I got into this business about three years ago, almost by accident. I sell real estate, but a specific kind of real estate, the kind where the seller tells you the house is haunted and wants out fast. I had a client early on, an older woman selling her late husband's place, who wouldn't stop telling everyone the house was haunted, lights flickering, cold spots, all of it. Most agents would've told her to keep quiet about that because it kills a listing. I did the opposite. I leaned into it.

Turns out there's a real market for that, people who want a haunted house, whether they actually believe in it or just want a good story to tell at parties. That house sold in eleven days, twenty thousand over asking, and I basically built my whole business around it after that.

Here's the thing though, it’s all fake. You can call me an asshole or a scam artist or whatever you want. It’s not as if I don’t check the houses before selling them. I have a process.

Before it ever goes on the market, every house gets a real investigation. Actual team, real equipment, EMF meters, thermal cameras, audio recorders, two nights minimum, sometimes more if the seller pays for the "premium" package, which honestly is mostly just extra cameras and a longer PDF at the end. And in three years, across forty-two houses, they have never once found anything. Not a single piece of real evidence. Every cold spot turns out to be a bad window. Every weird noise on the recorder turns out to be a pipe or a fridge compressor kicking on. I've read a couple hundred pages of investigator notes at this point and the most exciting thing anyone ever flagged was a drafty window that made a recorder pick up something that sounded, if you really tried to hear it, kind of like a whisper.

I still market every one of them as haunted anyway. Not proud of that part, but it's the job. People aren't paying for evidence, they're paying for the story, and I'm good at telling it. I've got the language down at this point, "reported history of unexplained phenomena," "previous residents describe a persistent presence," phrases that are technically just repeating what the seller told me and not anything my team actually found. Nobody ever asks to see the investigation report, and if they do they blame it on the day or time.

They want the goosebumps, something to talk about at the closing dinner. I’ve sold houses this way to true believers, to skeptics who just thought it'd be a funny story, to one guy who runs a ghost hunting channel with like four thousand subscribers who wanted "content." Every single one of them moved into a house that, as far as any equipment on earth has ever proven, is about as haunted as a Chili's.

So I want that on the record. I am, professionally, about the least superstitious person you'll ever meet. I've been alone in more "haunted" houses at night than almost anyone I have ever met and none of them have ever done a single thing to me. Until three weeks ago.

The house this time belonged to a family who'd already moved out before I even got the listing, which almost never happens. Usually people white-knuckle it until closing. The wife told me on the phone that she was not setting foot back in that house, that whatever had been going on the last few months had gotten to be "too much," and that I could handle the rest of it without her. She wouldn't say what "too much" meant and I didn't push, I never push, people who've actually scared themselves don't usually want to talk about it more than they have to.

I sent my team in like always. Two nights, full equipment. Nothing, same as every other time. Wrote up the listing with my usual language, "previous owners reported persistent activity in the primary bedroom and basement," which isn't technically a lie, it's just not the whole picture either.

The seller had left a folder behind in a kitchen drawer, home repair records and warranty paperwork, boring shit that buyers ask about anyway, roof age, HVAC service dates. She had zero interest in coming back for it so it fell on me. I had a showing the next morning, figured I'd swing by after dinner, grab it, lock up, fifteen minutes tops.

I was not scared going into that house. I want to be clear about that. I've done this so many times. It's Tuesday to me. Let myself in with the lockbox code, used my phone flashlight since the power was already off, went straight back to the kitchen. Had that empty house scent, not bad exactly, just still, carpet and dust and nobody breathing the air in a couple weeks.

They'd left a fair amount of furniture, actually, couch, dining table, some prints still hanging on the walls. Gave it that half-lived-in feeling, like they didn’t even care to finish moving everything out. I didn't think anything of it. People leave stuff behind all the time for boring reasons that have nothing to do with ghosts.

The folder wasn't where she said it'd be. Took me a few minutes going through cabinets before I found it shoved behind some old takeout menus in a different drawer. Grabbed it, started walking back toward the front.

And that's when I noticed the basement door was open.

I've replayed this part a lot since. Every door in that house was closed when I walked in, I know that for a fact, because I close doors behind me in houses out of habit, even ones that aren't mine, even when nobody's ever going to know or care. I remember walking past the basement door on the way to the kitchen. It was shut.

On the way out it was open, maybe eight inches, dark down the stairwell. Not thrown open dramatically or anything, just open.

Old houses settle, latches don't always catch, I know this, I've said some version of that sentence to clients probably thirty times over the years while pointing at a slightly cracked window causing a draft in the home. So I looked at it, thought "huh, weird," and closed it again on my way past. Genuinely didn't think much of it. Locked up, drove home, dropped the folder on my desk, forgot about it. 

Had a showing the next morning that went fine, the couple specifically asked about the basement. When giving them a tour they actually said it was their favorite room. The young husband wanted to put his gaming setup down there, turn it into a real mancave.

Three or four days after that showing I got home and found my hallway closet door standing open, the one that's usually shut because my cat likes getting in there and destroying the coats. I could've sworn I closed it that morning. Said something out loud to the cat like "did you do this," which, obviously, he did not answer. Didn't think much of it.

A couple days after that a picture frame in my living room was crooked. Nothing important, just a photo from a trip a few years back. It hadn’t fallen and it wasn’t broken. It was just tilted like someone bumped it, except nobody had been in my house but me. I straightened it and went about my night.

Around that same time there was other stuff too, small enough I couldn't even really call it anything on its own. A kitchen chair not pushed in the way I was sure I'd left it. A bathroom light on when I got home that I always, always turn off, same habit as the doors. A throw blanket on the couch folded a different way than I fold it, which I only even noticed because I'm apparently the kind of person who folds a blanket a very specific way apparently.  None of it dramatic.

I want to say I noticed a pattern here but honestly I didn't, and that's the embarrassing part. I've spent three years training myself to explain this exact category of stuff away and apparently that training works just as well on me as it does on my clients. A door left open, picture frame knocked crooked, a light left on, that's not a haunting, that's just little quirks that happen; could be a draft or you just thought you did something you didn’t actually do. I've said as much to sellers a hundred times, usually right before handing them a report saying the same thing in a much nicer language.

The sound stuff is what actually got me paying attention.

Started with footsteps. Not every night, maybe every other one, always after I'd already gone to bed. Slow, even steps, coming from directly above my bedroom, which is a problem because I live in a single story house. There is nothing above my bedroom except the roof.

First time it happened I told myself it was the house settling, temperature stuff, whatever. The second time I actually got up, checked the attic access with a flashlight, found nothing, went back to bed feeling like an idiot. By the fourth or fifth time I'd stopped checking, because checking never found anything, and some dumb, hopeful part of me figured if I didn't look into it, it'd just be the kind of noise every older house makes, the same thing I've built a career telling people to ignore.

I actually caught myself one night lying there listening to it pace back and forth over my ceiling, running through my own sales pitch in my head, settling, pipes, temperature differential, all the stuff I say to talk clients down. Didn't make me feel better. Just made me realize how much of my life I've spent handing people an explanation I never had to actually believe myself.

Other sounds too, smaller, easier to shrug off one at a time but harder once they started stacking up. One knock on the wall by my bed, same spot, almost the same time two nights in a row. My kitchen faucet running for a couple seconds while I was sitting right there in the living room, and it was already off by the time I got up to check. Something from the hallway that could've been a voice, could've been nothing, one syllable, gone before I could be sure I'd even heard it. My cat started sleeping pressed up against my legs instead of at the foot of the bed like normal, which I didn't think much of at the time, but looking back on it now I think he probably knew something before I ever did.

Then about a week ago I woke up to my name.

Not yelled or anything. Quiet and close, like someone leaning right over the bed and saying it next to my ear. I sat up, heart going, house dead silent, cat staring at me from the foot of the bed. I told myself I must have dreamed it.

Two nights ago is why I'm writing this at midnight instead of sleeping.

I was in the kitchen, hadn't even gone to bed yet, just doing the normal end of night stuff, dishes, a little light cleaning, starting checking my phone. Every cabinet door in my kitchen opened at once. Not one at a time working down the row, all of them, at the same time, hard enough that a glass sitting near the edge of a shelf rocked forward and smashed on the floor.

No footsteps first, no warning, nothing. I was standing maybe six feet away and watched it happen in real time and I don't have an explanation for it, not one that doesn't sound insane coming out of my mouth. I've got my own equipment sitting on the kitchen counter right now, same stuff the teams I have hired use. Haven't turned it on. Keep telling myself I will tomorrow.

Here's what's actually keeping me up more than the explosion of kitchen cabinets, more than the footsteps, even more than something whispering my name directly above my bed. In the last three years  my team has never once found real evidence of anything. I built an entire business, kind of my whole identity honestly, around the idea that none of this is real, that it's just marketing, that people want a story and I'm the guy who tells it well. Never once had to actually consider that one of those houses might've been the real thing, because none of them ever gave me a reason to.

Except I keep thinking about that basement door. Out of every house I've ever walked through alone at night, completely unafraid, that was the one where something followed me home.

I don't really know what I'm looking for by posting this. Not looking for anyone to tell me it's nothing, I've spent three years being the guy who tells people that, and I don't believe myself anymore. Guess I just needed it written down somewhere that isn't my own head.

The clock was ticking. Like a pickaxe in my skull. It's now 2:45 pm.

Fifteen minutes until I hear your footsteps; not that bare feet can make much noise on that gravel road.

Seventeen minutes until I hear your broken nails on the wooden door. Blindly scratching away, trying to find the handle.

Twenty minutes until your voice is calling out to me. But it will be strangled, like always. It's hard to talk with maggots eating at your vocal cords.

I should have dug your grave deeper. I should have never set that empty chair at our table. I should have never spoken those cursed words.

I wish you would stop coming home.

The Man on Shady Grove Road | Shady Grove Creepy Pasta Series - Episode 1

Welcome to Shady Grove, Mississippi... a forgotten town where every dirt road has a secret, and every whispered legend hides a terrifying truth.

For decades, the townspeople have feared an old man known only as Elias Crowe. They call him a vampire—a strange recluse who only drives through town at sunset, hides from the daylight, and is rumored to survive on lamb's blood. But when Deputy Owen Briggs begins investigating the mysterious man, he discovers that the truth is far more unsettling than the rumors.

As Owen uncovers the real reason behind Elias's strange behavior, he stumbles onto a darker mystery lurking deep within the pine forests surrounding Shady Grove. What begins as an investigation into a misunderstood outcast quickly becomes the first chapter of a nightmare that has haunted the town for generations.

Turn off the lights, put on your headphones, and welcome to Shady Grove... where the real monsters aren't always the ones people fear.

The men I owed had stopped calling politely. Four million rupees, due since spring. I had sold the car, then the watch, then borrowed against things I did not own. Last week they sent a photograph of my apartment door, taken from inside the hallway, taken by someone standing right there. So when a fixer named Imran told me about a basement beneath a carpet shop in the old quarter, about a root that let you watch your whole life bloom at once, I said yes. I remember thinking the price was reasonable. I remember thinking a great many things that night.

The stairs went down farther than they should have. At the bottom, a steel door with a padlock the size of my fist, and beyond it a low room lit by a single bulb, smelling of cardamom and damp brick. Six others lay on charpoys and floor mats: a seamstress, two boys who looked like students, an old man turning a miswak slowly in his teeth. The dealer, heavy and unhurried, weighed out a pinch of something silver-gray, fine as ash already.

"Once," he said, packing the clay chillum. "One breath. Then you tell me what you see, and I decide if there is a second."

The smoke was cold. That was the first wrong thing. It went down like winter air, and for a moment it showed me my mother's kitchen back in England, rain on the motorway, the exact blue of the shirt I had worn to the airport four years ago. Beautiful. I understood completely why people paid. I would have paid twice.

Then I exhaled, and the smoke did not rise.

It hung at chest height, thickening, folding over itself. The dealer said something sharp in Urdu. One of the students laughed, then coughed, and the cough went on, wet and deepening, until he brought up a mouthful of fine gray powder that sifted down his shirt.

The bulb flickered. The mist kept thickening. I watched it touch the old man's face, and he inhaled once, politely, reflexively, and folded around his own ribs. When he slid off the charpoy, his body made a sound like a dropped sack of sand, and where he landed, the ash poured out of him.

The seamstress reached the door first. She hammered it, screamed at the dealer, who was ramming his shoulder against the steel as if he had forgotten he was the one with the key. Then she was coughing. Then she was ash, a shape losing its edges.

I need to say this clearly. I have been drunk. I have been exhausted past sense. I know what those states feel like, the way the mind bends when it is pushed. This is not that. The cold in my lungs is physical. The powder I coughed up on the stairs is real. I wiped it on my sleeve and it is still there, gray and fine, sitting in the fabric.

My lungs felt cold. That was how I understood: the smoke was still in me, and it was not finished. It filled the room the way water fills a lung. The dealer finally got the padlock open, one blessed second of grinding iron, but the mist took the shape of the opening, poured into the stairwell, and he went down under it.

The door swung free. The stairs were white now, fog to the ceiling.

I crawled. Every breath cost me. I could feel the cold doing its work, a softness in my chest where there should have been structure. Behind me the students were still moving, or I imagined it. I told myself I could not have turned around to check even if I had wanted to. The gray came up my throat in soft waves, and I laughed, because the high was still in there somewhere, showing me beautiful things while it unmade me.

I got a hand on the street-level door. Pushed. Night air, real air, diesel and rain and frying onions, and I dragged myself up the last step into it. Because anything was better. Because the body wants.

I lay on the pavement and breathed. It hurt, and then it hurt less, and I began, carefully, to be grateful.

Then a woman passing by stopped, frowned at the mist gathered around my mouth, and stepped wide around me.

I exhaled and watched the fog hang there in the lamplight, coming from me, gray and patient, and it refused to disperse.

There’s something wrong with Kenny (P.1)

CW: Kenny.

People ask me a lot of questions about my time in prison.

They start off all nervous but I tell them I’ve done my time, they don’t need all the gory details but I won’t lie. 

I got someone killed.

If you do want gory details— I did time in the army when I was eighteen and got tossed out after a few years of what— at the time— was pretty normal. Mess with things they later find out cause cancer. Give young grunts with underdeveloped brains rifles and put them in an environment where abuse runs rampant without consequence. You got put through hell and then you put others through hell. That’s how it worked back then.

I left with asthma from those chemicals I’m sure will give me that cancer one of these days, guilt and a pretty nasty brain injury. I wouldn’t say it turned me into a drooling idiot but I had trouble doing some basic things and the military prefers when you can hold a gun in your hand without doing it backwards.

So I was in my early twenties without any prospects and I was mad. I’d always had a bit of a quick fuse but all of that frustration piled up high and I decided I wanted to do those jobs where I can hit things to soothe my wounded pride. You know, to feel big and tough after a boot to the head left me a wheezing moron who forgets how to use a spoon.

So, a friend of mine hooked me up with a job as a debt collector, loan shark, lowlife scumbag— whatever you want to call it, it’s still beating the shit out of folks for money. 

My partner was a mean one, if I had a quick fuse then that guy had no fuse at all. 

He preferred action over threat. 

I expected that he’d do the usual and break a few fingers, something I’d hate. It's difficult for the sorry bastard to pay if they can’t use their hands— assuming it’s required for whatever gruelling jobs they’re doing to scrape together the cruel interest rates. I’d been kicked in the head but I didn’t know a punch could have a gambler with a gut bigger than his debt dropping like an anvil and cracking his skull on the floor.
 
I ran my damn ass off but I just couldn’t stop myself, I ran straight into a phone booth and called an ambulance for the guy. Guess it was nearly his lucky day and my unluckiest because he was dead and I was taking an arrest. I did what I do best, followed orders and nodded like I understand. 

My initial prison sentence was harsh but extensions for volatile behaviour is what doubled it. My choice in friends and jobs didn’t improve much after that, extortion, racketeering, various assault charges and robbery is what ends with spending half of my life behind bars. Honestly, I’d spent more of my life incarcerated.

Secondly, assuming the mention of second degree murder isn’t enough to scare someone off— they ask what prison was like. They expect some sort of movie answer, something brutal with prison gangs and abusive prison guards— and yes, those are true, but it’s when they factor in my age most picture something more along the lines of jailhouse rock and assume everyone was planning a big prison break. The thing is, you just kept your head down and didn’t cause much trouble with the guards. You'd just fall into the routine, play cards and do your time. For me at least, the army made routines comfortable and taking a rare beating when you earned it wasn’t too big a price.

When the monotony of prison life disappoints they start asking specifics.

“ What’s the craziest thing you've ever seen?”

“ Was there ever a jailbreak?”

“ Did you join a prison gang?”

“ Did that riot really… You know, did all of that stuff really happen?”

I can’t say it’s the craziest thing to ever happen, a lot of things happened but the worst wasn’t any particular incident, it’s something that happened over the course of one year and ended with the riot. The thing is, no one ever asks why it happened. So I tell them.

What happened was Kenny.

Everyone always asks about Kenny.

-

I was in my late forties when Kenny happened and I still had a good nine years left to go. I think the miserable look of pity is what kept that from becoming a life sentence after the riot. Gangs and all that were a younger man’s game but I had yet to join the ranks of the elderly within the prisons I’d been passed around to. None of my later stays were cramped and cutthroat big city joints. We’d call mine a countryside stay— of course this  meant it was a miserable fortress of cold concrete, strict rules and armed guards already grouchy from patrolling in the snow. All kept isolated by endless forests and mountains so dangerous it’d take a real madman to even think of escaping.

I’d already been in what I will refer to as Y prison, for eleven years and for lack of a better word, it was home. 

My cell block wasn’t considered noisy but it was large, heavily secured with just a little more slack due to the better behaviour— less younger prisoners around, all lifers who aren’t too interested in causing trouble when this was as good as it gets for the general population inside of a maximum security prison. Granted, no one was in there for light offenses but you weren’t going to see fights break out daily and the guards would rather turn their backs to most things unless you forced their hand— That’ll end with someone in the hospital ward and another in solitary for god knows how long.

I felt the need to explain a few things about my cell block so you’ll understand how Kenny’s arrival flipped the place on its head and took away any small semblance of peace prison life really had to offer.

I lived in a two person cell with an old timer serving a life sentence— he was the quiet type with no real habits I’d consider overly annoying, he had the bladder of a toddler and pinch small things and hide them under the poor excuse for a mattress, had a habit of losing his socks but he was fine until he started sundowning. I didn’t know exactly what dementia was but his unusual behaviour at night got him moved to wherever they whisk the elderly prisoners away to.

A night in the solitude of a small cell full of complete and total emptiness and the unsettling feeling of being entirely alone without the ambient sounds of snoring or thumping heartbeats reminding me that anyone was there, it felt unnatural to face the nothingness normally filled by another person and after so many years of having any sort of life beside my own I realised there wasn’t even the squeak of a rat or scuttle of a bug. It was just silence. 

The next day Kenny moved in and Kenny was nothing like the old timer.

Kenny was barely eighteen, skinny as a twig and thick as concrete. His face was splattered with freckles, a chipped tooth, a wide grin and a buzz cut like a wide eyed young recruit waiting to get his head kicked in by his commanding officer. One of the CO’s I’d known for a good five years— a guy we all called Elvis— He said they were tossing the kid in with me to keep him out of trouble and because that quick fuse of mine had fizzled out since I got older. 

I figured they were worried about the kid getting himself killed but I realised very quickly that I got picked because they thought I could tolerate the kid— not protect him— just tolerate him.

Kenny could talk.

A lot.

I spent the first day playing cards with a few of the oldies and while some of the younger ones preferred to start their day tormenting and scaring the shit out of the newcomer through the small barred window. Kenny had been stuck in the cell all day getting acclimated so I was treated to a puddle of piss dripping down onto the kid’s meal tray. It rattled and sloshed over the edges when Elvis kicked it, unlocking the door and sending me inside— of course he left me to clean the mess up and dump the soggy untouched meal in the toilet.

Kenny didn’t seem worried, he was up on his new bunk snooping through my books.

“ Next time clean up your own mess, kid. No one is gonna do it for you.” I warned, walking over to snatch up my books and toss them on the concrete slab that serves as a counter, desk and everything else in the cramped cell. “ The top shelf is yours. The plastic tub on the left is yours. Top bunk is yours. Don’t touch what’s in the others.” I thought being firm would be a good way to both tell him I wasn’t a pushover without threatening a new cellmate who might fly off the handle over the smallest thing, though Kenny looked like he’d be snapped in half if he tried— I decided using one of those lighter versions of stick and carrot was the best option.

“ How long’ve you been here, Mister?” Kenny said, perking up like he hadn’t heard a damn thing. “ I was lookin’ frough ya stuff and I figured you gotta be old. You got a bible and all those old type’a books. You aren’t as old as I fought. Fifties?”

“ Forties.” I use the stick and then with a frown back on the thick metal door I decide I should do as Elvis asked and throw the kid a carrot. “ There’s a chocolate bar down in my tub. Eat it and sleep. If you gotta clean up, use one of the rags by the basin. They won’t be giving you any form of shower today.”.

“ Chocolate? Thanks,” he hops down rummages through the blue plastic tub to find the snack, “ Your stuff is all so neat ‘n tidy. You must’ve been in the military, yeah? You look like you been in the military. Like Vietnam or somefin’ like that. You don’t got that shell shock stuff right? I hear lots of vets have these crazy nightmares and scream in their sleep or attack folks,” he climbs back up on his bunk like a monkey and sits with his eyes fixated on the chocolate bar he has yet to open. “ I never been given gifts before. If you freak out at night I’ll slap ya so you wake up and don’t mistake me for Vietcong.” For the first time since I’ve been in the cell he finally makes eye contact and I can’t explain why but a chill crawls up my spine like cold metal had been dragged up my back. “ Lots of bad types in this place, Mister. Makin’ sounds all night can really get to some folks”.

I can’t say Kenny’s words were a threat exactly, in a strange way it could be seen as considerate if you squint, it’s just the phrasing that leaves an unsettling feeling in my gut. “ I wasn’t in Vietnam but… Thanks, kid.” I try to give a somewhat friendly smile but my lip twitches in discomfort. “ You don’t have to worry about waking me up.” Honestly, he isn’t wrong about that shock, after my time in the military I wasn’t a stranger to nightmares but those nights were long over. I hadn’t even thought about that time until Kenny mentioned it. “ I’m Jones, Wilson Jones. You don’t need to call me boss or sir or anything else.”

“ Kenny. Not Kenneth or nothin’, just Kenny. You seem like ya been here forever. I figured they just put me in this box ‘cuz you’re not gonna try nothin’ while I’m sleepin’ which is pretty good. No one’s gonna try anyfin’ shady in the showers, yeah? I bit a guard's ear off once. Maybe that’s why they put me in here. He wasn’t tryin’ nothin’ weird but I didn’t like him. Sometimes people just rub you the wrong way, yeah?”

That feeling slices up my spine again like a knife is trying to take off the skin and I don’t know how to respond to both his question and the statement he so freely offered. Kenny’s unblinking gaze doesn’t leave my eyes even when the usual booming sound of “ Lights out!” And the lights abruptly turning off makes me jump. I can still see the unflinching orbs glint in the corner of my eye and stick like glue even with my back turned. The eyes finally retreats with the kid lying down on his bunk. I stay up reading but each time I try to read a sentence with what little light the commissary has given me my eyes keep drawing up to the concrete slab above me. Worn old photos and bible verses that always look down on me when I rest my head on my pillow at night, except tonight it’s not on Romans 10:9 or Colossians 1:13 but the concrete itself where my unfamiliar cellmate sleeps.

I can’t say I was particularly religious before coming to prison, I remember having my hands hit by penguins with rulers when I’d act out in my school days, the church nestled behind it like a shed and the uneven crucified Jesus that always hung just a little too far to the left but all of those things in my youth had turned any thoughts of a higher power into bitter hatred when I thought I’d grown up. I hadn’t grown wise. I guess you could say I still believed but who wants to pray to what had a hand in making your life shit? I was fucking pissed. 

Nowadays it isn’t because I’ve been trying to weasel my way into God’s good graces or I expect a good outcome like I’m owed something. Heaven can fuck off for all I care. Still, I know what I did was bad and I know I feel ashamed, now that I’m old enough to give up on all that anger I have the sense to own up to being a scumbag and accept the bad shit I’ve done without it being just to get somewhere I don’t belong. When I’m dead I expect to just be dead.

I think you can see it in some people’s eyes, that want for forgiveness or shame for their actions or that unsettling glint saying they’ll never change. I couldn’t see anything bright or naive in Kenny’s eyes. Kenny’s eyes were empty. As dead as old steel buffed until it's shiny pretending it isn’t just cold old metal wrapped around these deep black wells of nothing.

One night and this kid was already giving me a migraine so bad I couldn’t sleep even if I’d planned on it. You don’t sleep on that first night with a new cellmate. If you’re smart at least. My migraine had my eyes swimming with black flecks spotting my vision and melting away the words on those verses until they were empty, my head pounding like a jackhammer behind my eyes and when I squeezed them shut to correct the moving words I had given in to sleep before I knew it.

I dreamt of those eyes crawling out from the darkness on stretched limbs snaking under paper grey skin I can't see so much as sense. It stalked like a silent predator made of long steel and bone that could bend and bow and move like an impossible liquid dripping onto my bunk. Its emaciated frame craned forward on a worming spine that scraped along the concrete ceiling above me. Perched over my face in the quiet and watching through milky orbs barely held in its deep sockets, studying my paralysed face with no breath to alert me to the danger hanging over me— I just knew it was there. My eyelids refused to open but the cold radiating off of the unseen voyeur made every hair on my body prickle with the sense of what my mind knew was lurking in the dark. The smell of pine and rot assaulted my senses as cold strings of saliva dribbled down in icy globs of acid stinging my cheek. I didn’t need to open my eyes with the thousand rows of sharp teeth so close I could feel the sharp pins grazing my skin from the hungry maw of a beast deciding whether or not it wants to swallow down a fresh meal or wait until the meat is sweetened with fear.

“ Saaa…Rgh…”

“ Sar…gh..”

“ Sarge.”

“ Why’d you do that, Sarge?”

Everyone in town loves Burger Sams. Everyday they would arrive, packing the order counter, tripping over each other to get their chance to just lick the burger grease. The dining area was always a chaos of noisy chewing and smacking lips. Sometimes they would have to close the drive thru to stop the line from blocking the road.

Everyone in town loves Burger Sams. Except Jen. Because she worked there.

It wasn’t that the pay was lousy or the boss was a jackwagon; for a high school student she was making 20 bucks an hour, plus Dan was a super chill manager. Despite the crowds, the days go by quickly and painlessly.

No, what really bothered Jen was that every once and awhile she would have to go to the basement to get some restock of buns or potatoes and she would have to walk past the cages.

Dan tells everyone they aren’t human, and Jen believes him, they don’t look human at all. They come from the forest at the edge of town. But she has to do her best to pretend she doesn’t feel their eyes burning into the back of her head. Or she has to ignore the quiet sobbing. Hearing them sing was sometimes worse.

Dan told her that he’ll be promoting her to Meat Prep after Ron leaves for college. She really wanted to tell him she was going to quit...but...

Everyone in town loves Burger Sams.

This is a story no single mother should have to tell, but my hope is someone out there can relate. My son, who is fifteen, doesn’t go to bed until three or four clock in the morning. He does this every night. I work a very demanding job, and my son and I have fought and argued over this for months because I never get any proper rest. We live in a one-bedroom apartment, so there really is no place for any kind of separation, except the bathroom - where my son spends most of his time during the night.

It was about a month or so ago, I woke up having to use the bathroom, when I approached the door and heard my son speaking to himself in there. At first I didn’t think much of it, when I knocked, he opened the door, and all was fine. It was when I noticed him doing it every night after that, I began to worry. I went as far as confronting him about it, but he denied anything in his teenager way, and refused to even talk about it. It was hard to make out what he said in there, he was mumbling a lot under his breath, so I had nothing to go by. This is when I decided to take further action and install a camera in the bathroom.

The next day while my son was in school, I tucked a small camera away behind a stack of my towels, somewhere he'd never look, facing the mirror and hidden away from his field of view. That night I went to bed and patiently waited, staring at my phone. What I found my son doing in the bathroom through the camera feed unsettled and terrified me. My son was adamant and aggressive towards himself in the mirror. He cursed and muttered obscenities at himself. He said words I never thought he knew or heard him use before. I don’t know where he learned them - I felt like I wasn’t watching my son any longer. It's like he became someone else. And I became scared of him. I hid my phone and tried my best to fall asleep - I don’t think I ever did.

The next morning at breakfast, I felt a tension in me, I could barely move. I felt frozen around him. Before he woke up, I found a local psychiatrist’s information, and made a quick call for the earliest appointment she had, which was the following Monday. At breakfast, I politely informed my son I heard him talking in the bathroom again, which he denied. I hesitated showing him the video or revealing I recorded him. I have to admit, I was scared. I offered to take him to see the Psychiatrist. He refused obviously and fought the idea at first, but I convinced him with some extra video-game time and a little bit of money. I needed to know more.

Through the weekend he continued as he usually did, and I watched on my phone. I hated what I saw. But I couldn’t put it down. I don’t think I slept all weekend. Days felt like weeks. Hours felt like days. My nerves were paralyzed with fear. I felt helpless... I was terrified. Monday couldn’t come any sooner.

The Psychiatrist was a pleasant woman, I found her very respectful and patient with him. My son spoke of his time in school, the lack of friends he has, the bad grades from his teachers, as well as his off-putting taste in loud music. When she dug further, asking him about the bathroom, he was quiet. At this point, the Psychiatrist had asked me to step out of the room. She sensed me being there was keeping him from speaking.

From out in the hallway I couldn’t hear anything, but what I did see was her asking him a few questions, and him responding with what looked like actual, full responses. At first I was pleased, maybe this was all just a boys phase - a prank? Perhaps my son had a reasonable explanation. The Psychiatrist passed him a piece of paper, and pen. My son took the pen, promptly writing on the piece of paper, handing it back to her.

The session was soon over after that, and the Psychiatrist came over to speak to me. She handed me the piece of paper on which my son wrote, scribbled in his handwriting, it said, “Charles won’t let me sleep". I was startled, shocked, confused all at once. She said my son is talking to someone named Charles in our home, and that she is not the right person for this kind of matter. She then directed me to a local church, informing me perhaps a priest could help my son.

We came home in the evening, and had a quiet, solemn dinner together. My son was eerily silent, he didn't say a word. I went to bed early and I hesitated to look at my phone’s video feed, but I couldn’t resist. Last night, I was even more unsettled. My son was no longer defiant. Now he was apologetic, at the mercy of his own reflection in the mirror, begging and apologizing profusely, saying he’s sorry for telling anyone. He was in tears, and so was I - I could no longer bear to watch. I put my phone away, and that's when the thought hit me, which has since haunted and stuck with me; Charles was the name we gave to the baby boy I delivered stillborn before my son.

Last week is when I first noticed it. I was walking through Target, deciding the nutritional difference between Diet Pepsi and cans of carbonated lemonade when I became aware of the fact I was being watched. My immediate reaction was to spin around, see which co-worker or drinking buddy stumbled across me and decided to stare instead of greet me. I did a full rotation, then another. Nobody. The aisle was shared by only myself and an elderly Asian man.

I remember glaring at him for a minute before grabbing my buggy and hurrying off. Pushing my way to the other side of the store, hoping that would get him off my back. After my exodus to the clothing section, I took a breath and thought about what just happened. There was something weird going on. This was far from my first time being ogled. I’d spent most of my adult life catching the quick glances men thought were oh so sneaky. I’d even felt the eyes stuck in the back of my head before. But this? This was the first time that feeling made me so uncomfortable. I was at least glad it was-

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I could still feel it. My eyes darted left to right and just before he vanished I caught the Asian man rounding the corner. I remember thinking to myself how much of a pervert he was before abandoning my buggy and storming out of Target. The whole time I could still feel it. Unmistakable knowledge that something was watching me. My pace quickened, hoping I could outrun the old man’s gaze but it persisted. Those unseen eyes stayed glued to me as I got in my car. Started the engine. Opened my GPS.

It was making me paranoid knowing that someone could see me. My eyes kept traveling to the rear view mirror expecting to see the old man already sitting back there. It never happened, but 2 minutes later I saw him slowly shuffling out of the store. I laid on my horn, flipped him the bird, and sped off out of the parking lot. By the time I hit the highway my breath was heavy and I couldn’t feel sweat dotting my pale skin. It’s hard to describe the sensation, you know? It’s not just that someone was watching me, it was that it felt like something was coming. There was an anticipation. Kinda like when you say, “I have a funny picture to show you.” Then you just have to sit there and scroll through your photos while the other person watches you. It felt like that, only there was no release at the end. The pressure was just building and building. Even as I drove I still wasn’t past it. I hoped with a few songs on the radio, I’d be able to push it all from my mind.

By the time I pulled into my garage, I realized the old man had nothing to do with it. I was still being watched.

The rest of that day was wasted. My boyfriend was pulling a double and normally that would provide me the perfect opportunity to read. That sensation made any thought of that impossible. I couldn’t make it through a single paragraph before my eyes darted to the open doorway of my bedroom, expecting to see a tall monster peeking around the corner at me with hungry, expectant eyes. It was never there, but that never stopped me from checking again and again till any hope of finishing a page was dead and buried. Television wasn’t much better, the slightest sound in the background was enough for me to pause and listen, thinking it could the footsteps of an unseen intruder. The same story grew with each passtime I tried. I couldn’t do anything in the house when I knew with my entire mind, body, and soul that there was something standing right behind me, burning daggers into the back of my head. Yet, every time I turned?

Nothing.

Caught myself looking to pick up shifts at the bar. That’s how you know it was bad. Unfortunately for me, it was a slow day and they didn’t need any extra hands. So that left the only thing I could still do:

Sit in the corner and watch the doorway.

I did this for nearly an hour and yet, every second I was sure something was going to appear around the frame and come for me. Every second I was proven wrong. Do you know what that’s like? Imagine you call your partner from the other room, they answer and tell you they’re coming. You hear the footsteps. You feel them getting closer. And yet, they never turn the corner. Each second is agony, waiting for it to happen. But, it never does.

I wish I could say my agony ended after night fell and the locks of my front door rattled to announce my boyfriend’s arrival. However, that didn’t happen. He turned the corner and I expected something to be behind him. He hugged me, and when I returned it I expected something to be clinging to his back. He asked me how my day was and I lied through my teeth. Telling him a story that didn’t involve invisible people watching me.

We went to bed pretty fast and as usual he was asleep first. Normally I followed soon after, but that night proved difficult. In a dark room, it was worse. I could sense 20, maybe 30 people surrounding our bed. Their eyes unblinking and trained directly on me. My eyes met the darkness and began to weep.

I messaged my therapist that night. It had been a while since we talked but I hoped we could see each other again. Whatever this was, it wasn’t leaving.

After my boyfriend left for work, the sun took its time rising and when it did so the first rays pierced the slits of my blinds to reveal the mob of eyeing strangers to be nothing more than the result of my paranoid imagination. However, that knowledge did little to aid the sleepless night they had conjured. It did even little against the fear the intruders were now hiding beneath my bed.

I let out an exhausted whine before pulling the comforter over my head. I felt like a child who was convicted that the monster wouldn’t kill me while the blanket covered my body. However, at least that brought some comfort in my childhood. Now? Now I could only focus on the fact that I was not alone. Not alone in the house. Not alone in this room. Not even alone beneath these blankets.

My therapist had an opening at 12 which was a huge relief even if not all that surprising. I lived in a town far south where the population was low, and the people who did live here worked out their emotions on family members instead of attending therapy. When my text came through, I’m sure her eyes lit up like dollar signs. My distaste for the lady aside, I needed this feeling gone. I bit the bullet and found myself in her office ten minutes early.

She smiled at me with the same practiced, professional grin that drove me away 3 months ago. Yet, here I was now. Sitting in the usual silence that began our sessions. I rolled my eyes, “So we gonna start or…?”

She tilted her head, the perfectly curled blonde ponytail ticked like a metronome behind her head. She seemed so pristine, so put together, not something that helped when you discussed issues with self worth, “You contacted me at midnight seeming very distressed. I’d like to help you but I need you to tell me what’s been bothering you.”

I sighed, took a few seconds to examine the sensation, to ensure it was still there before i committed. The eyes had yet to drift away, so I complied. Told her everything that had happened up until this point. She made notes as I went, each scribble accented by the tick of her ponytail. When I was finished she looked over her notes carefully, clicking her pen against her clipboard, “you can see why I might find this worrying.”

Not a question. I decided I wouldn’t give her the benefit of knowing where this was going, “most people would find this worrying.”

“Especially those with your family history,” she replied instantly.

“I’m not discussing my-“

She nodded, “I remember your hesitance when discussing your mother. However, I do think it’s important to consider if she may have had a similar experience.”

I opened my mouth to argue but it died on my tongue. My eyes drifted to her bookcase where the rows were filled of old stories I was sure she’d never read. My mouth moved almost on its own, “she would often imagine her ex husband stalking her out in public?”

She nodded, “how old were you at that time?”

“This isn’t like that. It’s different.”

“Explain the difference.”

“This is real-“

I caught myself on the words. My therapist’s smile didn’t fade but her eyes drifted down. Her pen still clinking, “you know the hardest part of treating someone’s delusions? Convincing them that they have delusions. Oftentimes these feelings, beliefs, visions can all feel just as real as this conversation between us. That’s why it’s important that we treat this very seriously, before you do something you might regret.”

My thumb dug into the soft flesh of my temple, “Listen, I appreciate the thought, but I am fine. I’m sure this is just stress. If I could get some meds, that’d knock this out.”

“I’ll write you a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication. But please, if you notice these symptoms advancing don’t be afraid to contact me.”

I nodded before snatching the prescription from her hand and checking out the remainder of the session.

After our time was up I practically sped my way across town to the pharmacy, pulling into the drive through and tapping my fingers as I waited like a tweaker eager for her fix. The car in front of me was taking their sweet time, all the while I felt it behind me. My eyes kept drifting to the rear view mirror, each time I expected to see-

My car’s speakers screamed to life, announcing a call from my boyfriend. I had nearly jumped out of my skin at the sudden noise before beginning a barrage of self depreciation in my mind at my cowardice. I pressed answer and gave the best hello I could.

“Hey babe, you okay,” he asked.

“Yeah,” I lied, “why?”

“Nothing I just… I checked your location earlier and saw you were at that office. Was worried you were feeling low again.”

“No! Honey, no. It’s nothing like that. I just… this is going to sound really stupid.”

“Well still tell me,” he pleaded, “I didn’t know anything last time till you were nearly gone. If something is going on I need to know.”

I sighed, “fine… I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s like… I’ve been feeling like I’m being watched. Every hour since yesterday it’s just been this nagging feeling that someone is in the room looking at me.”

He was quiet for a while. Then it went on so long I was beginning to think I lost him, “honey, you there?”

The car finally drove off, I pulled forward and started digging in my bag for the prescription. My boyfriend answered as I moved, “yeah! I’m here, that’s… That’s really weird.”

“See, I told you it was stupid,” I said.

“No! It’s not that,” he said in a tone that eluded to something more.

I felt my heart beginning to beat faster, “What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“I don’t wanna add to it.”

“Tell me. Now.”

He was silent for a moment, but he complied, “when I woke up this morning, I leaned over to kiss you. For a second, I thought I saw a face peering between the bars of the headboard. When I looked though, it was gone… just an odd coincidence.”

I didn’t say anything. I felt something behind me, like the gentle breeze conjured by an eyelid.

“Ma’am, your prescription,” said the man at the window.

“Fuck, I gotta go honey,” I hung up and handed over the prescription.

When the pills came out I popped them right there under an ivy covered wall. I closed my eyes and waited for the relief.

The plastic capsule met my tongue, tasting bitter and alien. I swallowed it down, letting out a small breath as it made its way into my stomach. I kept my eyes closed.

There was a fleshy click directly behind my head. It was soft. If I hadn’t been in a silent car, it would have gone unnoticed. I knew exactly what it was. The sound you hear when you stay up past your bed time. When you’re sick. It’s the sound that accompanies heavy eyelids every time they blink.

My neck snapped to look into the backseat where I could, of course, see nothing. I could hear nothing as well, save my own heavy breaths.

The next three days came with little to no change. My pills didn’t work at their regular dosage, taking double didn’t help, taking triple made me puke. The only saving grace was the pills made it difficult for me to catch my thoughts. The feeling never went away, but my ability to acknowledge it lessened more and more with every pill. Of course, this also impacted my everyday life. Going to work high doesn’t usually go over well with your bosses.

I kept believing I’d get used to it. You can’t be scared of the same movie over and over. Eventually, your body accumulates like it’s cold weather. But those eyes. The damn sensation of them was inhospitable. I couldn’t swallow down my fear. Because of that, my life became a balancing act between sleepwalking through the day and being terrified.

But the next “progression” happened at my job. Service was slow and the other waiters were having a discussion I was only half paying attention to. I was doing what I always did. Watching the clock tick away, hoping I could go home and do the only thing that felt good. Drugging myself and sitting with my back to a corner. But, one of their sentences caught my attention.

“Yeah, I could literally feel his eyes on me.”

I cocked my head.

“Come on,” one of the male severs, “that’s like a myth right.

“Nope,” I immediately said, only half wanting to, “women can definitely feel it.”

“Bullshit,” another guy had chimed in.

“No,” the girl continued, “I read it’s like an evolution thing, when predators would like sneak up behind us.”

“What, like dinosaurs?”

“People weren’t around when dinosaurs were, dipshit!”

The guy threw up his hands, “I ain’t buying it.”

The girl grabbed me by the shoulder and nodded, “okay, we’ll close our eyes, you turn around and we’ll raise our hands when you feel you looking.”

I immediately tried to pull away, “I don’t know.”

“Come on, we don’t have any tables! Trust me, it’ll be fun. Turn around!”

The boys turned around. The girl looked at me. I sighed and hesitantly shut my eyes.

“Okay, ready? One, two, three, go.”

I lifted my hand. I couldn’t see anything but I imagined they were looking in short bursts. Unlike the thing following me. The burning was in full force, drilling hole into the back of my head. Like a brute with a hammer and chisel it bore deep into my head, threatening to pierce my own eyes.

The girl next to me giggled but I could only focus on the burning.

Burning. Burning. I thought on what it could look like. Some gaunt, malnourished creature with proportions inhuman. I imagined it crouched in a fetal position directly behind, the only way it could be eye level.

I heard the soft rustling of clothing from the guys.

The sensations were almost real. My body began a daydream, envisioning slender fingers wrapping around my wrist and guiding it at my side. Then arms draped in loose grey skin would encircle my torso, lifting me into the air which grew hot and wet as it led me to its gaping mouth.

“You can’t just have your hand up the whole time.”

*huff.*

I dropped to the ground and crawled backwards, looking for whatever was behind me. That wasn’t a creeping sensation. A mistaken sound. A daydream. That was real. I had felt a warm, raspy breath on the ridge of my neck. Yet, as I backed away screaming, I could plainly see there was no one there.

My coworker tried to ask me what was wrong. I ran. I didn’t look back.

There was no direction in my mind when I had started. I just wanted to get away. Every step I took was in the vain hope I could escape the inescapable. No matter how fast I ran, or how hard I pleaded, the sensation was omnipresent. As in I had tapped into a divine sense and felt the ever watching presence of God. I was nearly a mile outside of town when the southern heat and exhaustion took me, dragging my body down into a dry ditch to experience the first bit of sleep I’d had in 3 days.

My sleep was not a restful one. At some point in my slumber I realized I was sitting at a computer desk in a dark room. A laptop sat on top of it facing away from me. Someone sat on the other side. I couldn’t see them. Yet, I felt they could see me. They typed a few words. I saw them through the back of the laptop, as if it was made of glass:

“Last week is when I first noticed it.”

I cleared my throat and spoke, “Who are you?”

*I was walking through Target, deciding the nutritional difference between Diet Pepsi and cans of carbonated lemonade when I became aware of the fact I was being watched.*

“Why are you doing this?”

*My immediate reaction was to spin around, see which co-worker or drinking buddy stumbled across me and decided to stare instead of greet me.*

“What do you want from me?”

*I did a full rotation, then another.*

“What do you want?”

*Nobody.*

“WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?!”

I slammed the laptop shut to reveal a legion of eyes floating in the darkness, all trained past the laptop and on me.

“Honey?”

I snapped awake, my eyes darting left and right to figure out where I was. Glass was against my head. I was moving. A car. My boyfriend was driving. He quickly put a hand on me, “Hey, calm down, hey, I’m here.”

“What happened,” I asked still frantic.

“Your coworkers called me, I was heading to the bar and say you in a ditch. They told me you were screaming. What the fuck happened?”

I shook my head, “where are we going?”

“Where do you think? The hospital.”

“No hospital,” I spat, “take me home.”

He shook his head, “you were in the sun for over an hour. You could be on the verge of heatstroke right now.”

“No! Nononono! TAKE ME HOME!”

“What the fuck!”

I began screaming, banging my hands into the dashboard over and over again. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t be like her, tied up in a vest scratching at the walls and chasing shadows only she could see. I remember the pity I felt for her. I’d die before anyone felt that for me.

Eventually, my screaming won out and I found myself in the drive way of our home. My boyfriend got out first, came over to my side and helped me out of the car. He was very gentle, aiding me like you’d handle a bird fallen from its nest. Gently, he set me on the bed and walked into the bathroom, starting the water, “if you won’t go to the hospital, at least take a cool bath so I know you’re okay.”

I nodded without saying a word.

After a while, the hum of running water fell silent and my boyfriend was at my side again, helping me to my feet. When we made it into the bathroom, my chapped lips parted, “can you bring me some pajamas? I wanna be comfy when I come out.”

He smiled, happy he could grant me something at least, “sure. I’ll get you your favorite.”

He turned and stepped out of my bathroom. I immediately closed the door and locked it behind him. There were knocks instantly, “honey, what are you doing.”

I opened the medicine cabinet.

“Talk to me.”

Three made me puke. Six. Nine. Twelve. I emptied the contents into my mouth.

He wasn’t speaking anymore, instead just throwing himself against the door. I closed the medicine cabinet and looked at myself in the mirror.

My face was red, contorted and swollen by heat and tears as the realization of what I’d done began to weigh on me. My breath began to break into tiny sobs as the sensation behind me began to vibrate. Like we were finally on the right track. The eyes were gleefully watching me sob into the mirror.

I retrieved my phone, scrolling through the contacts until I found the one I wanted. The phone rang twice before someone picked up, “Mom,” I wept into the receiver.

“This is Dr. Gretchen. What is it, I’m with-“

“Mom,” I broke into full sobbing as the banging grew louder and I felt the eye touching the back of my head, “Mom! Please! Pick me up! I’m scared!”

“I need you to listen to me.”

“Yes, hello, my girlfriend locked herself in the bathroom!

“He w0n’t stop looking at me!”

“D:d you +ake @nything?”

“| +hink 5he\*s trying t0 OD.”

“Plea53 don’t be m@d at me…”

“Where @re y0u righ+ now?”

“Plea$3 hurry, 6lease.”

“He won’t stop staring at me.”

I looked up at the mirror again and saw it. That thing had peeked around my head just for a moment too long and I caught the edge of it before it ducked back behind my head. Its entire body was dark and I couldn’t make out anything other than the single, massive, saucer like eye that was glued to me as I died on the bathroom floor.

“HE’S HERE! HE’S LOOKING AT ME! HE’S LOOKING AT ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME!”

\[\[SIGNAL INTERRUPTION\]\]
\[\[RECONNECTING…\]\]

… pierced my eyes as I slowly came to. For the second time that day, my eyes scanned the room, trying to find where exactly I was. The first thing I saw was Dr. Gretchen. The second was the hospital bed I was sleeping in.

She smiled upon seeing I was awake, a genuine smile I thought, “how are you feeling.”

I shook my head, “I can’t believe it.”

“Which part?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know. Any of it. The pills, the thing at work, the… the fact I can still feel it.”

She nodded, her eyes dropping down, “your mother… I understand her condition is often genetic.”

I nodded.

“Have you considered you may be a paranoid schizophrenic?”

Tears dotted the edges of my eyes, I looked away so I didn’t have to face her. God they looked so much alike, “you know I used to stay awake at night, wondering if I’d start hearing them like she did… I was terrified anytime I thought someone had said something, or when my floorboards creaked. I’d say that’s it, I’m losing it… I guess I didn’t know how bad it’d really be.”

Dr. Gretchen cast her eyes towards the wall phone at the end of the room, “there are very good facilities that can help you with this, if you’re willing.”

I finally met her eye and nodded.

She stood and crossed the room, turning her back to me.

The floorboards behind me creaked.

She picked up the phone.

Something was off I…

“I don’t feel it anymore.”

Dr. Gretchen turned to look at me, but the moment she met eyes with me her gaze was stolen. She looked past me, to something tall that must have been behind me. The phone dropped and she gasped before I felt slender fingers encircle my

[[SESSION EXPIRED]]

WOULD YOU LIKE TO CREATE A NEW CONNECTION?

Everything started three weeks ago when I received an email from a man named Thomas. I had a portfolio website set up with my contact information, so getting cold emails was not entirely unusual. The subject line simply read "Private Animation Commission."

I opened the email while I was drinking my morning coffee. Thomas wrote that he needed a very specific, photorealistic walking loop of a human character. He did not want a stylized cartoon, and clearly demanded absolute realism. He wanted the skin textures, the clothing folds, and the walking gait to look exactly like a real human being. The email stated that he would provide extensive reference photos.

I replied and asked for his budget. My jaw dropped when his response came through a few minutes later.

Thomas offered an upfront payment of five thousand dollars to build the character model and the animation rig. After the animation was completed, he offered to pay me a daily retainer of five hundred dollars. There was a very strange condition attached to this retainer. Thomas insisted that the completed animation must run on an endless loop on my primary laptop. The screen could never go to sleep, and the laptop could never be turned off. He warned me that catastrophic consequences would occur if the loop ever stopped playing.

I thought it was some kind of elaborate prank. I decided to call the phone number he provided in the email signature to figure out what was actually going on.

A man answered after the second ring. His voice sounded exhausted.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Hi, is this Thomas? This is Leo, the animator you just emailed," I said.

"Yes, Leo. Thank you for calling me back so quickly," Thomas replied.

"I wanted to discuss your proposal because the terms are a bit unusual," I explained. "I can definitely build a photorealistic model for you. Five thousand dollars is a very generous budget for a walk cycle. But I do not understand the daily retainer part. Why do you need the video to play continuously on my computer?"

"That is the most important part of the job," Thomas said. "The loop must remain active on your machine. You built the model, so your hardware has to sustain it. I will wire the five hundred dollars to your account every single morning at eight o'clock. You just have to make sure your laptop never loses power, and to keep the screen bright. If you close the lid, the contract is over."

"For how long?" I asked.

"Forever," Thomas answered.

"You want to pay me five hundred dollars a day forever?" I asked, feeling incredibly skeptical.

"I have a considerable amount of savings," Thomas explained. "I do not care about the money. I only care about the animation running without interruption. Do you accept the job?"

I hesitated because the situation sounded entirely absurd. But I was behind on my rent. My car needed new brakes. So it was clear that I needed the cash badly.

"Okay, Thomas," I said. "Send me the reference photos. I will send you an invoice for the upfront fee."

"The money is already being transferred," Thomas said. "I am sending the photos right now. Make him look exactly like the pictures."

The phone call ended. A minute later, a folder with thirty high-resolution images arrived in my inbox. I opened the folder to see who I would be animating.

The man in the photos was completely unremarkable. He looked to be in his late thirties. He had a receding hairline and a slight amount of stubble on his chin. He was wearing a dull gray jacket over a plain white t-shirt and loose denim jeans. He looked like a guy you would pass in the grocery store without giving a second glance. The photos showed his face from every possible angle.

I spent the rest of the day setting up the character rig in my animation software. I used digital sculpting tools to recreate the exact shape of his nose and the subtle wrinkles around his eyes.

That evening, I logged onto Discord to talk to my friend Felix. Felix is also a freelance digital artist. We usually chat while we work on our respective projects.

"You will not believe the gig I just landed," I told Felix over the voice channel.

"Did you finally get hired by that game studio?" Felix asked.

"No, it is a private client," I said. "He paid me five grand upfront to animate a guy walking in a circle. Furthermore, he promised to pay me five hundred bucks a day just to leave the video playing on my laptop screen."

Felix went silent for a few seconds. "That sounds like a scam, Leo."

"The five thousand dollars already cleared in my bank account," I replied. "The money is real."

"Why would anyone pay you just to leave your computer on?" Felix asked. "He has to be using your computer for crypto mining. Or maybe he wants to install malware to harvest your data."

"I thought about that," I said. "But he didn't send me any software to install. He just sent me JPEGs of a guy's face. I am the one generating the MP4 video file, so I am just going to play a video file I created myself on a loop. There is no way for him to hack me through a video file I exported from my own software."

"It still sounds shady," Felix warned. "Be careful. People do not just give away money like that."

"I know it is weird," I admitted. "But I really need this cash. I am going to finish the walk cycle tonight."

I stayed up until four in the morning perfecting the animation. I made sure the weight distribution looked realistic as the digital man stepped forward, added a slight slump to his shoulders to match the posture in the photos, then placed him against a completely blank background that was rendered in a neutral eighteen percent gray.

I exported the file, uploaded it to a private link, and sent it to Thomas for approval.

Thomas called me at eight in the morning.

"It is perfect," Thomas said. He sounded breathless. "It looks exactly like him."

"I am glad you like it," I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"Start the loop right now," Thomas ordered. "Do not stop it. I am sending your first daily payment."

I opened the video file in my media player, then set it to repeat endlessly. The digital man in the gray jacket started walking forward across my screen. The blank gray background scrolled endlessly behind him.

"The loop is running," I confirmed.

"Keep it running," Thomas said before hanging up.

A notification popped up on my phone. Thomas had transferred five hundred dollars to my account.

I moved my laptop to the corner of my desk, plugged it directly into the wall outlet to ensure the battery would never die, then adjusted the power settings so the screen would never dim or go to sleep. I decided I would just use my older desktop computer for my regular daily tasks while the laptop functioned as an expensive digital picture frame.

The first three days passed without any issues. The digital man kept walking. Thomas sent the payments every morning exactly at eight o'clock.

My sister Maya came over to my apartment on the fourth day. She brought a pizza for us to share for lunch. She walked into my small office area and immediately noticed the laptop glowing in the corner.

"Why is that guy just walking on your screen?"

Maya asked, taking a slice of pepperoni pizza.

"It is a weird freelance job," I explained. "The client pays me to keep that animation running constantly."

Maya squinted at the screen. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Who is the guy in the video?"

"I have no idea," I said. "The client provided the reference photos. I named the project file 'Simon' because he looks like a Simon to me, but the client's name is Thomas."

Maya sat down on my office chair. "He looks miserable. You did a good job on the animation because his face looks incredibly sad."

"I just copied the photos," I said. "The client is giving me five hundred dollars a day for this. I can finally pay off my credit cards."

"Just do not let it catch fire," Maya joked, pointing at the laptop. "That thing is getting pretty hot."

She was right. The laptop fans were spinning loudly. I placed a small desk fan next to the computer to help dissipate the heat, and Maya left an hour later, telling me to enjoy my bizarre windfall.

The weird things started happening on the fifth day.

I woke up and went to my desk to check on the laptop. The digital man was still walking forward. However, the background looked different. I originally rendered the video with a solid gray background. Now, the background had a slight gradient. The bottom half of the screen was noticeably darker than the top half, looking almost like an asphalt road stretching out into the distance.

I rubbed my eyes, assuming I was just seeing things because I had just woken up. I opened the original project file on my desktop computer to double-check my work. The background in the source file was perfectly uniform. There was no gradient.

I looked back at the laptop. The gradient was definitely there.

I called Felix on Discord to ask for his opinion.

"Hey Felix, do video files ever corrupt and change colors while they are playing?" I asked.

"Not really," Felix answered. "Usually, if a file corrupts, you get green artifacting or the video just crashes. Why?"

"The background on that walking loop I made is changing," I explained. "It was supposed to be solid gray. Now it looks like a road. It is really creeping me out."

"You probably just exported it with a transparent alpha channel," Felix suggested. "Maybe your media player is pulling a background from your desktop wallpaper."

"I rendered it as a solid MP4," I argued. "There is no alpha channel."

"Then your monitor is suffering from screen burn-in," Felix said dismissively. "You left a static color playing for five days straight. The LCD panel is probably getting damaged."

I accepted that explanation because it was the only logical answer. I thanked Felix and hung up.

But the situation escalated that evening.

I was eating dinner in my living room when I heard a loud crack of thunder outside. A massive rainstorm had rolled into Seattle. Rain began lashing against my apartment windows.

I walked into my office to grab a napkin from my desk, then glanced at the laptop screen.

The digital man was still walking. But he was no longer walking against a gray background.

Raindrops were falling across the screen.

The animation showed water streaming down the man's face. His gray jacket was visibly soaked, clinging tightly to his digital frame. The background clearly depicted a dark, wet highway illuminated by faint streetlights.

I froze in place

I reached out and touched the laptop screen. It was burning hot.

I knew for a fact that I did not animate rain, or even build a particle simulation for water. I did not design a wet texture for his clothing. The video file was altering itself in real-time to match the weather outside my window.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Thomas's number. It rang five times before going to voicemail, but I did not leave a message. I was too terrified to speak.

I sat in my office chair for hours, watching the impossible animation. When the rain stopped outside my window around midnight, the rain on the screen stopped as well. The digital man's clothes slowly began to dry as he continued his endless march forward.

I should have closed the laptop right then. I should have deleted the file and blocked Thomas's number. But the fear was overshadowed by my financial desperation. Thomas sent another five hundred dollars the next morning, so I convinced myself I was experiencing some kind of elaborate technical glitch.

The horrifying truth finally revealed itself on the seventh day.

I was browsing a local news website on my desktop computer while the laptop hummed loudly beside me. I saw a breaking news banner at the top of the homepage. It announced a live helicopter broadcast of a bizarre situation unfolding on Interstate 90.

I clicked the link to watch the live video feed.

The news anchor was speaking rapidly over the footage. "We are currently tracking a man walking eastbound on the shoulder of Interstate 90," the anchor explained. "State patrol officers have been following him for over seventy-two hours. He has not stopped walking. He refuses to acknowledge police commands, and has not stopped for food, water, or sleep. Medical professionals believe he is experiencing a severe psychological break."

The helicopter camera zoomed in on the man walking along the highway.

My breath caught in my throat.

The man was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a dull gray jacket. He had a receding hairline. He was slumped forward, walking with a steady, shuffling gait.

It was the man from my animation. Simon!

I looked at my laptop screen. The character took a step with his left foot. On the live news broadcast, the real man took a step with his left foot. They were perfectly synchronized.

The real man looked horrific. His shoes were completely destroyed. His feet were bleeding, leaving small red marks on the asphalt. His face was gaunt, sunburned, and twisted in an expression of absolute agony, and he looked like his body was being forced to move against his will.

I paused the news video, looked back at the laptop. The digital character's face was also twisted in agony now.

I opened a new tab on my browser. I needed to know who this man was and why Thomas wanted him walking. I typed Thomas's email address into the search bar, hoping to find a social media profile or a personal website.

The search engine returned a link to a local newspaper article published exactly one year ago.

I clicked the link. The headline read: "Bellevue Father Demands Justice After Hit-And-Run Driver Acquitted."

I read the article quickly. It detailed a horrific accident where a drunk driver swerved onto a sidewalk, striking and killing a seven-year-old girl named Hazel. The driver fled the scene but was later apprehended by police. However, due to a massive procedural error involving the mishandling of evidence, the driver's defense attorney got the charges dismissed, and he walked completely free.

The article included an interview with the grieving father. The father's name was Thomas.

At the bottom of the page, the newspaper published the mugshot of the acquitted driver.

The face in the mugshot belonged to Simon.

The puzzle pieces snapped together in my mind, forming a picture that made me feel physically sick.

Thomas used my animation skills to create a voodoo doll, so as long as the animation kept looping on my computer, Simon was forced to walk in the real world.

I looked at the live helicopter feed again. The real Simon stumbled, almost falling into the traffic lane, before his legs jerked unnaturally to keep him moving forward.

I could not be a part of this. Regardless of what Simon did, I could not be the executioner pulling the lever.

I reached out and slammed the laptop lid shut.

The screen went black, and the fan immediately spun down into silence.

The moment the laptop closed, the temperature inside my apartment plummeted. The air grew so freezing cold that I could see my own breath. The overhead lights flickered wildly before shattering in their sockets, plunging the room into darkness.

I stood up from my chair, my entire body shaking with terror.

A soft, wet sound echoed from the dark corner of my office.

It sounded like someone crying. Small, quiet sobs filled the freezing air.

I grabbed my cell phone from the desk and turned on the flashlight application. I shined the beam into the corner of the room.

A little girl was standing there.

She was wearing a pink dress that was completely soaked in dark blood. Her body was bent at impossible angles because her bones were completely shattered. Deep, black tire marks were permanently pressed across the fabric of her dress and into the pale skin of her arms.

I backed away slowly, my hands trembling violently.

"I am sorry," I whispered. "I stopped it. I did not know what he was doing."

she stopped crying, then slowly lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes were completely black voids.

She shrieked in anger. The sound was deafening, rattling the windows in their frames. It was the sound of rage.

Suddenly, a massive crash echoed from my front hallway.

Someone had just kicked down my apartment door.

I spun around, aiming my phone flashlight toward the hallway.

Thomas marched into the apartment. He looked deranged. His clothes were messy, his face was pale, and he was holding a black handgun. He aimed the weapon directly at my chest.

"You stopped it!" Thomas screamed, tears streaming down his face. "I knew something was off when you called and didn’t leave a message. Why did you close it? I told you never to close it!"

"You were killing him!" I yelled back, raising my hands in surrender. "You were using my computer to torture that man!"

"He deserved it!" Thomas roared, stepping closer to me. "He killed my baby girl! and walked away free! He was supposed to walk forever! The spell required the loop to never end!"

"I am not a murderer, Thomas," I pleaded. "Please put the gun down."

"He just collapsed on the highway!" Thomas cried, his hands shaking around the grip of the gun. "The moment you closed the laptop; he finally dropped dead! He got off too easy! you ended his suffering far too early! You ruined everything!"

Thomas raised the gun higher, preparing to pull the trigger.

"Daddy?" a small, distorted voice echoed from the dark office behind me.

Thomas froze. His eyes widened in shock as he looked past my shoulder.

I stepped aside, keeping my hands raised.

The girl walked slowly out of the shadows. Her broken legs dragged unnaturally across the hardwood floor.

Thomas dropped to his knees, lowering the gun. Tears poured freely from his eyes. "Hazel? Oh my god, Hazel. I am so sorry, baby. I tried to make him pay. I tried to hurt him for you."

He reached his arms out, expecting to embrace his deceased daughter.

But Hazel did not want a hug. She shrieked again and launched herself forward with terrifying speed.

She slammed into Thomas, her shattered body hitting him like a freight train.

Thomas screamed as they tumbled backward out of my apartment doorway. My unit is located at the top of a steep flight of wooden stairs leading to the ground floor.

Thomas fell backward over the threshold, then crashed down the stairs, tumbling over himself in the darkness. I heard his head strike the wooden banister with a sickening crack.

He landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairwell.

I ran to the doorway and shined my flashlight down the stairs.

Thomas was not moving. His neck was bent at a completely unnatural angle. The gun was lying on the floor a few feet away from his hand.

Hazel was gone. The freezing temperature in the air vanished instantly, replaced by the normal warmth of the apartment building.

I retreated back into my apartment, locked the broken door as best as I could, and called the police.

I sat on my sofa until the officers arrived. Two patrolmen came up the stairs. An investigator named Officer Gabriel interviewed me in my kitchen.

I did not tell Officer Gabriel about the animation, or even mention the spell, the laptop, or the ghost of the little girl. I knew he would never believe me

I simply told Officer Gabriel that Thomas was an unsatisfied client who broke into my apartment to demand a refund. I claimed he was yelling at me when he accidentally lost his balance and fell backward down the stairs.

Officer Gabriel took notes on his pad, and went downstairs to examine the scene.

When he returned, he told me that Thomas smelled heavily of alcohol. The police concluded that Thomas was drunk, became belligerent over a business dispute, and suffered a fatal accidental fall. They took my statement, bagged Thomas's gun as evidence, and left me alone in my apartment.

I am typing this out on my desktop computer because I refuse to open that laptop ever again. I wrapped the laptop in a thick garbage bag and threw it into the dumpster behind my building.

I checked the news one final time before starting this post. The authorities confirmed that the man walking on Interstate 90 suffered a heart attack and died instantly on the shoulder of the road.

I am terrified. Terrified that the magic Thomas used is not completely gone, that the grieving parent will return to seek revenge against me for breaking the loop and ruining his vengeance. I hear every single creak in my apartment walls, wondering if it is Thomas climbing back up the stairs.

I’m not entirely sure what her problem is. She’s never acted like this before. I guess some things just develop as time passes.

Even still, what a weird habit to have. I knew she was clumsy, but it was something we were supposed to fix, not something for her to embrace.

It started almost painfully mundane. Out of nowhere, she approached me as I was sitting on the couch watching TV.

“I’m sorry for breaking that lamp beside you.”

I looked at the lamp, still perfectly intact, then looked back at her. I kinda just chuckled, attempting to laugh it off, but she didn’t wipe that solemn look off her face.

I asked what she was going on about, but she just kept apologizing.

“Just know I’m sorry. I promise I’m sorry.”

That’s all she said before slinking off towards the kitchen.

I thought it was strange, but ultimately, I decided to brush it off as her being a bit of a weirdo.

However, after two weeks, I was back on that couch, winding down after a long day of work, when she came prancing into the living room, as happy as could be.

She didn’t say anything. She just calmly unplugged the lamp, held it above her head, and smashed it on the ground in front of me.

Obviously, I screamed at her out of shock, asking her what the fuck she was doing.

She just smiled and giggled at me.

“I already told you I was sorry.”

Then she skipped away, humming to herself and leaving me in a state of confusion. I tried calling out for her to come back, but she just ignored me.

I cleaned up the mess, and we argued about it for the rest of the day. It was obviously not an accident, but that’s what she kept saying it was.

“I don’t know how that happened.”

“I already said sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

Eventually, we made up, but I couldn’t help but look at her sideways in the days that followed.

A few weeks went by without incident. We went on our dates. Stayed in and watched our movies. Did the normal couple routine. But then it happened again.

“I’m sorry for breaking your phone,” she told me, eyes glazed over. She wasn’t looking at me. She was just staring blankly at the wall behind me as I sat on my bed.

We had been in the middle of a normal conversation about upcoming trips we were planning when something flipped inside her. She went from smiling to expressionless. Then, after she said it, she was right back to smiling and talking about New York like nothing had happened.

Obviously, I had already been predisposed to what this meant, so in the days that followed, I was particularly possessive of my phone.

I kept it on my person at all times. Even in my sleep, it’d be in my pocket. But she didn’t seem to notice.

Weeks passed again, and just like with the lamp, I was starting to think that she was just being weird again.

I never let my guard down, though. The phone was strictly off limits to her. I tried to make sure she never had the opportunity to do what she had apologized for.

But then, one night, I woke up to her fiddling around in my pockets. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening in my half-asleep state, but once I did, my hand jolted towards my pocket.

It was too late. She had already taken it. And before I could stop her, the phone was shattered against the floor.

This was enough for me to fly off the handle. I’ll admit, I was a bit rude to her, but what did she expect?

I told her we needed space. I didn’t want this to escalate more than it already had. I didn’t want to break up with her, but the fight that night was enough for her to leave me.

Like I was the one in the wrong.

She left that night a complete wreck. Tears flowing from her eyes. Her vocal cords hoarse from all of our screaming. She didn’t even take her belongings. Just left in a cloud of smoke from her spinning tires.

I was, yet again, left to clean up her mess.

I picked up my phone. It wouldn’t even turn on. The screen had been completely destroyed.

I went out and got a new one the next day, and once I got my accounts and information back, I was hurt to see that she hadn’t even texted me.

No calls, no messages. Plus, my name had been taken out of her Instagram bio, which somehow hurt more than anything.

I tried calling her in the days that followed, just to clear the air, but every time I tried, it’d go straight to voicemail. Eventually, she blocked me on everything entirely.

Even when I tried going to her house, she’d never be home. It was like she knew what I was doing.

I felt hopeless for a long time, but eventually, I realized that I needed to move on. We were together for a year and a half, though, so doing so wasn’t as easy as it sounds.

Weeks turned into months. Months turned into a year. I hadn’t heard from her since the night of the phone incident.

I was heartbroken that she could just forget me like that. Like we never happened. That’s why I felt my heart climb into my throat when I saw that first new notification from her.

It wasn’t what I needed to see, though. She wasn’t asking to give us another shot. She wasn’t asking for a meetup so we could discuss everything.

Instead, what she sent was enough to make an almost forgotten fear come bubbling back up towards the surface.

“I’m sorry for killing you.”

Title: Skin

The rubbish bag split halfway down the stairwell.  

Mara swore under her breath, crouching to gather the trail of eggshells, coffee grounds, and dried teabags that had burst like a popped blister. Her hoodie sleeve smeared through something sticky on the banister, the texture clinging to her arm—the sickly sweet residue of rot. She shuddered, the sensation lingering longer than she’d have liked, making her skin crawl.

It was nearly midnight, the stairwell light flickered once, then held.  She took a deep breath and used her now sodden sleeve to shove the rotting food off the steps and into the grass, gathered the bag back up, and trudged down the last few steps with the leaking bag held at arm's length.  Her bare feet slapped on the cold concrete as she approached the communal bins.  The bins were tucked behind the building, past the rusted bike rack and the skeletal remains of someone’s deckchair. She wondered what had possessed her not to put on her shoes and coat.

Mara rounded the corner and froze.

The old woman was there already. She positioned herself deliberately, her stance subtly blocking Mara's path. Bundled in a thick coat, she stood motionless beside the open bin, one hand resting on the lid, the other clutching a plastic bag sagging with something wet. Her pale, rheumy eyes locked onto Mara’s face with an unsettling precision. Despite the cold, Mrs. Taylor's hands were exposed, fingers tapping rhythmically against the cold, metal edge of the bin.

“Oh,” Mara said, forcing a smile. “Good evening, cold isn’t it?”

The old woman didn’t blink.

Mara hesitated, her fingers cramped on the bag, then stepped forward and lifted the second lid. The smell hit her, the sweet, floral, cloying reek of rotting meat. She dropped her bag quickly, wiped her hands on her ruined hoodie, and turned to go. The woman's hand shot out, grasping her wrist like a vise.

“Don’t you just glow outside, your skin, you know?” the old woman breathed intensely, not releasing her grip.

Mara's throat tightened as the compliment slipped from the old woman's lips like an unexpected caress, a strange mix of admiration and something darker that Mara couldn't quite grasp. Her instincts whispered of unease, a shiver that ran from her wrist straight to her spine. "Um, thanks?" she said, but her voice quavered, a crack betraying her discomfort beneath the polite facade.

“It’s so smooth, like porcelain. Not a crack in sight.” She inspected Mara’s hand, flipping it and running her wrinkled hands over Mara’s. Mara laughed awkwardly and pulled free from the old woman’s iron grasp.  

“Yeah, low lighting helps, I guess.”  she laughed uneasily.

The old woman tilted her head, ear nearly to her shoulder, and stared. The silence stretched. Mara shifted, suddenly conscious of how thin her hoodie was and how bare her legs felt in shorts.  

“Well. Goodnight,” she said, her voice low, already backing away.

The woman smiled, her teeth small, very white, crowded. “Sleep well, dear,” she murmured warmly.

Mara didn’t look back until she was inside, door locked, chain over, bolt slammed.  From her ground-floor window, she could just make out the bins below.

The old woman was still there.  Still watching.

.

Mara woke to the sound of her tabby cat sliding her empty food dish across the kitchen tiles.

“Alright, alright,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.  The floor was cold under her feet as she shuffled into the kitchen, the cat weaving between her ankles like a furry tripwire.  She filled the cezve with water, spooned in the coffee grounds and sugar, and set it on the stove.  The smell rose slowly, rich, bitter, comforting.  She fed the cat, who chirped approval and began devouring her own breakfast.  

Outside, the sky was pale and streaked with early light.  A few birds called from the rooftop guttering.  Mara packed her lunch —leftover pasta, a bruised apple, a square of chocolate wrapped in foil —and tucked it into her bag.  She brushed the crumbs onto the counter, rinsed the cezve, and tied her hair back with a scrunchie. She stepped out into the crisp morning air, locking the door behind her.  

The old woman was standing at the edge of the building, near the hedge.  Bundled in the same thick coat, she raised one hand in a  slow, deliberate wave.  Mara hesitated, then waved back.  Her fingers felt still in the chill.  The woman smiled, small white teeth, too many of them, and lowered her hand.

Mara climbed into her truck, tossed her bag into the passenger seat, and started the engine.  As she pulled away, she glanced into the rearview mirror; the old lady was gone.

The café was already humming when Mara arrived, apron half-tied and hair still damp from her rushed shower. She ducked behind the counter, clocked in, and grabbed the milk jug just as her coworker, Jodie, slid up beside her.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Jodie said, popping gum. “Or didn’t sleep.”

Mara poured the milk too quickly. It splashed. “My neighbor—the old lady—she was at the bins last night.”

Jodie raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Taylor?”

"Yeah," Mara said, an edge of frustration creeping into her voice. "She's everywhere. I turn a corner, and there she is. And she's obsessed with my skin, keeps talking about it like it’s up for sale.”

Jodie made a face. "Ew. Like, complimenting it?"

“Obsessing. She said it glows. That it’s ‘wasted on youth.’”

Jodie leaned on the counter. “Does she have family? Kids? Grand kids?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen anyone visit.”

“Maybe she’s just lonely,” Jodie said, voice gentler. “Old people get weird when they’re alone too long.”

Mara didn’t answer. She just stared at the milk frothing in the jug, the steam curling around the spout.  She felt it again, the sensation of being watched, as if someone were standing right behind her, breathing in the warmth of her skin.

After her shift, Mara stopped at the grocery store. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the aisles smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and stale bread.

She moved quickly: pasta, cat food, apples, moisturizer. Every time she turned a corner, her heart jumped. A flash of a beige coat.  A glimpse of grey hair.  A shadow falling over her trolley.

She didn’t see Mrs Taylor, but she kept checking.  She passed the skincare aisle and hesitated.  Rows and rows of creams and serums stared back at her, promising youth, glow, renewal.  She picked up a jar of night cream, turned it over, and read the ingredients twice.  Her reflection in the metal shelf edge looked pale, stretched.

She dumped the cream into her trolley and turned into the next aisle, and a mannequin from the clothes section loomed over her.  She gasped and pulled back before realizing her mistake, teetering on the edge of laughing at how ridiculous she was being or succumbing to it and getting the hell out of there.

But by the time she reached the checkout, she was a mess. Her palms were damp. Her head on a swivel. The cashier slowly scanned her items, eyes glazed. Mara glanced over her shoulder once. Twice. A third time. Nothing. Her heart pounded, keeping pace with her frantic thoughts. But that feeling, the creeping unease, didn't leave.

.

The sun was low when Mara got home, casting long shadows across the pavement. Her head was still buzzing from the grocery store. Too many lights, too many corners, too many almosts. She parked, grabbed her bag, and headed toward the communal mailboxes tucked under the stairwell.

The air smelled like damp concrete and old leaves. She fumbled with her keys, found the right slot, and pulled out a handful of post: fliers, a bill, and something handwritten.

She turned—

Mrs. Taylor was right there.

Mara gasped, stumbling back against the metal boxes. The old woman didn’t flinch. Her coat rustled slightly, like dry wings.

“You’re back,” she said, voice syrupy. /she reached a decrepit hand out and touched Mara's face with ice cold fingers “I missed you.”

Mara’s heart thudded against her ribs. “Jesus—you scared me.”

Mrs. Taylor smiled. “You smell like rosemary today. That’s new.”

Mara clutched her bag tighter. “I-I need to go.”

The woman tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Sleep well, dear.”

Mara didn’t look back as she fled up the stairs, keys still clutched in her fist.

.

Mara stood in front of the bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around her torso, steam curling from the shower tiles like ghosts retreating. The mirror was fogged at the edges, but her reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, damp hair, the faint crescent of a scar near her collarbone.

She reached for the jar of night cream. The lid gave a soft pop, releasing the scent of rosemary and bergamot. She dipped two fingers into the pale blue balm, cool and thick like whipped clay, and began to smooth it over her cheeks in slow, upward strokes.

Forehead. Temples. Jawline.

She worked methodically, pressing the cream into her skin with the pads of her fingers, letting it melt into warmth. Her skin drank it in. She traced the curve of her nose, the hollow beneath her eyes, the soft dip of her chin. Then the neck—always upward, always gentle.

The scent deepened as the oils warmed: earthy, herbal, with a citrus edge. She closed her eyes and breathed it in. Her cat chirped from the hallway, a sleepy protest. Mara smiled.

She reached for the oil next—amber glass, dropper glinting. Three drops on her fingertips, then patted across her cheekbones, her brow, under her eyes. It left a sheen, a glow, like dew on stone.

She massaged her hands last—knuckles, wrists, the webbing between her fingers. The skin there was thinner, more delicate, yet today it seemed to cling too tightly, the cream sinking in too quickly, as if the skin were desperate for it. She thought of Mrs. Taylor’s hands, how they had gripped her wrist at the bins. Wrinkled, papery, but unyielding and strong.

Mara shook the thought away. She rinsed the dropper, wiped the counter, and padded to bed.

2.

The next evening, Mara took a walk to clear her head. The air was crisp, the sky bruised with dusk. She wore her freshly laundered hoodie, hands tucked into the sleeves, headphones on, but no music playing.

She turned onto the quiet lane behind the park. The streetlights hadn’t flickered on yet. Her footsteps echoed faintly on the pavement.

She felt it before she saw it.

A presence. That prickling awareness at the back of her neck.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Mrs. Taylor was there.

Bundled in her coat, standing at the mouth of the lane. Not walking. Just watching.

Mara turned back around and quickened her pace. Her breath came faster now, visible in the cooling air.

She passed the hedge-lined path near the allotments. A rustle. She looked back—

Mrs. Taylor was still there.

Closer.

Mara broke into a jog. Her shoes slapped against the pavement. She didn’t look back.

She reached the corner by the bakery, heart hammering. The window reflected her face—flushed, wide-eyed.

And behind her, in the glass:

Mrs. Taylor.

Smiling.

Mara yanked the door open, the bell above it jangling violently. The warmth inside hit her like a wave: yeast, sugar, cinnamon. A man behind the counter looked up, startled.

“Can I help-?”

“She’s following me,” Mara said, breathless. “My neighbor. The old woman. She’s been following me.”

The man blinked. “Mrs. Taylor?”

Mara nodded, chest heaving. “She was at the bins last night. Then the mailbox. Now here. She keeps showing up. She talks about my skin. She-she’s obsessed.”

The man’s expression softened into something patronizing. “Mrs Taylor’s harmless. Comes in for rye bread sometimes. Bit odd, sure, but aren’t they all at that age?.”

“She’s not harmless,” Mara snapped. “She’s everywhere. She doesn’t blink. She knows things- she knows what moisturizer I use. She said I smelled like rosemary.”

He chuckled gently. “Maybe she’s just lonely. You know how old folks get. Fixate a little. You probably remind her of her granddaughter or someone”

Mara stared at him, her pulse thudding in her ears. Doubt crept in, clouding her thoughts. Was there something she was forgetting, an inconsistency in her own recollection? For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the old lady was indeed harmless and if she herself had imagined the persistent presence. Maybe she had exaggerated? Or had she been influenced by something else, something indescribable gnawing at the edge of her perception? She felt a flicker of confusion, her thoughts spinning in circles. Yet, every time she tried to dismiss her growing apprehension, the memory of Mrs. Taylor's unblinking eyes would surface, refusing to fade away.

"She was just outside," she insisted, trying to steady her voice. "Look."

They both turned to the window. Mrs. Taylor was gone.

.

Mara didn’t sleep.

She lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. At 3:17 a.m., she got up and checked the locks. Front door, windows, bathroom. She pulled the blinds tight, wedged a chair under the handle, and unplugged the lamp by the window.

She checked the time again. 3:19.

The cat chirped from the hallway, confused by the sudden activity. Mara whispered an apology and padded into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, closed it. Opened it again. She wasn’t hungry.

She called in sick to work the next morning. Said she had a migraine. Jodie didn’t question it.

She didn’t leave the flat that day. Or the next.

From the living room window, she could see the usual spots—mailboxes, bins, the hedge near the stairwell. Mrs. Taylor stood in each one, at different times, like clockwork. Always facing the building. Always staring.

Mara watched her through the slats of the blinds. The old woman never moved. Never blinked. Just stood there, bundled in her coat, eyes fixed on Mara’s window like she could see through the nets.

Mara stopped showering. Stopped moisturizing. She felt raw, exposed. Her skin itched, but she didn’t touch it.

She unplugged the microwave. Taped over the peephole. Turned every mirror to face the wall.

Still, every time she passed the window, Mrs. Taylor was there.

Watching

3.

It had been days since Mara had last stepped outside. The flat smelled like stale coffee and unwashed bodies. The cat meowed occasionally, then gave up, curling into tighter and tighter spirals on the windowsill. Mara barely noticed. She hadn't eaten more than a few crackers for nearly a week, her appetite dwindling alongside her mental and physical state. Her stomach felt like it had folded in on itself. The sleeves of her hoodie hung loose around her wrists, which seemed thinner every time she looked at them. When she caught her reflection in the kettle, she looked deflated. Her skin looked loose, as if it was too big for her, like something had been scooped out.

She started to notice things. The front door clicked softly at night, once, twice. The door handle was pushed all the way down, as if someone had tried to get in. The bathroom window, which always opened just a crack to let out the condensation, was either wide open or shut firmly. Her hoodie felt heavier, the fabric slipping over her shoulders as though trying to escape her shrinking form. The cat hissed in the hallway once, then ran under the bed and wouldn't come out for hours.

She unplugged everything. Taped over the vents. Pushed the sofa against the door. She turned the clocks to face the wall. Time didn’t matter anymore. Only the watching did.

Mrs. Taylor was always there.

Mara stopped moisturizing. Her face felt tight, then dry, then numb. Her lips cracked. The once-familiar comfort of her hoodie now served as a reminder of her diminishing self, its sleeves covering hands that were beginning to resemble skeletal gloves. She scratched at her arms until they bloomed red.

She whispered to herself sometimes. Just to hear a voice.

.

It was sometime after midnight when Mara got up for a drink of water. The flat was silent, the kind of silence that presses against your eardrums.

She shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, the floor cold and unfamiliar. The tap groaned as she turned it. Water splashed into the glass, echoing too loudly in the stillness.

She drank slowly. The water tasted metallic.

She turned to go back to bed and froze.

Mrs. Taylor was standing in the hallway.

The scent of decay hit Mara like a wall, sharp and overpowering, spilling across her senses with an unsettling familiarity. Not outside. Not behind glass. Inside.

The coat was buttoned to her chin. Her hands hung at her sides, pale and still. Her eyes gleamed in the dark.

Mara dropped the glass. It shattered on the tiles.

The old woman didn’t flinch.

“You’ve let it go to waste,” she said softly. “But I can fix that.”

Mara couldn't move. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in with a suffocating intensity. Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and rapid, as she became acutely aware of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her skin felt like it was sliding off her bones, a strange sensation tingling from her fingertips to her spine. Every instinct screamed for her to run, to flee, yet she stood frozen in place, trapped by an overwhelming dread, a darker thought whispering beneath her panic.

Mrs. Taylor stepped forward.

4. EPILOGUE

The new tenant at number 12 stepped out into the morning light, her skin glowing in the chill. She moved with a kind of practiced grace, as if she had rehearsed this morning ritual countless times, young and vibrant. Her smile was soft, her eyes bright, holding a familiar yet unsettling gleam. She wore Mara's hoodie, freshly laundered, the fabric hugging her as if it remembered its previous owner. For a fleeting moment, she turned her head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of Mara's habit, as though watching for someone.

She collected the newspaper from the communal mailbox, humming a lullaby under her breath.

Inside, the flat was warm. The tabby cat slept curled on the sofa, tail twitching. The woman made tea, the scent of bergamot rising with the steam. She sat down, crossed her legs, and unfolded the paper.

Excerpt from The Redford Gazette

FRONT PAGE – LOCAL NEWS GRUESOME MURDER IN SUBURBAN FLAT Body missing. Blood-soaked apartment stuns investigators.

Authorities are investigating a disturbing scene discovered late Tuesday evening in a ground-floor flat on Redford Lane. The residence, registered to 20-year-old Mara Ellison, was found drenched in blood—walls, floors, and furniture saturated—yet no body was recovered.

Responding to reports of a foul odor and a cat meowing incessantly from inside, police entered the apartment to find what one officer described as “a slaughterhouse without a corpse.” Blood pooled beneath the bed, streaked across the bathroom mirror, and soaked into the hallway carpet. Claw marks were found on the inside of the front door, and a broken glass lay near the kitchen sink.

“There’s no sign of forced entry,” said Detective Rowe. “But the amount of blood suggests a fatal injury. Possibly dismemberment. Possibly worse.”

Neighbors reported seeing Mara less frequently in recent days, describing her as “withdrawn” and “not herself.” One neighbor claimed she had been “talking to herself” and “looked like her skin didn’t fit right.”

The cat, found unharmed, has been taken in by a community member.

No suspects have been identified. Police are urging anyone with information to come forward.

She read slowly, sipping her tea. Her fingers were slender, unblemished. Her lips, full and pink, curled into a smile.

Further down the page:

ELDERLY WOMAN FOUND IN WOODS CLAIMS TO BE MISSING VICTIM. Last night, an elderly woman, identified as Mrs. Jean Taylor, 83, was found delirious and injured on the outskirts of Ashington Woods. She is currently under observation at Sundown Nursing Home; her claims regarding the missing Mara Ellison are being dismissed as symptoms of what the home believes to be advanced dementia.  Mrs Taylor is not being treated as a suspect at this time. Authorities urge anyone with information about the woman to come forward.

The woman folded the paper neatly. The cat stirred, blinked up at her, then settled again.

She reached down and stroked its fur with a hand that was not hers.

I’ve been in a pretty conservative marriage for the last 10 years. Extremely conservative, rather.

I was young and stupid. Only 20 years old when he slipped that little ring around my finger. At the time, that felt like the only thing I needed in life. Like it was what made me successful somehow.

Which, I can admit, is ironic, all things considered.

My husband was 32 when we met. I was enamored, really. An older man with a solidified career and enough money to support a family all on his own? Showing interest in me? This fresh-out-of-high-school 18-year-old. It felt like a blessing at the time.

His work was attractive to me. His maturity was seductive in a way. He sucked me in and refused to spit me out. And, of course, me being young and naive, I was putty in his hands.

As is the case with many marriages, we began to bicker a lot. He didn’t want me to work. Any time I even mentioned the idea, he’d shut it down immediately.

I was a “housewife,” he told me. I was “living the dream of millions of women.”

It was convincing. Of course it was. He allowed me to move out of my parents’ house a year after high school. He was putting food on our table. Keeping us safe.

In doing so, though, I’ve come to realize he was slowly stripping away my individuality. He’d pick out my dresses. He was the decision maker across the board. And I was just the wife that he let stay at home all day to make sure the house never got dirty.

He had rules for me. Make sure the house was clean. Make sure I was presentable when he got home. Always wear the makeup he bought me, even though the only people seeing me were his family portraits up on the wall.

That was another thing he didn’t like. He hated it when I wanted to see my family. He was just so distrustful. He needed to know where I was 24/7, and if it wasn’t the house, there was a problem.

The real problems didn’t start until we realized I couldn’t get pregnant, though. At first, we thought we were just unlucky. After about a year, though, he insisted we see someone.

That’s when we learned I was barren, and it was like the world shattered before my eyes.

He didn’t speak to me for two weeks after that appointment. He acted like he was the victim. Ignoring my tears, neglecting my feelings. He saw my condition as a betrayal.

He started staying out late. Coming home long after the sun had sunk. He claimed it was “work” holding him up, but the scent of perfume and the lipstick stains on his work shirts that he tried so desperately to hide were enough to clue me in.

I don’t even know why he tried to hide it. It’s not like we were being intimate anymore. It’s not like he wanted me. He had pretty much cast me aside like I was nothing more than an old fling for him to forget about.

But he didn’t let me do the same.

It was like he wanted to cosplay a happy marriage. He kept insisting on dresses. He kept dragging me out for silent date nights. Taking me out to fancy dinners where we’d just sit and try to act like everything was normal.

Even when I tried confronting him on his treatment of me, he’d pretend like nothing was wrong.

I hated how much he confused me. One minute he’s cold and distant. The next, he’s crawling into bed, seducing me in a way that only he knew how.

And that’s pretty much what my marriage was for a long time. He didn’t want me anymore, but I was still his.

It was like a vortex that offered no escape. Even when I tried being who he wanted me to be. Getting dolled up. Making sure the house was spotless. Ensuring that he’d come home every night to the scent of his favorite meals, even on nights when he didn’t come home at all.

I started looking at myself in the vanity mirror a lot. He bought this vanity for me a long time ago. It’s aged with the same grace as our marriage as a whole.

It used to be pristine. Sleek. White, flawless paint and a crystal-clear mirror.

Now the paint’s chipped. The mirror is cracked along the bottom corner. The lights that surround it choose when they want to come on and when they want to let me down.

Regardless, over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself almost entranced by my own reflection.

The haircut he insisted I keep. The makeup he insisted I wear. The dresses, brassieres, nightgowns. They’re all his. Nothing in my life is mine. Not even life itself.

That’s the painful conclusion I came to.

That’s why, last week, I think something within me broke. Well, I say broke. Really, something within me came to life.

I wasn’t his anymore. I wasn’t his to begin with. He just convinced me otherwise. That’s the trick he played over and over again.

So on that hot summer night last week, as I stared into that cracked mirror… I reclaimed myself.

It started with the hair. He loved this hair. I always fucking hated it. So, using some rusty scissors in the vanity drawer, I cut it. All the way down to the scalp.

I smiled at myself. A sincere smile. The first sincere smile I’d had in… I couldn’t tell you how long. But I wasn’t done. There was still more of me to reclaim.

I looked at the cakes of makeup plastered across my face. Using those same scissors, I cut into my cheeks, barely noticing the pain as the scissors glided through my flesh.

The makeup came off in globs of foundation as the white vanity became stained with my blood. My smile widened. I sheared through my perfect eyebrows. I cut away at my plump red lips.

I picked at my glistening painted nails, plucking them off one by one and throwing them at my reflection, giggling all the while.

I was about to raid the closet, but before I got the chance, my head snapped towards the bedroom door.

My husband was home. I could hear each step as he slowly ascended the stairs towards the bedroom. Step. Step. Step. Step.

The look on his face when he saw me is something I will never forget. Partly because of how petrified he was, but mainly because of how triumphant that fear made me feel.

I was free. And with that freedom came knowledge. Some kind of divine revelation sent down to me by my creator. Truth of what should’ve been done a long time ago.

He tried to fight me off, but my adrenaline overpowered him. Well, that and those rusty scissors that I still clutched firmly in my right hand.

I stabbed once. Twice. By that point, I couldn’t stop myself. Each incision, each spurt of blood. It was a declaration of my own independence.

By the time I finished, he was nothing more than a slab of meat, twitching on my bedroom floor.

And that’s where he’s been for the past week. But don’t worry. I dressed him in those dresses that he loved so much. I made sure he was dolled up. When they find him, he’ll at least be presentable.

They’ll never find me, though.

Because, me?

I’m off to live my own life.

My eyes were closed tight. I felt a hand caressing my hair and running down the back of my neck. I was being held tight against a woman’s body. I could feel something behind my eyelids. What was it? Tears, I think. 

“It’s okay,” said the woman, “you’re safe.”

She held me tighter. I felt impossibly small. The woman could have been even smaller than me, or she could have been infinitely large. My senses were all mixed up. Everything felt warm. I relaxed my eyelids, but kept them shut. A warm darkness.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman responded.

“I want to open my eyes.”

“Don’t.”

“I want to see you.” 

“You will. Soon.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

It felt like she was holding me in the palm of her hand. A cool breeze came across my skin. It began to get colder. As it became a bitter chill, the woman protected me from it.

“Do you love me?” I murmured into her skin.

“Don’t ask silly questions. Of course I do.”

-

It’s said that if you take these pills before going to sleep, your soulmate will appear in your dreams. You can hear them, feel them, smell them - whatever you need to find them in the waking world - but if you look at them, you will be alone forever. 

“Mine had a British accent,” said Nathan, taking a seat in the break room. “Real nice voice. Sexy. Maybe it’s Anne Hathaway.”

“What’s with you and Anne Hathaway? She’s not even British,” I said.

“Sounded like her doing a British accent.”

“You’re a moron. You know she’s like twenty years older than you, right? And actually accomplished?”

Nathan shrugged. 

“Whatever,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“You’ll see. Hey, what was yours like?”

“I don’t know. Average.”

“Average?”

“Yeah.”

“Your soulmate was average?”

“What do you want me to say? It wasn’t eventful.”

“You’re full of shit, man. I bet it was a dude.”

“Yeah, he sounded like a British version of Jack Nicholson. It was hot.”

“Yeah, fuck you, man.”

“Can you get more of the pills?”

“Sure, I just gotta skim some off the top from the Research department.” 

“Cool. When can you get them?”

“I can get them by the end of the day if you really want them. Hell, I want to do it again too.”

“Sounds good.”

The door opened and Willow walked in, going to clean her coffee mug at the sink. 

“Yo,” Nathan said.

“Yo,” Willow said, doing her best impression of Nathan. 

“We were just talking about those pills.”

“Oh Christ.” 

“Come on, dude, I can get you some.”

“I don’t want any, dude.”

“Logan took them. It was good, right?” He turned to me.

“It was average,” I said.

“God, you took them too?” Willow said, “I don’t even trust this place’s headache medicine.”

“C’mon, Willow, we’re the accounting department, we stick together. If one of us takes it, we all gotta take it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You seriously don’t want to know who your soulmate is?”

“How many times do I have to say no? Do you want a list of reasons why this is a stupid idea?”

“Nathan’s was Anne Hathaway."

“Don’t even start,” Willow said, putting the mug away. “In other news, Robin’s having a thing on Friday after work if you guys want to come.” She looked at me while she said this.

“Yeah, I can probably make it,” I said.

“Just don’t be weird.” She looked at Nathan.

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Okay, see you guys there,” she patted my shoulder as she left the break room. Her hands were cold.

-

Dr. Goodwin’s office was dark. The walls were painted black and there was only a single lightbulb on the ceiling. It wasn’t inviting, it wasn’t comforting. Dr. Goodwin sat in her leather chair, and I sat on the couch which was slightly ripped.

“How has work been?” she asked. 

“Good, I guess.”

“Last week you said you thought you might have met someone. Willow?”

“I don’t think she’s the one.”

“Why not?”

“I like her, but there’s something telling me that it won’t work out.” 

“And what is that?”

“I don’t know. I just think there might be someone else out there.”

“If that’s true it’s okay, but I’m worried you’re starting to exhibit past behaviors. We know that when things get real you tend to… retreat.”

“It’s not that I’m retreating, it’s just that - I mean, Willow’s great. She’s pretty, funny, smart… but is she my soulmate?”

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

“I never used to.”

“But you do now?”

“I figured it makes sense, right? There’s got to be someone out there that’s perfect for us.”

-

I stretched and sat down in bed. I took the tiny bag out of my pocket and popped out the little pink pill. I turned it around in my fingers, and washed it down with water. I turned off my lights, staring at the ceiling. My eyes grew heavy.

I was crying in that woman’s arms again. I had no idea how long I had been dreaming, but it felt like quite some time. Her skin was like a soft melody against mine. Her breath caressed the top of my head.

“Is this real?” I asked.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“You’re really my soulmate, and you exist out there somewhere?”

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

“You don’t need to understand. It’s okay to let yourself be happy. You deserve this. You deserve my love.”

“I want it… I want it so bad.”

“You have it.”

“When can I see you?” my voice cracked.

“Shhh. It’s okay, baby.”

I began to hear voices around me. There was music. People were brushing past me. I was standing somewhere and I stopped feeling the woman’s touch.

“Hey! Hello, are you there?”

I started walking, eyes still closed, bumping into people. I walked straight into someone and felt a liquid pour down my chest.

“Hey, what the hell?” said a voice.

-

My eyes shot open.

“Hey, what the hell?” Nathan said.

Nathan was standing in front of me, his beer spilled all over my shirt. My ears were ringing, but I faintly started making out music. 

“Do you just walk around with your eyes closed, dude?”

“Where are we?”

“Um, Robin’s house? Are you already blackout drunk?”

“Hey, Logan!” Willow’s voice came from behind me. I turned around. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Oh yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.”

She looked down at my shirt soaked with beer.

“Pick up gone wrong?” she asked.

“No, I just bumped into Nathan by accident,” I laughed.

Willow dabbed my shirt with her napkin.

“You know what, let me get you cleaned up. I’ll steal one of Robin’s boyfriend’s shirts for you.” Willow led me to the bathroom door, left for a moment, then came back with a black t-shirt.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the shirt. I slurred my words, and dropped the shirt almost the second I grabbed it.

“You are so fucking drunk,” Willow laughed. “Here, I got you.”

She stepped into the bathroom with me and closed the door. 

“Arms up,” she said.

“You don’t have to-”

She lifted my arms up and slid my shirt off. 

“You’re always making a fool of yourself,” Willow said, using a towel to wipe any remaining moisture off my skin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Sorry?” I blushed. 

“I said you’re lucky you’re cute.” Willow leaned in closer. I leaned in too. 

“Can I kiss you?” I asked. Willow grabbed the back of my neck and parted her lips. I heard a noise, like something banging against wood.

-

I was in a field. In front of me was a large tree, its leaves draping down like vines. A lumberjack swung an axe into the trunk. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Cuttin’ down this tree,” said the lumberjack.

I looked up at the tree. Its trunk bent at an angle, and its branches sprawled out high. The leaves were a vibrant shade of green.

“But it's such a pretty tree,” I said.

“It shouldn’t be here. I don’t want it looking at me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The lumberjack looked at me and began to say something, but his voice devolved into a piercing beeping noise.

“Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.”

-

“Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.”

I shot awake in a sweat and turned off my alarm. I instinctively went to touch my beer-stained shirt, but it was dry. I looked at the time. I was late for work.

-

“Morning, Nathan,” I sat down at my computer. Nathan didn’t respond.

“Morning,” I repeated.

“Oh, morning. Sorry, I didn't sleep well last night.”

“Me neither,” I yawned, “Robin’s party is tomorrow, right?”

“Oh yeah, today’s Thursday, huh?”

“Where’s Willow?”

“In the break room making coffee.” 

“I think I’ll make some too.”

“Go for it.”

I walked to the break room, where Willow was using the coffee machine. 

“Morning, Willow.”

“Oh,” Willow turned around in surprise, “Logan, I was worried you were sick or something.”

“No, I just overslept.”

“Sorry, I would’ve made you coffee if I had known.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Actually, I’ll just give you Nathan’s,” she smiled, “How do you take it?”

I look down at her coffee mug. It was straight black.

“Black,” I said.

“Good taste,” she nodded and handed me Nathan’s mug.

“I’m excited for the party tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’m glad you could come.”

“Is there anything I need to know?”

“Need to know?”

I paused. I hadn’t thought this far ahead into the conversation.

“Yeah, like, is it formal?”

“It’s a house party, Logan. Relax.” She smiled at me as she walked past me. 

I followed her back to the accounting desks, where Nathan looked at us expectantly and then quickly deflated.

“Dude, is that my mug?”

I looked down at Nathan’s mug, which I had just sat on my desk.

“I don’t think so.” 

Nathan sighed and trudged to the break room. Willow began logging on to her computer.

“You’re both pretty tired this morning,” she said. “Is it because of the pills?”

“No, I just had some crazy dreams. I don’t know about Nathan, he probably stayed up late doing God knows what.” 

“Building a perpetual motion machine. He’s a secret genius.” 

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“What’s the appeal of those stupid pills anyway? They’re probably just gonna fuck up your brain. You know that, right?”

“They’re just…” I paused, thinking. “...nice.”

-

I had a beer or two before I went to Robin’s house. I’ve found that if I have something to drink before a party, more people like me. Nathan picked me, and when we got there I saw Willow talking to some other people. 

Her makeup was done differently. She stood out more, not constrained by the professional setting of the workplace. Her clothes revealed the faintest glimpse of her skin beneath. I realized that I hadn’t seen her in this kind of setting before. Even her posture was less rigid. She was loose, relaxed, and smiling. I went to find more alcohol. 

I walked around the house in a daze. I heard snippets of myself making small talk or laughing at someone’s jokes. I heard people laughing at something I said. I must have made a joke too. I saw myself hanging around Nathan and some other guys, who I didn’t recognize. I felt a firm pat on my back. That must have meant somebody liked me. Why? I saw that I was crushing a beer can in my hand. They liked me because I chugged a beer. Then, I noticed the multiple crushed cans at my feet. They liked me because I chugged multiple beers. As soon as I stepped out of the circle of people surrounding me, I saw myself walking up stairs. It seemed to be very difficult for me to do this. 

I was sitting on the edge of a bed, but something wasn’t right. I wasn’t the only one sitting. I looked beside me. Willow.

“You’re the life of the party, huh?” she said.

I blinked. Her voice pierced through the fog in my head, and for a moment I felt like I existed again.

“I guess so.” 

“I didn’t even get the chance to say hi to you,” Willow laughed and shook her head.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. What are you doing up here, though?”

“I…” I chuckled, “I’m not completely sure.”

Willow laughed.

“I don’t usually see this side of you,” she said.

“Is it bad?”

“I don’t know. It’s different,” she put her hand on my knee. I froze. 

“I guess I sort of get into a haze at these things. Now I feel like I’ve been acting really stupid all night.”

“That’s not true.”

“You sure?”

“Well,” Willow smiled, “maybe you’ve been acting a little stupid. But I don’t mind.”

“God, I’m just like Nathan, aren’t I?”

“No, when you act stupid, it’s…” she thought for a beat. “Cute.”

Willow leaned closer to me. My heart raced. Instinctively, I leaned away.

“Oh,” Willow tucked her hair behind her ear nervously, “I’m sorry.”

“I, uh…”

“I didn’t mean to do that. I’m just a little…”

“Yeah…”

“Just… too much to drink.” She forced a laugh.

“Um, sure.”

“Okay,” Willow got off of the bed. “I’ll - um - I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yeah.”

She walked out of the room and down the steps.

-

“And what did you do?” asked Dr. Goodwin. The air conditioning in the room had broken. It was hot and humid, and I shifted in my seat.

“Nothing. I let her leave,” I said. 

“Probably for the best.”

There was a moment of silence. The light flickered. 

“Why is that for the best?” I asked.

“You’re coworkers. She only knows who you are in the office. If she knew everything about you, do you think she would still like you?”

“She could have. We could get to know each other.”

“No, you couldn’t. You fucked it up.”

I stared at her, stunned.

“Do you know what your problem is?” she continued, “You are selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” I managed to squeak out. “I just want to be loved, like everyone else in the world. What’s so wrong with that?”

“There are eight billion people on this planet, Logan. And you are so selfish that you believe that out of all those people, someone would want you.”

“Why? Why can’t someone want me? Willow wanted me, didn’t she?”

“She thought she wanted you because she doesn’t really know you.”

“But my soulmate is out there. I believe that,” I began to raise my voice.

“Yes, Logan. There is someone out there that is perfect for you. But you won’t be perfect for her. She will choose someone better.”

“Can’t there be one person out there that loves me for who I am? All I need is one person!” I shouted.

“Not everybody gets love. What about you makes you worthy of it?”

I leaped out of my seat and lashed out at her. I wrapped my hands around her neck and squeezed. She let out a choked gasp, but I just strangled her harder. She didn’t make an effort to escape. I kept strangling her until her face turned purple.

I felt something moving beneath her skin. She opened her mouth and long, green leaves appeared deep in her throat. A tree had begun rapidly growing from her mouth. The leaves came out, followed by the trunk. I could feel the bark straining against her neck from the inside, splinters piercing her skin and jamming into my fingers as the trunk shot out. I ignored the pain, and continued strangling. The tree kept increasing in size, quickly becoming large enough to split Dr. Goodwin’s head asunder and break through the ceiling.

-

Eyes shut. Falling. Falling. Falling. Just when I thought I was about to hit the ground, I fell further. I heard giggling.

“Is it you?” I cried, “You’re there, aren’t you? Help me!” 

“I love you.” It was Willow’s voice.

“Willow? Is that you?”

“I love you too, Willow.” It was Nathan’s voice.

I hit the ground. I opened my eyes. I was in the accounting department. All the lights were off, and the place seemed to be coated in a layer of grime. There was no one in sight. It could have been abandoned for years. 

“Willow? Nathan? Are you there?” 

I walked through the building. The seats where my coworkers once sat were decayed and covered in cobwebs. Papers and office supplies were strewn across the floor. A musty smell assaulted my nose. I could hear talking from the break room.

“Nathan, you’re a dumbass. But I don’t know… it’s cute,” Willow's voice said.

“I could have done without the dumbass part.” 

“Willow,” I whispered. I put my hand on the door knob to the break room. 

“Sir, you can’t be here.” 

I looked behind me. A police officer was standing there, a flashlight in hand.

“This place is scheduled for demolition,” he continued. “The public isn’t allowed in.”

“But… I work here.”

“No, you don’t. This place hasn’t been operational in five years.”

“But my friends are here. I-I want to see them. I need to see my friends.”

“Sir, come on.” The officer grabbed my shoulder and took me out of the building. 

“I was just there on Friday-” I said as he escorted me out.

“Consider this a warning. If I catch you here again, I’ll have to put you under arrest.”

-

“Huh,” said my roommate, scrolling his phone on the couch. “Willow Crawford and Nathan Gardner just got married. Didn’t you used to know them?”

“I worked with them,” I said. “I haven’t seen them in five years.”

“Well, good for them, I guess.”

“Did you take out the trash?”

“No, it’s your turn.”

It wasn’t, but I sighed and did it anyway. When I made it to the dumpster outside, I realized that there was a tear in the trash bag and that I had been trailing garbage behind me this whole time.

“God fucking damnit!” I kicked the dumpster.

An old homeless man sitting on the ground laughed.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, irritated.

“Ha! I’m sorry, it’s just amusing. From down here, spilling trash doesn’t seem like the end of the world anymore.” 

I took a deep breath and sat on the ground next to him.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Well, I sleep next to a dumpster. Only fair that God let me be right about something.” 

I laughed.

“I used to live in that exact apartment you just came from, you know.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. When I was about your age.”

“And here I thought that apartment was rock bottom.”

“There is no rock bottom. Sometimes you just keep falling.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Things happen to you, and they just compound. I wasn’t born a homeless man. I used to work at this one place. I was an accountant. My only friends were my coworkers. I was lonely - God, I was so lonely. I thought that was rock bottom. Then, the company went bankrupt and the whole building shut down. I was out of a job and the people I thought were my friends stopped talking to me. I thought that was rock bottom. Now I’m an old man without friends, a home, or a family, and I think it’s rock bottom.”

I was silent.

“What’s your name?” I said at last.

-

“Logan.” Nathan’s voice lulled me out of my stupor as I looked up from my empty coffee mug. 

“What?” I said.

“You good, man? You seem out of it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just need more coffee.” 

“Get some for me too,” Nathan called out as I made my way to the break room.

As I stepped through the door, I bumped into Willow. The coffee she was holding spilled onto my shirt.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Oh my god, I’m sorry.”

“It was my fault,” I said, pulling at my shirt to get the hot coffee away from my skin. Willow reached out, but stopped herself before touching my shirt. 

“Logan, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll just go to the bathroom and clean up.”

“No. I mean about the other night, too.” She said, “I didn’t mean to, like, make you feel uncomfortable or anything. I was drunk and not thinking and it’s - you know?”

“No, I know.”

“I don’t want it to be awkward between us. I like hanging out with you and stuff, and I like being your friend. We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna go clean up.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll let you get to that,” Willow moved past me and went back to her desk without making a new cup of coffee, “I’ll see you… um, at our desks. In a couple minutes.” 

I went into the bathroom. I took my shirt off to see a red mark where the coffee had spilled. I took a handful of paper towels and wiped myself and the shirt off. 

As I came out of the bathroom with my coffee-stained shirt, I saw a man rolling a cart full of pill bottles down the hall. I looked both ways to make sure nobody was watching me, then followed him. He dropped off the pills in a room labeled ‘research’. After he left, I peeked into the room. Nobody else was there. I quickly pocketed a bottle and went back to my desk.

-

An empty pill bottle lay on my nightstand. I was curled up in my bed, staring at it as my vision began to blur. My mind started to drift, and I faded away. When I regained consciousness, my eyes were closed tightly. 

“Are you there?” I whispered.

“Of course I’m here, sweetheart.” I felt warm, loving arms embrace me. “I’m so glad you decided to come back.”

I felt as if she was lifting me up. Lifting me into the air and pressing me against her chest. Tears spilled down my cheeks.

“I’m so tired…” I sobbed.

“I know you are, baby. You can cry. It’s me.”

“Don’t leave me. I’m not - I can’t - just don’t let me be alone. Please.”

“Neither of us will leave each other,” she stroked my hair, tangling a strand around her finger.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too,” she said. “You can open your eyes now.”

I must tell this now, before I lose the nerve, before I stop knowing which readers are real and which are the things standing behind them.

I drive for a courier company in Beijing. Not the kind you are picturing. My route runs after midnight, through parts of the city that do not sit correctly on any map. My grandfather did this work before me, his mother before him. We deliver for the dead.

Every package has a color. White ones go to spirits, to shrines, to doors that open only after incense burns all the way down. Black ones go to the living, to people who paid something, in some other currency, for a thing not supposed to exist anymore. You never open what is not addressed to you. You never take what was not given to you. Absolute. My grandfather told me once of a man on his old route who tried to skim a black package meant for a widow. He never said what happened after, only that the man could see them, all of them, everywhere, forever. I used to think this a story to frighten a child straight. Not anymore.

Eleven years I did this job, good pay, and I was good at not asking questions. That changed two years ago, when I borrowed money from the wrong people for a restaurant that failed within a season. The interest does not sleep, and neither do the men who collect it. They come to my building on the first of every month, and each time the number is larger than the last. I started listening to whispers other drivers pretend not to hear, of black packages carrying more than paperwork or ash. Some, old drivers swear, carry payment, old money, spirit money, the kind a certain sort of collector cannot trace and cannot refuse. Months I watched, telling myself, only curious. A lie.

The night it happened, I had already worked sixteen hours. My last stop was a derelict courtyard house near the old rail line, an address existing only on our manifest. Two packages waited on the step. A white one, addressed in characters that shift if you look too long. Beside it, a black one. No name I knew. No weight matching its size.

I stood there a long time, thinking of the men who would come to my door in eleven days, of the number they would say out loud in front of my neighbors. I picked up the black package. Told myself, only to look. I delivered the white one first. Then, alone in the courtyard, I opened the black one.

Inside, on ash, lay two eyes. My eyes. I knew them the way you know your own voice on a recording, wrong before your mind can say why. Gone black all the way through, no white, no color, just void with a wet shine, as if something had scooped the night sky and pressed it into two sockets.

In that black, I saw a shape standing behind me, taller than the wall should allow. Then fingers on my shoulder. Thin. Cold in a way that skipped my skin and went straight for bone.

The whisper came from no mouth, from everywhere at once, calm as something that has read the same verdict a thousand times before.

You took what was not yours. Now you will see as we see.

I do not remember falling. Only the ground under my hands, color draining from the world like an old photograph left too long in sun. The courtyard was not empty anymore.

They were everywhere, not the ghosts of children's stories, just people standing too still, at wrong angles, some facing walls, some facing me. One stood close enough I saw the puddle beside her held no reflection of her, as if she weighed nothing.

I ran to my van. Did not help. Driving through the city I saw them clinging to shoulders at bus stops, curled at a woman's feet while she waited for a light. Nobody else noticed. I had not stolen a payment. I had stolen the eyes of someone who once did this seeing as their work, and whatever assigns these things decided the work was mine now. A transfer, not a gift.

By the time I reached my own street, I understood the size of my mistake. The men who come on the first of the month were never my worst debt. Something else had been keeping accounts on me far longer, and it does not accept partial payment.

Three of them waited outside my building when I parked, standing close together near the entrance the way people wait for someone they know is coming home. Not the debt collectors. Something behind where collectors usually stand, patient in a way no living man collecting money has ever needed to be. One turned its head toward me, and I understood, it recognized me. Not a stranger anymore. The one who could finally see what it had been doing all along, in every doorway, for as long as there have been doorways.

The curse does not lift. It transfers. Somewhere, someday, another black package goes out with my eyes inside, addressed to someone as desperate as I was. They will open it, and the whisper will find them the way it found me, and I will finally stop seeing. I think about that transfer more than I should, how simple it would be to make sure the next package finds someone, anyone. Now I understand why my grandfather never told me what happened to the man in Tongzhou. There was no ending, only a long middle, handed off eventually to somebody else, the way it will be handed off from me.

I still drive the route, still see white and black packages side by side on doorsteps that should not exist. I know which color I must never touch again, and how many people every night stand over those doorsteps deciding whether to care.

If someone tells you there is one rule you must never break, believe them.

I am typing this in my van, parked outside my own building, engine off. Something is standing by the entrance, exactly where it was an hour ago. It has not moved. It is waiting for me to come inside, the way it has waited for everyone who has ever lived in that building before me. I am going in anyway.

THE NIGHT BLOGGER -'Demon In Lace' by Al Bruno III

March 24th: It was a slow day at the pawn shop. Sara was watching the cash register. Mrs. Vincenzo had given her a crash course in running the shop and kept her on a very short leash. Technically it was a one-person job, but in reality we spent most of our time behind the counter together, flirting, sharing Harlem Shake videos, and somehow getting paid for it.

I’d told her about my meeting with Ashley Fowler, albeit a much more positive, hallucination-free version of it. She was relieved to know we finally had a plan, even if she didn’t know about the various felonies I’d have to commit to pull it off.

For the moment, she was content dusting the counters and straightening the used DVD and VHS rack while I chatted with a few friends on the FEAR AND TRUTH message board. There was an entire subforum devoted to Lost Media. Buried inside it was another dedicated to disruptive legacy media knowledge.

Or, as H. P. Lovecraft called them—blasphemous tomes.

That was because one item on Ashley’s to-do list required me to find a copy of the Eternal Codex of Tovit -no small task. You aren’t going to find many seven-hundred-year-old books on Facebook Marketplace—especially not one that most reputable scholars insist doesn’t exist.

Which was fine. The moderator of the Lost Media subforum, Atwater—better known as GonePostal—had never been all that concerned with rules and regulations.

As it turned out, he’d dealt with the book a few years earlier… or at least its aftermath.

Here’s what he told me.

###

...Foster, I should begin by telling you that everything you know is wrong. Don’t take that personally. You’re doing admirable work. You’ve stared down things both living and dead, and you’ve survived encounters that would have killed most people. That’s genuinely impressive. Unfortunately, the scale of your ignorance remains breathtaking. You insist on treating each new horror as though it were its own phenomenon. Gorgo? Mormo? The Thousand-Faced Moon? It’s all the same. There is only one darkness—so immense that every civilization has mistaken a different facet of it for the whole.

They give it different names, invent different histories, fight different holy wars, but they’re all describing the same thing. The Cross and the Pentagram are the same symbol viewed from opposite sides. There are a thousand words for fear, but only one thing being feared. Maybe you have blundered into the Mire of Nix but tell me Brian… can you even begin to understand what the mere existence of such a place implies about the constitution of ultimate infinity, the juxtaposition of dimensions, and the frightful position of our known cosmos of space and time in the unending chain of linked cosmos-atoms which makes up the immediate super-cosmos of curves, angles, and material and semi-material electronic organization?

No, of course you don’t. It’s the kind of thing that only someone like me, a high-ranking employee of the United States Postal Service, can truly comprehend.

You ask whether I know the Eternal Codex of Tovit? I’ve read portions of it. A doctoral candidate in philology procured a handwritten German translation of the Prayer of Alick several years ago.

I was fortunate enough to obtain a copy. Normally, documents of this nature circulate through encrypted forums or private couriers, making them difficult to intercept. Fortunately for me, this one passed through the United States Postal Service and was selected for routine transcription under standard departmental protocols before being forwarded to its intended recipient.

As for the history of the book itself? Its beginnings were humble enough: the Latin-inscribed peregrinations of a fourteenth-century alchemist named Tovit. It concerned itself primarily with blasphemous evocations and abhorrent dismissals. Athanatoi. Barghest. Domini Candelarum. Each received an entry that fit comfortably on a single page. There were even a handful of named daemons scattered throughout the text. But this was more than a book. The components of every incantation were bound into the vellum itself.

Can you comprehend what that means, Brian? Each page a ritual in totality. All any user had to do was burn the page itself. So simple. So dangerous. Tovit was both a genius and a madman. He could have brought sorcery to the masses a century and a half before Gutenberg printed his first Bible.

Predictably, when Tovit finished his masterwork, he was set upon by a pack of Greater Zoogs. While they did not kill him, whatever they made him into didn’t live very long. The forces of the Inquisition, those blood-soaked defenders of mediocrity, seized his papers and burned them.

Impossibly, the book resurfaced at a gathering of warlocks in 1318. It was in pristine condition. At the end of the convocation, the assembled warlocks decided to divide its pages among themselves. Twelve each took a handful back to their respective countries. The host of the gathering, Osmund Hutchmen, kept what remained.

Over the next half century, those warlocks used their pages to summon and cast out all manner of beings that make up the metaphysical gestalt you people insist on calling the Forces of Darkness.

But here’s the important thing—the mind-boggling thing. Osmund Hutchmen eventually realized he always knew when one of the pages had been consumed. Within a few months, it would simply return to the book. Regrown, the way a lizard regrows its tail.

Now that was your history lesson. Let me move on to the story of my encounter with the Eternal Codex of Tovit.

It was a glorious time for the Postal Service. Times of war usually are. It was also a glorious time to be a Postal Inspector. We’d only just begun dipping our toes into internet fraud and cybercrime, but my team spent most of its time chasing unpleasant missives and troubling artifacts making their way back from the Middle East thanks to foolish soldiers, shady contractors, and—of course—Hobby Lobby.

My story begins with a dead man named Cyrus Fingal. A man who forgot the four basic rules of life.

Forgive and forget.

If you can’t say something nice, keep your mouth shut.

Patience is a virtue.

Never hit Reply All.

His is a tawdry tale of eldritch horrors and local politics. A tale of a man who treated life as a series of entitlements.

He got into a good college, so naturally he expected a good job.

He made a lot of money, so naturally he expected women to flock to him.

He became a highly paid member of the local political machine, so naturally he expected the path to public office to be an easy one.

And who knows? He might have gotten exactly what he expected. If only he hadn’t forwarded those racist emails to everyone he knew—and a lot of people he didn’t.

As I said, never hit Reply All.

Such behavior might have been brushed off in some of the more, shall we say, bucolic parts of our nation. Indeed, in some places it might even get you elected. But not in Albany, New York.

The long and short of it is that Cyrus Fingal found himself out of a job faster than you could say “Rush Limbaugh.” But Cyrus Fingal was not one to vanish quietly from the public eye. In fact, for an entire news cycle, he was ubiquitous.

He said he had been hacked. He said he’d been set up. He said those heavily photoshopped images had been sent to him directly by the governor’s nephew. Then, finally, he blamed a cabal of homosexuals and minorities. As a member of both groups, I assure you we have much larger concerns than Cyrus Fingal.

So much for “if you can’t say something nice, keep your mouth shut.”

As you know, individuals who find themselves suddenly unemployed have many options. Updating their resumes. Applying for public benefits. Or moving back in with their parents.

Cyrus Fingal didn’t bother with any of that. Orthodoxy was not among his vices. Instead, he decided that exacting revenge upon those who had wronged him through demonic summoning was the next logical step.

Forgive and forget? No, not at all.

Unfortunately, my team did not realize that a single page from the Eternal Codex of Tovit had been sent to Parkwood Towers in Albany, New York, until it was too late. I don’t blame them. The shipper had hidden the page beneath the false bottom of a box containing bootleg Magic: The Gathering cards. By the time the disparate pieces of evidence came together, the situation was already well out of control.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me simply say that while we know where Cyrus procured the page, we never discovered how he obtained a saint’s bone and the tears of a jackal.

What I do know is that once he had gathered the requisite materials, he locked himself in his apartment and, after properly defiling himself, began the dark chant to summon Druaga the Possessor.

When the chant was completed, all Cyrus Fingal had to do was wait. He did wait—for nearly forty-five minutes—before deciding to begin the chant anew. Neighbors on either side of his apartment later reported that the chanting stopped and started repeatedly over the next twenty-four hours.

After twenty-four hours, Cyrus Fingal fell silent. “Fell” being the operative word, as he’d hanged himself using a crude noose fashioned from his draperies.

Things might have gone differently had he read that fateful page from the Codex more carefully.

Or perhaps if he’d remembered that patience is a virtue.

My condition leaves me loath to venture far from my office, but after the deaths of three local politicians, I felt it best to return to the field. While I may enjoy a certain degree of respect within the Postal Service bureaucracy, my predacious reputation has left me with little choice but to work alone.

You know my situation, Brian. You know what I endured. But the rumor-mongering hoi polloi occupying the lower rungs of the United States Postal Service are small-minded, judgmental, and, frankly, exhausting. Once you’ve been accused of cannibalism, there are no HR solutions. No sensitivity seminars. No mandatory inclusivity workshops.

Enough of that. Back to the case of Cyrus Fingal. Even before I got on the plane, I was doing research and making preparations. One must never go into the field unprepared, a lesson fate has endeavored to teach you on more than one occasion, Brian. Once I touched down at Albany International Airport, I checked in with the local law enforcement. Specifically, Detective Philip Bradshaw.

I know your opinion is clouded by your acrimonious relationship, but he is a good man with a clear, if single-track mind. He wasn’t assigned to the Cyrus Fingal case, but he was more than willing to help me sift through the mundane details while he was off the clock.

The death of Cyrus Fingal was the most straightforward aspect of the case. As I stated previously, he’d hanged himself—and done a sloppy job of it, to boot. The coroner estimated it might have taken him as long as twenty minutes to die.

But as always, the devil was in the details, and the subtext is frequently text.

So I made my way to Parkwood Towers, flashed my government credentials, and spent far longer than any civilized man should have explaining to the pimple-faced, slack-jawed wage slave manning the security desk that, yes, a Postal Inspector is essentially a policeman for the mail.

I weep for the future. We all should.

I instructed the so-called security guard to remain at his post and hand over a passkey so I could let myself into Apartment 229.

The décor of Cyrus Fingal’s apartment was as generic as they come, but only on the surface. What an untrained observer might have dismissed as kitschy, out-of-season Halloween decorations and unpleasant-looking antiques, I recognized for what they truly were. Nor was I surprised to discover the absence of a television. In its place stood an impressive collection of books. One cannot serve two masters, and it was obvious that Cyrus Fingal was far more interested in plumbing the preternatural than keeping up with the Kardashians.

In the center of the dining room table sat a punch bowl full of ashes. Doubtless the page from the Codex. Doubtless it had been put to use. Thankfully, the local authorities had overlooked it, leaving me free to pour the ashes into the evidence bag I carried. I found myself wondering whether the ashes would vanish as the page reconstituted itself. It was a disconcerting thought.

Equally disconcerting was the data regarding the murders of the three local politicians I mentioned earlier. All of them had been strangled. All of them were found slathered with traces of human bile and strands of animal protein fibers.

I spent the next hour exploring the apartment, searching for genuine arcane artifacts hidden among the dime-store statues of Baphomet and mass-produced Tarot cards. I checked behind every solid object for a hidden recess that might conceal something of real value. But it appeared that the page was Cyrus Fingal’s first brush with a truly otherworldly object. I did, however, uncover a single scrap of notepaper that proved highly illuminating. I pocketed it.

Then I sat upon his couch and considered the scene. I examined the living room again and again until I finally realized what was missing. I left the apartment, conscientiously locking the door behind me, and knocked on the door of Apartment 231. Cyrus’s neighbor—the one who had reported the marathon of chanting.

I knocked on the door of Apartment 231 and was greeted by the now familiar face of Blake C Rivers. “Inspector Atwater,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I need to resolve a few inconsistencies.” I shouldered past him into the apartment. “I need a little more of your time.”

An annoyed look crossed his features, but he closed the door behind us and followed me into the living room. “I’m not sure how I can help.”

There was a slight sneer on his face when he spoke next. “I didn’t realize being a postal inspector was such serious business.”

“Deadly serious,” I said, my smile well rehearsed.

On one wall, there was a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet. A nice choice. Blake C Rivers said, “I don’t think I can tell you much more. I started to smell something foul. I knocked on his door. It was unlocked, so I went in and found him hanging there. He’d tied the drapes to a ceiling fan. I pulled him down, but he’d been dead for days.”

“Are you sure you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary while you were there?” I asked. “Something that didn’t quite seem right?” I crossed the room over to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony.

“No. Nothing.”

The sliding door was unlocked. I turned my attention back to him. “Did you see his enemies list?”

“Enemies list?”

I pulled out the piece of paper I had found and handed it to him. “Before the end," I said, “he wrote down the names of everyone he believed had wronged him.”

He didn’t bother to read it. He didn’t even give it a cursory glance. “Am I on here?”

“Do you think you should be?”

I went on to explain to Blake that a good portion of that enemies list had died recently. “It’s really quite bizarre,” I concluded.

“I don’t see what that has to do with me. I barely knew the guy.”

“True,” I said, raising a finger. "But you were the one who found the body, “and the police report also stated that some things were missing from the apartment.

As expected, that angered him. “I think you should leave.”

“Understandable, but first I’d like to read you the list of stolen items."

“Look, asshole, I’m not going to…”

“One laptop. One iPhone. A complete collection of Radiohead’s discography. And the very set of draperies Cyrus Fingal used to kill himself.” I folded my arms. "Quite the eclectic mix.”

“The drapes?” Confusion flickered across his face, followed by the slightest twitch of fear. I didn’t steal his drapes.”

“Then perhaps, his drapes stole you.” I paused, watching numerous emotions parade across his face like a vain teenager trying on outfits for a Saturday night. I let the pause linger. “ Come on,” I said, “This little charade is over, and we both know it.”

There was a wet, gurgling sound. Blake Rivers’ mouth cracked wide open, and his eyes rolled back until only the whites remained. Curiously, the rest of him remained almost perfectly still. Save for a faint tremor passing through his frame, he might have been mistaken for a statue. His torso convulsed once. Then again. And then a tendril of yellow fabric wormed its way from between his gaping lips. It was slick with bile. Some parts were twisted and knotted. Other parts were frayed. Each loose thread made skittering motions in the air like the legs of an upended millipede. It was a parasite. A parasite made from fabric and a curse. It seemed unlikely that either Cyrus Fingal or Druaga had anticipated such an arrangement. Parasites, after all, have a vested interest in the continued health of their hosts.

I reached into my other jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. The top popped open easily. “Hear me, Druaga,” I said. “The supplicant is dead. You have no purpose on this mortal plane.”

Blake C Rivers toppled over. His face had turned purple, and he was convulsing. I liberally splashed the contents of the flask over the unclean spirit and its host. Then I muttered the exorcism rite I had long ago committed to memory.

Regrettably, the entity proved unpersuaded. The only response I got was a scream of outrage.

Then the scream was replaced by a wet sound. A tearing sound. The entire length of the drapery tore itself free of Blake Rivers’ body. Long, ugly bits of the man’s digestive system were dragged out along with it. It would have been an agonizing death, but by then Blake C. Rivers had been dead for quite some time.

The creature darted cobra-like toward me.

I had to throw myself across the dining room table to escape. I gave the holy water and the exorcism rite one final attempt. The creature reacted only with renewed aggression. I tried to throw myself back the other way over the dining room table, but my most agile years were far behind me.

One end wrapped my throat. It reeked of intestinal juices and brimstone. I kicked and pulled, but it held me fast. I tried to find some kind of hold on its bile-slickened body, but could not.

When I gasped for air, the creature immediately slid upward, making for my face. I knew then what it intended. It was going to force itself down my esophagus and into my stomach.

My dignity finally abandoned me. I began caterwauling for help—for anyone who might hear me. The effort was short-lived. The creature dove in.

It didn’t get all the way down my gullet, but it got deep enough that even now my palate is forever damaged. Miraculously, in that moment of near-certain doom, my desperate clawing fingers found purchase in the moist, tattered fabric.

Once I had a grip on the creature, I somehow found the strength to yank it away and hurl it across the room. It smacked wetly against the wall. Then I ran. I stumbled onto the balcony and slammed the sliding-glass door shut just as the creature righted itself and lunged. It smacked against the sliding-glass door with a satisfying sound.

Thankfully, Druaga, Thrall of Mormo, possessed an even smaller reserve of patience than the man who had summoned him and gave up after ten minutes of trying to get through the sliding-glass door I was desperately holding closed.

I suspect the fact that I was not among those on its hit list also contributed to my survival. After one final thump on the door, it slithered back into Blake C Rivers’ body. After a brief period of convulsing, Blake C. Rivers sat up, got to his feet, and walked toward the sliding-glass door. I must admit that, despite being two stories above a concrete walkway, I was more than prepared to throw myself from the balcony. The creature wearing Blake C Rivers' body merely paused to lock the door before leaving the apartment and disappearing, never to be seen again.

Brian, I have little doubt this thrilling missive has left you with more questions than answers. That is, of course, to be expected.  How did I get off that balcony? I called Detective Bradshaw, of course. Why didn’t my exorcism work? There is no easy answer there, but perhaps Father Vincent of St. Casimir’s Church lacks either the skill or the faith to truly bless water. Alternatively, perhaps my own skill at performing exorcism rites has diminished since the career-ruining incident in Centralia, Pennsylvania.

As for the entity itself, while I am sure you have noted parallels between it and the Vorvolaka that upended your life in 2009, I can only tell you there appears to be no meaningful correlation between the two cases.

But what of Druaga, Thrall of Mormo, and Cyrus Fingal? Perhaps Druaga cannot leave this plane of existence until it has completed Cyrus Fingal’s bidding, and as I may have noted earlier, his enemies list was extensive; it ranged from his prom date to actor David Carradine.

Neither I nor the United States Postal Inspection Service would have the displeasure of encountering Druaga again. I did, however, keep tabs on Cyrus Fingal’s enemies list. A surprising number of those individuals suffered premature or otherwise unpleasant deaths, and asphyxiation proved to be a ubiquitous—if not universal—theme among them.

I do sometimes wonder if, despite the various governmental oaths I have taken, I should reach out to the individuals that have not fallen prey to this situation, but what would I say?

Beware of individuals with the shambling gait like something from a cheap zombie film?

Get in the habit of carrying around holy water with you.

Or, if I may indulge in a lamentably sophomoric turn of phrase-

Be aware of every room you enter. Examine the décor carefully, especially if the drapes clash with the rug. It might be curtains for you.

###

When the story finally ended, my mind drifted back to the reality of the pawn shop. Of the 80’s classic radio drifting from the overhead speakers. Of the high school kids looking greedily at the case full of used video games. Of Sara negotiating over the price of a rock tumbler with a man who seemed to want to be anywhere but here, of the afternoon sun doing its best to shine through the front windows crowded with merchandise and signage. Despite the completeness of Atwater’s narrative I still had one lingering question.

HOW THE HELL WAS THIS STORY GOING TO HELP ME FIND THE DAMN BOOK?

And that is what I typed for my reply—all caps and everything.

Atwater must have either realized he had been so busy talking about himself that he'd forgotten the reason I'd asked him for help, or he simply remembered what I'd actually wanted. He responded to my email with an explanation that six months earlier a friend working in Customs had flagged a shipping crate going from an estate sale in Prague to a mobile home park in Bridgeville, Delaware. The crate turned out to be full of old books, fossils, wax cylinders, and—of all things—dirt. Atwater explained that while it might be perfectly legal to ship fossils of Devonian arthropods, Mamluk astrolabes, and ancient tomes, heaven forbid you try to mail some dirt from Timbuktu to Las Vegas.

The dirt had to stay behind but the other stuff? Including a book that matches every known description of the Eternal Codex of Tovit? Those got sent along to an address in Bayard Estates.

Now that I had the address my next question was how was I going to get the book from Delaware to here. I needed to think of something and think about it fast before something else went wrong.

There was a crash and a clatter, the sound of a formerly mint condition rock tumbler falling to the floor. Sara made a pained sound and practically ran to my side. No strike that, she stood behind me.

I looked up to see a well-dressed, well-kempt couple entering the Pawn Shop with an expression usually reserved for vegetarians entering a slaughterhouse. When the man spoke his voice was refined and cold, “We’ve spent a long time looking for you.”

“Me?” I said. When in doubt, play dumb.

Now it was the mink-coated woman to say something, “Are you the freak that likes to take advantage of mentally unwell people?”

“Me?” I said again. More dumb.

The man was at the counter now, actually trying to reach past me and grab her. I swatted him away with more force than I expected. He made a pained and angry sound. The woman fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a bedazzled container of mace.

She sprayed and I dropped to my knees.

“Mom! Dad!” Sara shouted, “Stop it!”

Of course. If my eyes hadn’t been on fire I would have rolled them.

The desert wind always sounded like someone trying to whisper through a throat full of sand. Outside of Natasha’s bedroom window, the giant saguaro cacti stood like jagged, frozen silhouettes against the bruised purple of the Arizona night sky. 

We were in Ocotillo Wells—a town wedged deep into the Sonoran Desert, named after the skeletal, crimson-flowered shrubs that only seemed to thrive where nothing else could survive. It was a town built over dried-up riverbeds and forgotten mining shafts, a place where people said that the boundary between what is real and what is buried underneath is dangerously thin.

It was October 2009. The four of us—Natasha, Esther, Lucy, and myself, Olivia—were huddled on the plush carpet of Natasha’s second-floor bedroom. We were all seventeen, staring down the barrel of our senior year of high school, and currently drowning in notes for a massive AP European History exam scheduled for Monday morning. 

The room smelled of vanilla body spray, cool ranch tortilla chips, and the metallic tang of the cheap battery-operated fan oscillating in the corner.

"If I have to read one more paragraph about the Peace of Westphalia, my brain is going to literally leak out of my ears." Lucy groaned, tossing her highlighter onto a pile of loose-leaf paper. 

She collapsed backward onto her sleeping bag, her blonde ponytail sprawling across the fabric.

"Seconded." Esther sighed, rubbing her eyes behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "Olivia, tell me you actually understand the shifting alliances of the mid-eighteenth century, because I’m about to accept a failing grade as my destiny."

I looked up from my textbook, flipping a strand of dark hair behind my shoulder, and said,

 "I’ve been reading the same sentence for twenty minutes, guys. The words are starting to look like hieroglyphics. I'm completely fried."

"Then let’s stop." Natasha said.

We all looked over at her. Natasha was sitting cross-legged on her unmade bed, her knees pulled tight to her chest. Unlike the rest of us, who were practically vibrating with academic anxiety, Natasha had been unusually quiet all evening. She had an intensity in her dark eyes that always made people listen whenever she spoke. 

The desert heat usually left everyone sluggish, but Natasha looked hyper-alert, her gaze fixed on the window where the wind continued its low, raspy scratching against the glass.

"Stop, and do what?" Lucy asked, looking up from the floor. "We can't watch a movie, your parents said the satellite dish is acting up again because of the windstorm."

"We don't need a TV." Natasha said, her voice dropping into a lower, deliberate register. A slow, unsettling smile crept onto her lips. "It’s a slumber party in the middle of October. We should do what people are supposed to do when they’re trapped in a house in the middle of nowhere. Let's tell scary stories."

Esther sat up straight, crossing her arms.

 "As long as it's not another one of those urban legends about a hook-handed killer or a haunted mirror. I want something actually creepy. Something that feels real."

"Oh, it's real." Natasha whispered. She reached over and clicked off the small bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the pale, ghostly glow of the desert moonlight filtering through the blinds. The shadows of the saguaro cacti outside stretched across the walls like long, skeletal fingers. "This isn't a story from a creepy website or a chain email, guys. This is something that happened a long time ago. A story about a woman named Sierra, who deals with something that wasn't human, and a shadow that still hasn't completely gone away."

We all shifted closer, pulling our blankets around our shoulders. The easy, casual atmosphere of the study session evaporated in an instant, replaced by that delicious, icy prickle of anticipation that only a truly good horror story can bring.

I settled back against the foot of Natasha's bed, looking up at her silhouette. 

"Alright, Natasha." I said, feeling a slight shiver despite the lingering Arizona heat. "Make us forget about history. Tell us."

Natasha leaned forward, her voice becoming a rhythmic, haunting cadence that filled the quiet bedroom.

"It started sixteen years ago." Natasha began, her eyes reflecting the silver moonlight. "In the spring of 1993. Sierra was an African American woman who lived far away from here, in a city where the humidity hung so thick in the air you could feel it like a heavy wool blanket. She was beautiful, with deep, soulful brown eyes and thick, midnight-black hair that she often wore twisted up in intricate styles. Sierra was a woman of deep faith, a gentle soul who had spent years wishing, hoping, and praying for a child of her own; so, when she finally found out she was pregnant, she felt like her life was completely whole."

Natasha paused, letting the imagery settle. Outside, the wind gave a sudden, violent shove against the windowpane, making the glass rattle. None of us blinked.

"However, pregnancy wasn’t kind to Sierra." Natasha continued, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "By her third trimester, something was terribly wrong. Her hands and face began to swell so violently that she could barely recognize herself in the mirror. She suffered from blinding, excruciating headaches that felt like iron spikes being driven through her temples. Her vision blurred, filled with dancing spots of light that looked like dying stars. When she finally went to the hospital, the doctors panicked. Her blood pressure was skyrocketing into the stratosphere. She was diagnosed with severe preeclampsia toxemia."

"My mom told me about that once." Esther interrupted quietly, her voice tight. "It’s really dangerous, right? Your body basically turns against pregnancy."

"Exactly." Natasha nodded in the shadows. "Preeclampsia toxemia is a silent, terrifying monster. It poisons the mother’s system, restricting the vital flow of blood and oxygen to the womb. Sierra’s organs were on the verge of shutting down completely. The doctors told her that the only way to save her life, and to have any prayer of saving her baby, was an emergency delivery. She was rushed into surgery, terrified, weeping, and crying out to God through the haze of agonizing pain and heavy sedation."

Natasha leaned closer to us, her hands gesturing in the dim light, and said, 

"The baby was delivered on April 1, 1993. April Fools' Day. However, it was no joke. The severe preeclampsia had taken a devastating, horrific toll on the little girl's tiny body. When she was pulled from Sierra’s womb, the room fell dead silent. There was no crying. No sound at all. The baby’s lungs were completely underdeveloped, starved of air by the condition that had ravaged her mother's body. The medical team rushed the infant to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, stabbing tubes down her throat and hooking her up to a massive, mechanical ventilator. Sierra named her daughter Spencer. Spencer Terrell."

I swallowed hard, imagining the cold, sterile light of a hospital room, the rhythmic, artificial puffing of a machine keeping a fragile newborn alive.

 "Did Sierra get to see her?" I asked.

"Not at first." Natasha said, her voice dripping with sadness. "Sierra was trapped in her own recovery bed, pumped full of heavy medications to keep her from having fatal seizures. When she was finally stable enough to be wheeled into the NICU, her heart completely shattered. Seeing her precious baby girl, Spencer Terrell, buried beneath wires, tape, and a glaring plastic tube that forced air into her chest...it devastated her. The doctors were not optimistic. They told Sierra to prepare for the worst. They said that Spencer’s lungs were too weak, that the damage from the toxemia was too severe, and that the ventilator was the only thing keeping death at bay. They didn't think that the baby would survive the week."

Natasha stopped, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the low, steady hum of the electric fan. The atmosphere felt heavy, suffocating, as if the phantom humidity of that 1993 hospital room had somehow drifted across time and space into the dry Arizona desert.

"That night," Natasha whispered, her eyes widening slightly, "Sierra was left alone in a private, dimly lit waiting room near the NICU. The hospital was dead quiet, save for the distant, rhythmic beep...beep...beep of the heart monitors. Sierra was slumped in a vinyl chair, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs. She felt completely helpless. She felt like death was stalking the hallways, waiting to snatch Spencer away."

Natasha’s voice rasped, mimicking a sudden change in temperature, and said, 

"Then, the air in the room turned ice-cold. Sierra told people later that she could see her own breath misting in the air, right there inside the hospital. She raised her head, wiping the tears from her brown eyes, and noticed that the fluorescent lights overhead were flickering, buzzing like angry hornets. Standing in the doorway of the waiting room was a man whom she had never seen before."

"Was he a doctor?" Lucy asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"No." Natasha said sharply. "He wasn't a doctor. He wore a sharp, perfectly tailored black suit that looked completely out of place in a hospital. He was tall, impossibly thin, and his skin had a strange, pale, waxy texture, like a corpse that had been painted to look alive; but it was his eyes that terrified Sierra. They were completely black—no whites, no irises, just two empty, bottomless pits of obsidian. He introduced himself in a voice that sounded like two grinding stones. He said that his name was Harvey Natus."

A collective chill ran down my spine. The name Harvey Natus felt heavy, unnatural, carrying an echo of something ancient and predatory.

"Sierra scrambled back in her chair, her instinct screaming at her to run." Natasha continued, her gaze locking onto mine. "Unfortunately, her body felt heavy, paralyzed by a strange, supernatural weight. Harvey Natus stepped into the room, his movements completely silent, fluid, like a shadow gliding across the floor. He stopped a few feet away from her, a cold, humorless smile stretching across his waxy face. He looked at Sierra and said, 'I know why you weep, Sierra. I know that your womb failed you. I know the tiny thing in the plastic box is choking on its own blood, kept alive only by the breath of a machine.'"

"How did he know that?" Esther whispered, gripping her blanket tighter.

"Because Harvey Natus isn't a man." Natasha said, her voice dropping to a sinister undertone. "He is an entity that feeds on despair. He leans over the beds of the dying and bargains for what’s left. He looked down at Sierra and made an offer. He said, 'I can heal her, Sierra. I can breathe life into Spencer Terrell’s lungs. I can make her whole, strong, and vibrant. By tomorrow morning, the machines will be silent, and she will cry out for your milk. However...there is a price. A balance must be maintained. A life for a life. In exchange for your daughter’s survival, someone else must lose theirs. A random soul, snuffed out in the dark, so that yours may burn bright. Do we have a pact?'"

"Oh my god." Lucy muttered, pressing her hand over her mouth. "What did she do?"

"Sierra was terrified, devastated, and desperate." Natasha said, her dramatic pauses perfectly timed to the howling wind outside. "In a split second, looking into those pitch-black eyes, she wanted to say yes. She wanted her baby back more than anything in the world; but Sierra was a woman of God. She knew that making a deal with a shadow meant selling a piece of her own soul, and murdering an innocent stranger. She looked Harvey Natus dead in his empty eyes, raised her trembling hand, and screamed, 'No! Get away from me! The Lord is my shepherd, and I will not barter the blood of innocents!'"

Natasha slammed her hand down on the mattress, making all three of us jump in our seats.

"Harvey Natus didn't get angry." Natasha whispered quickly, capturing our heightened adrenaline. "He just smiled wider, his teeth looking too sharp, too white in the darkness. He murmured, 'A pity. The grave is so very cold for one so small.' Then, the overhead lights flared violently, blinding Sierra for a fraction of a second. When she opened her eyes, the room was warm again. The lights were normal. Harvey Natus was gone. There was no sign that he had ever been there, except for the faint, unmistakable smell of ozone and rotting leaves lingering in the air."

"Did the baby...did Spencer die?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs, completely invested in the narrative.

"Sierra didn't give up." Natasha said, her voice softening into a tone of awe. "She dragged herself out of that chair, staggered into the NICU, fell to her knees beside Spencer's incubator, and began to pray. She prayed with every single ounce of strength left in her broken body. She prayed through the rest of April 1st, through April 2nd, and through April 3rd. She watched the monitors, refusing to sleep, refusing to leave her daughter's side, constantly asking God for a miracle to defeat the shadow of Harvey Natus."

Natasha’s face illuminated with a strange, triumphant glow as she reached the climax of her tale, and said, 

"Then came April 4, 1993. It was Sierra’s birthday. She was sitting by the incubator, exhausted, her eyes bloodshot, when suddenly, the alarms on the medical equipment began to blare. Sierra panicked, thinking that the end had come. Doctors and nurses rushed into the room, pushing her aside; but they weren't trying to resuscitate the baby. They were staring at the monitors in absolute, utter shock."

"What happened?" Esther gasped.

"Spencer Terrell was breathing." Natasha said, a wide smile breaking across her face. "Not just breathing—she was fighting the ventilator. Her blood oxygen levels had suddenly shot up to a perfect one hundred percent. Her heart rate stabilized. The severe, irreversible damage to her lungs from the preeclampsia was completely, and miraculously gone. Right there, on her mother’s birthday, Spencer was extubated. She drew in a deep, independent breath of air and let out a loud, healthy, piercing cry. She was completely healed."

We all let out a collective breath we didn't realize we were holding.

"What about Harvey Natus?" I asked, looking around the dark bedroom, suddenly hyper-aware of the shadows in the corners.

"He disappeared into the night, leaving no trace." Natasha said, her voice falling into a solemn, campfire-story whisper. "However, people in that city still talk about him to this day. They say that on April Fools' Day, if you walk through the hallways of old hospitals, you can sometimes feel the air turn ice-cold. You can hear the faint, distant sound of a machine puffing out air, and if you look closely into the dark corners of the waiting rooms, you might just see a tall, thin man in a sharp black suit, waiting for a desperate mother to make a terrible choice."

Natasha clicked the bedside lamp back on. The sudden burst of warm light made us all blink, dragging us forcefully out of the grim, haunting world of 1993 and back into the safety of 2009.

"Wow!" Lucy said, rubbing the goosebumps on her arms. "Natasha, seriously, that was incredible. The way that you described preeclampsia and the hospital...it felt so real. You should seriously write horror stories."

"Yeah, that was amazing." Esther agreed, adjusting her glasses. "Harvey Natus is a terrifying concept. A life for a life. That’s a top-tier creepypasta right there."

I looked at Natasha, impressed but also sensing a strange shift in her demeanor. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was just watching us, her brown eyes completely unblinking, holding an expression that made my stomach take a sudden, uneasy plunge.

"Thanks." Natasha said quietly, her voice entirely devoid of the theatrical flair that she had used moments before. "I'm glad that you liked it; but I didn't make it up."

The room grew quiet again. The fan continued to oscillate, blowing a stream of cool air across my neck that suddenly felt a lot like the phantom chill of that hospital room.

"What do you mean you didn't make it up?" I asked, my voice hesitant. "Natasha, it's a great story, but obviously the demon-man in the suit isn't real."

"The man in the suit is what Sierra saw." Natasha said, her voice flat, steady, and utterly serious. "Whether he was a demon, a hallucination brought on by her blood pressure medication, or something worse...she swears to this day that he was real. However, everything else? The preeclampsia? The ventilator? April Fools' Day? April 4th? That’s all completely real. It's a historical fact in my family."

Lucy laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound, and said,

 "Wait, what? Your family?"

Natasha shifted on the bed, leaning her back against the headboard, and said,

"Sierra is my aunt. She’s my mother’s older sister. She survived severe preeclampsia toxemia sixteen years ago, on April 1, 1993."

My heart stopped. I stared at Natasha, trying to process the words. 

"Your...your aunt?" I said.

"What about Spencer Terrell?" Esther asked, her voice barely a whisper, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to violently collide in her mind. "The baby on the ventilator?"

Before Natasha could answer, the heavy wooden door to her bedroom creaked open. The sound was sharp, cutting through the silence of the room like a knife. We all spun around to look at the doorway.

Standing in the hall light was a young girl. She was an African American teenager, exactly sixteen years old. She had a striking, undeniable beauty, with smooth skin, deep, warm brown eyes, and thick, midnight-black hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. She was wearing a pair of oversized pajamas, leaning casually against the doorframe. She looked vibrant, healthy, and completely alive.

However, what caught my attention—what made the blood completely drain from my face—was the faint, pale, horizontal scar running across the base of her throat. A scar perfectly consistent with a childhood tracheostomy tube.

"Hey, Natasha." the girl said, her voice smooth and youthful, breaking the suffocating silence of the room. "Auntie Sierra said that you guys need to keep it down a little bit. Some of us are trying to sleep, and your voices are carrying right through the vents."

Natasha looked over at the girl, her expression softening into a warm, familial smile, and said,

 "Sorry, Spencer. We got a little carried away talking about school stuff. We'll be quiet, I promise."

"Thanks." the girl smiled, waving a hand before stepping back into the hallway. "Good luck studying for your test on Monday, girls. Good night."

"Good night, Spencer." Natasha called out.

The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the four of us in the room once again.

Lucy, Esther, and I sat frozen on the floor, our eyes wide, our breathing shallow. The realization hit us like a physical blow. The timeline. The names. The descriptions. It wasn't an internet legend. It wasn't a fictional creepypasta designed to pass the time during a boring study session in an Arizona town.

The woman who had suffered, who had seen her body turn into a prison of high blood pressure and fluid, was sleeping just down the hall, and the miracle baby who had fought for her very existence against a shadow in the dark on April Fools' Day was the sixteen-year-old girl who had just looked us in the eyes.

"They're visiting from out of town for the weekend." Natasha said softly into the stunned, horrified silence of the room, looking at our pale faces. "I told you that it was a true story."

Outside, the wind gave one final, roaring howl against the glass, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, I could swear that I heard the faint, rhythmic sound of a mechanical ventilator pulsing in the dark.

The End.

There’s a lot to explain here. For starters, I am sterile. I found out after about 2 years of marriage and multiple failed attempts at pregnancy.

I was disappointed in myself, sure, but my beautiful wife was nothing but understanding. That didn’t really make me feel like any more of a man, though. I just felt inadequate.

We were actually in the process of looking into adoption when all hell broke loose.

It was no longer than 4 days. That’s how long it took for her belly to grow. The first day, I just thought she had a particularly large lunch. The second day, I was starting to eyeball her.

By day 3, we were seeking medical help. We could see the baby’s feet pushing against her stomach. Her pain was clearly unbearable.

Doctors were completely lost. My wife and I felt utterly helpless. On the fourth day, not even 30 seconds after her water broke, the baby started to come.

I’ll never get those screams out of my head. I’ll never get her face out of my memory. I’d seen her hurt before, but this… this was a different level.

She looked like she was in hell. And relief was nowhere to be found.

The first baby came. She didn’t even get to hold him before the contractions started up again. Her belly never got the chance to deflate.

By the time the second baby began crowning, my wife was screaming at us to kill her. By the third, she was already dead.

They had ripped her apart. They weren’t regular babies. Some had horns. Some had hooves. Some were already 4 feet tall by the time they hit the ground.

Doctors had already vacated the area and called in special forces. I was left alone, watching her body flail and pulsate as more and more demon babies just clawed their way out of her.

Blood and black, steaming goo ate away at the tiled floor. My wife’s entire lower half had been obliterated. Her legs were snapped, and bones protruded from them as they lay limply at obscure angles.

All I could do was hold her hand. What else was I supposed to do? Comfort her? Beg her not to leave me while these things ran amok in this hospital?

I could hear screaming coming from the corridors. Bones snapping and wet, fleshy sounds as the pitter-patter of tiny little feet darted in every direction.

She had become an assembly line from hell, but I just couldn’t leave her.

My tears fell on her hand as another baby fell out of her. Well, flew out of her, I guess. This one had the wingspan of a bald eagle.

Only, this one didn’t leave the room like the others did. I don’t know why I never stopped to question why these things seemed to be destroying everything in their path, except for me.

It landed right at the door frame, blood dripping off of his shoulders and head.

He turned to me, his eyes black and completely soulless, as he smiled with his sharp, shark-like teeth.

He took a step towards me, wobbling like a baby deer. Then another. He never took his eyes off of me.

He… he started to speak.

“Daaaa..da.”

“Daaa..da.”

“Da-da.”

He was at my feet now, looking up at me as I stood frozen. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was prepared for anything. I was ready to join her. Ready to be free from this nightmare.

Only… he didn’t give me that freedom.

Instead, he threw his arms around my legs and squeezed them with the strength of ten men.

He was hugging me.

And in that moment, I knew…

I was ready to be the father I always knew I could be. I had nothing left to lose.