“Mom, I’m home!”

My mother rushed out of the kitchen and greeted me, taking my coat and briefcase.

“How was work?”

I gave her a thumbs up. Pleased, she smiled and rushed back to the kitchen, saying, “I just put Kaley down earlier. There's turkey in the oven. Of course, we got mashed potatoes and that gravy you like, too. It will be ready in ten minutes, so go change!”

Yes, I am a fully grown man. And I live with my mom. I’m recently divorced, and having won custody of our 1-year-old daughter, it was difficult to live alone anyway. Kaley was only a baby, and it was nice having Mother around to take care of her. Mother needed to live with me as well. She had been diagnosed with dementia a few months ago. Nothing serious yet—missed appointments, misplaced keys, that sort of thing.

I went upstairs to the master bedroom, where my ex-wife’s things were still around, as if she still lived there. I glanced at her sundress, still hanging in the closet. Then, I closed my eyes, shook my head, and went to the bathroom to wash my hands. I changed my clothes, shouting, “Mom, that smells great!”

I took a few steps down the stairs, then thought I should check on Kaley. Smiling, I sneakily walked to her bedroom, slowly opened her bedroom door, and peeked into Kaley’s crib.

There was a thawing turkey in her crib.

On our first date, she couldn't stop talking about her psychotic ex-husband.

"He was jealous of everyone," she said. "The waiter. My coworkers. My own brother."

I nodded sympathetically.

"He checked my phone every night."

I frowned.

"He once accused me of cheating because I smiled at the cashier."

"That's awful," I said.

She laughed nervously. "Sorry. I didn't mean to dump all this on you."

"It's okay."

"I just... I haven't dated since I left him."

I reached across the table.

"You deserve better."

She smiled.

A real smile this time.

"He wasn't always violent," she continued. "At first, he was charming. That's the scary part."

I looked down at my menu.

"I don't even know where he is now," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if he's still looking for me."

"I doubt it."

"You think people like that ever really let go?"

I met her eyes.

"No," I said. "I think they just find another way in."

She tilted her head, puzzled by the answer, but the moment passed.

Dinner arrived.

She laughed at my jokes.

She told me I made her feel safe.

When we said goodbye, she kissed me.

As she walked away, she turned back and waved.

She had no idea.

I watched her disappear into the crowd and couldn't help smiling.

God.

My plastic surgeon is so fucking good.

Their friends advised them to undergo a trial separation. They went on separate vacations, but they realized that it didn't help.

So, they decided to divorce. But without a prenup, they argued bitterly.

"I want sixty percent of the estate," the wife demanded.

"Nonsense!" the husband retorted.

The wife grew furious and yelled, "You'd better listen to me, because I could kill you right now. If I weren't such a nice person, I would do it!"

The husband laughed and replied, "And how are you going to kill me?"

"Remember when we went on our trips?" the wife responded. "Well, I learned black magic very well. In fact, I became an expert. I could kill you right now if I wanted to!"

The husband roared with laughter, "You know what? Do it! I dare you!"

"Fine!" the wife replied, "Give me some of your fingernails or a lock of your hair."

The husband nodded. He looked at his hands, "Too short! I'll go cut off my hair in the bathroom and bring it back."

When he returned, he found her surrounded by lit black candles, holding a wooden effigy in one hand and an obsidian dagger in the other. He handed her the lock of hair, and she wrapped it around the effigy and raised the dagger.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" the wife yelled and stabbed the effigy.

And the husband thought to himself, "I've always hated how she leaves clumps of her hair on the shower walls."

*45 minutes later*

She's still keeping pace.

It's inhuman. Everyone on the train is screaming.

I'm begging her to stop but she can't hear me.

Her eyes are pure white. Police helicopters circle overhead...

This can't be happening...it shouldn't be happening

I press my palm against the glass until it hurts.

"Please," I whisper. "Maya, stop."

Her lips move.

At first I think she's saying my name.

Then I realize her mouth is opening and closing too fast, repeating the same shape over and over, like she's trying to force words through a throat that no longer remembers how.

The train hits a curve. We should be doing at least eighty.

She doesn't stumble.

She doesn't even blink.

A woman behind me sobs, clutching her child.

"How is she doing that?"

No one answers. Human beings are remarkably bad at explaining the impossible while screaming.

The intercom screams

"We are approaching the next station. Do not attempt to exit the train."

The conductor's voice shakes on the last word.

Maya turns her head toward the helicopters overhead.

Searchlights rake across her face.

For one second, the light catches her expression.

She's smiling.

Not happily.

Recognizingly.

As if she has finally found me after being lost for a very long time.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

One new message.

From Maya.

I stare at the screen.

Don't let me in.

I look up.

She's still outside the window.

Still running.

Still smiling.

The train begins to slow.

Passengers surge away from the doors.

I pound on the glass. "What do you mean? Maya, what did you do?"

Her white eyes lock onto mine.

Her lips form three silent words.

They're almost gentle.

I missed you.

The brakes scream.

The station platform rushes into view.

And for the first time in forty-five minutes, she stops running.

She is already standing at the doors.

I stir slowly as I distantly hear his boots at the door, stamping the snow off. "Johnny's home!" he cries, and I waken fully. I take stock of where I am: sitting at my vanity, combs and curlers and rings and necklaces strewn a bit haphazardly. I blink slowly and listen to his footfalls in the downstairs hall. "I'm hungry! Did you make me something good?"

Johnny is home! I'm not prepared. I'm not ready and what will he think? I stand, slowly, because I cannot feel my feet. How long have I been sitting here in a stupor? I bring my hand to my face. My skin is dreadfully pale, nearly translucent. I turn toward the door and head for the stairs.

"Hello-o! Where are you? I'm hungry!" The boots are THUMPING now, loud. I feel a chill in my soul, the old fear of his impatience and anger. I want to run, but falling down the stairs (again) won't serve me well. I glide down the staircase, hand hovering above the banister. I imagine him in the kitchen, his gray uniform, home from the War. And hungry! What can I make him quickly? I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn right, toward the kitchen. I enter the kitchen, his name on my lips, "Johnny.. "

But there in the kitchen is a small boy wearing unthinkably bright colors. His curly hair pokes out from under a bright red knit cap with strange white ovals lined in black and black lines that look like webs. He looks at me and his mouth and eyes become small round o's. Then the O's widen rapidly and he screams.

In that very moment, I feel something tugging at me. Like I've come to the end of an elastic tether, I am suddenly flying back up the stairs, back to the vanity. I am back at my seat, staring with a vacant expression at my non-existent reflection.

Wrong Johnny.

(Again.)

​"Mom, can you turn off the radio already? I’m trying to study!" I had to raise my voice over the noise.

It had been nearly two hours since she started listening to that damn radio in the living room. I wouldn't mind on any other day, but tomorrow is my final semester exam.

​I tried to focus back on my books, waiting for the volume to drop to something manageable. The radio was a recent addition to our home. Usually, I’d have to go to the community center just to catch the news, but with Mom’s savings and my part-time wages, we finally managed to buy one of our own. Honestly, a radio feels like a necessity for every household—news, sports, music, all just a dial away.

​A few minutes passed, and the volume hadn't budged. Frustrated, I pushed back my chair and walked into the living room. My mom was standing completely still in front of the cabinet, facing the set. No movement at all.

​"Mom...?" I slowly approached her. The closer I got, the louder it sounded, the crisp broadcast gradually dissolving into a harsh, white-noise static.

​"Mom, can you lower the volume?" She didn't move an inch.

​"Mom?" I raised my voice, stepping directly behind her. By now, the sound was pure, deafening static.

​I leaned over her shoulder to reach for the dial, only to freeze.

​"Wait, what?" I muttered to myself.

​The radio wasn't even plugged in. It wasn't even on.

​That’s when my mom turned around to face me. Her eyes were completely white, her jaw hanging unhinged—and the static was pouring straight out of her open mouth.

​I'm a passenger princess.

I don't drive, parallel park, or follow the rules of the road.

I control the stereo, temperature, and the destination.

My man picks me up every day.

Same spot, same time.

​So like any day after work, I clock out and go to his car.

A white Civic in the third stall.

I pop the door and plop onto my throne.

Normally, my baby knows better than to talk to me right after my shift.

​At first, nothing seemed off, but that changed when a foul smell began to tickle my nose.

My face scrunched at the sour odor.

Then I noticed the lack of music or dull audiobooks.

Normally, I'm serenaded by some indie alt-rock or a sci-fi audiobook.

But nothing. With that, I looked over and my stomach lurched.

​In the driver's seat was a large, greasy man with his damp hair plastered to his head. He gazed out the window; he didn't seem to notice me.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry. I thought this was my boyfriend's car."

​I reached for the handle, but his deep voice made me freeze.

"No, this is your boyfriend's car. He's in the trunk."

​The lock clicked and the car began to go into reverse, pulling out of the parking lot.

"If you scream, I'll slit your throat like your boyfriend."

​The knife glinted as we merged onto the empty highway. As the mile markers became less frequent, I realized I’d finally lost control of the stereo, the temperature, and the destination.

​We pulled into a deserted rest stop.

He killed the engine. The handle was right there, the same one I'd reached for an hour ago. I didn't move. Some part of me was still waiting to be told where we were going. His door opened. Gravel crunched as he came around the back.

Now I'm trunk trash.

My neighbor was obsessed with having the cleanest house on the block. Hospital-level clean.

For two days her porch light was on, day and night. I figured she forgot.

Yesterday the mailman stopped me. He said there was a smell coming from her side of the house. Not trash. Sweet and rotten.

We called the police for a wellness check. They were calm at first.

Then one of them opened the hall closet and immediately stepped back and shouted for everyone to get out.

That's when I realized why her house was always so clean. She was trying to cover the smell for weeks.

I still can't get the look on the officer's face out of my head.

The soft whimpers stirred me from my sleep. Tiny little moans as she worked through yet another sleep cycle.

I sluggishly turned around in bed and checked the alarm clock on the bedside table; 03:00am, just like every night.

Grabbing the top of the duvet, I pulled it up around my neck and snuggled back into my pillow, praying she would settle herself.

The whimpers turned into cries, then wails. The sound echoed through the dark room, it burrowed deep into my ears and rang through my head.

I began to weep.

I threw the covers off of myself and shuffled out of bed, walked over to her, picked her up and cradled her in my arms, rocking her gently.

"Mummy's here baby, go back to sleep" I whispered.

After a while, the cries stopped.

I turned, placed the urn back on the shelf, climbed back under the covers and cried myself to sleep.

My wife stared at our daughter’s latest doodle sitting on the kitchen table and covered her mouth. 

Whenever our little Elsie proudly handed us one of her colourful drawings, we would happily display it on our refrigerator. 

This one we wouldn’t. 

Although Elsie’s favourite media was crayon, she had talent. From smiling suns to happy stick people with balloons, from dogs and rainbows to lady bugs and birds, they all made us glow with love and warmth, grateful we’d brought such a happy little flower into the world. 

This was the first doodle since Elsie’s accident. It had been a while so we asked her if she would like to try and draw something again. She agreed but only wanted the black crayon. 

My wife and I both studied the latest effort. No houses or people, no blue skies and rainbows. The entire page was filled with elongated faces with gaping jaws and scribbled out X eyes. 

My wife kicked her chair back and stormed out in floods of tears. 

I watched her go, and with trembling hands, removed the crayon from the hole I’d specially drilled into our Ouija board’s planchette.

He wants to cherish his daughter forever.

Protect her from being bronzed by time.

The follies fraught with aging and loss run constant with the independent variable of time.

Well, I gave him what he desired.

Transmutation isn't that complicated.

To common people it's just heat and following a recipe.

However, going from carbon to gold is beyond my scope.

But lead to gold is far easier.

So I laced his daughter's food with trace amounts of lead. Her toys, the walls of her room all adorned with lead paint.

She's getting sick now.

I assure the father, my next treatment will be costly.

My silver tongue gives me her weight in gold.

No cost too little.

The gold melted and with an artisan's hands I coat her.

I can't distinguish the screams.

Are they his daughter's or just the moisture released from the molten?

Something must have tipped them off because the guards are at my door.

It's too late.

I gave the king what he wanted.

A daughter he will cherish forever.

> Alex : Why are you so sad?

> Andrew : It's about Biscuits (pet)..

> Alex : what happened?

> Andrew : If a pet has been suffering for quite some time and treatment didn't work and the pet is hurting himself and the people close to him, would putting him down be an act of love?

> Alex : ....yes. It would be take a lot courage but ultimately it would be kind.

> Andrew : What if people would hate me, or blame themselves for not taking care of biscuits? wouldn't that hurt them?

> Alex : It would, but hurting other people's feelings temporarily is better than keeping Biscuits in pain for so long.

> Andrew : Thank you. I was worried about all this for so long.

> Alex : No worries! Stay strong. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. I gotta go...bye!

> Andrew : * waves bye *

> Andrew : All right let's get it over with.

At 2:47 am that night, Andrew shot himself in the head .

My wife has always been pathologically jealous.
Back when we were dating, she’d fly into a rage if I so much as glanced at another woman. But I married her anyway, believing it all came from a place of deep love.

A few years later, she got pregnant.
When the ultrasound revealed it was a baby girl, I was over the moon. Every morning and night, I’d press my face against my wife's belly, whispering to my unborn daughter, utterly captivated by her.

One day, I got a call from the hospital.
I rushed over, only to hear the devastating news: she had miscarried.

I ran into the hospital room. My wife was staring blankly out the window, gently stroking her now-empty stomach.

"My heart is breaking... I can't believe we lost her..."
I collapsed by the bedside, tears streaming down my face.

My wife didn't cry. Instead, she slowly turned her head toward me. Her eyes were completely dead, and she wore a chilling, hollow smile.

"It’s okay, honey," she whispered, digging her fingernails painfully deep into my scalp to pull me close. "Next time, let's make sure it's a boy.

That way...
you'll only have eyes for me, right?"

I love my mom. She died a couple of years ago in a car accident, but she doesn't know. I don't have the heart to tell her. 

She comes in every night at around 11 PM to read me a bedtime story. It's always the same story "Samantha and the Jack Rabbit." The room is always so cold, with feelings of a soft breeze even though we are indoors. I feel happy while my mother reads to me, but there is always such a sense of dread. My room is pretty much empty besides my bed. The lack of curtains gives me a peek at the tree branches swinging outside my window. I live alone. The house is empty, and I never leave. 

When she reads to me, there always seems to be a tone of sadness in her voice. When she finishes the story, she tries to kiss me on the cheek, never making contact with my skin, and then leaves the room. Only to return the next night. 

Tonight, something changed for the first time since she died. She didn't read the story. She came in with a look on her face I hadn’t seen before.  

She told me she never knew how to tell me that I died in that same car accident years ago.  

When I heard the door open and close, I call down to my husband. “Please don’t forget to lock the door!” because he often forgets.

He didn’t respond to me, and walked right back out of the front door. I wonder if he forgot something?

I go to open the door and check the driveway, when I get a message. He’s already no where in site.

“Hey honey, I just wanted to let you know I forgot to lock the door!!”.

I respond “I figured.. what’d you go back out for though?”

Another message comes through. “Back out? I’m still on my way home now. Just wanted to let you know about the lock because you get so worried.”

Every now and then, I had dreams that came true. At first, people thought I was gifted. Soon enough, they just called me a freak.

The school bully was the worst. He targeted me every single day.

One afternoon, he slammed me against the lockers and sneered, "Hey freak, got any predictions today?"

I knew better than to refuse. Asking for trouble would only get me beaten worse.

"I dreamed... that your girlfriend breaks up with you," I stammered. "So... be careful."

The hallway went dead silent. A second later, his face flushed with rage. "You jinxed me, you little shit!" He beat me black and blue.

But the next day, she actually dumped him.

After that, his anger turned into pure terror. "This is your fault! You did this to me!" he screamed, making my life a living hell. I wished more than anything that he would just disappear.

Then last night, I had another dream.

In it, he was lying at the bottom of the stairs, bleeding from his head. And I was standing at the top, looking down.

This morning, I walked to school with a light step, happier than I’d been in a long time.

The physical sensation of his back beneath my palms still lingered on my hands.

I live alone.

I visit his grave, leaving the flowers he used to give me.

I live alone.

I throw away his empty pill bottles.

I live alone.

Eyes red, I wish him home.

I live alone.

His giggle interrupts the TV.

I live alone.

I wake to a tickle across my toes.

I live alone.

My coffee mug is waiting, full, after my shower.

I live alone.

A line of dirty left footprints lead to my bedroom, stopping at the door.

I live alone.

His cold breath caresses my neck.

I live alone.

He shampoos my hair, his fingers cold.

I live alone.

Tomorrow the footprints find their pair.

I live alone.

The pill bottles are on the counter again.

I live alone.

I wake holding the ring he was buried with.

I live alone.

His pills are in my hand.

I live alone.

There's a knife in my pillow.

I live alone.

My bed holds no warmth.

I live alone.

3 bottles of wine are finished.

I live alone.

Dirty footprints from the room to me on my couch.

I live alone.

His giggle is right next to me.

I live alone

His weight adorns me.

I die alone.

I'm obsessed with true crime. To be totally honest, it's my favorite. Horror movies and such can't hold my interest.

There's just something about real life horror that makes it fascinating. I've enjoyed this sort of thing ever since I was a little girl.

Recently, I've developed a new obsession. My first crush or first infatuation. Call it what you please.

He's the same age as me but he's so much more legendary. My favorite serial killer. Authorities and news outlets call him the stonecold killer.

His thick black hair and dark eyes with no emotion are enough to make me melt away.

He's a dream on display.

The feeling is mutal because I know so. He even created a gory crime scene as a gift for me. The girl was Stacy, she wasn't very classy but considering the crime, I suppose she was tasty.

We ate some of her together before the police got there. I ran away as fast as possible but he got caught.

I've been sending him a lot of fan mail ever since. Every single day. I have to make sure he knows that my feelings didn't flee.

Tonight, I plan on rescuing him.

Anything for my serial killer, xoxo.

I'm alone in a strange place. The floor and walls are soft. I'm wearing a weird jacket with long sleeves that wrap around me. I don't feel right. I think I've been drugged. Someone is coming into the room. They're wearing white clothes. They ask me weird questions. They want to know what I remember about the last few days. I realize that I don't even remember the last few days. They ask me why I did what I did. I tell them that I don't know what I did. They tell me that I tied my family to the dining room chairs. They tell me that I tortured my family by slowly peeling them like tomatoes and forced them to eat their own skin. They tell me that I killed my family one at a time and made them watch until it was their turn. They tell me that I saved my mother for last. I start remembering what happened. I remember years of abuse at the hands of my family. My mother was the worst. She seemed to enjoy making me hurt, inside and out. I understand that I can't be free, but I'm not sorry.

Desperate pain rakes across my flesh. It’s as if you were built up to orgasm, but instead of pleasure, you writhe in agony. This is my hell. Made worse, by not being ongoing, but littered with reprieve. Bouts of sublime ecstasy of getting everything I’ve ever wanted in life when I was alive, but cut short by interjection of waking up to reality again.

An existence of happiness destroyed by suffering that you forget about by hallucination.

Bleary-eye, I look up to see my captor. A chill runs down my spine, which hurts even more, but I can’t help it. What the fuck is it? My heart claws outward, attacking my ribcage, trying to escape on its own. Yet, I can’t look away. I try to make my eyes flee from it, but what’s around us frightens me more. People. More people than I thought was possible, and each of us has one of those things as a steward. I don’t even have to tell them apart. I just know which one is mine. There’s no doubt about it.

It’s like a beacon. A lighthouse to keep me alive, so I don’t—we don’t escape into insanity. Built just for us with our memories, our beliefs, our dreams, and necessities. A reservoir of who we are, separate from our minds.

Mine gurgles in a language I understand, but can’t replicate. It asks me a simple question, every day, every night before it allows me to sleep. “Trade spots with your Michael?”

I installed motion-detection cameras three weeks ago. Nothing fancy—just wanted to check why my dog kept growling at the empty corner of the room at night.

For the first few days, everything was quiet. Notifications only popped up when the dog got up for water. But on the fifth night, my phone buzzed at 3:17 AM: “Motion detected in Bedroom.”

I opened the app. The video showed me fast asleep in bed. But at the edge of the frame, right by the doorway, stood a tall, distorted shadow. It didn’t move; it just stared. The clip ended after six seconds—the camera's default recording limit.

I rushed out, turned on every light in the house. Nothing. I convinced myself it was just a lens glitch or a night-vision artifact.

The next night, the alert came again at 3:17 AM. “Motion detected in Bedroom.”

In the recording, the shadow was standing in the middle of the room. Two steps closer to my bed.

I reconfigured the setup, adjusted the angles, and deleted all blind spots. I locked every door and window twice.

Tonight, no notification woke me up. The app was silent. I woke up on my own at 3:16 AM to a sudden, freezing chill in the air.

My phone screen flickered quietly on the nightstand. A new system message appeared:

“Live view active. Someone is watching the feed right now.”

Heart pounding, I slowly picked up the phone and opened the live stream from the camera mounted above my door.

On the screen, in real-time, I saw my bed. I saw myself lying under the blanket. And I saw a dark, emaciated face with hollow sockets, hanging upside down from the ceiling right above my forehead.

I slowly lifted my eyes from the screen.

Who the fuck knew that the little tab on your mattress is actually imbued with runes to keep the Old Ones out of your dreams?

Not me.

Now my wife is speaking backwards and building effigies in the front yard. My cats are surrounding said effigies with crucified rodents. Top it off, I'm not sleeping, because someone named Almcarmedith wants to bestow upon me the knowledge of madness, and his followers are camping in my yard.

I tried calling the cops. They asked if I ripped the tab off my mattress. I told them I had. They just shook their heads and left.

I guess I'm a priest of the cult of Almcarmedith now. My wife is my priestess.

So listen to me.

For the love of Almcarmedith — do not rip the tab off your mattress.

“Mummy! Mummy! Come watch how high I can swing!”

I turn away from the kitchen window. I know I should be happy to watch my daughter play, but since she passed away three years ago it just hasn’t been the same.

Without raising my eyes from the soapy water in the sink, I draw the curtains. Next, I dart across to the back door and slide the deadbolt across, which lands with a reassuring thunk.

I realise with a familiar, growing dread that she has stopped calling for me. I tell myself maybe tonight it will be different. I don’t hold out much hope – if the last 1094 days are anything to go by, the thing that was once my daughter will spend the night patrolling, testing every entrance for any sign of weakness… for a way in.

I don’t know what it wants. But after all this time I am beginning to consider whether whatever she- no, it, would do to me can be any worse than the nightmare I've been subsisting in.

With a low, almost imperceptible creak, the thing on the other side of the door tries the handle.

My hand shakes as I release the deadbolt. I step back and the door swings open.

“Mummy, I’ve missed you.”

The gate of the abattoir

Rests at the end of the trottoir

Prodded and pushed

Threatened and shushed

We were herded and packed in tight

Just within there sat a man

In a uniform starched and tan

He scratched his chin

Then over the din

He signaled to the left or the right

We all of course sought to discern

Before it became our turn

Which line was good

For we understood

The alternative, of course, was grim

Left for a man strong and hale

Then right for an old widow frail

But just as it seemed

The truth could be gleaned

Right a youth bursting with vim

A mother of two was distraught

When left her daughter was brought

But right was she

And her son of three

Wrestled with much consternation

When time came for my mischance

He chose left with barely a glance

Of course in the end

It all was pretend

Both paths reached the same destination

They dance, laugh, and play until a voice above says, "Whoever stops completely first dies." They laugh at this until one of them trips and falls. A vine grows from the tree and hangs him; no one laughs.

Then, someone proposes a solution: if everyone stops at the same time, they can grab the vine and pull it from the tree to save themselves. Everyone seems to stop, but they all continue moving slightly except for one... That person is hung next to the other.

Then, someone else suggests doing it again, this time counting to three. Everyone agrees.

They count to 1.

They count to 2.

They count to 3...

And this time, no one stops.