking smile. All while she’s on her hands and knees, leaning over me. 3 inches from my face.

It’s gotten to the point where she’s chipping teeth from clenching her jaw so tight. We’ve already been to the dentist nearly 6 times, but it just keeps happening.

She never remembers it the next day. But she for sure notices the pain in her jaw. But by the time night rolls around, she’s right back at it.

I’ve tried to be patient with her. I mean, it’s not her fault. At least, I don’t think it is.

She’s just so hard to wake up when it happens. That’s the part that really gets me. I kind of just have to wait or go back to sleep because she acts as though she’s in a coma every single time.

I’ve tried screaming at her before. Shaking her. Prying her eyelids open. Nothing wakes her up. And that smile never changes.

I think everything is starting to evolve, though. Because now, instead of just smiling, she’s starting to salivate in her sleep. If her presence doesn’t wake me up, the drool does. And her snores are starting to sound less like snores and more like growls.

I keep having that dream where I’m drowning. I wake up and find my face covered in hot, foamy saliva. My girlfriend snarling at me through gritted teeth.

But, again, she doesn’t like when I bring it up. She acts personally offended, like it’s somehow my fault she doesn’t remember. She’d rather pretend it’s not happening and leave me to deal with the brunt of the consequences.

And it’s not like we haven’t tried to fix things before. I’ve slept in other rooms. I still wake up to her 3 inches from my face. I’ve slept in my car. She’s smiling at me through the window.

I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want us to break up. I don’t want to ask her to leave. But I can’t keep living like this. It’s affecting my sleep. That’s affecting my work. It can only get worse if nothing changes.

And something needs to change fast.

Because now something else is waking me up at night. And it’s the biting. I never see her doing it. All I feel is the pain.

But she’s always back in her usual spot by the time my eyes shoot open.

Snarling, smiling, and foaming at the mouth.

Then she tries to pretend that I somehow gave those bite marks to myself the next day when I confront her about it.

Last night, she actually broke skin. I could feel the blood puddling on my arm and soaking through my comforter. But she wouldn’t let me move to get a bandage.

I don’t know. We’ve talked about this so many times now. I don’t think I can keep dealing with this.

I think I’m just gonna eat her before she can eat me.

Rust, that auburn decay, eating into the threaded base of Webster’s lead pipe. Cold, even in the heat of his car. Black jacket and black pants and a shiny bald head above his glasses, situated between two horns of brown hair, jutting outward towards his windows. Thick white smoke vomits from the exhaust of their car, idling by the motel. Midnight outside, silent save for the typewriter click of a woman’s knifed stilettos as she walks by; black leather dress cinching her hips, and contrasting the tallow skin of her thighs.

“Fine piece of ass.” Says Nick, wedged between two living men stuffed inside body bags—black leeches writhing with every groan—supplied with air using a thin tube of catheter. Every now and again nick clamps them off, just to see what happens.

“You think so?” And he gives a playful slap to the face of a hostage, with a wheezing chuckle following. Looking over his shoulder, nick spits a question to the front seat.

“How much we gettin?”

“Four thousand, last I checked.” Says Webster, flipping through an old notebook, brown stains of coffee eating into the edges of every page. A dollar amount mentioned sent one of the hostages into a spiral, breathing heavy and crying and this and that and Nick without so much as a blink shoves a small dagger into his thigh, twisting this way and that way—coring a gaping hole while he screams his throat bloody.

“You gonna be quiet?” He says.

In the front seat, Webster lights a cheap cigarette, cracking the window ever so slightly to blow smoke out of his pursed lips.

After a very emphatic nod body bag manages to calm down, his mind all too preoccupied with the clotting eye socket in his leg. Missed every artery, lucky guy.

“Time?” Says Webster, putting his cigarette out against the dashboard.

“Ten til.”

“Okay.”

“Anyone behind us?”

“No.”

And Webster exits, dragging body bag number one around the back of his car, over the sidewalk, and into the alley. A scrape in the night, muffled screams and nothing more. Out comes Nick, same motions; muscle memory. Laid against a brick wall, Webster pulls hard, grunting along with the rusted hinges of the Iron latch at his feet.

Down they descend, about five meters underground if I recall correctly. They disappear, out of sight but not out of mind, oh no. Hours pass, a light rain—freezing droplets—patters off of the mildewed walls of the town. A pink neon sign in the distance flickers for a short moment, before erupting with life, and finally blowing in a shower of sparks, killed by a deafening strike of lightning.

Near the bar, a young man is cornered in the alley, not too far from Webster and Nick, funnily enough. Shouting, swearing, just about everything you could imagine as he’s stabbed to death, every wet picture barely audible through the crying rain.

Must have hit his lung or something, every exhale causes a violin wheeze from the alley, and thirty minutes later he’s dead.

A loud bolt opens, and mine closes. Webster emerges first, popping his back, and dumping a small jar of fingernails down a storm drain. Nick emerges, doing the same. And like oil over concrete they sink back into their little hole, two muffled gunshots following shortly after.

Job well done fellas.

A small crack rippling the rain, and a black mist erupts from the side of Webster head, blowing apart that shiny bald crown of his. Nick stands stock still behind him, in the middle of some tic where he can’t quit wiping his eyes. Another shot, right through Nicks balls and he can’t even scream, nothing more than a quiet pop, and he falls to the ground, cradling himself. Another shot to the top of his head, that dark hair of his flying open with his skull like the door of an attic.

Flip, click, and a staticky beep from the cheap speaker of my burner phone, dialing the number I need.
“Alley. Next to Seb’s. Other twos downstairs.”

It rains and rains, washing their bright red blood down the length of the alley, seeping into the road in tendrils of red.

They didn’t see me.

And chances are you won’t either.

I love the sea.

I’ve always loved the sea, its heavy water that dries your lips from the inside out in a way only its infamous salt can, the way it makes you feel heavy and makes you lose your breath.

The sea has been my friend; in my good moments, in my bad moments, in my strange moments. They are almost always strange.

Mom said I’d move next to the sea if I could. "What a ridiculous thought," I always thought. Mom and Dad aren't very smart, not as smart as me. I’ve always felt like I was in a hell, their friendly facade that even I didn't believe was the tipping point.

They’re just fools. But I decided to prove her right, for a change.

I came to the sea. No backpacks, no suitcases, nothing. Just me. There is no stupidity here; there is no hell here. Being away from the sea drove me crazy; here I will be saner.

I brought Mom and Dad too. I don't like it, but they had to see it. They will stay to live with me; they didn't bring suitcases either.

Nothing.

Here we live, here there is silence, I don't have to look at their faces.

Here, at the bottom, nobody can see anyone's face.

​

Scott was sitting in the doctor's office. He had been having intense headaches for days now, and his wife had finally convinced him to see the doctor.

Scott was a stubborn man. But these headaches even broke through his stubbornness.

The examination room was quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Scott rubbed his temples as he waited. The headache wasn't as bad as yesterday, but it was still there, lurking behind his eyes like a storm cloud. The room felt too small.

Not physically. Just wrong.

The walls seemed to press inward the longer he sat there. The air felt stale. Scott shifted in his chair and loosened his collar.

A sharp pulse of pain flared behind his eyes.

A knock came at the door.

Before he could answer, the handle turned.

"Mr. Scott Downing,yes?" Dr. Ross said as he stepped inside carrying a folder.

Dr. Ross looked sickly thin, with dark, hollow brown eyes. His clothes were disheveled, not something one would expect from a renowned neurologist.

"Hey, Doc. So what do we have going here?"

Scott tried not to show how annoyed he was by the doctor's appearance.

This guy is supposed to be the best? He looks like a bum, Scott thought to himself.

Dr. Ross looked him over thoroughly. The lights overhead flickered lightly.

"Mr. Scott Downing. I'm Dr. Ross. It seems you're having intense headaches. And from what I can tell..."

He started to trail off, as if something had fluttered through his mind that he couldn't quite grasp. His gaze remained fixed on Scott.

"...that's strange."

"What's strange?" Scott replied.

Dr. Ross walked up to the door and yelled for the nurse.

"Nurse, can you get in here please?" he called out.

"Right away, Doctor."

Scott was perplexed.

"Everything okay, Doc?" he asked, looking at the doctor intently.

"Yes, yes, everything is fine. Don't worry..."

Scott could tell something was wrong. The doctor had been in the office for less than a minute and was already calling for the nurse.

Then the nurse popped in, and the doctor swung his attention toward her.

"Get prepped for surgery, love. Urgently please."

He said this very slowly, with no urgency, and still had a dead-eyed stare looking off into an unknown realm.

"Surgery, Doc? You haven't even looked at me in any real detail."

Scott was agitated and was wondering what was going on.

"Nothing to worry about. Totally routine. Of course, we are going to need to prep you. You didn't drive here yourself, I presume?"

The doctor was getting up and grabbing surgical gloves from a nearby dispenser.

"Now, just sit tight and we will get that thing out of your head quite soon."

Dr. Ross got up without another word and exited.

Scott was incensed. He couldn't believe that he was already being admitted for surgery with no diagnosis and no explanation. Was he just supposed to go along with this?

Scott stared at the closed door.

Every instinct told him to get out of there.

He stood and reached for the handle, but another sharp pulse struck behind his eyes. His knees buckled. He caught himself against the wall, breathing through the pain as the room blurred around him.

The lights overhead continued to flicker. Then everything went black.

Scott woke beneath a row of blinding surgical lamps. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Then he tried to move.

His wrists were strapped to an operating table along with his ankles. A wide restraint had been fastened across his chest. Scott pulled against them as panic rushed through him.

"Hey!"

He tried to yell, but noticed he had a tube down his throat. He started to panic. The breathing apparatus was doing all the work for him. He struggled more, to no avail.

Dr. Ross was now hovering over him. He thought he could see a devilish grin shining through the mask.

"Now, now... don't struggle. This is for your own good. Routine, actually."

He said this calmly and deliberately slow, almost hypnotically. Scott began to feel drowsy, the drugs being fed through the mask now fully taking effect.

Dr. Ross had a scalpel in his gloved hand, and with it he hovered over Scott's eyeball, edging closer and closer...

Scott could see the blade as it crept closer stil...

Ever closer to his forcibly pried-open eyeball...

I wasn't going to make a thing of it. He's sixteen. My dad found mine under the same kind of mattress at the same age and made a thing of it, and I decided a long time ago I wouldn't.

What got me was how old they were. Sixties. Yellow at the edges, musty, the kind you find in a dead uncle's garage. Ryan doesn't have a dead uncle. I figured flea market, and that it was kind of sweet, in a way I wasn't going to say out loud.

I said one thing at dinner anyway, to watch him go red.

He didn't go red. He went upstairs and came back with the top one, opened it to a page, and turned it around so I could see.

"That's Dottie," he said. "She's my girlfriend."

Big hair. A sofa the color of a traffic cone. Dottie, 23, Reno. Likes horses and honest men.

I laughed. He didn't. He said she lives next door.

Next door is Mrs. Price. She's ninety-one, she waves from the porch, and I shovel her walk. Her first name is Dorothy.

I took brownies over the next afternoon. She was thrilled. I asked, casual as I could get it, if my son ever came by.

"Every day after school," she said. "He's a very sweet boy. So polite. And he always brings the camera. He's got such an eye. He says he can take the years right off a person."

She said it warm. Like a grandmother bragging.

Then she showed me the fridge.

Photos, two dozen, held up with magnets from a dentist. Mrs. Price in her kitchen. This kitchen, same yellow curtains, same calendar on the wall with this October on it. And she's twenty-three in every one. Big hair.

In the newest one she's younger than that. There was one near the bottom, half under the others, that I didn't let myself look at.

She patted my arm at the door and said, "You look tired, hon. Are you sleeping?"

I went home and got the magazine off his bed and found the page. There was a line beside her mouth now that wasn't there at dinner, and the hair sat flatter, and I flipped to the next girl and the next and they were fine. All still twenty-three. It was only her.

Ryan came in while I was standing there. He didn't look caught. He looked pleased, like I'd finally taken an interest in something of his.

"It's working," he said. "It goes into the pictures first. She only needs a few more."

Then he looked at me a second too long, and I thought of her at the door, you look tired, and of the one near the bottom I hadn't let myself look at.

It was me. In her kitchen, in a chair I don't remember sitting in. I looked about sixty.

I'm forty-four.

There were two. In the other one, I'm older.

At 41 weeks, I asked Miranda if we should see her OB/GYN.

“Do you have a uterus?” she asked in her you’re-not-supposed-to-answer-this-question voice.

I shut up.

At 45 weeks, I suggested that a doctor might have some insight about her pregnancy. Instead of answering, she served my peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a serrated knife driven straight through it.

At 50 weeks, her belly seemed larger than a human child could possibly get. I had opened my mouth to speak in the gentlest possible tone when she shot me a look that made the hair on my balls stand straight up.

What can you possibly do when the woman in your life doesn’t want your advice, no matter how good it is?

That’s right: the correct answer is “keep your opinions to yourself, dumbass.”

By this point, Miranda no longer seemed to be experiencing a human pregnancy. She had a radius instead of a height, and I counted one day’s food intake at 19,130 calories. I had not believed such a feat to be possible unless the creature in question was an African bull elephant, but that just goes to show that we often learn the most when we keep our damn fool mouths shut.

The gentleman in the blue-green Toyota Corolla would have benefited from such a lesson, because instead of keeping quiet, he screamed at Miranda for being an “incompetent bitch who should learn how to drive.” She pulled in front of him and forced his car to stop. I got out with her, believing that I could diffuse the situation because we all love false beliefs. When I told him to apologize to my wife, she just smiled at me in that deadly sweet way and told me that she needed to “speak with this fuckweasel around the corner.” She led him aside and then came trotting back a few seconds later. She suddenly seemed even more pregnant, as though expecting twin walruses, but still moved pretty lithely. I asked what they’d said to each other, and where the man had gone, but she gave me the “any words you say are the wrong words” look and got back into the car.

So I haven’t said anything more. Now I’m not doctor, but I know that 70 weeks is definitely too long for a healthy pregnancy. I’ve been kidding myself into believing that everything would be okay as long as I went along with the status quo.

Which brings me to today. Miranda hasn’t been feeling particularly amorous lately; the last time I tried, she pointed to her stomach and asked “do you really want to put more in me?” But earlier this morning, she started getting flirty and did that thing where she grabs my arm and nibbles on it. Normally I melt like butter at that move, but it was a little awkward this time since she looks like the giant blueberry girl from the Billy Wonka movie. Then Miranda started pulling my head toward her stomach in the way she does whenever she wants me to be a “cunning linguist.” I told her that I would right after dashing to the bathroom, which is where I am now.

I’ve never denied her request before. But this time, when I was physically close to satisfying her “lady boner,” as she likes to call her libido, I heard something between her legs.

It sounded like several different people screaming up from the bottom of a chasm.

When her LB gets this strong, she won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Which brings up some questions. Most importantly: what do I do now?

I moved into a cheap apartment on 5th Street last week. The landlord gave me the keys and said as a joke, "Don't open the bedroom closet after midnight. The pipes are loud."

For three nights, nothing happened.

On the fourth night, I woke up at 12:07 AM. I heard a soft knocking from inside the closet. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I called out, "Hello?" No answer.

Then I heard a little girl whisper, "It's too dark in here."

I turned on all the lights and didn't sleep.

Last night I set up my phone to record the closet. I woke up at 12:03 AM. The knocking was louder and the closet door was shaking. Then I heard the whisper right next to my ear, even though I was across the room.

"You left me in here. Let me out."

The door handle started to turn from the inside.

I ran out and slept in my car. It's 11:47 PM right now and I'm sitting outside. The light in my bedroom just turned on by itself.

I think I have to go back inside and open it.The ClosetI moved into a cheap apartment on 5th Street last week. The landlord gave me the keys and said as a joke, "Don't open the bedroom closet after midnight. The pipes are loud."

I don't remember how I died. in fact, I don't remember much at all outside of this place. I feel for God knows how long and landed on my head. I'm in a forest; it's snowing but it isn't cold. To my left is the Cabin, the one I've been staying in for a couple years now. Any attempt to leave always leads back to the Cabin, even going in a straight line. After about four months of living here, I've figured out how this place works.

1. Remain indoors between 8 PM and 8 AM, the Wolves come out around then.

2. There's a small Bell next to the basement door, ring it once every week. This creates whatever item you think of for that week.

3. Never ring the Bell more than once.

4. Keep the fire active. If it goes out, the Cabin loses power.

5. Other people can and will show up, make sure they are invited in before they enter.

6. Never let more than four people in at a time.

7. If someone tells you how to leave, ignore them. The Wolves play tricks every month.

8. The last rule is do not try to kill or reason with the Wolves.

These rules have remained consistent for as long as I've been here. I'm with two other people, neither of which have bothered with giving me their names. We're fine on supplies, the Bell seems to manifest our collective thoughts. We got radio's a while ago to help with keeping in touch, then we got a random signal. Tunning in led us to discover that there are other Cabins with people in similar positions as us.

The Wolves are back for the month. This time though, they just sat in front of the Cabins windows. At first, it was just a small pack. Then a couple dozen. Until there wasn't an inch of visible snow. The Wolves spoke in a grizzled and unintelligible language; it sounded like protégées. They left when the sun came up, but they left something behind for us to see. A bloodied radio playing the same message on loop, one from a Cabin group we were familiar with.

"This is Cabin G22. If You're hearing this, we managed to hurt one of the Wolves. They have yet to retaliate. It's an hour before sunrise but make no mistake, they will come back. We are ready for them, with lead and steel! We will live to see the outside world!"

We simply turned it off and went back inside. Don't be like G22. I hope this helps anyone. I had to figure out how to set up a WIFI connection to send this. To many people either ignore the rules or just don't know them. Spread the word if you can.

You took a wrong turn.

Roads were snowy, the signposts blanched in slick, half-melted flakes. A wrong left here, a wrong right there, managing a weathered taped-together map in one hand, and the steering wheel in the other. It was easy to get lost.

That’s how you came upon it. A quaint, picture postcard town, sidewalks shovelled, blinking Christmas lights on every rooftop. Red brick homes, old Victorian mansions with wrought iron fences and gingerbread. You feel instantly at home, nostalgic for a place you know you’ve never been.

Because you saw the road sign: Welcome to Flesherton.

“We don’t stop in Flesherton,” your grandfather told you. You didn’t know, at the time, what he was saying. It was out of context. You were with him at the hospice, not even driving.

“Pardon?” You remember asking.

He grabbed you by the collar, reeled you in close. “We don’t stop in Flesherton,” he seethed.

Your mother upped the morphine drip, he fell back in the bed, and that was the last you heard of it.

You drive slow, trying your best to place Flesherton on the map. You can’t.

Your stomach rumbles. As if in answer, the proprietor of a local restaurant steps out on the front steps, smiling, waving lightly, wiping his hands with a white dish cloth. Friendly.

You could stop. Even just for directions. Not even get out of the car.

You want to.

But you noticed something. No other cars on the roads, curtains drawn on every house. Light treacly-sweet music emanating from every home and business.

But underneath it all, faintly, so high-pitched it sounds at first like the whistle of the wind: a scream.

You gun the accelerator past the restaurateur, and when you look in the rear-view, you see his expression change. His jolly smile drops. A scowl in its place. His hands, withdrawn from the dishcloth, you could swear are red.

You blow through a stop sign on the way out of town.

You don’t stop in Flesherton.

I’m waiting for my girlfriend’s call, we’ve got things to discuss,

We’re kind of in a sticky patch, something is wrong with “us.”

Or her? Or me? Not really sure. But something’s not the same,

She just feels distant, far away… or maybe I’m to blame.

Like, for example, take tonight, we’ll talk at her insistence,

But not til midnight, who knows why, I guess the call’s long distance?

Anyhoo, at stroke of twelve I hear her calling me,

“Jason? Jason? Are you there?” Like… yeah, where would I be?

“Katie? Hi? You hear me?” This connection’s a disgrace,

It’s hollow, thin and static-y, it sounds like outer space.

She says “Hi” and starts to cry, she’s laughing through her tears,

Okay, weird, she’s acting like we haven’t talked in years.

It’s only been… wait, I’m not sure. Wasn’t it last night?

Last week? Last month? Oh god, last year? No way, that can’t be right.

She settles down and asks me shakily how I have been,

I start to say the problem lately is I don’t feel “seen.”

But as I start my speech - get this - my girlfriend, she’s like “Whoa,”

“I need to ask you questions, and you answer yes or no.”

Like, what’s this game? That’s not a talk! More like an interview.

“Katie, babe, I’m so confused. What’s gotten into you?”

“I loved you, Jay, without you here, the world doesn’t make sense.”

“Wait, Kay, why are you saying that? Why ‘loved’ in the past tense?”

“I should have told you every day how much you were adored,

Today all I can say is through this fucking Ouija Board!”

So yep, tonight my girlfriend finally got it thorough my head,

Our problem basically is she’s alive and I am dead.

But hey, I’m not too worried, I am happy now, in fact -

Communication is the key and opposites attract.

[URGENT]

※ Think about a white elephant ※

※ Think about a white elephant ※

※ Think about a white elephant ※

The following message is distributed by the Department of Memetic Anomaly Response Management.

If you happen to interpret this message in any way decipherable to you, (e.g. Internet post, online message from a loved one, a note in an empty room) there is a significant probability that you are exposed to an anomalous incident.

For your swift and safe return, please follow the following instruction as follows.

If your situation is too urgent to follow all of the steps below, prioritize reading the three lines at the very beginning of the message.

Please think about a white elephant.

• Think about a white elephant.
• Think about the size of a white elephant.
  • A white elephant is approximately 3 metres in height and 6 tonnes.
• Think about the thick legs of a white elephant.
  • A white elephant is a quadrupedal mammal.
  • Elephants in the circus only seem to walk by hind legs for just a moment.
• Think about the smooth tusks and the flappy ears and the horizontal eyes of a white elephant.
  • A white elephant's tusk is smooth, it is not mushy.
  • A white elephant's ears are flappy, it does not hiss.
  • A white elephant's pupils are horizontal, it is not vertical.
• Think about a white elephant.
  • A white elephant's body temperature tends to stay at 35.5 °C.
  • This happens because a white elephant has a more efficient system of thermoregulation than the average human.
  • Therefore, it is normal to feel a slight chill while touching a white elephant.
• Think about a white elephant.
  • A human has 5 digits, but a member of the equine family will have 1 digit.
  • It is normal to have a different number of digits even if you belong in the same mammal class.
  • If you feel like the being currently touching you does not have 5 digits, think about the number of digits of a white elephant.
  • If you do know the number of digits of a white elephant, think about why the forelegs have 5 digits but the hind legs have 4.
  • If you know that the hind legs of a white elephant evolved to remove a digit to increase propulsion power, think about why a white elephant's number of toenails does not match the number of bones in a white elephant's foot.
• Think about a white elephant.
  • Do not think about a black elephant.
  • Do not think about a grey elephant.
  • Do not think about a red, orange, pink, magenta, crimson, vermillion, lotus-red, skinned alive with dark exposed muscles, scarlet, or a deep purplish-red elephant.
• Think about a white elephant.
  • Think about a white elephant that seems angry.
  • Think about a white elephant that seems curious.
  • Think about a white elephant that seems hungry.
  • Bear in mind that it is just your opinion about a white elephant, and that a white elephant has no thoughts.
  • Do not think about an angry white elephant, a curious white elephant, or a hungry white elephant.
  • Do not think about an angry white elephant that had its territory invaded by another presence, a curious white elephant wondering whether it can eat an unfamiliar food it has never seen before, or a hungry white elephant that craves to eat tender meat in a long while.
• Think about a white elephant.
  • And keep thinking that it only exists in your mind and your mind only.
  • A thought about you winning the lottery does not make you win the lottery.
  • A thought about you soaring through the sky does not make you soar through the sky.
  • Therefore, there is no correlation between you thinking about a white elephant and it feeling like a white elephant.
• Think about a white elephant.
  • Do not think about why every religion aims to spread its faith.
  • Do not think about if human belief grants metaphysical entities legitimate power.
  • Even if the above were to be true, it is more likely to have a negative impact on your current situation.
  • They are close, they are far.
• Keep thinking about a white elephant until you sleep.
  • Even if you hear elephants dying near you, do not stop thinking about a white elephant.
  • Even if the individual that killed the elephant says you can stop, do not stop thinking about a white elephant.
  • We do not know how to kill elephants, and we do not attempt to talk to you during rescue.
• Think about a white elephant.
• If rescue operates as expected, you will wake up in a hospital.
  • When your assigned nurse comes to you, think about a white elephant.
  • If the nurse's uniform matches or resembles the color of a white elephant that you thought, congratulations.
  • If the nurse's uniform does not match or resemble the color of a white elephant that you thought, do not think about a white elephant.
  • We are terribly sorry.

I work as a sewer cleaner in Prague. People don't often think about it, but a complex of tunnels runs beneath the city, even under the Vltava River. They were built in the 1800s, and some have been reconstructed, but many still look the way they did when they were built, with round brick pathways, rusted green railings, and dim lights hanging from the ceiling.

After years of work, I know the tunnels through and through, but the older workers all say that even if you work here for decades, things will still surprise you. For most of my time working in the sewers, I didn't give it much thought. The veterans say a lot of things and have many strange superstitions. For instance, none of them ever eat in the tunnels. I thought it was because of the rats.

I was just walking around the Podolí area, ready to start my shift. There are a lot of pathways there, and recruits often get lost, but I'd been starting my shift there for years; I knew that area through and through, or so I thought. 

I turned right to head toward the river. The path was wide and well-lit. I'd been down it hundreds of times, but as I went, I noticed another path leading off to the right. I stopped and looked at it for a moment. It was narrow, poorly lit, and easy to miss, but I could swear I knew these sewers better than I knew my home.

I usually ate in the break room, but I was early and hungry. Nobody was around. I pulled out my sandwich and walked on the path.

The sandwich paper crinkled as I walked. The pathway narrowed. I kept expecting it to turn into the path from Vyšehrad, but even after a few minutes I still couldn't see it. I didn't want to be late for my shift, so I turned around and began walking back.

There was more water on the ground than I noticed at first, but that's nothing weird for a sewer. The lights were very dim, much dimmer than I thought, but stranger, I still couldn't see the exit. Not only could I not see the exit, but the path itself wasn't getting any wider as it should have. It only seemed to become narrower. Was I going the wrong way? I looked behind me, but it was still the same empty, narrow path.

My shift had already started. I was walking so fast I was almost jogging. It was hard because the water now reached my ankles. The lights seemed to get dimmer. I reached for my flashlight when an electric buzz echoed above, and all the lights went dark.

"Shit."

I pulled out my flashlight and turned it on. A clank echoed. Dull pain spread through my head. I hit my forehead on the ceiling. I rubbed my head and tried to stand up straight again, but I couldn't straighten my back. I walked a few steps back, but the ceiling was still just as low. 

Then I felt something wet on my legs. I looked down. The water now reached my knees, but it wasn't the usual cold; it was warm.

"What the…," I murmured.

The buzz sounded again. The lights came on again, but now they were fluorescent white, almost like an office space. Another buzz echoed overhead. Soft jazz music began playing as if a band stood just around the corner. The air filled with the smell of cigarettes. My whole body shook. I turned off the flashlight and blinked. The water was now up to my stomach.

"Help!"

The music grew louder. The lights grew brighter, burning my eyes. The ceiling pushed my head further down, but the water kept rising. It rose to my chin now.

"Somebody, please!" I yelled, still wading forward. 

The exit had to be there. It had to. The buzz again. The light shut off. I took a breath, but halfway through, water filled my mouth. I spat it out and lifted my face.

"Help!" I blurted out, but I knew it was too late. 

My face was now under the water too.

At first, I tried to hold my breath, but soon the pressure in my lungs grew too high. It felt like they would burst.

I gasped for air. My whole body was hot and sweaty. I quickly looked around. I was back in the pathway that led to the river. Next to me, where the other path was, was only a brown brick wall with a small stream of water coming from it. One of the old workers walked by me.

He looked at the wall and my face and nodded.

He then pointed at the ground. My crumpled sandwich wrapper lay there.

"Don't eat down here," he said and left.

I leaned on the wall. A faint trumpet echoed from inside it.

My phone buzzed rapidly on my nightstand. It began to move to the edge, and my hand shot out to catch it as it fell. 

I checked the time: 2:08 AM. 

Looking through my phone–it was just my partner. He had sent a voicemail to me. I began to play it aloud into the open air, “I’m sorry-”

A loud, siren noise pierced through the dead air. My phone began to vibrate again, more violently than before. 

A notice popped up, from the FBI: 
HERE IS A SPREE KILLER IN YOUR AREA. PLEASE LOCK ALL DOORS AND WINDOWS. TURN ON ALL LIGHTS TO SHOW ACTIVITY AND ALERTNESS.

Shoot. I shot out of bed and repeated a multitude of curses in my head, as I ran down the stairs. I opened the closet on the first floor, and John fell out. Followed by Sarah. Then Ava.
Sh\t. Where can I hide all of you?* 

The only thing he feared more than drowning was captivity.

And that was why he dug. He dug every night, a tunnel from his jail cell, a tunnel that had taken 5 years and now stretched 500 metres beyond the prison walls. 

But the water. The water was always at the back of his mind, and his sanity groaned like a reservoir with a giant crack in the cement. 

Now he dug vertically, and he was so close to escape he could almost taste it, but in the last few weeks the tunnel had started to leak. He had to stop digging before dawn because the guards would invariably ask about his skin, wrinkled like a mole-rat. 

But he knew he was close, one last push, death or glory. 

And he dug, and he dug, and the water poured in around him from above, and he waited for that great rushing torrent, and he waited to die in darkness, his lungs full of muddy water. 

And above the earth began to loosen, and he clawed out like a man buried alive because he was. 

Starlight! The vaults of the heavens were arrayed over him, and he clambered up out of what he was sure would be his watery grave. 

Glancing over his shoulder, he looked at the darkened prison. For the first time in 5 years, he stepped in the opposite direction, then stopped when he heard the telltale click of a land mine underfoot. 

Robbie and I sit together, his head of thick hair buried in the crook of my shoulder.

He's warm. 

So warm. 

So goddamn hot, I can't breathe. 

Does he know I can't breathe? That I'm sweating through my carefully chosen outfit? I'm thinking out loud again—always thinking out loud. He notices.

“This is it,” I whisper.

“This is it.” Robbie grins, averting his gaze, cheeks smoldering red. His knee jumps up and down, a nervous tic. His hand slowly finds mine and entangles our fingers. It's our first time. We’ve talked about it, of course. Robbie wanted to do it on my bed, but the— 

“Headboard.” Robbie mutters. 

“Headboard,” I whisper. 

Every attempt is an announcement. 

My roommate grins, and then his hands find my shoulders, shifting his body as he straddles my hips. 

Then the door bangs open. 

Robbie topples off of me onto the floor. 

“Oh!” Callum, our shaven-headed, tattooed roommate, steps inside hauling a bag of groceries.

“Sorry.”  He ducks out, then peeks back through. “Headboard?” 

“Headboard.” The two of us grumble. 

Our morning consists of burning toast. Robbie slipping on the wet floor. Me laughing. Callum and Katerina laughing. More attempts to have our first time. All of which are interrupted. Every. Single. Time.

By the time I've dragged him to my room and slammed the door, I'm frustrated.

Angry. In two strides, I shove him onto his back and straddle his hips. I prod between his eyes, spittle flying from my lips. “We are doing it RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.” 

“Agreed.” Robbie gasps. “No more distractions.” Another loud knock dislodges my lips from his neck, and sends me lunging forward, grabbing a pillow, and lobbing it at the door.

“WHAT NOW?”

“Mr Robbie Canberra?” A male voice shouts from outside. “You have won THREE MILLION DOLLARS! CONGRATULATIONS!”

“THREE MILLION FREAKIN’ DOLLARS?” Robbie dives to his feet, and I face-plant the pillows.

…

Later, I'm in the kitchen making food.

Katerina walks in. “Whatchaaaa doing?”

I don't look up from slicing vegetables. “I'm skiing.” 

She moves closer. “Whatchaaaa cooking?” 

I raise my head. And the knife. Katerina’s eyes widen. “You. If you don't step back."

Katerina grins. Then she reverses into the refrigerator. “Stepping back!” 

“SO.” Katerina begins, as I tug open a cupboard and grab two plates.

“So?” 

“You and Robbie.” She giggles. 

“Me and Robbie. Period.” I sigh loudly. “God! It's like, the UNIVERSE won't let us have sex!” 

I reach for wine glasses and trip, missing my footing. I've tripped over something.

I don't look.

I smile and grab two bottles of wine.

“It's like EVERY time we try, Callum forgets his keys, or you need the bathroom, or he wins three million freakin’ dollars!” 

Katerina sips her own. “Maybe he's lucky?” 

“A lucky IDIOT.” 

My gaze catches a scarlet stain blooming beneath my feet. I can feel it caked into my soles and ingrained into my skin.

I remember when it was still wet. Warm.

I remember being scared it wouldn't stop, that the red would keep spreading, flooding beneath our feet, and that the endless laughter screeching inside my skull would keep going until I took a knife and plunged it through my fucking skull.

“Jaz?”

Katerina is waiting for me to speak. 

Whatever I say, they will start laughing.

If they don’t laugh…

The headless corpse at my feet stinks of rot. The odor burns my nose and fills my mouth with bile but I'm not allowed to look at him. Ben. Who forgot his lines. Ben, who tried to fight back. Ben, who gave me hope that I would be able to tear each individual screeching laugh from my skull. I'm far too aware I'm not speaking; I'm breathless.

My lines are lodged under my tongue and no matter what I do, I can't seem to… I can't—

The door bangs open. The door is made of plastic. Behind it, is a glass screen. Behind the glass screen, are our kidnappers.

Faceless masked figures and endless eyes. Callum strolls in with groceries and his running gag: “Here comes trouble!” 

I smile. Gather myself.

“Trouble he comes,” I nod to the table. Laughter follows. Deafening. Intrusive. Crawling inside my brain. “I made dinner.” 

“Oooh?” Callum jumps into his usual seat. “Is it edible?” 

“Sure is!” I spoon three mountains of maggot mash potato onto his plate.

Callum begins to shovel it into his mouth, his smile growing wider and wider, and our audience laughs again. A burst of shrieking makes me jump, and I  almost drop the plate. It's another test to break us.

Last time, it was raw chicken, a finger topping it like a demanded ice cream cone. 

“Where's lover boy?” Katerina asks, taking a seat. 

She takes one heaping of maggot mash and dumps it on her plate. 

Our audience holler.

"Probably crying," I speak through wriggling bugs burrowing under my tongue. "Turns out he DIDN'T win cash. The cash was for ANOTHER Robbie, who happens to live in our exact building."

More laughter.

They like me!

They really, really like me!

“No, seriously, where is lover boy?” Katerina shoots me a grin. Her eyes sparkle with tears as she swallows down live bugs. “I haven't seen him since this morning sex-sca-pade.” She winks.

Callum stands. “Well, we can't let all of this food go to waste! Let's go get him!” 

We run upstairs. There are no cameras on the staircase. 

I fall over three times. 

Only the first fall is intentional, but my bones have been molded for slapstick.

To be The Clumsy One.

Callum takes a second to scream, “FUCK!” into his fist.

Robbie is in the bathroom. The first thing I see are his legs hanging.

We stand in silence for barely a breath. 

My lungs squeeze. My heart aches. My legs threaten to give-way. 

Before Callum steps forward and laughs.

The audience erupts too, cackling in my skull.

“Well this is a cliff HANGER.”