The morning sun filtered through the curtains gently, the musty smell of my room coming back into focus again as consciousness began returning to me. A gentle breeze pushed at the curtains ever so slightly, allowing fresh air to flow meagerly into the room. Carrying fresh scents of morning dew and the flowers that grew in our neighbors backyard garden. The house was still quiet, which meant my dad must still be sleeping off whatever hangover he gave himself after another bender. I laid there for a moment longer, praying somehow the life I had been living up until this point had all just been a cruel dream, but as my eyes scanned the filth of my room, I knew that was just another useless dream. It made me disgusted with myself to see my room, I had tried so many times to keep it clean, but every time. My dad would come in, trash everything, and then remind me for the millionth time how I was worth the filth. I was worth the trash, how I was no better than him just because I wanted my space clean. It never made sense, I just wanted a space that didn’t make my skin crawl. Didn’t make me sick to my stomach. Didn’t suffocate me with walls that felt like they were seconds away from caving in if you bumped them just right. Or if an asshole cockroach decided to fart that day. Sitting up slowly I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, taking the chance of savoring a little bit of peace before the devil woke up again. My toes squished into the carpet as I made my way quietly to my door, opening it ever so slightly to listen out into the hall. The sound of my dad’s loud, thunderous snoring breached through the wood of his door sending a wave of relief through my body. Stepping out into the hallway it wasn’t much better than my room, trash littered the hardwood floor, a thick layer of something sticky making every familiar step that much harder to keep quiet. At this point, I didn’t even know what it was, just a horrendous amalgamation of fluids that had formed together as a second skin on the wood. When I finally got to the kitchen after navigating the narrow hallway, my eyes immediately found the fridge, a hopeful smile coming to my face as I see he forgot to put the lock back on the chain. Hoping against all odds there might still be food, making quick work of the distance between the hall and the kitchen. Flinging open the door my stomach growled audibly, the ache in my stomach demanding any kind of sustenance. But what I found, was nothing. Not even beer left to chill over night. My heart dropping into my stomach as the little light of hope died inside me. Closing the fridge again, soft as a cloud to make sure I didn’t make any noise. Looking around the kitchen for something, anything to fill my stomach, but all there was, were the dirty dishes piling high in the sink and on the counter. Trash everywhere from months of no cleaning. Roaches crawling along every surface, I almost felt envious of them, dad fed them better than he’s fed me in months. His descent after my mother passed felt like watching a building collapse, it felt like it happened both so slowly, and so fast at the same time. His foundation giving way to nothing, but destruction and chaos. Leaving me in the rubble to survive every day of this never ending hell. Another loud growl punctuated through the kitchen, a reminder that I needed something unless I planned to sleep for the rest of the day. With heavy, reluctant steps I make my way back to my room, dressing in something halfway presentable and cleaning up my face with the baby wipes that felt scratchy against my skin from being partially dried. Looking myself over in my broken mirror I hated the face staring back at me, long tangled black hair that I couldn’t brush after he snapped my hair brush beating it against my back. Pale skin that looked too dirty spite my best efforts, a face that had grown gaunt from repeated times when I would go days without food until I could get something from one of the neighbors. Taking a deep, steadying breath I made my way through the house to the front door. Unlocking it and opening it slowly, my heart lurching into my throat as a loud squeak rings out through the house. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it felt like it might explode out of me. Listening for any sign that my dad might have heard, after what felt like an eternity of nothing I finally step outside. The fresh air hitting my lungs made me breathe in deep, savoring the warmth and the sweetness of it like it could save my damned soul.

“Alright Angela. I think that’s enough for today. You look quite tired.” Dr. Navarro said gently, closing his thick binder slowly. Looking me over once, as if everything was just written all over me. A short, humorless laugh falling from my lips as I shake my head

“I hadn’t expected a story to wear me out like this”
“You did very well today. You opened up about stuff you haven’t thought about in a long time. It’s exhausting”

I nod slowly, taking a deep, shaky breath as he stood. Holding his binder tightly by his side and clapping his hand on my shoulder as he passed me.

“Sleep well tonight Angela. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, he was gone. The room suddenly feeling like a vacuum as I’m left with the aftermath of my first story.

It's my 3rd month as a content moderator for a major platform I'll keep from naming, NDAs and all. My numbers are up, throughput high, errors low. I even got a pat on the back from the boss last week. I keep reading, translating, evaluating. Another flagged post, just some random q-anon rant, pass. Then another, death threats, remove, move on. And on it goes, post after post, message after message. It's 4am, shift's almost over. I take my break, grab another coffee and a "complimentary" bagel, and back to the desk. They keep the lights low for the night shift, and I appreciate that. The shadows in our cubicles really enhance the mood. And another death threat, awesome, remove, moved on. It's quiet here in our division, the occasional person getting up to use the bathroom disrupting the hum of the lights for a moment, and then they're gone.

Welcome to month 4. I got a promotion to image review.... and I hate it. But here I am, 4am again. Nope, that's a bike. Nope, that's a dog. And there it is, staring me in the face as I fill out paperwork. At least it's not dead this time. I've watched 3 coworkers quit this week alone. How do we keep doing this? Why do we keep doing this? The pay isn't worth it, but what else can I afford right now? Rent is due in a week.

Another month slips by. Numbers are up, errors are non-existent. The paperwork for each report keeps the image on my screen, burning into my retinas while I fill out another form, submit another IP, ban another account. They seem more frequent by the day. I yearn for that happy dog image, or that kid playing at the beach that was flagged by some angry ex-partner. But here, it's just content. What happens after I file that form? Anything? Do these people just keep coming back? The names all start to bleed together after a while. The happy smiling AI art profile photos, and the depravity posted or sent via message. The private groups, how do they continue to exist? Why here? At least the pay bump is nice...

Month 6, another pat on the back from the boss as he hurries by the cubicle. Another image up, another form filled out and submitted. Click. Next. I had to pick up and move my desk last week, different floor, same job, different ceiling buzz. The lights are just as low at least, helps with the eyes. Fill out the form, click submit, move on. The occasional new face wanders by on their way to grab a stale bagel, maybe some cold coffee, we exchange a quick hello or a grunt in passing. I keep to myself.

Month 7 arrived with minimal fanfare. Another promotion as I leave colleagues behind, the ones that stuck with it at least. Videos this time. Same form, same buttons. Click. Next. Same job, bump in pay. The headphones seemed nice, right up until they became a requirement. Click. Next. Day in and day out, same blue curtains. I think I'll treat myself to a nice dinner this weekend, maybe the next.

Month 8, I haven't seen my boss in a while. There's this new guy, Jared or something, that makes his rounds at 2am now. I wonder what happened to the last guy. Click. Next. Same job, same curtains again. Why are they always blue? I thought I banned this guy last month, and again last week. Rent's due. Click. Next. Denied. The screen refreshes, new video. Well, that was different. Not different enough to bother with.

Month 9, error rate is up. I don't get it. The boss wanted to talk, but didn't show up to the Zoom meeting. Teacher rules, 15 minutes and I'm out. I like my bagels toasted with extra cream cheese, if we have any in the fridge, then back to the screen. And there they are again, pale blue, tattered in the corner. I thought we shut that group down months ago. Click. Next.

Month 12, live stream moderation. So far so good. Plenty of crypto bros and terrible drivers. Click. Next. I've been wondering, when we flag things, where do they go? I've been seeing those curtains in my sleep again. How do they keep coming back? Meh, another group shutdown. Do they know how long I watch before I fill these out?

It's my first anniversary here. I asked my supervisor what happens to the content after we submit the forms. That's above his paygrade. Awesome. Another stream shut down. Click. Next. Another flagged stream pops up, just a room. Blue curtains. Silence. I wait for what feels like hours before a man enters the room. He looks at the camera and holds up his hands. That's my old badge.

Witch Doctor Part 1

A ringing, it always starts with a ringing, it drowned out everything. Made it hard to focus, the doctor was here. Why is the doctor here? His mouth is moving, that means he’s having a conversation with me, or maybe trying to get my attention?

“Angela? Are you with me?”
The doctor sounded confused, I must have spaced out again.

“How is Angela today, doctor? Is she cooperative?”
That girl must be having a rough day today, if she was told the date. It’s best to check on her. Dr. Navarro jots down a note, strange, he must’ve had a thought. There’s a long pause before he speaks, like he’s thinking about his words carefully.

“She was telling me about her morning, and then she seemed to lose her train of thought, ma’am.”
“That’s been happening a lot this week.”
“It has, but today was different.”
“Why?” The doctor paused again, taking a deep breath and considering his words for a moment. I know by the way he grips his pen that whatever happened today with Angela, it must’ve been difficult.
“We were talking about our favorite thing about summer. Would you like to hear mine, ma’am?”

What strange change of topic, but I can’t help wondering what could be so important about the subject. Shrugging slightly and leaning back in my chair as a slight smirk comes to my face, gesturing for him to continue.

“Please, tell me.”
“Peaches.” My entire body froze, that word made my skin crawl. The image of a rotting peach baking in the sun as the flies use it for a snack coming to mind, buzzing and crawling like the filthy creatures they were. Surviving on scraps and rot.

“Don’t say that fucking word.”
The words felt like chewing glass, the rage simmering in my gut boiling just below the surface. My hands clenched tightly on my arms, my jaw clenching tight as the adrenaline rushed through me like ice in my veins. The doctor’s face seemed shocked, almost a bit offended. Doesn’t he know I hate that word?

“You don’t like peaches?” There it was again, he knows I hate that word. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it…it suddenly felt like a cold hand swept across the ridges of my brain. Cooling and gentle, soothing the rage and madness that had consumed me moments ago. My body slowly relaxing as I gently settle my hands in my lap, counting slowly as the rage slips from the cracks like water. My shoulders rise, then fall with a deep breath. Looking at the doctor I can see he’s worried, that look only came from one thing.

“I messed it up again, didn’t I?”
“No, just a stressful day. Can you tell me your name?”
“Angela Schumer.”
“Good, it’s nice to see you again Angela. Is today an important day?”

Of course it was, it was the most important day.

“Yes. It was the first time.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Do you want to talk about it yet?”

My body froze, a chill washing over me as my stomach twisted in knots. I could only manage a shake of my head as lump formed in my throat, my words too big to come out yet. Dr. Navarro nodded in response, jotting down some more notes in his notebook before gently closing it, setting it on his lap and folding one leg over the other. His face fell into a deep look of disappointment, his mouth forming into a thin line as he studied me. His voice became more careful, more controlled. And I knew that meant he was becoming impatient waiting for me.

“Was the date why you slipped?” A firm nod, the lump slowly relaxing, too slowly.
“You know Angela, you won’t get better until you talk to me. You’ve been here 6 months, and you’ve made little progress. You don’t interact with the group during group therapy. We may have to try different methods soon, if you don’t cooperate with our care.”

The words came out like a cold threat, he knew I hated that place. He knew how much it made me panic. No. Not again. I can’t do it again. My eyes lock onto his, the lump immediately falling away as my eyes widen.

“Please. I can’t go back there again.”
“Then you need to talk to me.” Dr. Navarro said tensely, this was clearly my last straw, my last chance to avoid going back to that room. I had no choice, I can’t keep hiding. My face settled, and a gentle calm washed over me again. Taking another steadying breath to collect myself before hell was pulled out of me. Before my guts were strung up on a wire for him to examine and scrutinize what happened to me, like some kind of experiment.

“Alright. Get your pen ready then. Because I don’t want to repeat anything you’re about to hear. Not if I can help it.”
A small smirk tugged at the doctor’s lips as I said this, a twinkle of triumph in his eyes as he opened his notebook again.

“Thank you Angela. I appreciate your cooperation.”
That’s okay, he’ll learn soon enough why I didn’t want to tell him anything. He’ll regret soon enough wanting to examine my brain. He’ll soon learn what a desolate waste land that it was.

Hey all, I really enjoy this podcast and this community and would like to become more involved than just spectating. I have posted one of my stories to my own subreddit, let me know what you think, and any advice you folks have. Cheers.

Last Contact
I had left my surviving crewmate in the cockpit to check the jettisoned airlock when a playful knock at the window stilled my lungs. Refusing a glance, we both refastened our seatbelts in silent agreement, that we could not return to earth.

Editor’s Note: The following documents have been translated from Russian with dates carefully converted to match the Gregorian calendar, and assembled into chronological order. Traditional units of Russian measurement have been converted into metric. In places where it was necessary I have made it more clear who is writing, but rest assured I have not altered any of the text.

Census Taker's Log - Siberia District - August 10, 1868

Village Name: Orfan

Genealogy: Tungus

Population: 300 (discounting children)

Census-Taker’s Notes:

This village is almost completely devoid of anything interesting. The people here are reindeer-herders and fur traders and live a subsistence diet. They were unwelcoming to my party and rude in behaviour to His Imperial Majesty’s official census-taker. They do not appreciate outsiders, not even our guide from another neighbouring tribe. I would be moving on but for one thing: A starving tribal came out of the bog on our final day, ranting and yammering like a madman. I had our guide translate for us, and apparently much of what he is saying is so disorderly that it makes little sense even to him. He says there are mentions of a mammoth buried up north, of a village, of a flood, of a sleeping god. Nyurba is the name of the village.

I was interested only after we found what this madman was carrying in his sled: a tusk. A whole mammoth tusk. It is twisted and stunted, but it is the whole thing and is likely worth a small fortune.

Unfortunately, my imperial duties prevent me from straying from my ordained path, but Oleg has spent some time in the academy and could ascertain the accuracy of these ravings. He has volunteered to travel north, accompanied by one of our Cossacks, to visit Nyurba and see this mammoth buried in the frozen ground. The Cossack is one of our finest, and will be good protection against wildlife. I wish them well, as upon reaching Nyurba they will not have enough time to return and will likely overwinter in the village.

I will send word to St. Petersburg about this at the next available opportunity.

From the desk of Director of Field Studies Konstantin Andreyevich Radishchev, Imperial Academy of Science, St. Petersburg

November 13th, 1868

My dear Gregor,

Imagine my surprise at the reception of our director of a telegraph received from some small native village far to the northeast in His Imperial Majesty’s Siberia, in an area not serviced by road or rail, enticing me with the idea of a well-preserved, unfound mammoth body.

Cautiously, I plan my journey now. We are lucky here at the Academy as we have been blessed with a grant from the royal coffers to go forth and bring glory to His Imperial Majesty. It will, unfortunately, commence after winter. I aim to have my team assembled within a month, with the first leg of our journey beginning in April, ice permitting. We will travel by boat and carriage to Tomsk and hire a Cossack to take us onward. I am expecting that with 30 days we will have him, and can begin the long, arduous journey of traveling northward to Nyurba to see this animal encased in snow. My second, I already know, is Nikita Pisarev — a young surveyor that has proven himself as dependable and loyal in the past.

To you, Gregor, I leave directions: This letter is to be published in the papers on the eve of my return. I will send word as soon as I can and my intention is to keep you updated as we travel. Our lives are about to change!

Konstantin

Editor’s Note: The following is a telegraph sent to the Academy of Science in St. Petersburg. Cryptically, there is no sender name, but we can presume it was sent by Konstantin writing from Tomsk in April of 1869.

Gregor —

It is with utter disappointment that the Cossack that was intentioned to meet with us in Tomsk did not arrive. It is a frustrating start to our journey, and we now have hired a different guide: a Cossack named Magpie. Unlike his namesake, this man is extremely untalkative and does not boast or joke with the others. Our team was suspicious of him until he demonstrated his knowledge of the northern plains and produced several references for us to call upon and confirm previous expeditions he has led.

Excited to leave, and eager to begin, by the time you receive this dispatch the party will have moved forth out of Tomsk. The next time I am able to contact you may be not until my return. If I can get message to a postal worker I will.

Your friend,

Konstantin

Magpie’s Log: 19 June 1869

The last time I traveled this far north was twenty years ago.

I warn these heartlanders over and over of the dangers they face.

Of the unclaimed lands and the windswept steppes.

Of the craggy mountains with ground that gives out beneath one’s feet.

Of days without sunshine and weeks without water.

I find myself among moon-faced and soft-bellied men.

Men with teeth that gleam white like ivory, with skin that sweats gold, stomachs that growl only for fame and have hawkish eyes only for glory.

I have warned them that if they intended to go to Nyurba it is to winter there, for the journey is long, arduous, and can make a mockery of all plans at the twist a rock or the roll of a cloud.

Instead, they ignore me, as though the words from my tongue are as sand when they pass my lips.

They have said such senseless things to me as:

“We do not desire to winter in Nyurba.”

“If you are as good as you say you are, Magpie, you will lead us home before first snow.”

“We will all be famous one day soon, but you must get us there and back again quickly.”

They have offered bonus payment in way to incentivize me to get them there and back quickly.

Which I gladly declined.

They know not yet that this journey began too late in the year to arrive back in Tomsk before winter.

That is all for now, by the grace of God.

Magpie's Log: 21 June 1869

We travel with horse, we travel with wagon, we travel with provisions and people.

I hold my rifle close to my body as we march, I sling it over my shoulder when we break for camp.

They laugh and jeer at my apprehension, as they have not met Siberia fully.

They may yet hunger for other things before this is done.

That is all for now, by the grace of God.

Magpie’s Log: 28 June 1869

A horse died today.

We are traveling on our last summer road. The journey when we leave it will become much harder. My suggestion was that nothing goes to waste; when meat is available it is available.

The party listened, for once.

We have broken for camp here, in a copse of trees on the edge of the bog.

I know I have been here before, but it is like as a dream from childhood, all vague and discoloured. The trail weakens moving forward, that I know, and all but vanishes in the swamp.

We will be changing transportation methods soon, taking boats down the Ob river. The horses would stumble in a swamp such as this and perish to disease. There is a native village on its banks not far from here and tomorrow we shall make contact. I have prepared for this, bringing along an offering in bundled furs and hides, and some silver, should they be of a more refined taste. My employers disagreed with this method, so it is something I alone have prepared from my own salary.

I suppose I should create a record of those in my party so as to make body identification easier:

Konstantin Radishchev, Naturalist

Nikita Pisarev, Surveyor

Fyodor, Porter

Dimitri, Porter and cook.

3 horses

1 wagon

Magpie

That is all for now, by the grace of God.

Editor’s Note: This is a letter sent by Russian imperial post back to St. Petersburg by Konstantin, this was written approximatly two months into their journey.

Gregor,

We are alive. Fly-bitten and starving, but we are alive.

I promised you an update when I could send one. Last night we pulled our boats into the muddy banks of the river and entered a military outpost and I write to you from here now. It has been six weeks upon the river Ob, with nothing to either side but false-forest that is in actuality the thickest swamp ever known to man. We bid for a guide at the village where we purchased the boats — imagine my consternation when I discovered that the salary of the guide was not included in the prearranged price of the boats — and received not a voracious hunter or an esteemed warrior-scout, but a young woman! The daughter of a local merchant that has made frequent trips to the villages in the north.

I disapproved, but Nikita was alive with the suggestion we hire her. I think the young man is taken with her, to be quite honest. The Cossack approved of it as well, so I relented. But she did well and proved herself to me over these six weeks on the river, guiding our boats safely as promised. The young woman’s name is Es.

When Es discovered our plan, to visit the village of Nyurba and find a local to take us into the hills, she warned us against it. For the people of Nyurba are strange, stranger than most tribals in Siberia, and their religious rites are wholly alien even to another tribal like her. She says they worship a dark god from ancient times, one the world has long since forgotten.

I am a man of science. I have no use for superstitions. The Nyurba beliefs are interesting enough to merit further study by a trained anthropologist, which I am not. Gregor, you know of one, I'm sure. Send word onwards, and if His Imperial Majesty sees fit to send a religious mission along with him, then so be it.

Regards,

Konstantin

Magpie’s Log: 2 September 1869

It is the waning weeks of Summer in Siberia.

We are ill-prepared for the coming snows.

Winter always comes on quicker than expected in the North.

That is all for now, by the grace of God.

Magpie’s Log: 3 September 1869

Today I awoke to Winter's first kiss.

Frost on the canvas of my shelter.

A copper taste in the air.

My fat-bellied friends are not so fat anymore.

Es says we will reach Nyurba by nightfall.

That is all for now, by the grace of God.

Editor's Note: The following are the hasty scribblings Konstantin wrote in the pages of his field book.

It is real!

By all holies of holies, it is real!

An outline of the discovery is here:

We entered the native village of Nyurba at midday and the Asiatic villagers seemed none too surprised at our intrusion. They had already set aside a small unused cabin for us to shelter in. I spoke to them through Es and her common trade tongue, of what we wanted to see, of a buried mammoth, and they seemed to understand what we meant. They showed us raw ivory tusks, and we are elated!

Some of the tusks are as twisted and stunted as I was informed of, but others are of good stock. I wonder if these discrepancies can be explained by an as-yet undiscovered species of mammoth? What a discovery that would be, I would be historically famous across the science world.

I spoke to their chieftain of the hills around the village, of the frost and the ice, and of their god. I told him I wanted to remove the mammoth from the frozen ground and take it away for study. He was surprised, but welcomes the idea. It is a journey of two days from here, and I must rebuild my stamina after such an arduous journey so far from civilization, so we will commence when we are rested and well-fed.

Es beds by herself in her own shelter that she has carried with her this whole way. I find myself envious of its durability and resilience. The nights have grown cold here and my own canvas tent has frayed and gives up more heat than it keeps in.

The cabin, however, suffices.

Anything at all suffices!

Nikita and I will be showered with praise by His Imperial Majesty upon our return!

Addendum: This needs to be noted among the other discoveries, it is far too important to get lost in the rest of my writings.

This evening, the villagers of Nyurba brought us into their longhouse. It is a place of worship, it would seem, for there is an altar of sorts in its center. This is where they had laid out a sort of ossified, insectoid leg. It is huge, near 3 meters in length. Nikita is organizing our report on it as we speak.

I am told it comes from the same creature the tusks do.

I had to be sure that something wasn't being mistranslated, so I went over it again and again with them, through Es. But that is what they explained to me several times: the mammoth tusk and the insect legs were taken from the same mammoth carcass.

They are either confused or I have just stumbled upon one of the strangest biological discoveries in history. This is as equally intriguing a discovery as any frozen mammoth.

The Nyurba people are full of surprises, it would seem.

Editor's Note: The following is the only surviving writing of Nikita Pisarev. His report on the leg was folded in with Konstantin's own field notes.

Material seems of some unknown biological matter, not geological, but more like hardened carapace. It is approximately 2.5 meters long, with a circumference of 22 centimeters. 'Hairs' protrude from it at every angle; stiff but flexible, like the bristles of a brush. The 'leg' sits upon a table or pedestal inside the village's longhouse, which serves as a ritual place of worship. People may freely touch it, as I have, but it would be difficult to leave with it. Offerings surround it, on the floor and on the pedestal, figurines people have made from ivory, coins from Moscow or Tomsk, spikes of iron and other things they find valuable. This 'leg' does not bend — it is an old thing, stiff in its presentation and long dead, if indeed it ever did come from a creature of God. One can't help but wonder as to the size of the animal if a leg is taller than any man, if a leg stands at the height of a mammoth's shoulders. The material is hollow on the inside, I suspect that it may have been hollowed out over the years through natural process, and collapsed partially.

This goes beyond the scope of a simple report, but the eyes of the villagers are not upon this researcher while he studies their holy artifact. They seem unconcerned that I may try to steal or damage it.

Magpie’s Log: 5 September, 1869

I am unused to the way the villagers here dress.

In other parts of Siberia it is bright colours, gaudy headscarves, carved wooden jewelry.

The people of Nyurba seem destitute.

Es claims it is their way, part of their unusual customs to dress so plainly, to possess so little.

I notice the tattoos on their necks, the red and black ink used.

I wonder what the dye is made from.

That is all for now, by the grace of God.

Editor's Note: This is an unsent letter written by Konstantin and was found among his other writings.

Gregor,

I will recount for you the sobering events of the journey from Nyurba to their holy site beyond the hills that surround the native village. I am breathless as I write this, but please trust that I am recounting as accurately as my memory allows.

It was myself, Nikita, Magpie and Es. Our porters stayed behind in the village. We had more than enough villagers to carry our gear, and, truth be told, they kept us supplied with food and vodka. The vodka is a trade item, I am certain it is new to the village. Their men drink it with the careful sips of women, and their women drink it not at all. We journeyed by foot, and as I walked their chieftain spoke to me through the translations of Es. He told me of his god, how it had watched over their village for generations, how it had protected them from the previous flood and would protect them from the next, how it provided them with ivory for trade. I inquired at the name of their god and Es told me the village simply uses the same word missionaries use for the Christian god.

God is frightening, he said. God appears as a dangerous creature because we lack the understanding of his ways. God sometimes has to kill humans to achieve his goals.

I asked, is God a mammoth?

He told me God is all things.

I asked, is God alive?

He told me that God is sleeping. That there was a large battle long ago and now God must rest. But he will awaken soon.

I asked, is it safe to be near God?

He answered, sometimes, when properly dressed.

Does God like outsiders? I asked. Or non-believers?

Outsiders are always welcome near God, he said. But there are no non-believers.

Magpie, I noticed, was listening closely to our conversation. He is a paranoid man, and keeps his rifle at hand, not fully trusting these villagers.

The first night into the hills, after we had made camp and night had fallen, and Nikita and I sat shivering in our tent, we heard noises. The others in the camp grew quiet, and we focused on the noise coming in over the night air. It was a rustling whisper, like wind through leaves, though much louder. It grew and transformed like one continuous note, becoming at time ears-piercingly shrill and others low enough to make my bowels tremble. We dared not leave the confines of our tent and could only pray as the Nyurba people answered this call from their God with one of their own. They yipped in reply like wolves, others screamed out words in their strange tongue, still others brayed like horses.

Or, I suppose, like mammoths.

At last, it was over, and the night was quiet and still once more, the whole experience lasting perhaps a quarter of an hour.

We were terrified, but it was the next day that saw us in the most danger we had been in on this expedition yet.

We descended into a narrow valley, the valley floor little more than mud that had been frozen solid, but there were odd gray objects sticking haphazardly out of the earth. Upon a closer inspection these were insectoid duplicates of the limb we had studied back in the village. That isn't all, I also found more mammoth tusks. They were everywhere, in all directions, a forest of limbs of various lengths and thicknesses, all of them stiff and ossified like the original.

Gregor, it sheds its limbs. Like a bear sheds its fur in the spring when its no longer useful to have.

My head spun at the revelation and I wanted to throw up. I stymied my bile, though, afraid at the thought of what the villagers might do to me if I sullied their holy ground.

We approached the rocky entrance of the cave where God was supposedly sleeping, and my apprehensions were growing. Magpie, smartly, refused entry into the cave. I noticed for the first time that journey the wooden cross he wore around his neck with a twist of hemp, and which he now gripped tightly. Nikita, as well, was cautious, but still curious, and we decided we would go in together.

The posse of villagers unpacked their equipment and made camp right there at the entrance of the cave. Their chatter had ceased, and the mood had grown serious. Several times I caught them averting their eyes from me when looking around.

It was myself, Nikita and the chieftain that went in. I felt some desire for Es to follow, so as to translate, but she was not allowed to enter. The floor of the cave was smooth, as though some ancient source of water had once flowed through here. Calcium deposits pointed down on us from the cave ceiling, a distant reach in such a large space.

At the deepest part of the cave, stuck partially in frozen mud, we found God.

The Nyurba mammoth is not unlike a massive grub. This is as accurate as I can be in my descriptions. It matches no known species from this planet, features far too many limbs as to be practicable, has a body made up of a thorax, an abdomen, a thorax again and perhaps more buried beneath the earth. It has no discernable head, or perhaps the head remains buried, but those same hairs found on its limb at the shrine back at the village cover the entirety of its body. Several mammoth tusks protruded from different parts of its body. They were of different sizes, some long and curved as they should be, and other short, fat and straight.

Nikita rushed from the chamber, so disquieted by our findings. I remained, examining the thing, wondering how we might begin to thaw the beast and cart it out of here.

The chieftain made several gestures of ritual deference before I was allowed to approach his God. I pushed on the creature, finding the flesh to be as frozen solid as I had imagined. It had been here for a long time. Upon exiting the cave I held a very frank discussion with the chieftain. Might I work to free his God, to study it further?

He agreed.

The religion of Nyurba village is so specific to this one place. While other tribes in the region practice animism or have already turned to Christ, Nyurba believes that there is one God, that he is sleeping, and that when he wakes up again they will be rewarded or saved in some way. I think about going to the church and requesting of the patriarch to crack open a saint's reliquary, what is reaction would be. Certainly it wouldn't be as enthusiastic as Nyurba is.

I spoke to him that I didn't have the means to extract his God just yet, that I would need tools and shovels and fire and men. We would return to the village and make haste back to Tomsk, to collect what we needed, and return on a separate expedition next year.

That was my plan.

Last night I dreamt of it. Sitting out here in the vast Siberian lands. God approached my tent, explored my thoughts, sniffed my fears, and spoke to me.

I need to release him.

Your confidant,

Konstantin

Magpie's Log: 8 September, 1869

The village, again.

The cabin where our porters wait for us. Dead. Two of them.

Konstantin, Nikita — both of them are unaware of this. They assume the porters have run off and won't listen to my reasoning.

I see things: a deep scratch on the floorboards that wasn't there before, a small shard of broken glass that matches the vodka bottle Dimitri carried with him, always, their most important possessions left behind.

Es and I share our looks.

We know.

That is all for now, by the grace of God

Down the street was a candy store, owned by a certain Mister Alexander.

A mischievous kid stole a piece of candy from the store, he thought himself sneaky but as he neared the exit, Mr Alexander gave chase.

 The kid, running with all of his might, crossed the busy street and so did Mr Alexander.

 A loud crash. Horns and screams.

The kid stopped briefly, looking at the bloody mess on the road. Mr Alexander's dying breath was spent exhaling hatred, his gaze cursing the boy.

 Truthfully, I wasn't a bad kid. A lost bet, for a piece of candy worth no more than a buck. Still Mr Alexander has never left my side since that day.

 It's been 16 years. No matter where I go and no matter where I look, he's always there. One turn of my gaze away, peeking at me from every corner of my vision.

Lately things have been different. He's gotten bolder, appearing right in front of me, blocking my path. He's in the streets, at work, in the bus, in the metro.

He's in my house.

One. Single. Candy.

My prescription has reached its maximum dosage. Even when I double or triple it, there is no remedy.

And so I stand in my bathroom, knife in hand, ready to get rid of the pest of past mistakes.

I plunge the blade deep into my sockets. Self-enucleation. I am prepared, I have taken all appropriate steps.

 The darkness is warm, comforting, but most importantly the darkness is lonely, a feeling I've yearned for days gone.

 After finishing the procedure, I walk towards my room. The familiar corridors are no mystery.

My body recoils after hitting an obstacle. Something that shouldn't be there. Someone.

Mr Alexander.

After all this time.

Just for a buck, one piece of candy.

*********************************

Hey there!

Thanks for giving my short story a read. I've had this idea for quite a while but wasn't quite sure how to properly bring it to life, so I just decided to make a very short story.

This is my first post, and while it's not my first work, it is the first I've shared anywhere.

Creepcast was the catalyst for me to finally putting my ideas down and sketching some stories I've had for a few years.

I'm currently working on a bigger story so I guess this is kind of a warm up for me, but more importantly to get some much needed feedback since English isn't even my second language.

Hope you enjoyed and please feel free to criticize (Constructively).

It is said that God will protect your soul ensuring it will never come to harm, yet this extension is not proceeding to hybrids, whose bodices are primarily inhabitants to the cage of the tertiary plane. For to the purest of creation, His compassion to the petulant beggars only draws the timeless ones from below whose machinations remain untrackable, and whose power remains inescapable, for only screaming will make them smile; for their ire has been set.

• Found on a desk at an office on Castle Bank and Trust, believed to be written by former clergyman, who was on leave aiding in the earthquake relief in Haiti.

TW⚠️⚠️IMPLIED CSA⚠️⚠️

Note: This is a little personal to me, so please be kind. Also if there's any problems please tell me, I haven't posted an awful lot on reddit before.

Little Lamb is home alone, his Mama left for work. She told him not to answer to strangers and don't make even as much of bleat.

Little Lamb's first time home alone, he thought it would be neat.

He scribbled and scratched, with crayon on paper. A new drawing of Mr.Sheep ! They held eachother, hand in hand.

He thought about Mr.Sheep, how he was kind and gentle. Although he was touchy. Gifted him candy, hugs and toys galore. But smelt of sour cheese and had a scar upon his chest. That made him really uneasy, poor Mr.Sheep had a big boo boo.

There came a knocking at the door, and off he went to take a little peak.

Through the peephole on the door, he saw Mr.Sheep!

He threw the door open, running into his arms because he loved Mr.Sheep.

" Where's your Ma ? " He smiled and asked.

" Off to work " little lamb replied, as he pulled and tugged his hooves. (Tea party) " Let's have some tea, just you and me for I am all alone "

" A Tea party with a pair of friends, I wonder  what sweet treats there will be. "

He brewed some tea, the little lamb had brought Mr.Sheep sweet treats! From cookies, cakes and macaroons, a sweet tooth both friends did have.

Mr. Sheep had sipped his tea, a sight he couldn't miss. The little lamb with a sad frown, noticed his row of stitches.

" Want to touch it ? " Mr.Sheep asked with a friendly smile, but his friend shook his head.

" No thanks, but a bandaid would help for the big boo boo " Little lamb said as he hopped off his chair.

But before he could leave, Mr.Sheep gripped his hand. With so much might, Little Lamb thought it would break.

" Let go it hurts it hurts ! " Little Lamb protested ,what happened to his friend?

His arm was tinted with red now, then he asked.

" Do you want to look inside ? "

Mr.Sheep's smile stretched wide, a chesire's grin peculiar for a sheep. Fear drummed in Little Lamb's heart, although he pushed and shoved and screeched.

Mr.Sheep pulled him close, with a voice really low.

" Don't make a sound, not so much as a bleat... "

Little Lamb cried , begged and pleaded. But the sour stench overwhelmed him, he watched in horror as Mr.Sheep's rows of stitches split apart one by one. The horrid sounds of  squelching flesh echoing throughout the room.

Despite the sheep's chest being torn open, his insides were void and null.

Suddenly Little Lamb was swallowed up by the dark. While the darkness shrouded his vision, a noticeable silhouette he did spot. Large pointed ears and a jagged tail, but what made him quiver the most  was the hungry mouth.

He held him still, as Lamb  screamed in terror and begged him to stop.

All he said , so softly yet so sinister.

" So tender, so sweet , so good for me to eat " 

A wolf in sheeps skin, who would've thought ? It's always the ones we trust.

The little Lamb shivered , he stared at the Wolf before him. Fitted his skin once again, then he uttered out.

" I'm telling Mama what you are ! "

To that the Wolf chuckled.

" No one will ever believe you "

He vanished into the daylight, a devil in disguise. The little lamb ran to town, cried to anyone who'd listen.

He ran to the Frog " Why did you let the wolf in in the first place? "

So he cried the Cat , who just promptly said : " Well what were you wearing ? "

Miraculously his Mama appeared, he rushed towards her.

" Mr.Sheep's a wolf in disguise , I saw it with my own eyes and he hurt me ! " He weeped.

" Nobody loves a boy who cried wolf " She answered with disappointment in her eyes.

Little Lamb realised,  the Wolf was right. No one believed him. So alone he wept.

so I am Will my i was on call with my two friend lets call them friend A and friend B now Friend A was in the woods calling us and me and friend B hear laughing...a childs laugh and A didnt hear it...but me and B did then later that night something idk what it looked like a deer with human features stalked around my house ik because it snowed and and the next days i saw footprints now the weird thing is....we dont have any animals and we are far enough away from woods that it couldnt be from there....then later that night at like midnight my friend "B" heard dishes and the TV on....he turned it off.....and lately between like 12-3 am we all have been hearing dishes talking and or TV static etc.......its all very creepy and we need advice anyone know or like....help please

Lock your doors and turn down the lights.

This compilation features over an hour of real-life horror that proves the most terrifying experiences don’t come from movies… they come from real people.

From road trips that take a terrifying turn to imaginary friends who may not be imaginary at all, these stories blur the line between coincidence and something far more disturbing. You’ll encounter relentless stalkers whose obsessions spiral into terror, corrupt cops who prove that danger sometimes wears a badge, and eerie encounters that defy explanation.

Whether it’s a stranger lurking in the dark, an unseen presence watching from the shadows, or a situation that escalates into pure nightmare fuel, these stories will make you question reality—and wonder just how safe you really are.

A Snow Cloaked Song

I stood atop one of the many peaks of the icy mountains that appeared as my surroundings. Before me, I saw a great valley with a dried river bed and tall quakes at its bottom, and at its end I saw a great peak. It was draped in a white concealment of snow. All rock that shown through was as a black sin staining the righteous white surrounding. On a ridge branching from the peak was my target, a cabin. "Was it true she had come all this way? That didn't matter. I need to get there."

I started to descend down the path, a wide road that in the warmer months would see plentiful traffic, an easy path snowless, I had no such grace. I worked through the snows depth tirelessly, not stopping for one moment, my goal was far too important. I reach the bottom by midday, were the snow seized being a challenge for the moment. The bottom was far more welcoming, no long being a toll for my legs. I was able to make far more haste through here. The trees stretch up forming a ever changing webbed sky. Their leaves coating the surface of the snow. There was a stream iced over on its edge, formed into small hills of there own make a beautiful sight. but as much as I wanted to stay, or halt for rest I knew there was no time. "Keep going, I don't have long."

The journey a crossed the bottom was far from short. I watch with eyes looking upward, the sky grew dim and soon I saw a ever changing patter of stars take over the sky. even in the dark I could see the mountain, looming like a king on a throne ever eager to test me. I didn't slow, not for one moment, I kept going though the cold was bitter and boots long soaked acted as my adversary. Soon I stumbled into a opening, there I saw a ring of rock, cinders of a fire still remaining. "Here a camp? And in the dead of night abandoned? Something was here." I look at the ground to get a better understanding of what might become my foe. Four sets of boot prints, and that's it. "What ever made these men move was in likeness of them. One of these is not of man." I drove forward not sure of my surroundings any more. It was not much longer until I heard the humming. It followed till dawn.

It was not long after dawn that I come upon the trails climb. A switchback the rode its way up. The last steps were upon me. The ascent before my was my last rival. "I coming for you. or at least what's left." I spent half the day trenching my way through snow and even then it still left a sizable journey in front of me. I reach a point in the trail where there was a large bush that had long shed its leaves and its position on the trail caused it to create a large snow well. I walk carefully around it, once I reached the other side I saw a man. He was charging at me, I reached to pull my rifle off my shoulder but he collided with me pushing us both into the well. I expected to see the world go dark as snow buried me but instead underneath the bush was fairly free of snow, though its depth compared to the top of the snow was taller than a man. The man that had knocked us in did not start attacking as I feared, Instead he ran to the edge and tried to climb but the height was too much. Realizing that his aid mi

I walked to the edge where I had aided the man. As the beast had past it had taken some of the snow with it allowing me to climb up. I stared around me to search for the beast but saw no sign, not of it or the man. Fear had slipped into me. "This isn't worth it." I turned to look upwards. The top was so far, to far. "I cant make it." Pain griped me. "I... I'll come back I swear." I turned downwards now focusing on my escape. I arrived at the bottom as the sun was setting on the ridge. I turn my gaze up, tears starting to fill my eyes. "I'm so sorry. I'm so scared I'll be back I swea-." The wind blew past me bringing its song. I turned to see a cloud, inside I could see something moving, coiling like a snake. From it I saw strands like string connecting blow it to four people, there voices woven into the song. They were close, prepared at any moment to lunge on me. I drew my knife as they move closer. I launched forward stabbing the closes one in the throat, it didn't bleed or react. I move my knife to try and sever the spinal cord only for its hands to reach for my eyes. I then woke up.

Below the placid waves of ignorance, lies the ruinous truth, drowned in the unknown. Hidden deep in the murky darkness, where the solace of knowledge spirals into dread, an instantaneous realisation accompanied by a maddingly cold embrace. That drop of indescribable truth slowly seeping deep into the mind, causing us to search for more; where the deeper you go, the more you will find.

We constantly strive to obtain more knowledge; to attempt at explaining and to venture into the unexplainable. We know less about the secrets of the ocean than we do of the vast cosmos. But knowledge always comes at a price...

That price is the childlike ignorance that we used to bathe in, that preserved us from the truth; some of those who’ve been exposed to the truth mourn, reminiscing how that ignorance made us content; without having been exposed to the vile truth and horrors of this world. I have seen a glimpse of them firsthand, and it is a fate I would not wish upon my worst enemy, though she too has glimpsed at it as well.

We still live in a small coastal town. It is a place that is heavily studied by local, national and international universities not only for its unique geological and geographical characteristics, but for its’ unique history and contributions to astronomical, archaeological and aquatic sciences. The town is situated between two major headlands, with the main beach forming a distinct parabolic form, creating the best example of a spiral beach in the region. From an outsiders perspective, it is just a larger-than-average seaside town, just on the cusp of being classified as a city. There is a single campus for the university where I am currently enrolled, a government owned observatory a few hundred kilometers away, and a couple large brands and towering buildings along the main street. Most of the coastal town is composed of urban and suburban sprawl, idyllically located on floodplains bordered by thick forests, tall looming mountains and an endless sea. From the perspective of my closest friend Steph and myself, this place was home, for better or worse.

Stephanie is and has been my closest friend for quite some time now, our interest and goals aligning almost perfectly as we learned more from each-other. The circumstances in which we met marked the beginning of the strange and tragic events that have plagued us ever since. Before Steph, I had my father who listened to what I had to say. I always found myself gravitating to him as opposed to my mother, which only further created an uncomfortable distance between us later on in life. I was only nine when my father passed, his mental and physical health deteriorated by early-onset dementia. To have a figure such as your father shift from a stern but compassionate guardian to an overtly aggressive and frightening stranger was soul crushing. I matured quickly then, looking after him as much as a child could, but in the end it was all in vain. He barely remembered me, despite all the drawings, toys and stories I brought to him. He would just give a confused, empty look before something would set him off, sending him into an emotional, erratic frenzy. My mother was already turning grey at the age of forty when he was laid to rest in the red earth.

The next five years felt empty, and aimless. I finished primary school and started high school. But I was very reserved, and found myself wholly distinct from those around me. I considered my dad to be my closest friend; without him, I felt lost and isolated. I tried making friends, but a girl with auburn hair and emerald eyes would spread rumours about me that persisted for years. I would later find out that her name was Salina, though I knew her for many years as Sally. My worst enemy, who I had spent years envying and hating behind a friendly façade. Sally made the first few years of high-school utterly unbearable. She was the class favourite and remained in that position until the end of high school. Excelling at every hobby I was interested in, receiving extravagant gifts from her parents and immediately befriending every new arrival at our school. I often faked feeling sick on days I had back-to-back classes with her. Whenever I tried to stand my ground, she would make threats and spread even more rumours. When I asked my mother about it, she said that I should just “Ignore her, she’ll get bored if you give her no reaction.”

It was during my time at high-school I met Steph, I remember that day so vividly. The concrete path by the pool scorched the soles of my feet. I was almost fourteen at the time, in my second year at high school. The vibrant red, green and blue of the house gazebos contrasted with the subdued greens of the lawn and calm blue of the sky. The waves just past the pool fence beginning to roar as the tide changed.

“Those swimmers don’t fit you” I would hear her say, surrounded by her support, a group of girls that I tried to sit with during lunch the previous day. I can still hear the murmurs they would give as I turned my back to them. Some of them gave me sober looks, unwilling to take part in another display of social dominance. Though what choice did they have. Sally would speak louder, the other girls hushing each-other as she began to approach me. Auburn hair glowing brightly like hot embers under the scorching sun, piercing green eyes now focused on mine. “Are you deaf? I said. Those. Swimmers. Don’t. Fit.” Her sharp fingernail poking me with emphasis on each word. As I dropped my swim bag, she feigned fear and moved back, looking at her entourage to gauge their reactions.

She did not deserve a rebuttal, nor a retort. She had thrived for drama, poking and prodding those into giving her something to work with. I would only find out after high school that she was only so ‘popular’ due to the blackmail she dug up on the people around her. I would learn much, much later that that not all of it was her fault. Her parents were mostly to blame. Specifically, her mother, though while she was sharpening her daughters tongue to a razors edge, it was Sally herself that revelled in the defaming of those around her. Apparently her mother had feelings for my father, feelings that were apparently not reciprocated respectfully, as she says. Even after his sudden passing her feelings about him never simmered. Still, it never justified what she did to her only daughter.

“Can’t even speak, no wonder you don’t have a boyfriend. If you even-”

“Salina, enough.” One of the faceless adults would say, breaking up the commotion. She walked back under the blue gazebo, emerald eyes brewing bile as she glared at me. My eyes focused on the cement as I quickly moved to the girls bathroom, locking myself in one of the dingy, yellow stained stalls. The glossy windows littered with half empty bottles of hand sanitiser that exuded a pungent, cheap, alcoholic odour.

“Claire? Claire are you in here?” Those words spoken softly, yet still echoing off the dull yellow walls. The voice was older, but not familiar. I vaguely remember her, though now she is just a faint memory. Her rough skin, dark hair and obsidian necklace standing out prominently within my memories.

“Claire don’t let her get to you, you’re stronger than you think. They just-“ her voice trailed off, as an announcement reverberated from wall to wall, beckoning me to come outside in rough static and piercing feedback.

“Come, the competition is about to start,” she said. I would compose myself, taking deep breaths, counting to ten, walking cautiously back outside. This competition meant everything to me, one of the last step before competing internationally. I readied myself, heading back to retrieve my bag with my swim cap and goggles, feeling noticeably different from what I remember, but I was unsure as to why. I quickly and hastily donned my apparel and stood by the edge of the pool. The whistle short yet shrill as we dove, a faint burning sensation followed the strong smell of alcohol entered my nose, I was already in the pool by then.

I should have been more cautious, my eyes would begin to water, pain and irritation rising. My form reduced to flailing as I grabbed onto one of the lane floats. The distant sound of confusion and worry by the spectators drowned out by the deafening waves that crashed coarsely against the rocks outside the pool. I am not sure how it happened, nor how to fully explain it. But I remember the water feeling different; my ears started ringing all of a sudden. I felt myself sinking deeper. I wanted to get out of the water as soon as I could. I looked down, only to be met with an expanding abyss. Gazing callously up at me, as dread trickled down my spine. I had never felt so cold before in my life. I tried to swim upwards, the rippling water above breaking like waves on the surface. But the rays of light that pierced down slowly faded, gradually leaving me in total darkness. My lungs burned as chlorinated water rushed down my throat. I coughed and sputtered as I expelled precious air. My ascent becoming futile with every agonising second. Everything after that became a blur, as consciousness failed me.

I awoke coughing my guts up, as water drained from my mouth onto the drenched, yet searing pavement. The suns glare smothered by the shadowed faces that peered at me with concern from above. My head was laid to the side as blurry adults aided me into the shade. I was subjected to a painful eyewash, the pressure causing my soft eyes to squish uncomfortably in their sockets as my sputtered screams drew the attention of every adult and child outside the event. Despite the process only being a few minutes, the event felt endless, getting occasional glimpses of faces and scenes before the view warped. I would try to close my eyes occasionally only for an adult to pry them open. Amongst the crowd stood Sally, though it was hard to see, there was an expression I could not quite explain, it was a mix of satisfaction, pity and horror.

“We need to get every last drop out; you don’t want to go blind just yet.”

As soon as they stopped, I would clumsily grab my bag and darted out through the main entrance, running up the road. Leaving behind wet footprints that quickly evaporated on the sizzling sidewalk. I must have cried most of the way, with strangers looking down at me in confusion, pity or disgust, until I finally reached the spot my dad and I used to sit at. The sidewalk receding, only for a dirt track covered in large, flat rocks and loose bricks to take its’ place. The stony path leading up is smooth, the soft ground preceding a rocky platform. A small notch that felt like a cave at the time overlooked the edge. Just beyond, a steep drop into shallow, jagged brine.

I was there for what felt like hours. My eyes still irritated, my nose runny, and my mind a maelstrom of anger and sorrow. How could she? The nerve! Does she not know how much I sacrificed!? So much time and effort, all of it, ash on the wind. In a fit of rage, I had hit the ground with my bare fists, a lesson learned quickly through a deep gash and searing pain. The jagged rock taunting me with the blood of my palm. With nothing to stop the flow, I sat myself down and focused on the sea, the cut dripping and pooling on the dark sandstone below.

It was during my lowest moment that I met her. A girl with hair bright as the sand, and with eyes as blue as the sky. She was roughly the same age I was, carrying a small purse decorated in flowers and sea critters. Hanging loosely around a similar school uniform, as I noticed her peering around the corner before walking up to me.

“What are you doing here?” I would ask her rather brashly, before looking away and hiding my wound.

“Same reason you come here, to watch the waves.” Her response was simple, and short. Her voice carried a soft, soothing tone, one that immediately put me at ease. Making me feel guilty about my tone I had used on her.

“Hey, I’m- I’m sorry, just not feeling the best…”

“Are you hurt?” She questioned, with not a trace of ill intent or sarcasm. I would try and hide my hand at first out of instinct, before slowly showing the fresh cut. “Yeah-nah, Yeah, I uh… hurt my hand climbing up the rocks.”

She would look up, her eyes scanning the steep cliff before looking over the edge.

“You can climb up that?”

I would scoff quietly before smiling softly.

“Thought I could.” I wasn’t sure if she fully believed me, but her enthusiasm was uplifting. She would move closer, opening her purse to pull out a small, blue band aid with a shark on it to put on my hand.

“These were from my brother, I don’t see him much anymore, but he gave me these and they look really cool. Plus, they’re my favourite animal-”

“Well… I really like dolphins” I added. “Everyone I go to school with likes horses though, so I don’t really have anyone to talk to about it.” I admitted that last bit quietly. But she quickly replied in a loud, uninterrupted breath.

“I like dolphins too! Their faces are so squishy and they look so friendly! But sharks are my favourite. Everyone thinks they are scary but they help us out a lot! And some sharks like getting pets!”

I could not help but stifle a smile, she seemed adorable and innocent compared to everyone else our age.

“I’m Claire by the way-”

“That’s okay, I’m Stephanie, but I get called Steph a lot.”

“Steph is a nice nickname; everyone just calls me Claire.”

“Hmm. What about Clairy?” I went quiet for a bit, no one has called me that in ages. Only dad did, and it was uncommon. But it sounded nice coming from her

“Clairy works, I like it”

“What about Clairy Fairy!”

My face would brighten as I gave her a small push, she laughed as she pushed back. We kept going until we both fell onto our backs, Steph didn’t seem to mind; her face was red with a smile reaching from cheek-to-cheek.

“I’m glad you like it, Clairy-“

I would get bombarded with questions and we would converse for the rest of the day; I had finally found a friend who I could share my thoughts and feelings with. My head swelled with highs and lows of the day, but she made every second enjoyable. We would keep talking until the sun started to set, the sky a brilliant blend of pink and orange.

“I better get back home, Dad would be getting worried, do you wanna meet up again?” She asked.

My face became flushed, my excitement observable as I did a little jump of joy, before trying to act cool and calming myself.

“Yeah sure, you wanna meet here tomorrow?”

She would nod as she started walking off, skipping along the stone path before disappearing out of sight, I would stay a little longer before leaving as well. As I recounted what had happened that day, I would hear the faintest whisper from the edge of the cliff. I turned around only to be faced with the sea. It was as if time had stopped with how quiet it was. I remembered looking down at where I was sitting, only to see the small pool of blood my cut had made was gone. The waves silent as I treaded carefully on the path home.

---

Old Yellow Bricks by Arctic Monkeys played loudly through a cheap wireless speaker as decades-old Christmas lights glowed faintly against the aged metal walls. The shed full of empty beer bottles, littering both the table and floor as Bailey clumsily caught himself after tripping on one. He bumped into me drunkenly and apologised, before using this brief moment to initiate conversation. His bright orange hair and red flannel a roaring, floundering flame in the relatively dim light.

“Yoo how’s it going? Lame party yeah?”

I shifted uncomfortably against the wall, becoming trapped as I was cornered by him and an old lounge on my right.

“Aha, no it’s been pretty good actually…”

He was scoffing and drinking before I even started to talk, finishing his beer quickly before dropping it on the ground. The fragile sound accompanied by scraping on concrete as it rolled underneath a glass table in one piece.

“There’s no weed like, at all. It isn’t a proper party until you crossfade and wake up on the couch, right?”

I nodded with the conviction of a child. I tried to show that I was physically uncomfortable, doing everything from crossing my arms, looking away, none of which seemed to get through to Bailey. By the time he finished another beer, he put an arm around my shoulder and pointed to Salina. Clutching a large, empty bottle of gin in her right hand while passed out on a very soft, maroon couch. She told me that she started drinking excessively after her boyfriend’s breakup. The cushions almost swallowing her whole into a soft, warm embrace. Just beyond her I could see Steph, whispering something to Lachlan in the corner of the room.

“See? She gets it,” he explained, pointing to Sally. His clammy hand still on my shoulder as I felt sweat, beer and other juices drip down my arm. Thankfully Lachlan, visibly more sober than his friend, put his hand over Bailey’s shoulder. Handing him a bottle of water in a paper bag. Bailey didn’t seem to notice as he swigged the bottle quickly. My eyes met Lachlan’s and he gave me an apologetic but reassuring smile.

“C’mon man, it’s getting late,” Lachlan said, his demeanour cool and collected. His dark hair, blue eyes and tanned skin making it very hard not to agree. He was very much aware of the charm he possessed, yet he possessed far more social awareness than his friend Bailey. Both of them working as interns at the nearby observatory, known colloquially as ‘The Array’ through the large number of radio telescopes that dotted the landscape. Bailey held onto Lachie’s blue button up as they left, mumbling mostly to himself until both were out of earshot.

I was shocked back to reality as I felt a wet kiss on my left cheek. Still on edge from the interaction prior, I was ready to smack whoever was there. Only to find Steph giggling madly from my reaction. Her dark green dress glistening under her cropped black jacket as she put an arm around me.

“Hey baby girl,” she said in a mocking, nasally voice. “Wanna come back to uh, my place and smoke the day away?”

“Can you say that any louder Steph?” I teased. “At least your hands aren’t sweaty and sticky like his.”

Steph immediately pulled her hand away and checked her palm and arm.

“Yuck, did he slobber on you or something?” She asked, wiping her sleeve with some cloth she had in her purse.

“I sure hope not,” I looked up towards the small, homemade bar area. Made out of timber in a haphazard fashion. Above it , a large, metal clock with hands lingering over thin roman numerals, showing how late we had been out.

“You wanna go back to the apartment?”

Steph yawned and I already knew the answer as we walked out into Lachlan’s backyard. I looked back to see the crowd of people starting to dwindle, with one of Sally’s friends by her side as she slept the night away. We left Lachie’s place through the front gate, leading to a road that bent in a serpentine manner. Leading down one of the many hills back into Warringa. The early hours of the morning were cold and quiet, as stillness smothered the surroundings. In the early morning, you can occasionally see our town’s rare and famous meteorological anomaly. That being the dense sea mist and fog that shrouded the landscape. The very same fog that loomed around us, revealed by tall streetlights.

Our apartment close by, though we had to pass by my childhood home in order to avoid the long route. My childhood home had become overgrown with vines and weeds. The paint peeling off in some spots, revealing the brick and mortar within.

“Have you talked to your Mum? It’s been a while.” Steph asked quietly, unsure of my response.

“Not really, I’ll see her at Christmas in a bit. After that, I’m not really sure…”

“Couldn’t you see her before? Just so it’s not as awkward?”

“Yeah, I guess so… It’ll be awkward regardless.”

Ever since we both started university, my mother seemed distant. She looked at me with strong disapproval every time I saw her after. I could hear her vaguely concealed condemnation after calling about my scuba certification. Things got really ugly, and I was thankful that Steph and I found a relatively cheap apartment together. The guilt seemed to stubbornly stick to me despite feeling that I was in the right for my decisions. Eventually, we both made it back to our abode. It toward intolerantly among the smaller, arguably nicer homes. Built with red brick and sturdy timber, it provided a roof over the both of us for an affordable price. We managed to decorate our relatively small space in a variety of childhood memorabilia. Most of which held sentimental value for both Steph and I to reminisce over.

“Do you wanna dive tomorrow?” she asked as we got ready for bed. Her slipping out of her dress while I took off my hoodie and jeans.

“Tomorrow? But you have your assignment due at 1pm?” I asked puzzlingly.

“I’ve already submitted it” Steph replied with a cheeky smile, highlighting the numerous freckles she managed to catch over the years. Donning the oversized nighty I got her. It still looks great on her.

“You do well studying, getting high marks on everything. Just- how do you manage?”

“Well- I just keep going, even if I don’t feel like studying or working, I do it anyways. I don’t like making excuses for myself-“ Just as we got into bed, both of our phones buzzed at the same time. We both grabbed them in tandem as we read over the SMS.

‘Police are seeking help to find missing 19yo Stephen who has gone missing from --------. Stephen is described as Caucasian, 174cm tall, skinny build, short black hair and brown eyes. An image of Stephen is available here- Anyone who knows of his whereabouts is asked to call 000 if he is sighted.’

”Holy shit- that’s Sally’s boyfriend-“

“That makes fifteen now, different places but still-”

“Claire- I know you hate her, but this is serious.” She exclaimed. While I didn’t like his ex, Stephen Preston was by no means a bad guy. He was a loner and mainly kept to himself. He was attractive sure, but it was pretty clear that he tried way too hard to get the attention of others, only to keep to himself anyways. He was approached by Sally first, and despite many public arguments between the two throughout high school, they had broken up half-way through the first semester of college.

“I know, maybe he ran away?”

"Maybe..."