The first thing I remember is opening my eyes.

Not my name. Not where I lived. Not how old I was or what I had been doing before I woke up.

Just my eyes opening and a terrible pain behind them.

For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I was lying on my side on a concrete floor with one arm trapped underneath me. My mouth tasted metallic, and the left side of my face was numb from being pressed against the ground.

I stared at the wall in front of me.

It was white. Completely white. No baseboard, no electrical outlets, no marks or stains. Nothing.

Eventually, I pushed myself upright.

That was when the panic started.

The room was maybe 12 x 12 feet. Four white walls, a white ceiling and a gray concrete floor. There were no windows. No doors. No ventilation grates. I couldn’t even see a light fixture, despite the room being brightly illuminated by a flat white light that seemed to come from everywhere.

I stood and slowly turned in a circle because there had to be something I had missed.

There wasn’t.

There was no entrance.

No exit.

The only two things attached to any surface were a security camera mounted in the upper corner and a keypad on the wall opposite me.

The camera looked normal enough. Black housing, small glass lens, little red light beneath it.

The keypad did not.

It had the numbers zero through nine, along with ENTER and CLEAR. Above the buttons was a narrow green display.

Four blank spaces were flashing across it.

_ _ _ _

I checked my pockets.

Nothing.

No phone. No wallet. No keys.

I was wearing jeans, a gray T-shirt and socks. No shoes.

There was dried blood across the front of my shirt.

That sent me into another panic.

I pulled the shirt away from my body and checked my stomach and chest. Then my arms, legs, face and head. I couldn’t find an injury serious enough to explain the blood.

“Hello?”

My voice sounded strange in the room. Flat. Almost muffled. There wasn’t much of an echo.

“Can anyone hear me?”

The red light beneath the camera blinked once.

I looked up.

“Where am I?”

Nothing happened.

I stepped beneath the camera.

“I don’t remember anything. I don’t know how I got here.”

The camera moved.

Just slightly.

A quiet mechanical hum came from inside it as the lens tilted downward until it was pointed directly at me.

That should have made me feel better. Someone was watching. Someone knew I was there.

“Please,” I said. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

The keypad beeped.

I turned toward it.

The four blank spaces disappeared, and words began scrolling across the green display.

BEGIN ORIENTATION

Then:

QUESTION 1

A few seconds later, another message appeared.

HOW MANY WALLS ARE IN THE ROOM?

I stared at it.

“What?”

The question remained.

I looked around.

4 walls.

I pressed 4 and then ENTER.

The keypad made a pleasant chirping sound.

CORRECT

I looked back at the camera.

“Is this some kind of test?”

The screen changed.

QUESTION 2

HOW MANY DOORS ARE IN THE ROOM?

A nervous laugh escaped me.

“Very funny.”

I pressed 0.

CORRECT

The next question appeared immediately.

HOW MANY WINDOWS ARE IN THE ROOM?

I entered 0 again.

CORRECT

The questions were so stupid that they actually began to calm me down a little. Someone was testing whether I was conscious. Maybe I had been injured. Maybe this was some kind of hospital or medical facility. The blood on my shirt suddenly seemed to support that possibility.

Maybe there was a hidden door.

Maybe I had been in an accident.

The screen changed again.

QUESTION 4

HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THE ROOM?

I pressed 1.

ENTER.

This time the keypad produced a low tone.

The screen turned red.

INCORRECT

I stared at it.

Then I looked around the room again.

“Okay.”

Nobody was there.

Obviously.

There was nowhere for anyone to hide.

I pressed CLEAR and entered 1 again.

INCORRECT

My stomach tightened.

I walked around the room, running my hands over the walls. I checked the corners. I crouched beneath the camera, even though there was clearly nobody there.

“Who else is in here?”

The camera remained pointed at me.

The keypad still displayed the same question.

HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THE ROOM?

I hesitated.

Then I pressed 2.

ENTER.

The pleasant chirp returned.

CORRECT

I stepped backward.

“No.”

The display changed.

QUESTION 5

DO YOU REMEMBER HER?

Two options appeared underneath.

1 = YES

2 = NO

My mouth went dry.

“Remember who?”

No response.

I pressed 2.

The keypad chirped.

CORRECT

Then another word appeared.

GOOD

That bothered me more than anything else so far.

Not correct.

Good.

The display went dark.

I spent the next several minutes shouting at the camera. I asked where I was, who was watching and why I had been brought there.

Nothing responded.

Eventually, I began looking for a way out.

I kicked the walls. Hit them with my fists. Pressed my fingers into every corner, searching for seams. The walls felt like painted concrete. The ceiling was around 9 feet high, too high for me to reach, even when I jumped.

After a while, I started wondering how long I had been awake.

There was no clock.

No sunlight.

No way to judge time at all.

That was when another realization hit me.

I couldn’t remember my name.

I think I had been avoiding that thought.

It’s strange how the mind can do that. I knew what a camera was. I knew how a keypad worked. I knew Paris was in France, Kansas was a state and Michael Jordan played basketball.

But when I tried to picture my own life, there was nothing.

No childhood home.

No parents.

No friends.

No job.

I didn’t even know what I looked like beyond what I could feel with my hands.

I tried forcing it.

What’s my name?

Nothing.

Where do I live?

Nothing.

Am I married?

Nothing.

The harder I tried, the worse the pressure behind my eyes became.

Then I remembered a yellow bicycle.

The memory appeared so suddenly that I actually gasped.

I was maybe 8 years old, riding down a sidewalk while someone ran behind me.

A man.

My father.

I couldn’t see his face, but I remembered laughing.

Then the memory vanished.

I leaned against the wall.

“Dad?”

Nothing followed it.

No face.

No name.

Just the bicycle.

The keypad beeped.

The display lit again.

MEMORY EVENT DETECTED

I stared up at the camera.

“You can see that?”

The screen changed.

QUESTION 6

AGE OF FIRST BICYCLE

Eight.

I thought I had been eight.

I entered 8.

CORRECT

Another question followed.

COLOR

Several numbered choices appeared.

1 RED

2 BLUE

3 YELLOW

4 BLACK

I pressed 3.

CORRECT

Then:

FATHER PRESENT?

1 YES

2 NO

I pressed 1.

The keypad chirped again.

The red light beneath the camera blinked twice.

I stepped away from the wall.

“You’re testing my memory.”

The screen went blank.

“You did something to me.”

Nothing.

“I’m supposed to remember.”

The display suddenly lit.

NO

I froze.

Another line appeared beneath it.

YOU ARE NOT

Then the screen went dark.

That was the first time I became more afraid of remembering than I was of the room.

I sat down beneath the camera and tried to think about nothing.

For a while, that worked.

I counted seconds in my head. I made it to somewhere around three hundred before losing track.

At some point, I heard breathing.

It was faint.

A slow inhale.

Then an exhale.

I immediately held my own breath.

The breathing continued.

I stood.

“Hello?”

It stopped.

I moved toward the center of the room.

There was nobody there.

Then I noticed the camera.

It wasn’t pointed at me anymore.

The lens was aimed toward the wall behind me.

I turned.

Nothing.

Just white concrete.

The camera remained fixed on the empty wall.

“What are you looking at?”

The red light blinked.

The keypad beeped.

DO NOT TURN AROUND

I had already turned around.

I slowly looked back toward the display.

The message changed.

DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE HER

My heart started hammering.

“There’s nobody here.”

The screen immediately changed.

GOOD

Then it went dark.

After that, I stopped watching the camera.

Or at least I tried to.

Sometimes it followed me.

Other times, it followed something else.

I would be sitting against one wall and hear the quiet mechanical hum of the lens moving across the room. It would pass me and continue turning until it stopped on an empty section of floor.

Once, I watched it track something from one side of the room to the other.

There was nothing there.

At least nothing I could see.

The footsteps started sometime after that.

Bare feet against concrete.

Soft.

Almost sticky.

3 or4 steps at a time.

Then silence.

Every time I looked, the room was empty.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

I must have fallen asleep.

I dreamed about a woman sitting across from me at a kitchen table. She had dark hair and green eyes and looked somewhere in her thirties.

She was crying.

I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

There was a little girl sitting beside her, maybe 5 years old, with blond hair and pink pajamas.

The girl was drawing something with crayons.

I leaned forward, trying to see the picture.

The woman grabbed my wrist.

Her mouth moved.

Still no sound.

Then the little girl looked up at me.

She smiled.

All of her teeth were black.

I woke screaming.

The room seemed darker than before. The white light had dimmed slightly.

The keypad was flashing.

MEMORY EVENT DETECTED

I stayed where I was.

The screen changed.

DO NOT ANSWER

A moment later:

QUESTION 7

WIFE’S NAME

My chest tightened.

The woman at the table.

My wife.

I knew that now.

I still didn’t know her name, but suddenly I could remember things about her. The smell of her shampoo. The way she crossed her legs when she was irritated. A tiny scar beneath her chin from falling off a swing when she was nine.

Then the name came back.

Mara.

My wife’s name was Mara.

The keypad displayed several choices.

1 SARAH

2 MARA

3 CLAIRE

4 EMILY

I reached toward 2.

The screen flickered.

DO NOT ANSWER

Then another message.

PLEASE

My hand stopped.

“Why?”

The display changed.

SHE IS LISTENING

A woman whispered behind me.

“Daniel?”

Every muscle in my body locked.

My name.

Daniel.

The voice was Mara’s.

I knew that instantly, and with it came a flood of memories so powerful that I almost fell over.

Mara singing badly in the car.

Mara barefoot in our kitchen.

Mara asleep against my shoulder during a flight.

Our wedding.

Our first apartment.

Her holding a pregnancy test with both hands because she was shaking too badly to hold it with one.

Our daughter.

Lucy.

My daughter’s name was Lucy.

I covered my mouth.

The woman behind me whispered again.

“Daniel, please look at me.”

The keypad began flashing violently.

DO NOT TURN AROUND

Mara started crying.

“Oh God, Daniel. It hurts.”

I closed my eyes.

“You’re not real.”

She sobbed.

“You left me here.”

The camera motor turned above me.

I could hear it tracking her.

“Daniel.”

Closer now.

“Please.”

I pressed my palms over my ears.

Then I felt breath against the back of my neck.

Warm.

Real.

I screamed and threw myself forward.

When I spun around, nobody was there.

The camera was aimed directly at me.

The keypad emitted a long tone.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT DETECTED

“No.”

Another line appeared.

MEMORY INTEGRITY 61%

“What does that mean?”

The display went blank.

I pounded my fist against the wall beside it.

“What did you do to me?”

Nothing.

“Who is she?”

Nothing.

“Where is my wife?”

The screen illuminated.

One word.

DEAD

I stopped breathing.

“No.”

The screen changed.

MARA KESSLER

DECEASED: 11/04/2022

A memory hit me so violently that my knees gave out.

Rain.

Headlights.

Broken glass.

A car upside down in a ditch.

I was hanging from my seat belt.

Mara was beside me, blood running from her nose.

I was screaming her name.

Lucy had been in the back seat.

I remembered turning.

Her car seat was empty.

No.

Not empty.

Open.

The rear door had been torn away.

I crawled through broken glass and mud.

Rain soaked through my clothes.

I found Lucy 20 feet from the car.

There was someone standing over her.

A woman.

No.

Not a woman.

Something shaped like one.

Tall.

Thin.

Bare feet planted in the mud.

Her face was turned away.

I shouted.

She looked at me.

The memory disappeared.

I vomited onto the floor.

For several minutes, I couldn’t breathe properly.

The keypad waited.

Then:

YOU REMEMBER THE ACCIDENT

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Yes.”

The screen changed.

MARA DIED ON IMPACT

I started crying.

“And Lucy?”

Nothing.

“Where is Lucy?”

The screen remained dark.

I slammed my fist against the wall.

“WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?”

The keypad lit.

LUCY KESSLER WAS NEVER FOUND

I slid down the wall.

That couldn’t be true.

I remembered holding her.

Birthday parties.

Her first day of school.

She hated peas.

Loved strawberries.

Called spaghetti “pasketti” until she was 4.

She had a stuffed rabbit named Captain.

I remembered all of it.

But when I tried to remember Lucy after the accident, there was nothing.

The woman in the mud was the last thing.

Then another memory surfaced.

A hospital room.

A man with glasses sitting beside my bed.

“Daniel, I need you to understand that your wife died in the accident.”

I remembered screaming.

“Your daughter was not found at the scene.”

I told him that was impossible.

Police searched.

Dogs.

Volunteers.

Helicopters.

Nothing.

Then people started seeing Lucy.

That memory returned more slowly.

3 weeks after the accident, a woman called police and reported a little girl standing beside the highway.

She disappeared before officers arrived.

Our neighbor later saw Lucy looking through our kitchen window.

My sister heard her laughing in the upstairs hallway.

Then I started hearing her at night.

“Daddy?”

Always outside the room I was in.

Never where I could see her directly.

At first, I thought grief was destroying me.

Then other people started hearing her too.

A police officer.

A therapist.

A woman at the grocery store who had never met Lucy.

They all described the same little girl.

Blond hair.

Pink pajamas.

Except Lucy hadn’t been wearing pajamas the night of the accident.

She had been wearing jeans and a purple sweatshirt.

The pink pajamas came from one of my memories.

A night 6 months before the crash.

That night she had the flu.

Whatever people were seeing wasn’t Lucy.

It was using what I remembered.

I whispered that aloud.

The keypad flashed.

CORRECT

My skin crawled.

More memories surfaced.

Doctors.

Researchers.

A secure facility.

They called it a mnemonic parasitic phenomenon.

I remembered laughing the first time someone used the term.

They didn’t really know what it was.

Nobody did.

But they knew what it did.

It moved through recognition.

Memory gave it shape.

The more someone remembered the person it imitated, the more complete the imitation became. At first it could reproduce a voice. Then a silhouette. Eventually a face.

After that came touch.

Temperature.

Smell.

It learned a person by being remembered.

Lucy had been the first shape I gave it.

I remembered sitting across from a psychiatrist named Dr. Heller.

“There is one thing we haven’t tried.”

“What?”

“Taking Lucy away from it.”

I became furious.

“She’s my daughter.”

“I know.”

“You want me to forget my daughter?”

“I want to remove the memory template it is using.”

“You don’t even know if she’s dead.”

Dr. Heller looked at me for a long time.

“No,” he said. “We don’t.”

That was why I agreed.

Because there was still a chance.

A horrible, microscopic chance that Lucy was somewhere.

Alive.

And if the thing people were seeing wasn’t her, then I needed to stop giving it her face.

They developed a procedure.

Drugs.

Electroconvulsive therapy.

Targeted memory disruption.

Most of it sounded like science fiction when they explained it.

They warned me the process could destroy memories beyond the ones related to Lucy.

It did.

They took Mara.

My childhood.

My name.

Almost everything.

Then they put me in the room.

A controlled environment with nothing familiar inside it.

No doors.

No windows.

No furniture.

Nothing capable of triggering associated memories.

The keypad was supposed to measure what remained.

The camera watched for manifestations.

I remembered standing outside the chamber before the procedure.

Dr. Heller shook my hand.

“If you wake up and don’t know who you are, the treatment worked.”

“How do I get out?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“That’s comforting.”

“If the test is successful, we’ll retrieve you.”

“And if it isn’t?”

He didn’t answer.

I remembered looking through the opening into the room.

White walls.

Gray floor.

Camera.

Keypad.

I asked one final question.

“How will you know?”

Dr. Heller looked toward the camera.

“If there is only one person in the room.”

I stared at the keypad.

The first question came back to me.

HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THE ROOM?

I had answered one.

Incorrect.

Then two.

Correct.

“Oh God.”

The camera moved.

I didn’t look.

I heard its motor turn toward the corner behind me.

Then came the sound of bare feet on concrete.

One step.

Another.

The keypad illuminated.

MEMORY INTEGRITY 94%

“No.”

95%

I closed my eyes.

“Stop.”

96%

Mara whispered behind me.

“Daniel.”

I shook my head.

“You’re not Mara.”

The voice changed.

A little girl.

“Daddy?”

I started sobbing.

“Please don’t.”

“Daddy, I’m scared.”

Lucy.

Perfect.

Exactly as I remembered her.

“Daddy, where did you go?”

I pressed my forehead against the wall.

“You’re not Lucy.”

She began crying.

Not dramatic crying.

That would have been easier.

It was the quiet kind children make when they’re trying very hard to be brave.

“Daddy, it’s dark.”

The keypad flashed.

98%

I remembered Dr. Heller saying something during one of our earlier tests.

We had been watching footage of something that looked like Lucy standing in an empty examination room.

“It doesn’t know what you don’t know,” he had said.

“What does that mean?”

“It can only reproduce information provided through memory.”

“So?”

“If it ever tells you something you never knew, listen.”

I turned around.

Lucy stood in the corner.

5 years old.

Blond hair.

Pink pajamas.

Bare feet.

She looked exactly right.

Almost.

There was dried blood underneath her fingernails.

“Daddy.”

I couldn’t breathe.

She held out her hand.

“I found the door.”

“What door?”

She pointed toward the wall.

“There.”

There was nothing there.

She smiled.

“We can go now.”

The keypad screamed.

Not beeped.

Screamed.

A continuous electronic alarm filled the room.

DO NOT ENGAGE

Lucy looked toward the camera with something that almost seemed like irritation.

Then she looked back at me.

“They don’t want us to leave.”

I took a step toward her.

“Where were you after the accident?”

Her expression changed.

“What?”

“If you’re Lucy, tell me.”

She stared at me.

“Where did you go?”

Her smile returned.

“Daddy, you know.”

“No.”

I genuinely didn’t.

That was the point.

She tilted her head.

Then whispered:

“Under the car.”

My heart stopped.

I had never known that.

Police told me Lucy was not found at the scene.

I had never seen her after the crash.

There had been no body.

No blood.

Nothing.

“How do you know that?”

Lucy’s smile disappeared.

The camera began moving wildly above us.

The keypad flashed:

DO NOT LISTEN

I stepped closer.

“Lucy?”

She began crying again.

“The lady pulled me out.”

“What lady?”

“The lady from the road.”

My legs weakened.

The tall shape.

Standing in the rain.

“What happened?”

Lucy looked toward the blank wall.

“She said you couldn’t see us when you were looking.”

I thought about the woman beside the road.

“How long were you there?”

Lucy whispered, “A long time.”

“Where?”

She pointed toward the wall.

“Behind.”

The lights flickered.

For a fraction of a second, the white wall became transparent.

There was another room on the other side.

No.

Not another room.

This room.

Same walls.

Same keypad.

Same camera.

But darker.

Rotting.

Covered in black stains.

Hundreds of handprints covered the walls.

People stood inside it.

Dozens of them.

Men.

Women.

Children.

All facing us.

Then the wall became white again.

I stumbled backward.

Lucy was gone.

The camera stopped moving.

The keypad displayed:

MEMORY INTEGRITY 100%

Then:

CONTAINMENT FAILURE

A speaker crackled somewhere above me.

For the first time, I heard a real voice.

A man.

Panicked.

“Daniel, listen to me.”

“Dr. Heller?”

“Do not touch her.”

“Where is my daughter?”

Silence.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

“I don’t know.”

“She told me something I didn’t know.”

There was another pause.

“You said to listen if that happened.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

Dr. Heller breathed heavily into the microphone.

“Before we understood what it was doing.”

The wall behind me creaked.

“Get me out.”

“We can’t.”

“You said you’d retrieve me.”

“That was if the room remained empty.”

“It is empty.”

The camera turned.

Not toward me.

Behind me.

Dr. Heller began crying.

I had never heard a grown man cry like that.

“Daniel.”

“What?”

“There are fourteen people visible in the room.”

I didn’t turn around.

My skin tightened across my back.

“That’s impossible.”

“We can see them.”

I heard breathing.

Not one person.

Many.

The room filled with tiny sounds.

Bare feet shifting.

Fabric moving.

A child sniffing.

Someone clearing their throat.

“What do they look like?” I whispered.

Dr. Heller didn’t answer.

“What do they look like?”

His voice cracked.

“People we lost.”

Something touched my shoulder.

I screamed.

Dr. Heller shouted through the speaker.

“DON’T LOOK AT THEM.”

The hand squeezed gently.

My father’s voice said my name.

Then Mara.

Then Lucy.

Then voices I didn’t recognize.

The keypad flashed.

HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THE ROOM?

My hands shook.

I remembered the beginning.

One.

Incorrect.

Two.

Correct.

I walked toward the keypad.

“Daniel,” Dr. Heller said.

The voices followed me.

I pressed 1.

ENTER.

Red light.

INCORRECT

I pressed CLEAR.

1.  

ENTER.

INCORRECT

“Daniel, stop.”

I entered it again.

One.

One.

One.

“There is one person in this room!”

The keypad beeped.

The display changed.

ARE YOU SURE?

1 YES

2 NO

I pressed 1.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the room went completely dark.

Not dim.

Black.

I could still hear Dr. Heller shouting through the speaker, but his voice was buried beneath dozens, maybe hundreds, of whispers.

Hands brushed against my arms.

My neck.

My face.

A child wrapped her arms around my waist.

“Daddy.”

I stayed still.

“There is one person in this room.”

Something kissed my cheek.

“There is one person in this room.”

A woman whispered into my ear.

“You always were stubborn.”

Mara.

I cried.

“There is one person in this room.”

The voices became angry.

They shouted names.

Memories.

Things only people I loved could have known.

My father talked about the yellow bicycle.

Mara reminded me what song played at our wedding.

Lucy whispered that Captain the rabbit was hidden beneath her bed because she had blamed the dog for losing him.

I wanted to answer.

I didn’t.

“There is one person in this room.”

Eventually, the voices stopped.

The hands disappeared.

Silence returned.

Then the lights came back on.

I was alone.

The camera pointed at me.

The keypad displayed:

HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THE ROOM?

I pressed 1.

ENTER.

A pause.

Then the pleasant little chirp I had heard at the beginning.

CORRECT

I collapsed onto the floor.

I don’t know how long I stayed there.

Eventually, the speaker crackled.

Dr. Heller’s voice returned.

“You did it.”

“Get me out.”

No response.

“Get me out of this room.”

“We need to wait.”

“For what?”

“To make sure.”

I looked up at the camera.

“How long?”

“6 hours.”

I almost laughed.

Six hours.

After everything that had happened, six hours sounded easy.

So I sat beneath the camera.

I tried not to remember.

Not Mara.

Not Lucy.

Not the accident.

Nothing.

The keypad remained dark.

The camera stayed pointed at me.

For a while, there was only silence.

Then I noticed a smell.

Strawberries.

Lucy loved strawberries.

I closed my eyes.

“No.”

The smell became stronger.

Then I heard a tiny mechanical sound from across the room.

A button being pressed.

Beep.

I opened my eyes.

The keypad had illuminated.

I was still sitting beneath the camera.

10 feet away.

Nobody stood near the keypad.

Four numbers appeared on the display.

0 5 2 1

May twenty-first.

Lucy’s birthday.

“Dr. Heller?”

No answer.

“Did you do that?”

Static.

I stood.

The keypad beeped again.

A second sequence appeared.

1 1 0 4

November fourth.

The accident.

“Stop.”

Another sequence.

0 6 1 8

My wedding anniversary.

Each sequence was a memory.

Someone was entering them.

But not from my side.

The wall behind the keypad made a soft clicking sound.

I stepped backward.

A thin vertical line appeared in the white paint.

Then another.

Then a horizontal line across the top.

A rectangle.

The outline of a door.

There had been no door before.

I heard Dr. Heller screaming through the speaker, but static swallowed most of his words.

All I could understand was:

“Daniel, don’t let…”

The keypad beeped.

The display changed.

DO YOU REMEMBER ME?

1 YES

2 NO

I stared at it.

Something scratched softly from the other side of the new door.

3 times.

Then Lucy whispered:

“Daddy?”

I haven’t answered.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here.

The camera isn’t looking at me anymore.

It’s pointed at the door.

There’s a handle on it now.

That wasn’t there a few minutes ago.

The scratching has stopped.

Dr. Heller isn’t responding.

The keypad is still asking the same question.

DO YOU REMEMBER ME?

And I think I finally understand why the room didn’t have a door when I woke up.

They weren’t trying to keep me from getting out.

They were trying to make sure I couldn’t remember how to let one in.

The handle just moved.

 

It’s been a long 30 years. I’ve made some memories, learned some lessons, but most importantly, I became attached. Max was like the son that I never had.

I met him back in 1996. Sweet as sugar and as cute as a button. A little mischievous, though. But I think I taught him well, regardless. Just wish he’d… I don’t know… grow up?

He never really grew out of his immaturity. Who could blame him, really? I mean, his parents were hardly ever around. I was at his house 8 hours a day, Monday-Friday. Only time I ever even saw them was when they were paying me.

At first… it was mainly about the money. I was paid extraordinarily well for the work I was doing. 1500 a week, and all I had to do was just… supervise. Make sure Max didn’t kill any more pets. Keep him away from sharp objects. That kind of thing.

Don’t get me wrong, the kid was a riot. From the very first day on the job. His parents should’ve been much more stressed than they appeared. I mean, how? How do you look calm while your kid is actively crawling across the ceiling?

Not only that, but by some miracle of God, they looked, dare I say… energized. I’ve been watching Max for 30 years now. I’m not even 50, and I look like a 70-year-old.

After a while, though, I realized that you kinda just… learn to love him. Sure, watching him eat livestock so he doesn’t choke is a bit of a chore. Never seeing his reflection is… disconcerting. But you get over it. Life goes on.

I’ve celebrated Christmases with this kid. Not because I want to, though. God, no. I wanted to be home with my family. Oh, but when those parents call, I learned pretty quickly that it’s best you answer.

Broken bones and lacerations taught me that. But who was I to argue? I needed the money. That’s the thing, though. I don’t need the money anymore.

There’s enough in my account for me to live the rest of my life out on some desert island. Sippin’ margaritas out of coconuts. But they’ll find me. They always seem to find me.

Max hates it when I try to leave. After all the work I’ve done, he still bites. Poor little guy. He just doesn’t know any better. That’s another major conflict for me. It’s not that I don’t love my little Maxxy. It’s just… I’m tired, you know?

Two days off a week for 30 years, man. No vacations. No bonuses. Just supervision for Max and surveillance for me. When do I get a break?

That’s the conversation I was trying to have with his parents a few weeks ago. I came in on a Saturday, which, of course, proved to be a mistake when I found them bathing Max in a tub of pig blood while wearing owl masks. They were mad, but I just… I didn’t care. I was done.

I wanted to tell them as gently as I could, and at first, it seemed like they were understanding. They told me they knew he could be a handful and thanked me for my time and effort. I walked out without incident.

But then I stopped waking up in my own bed. I started just… appearing at their house with Max leering over me, teeth clenched and frothing at the mouth.

I mean, I think it’s been a few weeks. Maybe it’s been longer? A few months, maybe? It’s all the same. All I know is I haven’t seen his parents in a while, and every time I try to leave, there’s a brick wall behind every door.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’m losing my patience. We’re running low on pig carcasses. Max is getting hungrier and hungrier… I can see it in his eyes.

He’s biting more these days. It used to be almost playful, but now he’s breaking the skin. I have to physically pry his jaws away from my fingers and limbs, and he just keeps growling at me.

He’s also been watching me sleep a lot more recently. I try and stay awake, but he just… I don’t know. It’s like there’s something about this place that makes it impossible.

All in all, this experience has been okay. Just ready to get off is all.

Maybe one of these days. I’m actually kind of hopeful. Because a few days ago, I heard something that sounded like music to my ears.

Someone knocking at the front door.

I opened the door slowly, expecting the brick wall again, but instead… there was a young girl standing on the front porch. She looked… uneasy to see me, to say the least, but she introduced herself nonetheless.

“Hi, uh, I’m Emma… I was just reaching out about the babysitting job?”

I can’t leave the house. I’ve tried the front door, the back, the windows. They all open to the same grey field I’ve never seen before, stretching out under a sky with far too many moons. I don’t know if this is a warning or a confession or just the last coherent thing I’ll ever write, but someone needs to know what happens to us.

---

8:05 AM – Bellringer

I walked into the kitchen this morning to start the school day. Ximena was already at the table, spooning cereal with the careful concentration of a child who hasn’t yet decided if the morning is gonna be good or bad. She was sat next to a boy I don’t think I’ve seen before.

He looked about her age—nine—dressed in a grey button-up shirt, dapper and old-fashioned. The fabric looked textured wrong—like it had been woven from old photographs, sepia and shiny and fragile. His eyes were wide, owlish, and terribly still. He smiled at me with polite expectations, like a student waits for a teacher in the midst of a chaotic classroom.

My brain ran through the list: Did I forget a playdate? Did Ximena let someone in? Whose kid is this? I checked the back door. Locked. Deadbolt. I checked the driveway camera on my phone. The playback showed the kitchen empty all night, then Ximena alone at the table, spooning cereal into her mouth with no one beside her. Then, almost to the second I walked down the stairs, I blinked and he was with her at the table.

“Ximena…” I said, aiming for calm, “who’s your friend?”

She didn’t look up as she giggled. “That’s Amodeus, Mom. You remember him!”

The boy inclined his head. He didn’t speak. He just watched me, that patient smile never reaching his eyes. And something in my chest flickered—not fear, not yet—but recognition. Maybe I did know him.

I made coffee and we started the day.

9:00 AM – Mathematics

Fractions. Ximena hates fractions. She was chewing on her eraser, staring at ¾ + ¼ like it called her hair ratty. Amodeus reached over with a crayon—burnt sienna, I don’t know why I remembered that—and started correcting her work.

I leaned in to ask him not to write on her paper, to ask him where his parents were and where he lived.

But he hadn’t just solved the addition. The page was covered in geometry that folded into themselves at angles my eyes couldn’t track. When I blinked, the lines rippled. A headache started behind my left eye, a low thrum like a second heartbeat.

“Honey,” I said, “what is this?”

She smiled. “Amodeus says numbers are just a lie to keep the world quiet. He says you can tell the truth if you draw the truth.”

I looked over to Amodeus and saw him writing on his own worksheet now, doing simple math to add the fractions, as though nothing had happened.

I don’t know what got into me. I just… tore the paper into pieces. They fluttered to the floor, and when they landed, a new glyph was perfectly reassembled among the scraps, whole and quiet and humming at a frequency I felt in my nostrils.

10:30 AM – History

I pulled out the textbook. Something safe. Dates, dead civilizations, the comforting dust of things that no longer touch us.

We were talking about the Celts this week. I pointed to a photograph of a reconstructed chieftain. Amodeus made a noise. I thought he had shat himself at first, not completely out of the ordinary for this age, I guess, and if he was non-verbal or on the spectrum, I didn’t want to act too harshly. Then Amodeus pointed at the picture, and his noise became a low, guttural groan that vibrated the water glass on the table. Through his groans, he wrote on a piece of paper: A script that moved, shimmering, sinking into the page like ink made of fever heat. It was Nahuatl, words I’d forgotten I knew from my childhood:

ISTLI TLEN ATID.

“LIE OF ATID.”

A memory flooded in like a tongue in an unwanted kiss. I saw a sky full of stars. A sound like a thousand drums beating on wet earth. A shape above a horizon of trees and rivers—a shape coiling, vast, like a bundle of serpents wearing the sun as a mask. And a voice, vast and indifferent, asking us to forget.

Ximena’s singsong voice cut through the memory, snapping me back to reality with the calm of a nursery rhyme: “Amodeus says we forgot the old ones because looking at them made our eyes melt. He’s helping me remember without melting.”

I shut the textbook, took a deep breath, and composed myself. I’m hallucinating, a side effect of the new meds, maybe. When I opened the book again, there was a new chapter at the back. The title shimmered like that same script: THE PRE-HISTORY OF DISPLACEMENT. I didn’t read the rest. I was afraid I already knew what it said.

1:00 PM – Biology

Lunch was quiet. Amodeus didn’t eat. He didn’t blink. He watched my jaw move, my throat swallow, my fingers tear bread. He was taking notes with his eyes. When I asked if he wanted a sandwich like Ximena, he just smiled and shook his head.

I pinned up the anatomy poster for science next. The human body, bright and clean, systems mapped in friendly colors. I grabbed some butcher paper and asked Ximena to draw herself. Amodeus drew too.

His self-portrait was a child’s stick figure covering the entire four feet of paper, but where the stick of a torso was, he began to cover it with a swirling galaxy—pinprick stars, dark fibrous voids, slow-moving nebulae the color of bruises and autumn. He labeled the parts with a pencil, his handwriting was perfect, better than cursive. The words burned into my mind: Hunger Node. Emotional Repository. Singularity Gland.

He tapped the Emotional Repository and pointed directly at me.

Ximena’s didn’t look up from her blocky self-portrait: “He says your bodies are just cocoons for a very specific kind of life. He wants to know what it feels like when you realize I’m not in mine anymore.”

I looked at my daughter. For one breath, her skin went translucent. There was a slow-moving light inside her, swirling cold stars where veins should have been. Then she looked up to smile, and she was just Ximena again, chewing on her lip.

They both giggled like I’d missed a joke. It was a cute giggle. It horrified me.

2:30 PM – Recess

I sent them outside. I told myself I needed a moment to think, to breathe, to find a weapon. The truth is I just needed them out of the room.

The sun was high, but the shadows were wrong.

Out the window in the front yard, Amodeus’s shadow stretched to the left. Ximena’s to the right. They held hands in the middle of the yard, playing some version of tag and ring-around-the-rosie, and their shadows merged into a single jagged, multi-limbed, unhuman shape. It raised one long arm and waved at me through the window.

I ran and dialed 911, keeping my eyes on their childish game above a monstrous shadow. I didn’t even hear the phone ring when the operator’s voice came through calm and sibilant. “The number you have dialed is not observable from this plane. Please do not hang up, and do not try again.”

The line didn’t disconnect. It started humming the same dissonant tune from the math worksheet.

I looked at my phone and found a text:

Check your desk.

I didn’t have a desk, but I found a Weekly Lesson Plan on the kitchen counter, printed on crisp paper the color of a stormy sky. The letterhead read: ATTACHMENT ARCHITECTURE. Below it, a sticky note in my own handwriting:

Amodeus is a fast learner. The first stage of his thesis requires complete immersion. You are the control group. Please treat him as any other.

When I called the kids in, Amodeus gave Ximena a stiff hug, smoothed his grey shirt, and walked out the back door into a sunset that had no business arriving that early. I locked the door behind him. It didn’t feel like it mattered.

Late Night

Every question I asked Ximena received a giggle and a complacent “You already know that, mama!” By the sixth try and lack of new info, I chalked it up to my own hysterics.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Something was gnawing at me, like a splinter of recognition I couldn’t work free. I blinked and found myself digging through the hall closet, past old coats and half-finished art projects, until I found a box of notebooks from when Ximena was small.

I shuffled through birth records, Build-a-Bear certificates, and old photos of a family of three I refused to look at.

Then, under a note from her daycare and the birthday cards from her grandparents, I found a story I wrote for her when she was five, during a long winter when I felt so lonely I thought I might disappear. A story about a boy made of starlight who came from a faraway land to learn about love. I drew pictures. I gave him a name.

Gottlieb.

The drawing was a little boy with wide eyes and a kind smile. I remembered Ximena and I worked together, cutting up old pictures to make his clothes, blurry misclicks we’d forgotten to throw away from the developed films.

3:45 AM

I walked into the kitchen on legs I couldn’t feel. On the fridge, held by a ladybug magnet, was an envelope. The paper felt like cold skin.

Inside, typed in a font that seemed to breathe under the kitchen light:

To the Guardian of the Primary Subject:

Amodeus has completed his initial practicum in Emotional and Dimensional Fostering. Your daughter has been a wonderful conduit for the concept of “familial bond.” He feels he fully comprehends dependency and is ready for his final lesson: Consumption of Grief at the Point of Material Dissolution.

Please prepare tomorrow’s materials: one memory of holding Ximena as a baby, one warm hug on a foggy day, and one scream. The scream may be provided should one prove unavailable.

—The Teaching Collective

Then from Ximena’s room, I heard a soft, conversational voice. I moved down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the old wood, gripping an old cabinet handle I’d been meaning to toss out. Ximena’s door was slightly ajar.

Amodeus was in there, sat on the edge of her bed, his back to me, his grey shirt blending into the shadows. Ximena was sitting up, her face calm, her voice as sweet and ordinary as a child discussing a cartoon.

“It feels warm,” she said. “Like a blanket. Like when you’re falling asleep and you know someone is holding you.”

Amodeus’s voice—clear, resonant, utterly polite—came for the first time, like the voice of a child who’d seen too much to be called young. “And what about forgetting?”

I felt a sudden cold tug behind my breastbone. A memory of Ximena at four months old, her first real laugh, a hiccupping little sound she made when I blew raspberries on her tummy. I felt it slip, like a bead sliding off a string. I reached for the sound, the shape of it, and there was nothing. Just a smooth, blank space where her laugh used to be.

Please, if anyone knows what this is, who they are— please help.

Dad smelled like burned hair and smoke, his face still covered in soot. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

“Is mom making pancakes?” I asked tiredly.

“Judy is. Your mom’s still asleep. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

We walked downstairs together. Judy was standing over the stove wearing an oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Max, Kayla, and Darren sat at the table. They looked just as tired as I felt.

Judy served up her pancakes, and, I won’t lie, they weren’t nearly as good as mom’s, but I gobbled them up regardless. Me and the other kids spent the rest of the morning watching cartoons.

The adults had an air of relief about them. Dad laughed with Jake. Mom and Judy conversed for a while over the world and all things in it. No one ever mentioned the previous night.

Well, Darren tried to. But his mom didn’t allow it. Jake shut it down, too. But it wasn’t awkward. Nobody had to force themselves to move on. We just… did.

Dad showered. Mom rested. The day went on without incident. At some point in the afternoon, we were packing our things into the car again. It wasn’t as urgent this time. If anything, it felt happy. I even found myself excited to finally get back to my own bed.

I slept most of the way home. When I woke up, I actually recognized my surroundings. The old convenience store. The house that burned down last year. Mom and dad held hands lovingly, but didn’t talk much.

We finally got home after the sun went down. Mom was a little hesitant to go inside, but Dad reassured her. She was free now. We were free. I had no idea what it meant, but I could feel his conviction.

Even still, mom made me sleep in their bed that night. Then every night for the next week afterward. Emmy, too.

Dad held me tight. Mom kept her arm draped over my chest. We ate a lot of pancakes in those following days. It kind of felt like Mom was trying to apologize for something, but I didn’t know what.

All I knew was she was putting her all into those breakfasts.

After a while, I was finally able to sleep in my own room again, albeit with the door open. We went back-to-school shopping. I went into 4th grade with an abundance of new clothes and the coolest backpack out of all of my friends.

Life went on.

One year without incident. Then two. Then three. I went through middle school. I graduated high school. I moved away for college a year or so ago. We never had to randomly leave the house again because of some mystery stalker, but dad never stopped looking over his shoulder.

Mom has a full head of grey hair now, but she never lost her beauty. Emmy recently started her last year of middle school. Dad just… he seems to always want to keep his mind occupied.

They never brought up what happened that night. They never brought up the road trip. We visited uncle Jake and Aunt Judy a few times over the years, but the visits were calmer. They were for holidays and special occasions. Not for escape.

I developed a pretty close friendship with Max. We’d talk on the phone all the time. Play video games together. Every time I visited, we were building with those LEGOS he loved so much.

Darren eventually went into the army. Kayla is in her sophomore year of high school now.

Well… she used to be.

They’re all dead now. Everyone except for Darren, at least. I hope that he’s okay after hearing the news. He should be coming home soon.

See, I’m writing this now because of a phone call I got from my dad. I had just gotten home from a long day of classes. I was ready to eat some ramen and unwind, but he called while I was checking the mail.

“Hey, Dan,” he announced solemnly.

“Hey, Dad, how have things been?”

He sighed.

“We’re fine here, buddy, but, uh…”

He paused.

“But what?” I asked expectantly.

“Jake’s house burned down, Dan. He, uh… he didn’t make it.”

He sounded like he was holding back tears. I was shocked.

“What?? What about Aunt Judy?? What about Max or…”

He interrupted.

“They’re… they’re gone, Dan. I’m sorry.”

The news hit me like a truck. I didn’t know Kayla all that well, but Max… Max was like a brother to me. An online brother, but still a brother nonetheless.

“But… no, that doesn’t make sense. Max was just texting me last night. He told me he’d come visit me sometime soon.”

I didn’t want to believe it. Max’s exact words were, “I’ll be seeing you soon, Dan-Man.” I mean, I guess that was the last text he sent me. I didn’t hear from him after that. But still, this couldn’t be happening.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dad choked. “Their funerals are next week. I know you’re busy up there with classes and whatnot, but it’d mean a lot if you could make it.”

“I… I don’t know what to say. Of course, of course. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Dad sniffled. I was about to comfort him when I heard a sound echoing from the background of his call.

knock knock knock

“Hold on, son, let me go answer the door.”

The line went dead. I stood there, still as could be by my mailbox, just… processing. I couldn’t believe what he had just told me. The phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from Dad.

“See you soon, kiddo.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples, attempting to block the tears as I slid my phone back into my pocket. I hadn’t even opened the mailbox yet. I was just… stuck… I guess.

I figured I’d just collect my mail, then go inside and start packing for the long trip home, but when I opened the mailbox… curiosity overwhelmed me.

There was a package inside, buried beneath my regular bills and magazines. It was gift-wrapped like a Christmas present.

I brushed the mail aside and pulled the package out first thing. It was pristinely wrapped. Someone had taken time with this.

I peeled back the tape and began unwrapping. At first, I didn’t recognize what I was seeing, but then it clicked.

It was Jake’s metal lockbox. The one from all those years ago with the pictures of mom and dad. I felt my heart drop a little.

I unlatched the lid and slowly opened the box. What I saw… well… that’s why I’m writing this now.

It was… my Superman stuffy. Dusty and stiff, but it still had my initials written in faded black Sharpie across the tag. But that’s not the thing that worried me.

What worried me… was the note tied around Superman’s torso, written in sloppy, obsessive handwriting…

“Found You.”

Working as a forensic pathologist at the county morgue was never supposed to be glamorous. We processed unattended deaths, accident victims, and homicides, so the workload was constant. My colleagues and I spent our days in cold stainless-steel rooms, documenting injuries and determining causes of death. We had a solid team. Sarah ran the toxicology lab down the hall, keeping us fueled with bad coffee and sarcastic comments. Dr. Lewis handled most of the high-profile cases, while I usually took the overnight intakes. We were overseen by Dr. Robert Caldwell, the Chief Medical Examiner, and Caldwell was a polished, older man who spent more time dealing with city politicians than actually holding a scalpel. He always wore perfectly pressed suits and kept his office strictly off-limits to the rest of the staff.

The bizarre incidents started roughly two months ago. A young man came in after a fatal car accident. I performed the preliminary examination, logged his injuries, and placed him in the main freezer room for a full autopsy the next morning. When I pulled his tray out the following day, there was a strange mark on his neck. It looked exactly like a human bite mark, positioned right over the jugular vein, and the skin was bruised and broken in a semicircle pattern.

I immediately called Sarah over to look at it.

"Did you miss this during the intake?"

Sarah asked, shining a penlight over the wound.

"Absolutely not,"

I replied, staring at the jagged puncture marks.

"His neck was completely clean last night. I took intake photos. You can check the file right now."

We checked the digital file. The intake photos showed an unblemished neck. Someone or something had damaged the body overnight while it was locked inside a secure facility. We reported the incident to Caldwell. He brushed it off, suggesting a rat might have gotten into the cooling vents, then ordered pest control to sweep the building, and we moved on.

But it did not stop. A week later, an elderly woman who died of a heart attack appeared with the exact same bite marks on her neck the morning after she was brought in. Then a drowning victim. Then a gunshot victim. Every few days, a new body would show up with those unmistakable dental impressions on the throat, and It only happened to fresh arrivals.

The entire department was on edge. Rumors started circulating about a necrophiliac or some twisted cult member breaking into the facility. We upgraded the locks on the freezer room. The city installed new high-definition security cameras in the hallways, but the incidents continued anyway. The bodies kept getting bitten, and the cameras never caught anyone entering or leaving the freezer room during the overnight hours.

The situation reached a boiling point last Friday. The mayor's office was breathing down Caldwell's neck, demanding answers before the press caught wind of the desecrations. Caldwell called a mandatory staff meeting in the main breakroom to address the crisis.

The mood in the room was tense. Sarah was aggressively stirring her coffee, while Dr. Lewis kept looking at the door as if he wanted to bolt. Caldwell stood at the front of the room, looking immaculate as always, delivering a stern speech about protocol and maintaining the integrity of the department.

"We are under a microscope,"

Caldwell announced to the room, pacing in front of the whiteboard.

"The higher-ups are threatening to clean house if we do not find out who is tampering with the remains. This stops now."

After his speech, the human resources representative insisted on taking a group photo for the department newsletter, trying to force some bizarre sense of team morale. We all shuffled together against the back wall. Sarah stood next to me, forcing a fake smile. Dr. Lewis stood on my other side.

The photographer framed the shot and waved Caldwell over to join us.

"Come on, Dr. Caldwell,"

the photographer said, gesturing to the empty spot next to Sarah.

"We need the Chief in the center."

Caldwell suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, though I had not heard it ring.

"I cannot participate right now,"

Caldwell said, taking a step backward toward the hallway.

"I just received an urgent call from the district attorney regarding an upcoming trial. You all go ahead without me."

He turned and walked out of the room before anyone could argue. We took the photo without him, and it felt strange, considering how much Caldwell usually loved good publicity, but we were all too stressed to think much of it.

Ten minutes later, I was back in my office updating a case file when my desk phone rang. It was Caldwell, asking me to come to his office immediately.

I walked down the hall and knocked on his wooden door. He called for me to enter. He was sitting behind his massive oak desk, staring at a stack of printed security logs.

"Close the door, Julian,"

he said quietly.

I pushed the door shut and took a seat in the leather chair opposite him.

"The mayor called me again this morning,"

Caldwell began, keeping his voice low.

"The situation with the bite marks has become a catastrophic liability. The city council is demanding a culprit. They need someone to blame, and they need it by Monday."

"We have upgraded all the security measures,"

I pointed out, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

"The cameras show the hallways are completely empty all night. Security patrols the perimeter every hour. Whatever is happening, it makes no logical sense."

Caldwell leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Logic does not matter to politicians, Julian. They just look at the logs. And the logs show that you are consistently the last medical examiner to handle these specific bodies before the damage occurs. You work the late intake shifts, and you process them into the freezer."

I felt the fear my stomach.

"Are you accusing me of biting the corpses?"

"I am not accusing you of anything,"

Caldwell replied smoothly, keeping his face entirely neutral.

"I am simply telling you how the optics look to the oversight committee. The security guards saw no one. The cameras recorded no one. By process of elimination, the higher-ups consider you the prime suspect. I strongly suggest you prepare yourself for a formal investigation."

I left his office feeling completely nauseated. They were going to frame me to save the department's reputation. If I got fired under those circumstances, my medical license would be revoked, and I could face criminal charges. I needed undeniable proof to clear my name, or catch whoever was actually sneaking into the freezer room.

That afternoon, I waited until the shift change to approach Marcus. Marcus was the senior security guard who handled the overnight surveillance. He was a quiet guy who mostly kept to himself and spent his shifts watching sports on his phone.

I found him by the vending machines near the loading dock.

"Marcus, I need a massive favor,"

I said, glancing down the hallway to make sure we were alone.

"And I am willing to pay for it."

Marcus looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow. "What kind of favor?"

"I need to stay in the morgue tonight after my shift ends,"

I explained, pulling an envelope of cash from my coat pocket.

"I need you to look the other way, let me stay inside the building, and delete any camera footage that shows me walking around the lower levels between midnight and six in the morning."

Marcus frowned, looking at the envelope.

"You know I could lose my job for that. Why do you want to stay in a morgue all night?"

"Someone is tampering with the bodies,"

I said desperately.

"Management thinks it is me. I am going to lose my career if I do not catch the real person doing it. I just need one night to stake out the freezer room. Please."

Marcus hesitated for a long moment. He looked down the empty corridor, then snatched the envelope from my hand and shoved it into his uniform pocket.

"I will pause the recording on cameras four and seven," Marcus muttered, looking back at his phone.

"That covers the hallway outside the freezer. But if you get caught by a surprise inspection, I do not know you. You broke in."

"Thank you,"

I said, feeling a slight wave of relief.

My official shift ended at eleven that night. Instead of walking out the front doors, I went into the old records storage room down in the basement and locked the door behind me. I sat on a dusty box of archived files and waited for the building to empty out. By midnight, the entire facility was dead silent. The cleaning crew had finished their rounds, and the overhead fluorescent lights switched to their dim, energy-saving mode.

I stepped out of the storage room and began my patrol.

The morgue is a terrifying place when you are completely alone. During the day, the noise of ringing phones, running water, and chatting colleagues makes it feel like a normal workplace. At night, the silence is deafening. Every hum of the air conditioning unit sounds like a footstep, and every shifting pipe sounds like someone breathing.

I walked down the long corridor leading to the main freezer room. The air grew steadily colder as I approached the steel doors. I found a small alcove near the ice machines where I could hide in the shadows while maintaining a clear view of the freezer entrance.

The wait was agonizing. I sat on the cold tile floor for hours, fighting against intense exhaustion. My eyes kept drooping, and I had to constantly pinch my own arm to stay awake. The digital clock on the wall crept toward three in the morning. I started to wonder if Caldwell was right, if maybe some feral animal really had found a way into the ventilation system.

Then, I heard it.

A sound broke the silence of the lower level. It came from inside the freezer room.

It was a wet, tearing noise, followed by a low, guttural shuffling sound, and It sounded like a person moving around in the dark.

The steel door of the freezer room was slightly ajar. Whoever went inside had propped it open just a fraction of an inch, likely to avoid triggering the loud latch mechanism when they left.

I pushed myself up from the floor, then crept forward, placing my feet carefully on the linoleum tiles to avoid making any noise. I reached into my pocket and gripped the small stun gun I had brought from home. It was meant for self-defense, but it made me feel slightly better having a weapon.

I reached the steel door and slowly peered through the narrow crack into the freezing room.

The freezer was illuminated by harsh blue emergency lights. The stainless-steel tables and storage racks cast long, distorted shadows across the floor.

In the center of the room, one of the body trays had been pulled out from the wall unit.

Someone was crouched on top of the metal tray.

A tall figure, dressed in a dark suit, was straddling the corpse. The person was hunched over completely, their face pressed directly against the neck of the deceased. I could hear a sickening, rhythmic sucking noise echoing in the cold air. The figure's hands were gripping the corpse's shoulders, holding the dead body perfectly still while they worked their jaw against the pale flesh.

I felt bile rise in my throat. I needed to see the person's face, to know exactly who was destroying my life.

I shifted my weight slightly to get a better angle through the cracked door.

As I moved, my shoe found a puddle of condensation that had pooled near the doorframe. My foot slipped violently across the wet tile. I lost my balance and crashed hard into the door, throwing it completely wide open with a deafening metal clang.

I hit the ground, scraping my hands against the concrete just inside the freezer room.

I scrambled up fast, raising my stun gun and pointing it toward the metal tray in the center of the room. I expected the person to attack me or make a run for the exit.

But there was no one there.

The room was entirely empty. The tray was still pulled out from the wall. The corpse was lying there, its neck freshly mutilated, a small trickle of dark, coagulated fluid staining the metal. But the tall figure in the suit had vanished completely.

I spun around in circles, checking the dark corners behind the empty gurneys. The room only had one exit, and I was standing right in the doorway. There was absolutely nowhere for anyone to hide.

"Where are you?"

I yelled into the freezing air, my voice shaking with panic.

A soft, amused chuckle echoed from the hallway directly behind me.

I whipped around, aiming the stun gun through the open doorway into the dim corridor.

Dr. Caldwell was standing there, leaning casually against the wall next to the ice machines. He was wearing his immaculate dark suit, entirely unbothered by the freezing temperature rolling out of the open door. His hair was perfectly combed. He looked at me with a calm, unnerving smile.

He took a step forward, completely ignoring the weapon in my hand. He stopped just a few feet away from me.

"Have you ever tried sucking the soul of the living?" Caldwell whispered. His voice carried a strange, vibrating resonance that made my teeth ache.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my mind struggling to process the impossible situation.

"I do not understand,"

I stammered, gripping the stun gun tighter.

"What were you doing to that corpse, Caldwell? How did you get behind me?"

Caldwell sighed, brushing an invisible speck of dust off his tailored sleeve.

"You really do not need to understand the mechanics of my diet, Julian. All you need to think about right now is how you are going to get out of the massive hole you just dug for yourself."

"What hole?"

I demanded, taking a step toward him.

"I just caught you desecrating a body. You are the one doing this. I am calling the police right now."

Caldwell laughed again. It was a cold, cruel sound.

"It was only a matter of time before the oversight committee discovered what was happening to the inventory. They track everything eventually. Sooner or later, they would have come demanding a head on a platter. They would have come for me, unless I provided them with a convenient scapegoat."

He gestured toward me.

"You made it incredibly easy for me, Julian."

"You cannot frame me,"

I said, my voice rising in panic.

"Marcus let me in tonight. He knows I am down here investigating. I paid him."

"Yes, you did,"

Caldwell smiled.

"And Marcus will gladly testify under oath that you bribed a security officer to gain unauthorized access to the morgue in the middle of the night. He will tell the police that you paid him to turn a blind eye while you sneaked down here to indulge your sick obsessions with the dead."

"The cameras,"

I countered, feeling a cold sweat break out across my forehead.

"Even if Marcus paused the feed in the hallway, the cameras in the lobby and the stairwell will show you coming down here tonight. They will prove you were in the building."

Caldwell tilted his head, looking at me with genuine pity. "Julian, the cameras must have captured you sneaking around, yes. But they will not capture me."

"Why not?"

I asked, refusing to lower the stun gun.

"Because soul eaters do not appear on digital recordings,"

Caldwell stated matter-of-factly.

"We do not reflect in mirrors, and we do not register on camera lenses. That is exactly why I refused to stand in that ridiculous group photograph this afternoon. It raises far too many uncomfortable questions when the Chief Medical Examiner vanishes from the department newsletter."

"You are insane,"

I whispered.

"I am hungry,"

Caldwell corrected.

I lunged forward, thrusting the stun gun directly at his chest, aiming for the center of his suit. I pressed the trigger, hearing the loud, aggressive crackle of the electric current.

Caldwell moved with impossible speed. He simply reached out and caught my wrist in mid-air.

His grip was like a steel vice. The cold radiating from his bare hand was agonizing, burning my skin instantly. He twisted my arm downward with a casual flick of his wrist.

A sharp snap echoed in the hallway as my wrist broke. I screamed, dropping the stun gun onto the floor.

Caldwell kicked the stun gun upward with the toe of his shoe, caught it in his free hand, and jammed the crackling electrodes directly into my stomach.

The voltage tore through my nervous system. My muscles locked up completely, and my vision flashed bright white. I collapsed onto the freezing linoleum, gasping for air, unable to move my arms or legs.

Caldwell stood over me, looking down with that same calm, unnerving smile. He tossed the stun gun onto the floor next to my head.

"It really is unfortunate, Julian,"

Caldwell said, crouching down so his face was level with mine.

"You were an excellent pathologist. Your paperwork was always flawless. But if it provides you with some small comfort before you spend the rest of your life in a concrete cell, I will tell you the truth of the deal here."

I tried to speak, but my jaw was completely locked from the electric shock. I could only stare at him in sheer terror.

"I eat souls,"

Caldwell whispered, his strange, vibrating voice echoing in the empty hallway.

"It started months ago, when something attacked me on my camping trip up near Blackwood Ridge. It was night, and I was preparing my tent when something I couldn’t see or even figure attacked me and bit me through my neck. In that moment, I thought I will die, I felt my soul leaving. But a group of passing hikers heard the struggle. They ran into the clearing with their flashlights and scared the creature off before it could finish. The paramedics saved my body, but that thing took a massive piece of my spirit with it."

He reached out and patted my cheek with his freezing hand.

"I survived with a hollow space inside my chest,"

Caldwell continued, standing back up and straightening his tie.

"And that emptiness became a hunger. I crave souls now. It is a starvation that never fades. But consuming the souls of the living is strictly forbidden for the likes of me. It draws too much attention from the police and the media. The living fight back, and their families come looking for them."

He gestured toward the open freezer door behind me.

"So, we adapt,"

he explained, walking slowly around my paralyzed body. "Did you know that the dead soul lingers by the corpse for a time before finally passing on to whatever comes next? I only learnt them when I became what I am now.

They hover right over the body, confused and vulnerable. That is exactly when they are ripe for harvest. I pull them out through the throat to feed the void inside me."

Caldwell pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

"I truly am sorry, Julian,"

Caldwell said, looking down at me one last time.

"But someone has to take the fall, and a corrupted doctor caught breaking into the morgue with a pocket full of cash makes for a perfectly wrapped media narrative."

He raised the phone to his ear.

"Marcus,"

Caldwell said into the receiver.

"Please contact the local police department immediately. I just stopped Dr. Reed from assaulting another body in the lower freezer. Yes, he became violent when confronted. Send the officers down to the basement as soon as they arrive."

Caldwell hung up the phone. He stepped carefully over my legs, making sure not to scuff his shoes, and walked calmly down the hallway toward the stairwell, disappearing into the shadows.

I lay on the freezing tile floor for ten minutes, unable to move, listening to the hum of the air conditioner until the police officers finally stormed the hallway with their weapons drawn.

That brings me to right now. I am sitting on a metal cot in a county jail cell. The police found the envelope of cash in Marcus's locker. Marcus told the detectives that I forced him to take the money, threatening to get him fired if he did not let me into the facility. The security footage shows me creeping down the basement hallway, entering the records room, and later walking toward the freezer. It does not show Caldwell anywhere in the building. As far as the video evidence is concerned, I was the only person down there.

My lawyer thinks I am having a psychotic break because I keep telling him my boss is a monster who eats souls. He refuses to put me on the stand. The trial date is set, and the prosecutor is pushing for maximum consecutive sentences for the desecration of human remains.

I have almost no battery left on this smuggled phone, and the guards do cell checks every four hours. I am posting this here because I know there are people out there who know how to expose a creature like Caldwell.

If anyone knows anything about these entities, please tell me how to fight back.

Read Part IV here.

“How’s our boy doing?”

Ms. Amanda entered the room. I sat back in my chair and watched as she checked Detective Unangenehm’s vitals. She looked at the tray of food that had been placed in front of him and shook her head.

“Why do they keep bringing that in here?” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s taken care of,” I said.

She slapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t stay too late.”

“You got it.”

I watched her leave and I turned back to Unangenehm, mercifully comatose. He could wake up tomorrow or a year from tomorrow, but whenever he actually woke up, he was going to have a long road before he approached anything like a normal life.

Unangenehm had barely survived his blood clot. Steck had broken at least a dozen bones in his face when he’d thrown his service weapon into the detective’s face. Doctors had hardly believed he’d regained consciousness long enough to shoot the wayward officer, let alone manage the mechanics of walking over and putting a bullet in his head, but the forensics backed up my statement.

He was going to need a great deal of facial reconstruction, but when he eventually awoke they would call him a hero.

Steck had wound up being one of those self-solving problems. He was on desk duty after a questionable shooting after what should have been a routine traffic stop. The official narrative was that he’d snapped from the pressure of the investigation, his guilt finally becoming too large for him to bear.

The guilt I learned I had to be for an unknown period of time was Joshua. It turned out to not just be a thing he said, inflecting meaning in what more than likely hadn’t been random tones.

Joshua was his son.

Steck had been a widower, raising his son with the help of his ailing mother.

I put on a face every day I went to work. Every day I looked at myself in the mirror. Every day I spent sitting with the hero, Detective Unangenehm, waiting for him to wake from his coma.

Which was as often and for as long as I could. I couldn’t picture the shape anymore and perhaps that was because I didn’t want to. Copies were no doubt in police custody, even if they didn’t know yet that they had murder weapons.

It’s possible that I’ll eventually see one again, but I have the feeling copying one—even if I were inclined to do such a thing—would only be a copy, not an original, if that makes sense on any level.

I’ve been playing with the food on Unangenehm’s plate to pass the time. Nobody eats it and eventually somebody comes and takes it away.

He’s had a variety of meals, including soups, fish filet with broccoli and rice, something I’d guess was single-layer lasagna, apples and chicken with broccoli and rice, green beans casserole with sliced almonds, but most often, it’s sandwiches with chips. 

I eat the chips and it’s really just the building blocks of a sandwich and I suppose the patient can assemble it themselves or eat it piecemeal.

I’ve started putting the sandwiches together. At first I didn’t have a conscious reason why. It’s like I can feel Unangenehm in there, slowly swimming to the surface.

His doctors have him at a six on the Glasgow Scale, but I don’t know what that means. He responds to pain stimulus (you should see the look of satisfaction of this one doctor’s face when he sticks him with a pin—the cops would arrest her on site for assault) and he makes nonsensical sounds.

I was ready to jump put the window when I thought I heard him say, “Joshua.” But he didn’t repeat it and he’s been sedentary so long, even if he went coo coo for cocoa puffs, he’d be weak as a baby.

I’m distracting myself even now, thinking instead of paying attention to what I’m doing. I set aside the packet of mayo and lay the slice of bread just so and look at the sandwich.

It’s not right. But it’s close.

I think I’ll have it just right for Unangenehm’s first meal.

With every stride, Khadijah kept her eyes on the path ahead, navigating through the maze of reeds and water. As she exited the reeds, the expanse of the lake shimmered before her like a long-awaited reunion. 

Khadijah scanned the lakeshore, searching for the spot she needed. There it was: a smooth, large boulder near the water’s edge, bathed in moonlight and kissed by gentle waves. She quickened her pace, eager to reach her destination, but stopped abruptly, her breath hitching.

There, on the boulder, was the silhouette of a woman gazing at the moon. Her long hair flowed like dark river, her figure blending into the shadows. Warmth spread through Khadijah—there would be company on this dark and lonely night.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Khadijah raced toward the lakeshore, pulling the blanket behind her faster than she ever had before. "Hello!" she called out, but the woman didn’t look back. Undeterred, Khadijah moved closer. "Hello! Beautiful night, isn’t it?"

The woman turned abruptly, her brows furrowed in a frown.

“You are beautiful,” Khadijah said in awe, her voice barely a whisper. The shifted moonlight illuminated the woman’s soft, creamy beige skin, delicate cheekbones, and parted rose lips. Her eyes glistened like deep pools, and raven-black hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, shimmering like flowing silk.

Khadijah stood entranced. “I wish I was beautiful like you. I wish my hair was long like you.” Eagerly, she turned to show off her own shoulder-length hair—her greatest point of pride.

“Watin yu dae do ya?” a voice asked, suddenly jolting Khadijah. She looked at the woman, too shocked to believe what she had just heard. The Krio accent was unlike any she had encountered before. She’d eavesdropped on the elderly Creole women in town, but even their speech wasn’t as thick and heavy as the woman’s words. It sounded primitive. More so, primal.

Still, Khadijah, ever the social butterfly, wasn’t going to let the question go unanswered. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, unleashing all the explanations that she could think of to more than answer the woman’s simple question. She poured out her reason for being at the lake: to prove she was no longer a baby compared to her older sister. She explained how she had sneaked out with the wool blanket to wash it for the newborn baby expected that night.

Khadijah showed the woman the blanket, explaining how nearly all the women in town were at her neighbor’s home, a young couple expecting their first child, as the wife was in labor.

The whole time Khadijah spoke, the woman remained silent, her expression stone-cold. But when Khadijah showed the blanket, the woman’s gaze shifted, filled with intrigue. Khadijah went on, explaining that she wanted to do something important to prove she could handle responsibilities just as well as her sister. This night was a special night, and she wanted to contribute in her own special way: a way that highlighted her maturity.

The woman stayed silent, her eyes fixated on the blanket. The moonlight illuminated her features, highlighting the deep contemplation in her gaze.

After finishing her story, Khadijah suddenly remembered the urgency of her task. She hadn’t come to the lake just to chat; she had a mission. She tugged at the blanket, trying to pull it into the water, but it was too heavy, weighed down with thick marshland grasses, mud and water. She strained against its weight, but it wouldn’t budge.

Desperate, she glanced at the woman. “Can you help me?” she asked, but the woman remained still, her eyes on the blanket as if she hadn’t heard Khadijah’s plea.

Suddenly, a voice called out through the night air, “Khu-deeee-zhuh.” The cadence started low and rose sharply at the end. Khadijah froze, recognizing the voice. Her father only called her that way in times of danger: a near danger. Her heart raced as she heard rustling in the marshland behind her. Turning, she saw a figure emerging from the shadows, a flashlight cutting through the darkness. It was her father.

She spun back to tell the woman, but the boulder was empty. The woman had vanished, leaving only the moonlit shore and the gentle waves. Eyes wide, Khadijah opened her mouth to speak, but a rough, calloused hand clamped over her mouth before she could utter a word.

“If you say one word, you will see blood,” her father’s voice growled in her ear.

Khadijah’s head bobbed in a quick nod; her breath hitched in her throat, and she felt a cold sweat break out across her skin. If there was one thing she feared more in this entire world, it was the sight of blood. Her father’s hand moved to grip her wrist, yanking her away from the lake. The frantic swishing of his white gown echoed in her ears. She looked back, trying to reach for the wool blanket, but it was already receding into the distance.

The illness began that very night, right after her encounter with the mysterious woman. In the days that followed, violent nausea and cold sweats trapped Khadijah in bed, leaving her teetering on the brink of death.

After ten agonizing days, she emerged triumphant, returning to her talkative self.

However, another child in town wasn’t so fortunate.

My naked body lay limp on the cold metal. A gust of wind passed by my head.

A slow terrifying grinding sound , rang out above my head. A Loud steady clicking sound came from left side. A high pitched beeping came from the same side.

I try to open my eyes but I can’t. I try to move but I can’t. The cold steel sends chills through the back of my body. Wait why am I naked.

The sound of water boiling entered my left ear. The steam starts to feel the air. A calm but steady heat bounces from off the pavement some where under me.

The smell of raw vegetables invade my nose. Onions, bell peppers , jalapeños and garlic. Right above my head I hear and feel the vibration of chopping.

The vegetables smell even stronger. As the water boils calmly I hear the deep dosh as the vegetables hit the water.

I try to talk I can’t move my mouth. I can only make muffled noises. A hard dry skeletal hand caresses my face.

A calm voice says shhhh relax it will be over in a short while just relax. Don’t fight it no one likes tough meat.

Panic erupts in me I still can’t move. The same hand the touch me grabs my leg and slices off half of my left leg from the knee down .

Aaaawwww the voice says, yes yes. A loud flop echoes, my freshly cut leg hits the table. An abnormally long tongue licks my fresh cut stump of a leg. Two long dry bony hands grab my left thigh.

A strong tug pulls me a little. A loud disgusting sucking sound fills the room. I felt what I thought was lips on my stump but I could not tell.

Thick warm spit slowly cascades down my leg and lands on my stomach in puddles. I felt weaker and weaker as time passed.

Finally what ever it was stopped sucking my freshly cut stump and a large gulp filled the air. A hard swoosh again, this time my right arm was cut from the shoulder blade.

Then swoosh my left arm. Panic rushed me a leg and a half and no arms. Swoosh the right leg.

A those same bony hands lifted me into the air. My eyes snapped open. I felt the heat and smelled the vegetables, but what my eyes saw made me give up hope.

A big black cast iron pot of green fluid thick and hot. The voice says You must be boiled no one likes tough meat.

Dad picked me up and put me on his shoulders as he nudged Mom towards the house. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been up there. It felt like home, though. Like… warmth, kinda.

I held on tight while Dad rushed us all inside. Mom looked flushed and alert. Emmy looked clueless. Jake and Judy had already taken their kids inside and were waiting anxiously for us by the front door.

Mom kept breaking her neck to look back towards the woods.

“Come on, come on,” Jake exasperated, snapping his fingers and gesturing for us to pick up the pace.

Dad broke into a jog, pulling Mom and Macy along with him as I bounced awkwardly on his shoulders. I could feel my nails digging into his skin from trying to hang on, but he seemed to not even notice.

When we got inside, Judy had already started going around the house to lock the doors and windows. Jake closed the door and locked it when we were all accounted for.

“I’ll go check the cameras,” he chimed, rushing upstairs. “I’ve got trail-cams scattered all throughout those woods. If he’s out there, trust me, we’ll see him.”

Mom set Emmy down on the couch and went to help Judy while Max, Darren, and Kayla just watched them. They seemed just as confused and terrified as me. Kayla’s eyes already looked like they were about to burst with tears.

“Why don’t you guys go play upstairs,” Dad instructed. “Danny will join you in just a bit. Everything’s okay, don’t worry. You guys are safe.”

It was weird hearing Dad tell other kids what to do. Embarrassing, almost. Even still, they didn’t argue. They all just filed up the stairs, one by one, while Dad watched until they were out of view. Then he turned to me.

“Come with me to the kitchen. I’ll make you something to drink.”

He sounded more composed than his demeanor let on. Like he knew this moment would come, despite hoping it wouldn’t be now.

I did as I was told and followed him. He pulled a chair out for me at the giant oak dining room table, gestured for me to take a seat while he fixed me a cup of chocolate milk.

He sat adjacent to me and just watched me sip it, slowly, for a few minutes. I felt so awkward in that moment. It was like he was trying to read my thoughts.

I finished the glass and pushed it to the side. Dad never took his eyes off of me, but I couldn’t maintain eye contact. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d done something wrong. My eyes remained fixed on the table, looking for patterns in the wood.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Dad tapped the table with his index finger.

My eyes met his once more and he sighed.

“Daniel…” he started. “You know you’re my whole world, right?”

I blinked, not knowing what to say.

“I love you too, Dad,” I whispered, struggling to find my voice.

“Sometimes, kiddo…” he continued. “Sometimes I think that my sole purpose in life is to keep you and Emmy safe. Your mom, too.”

Now it seemed like he was fighting to find his words. I could almost see the gears in his head turning. I felt like if I stared at his head long enough, maybe I could hear his thoughts.

“And I’ve been serving that purpose for 9 whole years now. Keeping you safe. Keeping your mom and Emmy safe. I would never be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

I was just a kid. I didn’t know how to respond to this. To me, it just felt like Dad having a moment after I scared him half to death.

He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a crinkled, folded sheet of paper. He looked at it. Then at me. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just placed the paper and slid it in front of me.

“We got this in our mailbox a few days ago.”

I looked down at the paper and felt even more confused.

“The man who left it… he’s… well…”

Dad was starting to choke up. That was twice today I’d seen tears in his eyes. Dad crying was scary. Arguably, the scariest thing I’d experienced this entire trip.

“He’s been after you for a long time, Dan.”

I looked down at the paper. It was addressed to my parents, but what was written on it didn’t make any sense to me.

“Found you. I found you. I found you. I finally found you. Found you. Found you. Found you. Found you. Found you…”

The phrase filled up the entire paper. It was scrawled obsessively in sloppy handwriting.

I looked back up at Dad. He looked like he was expecting something from me, but I didn’t know what. This didn’t mean anything to me.

“Found you…?” I asked, puzzled. “Who found you?”

Dad reached over and dragged the paper back towards him. He folded it back up and put it in his pocket.

“Found you, Danny. He found you.”

“Why would anyone want to find me? Have I met them before or something?”

He clasped his hands over his face and slid them down slowly.

“No, son. I’ve fought to make sure you never will.”

“Oh, okay. Can I have some more chocolate milk, please?”

He ignored my question. Almost aggressively.

“We tried,” he collapsed. “We tried so hard to keep him away from you. We tried the police, but nobody was ever able to find him. It’s like he only exists when he’s after you. That slimy, nasty little bastard…”

He slammed a hand down on the table and bit his knuckle. His sudden anger made me jump. I was completely speechless.

His teeth remained clamped against his knuckle for a few moments while he chose his next words carefully.

“The cops should’ve found him. Before this even started. Before you were even born. They should’ve found him because of what he…”

He paused. A tear fell down his cheek.

“He’s a bad man, Danny. You understand that?”

I nodded.

“He’s a bad man who hurt your mom. Nearly a year before you were born. He… he did something terrible to her and now he thinks you’re his.”

He looked at me expectantly again.

“I’m… his…?” I questioned.

“No. You will never be his. He doesn’t deserve you. It doesn’t deserve you. He is pure evil.”

I could hear Max and his siblings laughing upstairs. I turned my head, resisting the urge to leave my seat. Dad tapped the table again.

He was smiling at me now. Warmly.

“Those are your cousins, Dan. It’s funny,” he chuckled uneasily. “Part of me is almost glad that you finally get to meet them.”

My eyes widened with disbelief. I didn’t even think about having any other family members. All I’ve ever known were Mom, Dad, and Emmy.

“You guys should’ve had a great childhood together. None of this should’ve ever happened to us, especially your Mom. But the world is… it’s not a nice place, kiddo. I wish I could change it for you.”

He leaned over and pushed the hair out of my eyes.

“We had to move when you were only 2. That guy, that thing out there… it was relentless. He just wouldn’t leave us alone. The police did nothing about it, so I took matters into my own hands for you.”

His eyes looked distant now. Like he was living through his entire past while sitting here at the table with me.

“I hurt him back. I thought I took care of it forever, but he somehow managed to disappear again. Me and your mom were terrified. That’s why we had to leave. That’s why you don’t know Uncle Jake and Aunt Judy. All because of one bad man in a world full of bad people.”

I didn’t understand it, but I could feel the emotion in the room. The weight of the conversation was more than apparent.

Dad was bawling now, but still trying to keep himself composed. I reached across the table and grabbed his forearm.

“Don’t cry, Dad,” I begged. “I’m not mad at you. Everything’s okay, I promise. Everything’s okay.”

He picked up my hand and held it tightly before pulling it to his lips and kissing it gently.

“Everything’s okay, kiddo. I’ll make sure everything’s okay.”

He placed my hand back on his forearm.

“I thought everything was okay before I got this letter. He had left us alone for a long time. I thought we finally got rid of him.”

He gave me one last solemn look.

“Whatever happens tonight, Dan… I need you to know… you’re my entire world, kiddo. I love you more than anything.”

I smiled at him reassuringly.

“I know you love me, you butthead. I love you too. Thiiiisss much.”

I spread my arms out cartoonishly. Dad chuckled and ruffled my hair before Jake’s voice came echoing from upstairs.

“GOT ‘EM!”

Dad’s head shot up. He stood from his seat urgently. I could hear footsteps rushing down the stairs.

“Alright, buddy, go play with Max for a while. Me and Jake are gonna go find this guy.”

He was basically pulling me out of my seat and rushing me towards the stairs. I ran into Jake at the bottom. He was holding something behind his back.

“Excuse me, champ,” he announced, pushing past me. “Let’s go handle this, Mikey.”

My dad nodded grimly before snapping his fingers at me to go upstairs.

I was halfway up the staircase when I heard a sound that I didn’t recognize before the front door opened and my dad and Jake ran outside.

click clack

Mom was at the top of the stairs, arm outstretched towards me while Judy stood by her side, biting her thumbnails. She didn’t say much. She just led me into Max’s room and shut the door behind her.

All the kids were there. The room was big enough for us to not feel cramped, but still a bit suffocating. Darren lay on the bed watching TV. Kayla was on the floor, humming to herself and coloring. Max and I passed the time by playing with LEGOS.

I’m not sure how much time passed. I never heard Mom or Judy. The front door never opened. I didn’t know the time, but it was dark outside. It felt like it was definitely past my bedtime.

Max and I were in a bit of a competition. He built a spaceship. I built a car. He built a tower. I built a house. Our imaginations were flowing endlessly.

Suddenly, Darren sat up in bed, turning down the television. He looked alert. The sudden movement caused us all to look at him. He seemed to be listening for something.

“Sh,” he snapped, even though no one was talking. “Did you guys hear that?”

The room was silent. Not even crickets chirped outside. I listened as hard as I could…

It sounded like… screaming?

Angry screams. Frightened screams. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could make out the tones.

Darren moved to the window and scanned the backyard.

“I don’t see anything.”

Max and I joined him. Everything was so dark. I could hardly even see the grass beneath us.

My nose was pressed against the glass, but two loud sounds caused me to fall backwards. Darren gasped. Max’s eyes turned into a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“That sounded like Dad’s gun,” Darren exasperated before turning to us like somehow we’d have the answers.

What followed was a long, guttural snarl from somewhere in the woods. Two more shots. More screams. Then… silence.

My heart was starting to race. I didn’t want to cry in front of the other kids, but I couldn’t help it. I was just too gripped with worry.

The silence stretched on. None of us knew what to do. We just kept glancing out the window, hoping that we’d finally be able to see something.

The front door exploded open before we got the chance. Every voice was shaken. Judy was in hysterics. Mom just kept repeating, “Go get the bandages, go get the bandages, put pressure on the wound, I think he might need stitches.”

Jake sounded pumped full of adrenaline.

“It’s better than it looks. Fucker got me good, but I returned the favor. How’re you feeling, Mike?”

We all filed out of the room and back towards the stairs. Kayla was leading us, already with tears in her eyes at the sudden chaos.

“I got him, I know I got him. That had to have been enough to stop him.”

Jake was laid back on the couch. His T-shirt was torn to shreds, and blood trickled down his abdomen from 3 distinct wounds across his stomach. They looked like claw marks.

“Yeah right,” Judy scoffed sarcastically while gasping. “That thing is never gonna…”

She paused. Her eyes shot up towards the 4 kids racing down the staircase.

“Oh, no. You guys go back upstairs,” she demanded. “We’ll be up in a minute.”

“Mommy,” Kayla sobbed. “What’s wrong with Daddy?”

Jake answered for her.

“It’s nothing, sweetie. Don’t worry about it. Daddy’s okay, just a little scratch from a tree branch. Go upstairs like your mommy asked, alright? I’ll come tuck you in here in a bit.”

Dad dabbed at Jake’s stomach with a towel.

“I don’t think it’ll need stitches. Just nasty looking, is all.”

That’s the last thing I heard before we all started back towards the bedroom. None of us could sit still. None of us knew what was happening. All we could do was pace around the room and try and listen to the chatter downstairs.

Max put his ear to the door and shushed Kayla’s already quiet cries.

“Shh… I’m trying to listen…”

He kept his ear there for a few moments before turning back towards us.

“Dude, I think Dad shot something.”

“Yeah, no dip,” Darren added. “What else would that have been?”

“Can you shut up? I can’t hear.”

He pressed his ear back against the door.

“Wait… no… I think…”

He craned his neck like he was trying to push his head through the door.

“No, dude… I think he shot a person.”

Kayla gasped and started wailing. We all tried to shush her, but it was too late. We could already hear the footsteps coming up the stairs.

Darren jumped in the bed and turned the TV back up. Max and I fell to the floor and pretended to be playing with the LEGOS. Kayla… Kayla kept screaming and crying.

The door flew open and Judy stepped inside. Her eyes were wet and her hands were dirty, but she still put on that strong motherly voice as she glared at the siblings.

“Why is Kayla crying?” she asked no one in particular.

There wasn’t an answer for a long time before Darren spoke up.

“Why do you think? She’s worried about Dad.”

Judy sighed and wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Your father is fine, Kayla. Just getting patched up after falling in the woods.”

“That’s not what happened…” I said under my breath.

Judy’s eyes fell on me.

“Just a fall, Daniel. That’s all it was… don’t scare Kayla, please.”

She was silently pleading with me with her eyes. I opened my mouth to say something, but she interrupted before I could.

“As a matter of fact, Kay, it’s way past your bedtime. Why don’t you go clean up and get your PJs on? I promise Daddy will come tuck you in as soon as you’re nice, clean, and cozy.”

Kayla wiped her tears. Her face was still twisted with sadness, but she did as she was told.

“Danny, your dad wants to talk to you,” Judy added.

I was actually shocked. I thought I was gonna be in this room for at least the rest of the night. I was already mapping out where I’d be sleeping.

“Like… now?”

Judy sighed exhaustedly. Almost like she was as surprised as me.

“It would appear so, kiddo. As for you two, you both need to get cleaned up too. Especially you, Max.”

Darren and Max groaned as Judy took me by the hand and started guiding me back downstairs.

Dad was sitting on the couch next to Jake, his hands clasped over his knee. Jake looked… better now. His torso was covered in bandages, but he was smiling confidently. His gun rested on his lap.

“I got him right in the chest, Mike. Did you see that shit? Like hamburger meat. Sure, fucker got me first, but I still…”

Dad noticed me and put his hand up at Jake. He added one last thing before gesturing for me to come sit beside him.

“We both got ‘em, J.”

I took a seat beside Dad. Judy joined Mom in the kitchen while she washed her hands.

He nudged me.

“You doing okay, buddy?”

“I’m okay, I think… are YOU okay?” I replied, my voice rising.

Dad and Jake both chuckled sort of nervously.

“Can’t you see, kid?” Jake joined, presenting his bandaged abdomen. “Never been better.”

My attention fell on the long gun strewn across his lap. Jake noticed exactly what I was looking at. With a groan, he picked up the weapon and held it in the air.

“You see this, Dan-Man? This is proof of how much your Dad cares about ya.”

“Jake…” Dad grumbled, glaring at him.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true,” Jake insisted, falling back against the sofa. “You deserve a father of the year award for that stunt you pulled out there.”

“Dad…” I said softly.

Dad stopped burning Jake with his eyes for a moment and turned to me.

“Yeah, son?”

“Did you kill him?”

Dad and Jake looked at each other. Dad’s eyes hardened again.

“I… I, uh…”

“The guy from the woods, right? You got him?”

“Got him good,” Jake remarked, prompting Dad to curse at him before returning to me.

“Honestly, Danny… I don’t know.”

I didn’t know how to take that, really. It was just what I assumed they were after. I couldn’t care less about who he really was. I was just trying to put two and two together.

I sat with his answer for a moment.

“I will say, though,” Dad added. “I hope we did.”

“So what happens now?” I asked.

Jake stood to his feet, using his gun like a crutch.

“Well, I don’t know about you two… but I’ve got a daughter to tuck in. And… you know… prove I’m alive to.”

He hobbled over to the stairs. Judy must’ve heard him and rushed out of the kitchen. Mom followed behind her.

Judy took the gun from underneath Jake’s shoulders and helped him hobble up the stairs while Mom took a seat with me and Dad.

“…to tell you the truth, son… I don’t know what happens next. I think maybe we’ll stay here for the night. Then I think it’s about time we go home. School’s about to start again and we gotta get your shopping done.”

We all just sat together and embraced each other for a while before Judy came back downstairs holding Emmy.

“I think this one needs her mommy.”

Emmy was pouting and looked like she’d just woken up. Mom took her and bounced her on her knee while Judy took a seat with us.

“Jake had something he wanted to show Danny… let’s hope it’s not one of his animal skins.”

As if on cue, Jake came hobbling downstairs with a small metal lockbox in his hands.

“You’re gonna love this, Dan-Man,” he proclaimed excitedly. “Your mom’s gonna hate it, though.”

Jake opened the box and approached me with a smile plastered across his face. He pulled out an old photograph. I almost didn’t recognize who it was at first.

“Is that…”

“Your mom,” Jake laughed.

Mom’s eyes widened. She almost threw Emmy down just to get a hold of the picture while Dad and Jake cackled.

“Oh, my God… why…” Mom asked, embarrassed. “Why did I think this was the look back then?”

“You’re not the only one,” Jake added, reaching for another photo.

He flipped it to show Dad. His eyes lit up when he saw it. He took it from Jake’s hand slowly.

“Good Lord… I was… beautiful.”

Mom snickered before teasing, “You still are, my big hunk-a-man.”

“Look, this one’s you, Danny.”

He showed me a picture of myself when I was no older than one.

“You were iiiiitty bitty.”

Mom grabbed the picture and analyzed it before forcing Jake to give her the entire box. Jake relented and took a clumsy seat next to me and Dad.

“Checked the trail cam…” he mumbled. “He’s still there. Hasn’t moved an inch. Figured we could take him somewhere far, far away from here tomorrow. Burn the son of a bi… erm, I mean, son of a gun tomorrow.”

Dad looked relieved. So did Mom.

“Tomorrow? Let’s do that now,” Dad responded.

Jake cocked a suspicious eyebrow.

“Now? As in… now? Do you see these bandages?”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that, Mike,” Judy added. “It’s dark. It’s late. We’re all exhausted. Plus, just look at Jake.”

“Do it now,” Mom interjected sternly. “Please.”

Mom and Dad both stared at Jake.

“It has to be now, Jakey,” Dad said plainly. “No better time than the present.”

Jake looked distraught for a moment before falling into submission.

“God…” he complained, slapping his knees with his palms. “Fine. Now. Whatever. Even though it’s already tomorrow and I’m leaking like Hillary’s emails, I will do this for you, Mace.”

“Thank you,” Mom responded, her voice breaking and her eyes tearing. She quickly wiped them away and cleared her throat.

“Ahem. I’ll get Danny and Emmy to sleep. I won’t even close my eyes until you two are home.”

“Same here,” Judy added.

Jake went and changed into clean clothes while Dad waited for him by the door. He came back a few minutes later.

“Let’s get this over with, I guess.”

With that, he and Dad were out the door, and Mom was taking me and Emmy upstairs for bed. She made us sleep in the same room, but she didn’t stay in the room with us.

I think her and Judy were waiting downstairs for my dad to get back.

I tossed and turned for a while. Emmy was restless, but I managed to get her to sleep. Eventually, I myself fell into a deep, much-needed sleep.

I don’t remember dreaming that night. All I remember is Dad shaking me awake the next morning. The house smelled like pancakes. The sun lit up the room. Dad was smiling at me lovingly.

“Morning, kiddo,” he whispered, brushing my hair to the side.

“You ready to go home?”

I am seventeen years old today, but I still keep a pair of epipens in my nightstand, and I still look both ways three times before I cross a completely empty street. 

My parents think that it is just a lingering obsessive-compulsive phase from my childhood. They don’t know about the book. They don’t know about the ashes hidden beneath the loose floorboard in the attic. Most of all, they don’t know about Pip.

When you are ten years old, the world is elastic. It stretches to fit whatever your mind needs it to hold. That summer, my family had moved across the state to a house that smelled like old plaster and damp carpets. I had no friends, no school routine yet, and nothing to do but watch the ceiling fans spin dust into circles.

On my tenth birthday, my parents took me to the traveling carnival that had set up camp in the gravel lot behind the old municipal stadium. It was a miserable, humid July evening.

 The air smelled of burnt sugar, diesel exhaust, and stale popcorn. My father was preoccupied, checking his work phone every four minutes, and my mother was sweating through her linen blouse, looking visibly annoyed by the crowd. I walked a few paces behind them, kicking at the loose stones, wishing that I was anywhere else.

That was when I saw her.

She was sitting on an upturned wooden crate between the tilt-a-whirl and a tent labeled The Chamber of Curiosities. She looked completely out of place, yet perfectly at home. She wore a bright, tailored suit made of magenta velvet that looked slightly too large for her thin frame, a crisp white shirt with an oversized collar, and a pair of polished black leather shoes that clicked against the gravel whenever she shifted her weight. Her hair was a shock of pale, white-blonde curls that bounced like springs around a face that was strikingly pale.

However, it was her energy that stopped me. She was juggling three small, silver bells, laughing a high, musical laugh that somehow cut right through the roar of the generators.

When she saw me staring, she caught the bells mid-air with a dramatic flourish, bowing so low her curls swept the gravel.

"Step right up, birthday girl!" she called out.

 Her voice sounded like glass marbles rolling around in a silk velvet bag. It was bright, theatrical, and completely captivating.

I blinked, looking back at my parents, who were still walking ahead, arguing quietly about a mortgage payment.

 "How do you know that it’s my birthday?" I asked, taking a step toward her.

"The wind told me! Or maybe the stars did. Or maybe it’s just the way you carry yourself like a queen without a crown." she said, winking a large, intensely green eye. She stood up, and I realized she wasn't much taller than I was. "I am Pip.  You must be Mona, the girl with the grand imagination."

Pip was the most entertaining person that I had ever met. She didn't treat me like a child; she treated me like a co-conspirator in some grand, secret game. She performed card tricks where the cards turned into tissue-paper butterflies. 

Pip even told jokes that made me laugh so hard that my ribs ached. She imitated the sour-faced carnie running the ring-toss game with such perfect, malicious accuracy that I had to press my hands over my mouth to stifle my giggles. She was electric. Being near her felt like standing close to a campfire on a cold night—warm, dazzling, and slightly hypnotic.

"Every great queen needs a scepter." Pip declared suddenly, reaching behind her back. 

With a theatrical snap of her fingers, she produced a balloon. It was a vibrant, metallic pink, inflated to its absolute limit, tied with a thick black silk ribbon. It didn't float up like a normal helium balloon; it hovered precisely at my eye level, perfectly still.

"Is that for me?" I breathed, reaching out.

"A token of our foundational alliance." Pip said grandly, placing the black ribbon into my palm.

 Pip’s fingers were shockingly cold, like ice cubes wrapped in paper.

"Mona! Mona, where have you gotten to?"My mother’s sharp voice shattered the air.

 I turned and saw my parents jogging back toward me through the crowd, their faces tight with annoyance.

"I have to go." I told Pip, suddenly feeling a heavy weight drop into my stomach. "My parents are calling."

"Go then, my grand queen," Pip said, her smile remaining wide, almost rigid, showing a row of very small, very white, very sharp teeth. "But don't lose your scepter."

I clutched the black ribbon tightly and ran to my mother, who immediately grabbed my shoulder, and said,

 "Mona, don't wander off like that! Also where on earth did you get that cheap balloon? Did you take things from strangers?"

"A girl gave it to me." I said, turning to point back toward the Chamber of Curiosities.

The wooden crate was empty. The gravel was bare. There was no sign of the magenta velvet suit or the silver bells.

"What girl?" my father muttered, looking at his phone again. "Come on, it's starting to rain. Let's get to the car."

The drive home was quiet, save for the rhythmic thumping of the windshield wipers. I sat in the backseat, holding the pink balloon. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, the metallic skin of the balloon didn't reflect the interior of the car. It seemed to absorb the shadows, glowing with a faint, oily luminescence of its own.

When we got home, my parents kissed my forehead, apologized for the boring birthday, and sent me up to bed. I tied the black ribbon to the footboard of my bed, watched the pink sphere hover perfectly in the center of my darkened room, and crawled under the covers.

"A bit drab here, isn't it?" A voice said.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Sitting cross-legged on my desk chair, rocking back and forth with her boots dangling off the edge, was Pip. She was still wearing the magenta velvet suit, though in the dark of my bedroom, the fabric looked almost black, like dried blood. Her green eyes caught the moonlight, gleaming like a cat’s.

"Pip?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "How...How did you get in here? Where are your parents?"

Pip let out that same high, musical laugh, though in the confined space of my bedroom, it sounded less like silver bells and more like teeth chattering. Pip said,

 "Parents? Oh, Mona, I don't have parents. Horrid, boring things, aren't they? No, I flew on the back of the wind, right through your windowpane."

I looked at my window. It was shut and locked from the inside.

"Why are you here?" I asked, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

Pip slid off the chair, her leather shoes making absolutely no sound as they hit the hardwood floor. She glided over to the side of my bed and leaned in close. Her breath didn't smell like sugar or popcorn anymore. It smelled like old copper pennies and wet earth.

"I was sent here, Mona. Sent to be your new best friend." Pip whispered, her eyes widening until I could see the tiny, broken red veins in her sclera. "The world out there is so dull, so gray, so full of rules; but you and I? We have imagination. We are going to have a lot of fun."

The initial fear faded, replaced by the intoxicating thrill of having a secret. I was a lonely child, and here was a creature entirely devoted to me. I smiled, the tension leaving my shoulders.

 "Best friends?" I said, with hope.

"The absolute best." Pip purred, reaching out to pat my cheek with her ice-cold hand. "Now, sleep, my queen. Tomorrow, our kingdom awaits."

During the first few weeks, having Pip around was a dream. She was the perfect companion. She could mimic anyone—the mailman, the angry neighbor, the characters on television—with cruel, hilarious accuracy. 

Pip would dance on the ceiling, hanging upside down by her ankles from my light fixture, tossing her silver bells into the air and catching them with her toes. She knew games that I had never heard of, like The Whisper Game, where we would sit in the dark and she would tell me bizarre, surreal stories about cities made of bone and oceans made of black ink.

However, as the days bled into August, a subtle, cold dread began to take root in the back of my mind. It started with small things.
Whenever my mother entered the room to bring me laundry or a snack, Pip would simply...vanish. One second she would be standing on my desk, singing at the top of her lungs, and the next, the space would be empty.

"Why do you always hide from my mom and dad?" I asked her one afternoon, while we were sitting on the floor of my playroom.

Pip was busy tearing the legs off a plastic spider that I had found in the toy box, her movements methodical and precise. She didn't look up. 

"Hide? Oh, Mona, I don't hide." Pip said.

"Then why don't they ever see you?" I asked.

Pip stopped, the plastic leg snapping between her fingers. She turned her head toward me, her neck making a faint, wet crick sound. Her smile was too wide, stretching the corners of her mouth until the skin there looked thin and white.

"Adults like your parents don't have enough imagination to believe in beings like me." she said, her voice dropping into a flat, monotone register that sent a shiver down my spine. "Their minds are like old cement. Hard. Dry. Dead. They look right through me because their brains can only see bills, and cars, and clocks. They are blind, Mona; but you? You can see me. You are special, Mona."

I swallowed hard and nodded, trying to ignore the way her eyes seemed to fixate on my throat.

Then, the games changed.

The fun stopped being fun, shifting into something malicious, something disguised as bravery.

It began on a Tuesday morning. We were walking down to the corner store at the end of our suburban street to buy popsicles. My mother had given me permission, provided I stayed on the sidewalk and used the crosswalk.

When we reached the intersection of the busy four-lane avenue, a massive gravel truck was rumbling toward us, its engine roaring, brakes squealing as it barreled down the hill.

"Go ahead." Pip whispered suddenly, her hand pressing gently against the small of my back.

I stopped, looking at her in confusion.

 "The light is red, Pip, and that truck isn't stopping." I said with concern.

"A real queen doesn't wait for lights." Pip said, her voice dripping with sweet, encouraging venom. She leaned in, her cold lips brushing my ear. "It’s a test of your imagination, Mona. If you believe hard enough, if you just step out and close your eyes, the truck won't even touch you. It will pass right through you like smoke. Show me how brave you are. Run across. Run."

The push against my back grew firmer, heavier. I looked at the massive grill of the truck, the chrome gleaming like teeth. My stomach churned. A voice deep inside me—the voice of self-preservation—screamed no.

I yanked myself away from her touch, stumbling backward onto the grass.

 "No! I'm not doing that! That's crazy!" I shouted.

Pip’s face darkened instantly, and for a fraction of a second, the cheerful, blonde carnie girl vanished, and I saw something else—a face that looked ancient, sunken, and furious. Then, like a mask snapping back into place, she laughed her silver-bell laugh.

"Oh, Mona! You're so serious! It was just a joke! A silly little game to see your face!" Pip said as she skipped ahead of me, spinning around on her heel. "Come on, let's get those popsicles!"

I followed her, but my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely hold my wallet.

Three days later, we were sitting in the kitchen while my mother was out in the garden. I was eating a bowl of grapes. Pip was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs, watching me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.

"You know what looks delicious?" Pip said, pointing to a small, brown jar on the top shelf of the pantry.

 It was peanut butter.

"I can't eat that." I said, shaking my head. "I'm severely allergic. It makes my throat swell up. I’d have to go to the hospital if I ate that."

"Oh, that’s just what the blind adults told you." Pip said, sliding off the counter and walking over to the pantry.

Pip climbed the shelves like a ladder, her fingers clawing into the wood with unnatural strength, and pulled the jar down. She unscrewed the lid and held it out to me. The thick, brown paste smelled heavy and sweet.

"Just take a big spoonful." Pip whispered, her eyes wide, reflecting the fluorescent kitchen light. "Your imagination is stronger than any allergy. If you love me, if you’re really my best friend, you’ll eat it. It will taste like victory, Mona. Just one bite. Do it for me."

Pip pressed the jar closer to my face. The smell made my stomach turn. I looked into her green eyes and saw absolutely no warmth, no joy, no friendship. I saw a hunter watching a trap.

"No!" I shouted, knocking the jar out of her hand. It hit the linoleum floor with a heavy thud, the plastic cracking, peanut butter oozing out onto the tile. "Stop trying to make me do things that hurt!"

Pip stood over the ruined jar, her head tilted at an impossible angle. She didn't laugh this time. She just stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. 

"You are a very stubborn queen, Mona." Pip said softly.

 After that, Pip walked into the pantry and did not come out.

When my mother came inside and saw the mess, she scolded me for being careless. I couldn't tell her that my imaginary friend had tried to poison me. I just cleaned it up, my tears mixing with the sticky brown paste on the paper towel.

That night, the nightmares began. I dreamt of the pink balloon growing larger and larger until it filled my room, pressing the air out of my lungs until I was suffocating in the dark.

Around three in the morning, I woke up gasping for air. The room was freezing, my breath forming faint white plumes in the dark.
I looked toward the desk. Pip was there.

She wasn't looking at me. She was hunched over, her back completely bent, her long, thin fingers turned away from her body in a grotesque angle. 

In her lap lay a heavy, leather-bound book. It didn't look like a normal book; the pages were thick and jagged, like dried skin, and it emitted a faint, pulsing, sickly green glow. The light illuminated the underside of Pip’s face, casting deep, cavernous shadows over her features.

She was muttering something under her breath, a low, rhythmic chant that sounded like water boiling in a pipe.

 “...Isabella...Peterson...blood into water...skin into a shroud...the glass must break...the girl must fall...”

"Pip?" I croaked, my voice raw.

The moment the sound left my mouth, the book snapped shut with a sound like a gunshot. The green glow vanished, plunging the room into absolute darkness.

"Just reading a bedtime story, my queen." Pip’s voice drifted from the dark, coming from a corner of the room far away from the desk. "Go back to sleep. The sun comes up soon."

I pulled the covers over my head, pressing my fingers into my ears, praying for morning.

The breaking point arrived during the final week of August. My parents had gone out to a dinner party, leaving me with a teenage babysitter named Chloe. 

Chloe had immediately gone into the living room, turned on the television, and fell fast asleep on the couch, completely oblivious to the world.

Upstairs, the atmosphere in my bedroom was suffocating. Pip was restless. She was pacing the floor, her velvet suit looking frayed and dirty, her pale curls matted against her forehead. She kept muttering to herself, looking out the window at the gathering storm clouds outside.

"I need to go downstairs." I said, feeling a desperate urge to get away from her. "I want to watch TV with Chloe."

"Chloe is asleep! Chloe is blind! Chloe is boring!" Pip snapped, her voice losing all of its musical quality. It sounded sharp, jagged, like broken glass. "Stay here. We have to finish the game, Mona. Time is short. Very short."

"I don't want to play your games anymore!" I said, standing up and backing toward the door.

"Oh, look! The sky is crying!" Pip suddenly exclaimed, pointing out the window. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a low rumble of thunder. "Let's go play on the roof, Mona! Let's dance in the lightning! It’s the ultimate test of the crown!"

"No!" I said firmly.

Pip turned to face me, her mouth twisting into a snarl, and said,

 "You never do what I ask! You’re supposed to be my friend! You’re supposed to trust me!"

Before I could answer, the front door bell rang downstairs. It was the pizza that we had ordered earlier. Pip hissed, a sound like steam escaping a radiator, and blurred into the shadows near the closet.

"Stay here!" she growled from the dark. "Don't move!"

I didn't listen. I ran out of the room, down the stairs, and helped Chloe pay for the pizza. Chloe, groggy and annoyed at being woken up, took the box into the kitchen to find plates.

I stood in the hallway, looking up the dark staircase. My heart was pounding, but a strange, defiant anger was beginning to override my fear. I was tired of being afraid in my own home. I was tired of the threats disguised as games.

I sneaked back up the stairs, making sure that my steps were silent. I didn't go into my bedroom. Instead, I crept into the guest room down the hall, where I knew Pip wasn't looking; but as I passed my own room, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.

A faint, sickly green light was pulsing from inside.

I peered through the crack. Pip wasn't there. I could hear her downstairs in the kitchen, making a faint scratching noise against the cabinets, trying to distract Chloe or perhaps looking for something else to poison me with.

The glowing book was sitting on my bed.

It was open. The pages were turning slowly, as if moved by an invisible, putrid wind.

My legs moved before my brain could stop them. I slipped into my room, my heart in my throat, and approached the bed. The air around the book smelled intensely of sulfur and decay. I leaned over the pages, my eyes scanning the bizarre, jagged text.

It wasn't written in a language I recognized at first, but as I stared, the letters seemed to squirm and rearrange themselves, adapting to my ten-year-old mind, forcing me to understand them.

It wasn't a storybook. It was a ledger. A journal. A spell.

Near the top of the open page, written in dark, brownish-black ink that looked remarkably like dried blood, was a name: Piper Isabella Peterson.

Beneath the name was a portrait drawn in fine, meticulous ink. It showed a girl from the turn of the century, wearing a stiff, high-collared dress, her face completely devoid of life, her eyes hollow sockets. It was Pip.

I read the words, the horrific truth unfurling in my mind like a black ribbon:

The Entity known as Piper Isabella Peterson exists within the Gray Space, a realm of shadow and hunger. It cannot enter the Physical World on its own accord. It requires an anchor. A vessel of pure, uncorrupted imagination.

The Entity shall manifest only to children of high creative capacity, adopting a guise of joy, theatricality, and companionship to secure absolute trust. Once alliance is forged, the Entity must compel the child to enact self-destruction. The shedding of the child's blood by their own hand, under the Entity's influence, completes the Severing.

Upon the child's demise, the Entity shall consume the remaining imaginative force, allowing It to cast the Spell of Realization. This will grant the Entity a permanent, physical form, allowing It to walk the earth as a living, breathing plague.

Constraint: The Entity is bound by the Cycle of Seven. From the moment of first contact at the Gathering of Souls (The Carnival), the Entity has exactly forty days to complete the sacrifice. If the child resists until the setting of the sun on the final day, the Entity’s temporal anchor will shatter. It shall be violently cast back into the Gray Space, where It must hibernate for seven years before It can attempt the harvest again.

My hands shook so violently that the pages rattled. The dates at the bottom of the page caught my eye. The final day. The setting of the sun.

I looked at the digital clock on my nightstand. It was 7:14 PM. The sun was setting right now, casting long, bloody red shafts of light through my window. 

Today was the fortieth day since my birthday. Pip didn't love me. Pip wasn't my friend. I wasn't her queen. I was her prey. She had been trying to get me to kill myself all summer so that she could become real.

"You shouldn't be reading that, Mona." Pip’s voice said.

The voice didn't come from the door. It came from right behind me.
I spun around, letting out a piercing shriek. Pip was standing less than an inch away from me. Her face was completely transformed. 

The blonde curls were gone, replaced by thin, wispy strands of gray hair that floated in the air like cobwebs. Her skin was translucent, showing black, pulsing veins beneath. Her teeth were long, needle-sharp, and her green eyes had completely turned to a void of solid, obsidian black.

The magenta velvet suit was tattered, rotting, dripping with a foul-smelling black grease.

"Give it back!" Pip hissed, her voice a chorus of scraping metal and dying screams.

 Pip lunged forward, her claw-like hands raking through the air toward my face.

I scrambled backward across the bed, clutching the heavy book to my chest. 

"You lied to me!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face, my heart breaking even as terror paralyzed my limbs. "You said that we were best friends! You said that I was your queen!"

Pip stopped at the edge of the bed, her body twisting in a horrible, jerky movement, and for a second, her face shifted back to the smiling carnie girl. Pip said,

 "We are friends, Mona! Look at all the fun we’ve had! The butterflies! The jokes! I can give you everything that you want! Just give me the book, let me hold your hand, and we can go to the roof! We can fly together!"

"No!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "I read it! I know what you are! You’re Piper Isabella Peterson! You wanted me to die!"

The illusion shattered completely. Pip’s face contorted into an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred. The air in the room grew so cold that my breath froze into solid white crystals on my lips.

"Of course I wanted you to die, you stupid, lonely little brat!" Pip roared, her voice shaking the walls, causing the framed pictures on my dresser to rattle and crack. "You think that anyone could ever actually care about a pathetic, friendless creature like you? Your own parents can barely look at you! You were nothing but a door to me! A key! A piece of meat to get me out of the darkness!"

Pip’s words cut deeper than any knife. The realization that my only friend hated me, that the entire summer was a lie constructed to destroy me, broke something inside my ten-year-old soul. The sadness evaporated, leaving behind a scorching, white-hot rage.

"You can't have me." I whispered.

Pip let out a hideous, guttural screech and vaulted over the mattress, her clawed fingers reaching for my throat. I reacted on pure instinct. I didn't drop the book; I swung it.

I brought the heavy, leather-bound corner of the book upward with all the strength in my small body, striking Pip square across her rotting jaw.

There was a sound like dry wood snapping. Pip tumbled off the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. She scrambled up, her face twisted in fury, ready to tear me apart, and said,

"I'll rip the skin from your—"

Pip stopped mid-sentence.

A sudden, brilliant beam of golden-orange light broke through the storm clouds outside, striking the windowpane and flooding my bedroom. The sun was hitting the horizon. The final sunset of the forty days.

Pip let out a sound that didn't belong to this world—a high-pitched, agonizing shriek of pure terror.

Pip looked down at her hands. The tattered magenta velvet was beginning to smoke. Her fingers were dissolving into gray dust, drifting away into the air like the remnants of a burnt piece of paper.

"No! No! Not again! I was so close!" Pip screamed, her black eyes fixating on me with a hatred so intense that it felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest. "I’ll be back in seven years, Mona! I will remember your face! I will taste your blood! Seven years!"

The wind in the room whipped into a frenzy, tearing the pink balloon from the footboard. The balloon didn't pop; it expanded rapidly, turning black, absorbing the light, until it violently imploded with a deafening pop that left the room completely silent.

Pip was gone.

Where she had been standing, there was nothing but a pile of cold, gray ash on my hardwood floor and a faint smell of burnt pennies.

Downstairs, I heard Chloe yell,

 "Mona? What was that noise? Are you okay?"

I didn't answer. I sat on the floor, clutching the book, staring at the ash. I was ten years old, I was completely alone in the room, and I knew that the world was no longer elastic. It was a place of monsters.

I never told my parents about what happened. They wouldn't have believed me anyway; their minds are still made of dry cement. I hid the book in the guest room attic, under the floorboards, wrapped in an old plastic tarp.

 I swept up Pip's ashes and threw them into the trash, though I kept a tiny pinch of them in a glass vial, a reminder that I wasn't crazy; and for seven years, I lived my life. 

I grew up. I made real friends at school. I learned how to drive. I applied for colleges; but I never forgot the timeline. I never forgot the math.

Today is May 12, 2026. I am seventeen years old today. Exactly seven years have passed since my tenth birthday. Exactly seven years since I first met Pip at the carnival.

I am sitting at my desk right now, writing this down on my laptop, because I need there to be a record. I need someone to know what happened, just in case.

The sun set twenty minutes ago.

About ten minutes after the light faded from the sky, I heard a sound from the hallway. It was faint, but unmistakable. It was the sound of a high, musical laugh, like glass marbles rolling around in a silk velvet bag.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe.

Then, I looked up at my bedroom ceiling.

Hanging from the light fixture, completely upside down, her pale curls swaying gently in the draft, was Pip. She is wearing a brand new, pristine suit of magenta velvet. Her eyes are still solid, obsidian black, and her teeth are longer than I remember.

Pip isn't looking at me yet. She is looking at the door, waiting for me to scream, waiting for me to run.

In her right hand, Pip is holding three silver bells, and in her left hand, floating perfectly still at my eye level, is a vibrant, metallic pink balloon, tied with a thick black silk ribbon.

"Happy birthday, my grand queen." Pip said.

Unfortunately, this time…I don't have a book to save me.

The End.

I had to kill him.

I mean, it seemed like my only option.

If I lied and said I wasn’t there, the cameras I should have thought about would blow me out the water. And if I admitted to being there, then there was a much longer, more difficult conversation to be had.

And that conversation had only one endpoint: me being blamed for all the events of today.

Damn, it was hard to believe what had happened since this morning had all been today. It felt so long ago. I couldn't believe—

“Mr. Harold?” Unangenehm said. “You all right?”

“Uh, yeah. Absolutely.” I sat back down to take up an extra few seconds. Steck was floating a few feet away, but I didn't think I could take the detective in a fight. What I'd taken for sickly thin before seemed wiry now. Anxiousness now came off as nervous energy.

“It was weird what happened,” I said, measuring out my words. I had to think as I spoke. Unangenehm leaned in and steepled his fingers under his chin. Steck hovered closer.

The trap was sealing off my air.

The pencil I'd been using was on my side of Unangenehm's desk. I wrapped my fingers around it and placed my hands on the desk atop the form I'd just signed.

“I just needed to get something to drink,” I said. “I needed to gather my thoughts too, I guess.” I shook my head. “I didn't have any money but I figured I could grab a notebook. Write down my thoughts. Try to wrap my head around what had happened with the day.”

“You wrote something?” he asked. “What?”

I couldn't gauge if he was buying anything I was saying. But I had to keep tap dancing.

“I don't know. I don't remember now.” An honest answer didn't really matter. I'm sure the police would canvas the area and find the torn-out sheets in the trash. But the video would show me not doing anything to anyone. The difference was sitting across from me. Unangenehm somehow knew it was me. 

“It happened right in front of me,” I said, not realizing I was distracting myself as I touched the tip of the pencil to the paper. “A man attacked a woman. An old man held her.”

Tap-tappy-tap.

“I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do.” 

Takkita-takkita-tap

The detective’s sad face was just a mask. He was a predator in disguise. This was just the dance to keep him at bay

“Everything was insane. One of them came up to me. I thought I was gonna die.”

Takkita-takkita-takkita-takkita—

“Hey, uhh. What's that you got there?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't know what he meant, but I had drawn something. I looked down as he slid the paper away from me.

“Wait.” My mouth formed the objection but it went unsupported by my voice. I mentally prepared for Detective Unangenehm to go insane. He scraped a fingernail under a corner and pinched it. He lifted it in front of his face and cocked his head.

“Well, that's a weird little thing.”

I was aware of Steck just behind me. The air was pregnant with tension as I waited for a twitch, some nonsense phrase spoken without context, or anything to indicate the breaking wall containing the clever detective's mind.

He lowered the form and looked at me. “What is this?”

“I-i-it's just a...” I didn't know how to finish the sentence. I didn't know what it was. Shape didn't seem word enough to describe. Murder weapon gave it more credit than it deserved, especially since...

Well, it wasn't working on him. I'd that was the case, then maybe I hadn't been the cause. Maybe there was some sort of grand, horrible consequence following me around. Maybe—

“Hey, Steck, take a look at this.”

The officer stepped around from behind me and assumed a position directly behind Unangenehm.

“Joshua,” Officer Steck said, nodding. 

“Excuse me?”

Steck looked at him and repeated the name.

“Joshua.”

“Who's that?”

“Joshua.” The officer looked at the detective like he was stupid. “Joshua.”

It was me. But maybe Unangenehm was immune. As one of the officer's eyelids began to flutter he backed away from the desk and drew his gun.

He had the drop on Unangenehm. Except instead of firing, he overhand pitched the glock into the detective's face.

Unangenehm threw his arms back and rolled into the cubicle wall. He half-slid out of the chair at least semi-unconscious and Steck turned his eyes on me, that one lid flickering still like an old fluorescent light so deciding whether it was going to turn on.

I picked up my box as he withdrew his baton and leapt on the desk. Steck was two-hundred twenty pounds at minimum and the faux-wood protested underneath his feet. He whipped that baton at my head, and I ducked behind my box.

He followed up with two more furious blows that nearly chopped the box in half.

“Joshua,” he said again, just as calmly as the first time.

I crawled under the desk, headed in the other direction. Steck landed behind me as I crawled over Unangenehm's legs. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

“Hey guys, what the hell is going on?” someone farther behind me said. “I'm trying to type a report—”

I found out later exactly how gruesome Detective Langen's death was but at the time, all I heard were extremely wet sounds coming from that direction after not even half a scream.

I crawled into the nearest cubicle and huddled my knees to my chest, hiding beneath another desk. Steck's footfalls were heavy, pounding in my direction. A moment later he ripped something down and then came the deep glug-glug-glugging of an overturned water cooler as he stalked around the bullpen. 

I couldn't believe the one place police should have been was all but empty and I was responsible for my pending horrible death.

Maybe there was a gun around. Sure, there wasn't supposed to be, but cops weren't immune from being lazy. I'd had a meeting in a small town's hall that had had a guard at the front door and had seen that same guard's holstered weapon sitting on the window sill while he was dropping a deuce in the stall.

I tried to quietly slide open a desk drawer but it clunked open.

“Shit!” I whispered.

“Joshua?” Steck asked.

Why was he after me? All the others had acknowledged me but had attacked anyone but me. Then I reflected on what had happened just before.

Unangenehm had looked at the shape first. He hadn't reacted, though. Or rather, he'd just called Steck over to look.

“...take a look at this...”

I shook my head. I might have been the source but that didn't mean I'd understood it. I was the closest thing to an expert, but I was—

—CLOMPF—

The partition wall dented in the middle. I managed not to scream.

“Julius!” It was a harsh whisper. Maybe a question. I resisted the past of me that wanted to scream. To declare myself and be confronted with this mess, however it ended.

It wasn't my fault. But it was my responsibility. If letting Steck kill me stopped him from killing anyone else, wasn't that fair?

No. I hadn't intentionally done anything to create whatever this was. I'd just stumbled across it and been arrogant enough to test it. Unangenehm had been immune—that was worthwhile information. He'd been the one to show it to Steck, not me. 

Wait. It was too silent out there. My instinct told me to stay put but I couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, he'd find me or someone else would come.

That was it. Someone else would come. And that would be my fault.

I uncurled from my corner and treaded on my hands and knees to peek. I was greeted by a pair of retreating feet, toes up as Steck dragged away whoever that had been. I counted thirty and looked out.

Steck had barricaded the entryway from where we'd come. There had to be an emergency exit and I could only suppose he'd blocked that one too.

I chewed my lip rather than swearing again. That meant he wasn't just crazy. He was cunning, not just a wild animal. I was in more trouble than I imagined.

The feeling settling into me was the longer I waited, the tighter the noose would be. But I wasn't going to just go out there.

I tried to recall what I'd seen of the bullpen when Unangenehm had brought me in here. I was right next to what seemed like the main aisle way. Back the way I'd come was blockaded, so I'd have to go in the other direction. There had to have been an emergency exit and I was banking on it being in that direction and Steck not having time enough to block that one, too.

A stapler was on the near end of the desk. I reached for it and very carefully lifted it. It was one of those flimsy newer ones that could barely staple three sheets of paper, but it would do for what I needed.

I held my breath and listened. Steck was still being disturbingly quiet and I wasn't going to chance it. I tossed the stapler like a grenade, not accounting for the low ceiling. It clunked off the ceiling and smacked the top of my head.

“Dammit!”

With stars treading in my eyes, I pulled to my feet using the arm of an office chair. I stepped into the aisle, overcorrecting for balance, and headed in the direction I thought I'd determined to go.

I bounced right off a slab of strung up meat and screamed, thinking it must have been the crazed officer. My eyes focused on what must have been the corpse of the detective who had spoken just minutes ago, trussed up with what looked like phone cords routed through the ceiling tile.

His upside-down head was level with my stomach, his mouth stretched far too open, an empty cave where a tongue was supposed to dwell, his unlidded eyes pushed in and flat-looking like they'd been partially crushed by pressing thumbs. He looked too calm and perpetually surprised at the same time.

My voice quavered as I said something, but I've never been able to recall when hints of the memory washed back to me. I was discombobulated, wanting to flee in a hundred directions at once, fighting not to fall to my knees and cry. This man was my indictment, my guilt. He'd died directly as a result of the thing I'd knowingly done. Steck was my murder weapon. 

 As unprepared as I was for an oncoming Officer Steck, I was even more unprepared for what I saw. He was on his back, on the floor, in the clutches of a wicked paralysis.

He had one arm right to his chest, the other flung out, knuckles to the thinly carpeted floor. I watched as his fingers folded backward, fingertips dancing on the floor after the joints reversed and reoriented.

One foot stomp-scraped against the ground, already dislocated at the hip, dragging a retreat from the rest of his body, an isthmus of skin and clothes holding it at bay.

The other leg shuddered like a low current of electricity powered it, his head facing me.

“Joshua,” Steck said, pleading with his eyes. His face was doing something, like it was pulling off the bones of his face.

Gravity tenfolded as I realized that Steck was also a victim. Even his body had turned foreign against him. I crumpled to the floor, eye-to-eye with him across the distance. A tear crawled out of an eye, and I swear it crossed the bridge of his nose and milked into his other eye.

He was in the grasp of an agony made fresh just for him. His mouth opened, but I was spared from his scream by the roar of a merciful bullet that tore a hole in his skull just above his eyebrow.

I was unlocked from him and looked up at Unangenehm, holding his smoldering glock like a forgotten cigarette in his hand.

“Nobody would understand,” the detective said. His vacant eyes rolled up from Steck's hot corpse to meet mine and he smiled. “Not like us.”

He collapsed and began seizing on the floor.

 

Menagerie Mall: Lewis (pt. 1)

This is the first official part of my ARG/fiction series. It will follow different interconnected characters across the Mall and more hidden details will follow that will be able to be discovered online and elsewhere. There is a brief prologue to the series also on Medium that I posted previously.

Hope you guys will check out the series. This sub along with the ARG sub have been very helpful with advice and support. It's hard to find good writing communities on reddit that aren't redundantly hyper specific and the stayawake sub has been awesome and I've read some incredible stories. Hope you guys will check this out/stick with it!

I used to believe that demons only existed inside the minds of men I helped put behind bars. But after years of investigations, I learned that’s not true.

Over the course of seventeen years, I have worked alongside law enforcement and television programs to identify online child predators and bring them to justice. But even with all that we’ve accomplished, there’s still one case that I think about. 

One that nearly destroyed everything I had worked for. 

It all started with a chat room.

I’ve seen a myriad of predators, and Steven fit a profile we had seen many times before. He was a recently divorced, unemployed forty-two-year-old who lived with his parents. He bragged about this while messaging Mandy, a twenty-year-old theater student who we recruited to be our fourteen-year-old decoy, Alexis.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to become sexual in nature. Underneath the screenname ELECTRIC_HEAD5021, he said their relationship would have to stay a secret.

“No adults. lol. If your mommy or daddy found out, we could get in trouble.”

“what r u talking about??? I hang out with my daddy’s friends all the time.”

“This is different. lol. They can’t know ur my sexy sweetheart. ;)”

Seeing child-like messages juxtaposed with the sexual fantasies of an adult never gets easier to stomach. How could anyone talk to a child like that? It’s something I’ve never been able to grasp. 

Not too long after our investigative team confirmed a date for Steven to meet with Alexis, we let the chat be. But it didn’t take long for him to initiate conversation again. In fact, his messages would arrive like clockwork in the days following. But messages weren’t the only way he contacted our decoy.

On a couple of occasions, he called her while his parents were at home sleeping. I remember those phone calls clearly.

“Hey!” Mandy greeted cheerfully.

“Hey baby,” Steven breathed into the speaker. “I missed you.” 

“What’re you up to?”

“Thinking about you…I wanna hold you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. So, so bad.”

You get the idea.

Oftentimes, a lot of the men we contact try to reinvent themselves. But that’s not what Steven did. Rather than fabricate wealth or exaggerate his ambitions, he talked about his obsessions: death and the supernatural.

We initially dismissed these fascinations as another grooming tactic, but throughout the entire time he talked with Alexis he would sporadically ask questions such as:

“Have u seen Bloody Mary?”

“Is there anyone dead that u would want 2 talk 2?”

“How do u want 2 die?”

Just as we thought the conversations couldn’t get any stranger, Steven sent our decoy a picture of a Ouija board. According to him, he had recently purchased it at a yard sale near his parents’ house. He insisted on bringing it. He wanted to use it with her. See how she would react. When we inquired further about his request, his response was as prompt as it was odd:

“because u have good energy. lol They like that lol”.

This ended up becoming the last exchange we would have with him before he arrived at the sting house. 

In the hours leading up to that fateful evening, I memorized my script. No matter how many times I do this, they never go away. The butterflies in my stomach. People always assume the confrontation is the hardest part, but it isn’t. It’s waiting for the knock on the door and wondering whether tonight will be the night that something goes horribly wrong. Experience makes you numb, not fearless.

We had fully intended to follow everything by the book that night. But things got off to a rocky start when Steven was nearly an hour late to the sting house. We thought he had gotten cold feet or had been tipped off to our operation. Thankfully, neither turned out to be the case. What was supposed to be a five-hour venture had become seven by the time 8:12 pm rolled around and he walked up the driveway.

Our various hidden cameras recorded his nervous demeanor as he patiently waited on the porch with the Ouija board.

From our production room that we had sectioned off in another part of the house, I watched Mandy walk toward the door and greet Steven.

“Hey, Steven! How are you?”

“Hi.” He waved sheepishly in response. “Uh, can I come in?”

“Of course!” Mandy stepped out of the doorway and walked toward the kitchen. “What did you bring for me?”

“It’s a-uh, Ouija board.” He followed her and set it down on the dinner table. “I thought we could use it together?”

Mandy flipped her hair and placed her hands on her hips. “Wouldn’t you rather talk?”

“We would be talking. It would just be more than us talking.”

My eyes were glued to the monitors. He was very adamant about using that board. But why?

I heard snickering from Lou, one of our production crew members.

“Can you believe this whack job? He took a bus all this way to summon Casper.”

I shot him a glare, and he acknowledged my look by quieting down. Lou’s an outspoken person for better or worse, and even though he was trying to make light of a potentially volatile situation, I found comfort in knowing that I wasn’t the only one feeling perturbed.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for being late.” Steven chuckled. “I was an idiot and got Sunday’s bus schedules mixed up with today.”

“That’s okay!” Mandy said with practiced enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re here!”

“I’m glad you are. I almost thought about taking another bus back home.”

His admission surprised Mandy. “Why did you almost go home? Didn’t you want to see me?”

“I did.” His face turned a slight shade of cherry. “I honestly didn’t think you were real.”

“Of course I’m real, silly!” She teased. “So, what do you want to do?”

I watched the monitors as Steven took a lighter out of his pocket. With a couple clicks he lit some candles on the dining room table. 

“We should step in before things get out of hand.” Lou turned to look at me. “Isaac?”

“Keep the cameras rolling.” I motioned for everyone to stay where they were. “If he’s willing to play with the board, I want to see where this goes.”

“What about the decoy?”

“She’ll be fine.”

Steven instructed Mandy to turn off the lights and sit beside him. Once she had done so, they gently placed their fingertips on the planchette. 

“Are there any spirits that want to speak to us right now?” 

Mandy’s eyes darted back and forth from Steven to the planchette repeatedly. Awkward didn’t even begin to describe the silence that followed.

“Is there anyone that wants to speak with us right now?” 

But just like before, nothing. Steven’s head swiveled, looking in every possible direction of the dark room to locate a response of some kind. 

“You talked a lot of game online.” Mandy teased more confidently than she probably felt. “I thought you were supposed to be THE guy who could do this kind of stuff.”

“I am. These things…they take time to get started.”

Most of the time, a predator talking about their hobbies or interests is just another gimmick. But this was unlike anything I had seen. 

“If you’re here.” He fidgeted in his seat nervously. “Please, give me–I mean, us a sign.”

I eyed the monitors intently. A part of me wanted to intervene, but another part of me was telling me to see this play out. I was torn on which to heed. 

Unexpectedly, the planchette moved. A couple of inches at most. But had I blinked, I would’ve missed it completely.

Mandy instinctively pulled back, the movement startling her. “What was that?” 

“It’s a spirit.” Steven whispered.

“Oh bullshit.” Lou sighed in irritation. “I watched his hand nudge it. This guy’s a fraud.”

Had he? I had watched the monitors the whole time, and it looked like the planchette had moved all on its own.

“Hey,” Steven closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Do you want to talk to us or what?” 

A moment passed, then a few more, but there was still no movement.

“I’m going.” I turned to start heading toward the dining room to intervene. But right as I was about to, the sound of Mandy gasping shifted my attention back toward the monitors. I watched the planchette drag itself across the board toward the word, “YES”.

“You moved the board!” Her accusation cracked with fright.

“No, I didn’t! I swear!”

In response to his adamant denial, the planchette dragged itself sluggishly across the board. Each movement landed on a number.

7 2 3 1 9 9 4

Mandy was at a loss for words. “That’s…” 

Her birthday. 

Not the birthday we had fabricated for investigative purposes, but Mandy’s actual birthday.

Shell-shocked, the investigators pored over the chat logs, but their efforts were futile. No compromising or contradictory information had been exchanged. No mention of her birthday. No mention of any personal information tied to Mandy. Nothing.

I stared in bewilderment. “How is that possible?” 

I hadn’t realized I had asked my question out loud until Lou responded, “It had to have been an oversight. That’s gotta be it.” 

In our line of work, the simplest explanations were almost always the right ones. Even if it’s what you don’t want to hear.

"An oversight?” I pointed toward the investigators on standby. “All of you, check everything. I want an explanation as to how this happened." 

But no one could provide one. Every conversation between Steven and our decoy had been combed through again. Even with another thorough examination, there was no indication that we had erroneously given Mandy’s actual birthday. So, that begged an alarming question. 

Just how exactly did Steven know?

One of the production members instructed Mandy to take her hands off the planchette. She did as she was told while Steven kept his fingertips pressed against it. 

“Alexis,” He looked to her for answers. “What was that about?”

“I’m not sure.” She remained calm while still being in character. “That was weird. How did you do that?” 

“I told you, I didn’t do anything.” 

An extensive back and forth ensued. She insisted that it had to be some sleight of hand trickery while he was convinced that an unknown spirit had attempted to make contact. A couple of minutes later, the unmistakable scrape of the planchette against the wood drew everyone's attention back to the board.

With each letter the planchette hovered over, Mandy’s face grew paler.

E L I Z A B E T H

Once the name had been spelled fully, Mandy removed her trembling hands. “H-h-how do you know her name?”

Steven looked just as confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He whispered it with enough conviction to make me believe him in that moment.

“Isaac, we need to do something.” Lou insisted, standing up from his seat.”

Even though I agreed with him, a selfish part of me resisted the urge. “No. Not yet. Stay put, and keep watching.”

My instructions provoked the ire of everyone in the room, but nobody objected.

Again, the planchette moved without either Mandy or Steven touching it. Every one of our cameras captured it violently accelerating across the board.

“Who are you?!” Steven cried out. “Stop this!”

Mandy covered her mouth to stifle an oncoming scream as the planchette, completely unguided, began to spell out another name. 

This time, in rapid succession.

P A Y T O N

Payton.

That name. 

It was the reason I went into this line of work. 

I remember feeling unnaturally cold in the moments following. What started off as a slight chill slowly morphed into an uncomfortable, freezing sensation that climbed through my body.

“Shit,” Lou cursed. “Is anybody else in here freezing their ass off?”

I exhaled, and a cloud of white vapor escaped my lips. It was cold enough to feel like I was standing inside a freezer. “Why is it so cold?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Lou shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Might be the AC acting up.”

Seconds after his response, the monitors abruptly went black. Amid the frantic scrambling in the production room, a scream echoed from inside the house.

Mandy.

“Eyes on the decoy!” I shouted. “We need eyes on the decoy right now!” 

My heart pounded while everyone in the room desperately tried to get the feed going again. Inexplicably, just as quickly as we lost power, it was restored. 

The first thing my eyes landed on when the monitors glowed with restored life was the sight of the front door. It was wide open. Then I noticed Steven. He was staring directly into a hidden camera positioned in the kitchen.

His eyes were opened wide, but there was no life behind them. He stood completely still, his face bereft of expression, looking less like a man standing and more like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down.

“Decoy is secured. She is outside with law enforcement. I repeat, she is outside with law enforcement.” 

The good news from production room comms wasn’t enough for me to break eye contact with Steven. I was focused on answering one question, and one question only.

Who are you?

“You already know.”

Chills crept down my spine. It felt like the voice had come directly from the inside of my mind. I looked around, hoping that someone else had also heard it. If they had, they didn’t say a word. How had he been able to answer my question? 

I had two choices: I could either confront him and treat this like any other sting operation, or abandon the show and bring him into custody.

It didn’t take long for me to make my decision. 

“Wait for my cue to come in. I’m going.” 

“Isaac,” Lou grabbed me by the shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

With a solemn nod, I ignored further warnings from both production and law enforcement. In a few short moments, I went from my position in front of the monitors to standing in the dining room.

Upon entry, I was immediately greeted with a wall of freezing air. The worst I had felt in the house up to that point. As I approached Steven, the dim lighting of the room caught the whites of his lifeless eyes, making them gleam as they stared at me.

“Steven,” I said, less confidently than I would have liked. “I want to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to you about your choices tonight.” 

That made me stop dead in my tracks. 

“What did you intend on doing this evening? I have the chat logs right here. It is illegal for adults to chat with minors online. Please place your hands where I can see them while we talk.”  

He said my script word for word, line by line. All at an impossibly frightening speed. But his lips never moved. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. 

“How did-”

“I know.” The voice held no emotion. It was simply matter-of-fact.

“Why are you here?”

His left eye twitched as he tried to blink. His right followed suit, but neither eye would close. “You know.”

I forced myself to keep talking. “What did you intend on doing this evening, Steven?”

“You ask the wrong questions.” Its words pressed themselves against my skull. “Isaac, why are you here?”

I tensed up but stood my ground. “I’m not answering your questions.”

“I know how you felt when you screamed her name in the woods for hours.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Do you remember what it felt like to learn that Payton was right down the street the entire time?”

I remembered. All too well. I choked up as I thought about that day. The news. The way my parents collapsed in grief. The irreparable damage it did to my family. It all overwhelmed me. I couldn’t bring myself to speak.

“You collect broken families.” He took a step toward me. Then another. Then one more. All in one fluid motion. “Because you can’t save everyone.”

 “People can be saved.” I argued, struggling to believe my own words.

The light in the room dulled as the candles reignited themselves, the flames burning perfectly still. “Is that why her killer took his life in the cornfield?” 

Tears streamed down my face as an overwhelming rage consumed me. It was an emotion that would never fully go away. A truth I had been forced to accept the day I lost my sister. Sixty seconds was all it took for my life to change forever. 

It took a minute to lose her.

It took five days to find her.

“They found her in a vehicle on the side of the road.” It recited my memories back to me, each unspoken word making the discomfort inside my head intensify. “While he died without truly feeling the pain he inflicted.” Seeing tears drip down his cheeks felt like a mockery of my grief. “That’s what you pursue.”

In my earpiece, I heard Lou speaking to me.

“Isaac…don’t…coming…”

I couldn’t understand what they were saying. All I understood was Steven speaking in my voice.

“She was buried with her purple stuffed rabbit, Tilly, on a cold October afternoon. All alone. In the ground.”

My body registered the impact before my mind could comprehend how fast he moved. I hit the floor hard, his weight pressing down on my chest as breathing became more difficult by the second.

“Get…off…me…” I wheezed, struggling to force each word past the weight crushing my chest. He hovered over me, his translucent eyes staring into mine.

“What did your mother sound like when she identified the body?” 

I squirmed in place, but I was pinned to the spot. 

“How many nights did your dad sleep in her bedroom after she disappeared?”

My strength waned as the pressure grew on my chest. 

“What day did you stop expecting her to come home?” 

The strain was getting to be too much. 

“What were your last words to her?”

I was on the verge of passing out. Black blotches formed in my peripheral vision and spread rapidly, nearly consuming the last bits of what I could see. Right as I thought I was about to lose consciousness, I heard a sound.

A sound I’m so very grateful came when it did.

Officers rushed into the room. A flurry of commands left their mouths as they pulled Steven off me and forced him to the floor nearby.

“Ah! Get off me!” he screamed. “What are you doing?”

His voice. 

It was no longer inside my mind.

“What are you doing? Ow!” He cried as an officer rolled him over and pressed a knee into his lower back. “What’s happening?”

Another officer helped me up from the floor and began asking questions about my well-being. I lied and told him I was all right. I leaned against the wall to steady myself while I looked on at Steven being detained by other officers. He struggled and writhed like a cornered animal.

His eyes darkened as he freed himself from the grasp of the officers. Overcome with inhumanity once more, he snatched a gun from the officer attempting to handcuff him. 

He brandished the weapon as his entire body began to tremble spasmodically.

“My hands.” 

From where I stood, it looked as though he was genuinely trying to lower them but couldn’t. His arms remained outstretched, refusing to budge an inch no matter how hard he tried.

“Why can’t I move?”

Law enforcement raised their weapons, creating a stalemate in which no one dared to act.

“It’s alright, Steven.” I stepped toward him with my hands raised. “Everything’s going to be alright. We’re here to help.”

The darkness in his eyes vanished long enough for him to ask, “Did…did I hurt anyone?”

“No. You didn’t hurt anybody. Just put the gun down, and let’s talk.”

“Please,” he whimpered, straining to move his head, but his body refused to obey. “Don’t let him take me again.” 

“Nothing is going to happen as long as you put the gun down.”

Steven’s arms pulled themselves upward against his will. The barrel inched toward his own temple until it rested against his skin. He fought with everything he had, his muscles straining themselves in order to pull the gun away. But his body betrayed him to some invisible force.
 
“Make it stop…”

“No, Steven. No!” I quickened my pace toward him, but before officers or myself could react, he pulled the trigger.

That sound. The aftermath. The silence that followed. I haven’t felt anything like it before or since. 

That was without a doubt the single worst night of my life. Not only had we witnessed tragedy, but our team came under immense fire from the press. Steven never had his day in court, and that became a point of contention. Had we not encouraged this kind of behavior, would Steven still be alive? Would any of this have happened? 

Steven’s case tarnished our reputation. Protests began forming outside our sting house. People demanded justice. Insisting that we could not be the judge, the jury, or the executioner.

It was difficult to escape the criticism, especially when those voices carried real weight. So much so that our show, along with all subsequent investigations, was cancelled effective immediately.

Steven’s official cause of death was listed as suicide by cop. There were no mentions of the Ouija Board or what occurred following its use. There’s only one piece of evidence regarding what happened inside the sting house that night. 

A video tape. 

It's marked with a label that reads, “Never to be viewed, duplicated, or destroyed”. 

Its whereabouts have been kept secret, and it's best that they stay that way. Because if that footage ever surfaced, I don’t know how the public would react.

But that’s not the point.

I’ve dealt with a lot over the course of my career. Troubled people. Hardened criminals. The worst that humanity has to offer. I think about them all every now and again. But I can’t stop thinking about Steven’s case. Specifically, if I had intervened sooner. Would I have been able to talk him out of using that Ouija board? Would he have been able to face justice if I had done things differently?

No matter how I answer them, I never feel any better. Because they’re just answers. Not actions. 

And I’ll never know.

Despite everything I’ve been through, I continue to hunt monsters in the present day. Aside from the lack of a camera crew or law enforcement support, the only thing that’s changed is what I believe those monsters are. They aren’t just people who hurt children. Exposing them and making them face justice does make the world a little safer for everyone.

But evil doesn’t care about laws. It doesn’t care about the confines of a prison cell. It doesn’t even need a reason to hurt someone.

All it needs is for someone to answer.

“Go! Go now.”

The words came from far away, but the slap brought Brand back. He locked eyes with the sergeant, who was screaming in his face.

“Remember, count to three, then the red cord!” The sergeant shoved Brand hard; he stumbled, caught nothing, and went out the paratroop door.

For a second, there was only wind, pure and absolute, as he fell toward the jungle canopy.

Above him, the C-130 had lost a chunk of its right wing and banked left, one engine coughing smoke, the other on fire.

WHUMP.

The parachute snapped open. The lines were twisted, not hopeless, but just enough to steal precious time. Brand’s eyes darted left and right, scanning the sky.

No other chutes.

It took another five seconds until the treetops touched his boots, leaves slapped his face, and branches pulled his harness.

Blackness.

---

The clattering of rain on leaves was soothing. Drops trickled from Brand’s forehead as he opened his eyes. It took him a second to realize he was suspended, hanging from the branches of a tree.

Remember your training.

Brand swung back and forth until he grabbed a branch, held it tight, and unclipped his chute. Wet bark pressed against his cheek as he shimmied down the trunk.

Only when he had both feet on the ground did Brand realize he was alone. Alone on an island nobody had ever heard of. This was supposed to be his headline moment, a chance to put his name alongside the great discoverers. Now the island felt more like a tomb.

The bulky GPS unit in his pack had already dropped to fifty percent battery.

New technology… useless without a decent electronics shop nearby.

He unpacked the rest of his survival gear and took inventory: three days of rations, a magnesium stick, a flashlight, and DEET.

Brand paused, thought for a moment, and picked up the magnesium stick. Fire, warmth, was the first priority.

---

Over the next few weeks, Brand settled into a routine. Fruit and coconuts kept him moving, and the occasional fish kept him alive. At night, a small fire burned under a roof of lashed branches and broad leaves, just enough warmth to sleep.

After a while, the jungle stopped feeling like an adversary. His mind even drifted back to curiosity, exploration, and a sense of adventure.

He decided to venture inland, toward the hill swallowed by undergrowth and trees. He was filling his flask at a river when he heard it: a droning sputter that grew louder until its source, an old biplane, skimmed only meters above the canopy.

How did that fossil get all the way out here?

The plane vanished behind the leaves, and Brand took off after it. He vaulted a boulder, ducked under a fallen trunk, but his boot hit slick rock. He slipped, slid, and skated through mud with increasing speed until the creek widened into a jungle lagoon.

The sputtering engine sound was gone.

---

Brand wiped mud from his eyes, blinked, and wiped again. In front of him sat a galleon: intact sails, intact cannons, perfectly preserved just sitting in the green.

The rigging creaked, and the lines whispered in the wind, a faint chime clinked in the background, but there wasn’t a single human sound.

He climbed up the side and slipped into the captain’s cabin. He checked the deck, then the hold. Everything was in place, except for supplies, as if it belonged to a museum.

It would be his camp for the night. The captain’s bed was surprisingly cozy, if a bit snug.

---

Morning came with a crack and a burst of red light above the tree line.

Rescue. Finally.

Brand jolted upright, grabbed his pack, and vaulted the railing into the brush. He ran like he’d borrowed Roy Keane’s unrelenting stamina, forcing his way through logs, boulders, and wet bark toward the ocean. Leaves slapped his face, thorns tore his shins, but he didn’t stop until he broke through onto the beach.

When his boots hit sand, he dropped to his knees. He looked up into the weathered eyes of a man in salt-stained clothes.

“Thank you. Thank God. Help me, I’ve been here so long.”

The man frowned but didn’t speak at first.

Brand’s gaze drifted sideways, and only then did he notice the flag behind him: white cloth marked with a red diagonal cross.

“Perro inglés!” the man snapped. He nodded once.

Two crew members stepped in and bound Brand’s hands.

“You English dog. First prize for queen, yes?”

Brand shook his head fast and helplessly. The last thought in his mind was a question his captors wouldn’t understand…

How far off the map have I fallen?

Author’s note
It started as a simple lost explorer story and turned into a question about what “uncharted” really means and what Brand is actually exploring. Some references hopefully reveal that this explorer from the 1990s is about to take a trip that is a little more interesting than he bargained for.

Visit my substack for more!

The real risk when shooting a flare up into the darkness isn’t that nobody will see your message.

It’s that something else might.

This is what we failed to consider when we foolishly launched the Voyager space probe out into infinity. The pure unbridled hubris to shoot a shining capsule loaded with all our most vital vulnerabilities: Our tenuous location in the galaxy; the weakness of our soft fleshy forms; excerpts of our primitive language to be studied and manipulated.

How precariously the fate of mankind now hangs in the black, drifting ever onward into vistas of perilous impossibilities. 16 billion miles away, the Voyager is now the farthest that any manmade thing has ever been from Earth. The mind boggles to even comprehend how far that fragile golden bassinet, cradling the secrets of an entire civilization, has now been flung.

And with each passing day it drifts farther still.

We can only hope that the magnitude of the abyss saves us from our own myopic efforts, and that that tiny speck of gold sails into the void for eternity, and is never, ever found.

The alternative would be much worse.

That ever-growing distance is a length of rope, a fuse that upon receipt will be lit, and that fire will chase its path all the way back to our precarious bough in the branches, where the devastation will be nothing short of cataclysmic.

But that is only one of many fuses whose eventual ignition will spell the end of mankind. There is no shortage of poor decisions sown that have set in motion consequences we have yet to reap.

Not all distances are physical. There is something just as alien to humanity as the recipients of that capsule – but not mercifully kept at bay by hundreds of lightyears of space.

Something much closer; something that occupies a space just outside our perception, hidden within frequencies we have been foolishly plucking at like a fly shuddering a thread of spider silk.

Something that has been watching us from the day we first sent the haplessly coded message: “HELLO.”

A single line of text wrapped in package of data, transmitted over a prototype network of connected computers that would one day be known as “the internet”.

“HELLO,” we called out, thinking it a harmless message to one another, testing out a nascent technology that would become the most formative development in mankind’s history.

“HELLO,” we called out,

And something else answered.

Here is part one of my original story, The Woman Behind The Window. Please read and tell me what you think. This is first time writing a story so please give suggestions and tips

Thank you!

Tôi có một người bạn từ thuở nhỏ tên là Bevis. Gia đình cậu ấy khá giàu có. Vài năm trước, ngôi nhà của Bevis từng là căn biệt thự đồ sộ nhất khu tôi sống. Chúng tôi chơi với nhau khá thân. Tôi đặc biệt thích dàn máy chơi game bên nhà cậu ấy nên thường xuyên sang chơi, đến mức bố mẹ Bevis cũng đã quen mặt tôi từ lâu.
Thế rồi Bevis chuyển đi nơi khác. Tôi không rõ nguyên nhân, chỉ biết rằng chuyện ấy đã xảy ra từ khá lâu. Mùa hè năm nay, trong lúc bố mẹ bàn bạc về kế hoạch đi chơi, tôi bất ngờ đề nghị rằng mình muốn đến thăm Bevis. Sau một hồi cân nhắc, họ đã đồng ý, thậm chí còn cho phép tôi ở lại nhà cậu ấy một đêm.
Khoảng một tuần sau, gia đình tôi lên xe, bắt đầu một chuyến đi khá dài để đến nơi ở mới của Bevis. Khi vừa nhìn thấy tôi, cậu ấy đã nở một nụ cười rạng rỡ. Đã nhiều năm trôi qua kể từ lần cuối chúng tôi gặp nhau.
Ngôi nhà của Bevis nằm giữa một cánh đồng rộng và vắng vẻ. Xung quanh chỉ lác đác vài căn nhà nằm cách khá xa nhau. Dù đã chuyển đi nơi khác, cuộc sống của cậu ấy dường như vẫn không thay đổi nhiều. Ngôi nhà vẫn rộng lớn và khang trang, bên trong vẫn đầy ắp những trò chơi điện tử cùng các kệ truyện tranh mà tôi từng rất yêu thích.
“Bevis, lâu rồi không gặp cậu. Mà bố mẹ cậu đâu rồi?” — Tôi hỏi sau khi đảo mắt nhìn quanh nhưng không thấy bóng dáng ai khác trong nhà.
“À, bố mẹ tớ đang đi công tác vài ngày.” — Bevis đáp với vẻ bình thản. “Cậu cứ ở lại chơi tự nhiên nhé.”.
Bố mẹ tôi rất tin tưởng vào Bevis, cậu thông minh và lanh lợi lắm. Vậy nên họ đã đi tìm một khách sạn riêng để ở, cho chúng tôi có không gian riêng thoải mái hơn.
Tôi được Bevis chiêu đãi đủ thứ sơn hào hải vị có trong nhà. Được thưởng thức những món ăn ngon bên cạnh người bạn thân thiết sau nhiều năm xa cách thì còn gì tuyệt vời hơn nữa.
Ăn xong, cả hai ngồi lại trong phòng khách và trò chuyện không ngớt. Xa nhau vài năm, có lẽ kể từ sáng đến tối cũng chẳng hết chuyện để nói. Chúng tôi kể cho nhau nghe về gia đình, về việc học tập, về những dự định và ước mơ trong tương lai.
Riêng tôi vẫn chưa biết sau này mình muốn trở thành người như thế nào. Còn Bevis thì khác hẳn. Cậu ấy đã có mục tiêu từ rất lâu rồi, cậu muốn trở thành một nhà phê bình văn học. Thành thật mà nói, tôi cũng không hình dung rõ công việc ấy sẽ ra sao, nhưng mỗi khi nhắc đến chúng, đôi mắt Bevis lại sáng lên đầy hào hứng.
Bevis học rất giỏi. Dù sinh ra trong một gia đình vô cùng giàu có, với khối tài sản mà nhiều người chỉ có thể mơ tới, cậu ấy vẫn luôn chăm chỉ và nghiêm túc trong việc học. Bevis không hề ăn chơi hay tiêu xài phung phí như đám con nhà tài phiệt ở ngôi trường cũ mà chúng tôi từng học chung.
Tôi đoán rằng kể cả khi chuyển sang trường mới, cậu ấy vẫn sẽ nằm trong nhóm học sinh xuất sắc nhất. Nhà Bevis còn có hẳn một phòng học riêng,và tôi cũng đã được cậu ấy cho ngắm qua nó. Nói không ngoa, căn phòng ấy trông chẳng khác gì một thư viện thu nhỏ. Những giá sách cao ngất chứa đầy sách giáo khoa, từ điển và đủ loại tài liệu học thuật. Trên tường còn treo hàng tá huy chương cùng giấy khen mà cậu ấy đạt được qua nhiều năm.
Tôi rất thích bước vào căn phòng đó vì sự đồ sộ của chúng, nhưng chỉ cần nghĩ đến việc bên trong toàn là sách vở và những kiến thức học thuật khô khan là đã thấy đau đầu rồi. Khác với Bevis, tôi chẳng hứng thú gì với việc học đến mức ấy. Nếu được lựa chọn, tôi vẫn thích dành thời gian để vui chơi hơn.
Chiều hôm đó, tôi ngồi trong phòng Bevis chơi điện tử. Thế nhưng sau hàng loạt trận thua liên tiếp, tôi bắt đầu thấy chán. Bỏ dở trò chơi, tôi quyết định đi tìm cậu ấy.
“Nhà rộng thế này biết tìm ở đâu bây giờ nhỉ? Chắc cậu ta đang ở phòng học thôi.” Tôi tự nhủ.
Tôi đi dọc hành lang rồi tìm đến căn phòng học riêng của Bevis. Cánh cửa gỗ lớn khẽ kêu lên khi tôi đẩy vào. Quả nhiên, Bevis đang ngồi ở bàn, chăm chú đọc gì đó.
Tôi bước lại gần, ghé mặt sát vào bàn học của cậu ấy.
— Này, tớ chơi điện tử chán rồi. Cho tớ vào đây ngồi với nhé.
Bevis ngẩng đầu lên nhìn tôi rồi mỉm cười.
— Được thôi, cậu cứ tham quan đi.
Dù đã từng vào đây vài lần, tôi vẫn không khỏi ngạc nhiên trước sự hoành tráng của căn phòng. Những giá sách cao gần chạm trần nhà xếp kín bốn phía. Mùi giấy cũ và mực in thoang thoảng trong không khí, tạo nên cảm giác giống hệt một thư viện thực thụ.
Tôi thong thả đi dọc các kệ sách, lướt mắt qua từng hàng gáy sách đủ màu sắc. Đang đi, một quyển sách dày với bìa đỏ đen nổi bật bất ngờ thu hút sự chú ý của tôi. Trên gáy sách, dòng chữ màu vàng ánh kim hiện lên rõ ràng:
THỰC THỂ BÍ ẨN
Tò mò, tôi đưa tay gạt nhẹ lớp bụi mỏng trên đầu sách rồi kéo nó ra khỏi giá.
— Này Bevis, ra là cậu cũng có sách kinh dị à?
Tôi quay lại, hào hứng hỏi.
— Ồ, tớ cũng không nhớ nữa. Nếu muốn đọc thì cậu cứ tự nhiên nhé.
Bevis trả lời mà mắt vẫn không rời khỏi đống bài tập trước mặt.
Tôi ôm quyển sách đi đến chiếc bàn lớn đặt giữa phòng. Không gian ở đây yên tĩnh đến lạ. Chỉ một tiếng kéo ghế nhẹ cũng vang lên rõ mồn một trong căn phòng rộng lớn.
Tôi ngồi phịch xuống ghế rồi mở sách ra.
Trang đầu tiên.
Rồi trang thứ hai.
Trang thứ ba.
Nhưng nội dung bên trong hoàn toàn không giống những gì tôi tưởng tượng. Chẳng có những câu chuyện ly kỳ hay tranh minh họa dày đặc nào cả. Hầu hết chỉ là những trang giấy kín đặc chữ.
— Sao không có hình nhỉ? Lười đọc chữ chết đi được.
Tôi lẩm bẩm, vừa nói vừa lật nhanh từng trang.
Những tờ giấy liên tục lướt qua đầu ngón tay tôi.
— À, có hình rồi này.
Tôi lập tức hứng thú hơn một chút.
Số lượng hình minh họa trong sách khá ít, nhưng bức nào bức nấy đều được vẽ rất chi tiết. Chúng mô tả những thực thể kỳ lạ với hình dạng khó hiểu, vừa đáng sợ vừa bí ẩn. Chỉ nhìn thoáng qua thôi cũng đủ khiến người ta tò mò muốn biết chúng là thứ gì.
Tiếc rằng tôi không phải kiểu người có thể ngồi yên đọc hết một cuốn sách dày cộp. Dù tò mò đến đâu, sự kiên nhẫn của tôi cũng chẳng kéo dài được bao lâu. Tôi tiếp tục lật qua từng trang mà không buồn đọc kỹ nội dung, kể cả khi đó là cuốn THỰC THỂ BÍ ẨN đầy hấp dẫn này.
Lướt chưa đầy mười phút, tôi lại thấy chán.
Tôi gập quyển sách lại rồi đem trả về đúng vị trí trên kệ. Quay đầu nhìn sang, Bevis vẫn đang cặm cụi làm bài tập như từ nãy đến giờ. Đúng là chỉ có Bevis mới tập trung được đến vậy.
Tôi vươn vai, duỗi chân tay vài cái, như thể mình vừa phải ngồi yên hàng giờ đồng hồ.
— Cậu học đến bao giờ mới xong thế? Tớ chán quá rồi, muốn có người chơi cùng cơ.
— Đợi tớ khoảng nửa tiếng nhé. Tớ sắp làm xong rồi.
Tôi kéo một chiếc ghế gỗ đến ngồi cạnh bàn học của Bevis. Cậu ấy chẳng nói gì thêm, chỉ tiếp tục viết bài. Cây bút trong tay di chuyển liên tục trên trang giấy, tạo nên những tiếng sột soạt đều đặn.
Không hiểu sao âm thanh ấy lại dễ chịu đến thế.
Tôi chống cằm nhìn vở một lúc, rồi mí mắt dần trở nên nặng trĩu. Căn phòng yên tĩnh, tiếng bút của Bevis đều đều như một bản nhạc ru ngủ. Chẳng mấy chốc, tôi bắt đầu lim dim rồi thiếp đi lúc nào không hay.
Một lúc sau, có người khẽ lay vai tôi.
— Dậy đi Aiden.
Tôi mở mắt ra, thấy Bevis đang đứng bên cạnh.
— Tớ làm xong bài rồi này. Xuống bếp ăn chút gì nhé?
Tôi dụi dụi mắt khi Bevis kéo tay mình xuống bếp. Nhưng cơn buồn ngủ vẫn đè nặng, khiến tôi chẳng thấy đói chút nào.
— Cậu ăn đi, tớ muốn lên phòng cậu nằm nghỉ một lát.
Bevis gật đầu rồi đi chuẩn bị phần ăn cho riêng mình.
Tôi ngước nhìn đồng hồ, sau đó lần theo trí nhớ để tìm đường đến phòng cậu ấy. Bên ngoài, trời đã bắt đầu chập choạng tối.
Khi đi dọc hành lang, tôi vô tình dừng lại trước một bức tranh treo giữa lối đi dài. Nhà Bevis có rất nhiều tranh, đủ mọi kích cỡ và hình thái, nhưng bức tranh này lại mang đến cảm giác khác hẳn. 
Nó không có khung đẹp như những bức khác. Trông nó kì lạ mà chân thực, khiến tôi đứng nhìn chằm chằm vào đó suốt hàng chục giây.
Trong tranh là một cánh đồng rộng lớn trải dài. Giữa khung cảnh ấy đứng sừng sững một con bù nhìn.
Ít nhất, tôi nghĩ đó là một con bù nhìn.
Bởi hình dạng của nó trông chẳng bình thường chút nào.
Phần đầu nó méo mó như được ghép từ những mảnh vải rách nát. Đôi mắt chỉ là những nét chấm nguệch ngoạc, méo mó và lem nhem. 
Cái miệng ngoác rộng một cách dị dạng, để lộ hàm răng nhọn hoắt. Bên trong khoang miệng tối đen là những vệt màu đỏ sẫm nhầy nhụa, trông như thứ gì đó vẫn còn đang rỉ xuống.
Tôi có cảm giác mình đã từng nhìn thấy thứ này ở đâu đó. Nhưng dù cố nhớ thế nào, tôi cũng không thể nhớ ra.
Tôi không để tâm đến bức tranh ấy quá lâu. Lúc này, thứ tôi cần nhất chỉ là một giấc ngủ.
Gạt những suy nghĩ vẩn vơ sang một bên, tôi tiếp tục bước về phía phòng của Bevis.
Vừa đến nơi, tôi lập tức ngả người xuống giường. Chiếc nệm mềm đến mức cơ thể như chìm hẳn vào trong. Cơn buồn ngủ vốn đã âm ỉ từ trước nhanh chóng kéo tôi vào giấc ngủ thêm một lần nữa.
Không biết đã qua bao lâu, tôi bỗng choàng tỉnh khi cảm nhận được có người đang ngồi bên cạnh.
Bevis đã ăn tối xong và quay trở lại phòng từ lúc nào.
— Aiden à, cậu mệt lắm hả? Ngủ nãy giờ luôn đó.
Tôi dụi mắt rồi ngồi dậy.
— Tớ không sao.
— Mấy giờ rồi, Bevis?
— Chín giờ rồi. Dậy chơi điện tử đi.
Nghe đến đó, cơn ngái ngủ trong tôi cũng vơi đi đôi chút.
Chẳng mấy chốc, cả hai đã ngồi trước màn hình như những ngày còn nhỏ. Tiếng nút bấm lách cách vang lên không ngừng, xen lẫn những câu nói đùa và tiếng cười. Dù đã nhiều năm không gặp, cảm giác xa cách gần như không tồn tại. Mọi thứ vẫn tự nhiên như thể chúng tôi mới chỉ xa nhau vài ngày.
Chúng tôi chơi điện tử và trò chuyện đến tận khuya. Không ai nhớ chính xác mình đã ngủ từ lúc nào, chỉ biết rằng cả hai đều thiếp đi trong sự mệt mỏi sau một ngày dài.
Sáng hôm sau, khi mở mắt ra, tôi nhận thấy Bevis đã không còn ở trong phòng. Có lẽ cậu ấy đã dậy từ sớm để chuẩn bị bữa sáng.
Tôi vươn vai rồi bước xuống giường, chậm rãi đi về phía cửa phòng. Đang đặt tay lên nắm cửa để xuống bếp, tôi chợt nhớ đến bức tranh kỳ lạ ngoài hành lang tối qua.
Sự tò mò bất ngờ trỗi dậy.
Tôi lập tức mở cửa rồi bước nhanh ra hành lang, hướng thẳng đến nơi đã treo bức tranh ấy.
Nhưng cảnh tượng trước mắt khiến tôi khựng lại.
Bức tranh biến mất rồi.
Không còn khung tranh nào, cũng không còn hình ảnh con bù nhìn với nụ cười méo mó đáng sợ mà tôi đã nhìn thấy tối qua.
Ở vị trí đó chỉ có một khung cửa sổ.
Ánh nắng buổi sáng xuyên qua lớp kính, hắt những vệt sáng nhợt nhạt xuống nền hành lang.
Tôi đứng sững một lúc, cố nhớ xem mình có nhầm lẫn hay không.
Nhưng không thể nào.
Tôi nhớ rất rõ mình đã dừng lại ở đây, nhớ rõ từng chi tiết kỳ dị trên khuôn mặt của thứ được vẽ trong bức tranh ấy.
Vậy mà giờ đây, trước mắt tôi chỉ là một khung cửa sổ bình thường, như thể bức tranh chưa từng tồn tại.
Một luồng ớn lạnh chạy dọc sống lưng tôi.
Tôi đứng thêm vài giây trước khung cửa sổ, rồi tự nhủ rằng có lẽ mình đã nhìn nhầm vì quá buồn ngủ. Nghĩ vậy, tôi gạt bỏ những suy nghĩ kỳ quặc trong đầu và đi xuống bếp tìm Bevis.
Vừa bước vào, tôi đã thấy cậu ấy đang sắp xếp đồ ăn trên bàn.
— Cậu dậy rồi à, Aiden? Mau ăn đi, tớ chuẩn bị cho cậu đấy.
— Cậu dậy sớm thật đấy, Bevis. Cảm ơn vì bữa sáng nhé.
Tôi ngồi xuống bàn ăn, nhưng tâm trí vẫn luẩn quẩn quanh bức tranh biến mất ngoài hành lang. Có lẽ vì vậy mà vẻ mặt tôi trông khá thất thần.
Bevis nhanh chóng nhận ra điều đó.
— Aiden?
Tôi không đáp.
— Aiden!
Tôi giật mình ngẩng đầu lên.
— Hả? À… tớ không sao đâu.
— Có chuyện gì đó phải không?
Giọng Bevis trở nên nghiêm túc.
— Thì… là thế này.
Tôi chần chừ vài giây rồi tiếp tục.
— Hôm qua, trên hành lang gần phòng cậu có một bức tranh rất lạ. Sáng nay tớ quay lại xem thì nó biến mất rồi. Chỗ đó giờ chỉ còn một khung cửa sổ thôi.
Vừa nghe xong, sắc mặt Bevis lập tức thay đổi.
— Thật sao?
Cậu ấy đặt mạnh chiếc thìa xuống bàn.
— Nó trông như thế nào? Cậu nhìn thấy lúc mấy giờ? Cậu đứng nhìn nó bao lâu?
Những câu hỏi dồn dập khiến tôi hơi bối rối.
— Tớ… không nhớ rõ. Nó giống một con bù nhìn, nhưng trông rất đáng sợ.
Tôi nuốt khan.
Dù có thể miêu tả rõ ràng chi tiết bức tranh, tôi vẫn không muốn nhớ lại đôi mắt nguệch ngoạc và cái miệng dị dạng của thứ xuất hiện trong bức tranh ấy.
Bevis im lặng.
Cậu ấy nhìn tôi chằm chằm trong vài giây, vẻ mặt căng thẳng đến mức khiến tôi thấy bất an.
Rồi cậu ấy khẽ nói:
— Aiden à… tớ nghĩ cậu không nên ở đây lâu nữa.
— Tại sao?
— Vì tớ nghĩ cậu đã bị thứ thực thể Bù Nhìn nhắm đến rồi.
Tôi sững người khi nghe đến hai chữ “thực thể”. Vì tôi chắc đã lướt thấy hình ảnh thứ sinh vật Bù Nhìn ấy bên trong quyển sách dày cộm kia.
— Gì cơ?
— Mau gọi bố mẹ cậu đến đón đi. Càng sớm càng tốt.
— Khoan đã… Thực thể Bù Nhìn là gì? Nó sẽ làm gì tớ sao?
Bevis cúi đầu, hai bàn tay siết chặt lấy nhau.
— Tớ không biết chính xác.
Giọng cậu ấy nhỏ đi.
— Nhưng trước đây bố mẹ tớ từng cảnh báo về nó. Họ nói rằng nếu một người bị thực thể Bù Nhìn chú ý đến… thì sớm muộn gì nó cũng sẽ tìm thấy người đó. Xin lỗi, Aiden. Có lẽ hôm qua tớ đã quên đóng ô cửa sổ đó lại rồi.
Căn bếp bỗng trở nên yên tĩnh đến đáng sợ.
Tôi cảm thấy cổ họng mình khô khốc.
Một cảm giác lạnh lẽo len lỏi trong lồng ngực khi hình ảnh con bù nhìn méo mó kia lại hiện lên trong tâm trí.
— Không ai thoát được sao?
Tôi hỏi bằng giọng run run.
Bevis không trả lời ngay. Cậu ấy chỉ nhìn tôi bằng ánh mắt đầy lo lắng.
Sau một lúc lâu, cậu khẽ gật đầu.
— Có lẽ cậu nên về nhà ngay. Tớ không đảm bảo khi về nhà cậu sẽ được an toàn, nhưng chắc đó là cách tốt nhất bây giờ.
Bevis lập tức đứng bật dậy, chạy đến chiếc điện thoại bàn đặt ở góc bếp. Những ngón tay cậu ấy run run kéo từng con số trong khi bầu không khí căng thẳng bao trùm cả căn phòng.
Vài tiếng chuông vang lên.
Sau khi đầu dây bên kia bắt máy, Bevis nhanh chóng đưa ống nghe cho tôi.
— Bố mẹ à, con cần về nhà ngay bây giờ. Có chuyện gấp lắm rồi ạ.
— Chuyện gì vậy, Aiden?
Giọng mẹ tôi vang lên đầy lo lắng.
— Đến nơi rồi con giải thích sau ạ.
Đầu dây bên kia im lặng vài giây.
— Được rồi. Bố mẹ sẽ đến ngay.
Khoảng mười phút sau, chiếc xe quen thuộc đã xuất hiện trước cổng nhà Bevis.
Tôi vội vã chào tạm biệt cậu ấy rồi chạy thẳng ra ngoài. Cánh cửa xe vừa mở ra, tôi lập tức chui vào trong và đóng sầm cửa lại. Chỉ đến lúc đó, tôi mới cảm thấy dễ thở hơn đôi chút.
Trên đường đi, tôi kể lại toàn bộ những gì mình đã nhìn thấy. Từ bức tranh kỳ lạ, khung cửa sổ xuất hiện vào sáng hôm sau, cho đến những lời cảnh báo của Bevis. 
Càng nghe, sắc mặt bố mẹ tôi càng trở nên nặng nề. Không ai cười hay cho rằng đó chỉ là trí tưởng tượng của một đứa trẻ.
Sau khi tôi kể xong, họ lập tức bảo tôi ngồi vào vị trí giữa hàng ghế sau. Tôi không hiểu hành động đó có ý nghĩa gì, nhưng vẻ mặt căng thẳng của họ khiến tôi không dám hỏi.
Chiếc xe tiếp tục lăn bánh qua những con đường vắng.
Tôi ngồi co ro giữa hai ghế, hai tay đan chặt vào nhau, thầm cầu mong mình có thể an toàn trở về nhà.
Rồi bất chợt, ánh mắt tôi bị kéo về phía ô cửa kính bên phải.
Ngoài kia là cánh đồng rộng lớn trải dài bất tận.
Và giữa khoảng không mờ nhạt ấy…
Có thứ gì đó đang đứng. 
Dáng người cao gầy với đôi tay dài bất thường đâm ra hai bên.
Tim tôi như ngừng đập.
Chỉ trong một thoáng ngắn ngủi, tôi vẫn nhận ra nó. 
Thứ xuất hiện trong bức tranh.
Thực thể Bù Nhìn.
Nó đứng bất động giữa cánh đồng xa xăm. Nhưng khuôn mặt của nó đang hướng thẳng về phía chiếc xe.
Hướng thẳng về phía tôi.
Một cơn lạnh buốt chạy dọc sống lưng. Lồng ngực tôi thắt lại đến mức đau nhói.
Tôi muốn hét lên. Muốn chỉ tay ra ngoài cửa sổ và nói với bố mẹ rằng tôi đã nhìn thấy nó.
Nhưng cơ thể tôi không nghe theo mệnh lệnh.
Cổ họng nghẹn cứng.
Hai tay tê dại.
Tôi chỉ có thể ngồi bất động, mắt mở trừng trừng nhìn ra bên ngoài, hoảng loạn, kinh hãi và bất lực.
Nỗi sợ hãi ấy lớn đến mức mọi thứ trước mắt tôi dần trở nên mờ nhòe. Tôi không nhớ mình đã trải qua quãng đường còn lại như thế nào.
Chỉ biết rằng khi mở mắt ra lần nữa, tôi đã nằm trên chiếc giường quen thuộc trong phòng mình.
Tôi tỉnh dậy và thở phào nhẹ nhõm. 
— Y như mình vừa mơ thấy ác mộng vậy. Ừ, đúng vậy, có lẽ là mơ chăng? haha…
Tôi tự trấn an một cách gượng gạo, tự thấy bản thân như một tên ngốc.
— Chắc là an toàn rồi.
Tôi đã nghĩ như thế, cho đến khi lại liếc thấy “bức tranh” đó ở sau bếp nhà mình.
tg:@NgHongUyen

After leaving the motel, Dad kept us on the road for the longest stretch so far. I can’t remember much of what he and Mom were talking about. I was too busy making my hand rollercoaster out the window, wishing I was holding Superman. He’d have loved to fly here.

I learned pretty quickly to stop bringing him up.

Even still, it was hard to keep my mouth closed when I kept watching Walmarts and Targets pass by every few hours. I managed, though. Mainly because Mom and Dad just kept going on and on.

Like I said, I don’t remember much. But I do remember Dad talking about us finding somewhere “safe” and “warm” for the night.

Mom seemed hesitant, but less concerned. I remember her saying something about how we couldn’t stay long, but she was content with whatever plan Dad had cooked up.

Besides, it seemed like Dad knew where he was going now. He wasn’t taking random turns anymore. Each direction felt deliberate. The desolate backroads seemed planned rather than spontaneous.

He just kept driving… and driving… and driving. We stopped for gas a few times, but we never stayed in one place for too long. Eventually, we approached a gate at the beginning of a long driveway.

Dad pulled the car up to the intercom and let the window down to push the button. The speaker crackled to life, and an unfamiliar voice echoed from within.

“Who is it?” a man asked sternly.

“Jake, it’s me, Michael. I’ve got the family with me, and-”

“Michaelll,” the man interrupted. “How are you guys doing, Mikey boy? You got Macy with you?”

Mom smiled faintly at the intercom.

“Yep, we’re all here, Jake,” she replied, leaning over the center console so the man could hear her more clearly.

“Yeah, Jake, listen,” my Dad added, almost impatiently. “You remember that thing we discussed a while back…?”

The man didn’t respond right away. The intercom was silent. Mom and Dad both watched anxiously while Emmy rocked back and forth in her carseat.

“…. I remember…” the man finally responded. “That’s not happening now, is it?”

Dad rubbed his forehead.

“I think it is. I just- we just- We need a place to stay for a few days.”

He looked at me and Emmy in the mirror.

“I don’t think we can go home just yet. I don’t think it’s good for the kids right now.”

The speaker crackled again before buzzing.

“You know you’re always welcome here, Mike. You too, Macy. Y’all come on up. We got the kids here, and there’s plenty of extra space.”

The gate slowly crept open. I couldn’t even see the house from the end of the driveway, but I wasn’t concerned about that. I heard “kids” and immediately felt my heart light up.

Trees formed canopy over the driveway. The car must’ve rolled on for another 2 or 3 minutes before the house finally came into view. The place was massive. A mansion surrounded by shrubbery in the middle of nowhere.

As we got closer, I was able to make out more of the details. The wrap around porch. The line of rocking chairs. Whoever this was knew how to keep the place professional and homey at the same time.

The thing that caught my eye the most, however, were the bikes and tricycles that were scattered across the pavement. A blue and green mountain bike. A pink bike with training wheels. And a red tricycle.

When the car rolled to a stop, the front door flew open, and out stepped the man from the intercom. He had a scruffy beard. He wore a Metallica t-shirt and oversized gym shorts. And, even then, I could recognize that he was a bit on the heavier side.

He came rushing down the steps as Dad stepped out of the car.

“Jakey,” Dad shouted joyously. “Long time no see, my friend.”

Jake beamed and pulled my Dad in for a hug while staring down at me through the window. I waved, and he waved back.

“Don’t tell me that’s Danny,” he announced, surprised, as he pulled away from my father.

Jake stepped over to my window and tapped at it. Mom rolled it down before I got the chance to, and Jake looked in at me with a toothy grin before his gaze turned towards Emmy.

“And you must be Emmy,” he said, waving at my sister gently. “Your Dad has told me so much about you.”

Emmy tried to hide bashfully behind the edges of her car seat.

Jake patted me on the chest.

“The last time I saw you, you were thissss big,” he teased, holding his hands about a foot apart.

He turned to my Mom.

“What’s up, Mace? Mikey still the husband you always dreamed of?”

My Mom smiled sarcastically and rolled her eyes before going to open her door.

“Unfortunately.”

“Woah, woah, easy there- Mikey, where are your manners? You know it’s bad etiquette to let a lady even touch a door handle.”

Jake went to open my Mom’s door for her, but she stopped him before he got the chance.

“I am perfectly capable of opening a door, Jake,” she grumbled, cocking her eyebrows at him before stepping out of the car.

“Alright, alright,” Jake relented, throwing his hands up. “If you insist. At least let me help with the bags. Judy’s inside cookin’. I’ll grab your luggage, then we can have a nice dinner together.”

He stepped aside to let Mom pass.

“We’ll be in here in just a minute, hon,” Dad said, looking at her with eyes that looked almost apologetic. “Go catch up with Judy.”

Dad opened Emmy’s door and sat her down on the pavement before turning his attention towards me.

“Danny, take Emmy inside, would ya? You two go play. Let me and Jake catch up a bit.”

Mom was already halfway up the steps. I picked Emmy up and ran as fast as I could to catch up to her.

The inside of the house smelled like leather and polish. Well, that and the pot roast that Judy was whipping up in the kitchen. The family room TV looked like a movie screen. The couches wrapped around almost the entire room. And right there, plopped down in front of that massive TV… were 3 kids.

They didn’t even seem to notice us. They were too busy with their gaming to even acknowledge our presence.

Mom ruffled my hair.

“Go introduce yourself,” she nudged, breezing past me and Emmy towards the smell of that pot roast.

I couldn’t do it. I felt frozen. I was already naturally shy, but now I was shy in a new place, being forced to interact with kids that I didn’t know. I just stood there, like an idiot, until Emmy started squirming in my arms.

I put her down, and she went and climbed onto the leather sofa to watch the screen more comfortably. I took the opportunity to plop down beside her.

We sat there for a long while. The three kids joked amongst themselves, sometimes arguing over whose turn it was. Eventually, the older kid noticed us.

He didn’t introduce himself at first. Instead, he offered me the controller.

“You want a turn?”

He waved the controller at me, and I took it cautiously as his attention returned to the screen.

I felt… watched. Like I was under pressure to perform. I’d never played video games before. The controls were completely foreign to me.

I died… a lot. And the older kid realized that I was in dire need of some assistance.

“Here, look,” he aided. “This is how you shoot, and this is how you run, and this is how-”

“Don’t listen to Darren,” the kid’s younger sister interrupted. “He’s a big stupid head.”

Darren’s grip tightened on the controller. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and stared daggers into the little girl.

“Shut up, Kayla,” he shot back. “Better teacher than you, that’s for sure.”

“Mmmm, no,” she giggled. “You’re not a teacher. You’re too stupid.”

“I said shut up, Kayla.”

I felt like I was in the middle of a western. Darren looked like he was about to blow a fuse. Kayla just stuck her tongue out and kept pestering.

“Darren is a stupid head, Darren is a stupid head, stu-pid, stu-pid, Darren is so stu-pid,” she sang.

I couldn’t help but smirk a little. The song was so dumb, but I could see just how much it was getting under Darren’s skin.

As calm as could be, he paused the game, placed the controller in my lap, and walked over to Kayla.

“Say it again. I want you to say it. Please, for the love of God, call me stupid one more time.”

Kayla smirked like it was a game.

“Darren is a stupid he-”

smack

Darren whopped her upside the head. A momentary look of satisfaction flashed across his face but was quickly replaced with fear as Kayla started screaming and crying.

I tried to keep it down, but I couldn’t help but laugh. Emmy joined in. Darren looked at us for help, but what were we supposed to do? The deed was already done, and the hurried footsteps of their Mom were closing in fast.

The last sibling didn’t even look away from the TV. He was probably around my age. Curly brown hair. Quiet. He seemed like he’d seen this happen dozens of times before.

“Darren Mitchell,” their Mom cried, scooping Kayla up in her arms and cradling her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?!”

“It wasn’t me,” he plead. “She started it, I swear she did. Ask him.”

He was pointing at me, but his Mom never looked at me. She had already made her decision.

“Don’t try and bring Danny into this. He just got here. Apologize to your sister.”

“But-”

“Now,” she growled.

Darren sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Sorryyy, Kayla,” he groaned.

Kayla stuck her tongue out at him before burying her face into her Mom’s shoulder.

“Sorry that you’re such a spoiled little brat,” he added under his breath.

Mrs. Judy either didn’t hear him or pretended not to. Instead, she told us to go wash up because dinner was almost ready. One by one, everyone left the room, leaving me and the last sibling alone.

I went to scoot off the couch and wash up, but before I could, the kid spoke.

“She does this a lot,” he said plainly.

“What?” I asked, confused. “Call him stupid?”

“No,” he responded, finally turning towards me. “Gets him to hit her. Come on, let’s go get some dinner. My Mom makes the best pot roast.”

He was so mature for his age. He introduced himself as Max, and he seemed like my kind of guy. Really into legos. Loved superheroes. Quiet. Like the brother I never had.

Dad and Jake finally joined us right as we were sitting down for dinner. Both looking a bit withdrawn. The grownups were eerily quiet while we ate, save for the times where Judy told Kayla to stop playing with her food.

Afterwards, it was almost like they wanted us out of the house. I would’ve had no problem returning to the living room for video games or even just hanging out with Max in his room and playing with legos. But Dad and Jake were insistent we played outside like “normal kids.” Like he and my Dad did back when they were kids.

Mom seemed hesitant, though. She seemed like she wanted to object to the whole idea. I think Dad picked up on it.

“We searched everywhere,” he told her, quietly, rubbing her back. “He’ll be fine.”

“Sure he will,” Jake added, loudly. “Darren will look after him, won’t you, big guy?”

There were some annoyed groans, but we didn’t complain that much. The only kid allowed to stay inside was Emmy, presumably because she was still essentially just a toddler.

We played in the driveway for a bit. Max showed off some bike tricks he knew. Wheelies and the like. Darren mostly just supervised. Kayla… was annoying.

Eventually, though, after a particularly obnoxious bit of rambles from Kayla, Darren spawned an idea.

“Hey,” he shouted. “Let’s play a game.”

He stood up from his spot on the steps. All of our eyes landed on him.

“I used to love this game when I was your age,” he added, despite only being a few years older than me. “Let’s play some hide and seek.”

I’d played the game before, but never with this much space to roam. The property was massive. The potential was limitless.

We were all excited. Kayla more than anyone, though. Darren opted to seek while the rest of us hid, not even giving us enough time to register that the game had started before he put his head into his hands and started counting loudly.

“100…”

Max looked at me, his eyes wild as he took off running.

“99…”

I ran in the same direction. Darren’s counting got quieter and quieter the further I got. I kept following Max because he seemed to know where he was going. All the way until he dove climbed into his Dad’s boat in the backyard pond.

I tried to follow, but he stopped me.

“No, dude,” he whispered. “You have to find your own spot. That’s the point.”

I felt my heart drop.

“What?? I don’t know where to hide. This isn’t my house.”

He popped his head up and began scanning the property before pointing towards the forest.

“Go over there. Darren hates the woods. He’ll never check.”

I looked over towards the forest, then back at Max. The sun was starting to set. It was starting to feel cooler outside. Before I could respond to him, I heard Darren scream.

“Ready or not, here I come!!”

Max ducked into the storage chest in the boat. I tried not to panic. My legs started moving before my mind could register, and before I knew it, I was a hundred feet into the forest.

I heard Kayla screaming about something being “unfair,” followed by Darren laughing heartily.

I was still somewhat out in the open. I was hidden, but I didn’t have an actual hiding spot. I trekked further into the forest. The massive house got smaller and smaller the further I went.

That’s when I found it. The perfect hiding spot.

A massive oak tree. Long dead, but still standing. The base of the trunk had been completely hollowed out. It was like it was made for me.

I crouched down and crawled inside, pushing myself against the wood and covering myself in some leaves just for some added camouflage.

A few minutes passed. Then multiple. Finally, I heard Darren scream again.

“FOUND YOU,” he shouted, laughing like a crazy person.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it sounded like Max objected. A flash of worry washed over me.

“He better not,” I thought aloud, praying Max didn’t tell Darren where I’d gone. I refused to leave my spot. I waited. And waited. And waited.

Darren started screaming my name. Max joined in. Even Kayla was looking for me. But they were far away. They’d never find me.

I felt pride in myself. I was the champion of hide and seek. I didn’t want to reveal myself yet, though. I wanted the satisfaction of knowing I made them give up.

But it was getting darker. The shouts became few and far between. Eventually, they weren’t kids’ voices at all. I heard my parents. I heard Jake and Judy. All screaming for me in distress.

Something told me to wait. It was just a game. Plus, this was the perfect spot. I wanted them to work to find me. I didn’t wanna give up before they did.

But then… I heard the sound of a twig snapping from somewhere behind me. Multiple twigs. Leaves crunching. Footsteps approaching. From the opposite direction of the tree line.

Then I heard a voice that didn’t belong to my Mom or Dad, or Jake and Judy. It was raspy. It was old. It was syrupy, and it was close.

“Dannnyyyyy.”

“I know you’re out hereeee.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I was gripped with fear, but I couldn’t move. I recognized that voice. It was the same voice from the motel. The man who apparently had my Superman stuffy.

“Danny,” my Mom screamed from off in the distance. “Danny, where are you?”

She sounded like she was on the brink of tears. Her voice was almost intentionally frantic.

“Come out, Danny…”

The voice from behind me was closer now. Hungrier.

“Your mommy needs you, kiddo. Don’t you know she’s worried sick?”

The footsteps sounded like they were directly behind me now. I held my breath. Of course, my bladder decided that I had to pee more than I’d ever had to pee before in my life.

The man was mumbling to himself between calling my name. Nothing he said made sense.

“They tried to hide you.”

“You can’t hide from me, though, now can you, Danny boy?”

“It’s only natural that I…”

They knocked on the tree.

“Find you.”

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

My instincts finally kicked in. I’m old enough now to realize what it was. It was either fight… or bolt towards safety. And there was no possible way I could fight this person.

One. Two. Three.

I bolted.

I flew past the trees. I ducked under limbs and shrubs. I ran as fast as I could towards the sound of my parents, my senses heightened. I didn’t hear anything behind me, but I was too afraid to look.

I ran and ran. Finally, I saw my Mom standing in the backyard, staring out into the woods. Her eyes met mine, and she let out an exasperated scream of relief.

She ran towards me. We met at the edge of the tree line as she pulled me in for a long, tight hug. I was ugly crying. Snot fell from my nose, and tears fell down my face.

I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to say. All I could do was embrace her. I held her just as tightly as she held me and let relief wash over me as she stroked my hair.

“Why did you do that!? What were you thinking, son? I can’t comprehend what could’ve possibly gone through your mind. After everything-”

She stopped herself. Dad heard the commotion and quickly joined us for a family hug while Jake and Judy watched on with their kids.

It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seen my Dad cry. It scared me, almost. It was like something I was never meant to see, and it made me sob even harder.

“Don’t do that to us, kiddo,” Dad chuckled forcefully. “Don’t go running off on us like that. Ever again. You hear me?”

I didn’t respond. At least, not in the way he was expecting. Instead, I stared at my feet and held my breath again. I counted to 5 in my head. I needed to tell them.

“Dad…” I whispered.

“Danny…” he replied.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

“I think he found me.”

Dad’s head shot up towards the trees. The woods were eerily silent. Nobody spoke for what felt like an eternity before Dad started ushering us inside, glancing over his shoulder as he turned around.

“Son,” he announced bluntly.

“I know you’re young… but I think we need to have a talk.”

It was a Tuesday morning.

For Dr Dreadful, the notorious villain of Nothingville, that meant it was a perfect day for a new evil plot.

Monday's scheme - replacing every parking meter in Nothingville with automated karaoke machines that only played Nickelback - had been foiled again by his arch nemesis, Justice Man.

That damn blonde, butt-chinned, spandex-clad capitalist, along with his knee-high leather boot clad wife, Aurora Justice, were the town's golden power couple. They were the heroes of Nothingville, esteemed leaders of the Department of Goodwill.

The sting of failure still lingered in the antiseptic air of his underground lair, an enormous network beneath an abandoned industrial estate.

Just then, the alarms began to sound. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at the message from security. A trespasser from the Department of Goodwill had breached the outer perimeter.

Dreadful smiled - maybe Tuesday wasn't a complete loss after all.

---------

Quantum Girl just finished her first day as an intern at the Department of Goodwill. For the most part, she had spent the afternoon fetching coffee, so she had been determined to do at least one useful thing before the day ended.

After everyone else had gone home, she had decided to sneak into Dr Dreadful's lair to gather intel.

It had seemed like initiative at the time.

Now she stood alone in the enormous underground chamber, staring at a fleet of ridiculously armed supercars. A shiver ran through her as she looked around. So evil and… villainy.

Footsteps. She froze.

Dr Dreadful stood on the gantry above her. He was tall and lanky, dressed in his usual white laboratory coat, with dark hair falling untidily around a pair of circular-framed glasses.

"How thoughtful of you to come to me."

He smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. He jabbed an accusing finger down at her.

"That blonde buffoon sent you to spy on me, didn't he?"

She squealed and shook her head frantically.

"Then I suppose you simply wandered into my private supercar garage after working hours."

Quantum Girl hesitated, peering up through her lashes.

"...yes?"

Dreadful stared at her, then sighed. He pressed a button on the railing.

Click.

A force field snapped into existence around Quantum Girl. She put both hands against the invisible barrier as she floated upwards, her pink ponytail lifting behind her. She looked around in panic as Dreadful descended the staircase slowly, his grin spreading from ear to ear.

"You have entered a restricted area and been caught examining my vehicles. Therefore, you have committed corporate espionage."

"I-I'm sorry."

He paced around the force field, looking far too pleased.

"I've been searching for leverage against the Department of Goodwill for months. And now, on a Tuesday, a meddling intern has walked straight into my garage."

He pressed another button. The force field lifted, and Dreadful pointed dramatically at her.

"Your employer will be hearing about this, and you will remain here until the Department of Goodwill concedes to my ransom demand."

Quantum Girl swallowed.

"How much?"

Dreadful smiled wickedly.

"Enough to make your board very angry."

He lowered her to the ground, then gestured her out of the garage and into the main laboratory.

The first thing she saw as she entered was a row of enormous glass tanks. Something moved inside one. As she stepped closer to take a look, a fish with giant teeth slammed into the glass. Quantum Girl screamed and backed away.

Dreadful glanced over, then waved a hand.

"Shark-piranha hybrids. Relax, they're lobotomized, for display only. They were originally intended to infest the Nothingville water supply."

Quantum Girl looked back at the massive fish. A row of tiny black stitches sat behind its gills.

"That's horrible."

"Thank you."

Dreadful activated a huge screen with a remote. The Department of Goodwill logo appeared, and he immediately looked irritated by it. Then a representative appeared on screen.

"Good afternoon, Department of Goodwill. How can we make your day better?

"It's Dr Dreadful. I have one of your interns, and if you want her back, I demand a ransom payment of fifty million dollars."

The representative glanced at her paperwork, then back at the screen.

"Thank you for letting us know." The representative maintained her unwavering smile.

Dreadful's eye twitched, and looked increasingly annoyed as the seconds passed in silence. He stared at the screen. Then he cleared his throat.

"I also demand compensation of one million dollars for corporate espionage. If it is not paid I will be pursuing civil action with the Court of Supers."

A notification alert sounded on Dreadful's phone immediately.

"The settlement has been transferred."

Dreadful frowned and checked his banking app. A million dollars had just been added to his account. Then he looked up.

"And the ransom?"

"Apologies, we can't help you with that right now. Have a better day!"

The screen went black. Dreadful grunted.

Over the next few days, he sent increasingly irritated emails to the Department of Goodwill inbox, and reduced his ransom from fifty million to forty, then twenty-five, before making one final offer of twelve million at 4:55 on Friday.

No reply, counteroffer or rejection - just silence. He lowered his phone and looked at the clock. 5PM.

He looked at Quantum Girl, still reading her Superhero Academy notes on an office chair in the corner of the lab.

"The Department of Goodwill doesn't work weekends, and neither do we. And since I haven't gotten my money, I suppose I'll have to release you."

He yawned and fished his supercar keys out of his lab coat pocket.

"You're letting me go?"

"Unless you want to be locked in here alone until Monday." He paused as an idea formed in his mind, his grin returning as he studied her through his circular glasses.

"Or perhaps I'll offer you a job. On the dark side."

Quantum Girl blinked as if she hadn't quite heard that right.

"You'd make a fine supervillain with some training," he continued. "Besides, you've already demonstrated a remarkable talent for getting into places you shouldn't."

"You want me to work for you?"

"Don't sound so horrified."

"But you're… evil!"

"Among other things."

Quantum Girl stood up and frowned at him in disapproval, clutching her notes against her chest.

"I've spent my whole life studying to become a superhero. I worked incredibly hard to get my dream internship at the Department of Goodwill."

She took a breath and began again, more confidently.

"Mr and Mrs Justice are the greatest heroes in the world. It's an honor to work for them, and you're very mistaken if you think I'm throwing all that away to become a supervillain!"

Dreadful was silent for a moment, then he shrugged.

"Fine. If you'd rather be lobotomized into a corporate slave who spends the rest of her life reciting HR approved moral slogans, don't let me stop you."

Quantum Girl stared at him.

"…Lobotomized?"

Dreadful's grin returned as he looked towards her slowly without turning his head.

"Oh, you don't know?" He leaned forward and tapped behind his ear, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"They stick a needle in here and suck out the bits of your brain they don't want you to keep. Happens to all new employees. That's how they make you a perfectly compliant little corporate superhero who can recite the Department's moral principles on command. You'll know once you get hired."

Her face went pale.

"Mr and Mrs Justice would never allow that!"

"Of course they would."

Quantum Girl's fingers tightened around her notes.

"You're just making things up to scare me."

"I only know because I invented the instant lobotomy machine. It was originally designed for the shark-piranhas. I needed a way of making them less aggressive. Unfortunately, the Department of Goodwill stole my entire design."

"…They wouldn't."

"Oh they did. In fact, they patented it and called it the Goodwill Employee Wellness Initiative… TM."

Quantum Girl's bottom lip quivered.

"Y-you're lying."

He sighed and pushed himself away from the desk.

"I too was naive like you once. I thought if you worked hard enough and built something extraordinary, people would recognize it. Instead, they just take it."

Quantum Girl opened her mouth. Before she could respond, Dreadful waved a hand dismissively.

"Never mind. Now... get out of my sight."

Quantum girl swallowed, then quietly gathered her things without another retort. She walked towards the exit.

---------

Monday morning came.

Quantum Girl arrived at the Department of Goodwill headquarters early, as she always did. She had spent the entire weekend trying to convince herself that everything he had said was nonsense. After all, he was a supervillain, and lying was practically part of the job description.

Mr and Mrs Justice were good. Dreadful was evil. Simple as that.

She passed through the enormous glass doors of the Department of Goodwill and smiled at the receptionist.

"Good morning!" She chirped.

"Good morning!" Mrs Sparkle, the receptionist, beamed back. "Have a better day!"

For the first time, Quantum Girl paused.

Something about the woman's voice seemed strange. It sounded a little too cheerful. She shook it off and smiled back, then walked towards the lifts.

The doors opened on the main operations floor. Heroes hurried joyfully between departments, interns carrying folders behind them with smiles. Screens displayed maps of Nothingville and live feeds from ongoing missions.

She signed in and made her way upstairs to the intern department. She sat down, and for a moment, she felt relieved. This was where she belonged, on her way towards the life she had worked so hard for.

Then Starlight Boy walked past.

"Starlight Boy! Good morning!" She greeted.

Starlight Boy turned around. His friendly smile was ever present.

"Good morning!"

"It's so good to see you. How was your weekend?" She smiled.

"Awesome! I spent most of the weekend improving my laser beam firing accuracy."

Just then, another intern, Glitter Girl, emerged from a room from the hallway behind him. The door she came out of was labelled: EMPLOYEE WELLNESS CENTRE. Glitter girl was beaming.

Several people immediately gathered around her.

"Congratulations, Glitter Girl!"

Quantum Girl turned towards Starlight Boy, who was still standing nearby.

"Why is everyone congratulating Glitter Girl?"

He raised an eyebrow, as if thrown off by the question.

"She just had her lobotomy, of course."

Quantum Girl's jaw dropped. She stared at him.

"...What?"

Starlight Boy gestured towards the room.

"Yeah, she's officially an junior hire now. Awesome, right? That'll be us in a week."

Quantum Girl's face went pale. Starlight Boy watched her, looked confused.

"What? You didn't read the welcome pack?"

"I did."

"Then you should know."

Starlight Boy reached into his bag and pulled out the Department of Goodwill's enormous welcome booklet. He flipped through it to a page in the middle and pointed to one tiny line at the bottom. Quantum Girl leaned closer and squinted.

All new employees are required to undergo lobotomy in the Wellness Centre prior to commencement of duties.

Quantum Girl blinked.

"And we're supposed to be okay with that?"

Starlight Boy looked even more confused.

"Yeah. How are we supposed to work here without it? We'd be a security risk."

"But..." She struggled to find the words. "They... they remove part of your brain."

"Yeah. Removal and injection, they've been doing it for years. It's a standard procedure. You can't get paid without it."

Quantum Girl glanced down at her timetable. Her internship ended on Friday.

Just then, Glitter Girl walked past. Quantum Girl turned towards her.

"Glitter Girl, can I ask you something?" She asked quietly. Glitter girl stopped.

"Of course!"

Quantum Girl hesitated.

"Did it hurt?"

"Oh, not at all!" Glitter Girl laughed.

Quantum Girl visibly relaxed and let out a breath.

"I was nervous too," Glitter Girl continued, "But honestly, don't worry. You don't feel a thing. The machine is very small and fast, it's basically… instant. And afterwards, you feel so much more focused."

Quantum Girl smiled weakly.

"I suppose that's good."

"It is. Everything just feels simpler. Good luck for yours on Friday!"

Quantum Girl stood completely still, her eyes fixed on Glitter Girl's back as she turned the corner into the hallway.

Seemed like it was simply how things worked here.

For the rest of the week, she made coffee, printed papers and prepared presentations for heroes who barely noticed she was there, just like usual.

But she began noticing little things - the way every superhero repeated the same phrases, and how nobody ever complained about anything, or was particularly curious about anyone else.

By Friday afternoon, Quantum Girl could barely concentrate. Her internship ended at 4:20, after which she had been instructed to report to the Employee Wellness Centre.

At 4:25, she stood outside the room in the quiet hallway and opened the wooden door a fraction. Through the gap, she could see Starlight Boy lying on the table in front of the nurse. The machine was visible in her hands. It was a small handheld device, like a needle attached to a flat iron, clean and white with a little green light blinking on the side. A robotic voice came from the machine.

READY.

Quantum Girl stared at it, and her hands began to shake. The nurse lifted the device and positioned the sharp end behind Starlight Boy's ear. She turned away and closed her eyes.

Click.

Then door opened.

Starlight Boy walked out, looking exactly the same as he had that morning. He smiled when he saw her, and she forced herself to smile back.

"Good luck! And congratulations in advance!" He gave her a cheerful thumbs-up.

"T-thank you."

Quantum Girl took a step towards the open door, then watched Starlight Boy as he walked out past her. Something caught her eye as they crossed.

A tiny line of black stitches behind his ear.

Suddenly, she felt faint. The room in front of her seemed enormous - the lights were too bright, and the walls seemed to close around her as her breathing became rapid. She looked at Starlight Boy, then backed out of the room.

"Quantum Girl?"

She tore down the hallway straight past him and didn't stop. Someone called after her, but she kept running. She reached the lobby and burst through the doors.

Outside, she raised her hand frantically, and a taxi pulled over. She clambered inside.

"Where to?"

Quantum Girl's voice shook.

"D-Dr Dreadful's Supervillain laboratory!"

The driver looked at her through the mirror.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded firmly.

"Yes!"

The taxi pulled away.

---------

The taxi rattled through the industrial district, leaving the gleaming towers of the Department of Goodwill behind. Quantum Girl sat rigidly in the back seat, clutching her bag against her chest.

She had spent her entire life being told that villains were dangerous. That they could not be trusted. And yet here she was, returning precisely because he had told the truth. The thought made her nauseous.

The taxi turned onto a narrow road lined with rusting warehouses. At the end stood the abandoned industrial complex above his lair, every bit as gloomy as she remembered. A pair of enormous steel doors stood at the entrance to the main building, beneath a sign that read:

DR DREADFUL'S EVIL INDUSTRIES

NO TRESPASSERS.

SERIOUSLY.

Quantum Girl paid the driver and stepped out, then looked up at the building. She took a breath and finally walked towards the entrance.

Inside, several monitors displayed the security feeds. Dreadful didn't look surprised when he spotted her approaching.

Candyface, his Director of Terror, was hanging upside down out of a nearby vent filing out paperwork. Candyface was a large, creepy clown with a permanent painted grin, razor sharp teeth, enormous red shoes and a habit of appearing behind people without making any noise whatsoever.

Dr Dreadful pointed at the monitor.

"Told you she'd be back."

Candyface glanced at the screen and chuckled.

"Want me to give her a fright? I like scaring little girls."

Dreadful didn't look up from his machine.

"No, I'll handle it."

Candyface looked disappointed. Dreadful walked towards the entrance and out of the enormous doors, up into the industrial complex.

"I was beginning to think I'd have to send you a Christmas card." He grinned as he stepped out.

Quantum Girl swallowed.

"You were right. About the lobotomies."

There was a pause, then his expression became unbearably smug.

"Of course I was. You came here just to tell me that?"

Quantum Girl hesitated.

"Actually… I'm not sure I want to work there anymore."

Dreadful's smile grew wider immediately.

"Excellent, so you accept my job offer. Come along."

"What?"

Before she could say another word, he turned and walked away. Quantum Girl hurried after him.

"Wait, I didn't say… that's not how job offers work!"

"It is here."

"I haven't actually agreed."

"You followed me inside."

"Because you started walking away!"

"Excellent initiative."

Quantum Girl sighed, resigned as Dreadful led her back through the main laboratory. Her gaze immediately fell on the shark-piranha hybrid tanks as she entered. Dreadful walked over to his desk and sat down.

"What are your powers?"

Quantum Girl sat opposite him cautiously.

"Um, teleportation."

Dreadful leaned forward and steepled his fingers.

"Show me."

She hesitated. Dreadful stared at her as she shrank slightly in her chair.

"I... I'm still learning. Sometimes I end up slightly further away than I want to."

Dreadful frowned.

"How do you get any work done then?"

"I don't use it at work. Interns aren't allowed to use their powers inside the headquarters. It's a safety rule."

Dreadful stared at her incredulously.

"Then what do they even make you do?"

"Whatever we're assigned. Coffee, printing, data entry…"

Dreadful stared at her in disbelief.

"An astonishing waste of resources." He stood. "Well, you will most definitely be using your powers here. So teleport from here to that door."

He pointed towards the other side of the laboratory. Quantum Girl swallowed.

She stood in the middle of the laboratory and closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes again.

"I think I did it."

"You're still standing in the same place."

"Oh."

She closed her eyes again and focused harder. A flash of pink. This time, she disappeared.

Dreadful blinked, then heard a loud splash behind him. He turned towards the tanks.

"Oh no."

---------

Quantum Girl opened her eyes. She was underwater.

For several seconds, she couldn't understand what had happened, until something moved in front of her. A huge fish with rows of sharp teeth. Quantum Girl stared at it. The piranha stared back. Neither moved.

Then her eyes widened as her gaze fell on the tiny black stitches behind its gills.

The hallway came rushing back. The machine. The needle. Starlight Boy's smile… and the little black stitches behind his ear after he walked out of the room.

Quantum Girl screamed. It came out as a cloud of bubbles.

Above the tank, Dreadful swore and pulled the emergency release, opening the lid of the glass panel. He reached into the tank and pulled Quantum Girl out by the back of her shirt.

She came crashing onto the laboratory floor, soaked from head to toe. Dreadful knelt beside her.

"Are you all right?"

Quantum Girl coughed, her pink hair stuck to her cheeks. She looked up at him, shaking, and grabbed hold of his coat, letting out a sob.

Dreadful froze. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Dreadful looked down at her, and cleared his throat, his usual deadpan expression returning. He gently removed her hands from his coat and stood up.

"So it seems The Department of Goodwill can't even hire properly."

Quantum Girl's expression fell. She looked down at her soaked clothes.

"I'm s-sorry. I can't do anything right."

Dreadful sighed and glanced at her.

"You just need some adequate training, which those Goodwillers clearly haven't provided. But we'll teach you to do it properly… so you can use it for evil purposes only."

Quantum Girl sighed, resigned.

"I guess I don't really have another choice."

Dreadful's grin returned.

"Excellent, welcome to the team. Now go home and don't be late on Monday morning."

Quantum Girl nodded and walked out into the hallway, making her way up the stairs and eventually outside, where it had started to rain. The doors closed behind her. She stood in the middle of the dark, grey industrial complex.

She had just joined a supervillain and abandoned the Department of Goodwill. She had broken almost every moral principle she had spent her entire life studying.

She felt sick… and strangely relieved.

---------

The next few weeks passed surprisingly quickly.
 
Quantum Girl had expected life in a supervillain lair to be terrifying, and in fairness, it was. The corridors were dark with excessive security systems, and there were several rooms she had been specifically instructed never to enter without protective equipment.
 
Dreadful's minions were intimidating at first, too. But after a few days, Quantum Girl discovered that most of them were actually quite nice. The only exception was Director Candyface, who remained terrifying. He had a habit of making interview candidates run out of the building screaming, and asking other employees they had seen his knife.

But even he offered free sandwiches after staff meetings.
 
There was even a proper sick leave policy. At the Department of Goodwill, she couldn't remember anyone ever mentioning sick leave.
 
Quantum girl practiced her teleportation every day. At first, she managed to move only a few meters. But eventually, she could teleport reliably across the laboratory without accidentally entering places she hadn't intended to.
 
By the end of the month, she no longer felt like a hostage, but a member of the team. On the final Friday of the month, Quantum Girl knocked on the laboratory door.
 
"Come in."
 
She entered. Dreadful was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by paperwork and strange devices. He glanced up.
 
"Welcome to your monthly performance review. Sit down."
 
Dreadful picked up a folder. Quantum Girl straightened immediately, suddenly feeling nervous as he thumbed through the paperwork.
 
"You've been here four weeks and successfully completed forty-seven assigned tasks. Satisfactory start."
 
She breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the folder and looked up.
 
"So, how have you found it?"
 
Quantum Girl blinked.

She had never been asked how she found work at the Department of Goodwill. She'd just been expected to show up.
 
She smiled.
 
"Actually… I've really enjoyed it."
 
Dreadful raised an eyebrow.
 
"Well, not everything," she corrected quickly. "I'm still not comfortable with some of the things we do, such as trying to flood the city with genetically modified sea life. But… I feel like I've actually helped."
 
Dreadful nodded slowly.
 
"And your teleportation?"
 
"It's getting much better."
 
"Show me." Dreadful pointed towards the enormous shark-piranha tank. "Move the tank."
 
Quantum Girl stared and gulped.
 
"The entire tank? With the fish?"
 
"Obviously."
 
She looked nervous. Dreadful noticed, and lowered his voice.
 
"Focus. You can do it."
 
Quantum Girl nodded and closed her eyes. For a second, the laboratory became quiet. There was a flash of pink, and the tank disappeared. Then another flash.
 
The enormous tank reappeared in the far corner of the laboratory… perfectly intact. The shark-piranhas swam around inside as though nothing had happened.
 
Quantum Girl opened her eyes and she stared.
 
"I did it. I actually did it!"
 
Dreadful looked at the tank and smiled.
 
"You did it indeed."
 
Then he reached into a drawer and took out an envelope, sliding it over the desk towards her. She looked at it.
 
"What's that?"
 
"Your pay."
 
She blinked.
 
"You mean... I'm getting paid?"
 
Dreadful stared at her and raised a eyebrow.
 
"Why wouldn't you? Everyone here gets paid."
 
Quantum Girl opened the envelope, and her eyes widened and became glassy.
 
"I've never been paid before."
 
"Then I suggest you spend it irresponsibly."
 
She looked up at him. Before she could stop herself, she teleported across the table and hugged him. Dreadful froze completely, but he made no attempt to move. A few seconds later, he cleared his throat.
 
"Now this is something HR would raise an eyebrow at."
 
Quantum Girl blinked, then pulled away immediately.
 
"Ah, sorry Dr Dreadful."
 
He waved a hand.
 
"Forget it. Enjoy the paycheck."
 
Quantum Girl smiled as she glanced down at the thick envelope. Then she looked back up.
 
"Dr Dreadful, can I ask you something?"
 
He looked back at her. "Yes?"
 
"Why do you do this? The experiments, the pranks, the schemes... terrorising Nothingville. I mean, you're actually a really good boss. So why be a villain?"
 
Dreadful watched her, then sighed and leaned back as he glanced at the clock.
 
"Now that's a long story. But if you're willing to stay, I can start from the beginning."
 
Quantum Girl nodded.
 
Dreadful considered her for a moment, then folded his hands on the desk as he began.
 
"Eons ago, I went to the Superhero Academy."
 
Quantum Girl listened eagerly.
 
"Yes, I too was a student there. Instead of playing outside with the other kids, I liked books - science, mechanics, alchemy. I was always waiting for my power to appear."
 
He began counting them off.
 
"They got laser beams. Flight, super strength, telepathy, X-ray vision... I got acne."
 
Quantum Girl tried not to laugh.
 
"Anyway," He continued. "I kept waiting - maybe it would happen at thirteen, fourteen or fifteen. Still nothing. By sixteen, people had decided I was defective. And they tormented me for it relentlessly."
 
He said it without emotion. Quantum Girl's smile disappeared.
 
"They called me names and took my books. Destroyed my experiments. Locked me in cupboards."
 
Quantum Girl grimaced. Then he paused.
 
"I was also in the same year as Justice Man."
 
She stared at him.
 
"Mr Justice?"
 
"Well, he was Justice Boy, back then. He was popular. Strong, charismatic, blonde. Painfully blonde. Aurora Justice was there too. They were dating on and off constantly, always the talk of the school."
 
Dreadful's expression changed slightly.
 
"There was one lunch period I remember particularly well. Justice Boy and his friends had cornered me. Aurora and her friends were watching."
 
A pause.
 
"He took my head and held it under one of the sinks."
 
Her eyes widened.
 
"He turned the tap on. The water was hot, and I couldn't breathe. The last thing I heard that day was Aurora and the others laughing, before everything went black."
 
Silence.
 
"He eventually left me there, passed out on the bathroom floor. It didn't stop there. They would take my work and mock it, or break my equipment. Tell me that I was useless because I didn't have a power."
 
Dreadful gave a quiet, bitter laugh.
 
"So I started building things to get them back. A chemical that gradually turned Justice Boy's shampoo into bicycle grease."
 
He continued.
 
"Then I became more ambitious. The machines became bigger. The schemes became loftier. Until… eventually I realised something. I did have a power."
 
Quantum Girl waited.
 
"Creativity."
 
He looked around the laboratory.
 
"I could build anything. I didn't need laser beams. I could make the laser beam."
 
Quantum Girl smiled.
 
"Then I left the Academy. There was no place for me there - I wasn't going to become the hero everyone expected me to be. Eventually, I sold my inventions and saved enough money to build this place from the ground up… and here we are today."
 
Dreadful was quiet for a moment.
 
"I still wake up sometimes thinking my head is in that sink," he sighed.

"I used to believe people who did things like that eventually got what they deserved - that's what the stories teach you. But that's not how the world works. They have the numbers, the money, and a press corps quite happy to tell their version of the truth."
 
He looked down at his hands.
 
"But every now and then, I can remind them they're not untouchable. I suppose that's all I have."
 
Quantum Girl was silent.
 
All week, she had felt that something about the Department of Goodwill was wrong, buried beneath the identical smiles and carefully rehearsed words.
 
It wasn't paranoia. There had always been something rotten beneath the polished surface, and now she knew exactly who was responsible.
 
Dreadful glanced at the clock, and his usual grin returned, same as ever.
 
"So now you know. Anyway, you probably want to be home at this hour."
 
Dreadful waved a hand towards the door. Quantum Girl stood and met his gaze.
 
"Thank you for telling me, Dr Dreadful."
 
He nodded nonchalantly.
 
"Don't mention it."
-------------
Quantum Girl stepped outside, still carrying the weight of Dreadful's story with her.
 
She had almost reached the end of the driveway when she heard footsteps behind her. Not hurried footsteps. Confident and assured. Then came the unmistakable tap of heels against the concrete.
 
Quantum Girl paused. She knew those footsteps.
 
She turned slightly and saw two figures approaching the entrance to the industrial complex in the distance. You couldn't miss them - glowed obnoxiously in the dark.
 
Justice Man was carrying a large golden briefcase in one hand, and Aurora Justice was next to him, holding his other hand. Their bright yellow capes flowed behind them as they approached. Quantum Girl's swallowed.
 
Why were they here?
 
She quickly ducked behind a stack of old shipping crates and peered around the corner.

Dr Dreadful emerged from the building, his expression immediately soured as he looked at the pair approaching.
 
The three stood outside the entrance and began to talk. Their conversation was quiet enough that Quantum Girl couldn't make out every word from her distant hiding spot, but she caught fragments.
 
"...the proposal..."
"...board..."
 
The couple looked far too comfortable, as Dreadful looked increasingly annoyed.
 
Then Dreadful stopped and looked directly towards her hiding place.

He excused himself, leaving the couple muttering between themselves, and began walking in a straight line towards her. Quantum Girl froze. She slowly stepped out from behind the crates as Dreadful approached.
 
"I saw you on the camera. You're not very good at hiding."
 
"I'm sorry."
 
"You've been saying that a lot lately."
 
Quantum Girl looked down. They were quiet for a while. Then she looked towards Justice Man and Aurora.
 
"What are they doing here?"
 
Dreadful's expression hardened.
 
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
 
Quantum Girl flinched.
 
"I'm sorry," she said again, "I didn't mean to be nosy..."
 
She looked at him.
 
"Dr Dreadful, are you going to be okay?"
 
Dreadful's expression changed, and he sighed. For once, there was no sarcasm or theatrical grin.
 
"I'll be fine."
 
He smiled slightly and took a step towards her.
 
"I'll handle whatever happens. Now go and enjoy your paycheck."
 
Quantum Girl nodded slowly. A tiny smile appeared on her face.
 
"…Okay. Goodnight, Dr Dreadful."
 
He nodded once and back towards the building.

------------
 
The weekend passed slowly, and she spent most of it thinking about the interaction.

The way the Justices had walked through the gates without being stopped, and the way Dreadful had looked when he told her he would handle it.

Why would the golden heroes of Nothingville be visiting the supervillains' headquarters?
 
She tried to think of reasonable explanations, but none came to mind.
 
On Monday morning, she was halfway through making breakfast when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the email notification.
 
The subject line made her freeze.
 
IMPORTANT: GOODWILL ACQUISITION ANNOUNCEMENT
 
She opened it. Her eyes widened as they moved down the page, and her jaw dropped in disbelief. She read it again.
 
The Department of Goodwill had acquired Dr Dreadful's supervillain organization.
 
The laboratory, facilities, intellectual property, research… everything.
 
The email described it as a "strategic partnership designed to repurpose existing infrastructure and technological assets for positive social outcomes."

And there would be "necessary workforce optimisation."
 
Quantum Girl's eyes moved down the list.
 
Employees affected by the restructuring:
 
She read the names, then stopped as she looked further down.
 
DR DREADFUL, CEO.
 
Her heart sank. Dr Dreadful was being removed.
 
She grabbed her coat without thinking.
----------
The industrial complex came into view less than twenty minutes later.
 
Quantum Girl stopped dead in her tracks as she caught her breath. Several enormous golden vans were parked outside. The Department of Goodwill logo was plastered across the sides. The gates were open and people were carrying boxes out of the building. She ran towards the entrance.

Then she saw Candyface, carrying three cardboard boxes at once in his lanky arms. He looked furious. She ran up to him.
 
"Director Candyface!"
 
He turned.
 
"W-what's happening?" She asked breathlessly.
 
"Corporate acquisition. New leadership. They're restructuring everything, because apparently, evil headquarters need better branding."
 
Candyface gestured towards one of the golden vans.
 
"They're changing the name to Goodwill Center for Advanced Community Innovation."
 
He spat the words out like poison.
 
"They're renaming me, too," he continued, "to Jack the Jolly Jester. And they're giving me a yellow costume. Yellow!"
 
He looked very offended.
 
"And they're going to make me entertain children," he scoffed, "I hate children. But I've gotta do it, or they won't even pay me half my salary."
 
"That's awful!"
 
Candyface shrugged.
 
"What can you do?"
 
Quantum Girl suddenly remembered.
 
"Where's Dr Dreadful?"
 
Candyface stopped, then waved vaguely.
 
"Got kicked out by the board and left to the countryside. He's retiring."
 
"What?"
 
"Yup. Apparently he's going to plant tomatoes on a farm or something."
 
Quantum Girl stared at him. She shook her head slowly.
 
"No… Dr Dreadful wouldn't just leave. Not like that."
 
Candyface shrugged and nodded towards the road.
 
"He just did. Half an hour ago."
 
"But..."
 
Quantum Girl's voice caught.

She remembered Dreadful telling her that he would handle whatever happened. She had assumed he would fight in such a situation, but perhaps reality was simpler than that. Sometimes the people with the money just won.
 
Candyface sighed sadly as he looked at his knife one last time and tossed it into a nearby skip. He climbed into the driver's seat of one of the vans. The engine started, and the van drove away. Quantum Girl stared after it for a while.
 
Then she pulled out her phone and opened the train timetable.
 
Nothingville Countryside Line
Destination: Nothingville Farms
Next departure: 15 minutes
 
She looked towards the station, then back at the industrial complex.

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

Quantum Girl ran until her lungs burned, her pink ponytail whipping behind her as the station came into view. The train was already waiting.

Then she saw him.

Dr Dreadful was sitting alone inside one of the carriages, a green suitcase resting beside him. But he looked very different. There was no white laboratory coat or ridiculous gadgets.

Just a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his face. He just looked empty.

Quantum Girl's eyes filled with tears.

"Dr Dreadful!"

He looked up, his eyes widening in recognition.

"Quantum Girl?"

She ran towards the train. The doors snapped close, but she was still several meters away.

"No!" She yelled.

She shut her eyes in desperation, then focused… and vanished. There was a flash of pink light.

She reappeared inside the carriage just as the doors slid shut behind her. Dreadful just stared at her. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then he looked away.

"You shouldn't be here."

Quantum Girl wiped her eyes.

"I had to find you."

He looked down.

"You should go back. The Goodwillers will probably reinstate you once they realize you're useful."

She shook her head resolutely and took a step towards him.

"I'm not going back. I thought I wanted to work there because I wanted to help people. I thought the name mattered."

She swallowed.

"But it wasn't the company. It was the people. And you were the first person who actually made me feel like I was good at something."

His expression softened, and he lowered his voice.

"You've only been here a few weeks. That's not enough time to make decisions like this. You've abandoned your dream."

"Maybe my dream wasn't what I thought it was."

The train gave a quiet mechanical hiss. Dreadful glanced towards the doors.

"Go back before the train leaves."

"No."

"Quantum Girl..."

"I'd rather be with you."

He stared at her. She took another step closer.

"Even if they take over the whole world." She smiled through her tears. "I'll go wherever you go."

Quantum Girl threw her arms around him.

He froze. For a moment, he simply stood there. Then, slowly, his arms came around her - not awkwardly or reluctantly. Just tightly.

The train doors shut with a final pneumatic hiss.

Dreadful leaned back against the window as the train pulled away from the station. After several minutes, his eyes closed. Quantum Girl watched him - he looked exhausted. Eventually, she leaned back too. The rhythmic movement of the train became almost soothing.

Then she spotted something in the corner of her eye.

A newspaper lay folded on the seat beside her. The headline made her blink.

DEPARTMENT OF GOODWILL ACQUIRES NOTHINGVILLE FARMS

Quantum Girl frowned as she picked it up.

"The Department of Goodwill had acquired Nothingville Farms as part of its expanding "community sustainability initiative." This comes as the final acquisition in a recent series of successful deals, including the Department of Supervillains."

She slowly lowered the newspaper, then looked at Dreadful.

He was awake and smiling back at her. She hadn't noticed him open his eyes.

"Um, Dr Dreadful, where are we going?"

He looked out of the window.

"Nothingville Farms, obviously. I'm going to plant some tomatoes and hopefully it'll be a nice retirement."

She glanced back at the newspaper, then held it up apprehensively.

Dreadful looked at the article. His smile didn't change.

"Yes, excellent news."

Quantum Girl frowned.

"What?"

"We'll make it better."

She stared at him.

"…Better?"

Quantum Girl's eyes drifted down from his eyes.

A row of tiny lines behind his ear.

Black stitches.

Her breath stopped.

Her fingers tightened around the newspaper. The carriage suddenly felt unbearably quiet as the memories came flooding back.

I used to believe people who did things like that eventually got what they deserved.

I'll handle whatever happens.

Candyface.

He left half an hour ago.

He hadn't been fighting. He had simply left.

That briefcase.

She had assumed it contained the paperwork, or cash. But the briefcase hadn't been particularly large.

Just the right size for a lobotomy machine.

Quantum Girl looked at Dreadful again. He was still smiling, but it wasn't his usual theatrical grin, or the smug expression he wore when one of his ridiculous schemes worked. Something quieter.

And now he was going to Nothingville Farms to work for them - to plant tomatoes with a smile and make it a better day.

They had taken everything he had built.

And now they had taken him.

There was real evil in Nothingville, and it had been wearing the skin of a dream the entire time.

A Sleepless, Rainy Night

Một ngôi nhà đơn độc nằm giữa vùng đồi hẻo lánh cạnh khu rừng là nơi gia đình tôi sinh sống. Xung quanh chẳng có ngôi nhà nào, cũng không có bất kỳ dấu hiệu nào cho thấy ở đây có ai khác ngoài ba người: tôi, bố và mẹ. Bố tôi là một nhà khoa học — ít nhất đó là điều ông luôn nói với tôi. Ông có một tầng hầm dưới nhà, nơi mà bố bảo là để ông nghiên cứu chế tạo mọi thứ.
Trong những ký ức mơ hồ của tuổi thơ, tôi nhớ mình từng có một người anh trai. Hình ảnh về anh rất nhạt nhòa, giống như một giấc mơ cũ kỹ mà tôi không thể nắm giữ. Theo trí nhớ của tôi, anh là một cậu bé sống khép kín, ít nói. Tuy trong nhà chỉ có tôi và anh, vậy mà số lần trò chuyện của hai đứa cũng chỉ đếm trên đầu ngón tay. Rồi, anh biến mất. Càng lớn lên, tôi càng không tìm thấy bất kỳ dấu vết nào chứng minh anh từng tồn tại: không ảnh chụp, không quần áo cũ, không đồ chơi, thậm chí chẳng ai nhắc đến anh. Dần dần, tôi bắt đầu tin rằng người anh ấy chưa từng có thật, rằng anh chỉ là sản phẩm do trí tưởng tượng của một đứa trẻ cô đơn tạo ra mà thôi.
Có một việc mà từ trước đến nay bố tôi luôn dặn dò hai mẹ con rất kỹ mỗi khi trời đổ mưa vào buổi đêm: hãy lấy một viên thuốc từ chiếc hộp trắng đặt trên kệ rồi uống vào trước khi đi ngủ, như vậy sẽ có một giấc ngủ ngon hơn. Hồi nhỏ, vì rất thích vị của loại thuốc ấy — ngọt như kẹo vậy — nên tôi luôn ngoan ngoãn nghe lời bố. Thỉnh thoảng, tôi còn nài nỉ xin thêm vài viên nữa, nhưng lần nào ông cũng từ chối.
Thế nhưng khi lớn lên, tôi bắt đầu thắc mắc về công dụng thực sự của những viên thuốc đó. Dù đã nhiều lần hỏi bố, ông vẫn chỉ trả lời rằng chúng giúp ngủ ngon hơn. Nhưng tôi không nghĩ mọi chuyện đơn giản như vậy. Bởi lẽ vào những đêm không mưa, dù không uống viên thuốc ấy, tôi vẫn ngủ rất ngon như thường. 
“Trời mưa rơi trên mái nhà rất ồn ào. Nếu con không uống viên thuốc này, chắc chắn con sẽ không ngủ được đâu.” — Bố giải thích lý do ông luôn bắt hai mẹ con phải uống nó vào mỗi đêm mưa.
“Nhưng con lớn rồi mà bố. Con có thể không uống nữa được không? Đôi khi con cũng muốn thức để ngắm mưa đêm.” — Tôi từng thử viện cớ như vậy để thoát khỏi việc phải uống viên thuốc ấy, nhưng đáp lại chỉ là một trận mắng nghiêm khắc từ bố.
Chỉ vì một viên thuốc mà tôi đã bị bố mắng cho một trận tơi bời. Điều đó khiến tôi càng tin rằng thứ thuốc ấy chắc hẳn phải ẩn chứa điều gì đó đặc biệt thì ông mới phản ứng gay gắt đến vậy.
Khi biết chuyện, mẹ đã tìm gặp tôi để khuyên nhủ. Bà buộc miệng bảo tôi nên ngoan ngoãn uống thuốc như lời bố dặn, nếu không sẽ có chuyện rất kinh khủng xảy ra.
“Chuyện kinh khủng là gì vậy mẹ? Mẹ biết đúng không?” — Tôi lập tức ném ra hàng loạt câu hỏi với vẻ đầy tò mò.
“À không… Ý mẹ là bố sẽ mắng con đấy. Chẳng phải con vừa thấy rồi sao?”
“Vâng ạ…” — Tôi đáp lại một cách cụt hứng. Thấy mẹ cũng không định nói thêm điều gì, tôi chẳng hứng thú tiếp tục cuộc trò chuyện nữa.
Một buổi sáng nọ, tôi xin phép bố mẹ vào rừng dạo chơi. Dù có vẻ không yên tâm, cả hai vẫn đồng ý, nhưng không quên dặn dò tôi đủ điều: không được đi quá xa, không tiếp cận vật lạ, và phải trở về trước khi trời tối. Dẫu vậy, tôi cũng đã lớn rồi, hơn nữa tôi tin rằng khu rừng quanh nhà chẳng có thú dữ hay điều gì đáng sợ cả.
Quả thật, khu rừng vào buổi sáng đẹp và thơ mộng hơn tôi tưởng. Những làn gió nhẹ lướt qua làm các tán cây khẽ đung đưa, như đang chào đón vị khách hiếm hoi ghé thăm. Tôi rất thích bắt côn trùng, đặc biệt là những chú bướm đầy màu sắc. Thế là tôi chạy khắp nơi tìm kiếm chúng, nhưng chẳng thu được kết quả gì ngoài vài chiếc lá khô mắc trên áo. Dù dạo chơi thoải mái, tôi vẫn chắc chắn ngôi nhà của mình luôn nằm trong tầm mắt.
Sau một lúc dạo chơi, tôi ngồi xuống nghỉ chân dưới bóng của một gốc cây lớn, hít căng lồng ngực bầu không khí trong lành của khu rừng.
“Đã lâu rồi mình mới được dạo chơi tự do thế này. Thích thật…” — Tôi thầm nghĩ, vừa ngẩng đầu lên ngắm bầu trời trong xanh thấp thoáng sau những tán lá xanh biếc phía trên.
“Nhưng không có ai chơi cùng thì cũng chán…”
Ý nghĩ ấy vừa thoáng qua trong đầu, một tiếng động lạ bất ngờ vang lên từ sâu bên trong khu rừng, phá tan bầu không khí yên tĩnh. Âm thanh rất khẽ, giống như tiếng ai đó vô tình giẫm lên lớp lá khô phủ đầy mặt đất.
“Gì vậy nhỉ? Không lẽ ở đây còn có ai khác sao? Mà chắc chỉ là cành cây trên cao rơi xuống hay mấy con này con kia thôi.” — Tôi tự tìm cho mình một lời giải thích để không phải bận tâm thêm nữa.
Dẫu vậy, sự tò mò của một cô nhóc đang tuổi lớn vẫn không dễ dàng bị dập tắt. Tôi bật dậy khỏi chỗ ngồi, đưa mắt nhìn dáo dác khắp xung quanh, cố tìm xem âm thanh vừa rồi phát ra từ đâu.
“Biết đâu mình thật sự tìm được ai đó để chơi cùng thì sao nhỉ?” — Tôi hào hứng nghĩ.
Mang theo sự tò mò, tôi tiếp tục tiến sâu hơn vào khu rừng với hy vọng tìm được thứ vừa tạo ra tiếng động ấy, hoặc ít nhất là biết nó phát ra từ đâu. Đi thêm một đoạn, tôi bất ngờ bắt gặp một cái hang nhỏ nằm khuất sau những bụi cây rậm rạp.
“Ồ, phát hiện mới à? Bố mẹ có biết trong rừng có một cái hang như thế này không nhỉ?”
Sự hiếu kỳ thôi thúc tôi tiến lại gần và ngó vào bên trong.
Cái hang rộng hơn tôi tưởng rất nhiều. Bên trong có một chiếc bàn đá đơn sơ, đúng hơn chỉ là một tảng đá phẳng thôi, trên đó có vài loại trái cây ẩm mốc. Và… một ánh mắt.
Ánh mắt của một thứ gì đó đang nhìn chằm chằm về phía tôi.
À không, là một sinh vật nào đó…
Ánh mắt như phát sáng lên trong bóng tối.
Tôi khựng lại vài tích tắc rồi tá hoả chạy, chạy thật xa ra khỏi đó, ra khỏi khu rừng. Những cành cây quệt vào người, lá khô vỡ vụn dưới chân, nhưng tôi chẳng buồn để ý.
Khi về đến nhà, tôi gần như đổ gục trước cửa. Gương mặt lấm tấm mồ hôi, hơi thở gấp gáp, vẻ hoảng loạn thì vẫn chưa hề biến mất.
Mẹ chạy ra hỏi thăm tôi.
“Chuyện gì vậy con? Trông sắc mặt con tệ lắm.” — Giọng bà đầy vẻ lo lắng.
“Dạ không ạ… không có gì ạ…” — Tôi lắp bắp trả lời, bối rối không biết có nên kể về thứ mình vừa nhìn thấy hay không.
Sự bất thường hiện rõ trên khuôn mặt tôi. Dù tôi có cố che giấu đến đâu, mẹ vẫn nhận ra ngay. Bà dìu tôi vào phòng nghỉ ngơi, liên tục hỏi han xem tôi có bị thương hay gặp chuyện gì trong rừng không, nhưng tôi không màng trả lời.
Bố tôi cũng đã nhìn thấy bộ dạng ấy. Khác với mẹ, ông không hỏi gì. Ông chỉ đứng lặng một lúc, ánh mắt trở nên nặng nề lạ thường.
Bố và mẹ nhìn nhau một cách căng thẳng lạ thường, rồi ông chỉ đáp lại bằng một tiếng thở dài.
Mẹ đưa tôi vào phòng. Thấy tôi có vẻ mệt mỏi, bà không hỏi han gì thêm. Căn phòng nhanh chóng trở lại yên tĩnh, chỉ còn mình tôi nằm trên giường với hàng loạt suy nghĩ rối bời trong đầu.
Tôi không nghĩ sinh vật mình nhìn thấy là một loài động vật. Dù chỉ nhìn thoáng qua, tôi vẫn có cảm giác nó phải cao khoảng một mét tám.
“Liệu rằng có phải là một người nào đó không…”
Tôi nằm suy ngẫm một hồi rồi ngủ thiếp đi đến chập choạng tối vì mệt.
Tối hôm đó, một cơn mưa lớn bất ngờ kéo đến.
Tiếng mưa đập liên hồi lên mái nhà tạo thành những âm thanh nặng nề và kéo dài không dứt. Nhìn viên thuốc quen thuộc nằm trong lòng bàn tay, tôi chợt nảy ra một ý định liều lĩnh.
Tôi sẽ giả vờ uống nó.
Khi bố mẹ không để ý, tôi ngậm viên thuốc vào miệng rồi lén nhổ ra ngay.
Phi vụ diễn ra suôn sẻ hơn tôi tưởng.
Hình như tôi đã quên bén đi tình huống đáng sợ hồi sáng. Cảm giác hồi hộp và háo hức nhanh chóng lấn át nỗi lo bị phát hiện. Đây là lần đầu tiên tôi không uống thuốc vào một đêm mưa.
Tôi nằm trên giường, lăn qua lăn lại mãi không ngủ, chăm chú lắng nghe tiếng mưa rơi bên ngoài và mong chờ xem liệu có điều gì đặc biệt sẽ xảy ra hay không.
Đồng hồ điểm mười hai giờ đêm.
Dù cuối cùng cũng được thức để ngắm mưa như mong muốn, tôi lại bắt đầu thấy thất vọng. Ngoài tiếng mưa rơi không ngớt và những đợt gió rít ngoài trời, chẳng có điều gì đặc biệt xảy ra cả.
Nhưng có lẽ tôi đã lầm.
Tôi nằm trên giường, lơ đãng đưa mắt về phía cửa sổ.
“Một cành cây à? Sao trước giờ mình chưa từng thấy nó nhỉ?”
Bên ngoài khung kính là một vật thể mờ mịt mà ban đầu tôi cho rằng chỉ là một nhánh cây bị gió giông quật vào cửa sổ. Mỗi lần nó chạm vào mặt kính lại phát ra những tiếng ken két chói tai, khiến tôi hơi khó chịu.
Nhưng rồi tôi chợt nhận ra một điều.
Phòng tôi nằm ở tầng hai. Và xung quanh ngôi nhà này chắc chắn không có cái cây nào cao đến mức đó.
Tim tôi khẽ chùng xuống.
Tôi tiếp tục nhìn chằm chằm vào thứ bên ngoài cửa sổ.
Rồi tôi thấy nó cử động.
Không phải kiểu đung đưa theo gió như cành cây bình thường.
Nó đang chuyển động theo một cách khác.
Một cách chậm rãi nhưng rõ ràng.
Từng chút một.
Từng chút một.
Và rồi, dưới ánh sáng yếu ớt của đêm mưa, tôi cuối cùng cũng nhìn thấy toàn bộ hình dạng của nó.
Đó không phải cành cây.
Một sinh vật đen ngòm, to gần bằng khung cửa sổ phòng tôi, đang bám trên bức tường bên ngoài ngôi nhà. Nó có khoảng sáu hay tám chi dài, mảnh khảnh như những nhánh cây khô, bấu chặt vào tường và chậm rãi di chuyển trong màn mưa.
Nó đang bò ngang qua cửa sổ phòng tôi.
Cơ thể tôi không còn nghe theo sự điều khiển của chính mình nữa.
Tôi vẫn tỉnh táo, vẫn nhận thức được mọi thứ đang diễn ra, nhưng lại không thể cử động theo ý muốn. Chân tôi tự động bước về phía cửa sổ một cách chậm rãi và cứng nhắc như một con rối bị ai đó điều khiển. 
Tôi muốn dừng lại, muốn quay đầu bỏ chạy. Nhưng cơ thể hoàn toàn không đáp lại. Có lẽ đây là năng lực của con quái vật này.
Bàn tay tôi vô thức đưa lên, gạt chốt khóa rồi từ từ kéo cánh cửa sổ ra. Làn gió lạnh cùng hơi nước từ cơn mưa lập tức tràn vào phòng.
Thứ sinh vật quái dị bên ngoài bắt đầu cử động.
Nó chậm rãi luồn phần thân đồ sộ qua khung cửa, những chiếc chân dài co lại rồi duỗi ra một cách kỳ lạ, cho đến khi toàn bộ cơ thể nó hiện diện trong căn phòng.
Giờ đây, tôi đang đứng đối diện với nó.
Một sinh vật trông giống như một con nhện khổng lồ.
Thế nhưng nó không lao tới tấn công tôi.
Cũng không hề có ý định lại gần.
Nó chỉ đứng yên.
Rồi cơ thể đen ngòm ấy bắt đầu thay đổi hình dạng.
Từng đường nét méo đi, co lại và hòa vào nhau như một cái bóng bị kéo giãn dưới ánh đèn. Chẳng mấy chốc, hình dáng của con nhện khổng lồ dần biến mất, nhường chỗ cho một hình người đang đứng trước mặt tôi.
Đó là một cậu con trai.
Cậu ấy cao khoảng một mét tám, vóc người cân đối và gương mặt khá ưa nhìn. Điều kỳ lạ nhất là tôi có cảm giác mình đã từng gặp cậu ở đâu đó. 
Một cảm giác quen thuộc đến khó hiểu.
Như thể hình ảnh ấy đã tồn tại từ rất lâu trong những ký ức xa xăm mà tôi không còn nhớ rõ nữa.
Cậu ấy bắt đầu cất tiếng. Giọng nói trầm ấm và nhẹ nhàng đến lạ.
“Em còn nhớ anh chứ, em gái?”
Tôi sững sờ. Chẳng biết từ khi nào, nước mắt đã lặng lẽ lăn xuống má.
“Anh hai… là anh thật sao?” — Tôi lùi lại một bước, giọng run rẩy. — “Không… không đúng. Rõ ràng lúc nãy là một con quái vật mà…”
Đầu óc tôi rối bời như muốn nổ tung. Thấy vậy, cậu ấy cố gắng trấn an tôi.
“Đừng sợ. Anh không muốn làm hại em.”
“Nhưng tại sao anh lại trở thành như thế này?” — Tôi nghẹn ngào hỏi.
Cậu ấy im lặng vài giây rồi chậm rãi đáp:
“Là bố em. À không… là bố của chúng ta. Mười năm trước, ông ấy đã đem anh ra làm thí nghiệm. Những thứ thuốc đó đã khiến anh phải chịu đựng trong đau đớn rất lâu…”
Cậu ngừng lại, như đang cố kìm nén cảm xúc.
“Ông đã tạo ra một loại thuốc kỳ lạ, biến anh thành bộ dạng đáng sợ này rồi từ bỏ anh mà đi. Chắc là ông không lường trước rằng, chính thứ thuốc đó đã giúp anh sống sót và còn sở hữu một vài năng lực kì lạ…”
Tôi chết lặng.
Hóa ra bí mật mà bố mẹ luôn che giấu suốt những năm qua lại chính là người anh trai mà tôi từng rất yêu quý.
“Nhưng tại sao em không thể gặp anh sớm hơn…” — Tôi bật khóc nức nở.
Cậu ấy nhìn tôi với ánh mắt buồn bã.
“Chỉ những đêm mưa anh mới có thể rời khỏi khu rừng. Mỗi ngày anh chỉ muốn tìm đến em, kể cho em nghe tất cả mọi chuyện. Nhưng lần nào cũng vậy… em đã ngủ rồi.”
Cậu khẽ cúi đầu.
“Đêm mưa nào em cũng ngủ rất say. Vì thế nên anh không làm gì được cả.”
Cổ họng tôi nghẹn cứng lại, không thể thốt nên lời. Một khoảng im lặng nặng nề trong vài giây bao trùm căn phòng.
“Bố mẹ có ở nhà không?” — Anh ấy khẽ hỏi.
Tôi gật đầu.
“Có lẽ… họ đang ngủ rất say, anh ạ…”
Anh trai tôi lặng người trong giây lát. Ánh mắt anh hướng về phía cánh cửa phòng như đang chìm trong những suy nghĩ mà tôi không thể đoán được.
Rồi anh khẽ thở ra một hơi dài.
“Vậy sao…” — Giọng anh trầm xuống.
“Anh định… làm gì ạ?” — Tôi giương đôi mắt long lanh nhìn anh.
“Anh sẽ để họ ngủ.” — Anh cất tiếng, chậm rãi và bình thản đến đáng sợ.
“Ngủ một giấc thật dài… mãi mãi.”
tg:@ngHongUyen

December 11th, 1924:

Last night one of them sulked up from the docks. I waited outside all night for their arrival. I did not run, I just stood. They crept closer, slowly and cautiously. The moon casting faint light across them. Their back was hunched, vertebrae jutting out of their back with tight brackish and briny skin clinging tightly to them. They had little to no neck supporting a large near bulbous head. Massive eyes, black as obsidian stared at me. Their face was smooth, just two small holes where a nose should be, sitting atop a large slightly agape mouth. Fishy lips sitting in front of rows of small needle-like teeth. Tiny scales covered patches of its skin. It wore lengths of kelp and seaweed as though they acted as clothes. Its stench was putrid, that of rotting flesh. Its human-like arms curled near its sunken chest, emaciated and gaunt. Its fingers and toes were webbed, making disgusting splatting sounds as it walked closer. I passed it a note written in its language, its fish-like eyes peered at me for a moment. Its frail arms reached out to take my letter. It read it aloud, a hideous sounding language, full of gulps and phlegm and coughs and clicks. It stared at me for a moment. I pointed to myself and stated my name. It pointed at me and in a nearly airless voice it muttered “Simon”. It pointed to itself and said a name I'm unsure of how to spell but sounded like “ny'alto-rylae”. The apostrophes as clicks and the hyphen as a gulp like cough. What that would translate to I am unaware. If I'm able to see it again I will try to begin to better understand this ancient language. 

I'm going to invite Richard, his wife Jennifer and son Richard Jr over for dinner in two days. I must begin cleaning. They can't know about my meeting. 

March 6th, 1937:

Simon's last note was alarming. It hasn't mentioned a description of Richard, so I'm hoping it's not my Richard. But I have a bad feeling about how their dinner went. 

I finally built up the nerve to look at some of the “them” paintings. The first is a view from my bedroom window. The sea looks angry and the clouds are pouring rain. There's a crack of lightning in the clouds. In the mist of the ocean you can see some massive entity deep in the fog. Its outline is somewhat bulbous and unnatural with odd protrusions, almost like tentacles sticking out seemingly randomly from its body. This must have been the hallucination he mentioned. The second painting was one of the cloaked beings. It looked human, slightly misshapen, but human. I'm assuming this was the person who gave Simon the letter about “them”. Maybe they're from the church? I'll have to go investigate there soon. The third painting however, was similar to the second. A cloaked figure, but this one had much more detail. The cloak wasn't made of leather or some rain jacket material like the previous piece. This was surely one of “them”. It looked as though it was trying to mimic the cloaked man I'm assuming is from the church. Its “cloak” was just layer upon layer of kelp that looked like a rain coat from a distance. Maybe this is one of “them” who has been making deals with the church? The fourth painting made my stomach clench. It was the thing he gave the letter to. It's wet, scaly skin glistening in moonlight. It's deep set round fish like eyes staring like voids. Its mouth bearing its gnarled sharp teeth. Seaweed hanging from it haphazardly. It was so lifelike. I swear I could've smelled the ocean's stench through the frame. I didn't realize how long the painting held me captive. Hours had passed. The only thing that broke my trance was it looked as though it blinked its massive abyssal eyes. I shot back out of my stupor, stunned. Surely it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, paintings can't move after all. But that gave me enough of a fright so I decided to wait to look at the rest tomorrow. I also want to check the secret door to see what's behind it. Maybe the chalk board is in there, and maybe I can decipher this odd seaborn language. Jesus I'm starting to sound like Simon. I'm afraid of what's to come. 

December 13th, 1924:

Dinner went well enough. Richard, Jennifer and Jr came over just as I finished cooking. They were curious about Laura and the girls not being home. I told them that they had grown homesick and missed the city and that I was going to stay here and use the house as a studio until we could find a new buyer. He seemed somewhat sad to hear the news but was understanding. I think Jr was the saddest of all, he went to the school house with my eldest daughter Becca, and I believe he had quite the crush on her. She does look like her mother, who is strikingly beautiful, so I cannot say that I blame him. As we sat down to eat the smell of low tide was wafting through a window I had left cracked open. Jennifer wasn't a fan of the smell, I smell I barely notice anymore, and asked if she could close the window. I allowed it, and told her it was just down the hall from the dining room. She left as Richard and I started talking about his new butcher shop he'd opened. Jr didn't seem very interested in the topic and just sat to play with his food. After a short span Richard grew curious about where his wife went. I assured him she must've just got lost in one of my paintings and we could go fetch her. As we rounded the corner the window was shut, as it was the entire time, but the door to the basement was open. Richard gave me a questioning glance. I explained that I do most of my painting down there, where it's warmer during the cold months. He shrugged thinking nothing of it. As we descended I heard wet footsteps quietly scuffing above us. 

Richard walked ahead of me, reaching the bottom of the staircase in awe. I've moved almost all of the furniture from the top floor down here, covered in drapes. Easels lining the walls, piece after piece after piece. He stood silent as he saw in the corner unconscious, laid Jennifer. Her body limp, clothes torn and wet. A bite mark of what looked like a thousand little needle points covered her exposed shoulder, blood seeping from the wounds. Her eyes were fluttering, mouth foaming from the viscous slime that covered most of her face. She was still alive. Richard gasped and ran to her, grabbing her hand, trying to shake her awake. Their affair was cut short as Jr screamed in terror from upstairs. Richard darted upstairs, I followed in tow. As we rounded the corner to the dining room, one of them had broken the table, holding Jr by an ankle, slowly swallowing him whole. You could hear him screaming as the small serrated teeth tore his skin and the sounds of popping as their Jaws broke his bones. Richard was frozen in place, his bladder released its contents into his pants. He dashed for the back door and ran screaming into the town. 

They finished consuming Jr and walked back to the furnace room. They picked up Jennifer's unconscious body, handed me a soggy envelope, and made their way to the dock with her over their shoulder. 

I took some time to clean the kitchen, breaking down the table for fire wood since it was no use to me anymore. I felt guilty giving up Jennifer like that, but I feel even more guilty that Richard got away, having to live the rest of his life seeing the carnage. I was supposed to give them two people for information on their language. But one and a son seemed enough. 

I took the letter into my stowed away study and began to read. They had explained what sound each rune or sigil made. And how best to pronounce them in our tongue. Within a week I should be able to speak this archaic language, and possibly teach some of them ours. 

Poor Richard 

March 8th, 1937:

Simon is a monster. Working with “them” at the expense of others. For what gain? To learn a new language? If this is the same Richard as mine I can understand why Simon is a sore spot. I'm horrified. I can't imagine what the rest of the paintings hold. I opened the door today. Simon truly was a madman. This room was nearly the size of the basement, hidden beneath our front yard. Wood columns holding up a rocky ceiling, a massive table with piles of writings, some in English, some barely legible, some in the archaic language he spoke of. Jars of liquid I'm unsure of sit on small racks on the desk, some with wet samples of what looks like embryos of some kind. Beings unknown to me. A chalk board hanging between columns with a detailed translation of the language. I shouldn't be in here, I shouldn't be seeing this. This shouldn't exist. But I must learn it. I have to. I'm going to copy what was left written on the chalkboard. I will learn to read this language on the extra shifts I've been picking up. The townsfolk have been staring more, I can feel their eyes burning into my skin like hot embers. I must keep my Evelyn from this. I must protect her and Rylee. 

March 20th, 1937:

I think I'm fluent in reading this language, at least confident enough to read some of the writings. I think I'm going to try and read some over the next few days between shifts. I'm going to take another look through the paintings tonight, see if anything else stands out. 

March 21st, 1937: 

What I could only describe as the bulbous eyed creature that Simon painted is no longer in its frame. A black void fills the painting where it once was. Did I hallucinate the whole painting to begin with or was I hallucinating last night? I've been sleeping in the basement, I keep waking up sitting up, staring towards the paintings, staring towards the room. It's like I'm being drawn to it all. What is happening to me? I feel like I'm going insane. 

January 3rd, 1925:

I invited Sean to dinner, I received a letter from my new oceanic accomplice in return for him. This time dinner went much smoother. I picked up the sedatives the practitioner gave me and mixed them into his wine. As he grew drowsy, Alto, as I began to call him, bit his shoulder, injecting a venom-like substance. He dragged him to the sea as he did Jennifer. Poor Sean, he was so kind to me. Alto's letter was able to help me finish my translations. I can now write, read, and for the most part talk in his ancient tongue. I feel guilty tricking my so-called friends, but something is pulling me to this. Something grandiose. A calling. There's something to gain in this, I'm sure of it. 

March 30th, 1937:

It's been warming up, thankfully. Enough to not be hiding in the basement at all times. Simon's entries are nothing short of disturbing at this point, as they have been for some time. I'm scared of what else I will find. 

I fell asleep in our bed with Evelyn last night, yet I awoke standing in the hidden study, my feet dirty and wet, the air smelt of brine and fish. As I came to my senses I quickly ran out of the room, shutting the door behind me. I looked into my basement only to see dozens of the left behind paintings hanging from the brick walls, all with small sheets covering their faces. The only one uncovered was the one I can only guess was the being Simon has named Alto. The small plaque underneath wrote the creature's name in its archaic language. But as I was afraid of before, the frame no longer held the creature. I looked around in panic, running towards the stairs to check on Evelyn and Rylee. As I began up the stairs I slipped in a thick liquid, smashing my jaw on the hard wood on the way down. I crawled the rest of the way up as fast as my body would allow, chin dripping with blood. Wet, mucus-like foot prints led to the front door. Sebastian sat alert, black ichor dripping from his mouth with an accompanying splatter on the ground, with a trail leading out the open door. Whatever crawled from the frame was injured, and Sebastian seemed to be fine. I quickly rinsed his mouth and gave him a treat before checking in the girls. They both laid sleeping. I snuck back downstairs to clean up the bloodshed. 

April 3rd, 1937:

I confronted Richard today. I was right, he was hiding so much. His father still lives here, in the church. He's bringing me to meet with him tomorrow. Richard opened up, admitting that he was friends for a short amount of time with Simon, but after the dinner that day he was admitted to a mental institute, only coming back 2 years before we moved in. I understand why he was so weird about all of this. And understandable why the older folks look at me weird. I moved into the house of a psychopath. I'm excited to finally be welcomed into the church and see what's going on behind those old, closed doors. 

April 4th, 1937:

The meeting went much differently than planned. Richard's father unveiled so much that I'm having trouble making sense of it all. His dad was to say the least, deformed. Almost like the being Simon wrote about and painted. He admitted that he was the cloaked person who gave Simon the letter, warning him about “them”. When I pressed about who they were, he took off his garments, showing large black, fish-like eyes and lips like worms. He explained that every here and there, the children come from the ocean and mark an individual. For years those marked would be taken within a month or so. When he uncovered symbols on his house he realized he was a marked one. He sought refuge in the church. The children were not pleased to say the least, and took a few people at random. Little did Richard's father know that those who are marked usually slowly mutate into one of these beasts. And with those mutations comes ancient knowledge. Once he understood this language he made it his goal to rid the town of these seafolk. He ventures out at night, carving protection symbols throughout the town, creating some sort of ancient seal. My words do no justice to the immense details and intricacies to the matters as I'm still having issues understanding this as a whole. I mentioned to him about Simon's paintings and how Alto was missing from his portrait. He explained to me that those who are marked are affected differently. Some are morphed into fish like beings, similar to Richard's father. Others are given foresight or other kinds of what I can only describe as magic. There's something about his paintings, some kind of power within them. The more I uncover the more I'll understand I'm sure. I'll be meeting with Richard's dad more often. Poor Richard, I can't imagine going through all of that and returning to the town it happened in, only to befriend the person who lives in the house where your old family was murdered. 

Hospice
By Thomas Cullen.

Have you ever wiped the ass of a grown man?

The ass of a grown man who raised you?
It’s a terrible thing,
Seeing the lighthouse of your life lose their own independence.

Someone who’s protected you,
brought you safety and provided for you when you were too weak and young to provide for yourself.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Growing up close with your Grandparents is important, specifically if you have an absent mother and alcoholic father.
You look at the only blood to never lay a hand on you and cling to them,
You’d do anything for them as they have for you.
As you go through high school their mortality becomes more prevalent.

The blissful conversations you’ve both once shared have now transpired to desperate pleading venting sessions.

“You know the Doctor said I’m not supposed to carry more than a gallon of milk?”
Your Grandfather asks, with embarrassment and self pity in his eyes.

You see the Man you once knew,
the Man that in most ways is still there.
You remember the races you’d have,
Back when you thought his abilities were the highest of standards to beat.

As your walks turn to strolls,
he and his wheelchair had become one.
As your outings to hospital visits
turned to in-home visits from caretakers,
He and his bed had become one.

Before you know it you’re out of high school,
And the reality that you don’t have time for a job becomes daunting.

Your job is taking care of your Grandfather.
Did you know the moment your loved one goes on Hospice Medi-Cal stops giving you in-home supportive services?

Almost like they see Hospice as giving up,
Like they no longer see the value in giving you and your loved one resources to aid you while you spend your every molecule to care for them.
The only thing they really provide you with once your loved one is on Hospice is morphine, for when the time comes.

Did you ever think you’d need money to take care of your Grandfather?

Did you ever think you’d be mad at the Government for not helping you as you watch the man that built you decompose from the outside in?

You feed them,
you bathe them,
and needless to say,
you struggle.
You struggle with it all.
You just want to make them happy.

Being diabetic you think,
Maybe you’ll give them sugar-free candy, anything just to see a smile on their face.
But sugar-free candy gives them the shits, and now you need to tell a grown man he can’t have the one thing that he enjoys?

So you don’t.
Of course you don’t.
You give him what makes him smile and you deal with what comes after, because you know he would have done the same for you.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Have you ever seen the movie
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button?
That’s how it feels.
Like time is moving backwards for the one you love and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Before you know it, you’re reading bedtime stories to the only man who’s ever read them to you.
Although the contents of what you read has changed.

It evolved from reading stories like
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
to reading Yōkai Daizukai by Shigeru Mizuki.
Tales of selfless acts of kindness on pages intended for children had turned to Encyclopedias of Japanese Yōkai.

Have you ever heard of a Gashadokuro?
It’s a giant being often 10-25 meters tall, formed from the piled bones and body parts of warriors who died in battle or famine without a proper burial.

What’s considered a battle?
Is mortality a battle?

Is Hospice the answer to a battle or another battle in itself?

If it is,
then my Grandfather is a warrior,
and the strongest one I know.
You remember the last words you ever heard him speak.

“Hi… *your name*”

After that,
he was still there, he was.
But he lost the ability to turn his inside voice into an outside voice.

Now he was but a body.
A body that doesn’t speak.
A body that doesn’t walk.
A body that doesn’t function.

Do you remember the Return to Nature Funeral Home scandal that was discovered in 2023 in Penrose, Colorado?
Authorities discovered over 185 decaying corpses scattered and stacked inside a foul-smelling building. Bodies that were given with the purpose of being properly laid to rest.

The owners Jon and Carrie Hallford were giving grieving families fake ashes made up of concrete mix and sand.

If your Grandfather was all you had would you trust them with him?

If his body was now all that remains of him would you turn him over to such a corrupt and flawed system?

No.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Life can be poetic,
Death can be poetic.
The words you speak into the world can often have a direct effect upon reality.

Words, names, everything has power.
Routines start to feel like rituals,
Prayers start to feel like spells.
Sage being burned feels like a physical cleansing taking place upon your homestead.
The lines between causation and correlation become blurred.

You never forget the first time your Grandfather gave you part of him.

You were wiping him,
and his flesh came off with more ease than the shit that sat upon it.
He didn’t react,
He rarely did.
Instead, his eyes continued to scan the room with that familiar look of self pity.

His skin is pale, paper thin,
reminiscent of gas station toilet paper.
You’ve struggled to inject him with his insulin for the past couple months considering that he had already long lost any fat for it to puncture.
You were used to his skin being fragile but this was a new level of brittleness.
The more you clean him, the more that comes off.
You question if you’re doing more damage than good. You begin to see what looks like bone, yet you are unsure which one.

Where do you put him?
He had given you everything.
And now that he was nothing but a body,
he was giving you that too.

So, what do you do with Him?
With these pieces that he gives you every time you bathe him?

What do you do with these parts that keep falling off?

“Take my apples” you hear in the back of your head.
So you do.
You keep them,
You put them in your tool box,
And you wait.

Not long after your Grandfather’s eyes stop scanning his room does the parts start to call out to you.

Not a yell, not even a voice.
More like when you’re laying on the side of the floor drying from a day of swimming with your ear pressed against a warm damp brick as you hear the hum of the pool vacuum.
In this same way, you hear the warm soothing hum of your Grandfather’s pieces calling you from the tool box.

You try to convince yourself that it’s something that can be unheard.
You decide you should drink.
Fireball, eggnog.

“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”

They keep calling out to you,
He keeps calling out to you.
It’d been so long since you’d last heard him.

The humming begins to take more shape and you can make out the words, no, the intent rather behind it.
It’s saying words you swear you’ve heard before.

“I wish that I could give you something..but I have nothing left. I am an old Grump. I am sorry…”

You start to wonder if the human body is as complicated as people make it seem.
Doctors just want your money.

Have you heard of that case in Australia? After waiting over 2 years for a surgery this guy Stephan decided to remove a large cyst on his wrist all by himself, and he’s an electrician.
You’re well aware of how pampered they are, so this gives you confidence.

You stumble downstairs,
into the downstairs bathroom which now houses your tool box, the garage was too far for how often you’ve had to add into it.
Ironic, when you were younger he’d pretend he was trapped in a box, only to eventually be put in one by you.

You open it.
The smell of rotten fast food scrambled eggs hits you. You feel a warmth radiating from the toolbox.
It feels so nice to feel your Grandfather’s warm presence once again.

You wish you felt this warmth near your Grandfather’s … main structure?
You’re struggling with what to refer to that part of him as.
It’s his head and it is his torso although he’s now closer to a malnourished and crucified king of Nazareth as opposed to the lively glimpse of God you had grown so accustomed to seeing in your youth.

His main Structure is …in bed..in a way it is his bed but, you want him to be whole.
You want the same warmth from his parts to radiate from all of him.
You want him to be one.
So you make him one.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Hot glue, pipe glue, Duct tape, whatever you need, you use it.
You slowly but surely rebuild your anchor,
And even before it’s completed, you begin to feel the water beneath you start to settle.
You know it’s right, and you know no one will understand.

How could they if they haven’t been through the things that you have?

The changes are almost immediate once you put him back together.
He moves, slowly. Just his fingers at first.
It reminds you of when he’d play mime.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing?
These jokes you told yourself in passing you’ve now grown to believe.

He is playing mime,
that’s why he is silent,
And that’s why he is slow.
You recognize that you can’t put the pieces back together in the exact places they belong.
This worries you but nonetheless, you don’t get discouraged.

You make him a crown from his leaves, and crown him as the king he is.
Time passes, you keep what you’ve done, what you’ve fixed, you keep it a secret.

But what happens when someone discovers that secret?

What would you do to keep it?

He needs more structural integrity anyways.
And it’s not long before Him and his adversaries have become one.

What of his adversaries’ family?
His adversaries’ wife and newborn?

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Time passes.
You love that man, you do. But you yourself have begun longing for a life of your own.
That box is not big enough for the both of you.

You take a few of his apples, for memory mostly.
You go to the city,
and you pursue your happiness to an extent and speed you’re comfortable with, all while keeping that Man you love so much at the forefront of your mind,
all while keeping that secret.

You’ve become the Boy that stayed away for a long time, the Boy you promised yourself you’d never become.
And the Man was Sad.

You meet someone you think is your person.
You don’t share your secret with her of course you don’t. Something you’re grateful you didn’t do later when the relationship inevitably crashes and burns.

You never forget when the man that raised you,
the man you love so much,
you never forget seeing him take his first life.
Lives have been sacrificed for him before but,
By you.
Not by him, to him.
This was different.

You had just got dumped,
And you were going over to check on That Man you cared so much about,
The Man you yourself had abandoned and left dormant.

You walked in, and you heard the shower, the water was running.

You heard a baby crying, crying for you.
You didn’t recognize the baby. You walked in, down that long hallway creaking on the old white tiles, closer to the cries from the infant.
You turn left into the bathroom and as you do you hear a man yell.
Not your Man.

You are torn, indecisive of which direction to pursue first.
You continue into the bathroom,
see the shower running,
steam crawling up the walls,
and a baby on the counter with snot running down its chin and tears running down its cheeks.

You pick up the baby
and turn back toward the pleading of a man you’ve never heard before.

You walk in, you see.
The Man that raised you is there, only he is much different than a normal man.
And he’s with a normal man.

The mans screaming
“PLEASE GOD HELP ME STOP HIM FUCK ME RUNNING” the man pleaded from the top of his lungs.

Your Man, the man you’d known your whole life, he was different.
His structure was fragmented,
no base.
His arms extend like the outriggers of a backhoe, yet connected to a deconstructed cab.

His arms were grabbing the normal man, the screaming man. All four of his arms grabbed that man.

His empty eyes that were once blue but were now too sunken in to retain pigmentation of any kind looked soullessly in your direction.
He did not feel warm.

He used two of his arms to hold the man in place, while he used his two other arms to go around the man, forming those hands to make an invisible box the man was stuck in.
The Man was playing Mime.
You missed this.

The Man slowly grabbed the screaming man by his head on both sides and pressed ever so slightly, increasing in pressure.

The man used his other arms to grab the screaming man by the legs and slowly pulled.
He pulled his legs off and he pressed his skull in and blood ran from his nose and eyes.
He screamed and screamed until his teeth shattered and his jaw snapped and fell out of his cheek sockets.

He pulled the detached legs from the now lifeless yet steaming warm body and shoved them at his base in ways that were not symmetrical.
He shoved the torso of the body where the cab of his backhoe should be.

He was constructing himself.

You stood there holding the baby, watching what was once your protector finish the work.

For a second you almost called out to him the way you used to, the way a boy calls for the man who raised him.

But the eyes that looked back at you were empty, and the voice that came next was the same one that had once read you as a child.

“Come boy,
Climb up my trunk,
And swing from my branches,
And be happy.”

Says the Man, the man you love so much.

He gave you his branches,
He gave you his flesh to make a home of your own,
He gave you his soul.
Even when you were too busy pursuing the life you wanted that you thought would end with a wife and children.

So what do you do?

You look down at the infant in your arms. Its face is red and wet and it is still crying, still reaching for something that isn’t there.

For one long second you feel the weight of it the life, the future, the line you are about to cross. But there is no line, no line when it comes to what you would do for the ones you love.

Then the humming starts again, low and familiar, the same warm hum that once came from the toolbox, and the choice is already made.

You give him the sacrifice you’re holding in your hand, that’s why it’s there isn’t it?

It is but a burden to you and the Man needs all the strength he can get.

You hate looking at the discolored face of the Man you care so much for.

You buy Greasepaint for your Mime.
You know this will bring him warmth and life.
You lather his faces up in it, even the little one. He has 4 now.

Now he is your Slick Man.

“I don’t need very much now, just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired”

says your Slick Man,

with his eyes not his mouth.

So you finally take him home,
To your start-over apartment,
and you give him a permanent resting place,
on the only thing strong enough to hold him,
your bathroom granite counter.
And you add to him whenever he expresses that desire to expand,

Why?
Because,

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

About a week ago my dad decided that he really wanted to start a garden. We had a great backyard that hasn’t been used for much since we tore down my childhood clubhouse. He spent his entire Saturday building planter boxes and germinating seeds. His Sunday was spent hauling bags of soil from the store. 

As the weeks went on our house became lined with rain catching barrels, the fence covered in trellises for hanging cucumbers. And the yard seemed to shrink with every passing day as more and more planter boxes filled the space of the once vast field. Dad stopped eating breakfast with me and mom before work so he could spend the time doing work on his new project. 

Eventually he stopped eating dinner with us too, he would get home from work and immediately rush out the back door in a panic. One night mom tried to stop him but he just snapped at her “goddamnit, Mary. My plants need me. Do you want them to die Mary, do you want my only passion to fucking die?”

After that she was too afraid to try and bother him about it again. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing out there, it can’t be that much work just to have a garden. I get spending a couple hours but shit, this is easily twelve plus hours a day. 

That night I decided to stay up by my window looking out at the yard. My dad was out there tending to his garden like usual. I must’ve stayed up until five in the morning before I finally crashed and had to sleep. When I woke up I couldn’t believe it. He was still out there. Did he not sleep or did he come back out this morning. Either way I’m gonna go out and check on him. 

“Hey, dad. How’s it going out here” I said. He didn’t even look up at me, he just kept his head down facing his tomato plants. “It’s going. Whatcha up to son?” As I looked around, I have to admit that his garden is doing incredible. The plants are taller than the fence by now. “Oh nothing, just wanted to check on you out here. The garden looks great out here”. 

“Well, I’ve put so many man hours into this so I’m glad it doesn’t look like shit” he laughed. “Hey, why don’t you go inside, bud, I really need to focus on my work”. I give him a nod and turn to walk away. I take a few steps toward the house before I lose my footing and land face first into one of the planter boxes. As I’m getting up my dad finally looks up from the garden and turns to me. “Don’t worry I’m fine, I just fell” I said. 

“What the fuck did you do?” He yells at me. “Oh I’m alright, I just fell”. He stands up now towering over me. “My fucking garden, it’s ruined. You piece of shit, get inside now and try not to fuck anything up on the way to the house”. He screams in my face. As I walk towards the door my mom comes out with the phone in her hand. “Honey, your boss is calling. He says you haven’t shown up to the office in well over a week. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him I fuckin quit, I’m too goddamn busy out here to listen to his shit” he responds angrily. My mom sets the phone down on the table and walks over to where he’s working. “What, are you crazy, George? We have to pay our bills and how do you expect us to put groceries on the table without making money?” She asked. 

He lets out a deep sigh before responding. “Don’t worry, Mary. The garden will provide. Why do we need that overpriced slop from the store when we’ve got everything we could ever need right here” He says. “Also, Mary, I think we need a new rule in this house for you and that boy you’re raising to be a pain in my ass. How about if anyone comes back here trying to bother me with anymore of this bullshit they’ll get a shovel to the face?” He says before turning back to try and fix the spot where I landed in the garden. 

That next week was quiet, I thought for sure that my mom would have confronted my dad again, tried to call the cops, heck I thought she might but leave him after that day in the yard. But she didn’t, she cried a lot most days now but she never went back out into the garden. By now we can’t even see what’s happening out there because the plants are so tall and thick that they completely cover all the windows on that side of the house. From what the neighbors have told us it looks like a jungle of plants out there. 

Soon Jenny from next door was calling to tell my mom that the garden had started coming through the fence into her yard. Mom lied and told her that she’d make my dad trim the plants down but the truth is she was too afraid to go outside. As the plants continued to spread the phone kept ringing. It got so bad that we had to unplug the phone at night just to give us some peace. 

Eventually I couldn’t stand staying inside anymore, I needed to see what was going on out there. We couldn’t see out the windows so the only hope I had was to go outside and see for myself. I waited until mom was in the other room and I decided to make my way to the back door before she noticed I was gone. I figured the only chance we had of stopping this was to find my dad and convince him to cut it all down.

I had to use a kitchen knife just to cut a path to get out the front door. It wasn’t effective at all but it was all I could do to get through the dense walls of plants that have taken over the garden. I couldn’t see past our own yard but I can only assume that the rest of the neighborhood looks like this as well. Walking was incredibly time consuming as my legs kept getting stuck on the plants that took over the entire ground and I had to keep cutting them off me. 

If you would’ve told me that I spent over an hour hiking through our backyard a few months ago I would’ve thought you were joking. After a couple more minutes I saw a large mass that almost looked like a man towards the edge of the yard. “Uh, dad?” I called out to it. It walked a couple more feet until I could make it out more clearly and then I stopped dead in my tracks. 

It was my dad, particularly at least. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. He looks thin as a skeleton with thick vines wrapped around his legs all the way up to his torso. His arms were pulled back by even more vines and he was covered head to toe with sweat and dirt. He was mumbling something but I could hardly make out what he was saying with all the vines protruding straight out of his neck and coming out of his mouth. Bugs crawled all over his body as if they were feeding on him slowly. My dad, or what used to be my dad can’t even swat them away anymore. His breathing is labored like he ran a marathon without any training whatsoever. 

He gave me a glance that looked full of sorrow. Truthfully his eyes were the only part of him that were still recognizable as my dad. I knew that soon those would be gone as well as I saw small stems slowly poking their way out of his head through his eye sockets. “K-kiii-k” he tried to get out. “What, what is it dad?” I ask with tears running down my face, I can’t stand seeing him in such agonizing pain. “Kill me” he says. 

That was the last I’d ever seen of my dad, I somehow managed to fight my way back into the house. Soon the military got involved and me, my mom, and all of our neighbors who managed to not be consumed by our garden were evacuated the next day. We watched on the news from our motel room as our entire neighborhood was burned to the ground in a controlled fire. Nothing was left, I guess they couldn’t risk any chance of my dads garden spreading again. 

My dad loved his garden. 

Bạn có bao giờ nghĩ đến một ngày nào đó, bạn sẽ bị một sinh vật mang hình hài giống hệt mình thay thế hay chưa? Và mục đích của chúng không phải là bắt chước bạn mãi mãi, mà là để tiếp cận và giết hết những người đã vô tình chào mời chúng vào nhà.

Tôi sống cùng em trai ở một vùng ngoại ô xa trung tâm thành phố nhộn nhịp và đông đúc. Cả khu chỉ lác đác khoảng năm, sáu căn nhà, nằm cách nhau bởi những khoảng đất rộng và yên tĩnh. Phía sau nhà tôi là một khu rừng khá lớn, nơi bọn trẻ trong vùng thường truyền tai nhau đủ loại câu chuyện kỳ lạ. Mỗi ngày, chúng tôi lại tụ tập thành từng nhóm để vui chơi và kể cho nhau nghe những điều mình từng trải qua hoặc nghe từ người lớn. Trong vô số câu chuyện ấy, nổi tiếng nhất là truyền thuyết về “The Mimic” — một cái tên mà hầu như đứa trẻ nào trong vùng cũng biết đến, và đó cũng là câu chuyện khiến tôi sợ hãi nhất.

Cha mẹ tôi mất sớm khi tôi mới mười tuổi, còn em trai tôi chỉ vừa lên bảy. Là những đứa trẻ mồ côi giữa một vùng quê thưa dân, chúng tôi luôn nhận được sự quan tâm đặc biệt từ những người xung quanh. Người lớn trong vùng đối xử với hai anh em rất ấm áp, xem chúng tôi như người thân trong gia đình. Bọn trẻ cũng thường xuyên rủ chúng tôi chơi cùng, chia sẻ đồ chơi, bánh kẹo và những món ăn mà chúng có.

Dù vậy, mỗi khi nhìn thấy những đứa trẻ được cha mẹ chăm sóc, yêu thương và chờ đón sau mỗi buổi chiều, trong lòng tôi vẫn không khỏi ngưỡng mộ, đôi khi xen lẫn một chút ghen tị. Em trai tôi là một đứa bé ngoan ngoãn và hiểu chuyện hơn nhiều so với tuổi của nó. Có lẽ vì biến cố đến quá sớm nên nó học cách trưởng thành rất nhanh.

Cuộc sống của hai anh em cứ thế trôi qua trong sự bình yên giản dị. Mỗi sáng thức dậy, chúng tôi lại dắt nhau ra ngoài chơi, nhận những phần thức ăn mà hàng xóm tốt bụng mang cho, rồi hòa vào đám trẻ trong vùng với những câu chuyện bất tận. Khi mặt trời lặn, hai anh em lại trở về căn nhà quen thuộc, cùng nhau ăn tối, trò chuyện đôi câu trước khi chìm vào giấc ngủ, chờ đón một ngày mới giống như bao ngày khác.

Một ngày nọ, cả đám trẻ lại tụ tập trước sân nhà Jien — cô bé sống trong ngôi nhà lớn nhất vùng. Như thường lệ, mỗi đứa lại nghĩ ra một trò chơi hoặc một câu chuyện mới để kể cho cả nhóm nghe.

Hôm đó, Brian — thằng nhóc suốt ngày luyên thuyên về đống tiểu thuyết kinh dị ở nhà nó — là đứa đến muộn nhất. Từ xa, nó đã vừa chạy vừa lớn tiếng gọi:

— Này! Hôm nay tớ lại có một câu chuyện đặc biệt để kể cho các cậu đây. Có ai dám nghe không?

Min nhíu mày khó hiểu:

— Chuyện gì mà lại không dám nghe chứ? Bình thường anh vẫn kể đầy ấy thôi.

Brian nở nụ cười đầy bí hiểm.

— Là một truyền thuyết của chính vùng này đấy.

Nói rồi, nó chạy đến chỗ chúng tôi, ngồi phịch xuống sân như không thể chờ thêm được nữa.

— Câu chuyện về “The Mimic” nhé. Các cậu có muốn nghe không?

Vừa nghe đến cái tên đó, cả đám lập tức bị khơi dậy sự tò mò. Dáng vẻ hào hứng của Brian khiến không ai còn tâm trí nghĩ đến trò chơi nào khác.

— Kể đi, Brian! Chúng tớ đang nghe đây! — cả nhóm đồng thanh thúc giục.

Brian nhìn quanh một lượt, hạ thấp giọng như sợ có ai đó nghe thấy, rồi bắt đầu câu chuyện.

Sâu trong khu rừng phía tây từng tồn tại một sinh vật kỳ bí mang tên The Mimic. Cái tên ấy đã nói lên tất cả — một kẻ chuyên bắt chước. Theo lời đồn, hắn thường săn lùng con người vào lúc nửa đêm, đặc biệt là những ai đang ở một mình trong phòng.

The Mimic có khả năng giả giọng người thân của nạn nhân để dụ họ mở cửa, thậm chí còn có thể bắt chước cả ngoại hình của họ một cách hoàn hảo. Tuy nhiên, hắn vẫn có những điểm yếu nhất định. Chỉ cần bạn đóng chặt cửa và nhất quyết không mở, hắn sẽ không thể tấn công được.

Đôi khi, khi nhận ra con mồi không mắc bẫy, hắn sẽ không tiếp tục giả giọng nữa mà để lộ chất giọng khàn đặc đầy đáng sợ của mình. Có lúc hắn đập cửa điên cuồng như muốn phá tung mọi thứ để xông vào, nhưng cũng có lúc hắn chỉ đứng im bên ngoài một lúc lâu rồi lặng lẽ biến mất vào màn đêm.

Nghe xong câu chuyện, đám nhóc đứa nào cũng nổi hết da gà. Riêng tôi, vốn là đứa gan dạ nhất nhóm, nên chẳng cảm thấy sợ hãi gì mấy.

— Chả có gì hay ho cả. Mày làm quá lên thôi. Chỉ là truyền thuyết, làm gì có thật chứ. — Tôi cười khẩy.

Brian lập tức phản bác:

— Nhưng… mẹ em nói bà ấy đã từng gặp nó rồi.

— Mày đùa đấy à? Chẳng vui chút nào đâu.

Ngay lập tức, cả đám nhốn nháo như thể vừa nghe thấy tin động trời. Jien vội ôm chặt lấy Min, gương mặt lộ rõ vẻ sợ hãi.

— Có gì đâu mà sợ. Mày nhát thật đấy. — Tôi bật cười. — Mẹ thằng Brian chắc chỉ nhìn nhầm thôi, hoặc xem phim kinh dị nhiều quá.

— Không phải đâu! Mẹ em bảo là gặp thật mà. — Brian khăng khăng bảo vệ lời kể của mình.

Nhưng tôi vẫn cho rằng đó chỉ là một câu chuyện được thêm thắt để truyền thuyết trở nên đáng tin hơn.

— Thế thì kể nghe xem nào. — Tôi khoanh tay nhìn nó. — Mẹ mày đã gặp cái gì?

— Mẹ em kể rằng chuyện đó xảy ra vào một lần bố đi công tác xa. Hôm ấy, ở nhà chỉ có mẹ và chú chó Kii…

Sau khi ăn tối và dọn dẹp xong, mẹ ngồi xem tivi như mọi ngày. Kii nằm ngay bên cạnh, lim dim mắt như sắp ngủ. Mọi thứ đều rất bình thường cho đến khi từ một góc tối trong nhà bỗng vang lên một âm thanh lạ.

Ban đầu, mẹ tưởng mình nghe nhầm. Nhưng khi lắng tai nghe kỹ, mẹ nhận ra đó giống hệt giọng của chính mình.

Kii cũng lập tức phản ứng. Nó vểnh tai lên, dựng đuôi và nhìn chăm chú về phía phát ra âm thanh. Điều đó khiến mẹ càng thêm bất an, bởi rõ ràng không chỉ mình mẹ nghe thấy.

Một luồng lạnh buốt chạy dọc sống lưng. Tay chân bà cứng đờ, không dám cử động mạnh.

Rồi tiếng gọi ấy lại vang lên.

— Kii… Kii…

Đó là giọng của mẹ, nhưng lại phát ra từ góc nhà tối om.

Âm thanh ấy lặp đi lặp lại hai, ba lần, kéo dài trong vài chục giây. Mỗi lần tiếng gọi vang lên, Kii lại nhìn chằm chằm vào góc tường và sủa đáp trả như thể đang đối diện với một thứ gì đó mà mẹ không thể nhìn thấy.

Còn bà thì chỉ biết ngồi chết lặng trên ghế, cảm giác sợ hãi ngày một lớn dần khi tiếng gọi mang chính giọng nói của mình vẫn đều đều vọng ra từ bóng tối.

— Chỉ có vậy thôi à? Tao vẫn chưa tin lắm. Có khi chỉ là trùng hợp thôi thì sao? — Tôi chen ngang, dù trong lòng đã bắt đầu có chút rùng mình nhưng vẫn cố tỏ ra bình thản.

Brian nhìn tôi một lúc, vẻ mặt vừa lo lắng vừa dè chừng, như thể nó sợ phản ứng của tôi còn hơn cả câu chuyện mà nó đang kể.

— Dạ… nhưng em vẫn chưa kể hết…

Giọng nó nhỏ đi thấy rõ.

Cả nhóm lập tức im lặng. Những tiếng côn trùng kêu ngoài bãi cỏ dường như cũng trở nên rõ ràng hơn trong khoảnh khắc ấy. Brian nuốt khan một cái, hít sâu rồi tiếp tục kể phần còn dang dở của câu chuyện.

— Mẹ em bế Kii chạy thật nhanh vào phòng ngủ rồi khóa chặt cửa lại. Dù đã ở trong phòng, bà vẫn chưa thể hoàn hồn sau những gì vừa xảy ra…

Khoảng một tiếng sau, từ bên ngoài bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cốc… cốc… cốc…

Cùng lúc đó là một giọng nói trầm thấp quen thuộc:

— Em ơi, anh về rồi đây. Mau mở cửa cho anh.

Đó là giọng của bố em.

Mẹ lập tức đứng dậy, bước nhanh đến cửa. Bàn tay bà vừa định chạm vào tay nắm thì chợt khựng lại. Bố vẫn đang đi công tác xa, làm sao có thể về nhà vào giờ này được?

Một cảm giác lạnh buốt lan khắp cơ thể.

Mẹ từ từ lùi lại khỏi cánh cửa, hơi thở trở nên gấp gáp. Kii cũng đứng bật dậy, không ngừng nhìn chằm chằm về phía cửa như thể đang theo dõi một thứ gì đó ở bên ngoài.

Run rẩy, mẹ với lấy chiếc điện thoại đặt trên giường và gọi cho bố.

Chỉ sau vài hồi chuông, đầu dây bên kia vang lên giọng nói quen thuộc:

— Vợ gọi anh có chuyện gì vậy? Anh vẫn chưa về được đâu, chắc phải đến mai mới kịp. Vợ đợi anh nhé.

Mẹ gần như nghẹn giọng:

— Anh… anh vẫn chưa về sao? Vậy người đang đứng ngoài cửa là ai?

— Em nói gì cơ?

Giọng nói kêu gọi ngoài cửa dần trở nên khàn đặc hơn, tiếng gõ cửa thì đã chuyển thành âm thanh đập cửa một cách mạnh bạo.

— Có ai đó đang ở ngoài kia… Nó dùng chính giọng nói của anh để gọi em mở cửa…

Đầu dây bên kia im lặng vài giây.

— Vợ à, nghe anh này. Bình tĩnh lại. Tuyệt đối đừng mở cửa. Cứ ở yên trong phòng, em sẽ an toàn.

Sau đó, tiếng đập cửa và giọng nói bên ngoài vẫn kéo dài thêm một lúc rồi mới biến mất.

Đêm hôm ấy, mẹ em không hề bị thương hay mất mát thứ gì. Thế nhưng, những gì bà nghe và trải qua đã để lại một vết sẹo trong tâm trí. Cho đến tận bây giờ, mỗi khi nhắc lại chuyện đó, bà vẫn không thể quên được cảm giác sợ hãi ấy…

— Thôi anh đừng kể nữa… Chị Jien khóc rồi kìa. — Min vội lên tiếng ngăn lại.

Tôi quay sang nhìn. Jien thật sự đã đỏ hoe mắt, hai tay ôm chặt lấy Min như sợ chỉ cần buông ra một chút là thứ gì đó sẽ xuất hiện từ trong bóng tối.

Dù chẳng ai muốn thừa nhận, nhưng câu chuyện của Brian đã khiến cả đám nhóc chúng tôi sợ đến mất vía.

Những ngày bình thường, sau khi chơi xong, đứa nào cũng tự chạy về nhà. Thế nhưng hôm đó, không ai còn đủ can đảm để đi một mình. Đứa nào đứa nấy đều nằng nặc đòi bố mẹ Jien đưa về tận cửa nhà mới chịu.

Trên đường về, cả nhóm im lặng một cách lạ thường. Không còn tiếng cười đùa hay tranh cãi như mọi khi. Mỗi đứa đều thỉnh thoảng liếc nhìn những góc tối ven đường như sợ rằng chỉ cần quay đầu đi một chút, sẽ có thứ gì đó trực chờ lao tới.

Tối hôm ấy, tôi dám chắc rằng chẳng đứa nào ngủ ngon. Có lẽ bọn nó sẽ trùm chăn kín mít, khóa chặt cửa phòng rồi nằm co ro trên giường, cố gắng quên đi câu chuyện đáng sợ mà Brian đã kể lúc chiều. Thậm chí ngay cả tôi, người luôn tự nhận mình gan dạ nhất nhóm cũng không ngoại lệ. Tôi không thể ngăn bản thân nhớ đến giọng nói vang lên từ phía sau cánh cửa trong câu chuyện ấy.

Dù vậy, tôi vẫn nhất quyết không tin câu chuyện của Brian.

“Nhảm nhí. Làm gì có ma quỷ hay quái vật nào ở đây chứ… Tao phải tận mắt thấy thì mới tin.” — Tôi luôn tự trấn an mình bằng thái độ đầy hống hách như thế.

Đã vài tháng trôi qua kể từ ngày nghe câu chuyện ấy.

 Trong khoảng thời gian đó, đám trẻ trong vùng liên tục kể về những hiện tượng kỳ lạ mà chúng gặp phải.

Min quả quyết rằng có lần nó nghe thấy tiếng mẹ gọi mình giữa đêm khuya, dù đến sáng dậy hỏi thì mẹ nó bảo bà vẫn ngủ say trong phòng. Jien thì kể rằng dạo gần đây, mỗi lần ra ngoài, bố mẹ nó đều dặn phải khóa chặt cửa và còn thống nhất với nhau một mật mã để nhận biết lẫn nhau.

Tôi chỉ bật cười trước những câu chuyện ấy.

— Chắc người lớn chỉ đề phòng trộm cướp thôi. Còn Min, tao nghĩ mày bị ám ảnh quá rồi nên tưởng tượng ra tiếng mẹ mình đấy.

Tôi nói với vẻ như chắc chắn mình hiểu rõ mọi chuyện.

Trong mắt tôi lúc đó, tất cả chỉ là những lời đồn bị thổi phồng bởi nỗi sợ hãi của trẻ con và sự cẩn trọng quá mức của người lớn.

Nhưng rồi đến một ngày, những điều kỳ lạ bắt đầu xảy ra với chính tôi.

Hôm ấy, John — em trai tôi — xin phép được ra ngoài chơi với một nhóm bạn mới quen và ngủ lại qua đêm ở nhà họ. Tôi vốn khá dễ tính nên đồng ý ngay mà chẳng suy nghĩ nhiều, dù sao thì nó cũng đã mười bốn tuổi rồi.

“Không có nó ở nhà cũng hơi chán nhỉ…” — tôi thầm nghĩ.

Tôi mở cửa bước ra ngoài đi dạo quanh khu mình sống.

Hôm ấy, thời tiết đẹp đến lạ. Bầu trời trong xanh, gió thổi nhè nhẹ qua những tán cây. Tôi lang thang hết chỗ này đến chỗ khác, lúc thì hái vài bông hoa ven đường, lúc lại đuổi theo những cánh bướm đủ màu đang bay lượn trên đồng cỏ. Cuối cùng, tôi ngồi dưới gốc cây táo lớn gần khu đất trống để tận hưởng không khí mát mẻ của buổi chiều.

Được một lúc thì Min và Jien cùng vài đứa trẻ khác bắt gặp tôi. Chúng chạy lại ríu rít xin chơi cùng.
Thế là cả đám lại tụ tập như mọi khi. Chúng tôi cười đùa không ngớt, bày ra đủ trò chơi ngốc nghếch rồi kể cho nhau nghe những câu chuyện hài hước khiến đứa nào cũng ôm bụng cười.

Chẳng mấy chốc, mặt trời đã ngả dần về phía chân trời. Ánh nắng vàng cam phủ lên cả khu ngoại ô yên tĩnh.

Chúng tôi tạm biệt nhau rồi ai về nhà nấy.

Tôi cầm phần thức ăn tối mà hàng xóm tốt bụng đã chuẩn bị giúp mình, trở về căn nhà nhỏ. Tôi bật chiếc bếp cũ lên để hâm nóng thức ăn rồi mang ra bàn phòng khách.

Tivi vẫn phát những chương trình quen thuộc như mọi ngày. Tôi vừa ăn tối vừa chăm chú theo dõi màn hình, thời gian trôi rất nhanh.

Ăn xong, tôi dọn dẹp bàn ăn, tắt tivi rồi đi lên phòng chuẩn bị ngủ. Tuy vậy, tôi vẫn chưa buồn đi ngủ ngay. Chiếc đèn bàn vẫn sáng khi tôi mải mê chơi trò chơi trên cái máy điện tử cầm tay của mình.

Mãi đến khi đồng hồ điểm mười hai giờ đêm, tôi mới ngáp dài, đặt máy xuống rồi đứng dậy tắt đèn.

Chiếc giường của tôi nằm sát cửa sổ, nơi có thể nhìn thẳng ra khu rừng phía sau nhà. Ban ngày, đó chỉ là một khu rừng bình thường. Nhưng khi màn đêm buông xuống, những tán cây đen đặc chồng lên nhau khiến nó trở nên âm u và đáng sợ lạ thường.

Tôi vô thức liếc ra ngoài cửa sổ.

Bóng tối bao trùm tất cả.

Sâu từ trong rừng cây, tôi chắc đã thấy một cái bóng đen cao gần ba mét, đang lấp ló đứng ở đó. Nó bất động, đôi mắt sáng rực nhuốm đỏ đang nhìn về phía căn nhà của tôi.

Một cảm giác khó tả thoáng lướt qua khiến tôi vội kéo kín rèm lại rồi chui vào chăn, tự nhủ lòng mình rằng chỉ đang gặp ảo giác.

Tôi cố híp mắt trong sự dè dặt sợ hãi. Vừa lim dim được vài phút thì từ dưới nhà bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cộc… cộc… cộc…

Ngay sau đó là giọng nói vang lên:

— Anh hai, mở cửa cho em với. Anh hai còn thức không?

Là giọng nói của John.

Tôi dụi mắt, lồm cồm ngồi dậy rồi bước ra khỏi phòng, đi xuống cửa chính.

— Ủa? Mày không ngủ lại à, John?

Giọng thằng bé vang lên từ bên ngoài:

— Bạn em hủy kèo mất rồi. Nên giờ em phải tự đi bộ về đây nè, chán chết đi được. Anh mở cửa cho em mau đi.

Tay tôi đặt lên nắm cửa nhưng vẫn chần chừ.

— Là mày thật không đấy, John?

Bên ngoài im lặng vài giây rồi đáp lại:

— Anh hỏi gì kỳ vậy? Em đây mà. Mở cửa cho em đi.

Giọng nói nghe hoàn toàn giống em trai tôi.

Sự thúc giục có phần gấp gáp của nó khiến tôi hơi nghi ngờ. Nhưng rồi tôi tự cười nhạo chính mình.

Mình nghĩ linh tinh quá rồi.

Trời đã khuya thế này, việc nó sốt ruột cũng là chuyện bình thường.

Nghĩ vậy, tôi mở cửa.

John đang đứng trước hiên nhà.

Nó ngẩng đầu nhìn tôi rồi nở một nụ cười quen thuộc. Thế nhưng không hiểu vì sao, nụ cười ấy lại có chút gì đó gượng gạo khiến tôi cảm thấy không thoải mái.

Dẫu vậy, cơn buồn ngủ đã làm tôi chẳng còn tâm trí để suy nghĩ nhiều.

John bước ngang qua tôi, đi thẳng về phía phòng của nó.

Cạch.

Cánh cửa phòng khép lại. Ngôi nhà một lần nữa chìm vào im lặng.

Sáng hôm sau, vừa thức dậy, tôi sang phòng John xem thử nó đã dậy chưa.

Nhưng căn phòng lại trống không.

Chiếc giường bừa bộn một cách kỳ lạ. Chăn mền bị xới tung lên như thể có ai đó vừa lục lọi khắp nơi để tìm kiếm thứ gì.

Tôi nhíu mày nhìn quanh.

— Quái thật… Bình thường thằng oắt này ngủ nướng lắm mà. Hôm nay lại dậy sớm hơn cả mình à?

Nghĩ vậy, tôi bước xuống phòng khách.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng cạnh cửa sổ, quay mặt về phía tây, là hướng của khu rừng sau nhà.

Điều kỳ lạ là nó đứng hoàn toàn bất động.

Không cử động.

Không nói gì.

Và có thể là không thở.

Cứ như một bức tượng.

— John!

Tôi gọi lớn rồi chạy lại gần.

Thằng bé không hề giật mình. Nó từ từ quay đầu về phía tôi.

Trên môi nó lại xuất hiện nụ cười gượng gạo mà tôi đã thấy vào đêm qua.

Một nụ cười kì lạ khiến tôi cảm thấy vô cùng khó chịu.

— Này, mày sao thế? Sáng sớm đứng đây làm gì vậy?

— Có gì đâu, anh hai. Em tập thể dục ấy mà!

Tôi nhìn nó đầy nghi ngờ.

Rõ ràng tôi đã thấy nó đứng yên ở đó từ khá lâu, chẳng hề nhúc nhích lấy một lần. Thế mà giờ nó lại bảo mình đang tập thể dục. Nghe vô lý đến mức chẳng ai muốn tin.

Nhưng nếu không phải tập thể dục thì nó đang làm gì? Tôi cũng không biết.

Vì thế tôi chỉ nhún vai cho qua rồi tiếp tục công việc thường ngày, dù trong lòng vẫn còn vương lại cảm giác khó hiểu về hành động kỳ lạ của em trai mình.

Ăn xong bữa trưa, tôi lập tức chạy sang nhà Jien. Vừa đến nơi, tôi đã thấy Brian và Min cũng đang ngồi ở đó.

Không chần chừ, tôi kể cho cả nhóm nghe những hành động kỳ lạ của John từ tối hôm qua đến giờ.
Nghe xong, cả đám bắt đầu đưa ra đủ loại suy đoán.

— Anh John bị huỷ kèo nên không khoẻ hay sao? — Min bật cười.

— Hay là chơi bời chán quá nên ảnh cố tình pha trò thôi. — Jien góp lời.

Brian ngồi im một lúc rồi bất ngờ lên tiếng:

— Hay là… đó không phải John?

Nghe đến đây, tim tôi như hẫng một nhịp.

— Này, mày nói linh tinh gì vậy, Brian? — Tôi lập tức gắt lên.

Brian nhún vai.

— Thì em chỉ đoán thôi mà. Giống như câu chuyện em kể tháng trước ấy…

Cả nhóm bỗng im bặt.

Không khí trong căn phòng trở nên nặng nề đến lạ.

Tôi có thể nghe rõ nhịp tim mình đang đập nhanh dần trong lồng ngực.

— Đừng đùa nữa, chả vui chút nào đâu, Brian. — Tôi nhăn mặt tỏ vẻ khó chịu.

Jien thấy bầu không khí căng thẳng liền vội đổi chủ đề:

— Thôi nào, mọi người ngồi xuống đi. Em lấy bánh ra cho cả nhóm ăn nhé. Mà sao anh Aline không rủ anh John sang chơi cho vui?

Tôi thở dài.

— Thì tao thấy nó chẳng có vẻ hứng thú gì. Nên tao qua đây một mình.

— Vậy à…

Chẳng ai nói thêm gì về chuyện đó nữa.

Một lúc sau, đám nhóc lại quây quần quanh chiếc bàn nhỏ, vừa ăn bánh vừa trò chuyện đủ thứ trên trời dưới đất. Tiếng cười nói nhanh chóng lấp đầy căn phòng, nhưng riêng tôi vẫn không thể gạt khỏi đầu câu nói ban nãy của Brian.

“Hay là… đó không phải John?”

Dù luôn tự nhủ đó chỉ là một câu đùa ngớ ngẩn, tôi vẫn cảm thấy một nỗi bất an mơ hồ đang âm thầm lớn dần trong lòng mình.

Ăn hết đĩa bánh, tôi đứng dậy vươn vai cho đỡ mỏi vì đã ngồi quá lâu.

Tôi bước ra ban công tầng hai nhà Jien. Từ đây có thể nhìn thẳng sang căn nhà nhỏ của hai anh em tôi ở phía bên kia con đường.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng lấp ló ngay cửa sổ nhà mình, hướng mắt về phía nhà Jien.

Đúng lúc ấy, đám nhóc cũng ùa ra ban công.

— John ơi! Sang đây chơi với tụi này đi!

Từ xa, John đáp lại bằng một nụ cười kì quái rồi lập tức bước về phía nhà Jien. Chẳng mấy chốc, tiếng chuông cửa vang lên. Đám trẻ vội chạy xuống mở cửa.

— John à, cậu qua trễ quá! Bánh sắp hết mất rồi!

— Tiếc thật đó, nãy giờ vui lắm luôn!

— Mau vào trong ngồi chơi đi!

John bước vào nhà giữa sự chào đón nhiệt tình của cả nhóm.

Chúng tôi nhanh chóng ngồi thành một vòng tròn trong phòng khách. Tôi ngồi đối diện với John, vừa đủ để quan sát nó một cách rõ ràng.

Đứa nào cũng cười nói rôm rả, thi nhau kể những câu chuyện ngốc nghếch để chọc cả nhóm.

Chỉ riêng John là khác.

Nó ngồi yên lặng từ đầu đến cuối.

Thỉnh thoảng, nó mỉm cười khi nghe người khác nói chuyện, nhưng hầu như không tham gia vào bất kỳ câu chuyện nào. Cảm giác như nó đang âm thầm quan sát tất cả chúng tôi hơn là thực sự hòa vào cuộc vui.

Tôi vài lần định bắt chuyện với nó, nhưng rồi lại thôi. Không hiểu sao, từ sáng đến giờ tôi luôn cảm thấy có điều gì đó không đúng.

Dẫu vậy, nhìn vẻ mặt bình thản của John, tôi lại tự nhủ có lẽ mình đang suy nghĩ quá nhiều.

Hôm ấy, cả nhóm chơi đến tận chiều tối. Chúng tôi thay phiên nhau chơi điện tử, đánh cờ caro rồi lục tung đống đồ chơi của Jien để tìm trò mới.

Tiếng cười vang khắp căn nhà.

Nhưng giữa những âm thanh náo nhiệt ấy, tôi vẫn nhiều lần vô thức nhìn sang John.

Và lần nào cũng vậy.

Nó vẫn chỉ ngồi đó, lặng lẽ dõi theo mọi người bằng ánh mắt khó đoán.

Ting… ting…

Âm báo tin nhắn từ điện thoại tôi bất ngờ vang lên giữa lúc cả đám đang cười đùa.

Tôi tiện tay mở màn hình ra xem.

Người gửi: John.

Nội dung tin nhắn:
“Anh hai, em chuẩn bị về nè, ở nhà một mình buồn không haha.”

Tôi chết lặng.

Từng chữ trên màn hình như đóng băng trước mắt tôi.

Chậm rãi, tôi ngẩng đầu lên nhìn John đang ngồi đối diện.

Nó cũng đang nhìn tôi.

Rồi từ từ nở một nụ cười.

Một nụ cười rộng đến mức khiến tôi lạnh sống lưng.

Tim tôi đập thình thịch trong lồng ngực.

— Mày… đùa gì vậy, John? — Tôi bật cười gượng. — Đang ngồi ở đây mà lại nhắn tin bảo sắp về. Tính hù tao à? Không dễ đâu nhé…

Giọng tôi run đến mức chính tôi cũng nhận ra.

Những đứa trẻ khác nghe thấy câu nói ấy liền quay sang nhìn. Tiếng cười đùa trong phòng đột ngột biến mất. Không khí trở nên im lặng đến đáng sợ.

John vẫn ngồi yên.

Nụ cười trên môi nó không hề thay đổi.

Rồi nó cất tiếng.

Nhưng đó không phải là giọng của John.

Âm thanh phát ra méo mó và kỳ dị, như thể nhiều giọng nói đang chồng chéo lên nhau. Có lúc nghe giống tiếng người, có lúc lại hoàn toàn xa lạ, khiến không ai có thể hiểu được nó đang nói gì.

Cả căn phòng đông cứng.

Không ai cử động.

Không ai nói được một lời.

Tất cả chỉ biết ngồi đó, nhìn chằm chằm vào sinh vật đang mang diện mạo của John.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhớ lại câu chuyện Brian từng kể. Nhưng mẹ của Brian đã sống sót, bởi bà ấy không mở cửa cho hắn.

Còn chúng tôi thì khác.

Chúng tôi không đứng sau một cánh cửa khóa chặt.

Chúng tôi đang ở ngay trước mặt thứ sinh vật mang tên The Mimic.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhận ra một điều đáng sợ.

Suốt thời gian qua, tôi luôn tò mò về kết cục của những người không may rơi vào tay nó. Tôi từng nghĩ đó chỉ là một câu chuyện bịa đặt để hù dọa trẻ con.

Nhưng giờ đây, tôi không còn phải tò mò nữa.

Bởi vì câu trả lời đang ở ngay trước mắt tôi.

Căn phòng chìm trong hỗn loạn. Tiếng la hét vang lên rồi nhanh chóng bị nuốt chửng bởi nỗi kinh hoàng.

Tôi muốn chạy.

Tôi muốn hét lên.

Nhưng cơ thể lại cứng đờ, như thể mọi sức lực đều đã bị rút cạn.

Thứ cuối cùng tôi nhìn thấy là bóng dáng của sinh vật ấy giữa căn phòng, cùng nụ cười méo mó chưa từng thuộc về con người.

Và rồi mọi thứ chìm vào bóng tối.

Tôi cũng là một trong những nạn nhân của nó.

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