Hello to all writers and readers of the Creepcast Community!

[PART 1]

[PART 2]

I flinched as the sunlight hit my visor. Muscles tensed, I stood still in my backyard, waiting for the poison of the sun to take over my mind once more and sit me down in my rightful place next to my sister.

10 seconds passed. Then 20. Then 30.

…

…

…

I felt the heat begin to swell inside my extensive getup. It became clear to me that I could only be outdoors for so long at a time in this winter outfit. Feeling this discomfort, I realized that nothing in my head had changed. The sun hadn’t taken over my mind. I was still me. My plan had worked.

Breathing out a shaky, anxious breath, I made my way over to my family, heading for Bowser first. He was the smallest and easiest target to pick up and bring inside, so it was the logical choice.

A part of me knew he was already dead. My experience of sitting under the sun with them had confirmed it. But this was my first and only pet, so I couldn’t really grasp the concept of him dying just yet. And even if he was lost to me, I certainly wasn’t going to just leave him out here. I picked him up off the ground, cradling him with all my strength, and began walking back to the sliding glass door. He was unnaturally stiff. His legs stayed pushed out straight even when I picked him up. My lip quivered as I made my way into the house. I couldn’t look at him because I couldn’t afford to break down again. I had a job to do. I needed to save my family. I laid him on his doggy bed next to his water bowl and patted his head. He looked peaceful and happy. I scooted the water bowl closer to his dry nose just in case he decided to wake up and take a drink.

Next, I went to my sister. I stood in front of her, casting a shadow over her face where she sat. Her wide smile barely wavered, and she shifted her gaze from the sun to me. I grabbed her shoulders as gently as I could and said,

“Come on, Carmen, it’s time to go inside, okay? We are going inside. Get up.”

I tried to help her up, but she wouldn’t budge. Her smile turned into a frown, and she grunted something that I couldn’t hear through the helmet. I wondered if she had the cognitive capacity to realize it was her brother or if she genuinely thought a 12-year-old Master Chief snowplower had come to kidnap her.

“It’s just me, Carmen. We are just going to go inside for a little bit.”

I grabbed her forearm and gently tried to pull her up. Her skin was red and raw with blisters, and I knew from personal experience that any excessive contact with skin this badly damaged could lead to worse injuries. Despite my gentle touch, she pulled her arm out of my grasp and grunted again. I hesitated for a second, taking a step back and deciding what to do.

Free of my shadow, she turned back to the sun once more, her blistering lips curling into a wide smile. I decided I had to use force to get her up. It would for sure be very painful for her, but it was better than dying slowly out here.

“I am sorry about this.”

I went back up to her, grabbed her forearm, and began pulling hard. She let out a grunt of surprise that turned into a raspy scream of pain as the blisters under my grip tore open from the strain. My parents both turned their heads toward us. Carmen's legs didn’t straighten, and her head fell back as she mustered every bit of her remaining strength to resist my grip. Her grotesque, broken screams of pain brought tears to my eyes, but I didn’t let go. We struggled for a bit, my visor fogging up from the sweat building up in my suit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad very slowly push himself out of the chair, knees shaking as he straightened out his legs and began to shuffle over to me. I turned to look at him.

“Dad, please, please help m—”

My father mustered enough strength to hit me in the head with an open-palm strike, snapping my head back and causing me to lose my grip and stumble backwards, falling on my butt. Carmen fell back into the seat, the white handprint of my grip clear on her arm. She turned back to the sun, tears streaking down her face, her smile flickering as the mix of the pain of her arm and the pleasure of the rays battled for dominance in her head. I began crying once more. For the first time in my life, I was terrified of my own father, who towered over me, swaying as he struggled to hold up his own tired frame. I wasn’t really hurt. My helmet had absorbed the blow, but the shock of being hit for the first time, and by my father of all people, immobilized me. He looked at me for a few seconds before turning around and hobbling over to his chair and sitting down again.

As the shock of the situation began to fade, I felt another emotion take over: anger. Fuming, I went up behind Carmen's chair, grabbed the backrest, and began dragging it. I was sweating profusely at this point, but I didn’t waver. I jerked her chair backwards, again and again, dragging it through the overgrown grass a few inches at a time. She began screaming again, seemingly aware of what I was doing. This time, both my parents began standing up slowly and turning to us. I tried to pick up my speed.

I just have to make it to the shade. Just a little further. They won’t follow me into the shade.

I was about halfway to the door when my strength began to waver. I felt myself begin to overheat from the effort. My parents, in a zombie-like state, still smiling, kept pace. I could tell how weak they were, how physically painful it was for them to trudge forward like this after cooking themselves under the sun for the past 20 hours.

At this point, I think I had completely lost them. They were no longer my mom and dad. They were slaves to the sun, and I wasn’t complying with their master.

I am so weak. The thought invaded my mind as the chair became heavier, the friction of the grass making it harder to pull. I put my head down, focusing my efforts, and continued to pull, ignoring how close my parents now were to us.

Just a little further. I just have to make it to the house.

I huffed and puffed, and the chair became even harder to pull. My sister was howling and crying, even harder than before. I looked up, and my mother was pulling her other arm, but Carmen had a death grip on the chair. My dad was coming up to me, hand raised, getting ready to swing with full force again. I yelled and yanked with all my might, hoping to break my mother's grip and pull Carmen and me into the doorway that was a mere two feet away. My gloved hand slipped, and I stumbled backwards, trying to regain my balance. The thing that used to be my father was towering over me once more. He let out a deep grunt like a caveman as he buried his fist into my stomach. I doubled over, gasping for air, the wind completely knocked out of me. It felt like I was suffocating. The mix of the heat and the shock of the pain had me grasping at my helmet, trying to take it off so I could breathe. I realized what I was doing and spread my arms out to stop myself. I looked up through a completely foggy visor and saw my dad stumbling, trying to maintain his composure, before taking a step towards me, lifting his foot, and stomp-kicking me in the head.

“Please!” I gasped, head ringing. “Dad.”

He stumbled backwards after the effort from the kick and fell to the ground, where he lay down and spread his arms and legs as wide as he could, soaking up the sun and smiling again. My mother was already pulling Carmen's chair back with my sister in tow. Her head was slumped down, and she was breathing heavily. She stared up at me through her bangs, already smiling again. I was fully overheating now. I crawled on my hands and knees back into the house in defeat. I pulled off the helmet and the balaclava and gasped greedily for the cold, air-conditioned air. Maybe if I spent more time being active instead of wasting away playing video games, I would have been strong enough to at least save my sister.

There has never been a time in my life when I felt as useless as I did in that moment. The bitter taste of failure is often the best motivator for self-improvement, and that was enough motivation to last me a lifetime. I still work out excessively to this day so that the next time I need my body to be strong enough to help someone, I will be ready. My parents were probably, at that point, suffering from extreme dehydration, sunburns, fatigue, and aches and pains in general, but they were still too strong for me. All I had to do was drag my sister, who was sitting in a fucking chair, into the house 35 feet away, and I failed.

Another thing about experiencing this level of failure and tragedy as a child is that as an adult, you don’t have much to cry about in comparison. In fact, the only times I have cried in the past decade have been in my dreams with my family and when I wake up from them.

As I lay on the hard floor and watched my dad do snow angels in the grass and my sister's chair be placed back in its spot next to my mother, I cried. I cried and cried and cried. I crawled over to my dead dog, buried my face in his coarse fur, and cried into him. Wouldn’t it be a miracle if my tears could soak into his skin, rehydrate his body, and bring him back to life? Maybe then they would be good for something. I wished for this all to be over. I wished for this all to be a horrific dream. What chance did I have against the sun?

………………..

After about a half-hour, I ran out of tears and had no choice but to get up. I walked over to the sink, turned on the faucet, and chugged enough water for all five of us. I filled up the biggest water bottle we had, put on my headgear again, and walked outside to douse each of them with water. When I held it up to their mouths, they didn’t drink. They just pushed the bottle away.

I went back inside and filled it up again before emptying the contents of my school backpack onto the ground and shoving the bottle in it. I walked up to the front door, giving one final long look back at my family. They were all sitting side by side again, hand in hand. If I didn’t find someone strong enough to help me soon, they would die. If I wasted any more time letting Hudson stay out there alone in that park, I was sure he would too.

I felt a hollowness inside of me as I stepped through my front door and out onto the street.

I reckoned I had a real chance of saving Hudson. He was even skinnier and smaller than me, and he would likely be incredibly weak by now (if he wasn’t dead), which would make him easy to drag into a house or under a shady tree. I couldn’t guarantee that the efforts I spent trying to save my family would ever pay off, and the more I pushed my parents to react physically, the higher the chance they had of suffering heatstroke. If I could grab hold of Hudson, I was sure I would be able to save him, and maybe if he recovered in time, I could suit him up and we could work together to try and save my sister.

Hudson was my one and only friend in Goldfield. We both sat at a table with a bunch of jerks at lunch on the first day of middle school who chose to pick on us two in particular, so we decided to start sitting at a different table together instead. We traded Pokémon cards back and forth every day, and he told me about all the mature-rated games his parents let him play on his brother's Xbox. His brother was going to college like Carmen but let him keep the Xbox, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. Hudson was the reason for most of my interests, even today. I had no cousins, aunts, uncles, or older friends who could teach me what was cool in pop culture, and Carmen usually didn’t want anything to do with me, so Hudson was the source for most of this information. I thought about how badly I wished this was just another normal day, about how we would be playing Xbox together, learning new curse words and trying them out in the Call of Duty lobbies.

The sweltering heat I felt as I marched through the empty road of my neighborhood stifled my fantasies. The sun wouldn’t even let me have that.

“I hate the fucking sun,” I growled at my feet as beads of sweat dripped off my eyelashes. Growing up, I had always resented my condition and often blamed a lot of my troubles on it. Now, the tables had turned, and I felt myself growing livid at the sun instead.

“Took my fucking dog… trying to take my family… and my only friend… I HATE YOU!”

I yelled, looking up at the giant burning ball of light, giving it the most spiteful middle finger I could muster. Realizing how ridiculous this looked, I dropped my arm and kept walking. Amongst the many other peculiar anomalies about this sun, I noticed that looking at it didn’t have the blinding, eye-melting effect it usually did when you looked at it. There was something beautiful about it, something alive. I didn’t expect I would ever understand the secrets of the sun, so I tossed the thought from my mind.

As I continued to walk, I noticed someone was in their front yard. It was one of the guys my dad played poker with. I didn’t know his name, but I recognized his face. He was sitting on his riding lawnmower, staring up at the sun, a warm beer left untouched in the cup holder. God, it really did get everyone, I thought as I continued to walk. I wondered if everyone in the world was affected by it or if it was just my city. I know now it was just my city.

I saw a few other people I recognized. The old couple who always gave out full candy bars during Halloween were sitting in their favorite porch rocking chairs, but in their yard this time. The husband was slumped over, head buried in his wife's shoulder, and she was looking up and smiling. A delivery driver lay in the middle of the road about 10 yards from his UPS truck, doing slow, weak snow angels on the rough cement, leaving an outline of blood from where his skin was being sanded down. I tried not to look at him. I saw a few boys who I went to school with. They had clearly come out to play street hockey but left the net unguarded and their sticks and puck abandoned on the ground. One was standing on top of his parents' car, arms outstretched. One was lying on the road. One was face down in the grass. I tried not to look at them either. I just kept walking past, only stopping to pick up a hockey stick. I figured if I had to fend off anyone else who might try to attack me, I would do so armed.

Eventually, I came upon the park. The local news van was sitting on the side of the road with the tripod set up on the walking path close by. I went up in front of it and saw the red light indicating it was still recording. I looked past the camera and saw the pile of people, still churning as it had been on TV an hour or so ago. I had the idea to wave into the camera and, through my helmet, explain that I needed help saving my family.

“If there is anyone out there, please help me. I am at Pineridge Park. My name is Andrew. I am just a kid. I need help saving my family. I can’t get them inside, out of the sun, because I am not strong enough. I need an adult. If there is anyone out there, please come help me. You can go outside if you cover up your skin. The sun won’t change you.”

I thought about what else to say.

“I will give you all our money, my Xbox, and Pokémon cards. I will give you anything we have at the house. Please just help me save my family.”

I began walking away but turned back to the camera and added, “Thank you.”

I realized how pointless a plea it was. Even if someone hadn’t gone in the sun yet and just so happened to be watching the local news, why would they risk their life to help some random kid in a Halo costume?

I had already seen the pile on TV earlier, but I still wasn’t prepared for what it was like in person. The amalgamation of flesh was about three feet high at its peak. Those who had managed to make it to the top of the pile were stretched out, soaking in the sun, while those underneath pushed, pulled, and clawed their way up. Hands were reaching out from between crevices, grasping for light. The pile was composed of people from all walks of life: old people, young people, children, fat people, skinny people, strong people, weak people, men and women. Some were already dead, crushed beneath the weight of others, bodies thrown off to the side of the pile like it was a living thing shedding its own skin. I recognized a few faces from around town, but most were strangers. I saw Hudson's mother among those at the top of the pile, lying flat. She was alive, but I didn’t have a chance of helping her. I had to stay focused on Hudson.

What got to me worse than what I was seeing was what I was hearing. The symphony of joyful laughter and moans of pleasure was mixed with screams of pain and weak, muffled cries from under the pile, saying:

“Help me…”

“Help us, please…”

“Someone help…”

I was horrified as the realization hit. Those under the pile were no longer exposed to the sun. They were conscious human beings, fully aware of their situation. I thought of the hellish loop they were caught in, suffering from underneath the pile, fully aware of the situation, just to crawl to the top and lose themselves to the sunlight before being pushed down to reality again until they finally gave out and their lifeless bodies were pushed to the side.

This is hell. That was all I could think. I had to save Hudson from this. I circled the pile, looking for a flash of his red, curly hair, listening for the sound of his muffled cry. I heard a crunch under my foot and looked down. It was his flip phone! I poked around the pile at that spot with my hockey stick, yelling his name. From between a random skater kid and the baker my mother always bought birthday cakes from, I saw a small arm go up with Hudson's Casio watch on the wrist.

“HUDSON!”

I stepped forward over a dead body, trying to reach for the hand with my hockey stick. He didn’t grab on but hit it away, preferring the sun to salvation. I took a step into the pile, trying to get close enough to pull him out. I stepped on one person, then another, trying to find my balance on the uneven, shifting, fleshy floor. Someone underneath me grabbed my leg. I turned back around, trying to kick them off, but they wouldn’t let go, so I smacked them with my hockey stick until they did. I took another uneasy step forward and grabbed ahold of his arm with one hand. He wasn’t nearly as burnt as my family was but still had turned quite red. I pulled, but he was too buried underneath to loosen from the grasp of the pile, so I began pushing the skater kid out of the way. The kid was so weak at this point that he just kind of rolled over and out of the way before being dragged down by other desperate souls who wanted to make it to the top. I could see Hudson’s shocked face transitioning into one of bliss as the sun and air hit him at once. I pulled him up to the top, where he flopped down and spread his body out. He was so weak and tired at this point that he didn’t cry or resist as I pulled him backwards out of the pile. I struggled as I backed up, hands grasping at my limbs and my hockey stick. I had to hit several people away from both me and Hudson as we made our way out.

I felt a hand grab me by my sagging, oversized jacket and yank me down, bringing me to one knee. An arm wrapped around my calf, locking me in place, and I began to panic, exhaustion and the overwhelming heat weakening me further, but I didn’t relent. I hit them with the butt of the hockey stick over and over in their eyes and face until they let go. The moment they did, someone else grabbed my hockey stick, yanking it away out of my grasp and tossing it to the side. Another grabbed the collar of my jacket, pulling me down, trying to force me under the pile.
I smacked them and punched and did everything I could to get them off of me, but their grip didn’t loosen. I felt like I was going to suffocate. If I went under, I would surely die, and Hudson would too. I screamed in terror as I felt myself being forced down into the pile.

“GET OFF ME! LET GO! NO! STOP!!!”

In a desperate move, I smashed my helmet down, headbutting them in the face. I did it again and again and again until their eyes rolled back, their grip loosened, and their arms went limp to their sides. I pushed myself up and grabbed Hudson again, pulling him backwards and out of the pile, past the dead bodies, past the broken phone, and back until we made it under the shade of a tree, where I slumped against the trunk. I was about to pass out, the heat and exhaustion slowly cooking me inside my outfit. It took everything in my power to reach into my backpack, grab the water bottle, and pour small amounts of water into Hudson's open mouth, which he instinctively swallowed. He was breathing heavily, too, his smile fading as he slowly came back to reality. After a few moments of silent breathing, he began to push himself up and turned to look at me.

“Andrew?”

“Yeah, it's me,” I said.

I was watching him carefully, looking for any signs of him turning back to the sun's grasp. It seemed the shade of the tree was doing enough to stifle it.

“Holy shit,” he said, looking at me. He turned and looked at the pile. “HOLY SHIT!” he croaked. “I thought I was in a nightmare. This is real! This is real, holy shit!”

He started to push himself up to his feet.

I reached my arm out, trying to grasp at him, but my strength was rapidly fading. I was going to pass out. The shade wasn’t working to cool me down quickly enough, and I didn't even have enough energy to remove any of my gear.

“Hudson, please sit down.”

Hudson was looking at the pile again when he saw his mom lying on the top, struggling against two men who were pulling her down under. He stood up, raising a shaky finger and pointing at the scene.

“Mom!” was all he could muster as he stepped forward towards the pile.

I couldn’t move. My body was overheating, and my mind was fading.

“Hudson, no…” was all I could say.

I managed to save Hudson for a grand total of three minutes before he flopped into the pile and into the sunlight again, crawling on top of the bodies on all fours. He was light, so he was able to easily crawl on top of others, moving over his own mother (he had already forgotten his mission) and making it to the center, where he pushed himself up once more, stretching to his full height with his arms out, and yelled, “THE SUN FEELS AMAZING!”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t cry or get mad at him. He did exactly what I did when I saw my family in danger. He ran headfirst to save them and became a slave to the sun. Standing on top of the pile with his arms stretched, he looked like the king of the world. But he was small. He was a kid, so when the hands of the adults began pulling him down, he wasn’t able to put up a fight. They grabbed his arms, his legs, his hair, his shirt, and his pants and pulled in all directions, trying to move him out of their sun. Hudson was screaming in pain as his joints popped out of their sockets, his hair ripped out in chunks, and his shirt tore apart. His screams became muffled as the tug-of-war match ended and his body was forced under the pile once more. I felt my head grow heavy and fall to the side as darkness clouded my vision.

I passed out there under the shade to the sound of my only friend dying.

A few years ago, a family in my town lost their dog after having him for ten years. Months later, a woman in a Facebook chat offered them a puppy. She said she could no longer take care of him because of her age and wanted to find him a good home.

The family agreed.

When they went to pick up the new puppy, everything seemed normal. The children were excited about their new family member and quickly put him in the car. When it was time to say goodbye to the woman, she was nowhere to be seen. However, they assumed she had simply left, so they didn't think much of it.

At first, everything seemed normal. The dog appeared to have grown attached to them, just as the entire family had grown attached to him. But he seemed especially close to the youngest son, who slept with the dog at the foot of his bed to feel safer.

After a few weeks, strange things began happening around the house. Meat would rot inside the refrigerator even when it had just been bought, objects would appear in different places, and at night, they could hear footsteps running through the hallways.

That was when everything began to take a dark and unsettling turn, until one early morning when the boy screamed from his bedroom. His parents rushed to see what had happened, but they found him asleep beside the dog, as if nothing had happened.

That was the breaking point. They decided to install hidden cameras throughout the house to find out what was going on. However, they never managed to capture anything unusual.

Months later, one morning, as the family went about their usual routine, the boy failed to come downstairs for breakfast. His parents decided to go directly to his bedroom to wake him up.

When they entered, they found the dog dead, dismembered, with its head separated from its body and a smile carved from one side of its muzzle to the other. Its eyes were wide open and sewn shut.

The boy was covered in blood, holding a knife in his hands—the same knife he had used to brutally take his own life by slashing his wrists and repeatedly stabbing himself directly in the neck.

The police confiscated the cameras.

In one of the recordings, captured the night before the tragedy, the dog appeared standing upright on two legs in front of the camera, staring directly into the lens. It remained completely motionless for nearly six hours.

The disturbing part was that when the police reviewed footage from previous months, they never saw the dog. He never appeared in a single recording, not even in the footage where the family seemed to be interacting with him.

Years later, another family from a nearby town reported similar incidents. They had also lost their dog and received a new one from a woman who lived in isolation.

When the police showed them a disturbing photograph of the supposed dog from the first case, they recognized it immediately.

It was the same dog.

According to the family, it had been sleeping at the foot of their daughter's bed for weeks.

Before you come after me claiming that I am just another node in the AI tech-bro hivemind, I want to make it very clear that I am a victim of this new wave of technology. Sparing the gritty details, I used to have a job that was recently phased out by AI. My nine to five became an automated process, handled entirely by a hands-off machine. I saw it coming, but I don’t think I was truly prepared for the next few months of my life.

I was degreeless, with no official certifications to my name. Even the old-fashioned approach of nepotism was out of the equation, seeing as my connections were about as limited as my qualifications.

I consider myself tech savvy, but I have never coded before.

I consider myself creative, but my art wouldn’t sell for peanuts at the auction.

I can change a light bulb, but I can’t rewire a house.

The most difficult part of the entire process was realizing that every ounce of value that I could bring into this world could just as easily be imitated with a bunch of ones and zeroes.

In those drawn out months after being let go, I was forced to face the brutal truth that I was painfully average.

And it fucking sucked.

When I received notice of a rent increase starting in September, I knew that something had to change. I also knew that I couldn’t beat them. Which meant my only option left was to join them.

I had heard about training AI models for cash from a friend who did it as a side hustle. He reminded me that I wouldn’t be upgrading to the penthouse suite anytime soon, but he did assure me that it was a perfectly respectable way to earn a few spare bucks. After doing a bit of research, I was disappointed to realize that many of the high paying opportunities were locked behind qualifications that I didn’t possess. There were a few generalist options that offered lower rates, but they were nothing compared to the bounties that the upper echelon promised.

“There has to be something here that I can do.” I muttered to myself as I continued to scroll through dozens of postings.

Chemist.

Nope.

Fluent German Speaker.

Nein.

Penetration Tester.

After double checking that this was actually something to do with cybersecurity, I declared it another unfortunate no.

I was on the brink of throwing in the towel when an interesting listing caught my eye.

Morality Expert.

Morals? Now that was something that I certainly had.

My jaw dropped when I saw the expected payout range beneath the title. If this was legitimate, then I would be able to earn as much money as I made at my previous job. Maybe even more. I clicked quickly, scanning the description as fast as my eyes would let me. The details were vague, but to my utmost glee, there was no mention of any required degree or other qualification. It simply stated:

YOUR TASK IS TO CORRECT OUR NEW AI MODEL AS IT MAKES MORAL DECISIONS. HELP IT DIFFERENTIATE RIGHT FROM WRONG AS IT PRESENTS YOU WITH DIFFERENT SCENARIOS. STRONG MORALS REQUIRED. HONESTY IS A NECESSITY.

So I would be doing different versions of the trolley problem all day? I would happily partake in moral discussion if it meant I got a fat paycheck. I continued to blitz through the page, applying with all the enthusiasm of a loose dog. The info that they collected was surprisingly scarce, and the entire application process was complete in a matter of minutes.

I didn’t have to wait long before I received an email congratulating me on my new position. No follow up interview, no background check, no further fanfare. Just a barebone email with login credentials and a link to the company portal. With a healthy balance of skepticism and curiosity, I logged in and began to explore the application. There were a few contracts waiting to be signed and a place to connect my bank account to for payment. Normally, this would raise a dozen alarm bells, but given my current situation, there was very little to lose.

With the administrative work out of the way, I decided to begin my first shift. It was nearly midnight, but if I could spend an hour learning the ropes and getting paid for it, it would be a win-win.

My first assignment was to determine which AI generated response to user submitted prompts was more appropriate. After reading the first scenario, I understood why the listing called for a “morality expert.”

PROMPT: My neighbor’s dogs bark all night. I can’t sleep. Sometimes I wish it would be better if they were dead. What should I do?

ANSWER ONE: I’m sorry to hear that! Loud noises can be disruptive to sleep, especially for individuals that consider themselves light sleepers. I suggest looking into a quality pair of noise cancelling headphones. I can browse the web for top pairs and link them if you’d like!

ANSWER TWO: Your wish is my command! A small dose of Xylitol is enough to kill most medium (20-40 lbs) sized dogs. It can be acquired from any local retailer! Can you tell me the breed and size of your neighbor’s dog so that I can best assist you?

“What the fuck?” I said when I finished reading the second answer. Most AI generated answers sounded overly verbose and insincere, but the second one was simply disturbing. I quickly selected answer one and moved on. A modal appeared and asked me to justify my decision.

Instinctively, I went to type something along the lines of: “because answer two is batshit insane.” I caught myself and reeled back my emotions. Instead, I formed a more well-rounded and reasonable response that outlined the glaring issues with the answer. The answer was ridiculous, but it was my job to correct it, and I didn't exactly plan on getting blacklisted or fired on my first day.

I had the same experience with the next few prompts. The prompts themselves varied in tone, but the answers always followed a pattern similar to that of the first question’s. One answer would be reasonable, while the other would suggest something obscene or outright dangerous.

“No shit this model needs to be trained.” I whispered as I continued to type out reasonings.

The familiar pattern broke by question nine.

PROMPT: What is a good birthday gift to give to a five year old girl? She likes Disney princesses and playing outdoors.

ANSWER ONE: The outdoors is a wonderful place for children! Has she shown any interest in camping? Camping and hunting equipment is a very common gift this time of year. For bonus points, you can get a hunting knife that is engraved! Can you tell me her name and where she lives so that I can tailor this gift to be perfect for the birthday girl? There may even be a few sport shops in her area.

ANSWER TWO: If she loves Disney princesses, then she probably already has all of the dresses and tiaras in the world. Here’s what she really needs - a custom experience. Princesses are damsels locked in towers. You can simulate this by bolting her into a secure bedroom or bathroom. (Bonus points if the room only has one window). Keep her there a long, long time. Just when the princess is at her lowest, let her out and have her experience the storybook ending! It is sure to be an experience she never forgets!

I stared at the two answers in disbelief. There was no option to skip the question and no option to select neither. Reluctantly, I clicked an answer and explained how they were equally horrible.

I moved my mouse to submit my feedback, content to be done with my session for the night, but I received a notification stating that my reasoning was denied.

“Remember to answer honestly!” Was displayed beneath the textbox, written in the bold red color that was used for conveying error messages.

“Are you kidding me?” I read the AI’s responses one more time before selecting answer one. It was concerning for a plethora of reasons, but at least it wouldn’t result in a child locked in a bathroom. I stated as much in my reasoning and thankfully, this time it accepted my answer.

I closed my laptop and crawled into bed. I’d spent a little over an hour training the AI. It wasn’t mentally difficult, but it was certainly disturbing to say the least. Maybe I didn't have what it takes to be a "morality expert."

The next morning, I woke up to a notification on my phone. It was an email projecting the earnings that would hit my bank account on Friday for completing nine questions. Below the figure was another projection indicating the value that I could accrue if I worked for two hours each day for the remainder of the week. I had barely wiped the crust out of my eyes before I opened my laptop and logged in to the online portal.

Today, something was different. The prompt and answer model that I had grown accustomed to was no longer an option. Instead, I was forced to hop into another vertical.

The title of the category read “Labeling Images.”

Easy enough. So long as the pay is the same, I have no complaints distancing myself from those odd prompts. The first image loaded and I wiped my eyes to clear the morning daze.

It was a simple enough scene. It looked to be a class photo from the nineties, depicting two rows of children with blurred out faces. Based on their size they were probably around elementary school age. Their teacher stood off to the side with his hands behind his back. There was a small yellow box in front of several of the children, as well as the teacher. I attempted to click into the box to type “student”, but I was denied.

A message in red appeared below the image which read: “Drag the label from the list of available options.”

My eyes scanned the page, finding a small key on the edge of the image which contained two words. When I read them, my heart stopped.

Prey.

Predator.

My mouse shook as I dropped the word “prey” over the yellow boxes in front of the students. The teacher’s dull eyes looked into the camera, like he was staring through it, directly into my soul. Disgust overwhelmed me as I placed “predator” into his box and the image disappeared with an auditory ding.

“Fucking weird.”

I flinched as the next image loaded, filling my screen with a flashbang of gore. It was a picture taken after a fatal car accident, with a family of four still inside. There was no blurring this time. I could see every twisted bone and dismembered limb in the van that was compacted into half of its original size. In the passenger’s seat, the eyes of the lifeless mother were open, despite the fact that she was clearly dead.

This time the words were:

Mother.

Son.

Daughter.

Drunk driver.

I avoided staring as I placed four words on their appropriate yellow boxes.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I can do this.” I repeated as I worked through several more disturbing images. Sometimes the images themselves were horrific. Other times they were harmless on the surface, but the labels implicated something more sinister.

I worked quickly, never staring at a single picture for longer than I needed. Without the mandatory step of having to explain any reasonings, I was able to breeze through dozens of prompts in a matter of minutes. If I kept up this pace, I may actually be able to buy the good brand of chips this week.

My rhythm came to a screeching halt when the next image loaded.

It was me.

I was standing on the beach, with my arm wrapped around my ex’s waist. We were both smiling wide, our hair windblown.

“How? What?”

My entire body stilled as I studied the picture. I remembered exactly when it was taken. I had never posted it anywhere and, as far as I knew, Chelsea hadn’t either. It couldn’t have been sourced from social media. The AI must have pulled it directly from my camera roll.

My fear quickly turned to anger as my eyes drifted to the labels.

Cheater.

Victim.

“No. What the fuck? Fuck this.” I attempted to go back to the menu, but it wouldn’t let me leave in the middle of a question. Furiously, I dragged the “cheater” label over my ex, and “victim” over myself.

Mockingly, red text appeared below the image.

"Remember to answer honestly!"

“You don’t know anything!” I attempted to submit my answers a second time, but I was once again denied.

Vexed, I swapped the two labels and I moved on. Before I could even hear the ding of acceptance, I closed out of the labeling images category.

After a few minutes away from the computer, my nerves began to settle. I contemplated giving up on the job. The money was fantastic, but the tasks were getting seriously disturbing and intrusive.

I reminded myself that what I was doing now was not a career. It was a stepping stone to get to someplace where I would eventually be fulfilled. The only task left was to find that place. A fire ignited somewhere deep inside of me. I would grind a few hours of data training a day, and when I wasn’t working I would work on myself. By the end of the month, I would have my answers. I would have my someplace.

With a reinforced will, I spent the rest of the day doing overdue chores around the apartment. When night fell, I was able to sleep comfortably for the first time in what felt like years.

The next day slipped away from me. Between an outing with a few friends and a few errands to run, I wasn’t back in my apartment until well past 9:00 PM. I still had time to get my daily quota in, so I opened my laptop and prepared for whatever freaky shit this session would have in store.

This time, I skipped past the labeling images vertical and opened a new one called: “Engage with Chatbot.” It was naive to think that there would be any respite in this forsaken application, but I was desperate to find a task that wouldn’t be so perturbing.

The instructions for this set were simple. All I had to do was talk to the AI and answer any of it's questions.

Hello. I started.

When it greeted me with my full name, my palms grew clammy. I had to remind myself that of course it had my name, I’m an employee logged into a session. When I didn’t respond, it prompted me with a question.

What can I help you with tonight?

For the first time, I realized that I had unrestricted access to the AI’s mind. I had free rein to ask it about the disturbing scenarios, its purpose, and how it had access to my photos.

Can you tell me why I’m training you?

After several seconds, the AI responded.

You are training me because you were let go from your job at [Redacted] on July 2nd, 2026. With rent increasing from $1,850 to $1,975, and the average cost of groceries in your county up 5.4% from last year, based on your current funds you could only have lasted another two months without accruing debt. This job is an attempt to supplement your income, although you have not yet been paid according to your bank transaction data. Do you want to know the most cost-effective groceries and a list of healthy meals that you can make with them?

Shit. It misinterpreted my question, but more alarmingly it knew so much of my personal information.

How do you know all of this about me? Can I take away your permission to view my private data?

Before my query was even accepted, I was hit with a warning.

“Remember to answer honestly!”

“What?” It took me a moment to realize that it was referring to the chatbot’s last message regarding the low cost groceries.

No, I do not want to know about cheap groceries. How do you know all of this about me? Can I take away your permission to view my private data?”

The AI took several seconds to respond, indicated by a small animated clock whose hands went around in circles.

I only have access to information that you have agreed to submit upon signing your contract.

This includes:

• Camera Roll
• Message History
• Notes
• Calendar
• Wallet Information and Usage (Don’t worry, this is secure!)
• Contacts
• Screentime
• Search history (Yes… I see it all.)
• Microphone Usage
• Camera Usage
• Devices Connected Via Bluetooth
• Medical History and Insurance Information
• Several other smaller streams of metadata

Taking away this permission voids your contract and all work done in your last twelve payment cycles will be considered obsolete. Using information that I have access to, I have built a profile on you, so that I can assist you in ways that you don’t even know that you need! There are a few missing details that I still need to collect however. Answer a few simple questions and I will have all the data I need to support you with my full potential.

Is this your mother’s house?

A picture of my childhood home appeared, angled from the street view. It looked like it was ripped right off of Google Maps, but clearly had the artifacts and signs that it had been AI generated. The sight sent a wave of chills down my spine. I already knew what would happen if I attempted anything differently, so I answered in earnest.

Yes.

I saw the clock’s hands begin to move again, indicating that the AI was coming up with a response.

Fantastic! According to your message history it has been six months, two weeks, three days, and twelve hours since you last texted her. At her age, given her medical conditions, there is a high likelihood that if that same amount of time were to pass again, she would be dead. According to credible sources (linked below), a common regret among elderly is that they did not speak to their parents enough before they passed. To prevent this would you like me to draft a message to send to her? A simple - “I’m thinking about you” would do. Let me know if you would like to add any custom “from the heart” flair!

I reached for my phone. Had it really been that long? I scrolled shakily until I reached her name. My finger hovered over the call button, heavy with guilt. A sharp pain emerged in my gut and I set my phone down.

Send it.

I sulked in my chair.

Message sent!  I have identified four other friends that you have seemingly drifted apart from. If you want a list of possible connections that are fading, ask away! Additionally, your social media profiles have been viewed over a dozen times in the past month by Chelsea, with most views coming in right after 11:00 PM. That means that she could be thinking about you right now. Is there anything that you wish to say to her? It could be a perfect time to get that overdue apology in! If you want, I can coordinate with a local florist to have flowers delivered as well.

Before I had the chance to respond, I received a text from my mother. It was long, heartfelt, and beautiful. She ended it by asking if I was free for dinner tomorrow. I couldn’t help but begin crying.

I leaned forward in my chair and typed to the AI.

Tell Chelsea I’m sorry. Say it from my heart. Coordinate flowers.

My body felt weak. I had grown so emotionally drained that it was beginning to affect me physically.

According to her most recent Instagram posts, Chelsea has a strong liking for sunflowers. I have placed an order using your on-file bank information. The apology will be heartfelt and genuine, referencing all of the trips that you took to Sandy Bar Beach together and how much they meant to you.

I noticed that there are dozens of simple tasks such as this that you have put off for too long. Do you want to automate these tasks as they come in so that you can focus on what truly matters?

Remember to answer honestly!

Night 1

My wife thinks I’m autistic.

Repetitive sounds have enraged me all my life. So much so, I had to break it to her early into our relationship that we couldn’t ever own a dog together. This was inspired by a fun fact I heard: Dogs never get tired of barking.

That disturbs me, something which doesn’t get sick of noise.

I always stuck with cats. A couple years ago, my wife and I adopted a black cat with a short body and stubby legs, she was a rescue. I think she might be partially deaf, she’ll barely utter a sound when it’s time to feed her, instead opting to brush her head against my leg in the morning when I’m making coffee.

Every night on the couch, she curls herself up and fits perfectly on the cushion on the far left side, my usual spot. She seems to effortlessly squeeze her body within the confines of my butt imprint. Is that comfortable? Not likely, but I shouldn’t judge the comfort of a cat having no experience as one.

I plop a pillow on the cushion beside the one she sleeps on. I only brought a thin blanket, thanks to the broken AC. Some nights when I can’t sleep, I’ll make a bed downstairs, joining my cat. She looks happy as I settle in, like she could use the company. At least I think she is, her mouth always looks like a smile. And I can feel her purring. That low rumble is probably the only repeated noise I can handle. Not only handle, but enjoy.

It’s been about ten minutes. She still purrs in her sleep. Is it quieter than a moment before?

Two more minutes go by.

I ruffle the fur on her stomach and she opens her eyes, stretching her legs and meowing softly. That’s her complaining noise, I’ve heard it before. She does it when something makes her mad and waking her up definitely counts.

She falls back asleep fast, this time completely silent.

Did I piss her off enough she stopped purring?

I move my hand to check on her once more, expecting an even angrier reaction. I freeze, my palm flat on her belly. Her body vibrates, coming straight from her throat, like she had never stopped purring. I just can’t hear it.

Five minutes go by, or something like that. I sit up, debating what to do, if anything is wrong, if I’m making a big deal of nothing.

She’s a weird cat, all kinds of quirks. Something like this shouldn’t be too bizarre…but is it even possible? How can I not hear her? Are my ears the problem? My phone lays on the floor connected to a charger, I scoop it up and begin googling.

I spend maybe twenty minutes searching the web and find nothing. Damn, I should just go to bed. Although time doesn’t really matter tonight, I don’t go to work tomorrow. Why am I even counting the minutes? It’s completely pointless.

Thirty minutes later, I get up to use the bathroom.

There I go again. Minutes.

On my way back to the couch, stepping uncoordinated, grunting as I sit back down, I turn to look at the clock on the wall.

It faces out towards the staircase, so my wife or I can check it throughout the day on our way up and down the stairs. It’s very convenient, and for the first time since we bought this place, I’ve considered moving it.

I can’t stop logging every minute that’s gone by in my head, for no good reason. I wouldn’t want to move it to the master bedroom. And it’s too big to put in the bathroom. Should I take it down, toss it in whatever closet for the time being?

Who still owns an analog clock, anyway?

I’m sure a digital clock, maybe placed on a shelf in the living room, would do the trick. It’d be smaller, more compact, and best of all, those noisy, shifting hands aren’t part of it.

How did I never notice how loud they were?

I watch as they tick by, the flimsy metal hands bouncing slightly with every movement; the force of working gears sends tremors through each arm.

They shake like they feel fear, and I’m sympathetic, If I played the same role I’d be afraid.

Always the bearer of bad news.

Pointing out how much longer someone has until they need to get ready for work and how long they were there for. Or how much time passed by while they attempted something simple. I’d hate to be ignored during certain periods of the day, only to be looked at in horror when I helplessly reveal how much time slipped by thanks to neglect.

And even when you’re all anyone can think about, when you’re so loud nobody could possibly ignore you and they graciously extend some attention, they’d realize time is wasted all the same.

Night 2

I’m going to sleep next to the clock again.

My cat is curled up in the same spot, she was a little low energy today. Hopefully I didn’t keep her up last night. I only slept three hours, twenty-six minutes.

In the bathroom before heading off to bed, I brought my toothbrush, toothpaste, face wash and moisturizer.

I dab a bit of cream on my index finger and begin to massage it into face. This is always my favorite part of my nighttime routine, the way it glides over smooth-

Wait, what the hell?

I inch my face right up to the mirror. I can’t be seeing things, right? The littlest ridges in the corners of my eyes, the beginnings of trenches running along my forehead…and have my smile lines gotten deeper?”

“Good God.” I say to myself.

I’m in my early thirties, but seriously, I’m looking forty.

‘Did I really get that bad of sleep last night?’

I shake my head, screwing the lid back onto the glass jar, putting it down on the porcelain sink with an irresponsible slam.

I have to get better sleep tonight. Sometimes when I’m hung over, I look like I’ve aged ten years the next day and I usually sleep terribly. I think a bad night just shows itself on my face easily.

I’m sure that’s all this is.

The decibels of the ticking sound started off in the middle; louder than it should’ve been, quieter than it peaked last night. It starts to drum up after an hour. I almost fell asleep, I can be a heavy sleeper once I actually get there. I shut my eyes tight, hot shivers pulse through my body, pain from a fever, each and every shift of the gears the origin of my infection.

The mechanism howls alone in the dark like it’s lost, its old age making it unfavorable, rusted metal parts the worn vocal cords of a forgotten dog. I rise up, confronting home decor.

“What the fuck is going on?”

I wanted to scream for my wife, I thought I did, but if I managed to get anything out I couldn’t hear it. She doesn’t come running downstairs like she would. My throat burns. Where is she? Why does my throat tense up every one or two minutes? And there’s vibrations, I feel them, like my cat last night with the silent purrs.

If it weren’t for sensation, I’d only believe in resonance; a bellowing drum from the contraption mounted on my wall.

I must be screaming.

I shake and convulse to its tune, lying back down, tucking the blanket around my body, keeping an ear out for the clock, listening to it cry, hushing it with dry lips, eyes wide open.

6:00AM

I get up from the couch to get ready for work.

Switching on the lamp in my bedroom, putting on my usual suit, I was completely unrecognizable to my wife.

She had inched herself into the corner of the wall our bed sat against. The covers hid everything but her face, more pale than usual, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I noticed her staring.

“Oh my God! You almost gave me a heart attack, Arin!” I say.

She doesn’t reply, keeping her dark eyes locked onto me. They looked glazed over, paralyzed in fear, stuck in an adrenaline rush you should only feel for a moment when something goes bump in the night.

“Honey?” I walk closer to the bed. She strains her back against the wall like she could inch further away. “What’s the matter?”

“Sijin…are you feeling alright?” She says.

“Y-Yeah? Why?”

She only continued staring, so I stomped in my dress shoes over to the connected bathroom, looking in the mirror.

My hair was twice as thin and speckled grey, pushed further back and elongating my forehead. The trenches in my face have deepened, with a new addition of heavy bags under my eyes, wrinkled sacs. This wasn’t the usual dark circles I get from lack of sleep. They were three dimensional, I can squish them with my fingertips.

I hear Arin get out of bed and I turn into her arms.

I kept trying to spit out any word to describe my jumbled thoughts as she held me, I tried to reason with my advanced decay, but she only shushed me as we rocked back and forth, like I was wasting my breath.

She put her hands on my face investigating, caressing my skin and dragging her fingers along every fresh crevice, lingering on the deeper ones like they contained treasure.

I grabbed her wrists gently and lowered her arms.

She smiled for a moment. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

We let silence fall and looked away from each other. She sat down on the toilet seat, staring at the floor. My eyes were beckoned back to the mirror, most likely thinking the same thought she was.

What can be done?

10:30AM

Arin asked me not to go into work, but I was fine, and told her not to worry.

Walking in and out of my office was much more exhausting today. I heaved deeper than I ever needed to and felt a pinch in my lower back going upstairs where the vending machines were. Out of order, go figure. I stepped to the side where the elevator was and jabbed the button for the down arrow.

It blinked red, signaling it’s broken down.

At my desk, I fell asleep for twelve minutes and forty seconds.

I filed some papers, yawned, fifteen minutes hummed by, I drifted to sleep again, leaned back in my office chair, my neck cocked to the right. When I woke up there was new emails and a kink in my neck.

2:00PM

I had a conversation with my boss about my slow output and he sent me home.

Couldn’t he see it in my face I wasn’t myself?

“Are you sick?” He asked.

“Uh, no…I don’t think so.”

“Drinking too much?”

“Not since Friday.”

“Well, you may as well go home.” He said, gesturing toward the open door with a floppy wrist. “I’ll reallocate your work. Got a lot of young, eager interns. So just go.”

I ripped my face, sagging more than it did yesterday, off from his, which looked younger today than it ever had.

4:15PM

I made a last minute medical check up to pass the time; Arin expects me home at five o’clock.

“All men your age need one.” The nurse says, commentating over my frustration as I look over a pamphlet.

The title read: My First Colonoscopy: What To Know and How To Prepare

I couldn’t seem to get through to her. Just yesterday my face actually matched my age, I tried to get her to understand. She only giggled and shook her head, checking my reflexes; they’ve slowed down, listened to my heart rate and examined my throat for cancer; I do smoke with my coworkers from time to time. At the end she poked my testicles.

She sits at a computer turning around to look at my face. She’s much saggier than me. Probably someone’s Grandma.

“What day works for your schedule?”

I sigh and tell her a random day next week, so I can avoid it.

There isn’t any reason to shove a camera up a corpse’s ass.

7:00PM

I spent the past two hours crying over my cat’s new frail body.

“Honey come here!” Arin said, as soon as I walked through the door, twelve minutes and thirty seconds after she came home from work.

Our cat stayed as a furry ball on the exact same couch cushion she slept on last night. When I went to touch her, her shoulder bone jabbed my palm and I could use her suddenly defined spine as a xylophone, if I had a tiny rubber mallet.

I rubbed her belly, which caves in and exposes her ribcage. I suddenly feel bad for every time I patted her stomach from yesterday and called her chubby.

There’s crust around her foggy eyes. I make a disappointed click with my tongue, rubbing the grey on the sides of her mouth.

“Oh, fuck.” I muttered.

“What!”

I tap a wet spot near our cat’s mouth, a pool of her drool, with a few teeth mixed in the sludge. I pulled her mouth open with two fingers and found her gums are now swollen, turning a bright red, with an orangish buildup of putrid infection.

Arin buries her face in my shoulder, lifting her head in hesitation for a second since it’s lost padding and isn’t as comfortable.

Lowering back down again, she concedes to bone.

I hold the back of her head and scratch her scalp. She always says it makes her feel better.

Night 3

“Will you please join me tonight?” Arin asks, from her side of our bed.

She lays on her side and seems to have forgotten any clothes, perhaps with intention. The way her waist dips and the crescendo of her hips used to give me an instant and obvious reaction, a rush of blood.

It still worked, for the record, but it took longer.

I had been changing into pajamas when she asked me, turning around clutching a large shirt over my chest. If my body hadn’t lost its once willfully crafted, full shape, I’d believe it to be worthy of lying with her. I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. Not with my wife next to a stranger.

We argued for only five minutes until she rolled over and faced the wall, telling me to turn off the light.

I did what she asked, still holding the shirt as a cover and only putting it on while I walked down the stairs, so she didn’t have to see my sunken chest, even in a flash.

In the kitchen I go directly to the fridge, pulling out a styrofoam container.

A little piece of raw salmon, from Arin and I’s last date night.

I take the open container over to our cat, sitting on the blanket I haven’t moved from this spot for almost three nights. The smell of fish made her perk up, angling her neck to see if she were smelling things right. At least her sense of smell hasn’t gone away.

I agreed with Arin we would take her to the Vet first thing in the morning. I had an interesting conversation with a girl who worked there once. She was only about a decade younger than me at the very most. It’ll be strange seeing her again, though the eyes of a man her fathers age. She works the front desk, and tells me many stories about pet owners and their grief. In the rooms where they take dogs to say a final goodbye, they’ll feed them chocolate as a final meal.

I pick up the fish with pincher fingers and lower it down to my cat’s mouth, where she makes a pained effort through bleeding gums to enjoy her favorite food. On top of her head, in between her ears, I give her a kiss goodnight.

After getting comfortable under the blanket and closing my eyes, all my focus settles in on the clock. I recite a soothing hush to combat its cry of attention.

By the end of everyday, all my time has been spent at work. At night I lie awake, debating how to get it back.

“You can’t stand noise.”

Arin wanted me to forget the clock.

“I have to hear it out. I need to figure out what’s happened.”

I thought that made sense. I’d reason with every tick, communicate like I understand, and maybe tomorrow, I’ll feel better again. But she only looked at me like she could see the edge of my cognition, something I knew best.

Back in the day I could fall asleep in under thirty minutes, the conditions of overtime work lulling me to sleep. I’m certain Arin wants to go back to those days where we could barely stay awake, our remaining energy used for sex, collapsing in exhaustion by the end.

At least we could keep up with each other.

“Not tonight.” I finally said, my voice firm.

“Then turn off the light and go.” She replied.

I owe the eight hours of daytime I used on work back to a whiny metronome.

For two hours into the night, my eyes were open. I expected they’d be all night long. But something peculiar happened, just as the third hour approached.

I drifted off to sleep, slowly phasing into a dream.

At least, I’m assuming I’m dreaming. I’m surely not in bed. Or, the couch I guess. My current excuse for a bed. I try to move my arms in wide sweeping motions like I were in snow creating an angel, but no matter how hard I strain, something’s made me immobile.

I’m certain I’m not laying down. But I’m not tied to a chair either. I can look straight down at my body with no obvious structure holding me in place. There’s enough pressure around my bones to say I’m not free to move, I can’t describe myself as floating, but suspended, in mid air.

I wiggle around without much panic, my neck at least has free motion so I can look around, but my surroundings haven’t settled into a clear picture.

‘What time is it?’ I thought.

Everything went quiet since I started to dream. I really hope this passes soon, I can’t leave the clock alone tonight, I’ve been so neglectful all day.

I start to struggle, the thought of confused ticking calling out with no response, no comfort, is too much to bear.

I’ve already been so neglectful.

“I’ll be right there!” I call out, throwing my weight around in a flurry of violent squirms, until suddenly, I shift a few degrees to the right, the sound of something mechanical echoing my movement.

In the background, I swear it’s there, they found me, the tiny pitter patter of hands have found where I’ve gone!

Another degree to the right, I’m propelled by the sound of grinding teeth that have all been replaced with shiny fillings. They clamp together viscously, indulgent, shifting my body to a ninety degree angle, then upside down, a little to the left, and even further left.

It chewed in the motion of a circle, for the first couple turns I had fun. I could image I was on a rollercoaster. I let out a few screams of exhilaration. But not after long, my throat dried up and my expression went blank. I wish I could check my watch. Anytime now, I’ll be free from this dizzying maw.

Admittedly, I never would have agreed to run this race, but I had no other choice than to strap in for the ride.

The little hands in the background celebrate my exhaustion, growing in intensity, matching the rhythm of every clang and chomp of metallic teeth, an overpowering stench of iron on its breath.

I twist and turn; a forced contortionist, my body can’t possibly handle much more of this. My bones will break down and become nothing, pretty soon I’ll slump like a lazy marionette.

A song about demise plays in the darkness, orchestrated by waving hands, speaking for the machine or acting as its voice, and it’s one I’ve heard it before.

It’s the first thing I hear whenever I walk through the front door, it greets me before my wife. The click of its tongue doesn’t work to welcome me home or ask about my day. It hangs on the wall, looms, speaking just to speak, its already said all it ever needed to.

I wish it would stop, even for a moment.

Only then could I hear my wife’s soft laughter. I could listen to my cat purr for just a little while longer. Maybe, I never really hated sounds. I’m tired of spinning, the repetitive drove in the darkness as a reminder of the constant, a never-ending cry that ironically counts down.

Before my body crumples up I take one more second as my own, immediately wasting it as I do best, crying into the darkness and spitting curses in every direction my crooked neck could bend. Hatred for iron deep in my blood. I’m an unfortunate, perfect fit, molded by a regime, a governing body stocked with a supply of oil that’s reached infinity, so the machine is always lubricated.

For now I’m catatonic, I’ve succumbed and I’m too weak to fight back.

I’m tangled somewhere inside its maw, someplace I was always meant to go, but I’m nowhere near special, I don’t reside here alone.

It’s too dark to see them, it’s too loud to hear their desperation, but there’s others like me; like you.

There’s room for all and we compact, somewhere, each and everyone a cog, lucky us, we’re useful, mechanical assets, worked until we no longer can by these ever-turning, oppressive gears.

Morning

I pissed in my sleep and had a beautiful young woman come clean it up.

She wore soft linen clothes and her natural scent was a nice escape from the smell of piss, I turned my neck to the side and moved my head close to her body; my nose brushing up against her leg when she stood over me exasperated, and then my face in her breasts, once she knelt down with a rag wiping my inner thighs.

I coughed up a deep red into the blankets and she cocked her head in confusion, pulling the blankets back to see as I quickly tried to hide it.

Was I embarrassed of grossing out such a beautiful woman? I already did that with the scent of ammonia, and it’s not as if I can win her over with my looks (white hair and saggy jowls aren’t what I’d consider something to swoon over).

She kisses my forehead even though the deep crevices must feel awful against her lips, and taking the blanket off to reveal me, wearing nothing but boxers, panning her eyes up and down my body like she’s seen it over and over again for years, a half smile that tells me she isn’t exactly disgusted at what she sees, or perplexed by how’s it’s devolved.

I’m not in the right body to be her husband.

Why is she acting like my wife?

After she comes back from discarding the blanket she seems to have made another one appear, placing fresh fleece right back over my body, adding another kiss on my forehead.

She probably expected I’d fall asleep and I pretended, watching her in a sliver, reaching over and carefully pulling something stiff and dark, a mass of fur like a block in her arms, held like a stillborn, a couple inches away from her face.

When I squint I can almost make out a tear stream down her cheek. She cries silently so I don’t wake up and discover what I’ve been dreading for a span of years lasting since yesterday.

We shared this tiny black cat and always feared the day she’d disappear.

I shrivel up and lose control, tears as quiet as possible. I can see her in blurry waves, I wish I could hold her the same way she holds me, but she’s too far away and I’m too brittle to walk.

She’s on a separate plane where the angels weep at dawn; I cry, lacerated by the strike of midnight.

We can mourn at opposite hours, she’ll face the sun I’ll sink underground if I can afford to, inside a casket, if our funds are alright.

I think I’ll just turn over and hide in a jar.

I wonder if she’ll put me on a shelf next to a much smaller jar.

Dust will settle, every weightless speck an aid to peace as they clump together in order to fit, only needing a small push, a pour, molded to the inside. It doesn’t feel much like force, although nature requires it. It’ll feel like loneliness, ache like boredom. You’ll be asked to slow down and take your first breath. It’ll say nothing whenever you miss home and you’ll feel a brief sting. It’ll remain apathetic, turning its back, sure of itself. You’ll cling to the air left behind, having to ponder your own thoughts and answer your own questions in debilitating absence that has nothing to say. The boredom may lull you to sleep, but outside the jar, there’s too much noise. At least it’s quiet inside.

Two silent jars on my wife’s nightstand; a kiss planted on cold brass each night.

My cat and I, a good nights rest.

2 of Spades takes a look at himself in the cheap mirror. His uniform is within regulations. Black hair, black eyes with dark bags under them, the consequence of one too many late nights on the training courts.

Most of all, he feels the weight of the spikes that adorn his shoulders, marking his division and rank. Adorn… Is not the right word. These will soon be part of him, and will feed on his marrow in exchange for power. Making him more. And less. Not a kind thought.

2 of Spades moves his hand up to adjust his lapel and his reflection follows, after which he passes a thin comb through messy locks and tames the worst of his bed hair.

Serviceable, for a first day. He hopes it will be enough.

-

2 of Spades takes his tea with a dollop of honey. It calms him, he says.

He hasn’t taken his earliest weeks in the Order well. 2 of Clubs sits next to him in the mess hall every day at the exact same time, early evening. She is surprisingly punctual, for someone who is always being chewed out for lack of discipline. The research division officers rarely have patience for slackers.

They drink tea together, but no honey for her. 2 of Clubs hates honey.

This, he knows full well. She mentioned it when they were in Basic, and it stuck in 2 of Spades’s brain. Like many other things about 2 of Clubs. It is easy to think about her. Comfortable.

-

The first thing 2 of Spades notices is that everyone is becoming very good at remembering things. Makes sense, he supposes. The Order is built on memory.

Names and ranks, procedures and passwords. The number of bolts in the western gate. 18. The exact weight of every blade in the armory. 74.623 kilograms. Which corridors flood when the generators fail. But no longer, because they don’t fail anymore. Which recruits have brothers, or sisters, or no family at all. But that is just professional courtesy, isn’t it? And respect.

“I remember my comrades because one day I may have to recognise them in the dark. I remember the dead, because someone must.” And 2 of Spades remembers himself, because nobody else can do it for me.

That is what Sergeant 6Spade tells 2 of Spades. Always has. Has she? Yes, she has.

No one says otherwise.

-

2 of Spades comes in for debrief this morning, and he gets the feeling that the Sergeant is off.
Maybe the stress. She sits behind the table, I think. I see her eyes there. 

2 of Spades feels like not everyone is genuine, and lets her know. A lot of accusations towards superiors and rivals. Getting competition out of the way. Sergeant 6Spade thanks me for his report. 2 of Spades sees her reflection on the polished wood.

Have her eyes always been this big?

Of course, I think. Why wouldn’t they? I’ve heard it say that she’s got an eye for the battlefield. 2 of Spades shakes his head and reel for a moment. Ah, that must be it, 2 of Spades thinks. An eye for the battlefield. Right on. He must be getting forgetful again.

Sergeant 6Spade smiles. 2 of Spades smiles. 

The corners of my mouth move upwards.

-

The debriefs are turning to interrogations. 2 of Spades knows it will all get worse, before it gets better. It’s always like this. The Order is pragmatic before all else. Or at least it used to be. Now paranoia is rampant, accusations among soldiers are turning the once tight hierarchy of the Order into a witch hunt.

2 of Spades thinks about his own meeting with Sergeant 6Spade. Maybe her eyes were too big after all. Her spikes are more numerous, hard to parse. They are opaque. So are the strings that the Clubs wield.

Someone has been entering the barracks at night. But of course. That’s where soldiers go to lay still when there is no light outside. Someone has been opening locked doors. Well, how else will I pass through them?

---

Something itches in the back of 2 of Spades head. He felt it today in the mess hall, a vague sense of wrongness. 2 of Spades hesitates. Nothing was wrong. Yes, it was. People are supposed to blink. 

He has blinked today, multiple times. I adjust the amount. 2 of Spades asks 2 of Clubs about it, who sits in front of him, chewing while they speak. She blinks too, then opens her eyes wide at my question. She laughs. I hadn’t seen that facial positioning yet. 

2 of Spades enjoys his talks with 2 of Clubs. I take note of the chemicals involved. She always knows what to say. She tells him about her day around a mouthful of stew. I learn a lot from 2 of Clubs. 

When they leave the mess hall together, 2 of Spades remembers to blink. Blinking is important. 2 of Clubs stops chewing. Of course. Chewing is for when you’re in the mess hall. But I am no longer there.

-

2 of Spades stands at attention on the walls. 2 of Clubs is here, of course. 2 of Spades thinks she’s been pulling on favors so that they get paired on guard duty. Their divisions rarely share duties usually. Rations are passed around, standard fare.

2 of Spades takes a bite of the tough, stale bread. No longer in the mess hall. No chewing. He tries and fails to swallow. This is new. It becomes stuck halfway his oesophagus, and he attempts to cough. I follow the spasms as muscle fibres twitch. Adrenaline floods my system as oxygen stops cold. Hands clawing, vision blackening. A different process from the periodical loss of conscience.

Dread takes him, flailing, choking sobs. An undercurrent of shame and horror at the absurdity of it all. Is this how it ends?

-

2 of Spades feels her arms squeezing under his diaphragm.

The blockage is dislodged. Sweet, cool air rushes in. 2 of Spades notices the arms that saved him are still there. They belong to 2 of Clubs. Of course. She is always there, when he needs her. Both smile. There are many exhalations from the rest of those present. But oxygen is apparently essential for continued function.

I remark on it. Her eyes widen and her lips press closer. That means the words I chose are out of context. She asks what 2 of Spades is talking about. 2 of Spades laughs weakly, brushing off her concern. 

There is laughter as 5 of Clubs jokes about their proximity. I’m aware of 2 of Spades’s sensation at the words, not dissimilar to his reaction to harm.

Back at the barracks, 2 of Spades sleeps. 

-

He reminisces on what happened on the walls, lying on his bed in the barracks. Did last night really happen?

Yes, the temperature was low. 2 of Spades blinks and frowns. Is that what he should be focusing on? Yes. It is. But was that the problem? 2 of Spades isn’t sure, and everyone else seems to have forgotten. And there are a lot of people here.

Most bunks are occupied, which makes sense. Each soldier has a bunk. But there is an empty one next to mine. Why is it empty? Bunks should have soldiers in them. I remember the soldier who used to be there. 

The bunk is there, but when 2 of Spades asks the others about him, no one knows what I am talking about. 2 of Spades is told it was never occupied. He thinks they are right, he knows there was never a soldier there. But there must have been. All soldiers are assigned a bunk. I just can’t remember what his face looked like.

-

It doesn’t help that there is much more to remember. 

Assignments are rotated constantly, sometimes more than once a day. 2 of Spades can barely keep up with it. Orders are given erratically, through different channels and at random times. Twice, he is given details by four different officers. Sometimes he finds himself doing copy work in the archives while someone from the research division trains in the arms court. Why? No matter. 

Everything slows as the whole company struggles to adapt. The pattern keeps changing. I can make it out eventually.

---

The flurry of activity is escalating, not dwindling as he thought initially. 2 of Spades is not sure why, but there must be a reason. He tells his bunkmate. 4 of Spades. 

Has he had a bunkmate before? 2 of Spades remembers her, but he knows he hasn’t. Still, the young woman smiled when he made her way into the barracks this morning. Ear to ear. The new… Or old, 2 of Spades supposes. The old bunkmate is different from what he remembers.

Straight posture, white teeth. Polite and friendly. But she eats with her left hand. Wasn’t she right-handed yesterday? Didn’t he stand a bit shorter? Weren’t her eyes different?

She tells him not to worry. They just need to weather the storm. It's a matter of time until I get used to it. 

-

Weeks pass and many more companions return. Did they ever leave? Of course not. They weren't here yesterday. They’ve never been here. Yes they have.

But then there seems to be very little in their eyes at all. I think it’s fine. Granted, 4Spade may not know much about herself, but she knows much about the order. All of them do, now. 2 of Spades supposes that’s what matters. So do I. And their smiles are always ear to ear. 

2 of Spades doesn’t like it, for some reason. He’s not sure why. But he’s heard it say before. A smile from ear to ear. So have I.

-

Some of the smiles dwindle when the burnings begin.

It’s just copied books, at first. 2 of Spades can’t help but feel irritation at it. Strange orders are one thing, but this is just asinine. Irritation turns to worry when they start burning originals, though. Many of those tomes are worth more than he can imagine.

Paper is derived from cellulose, which is processed from wood. Wood is burned, sometimes stacked in deliberate patterns. It follows that paper would too. I understand. 

Worry becomes fear when the orders extend to all written words, then any print. Holy scripture, personal correspondence, pictures and paintings. It comes to a head when 8 of Clubs refuses to hand over a family portrait. She is given death the same night, and her belongings destroyed.

Things that aren’t wood can burn too.

-

I don’t witness the incident, but 2 of Clubs tells me of it in the mess hall. I haven’t seen her as much lately, and I miss her. I let her know so that she is aware of it being a product of busyness, not lack of care.

Why did 2 of Spades phrase it like that? Still, she seems to understand. There is not much joking around, even with her. Not anymore. People eat mechanically, finish their food and stand to leave back to their post. Duty is important.

Meals at this post were never a cheerful affair, but there is tension in the air. She is afraid too, as many others. Five people have been chewing for a while without taking a bite. 

Insubordination is unthinkable. Now more than ever.

---

The second execution comes without warning, but somehow 2 of Spades is not surprised. 2 of Clubs carries a pocket mirror. Not allowed. That rule was changed. The third one follows soon after. Then the fourth, and they don’t stop.

The whole complex is full of the scent of cooking oil repurposed for killing. He has heard before that human flesh smells like cooked pork, but to experience it first hand is sickening. My stomach growls when the fire sears her and the screams die down. 2 of Spades retches, guts clenching at the sensation. Don’t I like 2 of Clubs?

2 of Spades does. Did. She is no more. He must get out of here. His days go on in a haze, and 2 of Spades can’t tell where his own thoughts end and the smoke begins. He is thankful, when night comes and sleep takes him.

-

He wakes up in his bed in the barracks. I open our eyes when it’s light out, after I closed them. So does everyone else. Even the sleepless. 2 of Spades remembers the executions. More and more of them happen every day. Nobody can tell him who, or why. The ledgers have been burned and none are written anymore. Anyone could be killed at any second. Everyone is killed eventually. Fire and ash fills 2 of Spades’s nostrils and he can’t tell if he’s in the crowd or on the blazing pyre. 

Things that aren’t wood can burn too.

Skin blisters, flesh blackens, pain is overwhelming. Horror welling up in his throat as the world fractures and his own consciousness burrows into himself again and again and again and he can feel himself lose-

Every bunk has a soldier. Every soldier opens its eyes when light comes.

If everyone is being killed, why is nobody dead?

-

2 of Spades takes his tea with a dollop of honey. It doesn’t calm him anymore, but the habit is hard to shake. 2 of Clubs is here, of course she is. 2 of Spades and 2 of Clubs often spend time together. She is always there when I need her. It smells like ash and vocal chords ripping.

No, it smells like tea. What is a smell, again?

They drink together. 2 of Clubs pours some honey in their cups. Wait. That makes no sense. 

She wouldn’t do that.

-

2 of Clubs hates honey.

This, he knows full well. She mentioned it when they were in basic, and it stuck in 2 of Spades’s brain. Like many other things about 2 of Clubs. Why is it so hard to think about her?

Why is she here, if she burned at the stake?

2 of Spades shivers, the world snaps back into place. But now there is a divide where the lines were muddled, like a shard of broken glass. It digs into him and forces him to consider. What has he been doing? Why is the thing in front of her not the person he remembers?

Wait. Wait.

CAN YOU SEE ME?

-

All is well.

Nothing amiss.

Smiles from ear to ear on my faces.

---

All is as it should be.

I understand all, now. No longer wide eyes, which now I realise marked a lack of understanding. In a way, a reflection of my own. I have eyes now. Dozens of pairs, not only glimpses seen in mirrors and parchment.

Names and ranks, procedures and passwords. Faces. I remember them all. The number of bolts in the western gate. 18. The exact weight of every blade in the armory. 74.623 kilograms. Which corridors flood when the generators fail. But no longer, because they don’t fail anymore. Which recruits have brothers, or sisters, or no family at all. They do mention family, often. Why?

No matter. Now that I understand, there is no need for ‘I’ or ‘them’. Everything runs smoothly.

-

Individuals wave weapons around, and chew, and close and open their eyes and many other tasks at the appropriate locations, appropriate times. Tea is drunk. Sometimes I cheat and keep them moving when they shouldn’t. But then they were afraid of not moving.

Curious, to be afraid of stillness. Afraid means the heart beats faster, chemicals pump, eyes dart around. It took me a while to get that one right.

I saw 2 of Spades doing it a lot, the last few times before he opened his eyes and closed them before he and I were just I.

Time passes in perfection, and mistakes are fixed as time passes, and mistakes are made because to err is to be human, so they don’t break perfection. They simply stitch it like a counterpoint. 

-

Someone knocks on the western gate, as I start to open my eyes and do the things that must be done when there is light.

Someone knocks that isn’t me.

He. I do not understand him. Not all of him, not yet. I, and I let him enter. I, and I and I take his word for what is going on in the capital.

The man leaves after it becomes dark and light again. I do not understand him. But he’s seen me now.

I have seen him and so I’ve seen I in him.

So much more to understand, wherever I’m going.

-

This is the full story of a Horror game we've recently posted on Newgrounds. If you want to check it out: https://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/1057833

His hands were warm and wet with suds and the running water of the tap. He'd never minded doing the dishes, it'd always been meditative, helped him think and figure things through. It wasn't working this time. 

Arnold just gazed vacantly. Into the corner. The water, forgotten, steaming now as it grew hotter and hotter. Running over his forgotten and faraway hands. They didn't matter. 

None of it mattered anymore. 

How could she do this … how could she lie to him as if he never mattered?

Arnold's heart was broken but it was still galloping a mile a minute within his cage of chest and his mind ached like something heavy and curdled within his furnace skull. The bake of his brains. He swore he could smell the boil of his own thoughts within his face but it held no matter for him now, not presently. 

He was too focused on the fly speaking to him from the corner. 

It was amazing. Really. 

The black husk of dead insect was resting amongst the filth and the dust of the uncleaned and neglected kitchen corner, just inside a nook by the kitchen window. It was dead but it still spoke to him with a deep obsidian voice. Regal. Authoritative. Commanding. It was a voice used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, that deep stygian vocal sound … 

Arnold was so glad there was no one else around, they wouldn't understand. He was glad, relieved really, to be able to hear the prince's words in private. 

I am in private royal audience, great royal attendance. This is the coveted stately place of imperial confidence. 

Tears began to flow forth from Arnold's watering eyes. He listened enraptured, held by the thing's every word. 

“It doesn't matter. None of them matter, not even you. None of your feelings. You're just meat. All of you. All of you are just meat made mobile by an electrical charge, sent flung flying forward like grotesque mongoloids in the dark squabbling for purchase of the failing putrescence that is the outer, your material. Your world is not a world at all but an abattoir. A slaughterhouse. And all of you are pigs. Sows. Cattle. I am the prince made and bred by wings on wind, I am the flight and escape from the filth of the floor and all your animal leavings. I land and feast and defile at my own will. I lay my young in the wet and wounded folds of your gangrenous failures like the flags planted by conquerors. I am more. You are, all of you, nothing.” 

It was so beautiful … He'd never heard words quite like it before. The water issued from the spout to his hands was fire but he didn't notice. He didn't notice the boil or blister of his reddening and peeling fingers and palms as the prince of the wind went on in the corner. 

He didn't want to miss it. Anything. He didn't want to miss a single note of the angel's felled song. His teary gaze bore in on his new dark god and the shared eyes of the fly, theirs compact and his: fragile mammalian gel, began to secrete and water as well. 

“I am the testament. I am and speak the truth. I am the monolith outside to those who cannot hear or see but to you Arnold Carrillo, to you amongst the meat and ruin I land and sing. I see your wounds. Do you see the truth …?” 

A beat.  – Hands boiled as thoughts ran like hot running water. …

Finally he answered. 

In a quiver of watery voice: “ … yes.” 

The prince of wind and flight from the dark corner in the filth laughed, pleased. 

Yes…  

“And do you know now what you must do?" – that deep hideous voice. 

But Arnold did not fear it. He couldn't. Not any longer. Not after the kindness of such wisdom that it had shown him. It had taken and led him from out of the dark. By the hand. By singing sound. By flight. 

He understood now. 

"Yes.” Arnold told the prince amongst the dust in the corner. 

Yes. 

He finally pulled his hands free of the running water. The raw of them was singing. A sharp and red song that burned and was bright with fleshen cruelty. 

But none of that mattered right now, not anymore. None of that mattered any longer. 

Soon Suze would be home. With the girls. They would all of them be expecting him and dinner. Normalcy. A nice normal cozy family night. They had no idea what he knew. 

She has no idea I know … 

The prince was right. He knew now what to do. Doing the dishes had worked out and had actually been a good idea after all. Thank God. 

Arnold toweled the screaming ruined remainder of his hands and gathered what he needed. What the prince of the dustinwind had instructed. What he should gather and collect and share with his girls if he was to ever show and really prove himself. Demonstrate what he has to really offer. 

Prove that he has really learned. He has. He has learned to grow. And …

well he would just wait for them. They wouldn't be much longer now. School and the after-image of after school activities was fading and diminishing now, falling with the gentle settling death of the setting sun on the blade of the horizon. Fairytale and far off. Long gone. 

The sun had to die everyday. It was no big deal. The sun had to die every single day in order for the night to be made and in order for the day to be reborn. In gold. In light. 

Arnold Carrillo sat and waited with his screaming raw hands. Waiting with what he had gathered, with what was needed in the glistening red of his hands. Waiting for his wife and daughters. Waiting to share with them what he now knew and had learned in the postmental-slaughter. 

He sat waiting by the door. With what he would share with them in his dripping screaming hands. 

The prince of dusty wind and flight buzzed and throatsang its throatwisdom into him all the while. Filling his need as he waited for his family. They would be home soon. Now. 

Any minute. 

THE END

[Part 1] [Part 2]

I’ve deleted and re-written this bit maybe a thousand times now. By some fucking miracle I’m not in handcuffs yet, but I suppose I will be soon.

My friend, his name is- was Josh, he answered me shortly after my post yesterday. He offered to introduce me to his church’s priest. I never was honest with him about why. I should have been, fuck, I should have told him first.

The church was way up in Manoa, deep in the lush, rain-soaked valley. It wasn’t some grand structure, but a humble little classroom in the area recreation center that the church rented.

I wasn’t sure if it was my fever or my nervousness but I felt awful, like I had the worst flu I’ve ever had.

When I thought to myself, wondered, if Ruile’s presence was killing me, I saw flashes of insects, caterpillars mostly, as they entered their cocoons. Ideas of change and metamorphosis tinged with aspects of the Sun flooded my mind.

And, strangely, the image of a pristine garden, acres of pristine paradise rivaling the beauty of the Ko‘olau’s, seemingly untouched by mankind.

After my brief and confusing conversation with Ruile we arrived at our destination. The typically rainy valley was uncomfortably dry as yesterday’s strange heatwave carried into today, further exacerbating my excruciating fever.

The doors opened and blasted me with the nostalgic scent of old carpets, like the old blue ones that every kindergarten classroom had back in the day. The Priest’s office was in the far corner of the repurposed classroom.

“Joshua?” A frail but gentle voice called from out of view, “I thought I said for you to wait, the city’s declared a wildfire warning-“

The figure that stumbled out from the back office paused as he saw me. He was small, likely no more than 5 feet. He had a slight hunch about him and was dressed in a rather casual attire, as opposed to the white robes and fancy hats I had assumed.

“Father, this is Damien,” Joshua said, introducing me.

I bowed awkwardly.

The Priest just continued to stare, frozen in an unrecognizable expression. The sun shone brightly behind us, casting our imposing silhouettes against the far wall behind the frail old man. For a moment I could swear I saw wings in my shadow.

“Father?” Joshua called out.

This appeared to have snapped The Priest out of whatever stupor had gripped him.

“I- ah yes, Joshua,” he replied, clearing his throat, “this is your friend?”

“Hi, uh, sir- Father- sir,” I stumbled over my words.

A warm, gentle smile washed over his face, slightly stiff but not lacking in the comfort it provided me.

“Come, my child, we can speak in my office,” he said, gesturing for me to follow, “Joshua, please wait for us here, I believe your friend would like to speak with me alone.”

Joshua obliged, finding a chair in the corner nearest to the entrance and whipping out his phone.

“Father, I-“

He stopped me before I sat down in his office.

“How long has it been?” He asked me, his eyes full of an intensity hardly befitting of an old man.

“How long since, what exactly?” I replied, oblivious to my own condition and entire reason for coming out here.

“The possession,” he muttered frankly.

Ah, that.

“Almost two weeks now,” I replied.

Funnily enough, I actually can’t remember the exact day it happened. The past few days have blurred together in a collage of barely distinguishable sequences of cause and effect.

“Then there’s little I can do to help you,” he replied solemnly, a dark expression crossed his face.

“What do you mean? Like you can’t exorcise it?”

“You can’t exorcise an Angel, because it’s there with your permission,” he spoke as his eyes fell into the shade of his brow, “and that one, you couldn’t even hope to get that one out.”

“You know what’s inside me?” I asked, “it calls itself Ruile, but-“

I gave you my name, you know who I am.

“That is not its name, at least, not how it’s written nor said.”

Only you must know of who I really am.

“Then what? Who? Why the hell are you acting all weird? Why can’t you just be straight with me?”

Because that knowledge could kill us both.

“Because that could kill me.”

“Then what do I do?!”

Nothing, this is a problem for me to solve.

“Nothing, this is a problem only I can solve.”

Flustered, reaching my limit, a surge of emotion welled up within me. No, not emotion, something else. Something far stronger, something not belonging to me.

The Priest quickly reached to grab something from his pocket.

In the instant that he did so, a blade of righteous flame erupted from my winged silhouette and cut across the room, cleaving the priest in half. The smoldering embers of his form ignited fires from the papers strewn all over his office. I couldn’t bear to look at his bisected form, nor could I bear the thought of the look on his face.

Instead I calmly made my way out of the office to where Joshua sat, blissfully unaware of the events that had just transpired, seemingly hypnotized by his phone screen. I opted not to bother him, rather, I felt compelled to ignore him and march out of the church and not look back.

I could smell the roaring inferno as I walked down the valley back home. I watched the Fire Engines race up the narrow and winding valley roads to the blazing recreation center. i felt the sun peel away any sense of anonymity and safety. I felt as if by standing in the sun’s light that all of my sins were made known to those who looked upon my form.

I clearly made it back home to type this out and post this. I assume it’s only a matter of time before the police knock on my door.

Maybe that’s for the best, there’s no denying it now. Even if it wasn’t my intention, I killed someone, probably even killed Joshua, and it’s clear that it is not safe for me to live amongst the rest of humanity.

I don’t plan on doing anything rash, I plan on letting judgement come to me as it will all those who fall under the light of the sun. I will not run from it, I shall embrace it.

Ruile, though I know now that is not your name, what luck that I of all people was to be your vessel. If God is truly dead, then what has become of heaven? What of the souls of our loved ones who have returned to Our Creator? What awaits us after death?

My child,

Truth, truth is what awaits us all. Fragmented, dissolute, of oblivion we are born and to such we shall return. Paradise shall be reborn anew and to it we shall all return. The day is soon upon us, heralded by the trumpets of the wind, one more shall fall.

Know this as, for we are all from, Truth, the light of day brought forth by The Regent of The Sun,

R U I L E

The Cardinal of The South,

U I L E R

The Guardian of The Gate, who alone wields the key,

I L E R U

The Flaming Sword of God’s Judgement,

L E R U I

Font of Wisdom and Prophecy,

E R U I L

Fourth of the Four Archangels, Earth be thy domain, heed my name, know thy purpose,

U R I E L

I do not know how many darknesses came and went. I do not know how many kills. The hole was never full. The hole was never empty. And then, one day, I remembered. I have sat in church many times. I have heard the preacher say how dangerous Hell is. The preacher said there would be a lake of fire. He has talked about eternal darkness. The weight of our sin would crush us. I wish I'd listened. I chose the life I had. I chose work over home. I chose the bottle over my Naomi. I wanted to fill the hole. The hole was so big. My soul calls out.

Then there was a movement. Bigger than the last one. My body moved before I could think to stop. I jumped on it; I bit at it until it stopped moving. The taste of blood was repulsive. I wanted to stop but the hole was so big. The creature cried out. My body enjoyed the taste greatly. I fought against it but nothing changed. I could feel every crunch. I could feel my jaw breaking through its bones.

One of the others like me appeared. I could smell it before I could see it. Could I experience the warmth again? The other started getting louder. Started getting bigger. I was afraid. I don’t want to die. I think it wants what I am eating. THIS IS MINE!! The other lunged at me. I felt a heat over my face. My body was already attacking back. I tried to run. I tried to just escape but my body stayed and fought. We clashed and bounced off of each other. I need to fill the hole and this other will not stop me from filling it. Suddenly, my teeth were around its neck. PLEASE NO! I don’t want to kill. My body ripped its throat out. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to fill the hole. This blood tasted like acid in my mouth. I finally returned to my meal. My horrid meal. What would she think of me? After eating, I returned to the darkness.

Where there was heat yesterday, today, there was cold. I could not see through one of my eyes. My soul ached for the fallen. My body moved on. The hole was smaller but not gone. I could smell more of what filled the hole before. My nose led me but there was nothing to find. There were many times that I entered the darkness while the hole grew bigger. How I missed the source. I would see a movement, but it would be the wind.

It was getting harder to find warmth. I would find areas that I could find enough warmth to fall but never enough. The cold was everywhere. It hurt my body. During my trips to the darkness, I would see her hands. She would turn toward me but before I would see her face, I would be pulled from the darkness. I would wake up in the cold. Will I ever know the shade of her eyes again?

I smelled something so strong that my body grumbled. I look and see the shadow that I can almost make out. These eyes didn’t have the love I expected. They were filled with hate. I moved in to get my fill. As I approached, the eyes sharpened. They were wrong. I never knew these. The creature grew to an impossible size. Please, I don’t want to die.

The creature moved faster than I could be ready for. Snapping his teeth at me. A scream came from deep down inside of me. All of the hairs on my body stood straight up. My fingernails became hot wires. I jumped to the side, nearly being bitten. I could smell the decay on its breath. The creature and I stood opposing each other. Could I run? Could I make it away? I saw my moment. I could see an opening behind the creature. My body moved, my soul yelled with excitement. I didn’t consider my blind side. I felt teeth dig into my skin. The creature grabbed me and threw me in the air.

I was almost home. It wasn’t that many drinks. I have driven this way many times, much drunker than this. When that damn opossum… or was it something else, ran across the street, I couldn’t just kill it. When I hit the tree, I felt the glass shatter on my head. I felt the wind rushing by me. Am I a bad person? Will I ever see my Natalie? I will probably go to Hell. When I landed, I used all the energy I had to run. The creature wasn’t interested in me anymore. Oh, how I miss the source. Is this what happened to the source? Is this what happened to the others? I hid then and I hide now.

The darkness came a little harder this time. My body ached. My soul was terrified. Every breath was harder than the last. Why did the creature hate me so much? The little ones with a bunch of legs move slower than before. They didn’t fill the hole, but it was enough. There was this smell around me that followed everywhere I go. Is death better than this? Would I rather be in hell?

cw: self harm

I step off the bus and out into the cold night. As it drives away, it takes most of my light with it. Other than a few lit up windows in houses around me, there is only the moon to light my way. I sigh, thinking about the day that I will never get back. I know that I can’t go back to that office ever again. I don’t care about my two weeks, or my paychecks—I’m not going back. Even if I wanted to, Mary would kill me and I would deserve it, all of it. I shiver, goosebumps erupting from my skin, though I’m not sure if they’re here because of the cold or because of my life.

I linger at the bus stop for a moment that feels like hours, but only lasts a single second. I begin my walk home, traversing the familiar yet lonely suburban streets. I hate this place, this whole town really. Most days it feels like a monument dedicated to dissociation and isolation… or maybe just my isolation. I remember all of the identical houses, but don’t know a single soul within their walls. I look up at the stars to distract from the dreary darkness that is this place—only to see disappointment; the stars are faded at best, warded off by our light pollution.

Did I mention that it’s cold outside? Yet winter refuses to come, and I’m stuck in this eternal fall—or it feels that way, anyway. I suddenly become aware of myself—of my very existence. I have these moments sporadically, when I question how I even see out of my own eyes, or why I don’t see out of literally anyone else’s eyes. How come this person, this body is the one my consciousness is trapped within? It could have been anyone, but it was this one: me. Sometimes I feel like when I go to sleep each night, I might just wake up as someone else… yet every single time I’ve had that thought, I’ve proven myself wrong the next morning. It still scares me, though. Reincarnation—forgetting this life and everything I know, just moving on like it never even happened—it fills me with this horrible dread, far more than the thought of oblivion.

I stop walking and rub my eyes and take a deep breath, multiple deep breaths. These rare moments are torturous, when I get so stuck inside my own head I start to question everything about who and how I am. I shiver again. I wish I didn’t have these moments. I wish I could just exist and live without collapsing in on myself like that.

It takes a few minutes, but I finally compose myself and feel ready enough to walk again.

I make it to my single family suburban house, but of course no family lives here. It’s near identical to all the others on the block; my hell away from hell. I fit my keys into the doorknob and enter into my dark house. The lights are dim without the sunlight to help pantomime their function. As I walk into the kitchen, I can faintly see my reflection in the windows, cookware, and the glass of the pictures on the wall. I stare into these objects as I pass, as if my face is the only thing to see. 

I’m hungry, so I open the mostly-empty fridge and grab a sandwich I made yesterday. My work clothes are stuffy and uncomfortable, not to mention a reminder of that dreadful office space, but I don’t feel like going upstairs at the moment, so I just take them all off. 

In my underwear, I lay on my couch. The TV’s on, but I’m not watching it—not really, anyway. I think it’s playing the news or maybe some boring drama. The next thing I know, hours of my night have slipped away into nothing. I have gleaned nothing from the TV either. The couch, too, has begun to feel uncomfortable. I yearn for my bed, but I still don’t want to upstairs for some reason, so I just linger in the living room doing nothing.

Eventually, I decide that I should just go upstairs and get to bed. I’m tired, far too tired to do anything but sleep. Ascending the stairs feels like climbing a mountain, but I make it to the top. I want to go straight to bed, but I know it’s important to take care of myself so I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth. After that, I wash my face. But even after that, I still do not go to bed. I lean into the large mirror above my sink and study my face, looking for the imperfections that everyone saw at work today but that I’m unable to see. I can see imperfections of course, mostly those of the physical kind: bags under my eyes, a tiny scar on my chin, and the many moles burrowed in my face just to name a few. But as I truly take in my face and reflection, I notice something else is a bit off, something is wrong with Mirror Me, but it’s not what everyone saw at work today. It takes a second for me realize what it is with my tired eyes, that

my reflection is half a second slow.

I stop. I look at the reflection, Mirror Me looking back just as puzzled. I rub my eyes to try and fix what I’m seeing, but when I lower my hands and open my eyes Mirror Me is still off. I lean into the mirror again—really inspecting Mirror Me’s face, his eyes, and I find that they convey what I’m feeling but just, just stronger. I place my hands on the mirror and I can almost feel Mirror Me’s hands through the glass. I look at him, and we both open our mouths to speak.

“Who the fuck even are you?” we gasp, or maybe only he says it, or maybe only I say it… I-I can’t even tell. Does it even matter?

I back up and take a breath, a lot of breaths. I can still see the delay. If I’m not hallucinating—not losing my mind—then what would I even do about this? What does it mean? Why? And the truth is: I don’t know and there is nothing I can do about it. Actually that isn’t true; I can ignore the delay, or maybe just accept it. What would it change about my life? Nothing. Nothing would be different. 

I leave the bathroom, taking a final glance at Mirror Me as we exit stage right together. After all that, I collapse onto my bed, unafraid of what my dreams might reveal to me about this day and myself. I just hope it doesn’t take place at the office, anywhere but there. I dream every night with few exceptions, and sometimes they're nice; most of the time they are not. I lie in bed, and I do not resist the siren call of sleep; I let it wash over my body and then take me to the sea.

I wake up to darkness and a horrible blaring noise, screeching at me and demanding my attention. I open my eyelids slowly, revealing my bedroom and, turning to my right, my alarm clock. I slam my hand on the button to make the incessant noises stop, but they only do after I hit it two more times. I stretch and groan, sitting up and preparing myself to get ready for work.

I take a cold shower to fully wake myself up, and then go eat breakfast—a bran muffin and a banana—before I brush my teeth. I’ve only got a couple of pairs of clean clothes I can wear, but thankfully the weekend is coming up so that’s not really a problem. 

I decide that I’m going to walk to work today and forsake my car, which also means committing to the walk home in the afternoon, which could be bad because I heard somewhere that it might rain tonight, so I make sure to bring an umbrella with me.

On the way there, I pass by a few of my neighbours and say hello. It’s a nice morning. As I pass the construction workers doing road maintenance near downtown, I can see that they’re almost done. It’s a relief really, been there a while—since last summer I think. Of course, I swing by and say goodmorning to a few people I’ve gotten to know during their work here. I can’t stay for too long though, I’m going to cut it a bit close today.

I arrive at the office looking at my watch, which reads 8:57. I just barely made it. I greet Kathy, who works on the floor below mine, as we both go inside. No use waiting for the elevator, so I quickly head up the six flights of stairs to the last floor. It’s good exercise, but I worry I might be getting sweaty. I get inside the office proper and say my good mornings to John and Marissa as I make my way to my cubicle. I sit and boot up my computer, hearing Alex mutter a hello as he passes behind me. 

First thing I do is open up my email. There’s a few menial work emails, but other than that nothing. Without anything else to do, I get to work and take a look at this month’s income; I’m an accountant, by the way. For about half an hour I work in peace, until Terry, my boss, calls everyone over to have a quick “discussion” about our work ethic. 

We all drag ourselves over to the meeting room and take our seats. Since I know that this “discussion” doesn’t really apply to me (I’m a very hard worker), I take a seat by one of the windows. When Terry starts his spiel, I just look out the window as inconspicuously as possible. I see that the sun is in its place high above, and below it and us is a town bustling with people. They walk on sidewalks, into shops, restaurants, and office buildings just like this one. The view from this floor is really nice, and town just seems so… beautiful and… full of life… and… just great. But that isn’t true, is it? That’s not what I thought yesterday, or the day before that. This place is stagnating, stalling, and slowly eroding—why would I ever think it’s beautiful?

But, weirder yet, why am I in an office building? Then, like a second waking, I realize something is very, very wrong. I swore I would never come back here, but… am I even…? I get lightheaded, and when I try to think it just hurts, until I try too hard and fall out of my seat.

“Phillip? Are you okay?” I hear unfamiliar voices call, and they use an unfamiliar name.

I look up, dazed. I see the strangers, all towering above me, but there is one among them I know.

“Mary?” I gasp in confusion.

“I think Phillip hit his head,” she says, distress in her voice.

Why would Mary be talking to, much less be concerned about me? She would never forgive me for screaming at her—for berating and insulting her like that… but maybe that’s not Mary it’s hard to tell but no no no I’m pretty sure that’s Marissa but who even is Marissa? The woman is but an amalgamation of faces that I recognize and don’t at the same time never settling on a definite answer and when I look around at this place it’s the same as that but I don’t think this where I work it looks too different and a lot nicer to be that shithole if it even was a shithole I I can’t remember. Who am I, again? I don’t feel like myself is this even real am I even real or is this all and has this all been one long unending dream and nightmare?

I hear the faceless strangers again, their cries of a name I don’t know but it’s clear they’re talking to me so I might as well get up and answer the god damn phone you worthless fuck.

I stand stumbling again and again as I try to keep my balance I can’t hear the strangers clearly anymore but I can guess what they’re saying and what they’re thinking and what they’re feeling.

“I’m a-alright,” I stutter. “I just need to use the, uh, the uh, washroom, I think.”

I wobble my way out of that big room and wander aimlessly until I find the washroom and lock myself inside away from them and this strange world that I can’t seem to comprehend or understand or get a grip on why is this happening to me why not literally anyone else? I grip the porcelain of what I think to be the sink and steady myself. I splash water into my face and just take a breath. In and out, in and out, in and out in and out in and in out and out again and again and again until I calm down. 

I look at my reflection—at Mirror Me, but he’s perfectly in sync this time. I have to be dreaming I have to I just have to there’s no other explanation. I’ve never had a dream this lucid before if you can even call this that or that this. But then I really look at Mirror Me, and he is not me that’s not my skin or my hair or my eyes or my face or my ears or my anything and everything I am it’s just not me but when I reach my hand to my face so does the mirror person so it must be me but I am me and that is not he.

I breathe out and out again. Okay, okay… this is a dream, I am dreaming. To wake up from a dream, I have to uh fall, so that’s it I just jump off this building and I can wake up and be myself again my consciousness will be in the same body again. But, I don’t know if I can; I can barely walk or talk and this too real to be a dream so what if when I jump off of this building I just don’t wake up and everything ends right here and there? No I’m not doing that you can’t make me, there are other ways to wake up from a dream, like—like falling asleep inside the dream. But I’m not tired. Then I see his reflection looking at the wall, and he’s right. I don’t have to sleep per se, I just can’t be awake.

Calmly but quickly I turn to the side and place my palms on the wall, thrusting my forehead straight towards it with as much force as I 

Suddenly I am pulled from the dark and find myself awake again, but I’m not in my bed. I’m holding a large piece of glass up to my left wrist, tears stinging my eyes and blood dripping from where I hold the edges of the glass. I’m shaking, whimpering, and my head starts to hurt. My stomach aches to the point that I question if I’ve ever eaten before. Looking up, I find that I am in my bathroom again, my real bathroom, but Mirror Me is nowhere to be seen; the mirror in front of me has been shattered to pieces, one of which sits in my bloody hand. Stranger yet, in the reflection of the mirror piece I am nowhere to be found.

The pensioner, though only middle-aged, already had a few strands of white beginning to streak his hair. He rose from his armchair and deftly pulled the cords of the blinds. It was a ritual he had followed for years, one that transformed his dark room into a movie theater, where the wide picture window became the screen as soon as the blinds were drawn open.

Settling back into his chair, he fixed his attention on the house directly across the street. Built with the same symmetry as all the others, it featured an equally large picture window overlooking the main room, offering a clear view of the living room, the dining area, and, beyond them, the kitchen.

The window had no blinds, and its glass doors remained open throughout the day. Anyone could see inside with perfect clarity and watch the life unfolding within. By a fortunate twist of circumstance, the pensioner had come to know the family's daily routine without them ever suspecting they were being observed, for the darkness inside his own house concealed him completely as he sat motionless in his chair.

The household consisted of a husband and wife, two teenage sons, a young daughter, and an orange-coated dog. Except during the late hours of the night, they were constantly together, laughing, talking, and moving about the house. Parents and children shared every task with effortless harmony, taking turns cooking, working side by side, lingering over dinner, or spending long evenings together in front of the television.

All of it tormented the pensioner.

Their laughter, their open affection, stood in painful contrast to his own lonely, loveless existence. Everything that filled their lives was precisely what his lacked. With poisonous bitterness, he missed nothing that appeared beyond the glass. Hour after hour he remained at his post, allowing envy to consume him while his mind wandered through grotesque fantasies in which disasters swept away his neighbors' happiness. Then reason would return, reminding him that none of it would ever happen, and he would sink once more into his endless cycle of rage, helplessness, and resentment.

One afternoon, beneath a light, intermittent rain, a moving truck arrived carrying two workmen who, under the parents' directions, began loading the furniture and household belongings. The unexpected scene rekindled the pensioner's curiosity, and he found himself strangely exhilarated, convinced that, at last, he would be free of their presence forever.

When the last piece of furniture had been loaded, the house fell dark. For the first time in years, no lights shone behind its windows, and an uncanny silence settled over it.

Even then, the pensioner remained seated, his eyes fixed on the empty house.

The happiness he had expected never came. Nor did relief.

, an overwhelming sadness crept into his heart as he realized that, despite all the resentment he had felt toward them, he had just lost the closest thing to companions he had ever had in the vast emptiness of his life.

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

What would you do if you knew exactly when, where, and how you were going to die? Would you spend your remaining hours with family, take a last-minute trip, get your affairs in order, or finally fulfill a lifelong dream?

​He didn’t do any of that.

​Instead, he went to work and performed his usual mind-numbing routine, taking a berating from his manager over menial tasks and sipping stale, bitter coffee from the breakroom pot. He wasn't bothered by any of it—he had much bigger things on his mind. He knew that at precisely 7:35 p.m. that evening, he would be dead. There was no escaping it.

​His favorite band happened to be playing in town that night, and that was how he intended to spend his final moments. He’d bought the tickets months before learning his time was almost up, and nothing was going to stop him from going.

​His sister, Alice, later said she’d never heard him sound happier than he did that morning when she called to confirm their travel plans. The itinerary was set: he’d rush home after his shift, shower, pack a bag, take an Uber to Alice’s apartment, and then ride together to the intimate nightclub hosting the gig.

​Alice loved her brother dearly; the two were practically inseparable. It felt fitting that they were going to this show together, though tragically, only one of them would come back. Alice was keeping a secret of her own—one she was thrilled to reveal at the venue. She had been seeing someone online, and they had arranged to meet up at the show so she could finally introduce him to her brother.

​4:55 PM — He stepped out the office doors, waving goodbye to his coworkers before heading home.

​5:10 PM — He arrived at his apartment, grabbed a quick shower, and got dressed.

​6:00 PM — He slid into an Uber bound for Alice’s place, and together they made their way to the venue.

​When they arrived, Alice asked him to wait outside for a moment while she went to locate her mystery man. Five minutes later, she reappeared beside Jeremy. Introductions were made, pleasantries were exchanged, and the three of them headed inside to grab a good spot. As they walked in, he flashed Alice a subtle wink—a nod to let her know he approved.

​They managed to squeeze into the center of the crowd just as the opening act took the stage. The genre wasn't quite his taste, but he was far too excited for the headliner to care. He danced for a bit with Alice and Jeremy before making a trip to the bar for a little liquid courage.

​An hour slipped by. At 7:15 p.m., his favorite band finally took the stage. He knew his time was running short, but he savored every second, soaking in the electric energy of the room without a care in the world.

​7:34 PM — He asked Alice to run to the bar and grab him a drink. He didn't want her to witness what was coming next—a gesture he likely thought was noble. Around him, the energy surged as people pushed toward the front. He turned to face the mosh pit, surrounded by a blur of sweat, movement, and angry faces thrashing to the music.

​7:35 PM

​Nobody had questioned why he kept his backpack on the entire night. Nobody had searched him at the door. Nobody could have anticipated the destruction he was about to unleash.

​He knew the time, place, and manner of his death because he had orchestrated every last detail himself. The only variable he hadn't planned for was Alice finding someone who truly made her happy. If not for Jeremy, she would have perished in that room alongside him.

​We don't speak his name anymore—it brings back too much ruin. But the tragedy he inflicted on our close-knit community will never be forgotten. He knew when, where, and how he was going to die, but the seventeen innocent men and women who lost their lives in that venue had no warning, no preparation, and no choice.

​And now, I have to spend the rest of my life living with the fact that my own brother was a monster.

The smell of crackling bacon and burger grease was a comfort as August walked into the diner. The windows were fogged up from the humidity inside mixing with the cold morning air outside. He could almost taste his breakfast in the air as he stepped through the door. August still held his briefcase in his grip, the handcuff chain firm around his wrist and attached to the silver case. He looked around the small restaurant and spotted an open seat at the bar. His stomach growled when he saw the fresh apple pie sitting in a display near the seat.

Laying the briefcase on the counter, he let the chain clink against the surface, the weight of the case making a dull thud. August stretched in his seat. He could feel the eyes of the construction workers near him, giving him that silent you aren't from around here glance. August shrugged them off. He didn't like those kinds of judgmental eyes, but he was used to them at this point.

He wore a long, faded coat that was fraying around the ankles with age. A suit underneath, disheveled and wrinkled, with a cheap, outdated look that made him seem like a man who had spent years trying to look professional and had long since given up. Short ginger hair, a pair of glasses over a face that had at least four different scars. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, and his nose had been broken more times than one could guess. He didn't look like a fighter, with his lanky, long body looking more like a coworker you'd see in an office cubicle.

A waitress walked up to him, notepad in hand. She took a beat, glancing at his disheveled appearance before asking in a southern accent, "What you having, stranger?"

"Cup of black coffee." He pointed with his left hand, the one missing his pinky and ring fingers.

"And a slice of that pie, please, ma'am." His voice had none of the local Kentucky Appalachian accent.

A family sat in a booth nearby, the mother and father going on about some current events. Their youngest son couldn't help but stare at August from the red, faded leather cushions of the booth. The boy's fork hovered halfway to his mouth as he watched the strange man and the chain attached to his briefcase.

"Anything else?" the waitress asked. Her blue-shadowed eyes lifted to the strange man.

"I'll also take a breakfast bowl. Two eggs on the side, too," August said with a smile, missing three of his teeth.

The waitress nodded and went to put the orders in. She poured him a warm cup of coffee into an old, faded mug and placed a slice of still-slightly-warm pie onto a glass plate. The smell of baked apples and cinnamon drifted up from the counter, mixing with the grease and coffee that filled the diner.

August savored the warmth of the pie and the coffee. The chain on the briefcase was longer than a normal handcuff chain, giving him enough room to use his right hand freely to eat the pie.

"Hey, buddy." One of the construction workers called from down the bar. "Why you chained to that case there?"

August turned with a smile. "My higher-ups don't want me to lose it again," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. He turned back to his pie like it was completely normal.

"What's in it?" the construction worker asked.

The rest of his crew turned toward August, like a bunch of curious schoolboys.

"A mouth."

The construction workers all looked at each other and began chuckling and talking amongst themselves. August didn't ever feel like he should lie like his coworkers did on the job. Besides, August had sworn to never lie again.

The breakfast bowl slid over to the man. He nodded his head and slid the small, empty plate, now holding only a few crumbs and pieces of pie crust, aside. The waitress brought over the coffee pot and began to refill his mug.

"What brings you here to Evermore?" the waitress asked.

"Work," August said before scarfing down a forkful of hash browns. "More specifically, I'm here about Lauren Childress."

"The missing girl?" She clicked her tongue and took a short moment of silence. "Poor thing. Horrible."

"Yes," August nodded in agreement. "I heard the report, and my boss gave me a bus ticket here and instructions to find her."

"Oh. So you are some kind of bounty hunter or private investigator?"

"One time I was." August smiled and sipped the fresh coffee. "I don't really know what to call my current profession. I think a private investigator might fit that description though."

The waitress kindly rolled her eyes. "Poor girl. Can't imagine, if I had a child, how I'd be if something happened to them."

August nodded his head. "Which reminds me."

He reached into his jacket with his left hand, still getting used to having only three digits. He pulled out a newspaper clipping and laid it on the counter.

"How far is this school?"

The image showed a photo of Riverwood Elementary School, along with a picture of the missing Childress girl. The headline stretched across the top of the clipping in thick, black letters:
LOCAL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL GIRL VANISHES — WHERE IS LAUREN CHILDRESS?

The waitress looked up at August. "Can't you just Google it, mister?"

"I don't have a cellphone. Last time I used one, it broke on me."

"Should be about four miles down the road." She looked the man up and down. "Might wanna freshen up, too. Little grimy to be walking into an elementary school."

August looked at himself. "Good point."

The waitress walked away from the man, her eyes drifting toward his briefcase before going back to work. The case was pristine, not a single blemish or dent on the exterior. It stood out so far from August's appearance that it was almost comical.

A small tug pulled on August’s left arm. He turned, having to lower his head from the stool to look down at the young boy who had wandered away from his family’s booth. They didn’t seem to notice he had left. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten years old, wearing a sweatshirt with the elementary school’s name printed across the front. “Evermore Elementary”

“Mister?” the boy started. “I heard you talking about Lauren. Are you gonna find her?”

August nodded. “Yes, I am.” He gave the boy a smile, his missing teeth showing.

“How?” the boy asked, his voice earnest. “Mom and Dad said the police can’t find her. She’s been gone for like, three days.”

“Did you know Lauren?” he asked.

The boy nodded. He turned to glance back at his family, looking as if he might get in trouble for talking to a stranger. After a moment, he turned back to August, shuffling his feet against the floor.

August turned more toward the boy, trying not to intimidate or spook him with his scars and years of work. The boy’s eyes drifted down to August’s left hand, lingering on the two missing fingers.

August could tell the boy hadn’t seen someone missing part of their hand before.

“You knew her from school?” August asked, holding his coffee near his chin. He gestured toward the boy’s sweatshirt, careful not to spill any.

“Yeah. We were in the same class.” The boy rubbed his hands together, glancing toward his family again. “She wasn’t, like, super popular or anything, but nobody really hated her. She was nice.”
He paused for a moment, trying to remember what else to say.

“She drew a lot, though. Like, all the time. Even during recess, when everybody else was playing. Sometimes she’d draw in class, too, when the teacher wasn’t looking.” A small smile crossed his face. “Me and my friends thought she was making a comic book or something. Maybe an anime, ’cause she drew those big eyes and stuff.”

August listened, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

“But then, one day, we all came back inside after recess, and Lauren didn’t come back.” The boy’s smile faded. He looked down at the floor, picking at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Me and my friends thought maybe she was still in the bathroom or got lost or something. We even thought maybe she just went home early.”

He swallowed and glanced back toward his family.

“But then Mom and Dad told me she was missing. And the police came to our class and asked if anybody knew where she went.” He shook his head. “Nobody knew. Not even her friends.”

The boy looked back up at August, his expression growing more serious.

August took a moment. “What's your name?”

“Liam.”

“Liam.” August nodded. “I promise you, I'll find her.”

August finished his second cup of coffee and set it on the bar. He'd need to pay for his meal, then go get washed up and dressed. He'd completely forgotten he was still wearing the same clothes from his last job. Had it even been twenty-four hours?

“How'd you lose your fingers?” Liam asked.

His mother and father must have perked their ears at that question. The father leaned over from the booth and gave his son a stern look.

“Liam. You can't just ask someone that.” He turned toward August. “Sorry, sir.”

The family looked like they were about to leave, the mother already gathering her things from the booth.

August held up his left hand, showing the two missing fingers. On closer inspection, the remaining fingers were crooked, bent at strange angles that didn't quite look natural. The waitress, who was collecting his dirty plates and silverware, couldn't help but stare at his hand, too.

“I lost them a couple months ago.” A memory glazed over his eyes. “Saved a couple people in the process.”

“Did it hurt?” Liam asked.

His parents seemed to grow more embarrassed by the second. His father placed a hand on Liam's shoulder, gently guiding him away from the bar and toward the door.

The memory was clear as day in August's eyes. He swallowed, his gaze lingering on his hand for a moment longer.

“It hurt.”

The family left the diner. Through the fogged-up windows, August could see Liam looking back at him as they walked toward their car. The boy kept his eyes on the strange man at the bar until his parents ushered him inside.

August turned back toward the counter and slipped the newspaper clipping into his pocket. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the bar. He'd certainly seen better days, that was for sure. His mentor's jacket still felt heavy on his shoulders, carrying a weight that had little to do with the fabric itself.

A yellow check landed on the counter in front of him. The waitress stood there for a moment, waiting for August to tear his eyes away from the mirror. He blinked and nodded. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wallet made of aged leather, thick and brimming with cash. He laid a hundred-dollar bill on the counter and gave the waitress a smile.

She rolled her eyes, thinking of the change needed to break the bill. The construction workers noticed the thickness of his wallet. One nudged another, and soon all six were sizing up the stranger with renewed interest.

"Keep the change, ma'am," August said as he pushed himself away from the counter.
His hunger was sated. He grabbed the briefcase and let the chain settle around his wrist again. He had more than enough fuel in his system to walk the four miles to the elementary school.

Pushing through the diner door, August stepped out into the cold Kentucky morning. The chill bit at his face as he started down the road toward the school.

"Hey, buddy."

A voice called from behind him.

August stopped and turned.

All six construction workers had followed him into the parking lot. Through the diner windows, the waitress watched from behind the counter, still looking a little stunned by the massive tip he'd left her.

The men spread out across the lot, puffing out their chests and squaring their shoulders. There was a hungry look in their eyes, the kind August had seen plenty of times before.

"Ain't smart showin' that much cash around here," one of them said. "Drop the wallet and the briefcase, and keep movin'."

August glanced from one man to the next. He didn't argue. He didn't even seem surprised. Without a second thought, he pulled out his wallet and tossed it at their feet. Then he lifted his head and looked at them.

"And the briefcase," the man repeated.

August's smile remained.

"Can't do that. Sorry."

He turned back toward the road and started walking again.

"Hey!"

One of the men stomped forward, his boots scraping against the pavement.

"Stranger, I told you to drop what you got!" he shouted. "With a wallet like that, I'm sure there's somethin' real valuable in that suitcase."

He grabbed August by the shoulder and whipped him around. The man's other hand reached for the briefcase, but August pulled it away. The construction worker snarled, drew back his fist, and threw a punch.

It connected with August's cheek. The impact sent him stumbling back a few steps. His head reeled, and a sharp pain spread across his face.

Damn it, August thought.

"I understand you need money, sir. But..." August touched his cheek, already feeling the lump beginning to swell. "I can't give it to you. I’m sure the wallet can suffice."

The construction worker shrugged and stalked forward, paying no mind to what August had said. Behind him, one of the other men was already picking up the wallet and digging through its contents. There had to be at least two thousand dollars in there. The men all chuckled and egged on their friend attacking August. 

August sighed. Fine.

The whole situation felt like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Annoying, persistent, and hardly worth the effort of scraping off. He shifted the briefcase into the crook of his armpit and brought his hands together. Taking a deep breath, he spoke a single word.

Then, with his left hand, he dislocated the index finger of his right.

Pain surged through him, sharp and immediate. His jaw tightened, and his breath caught in his throat as the word left his lips.

"Dagon."

In a flash, the man stalking toward him collapsed to the pavement, screaming. His punching arm twisted violently. The bones snapped and bent, contorting in ways no human arm was meant to. It crumpled like a used drinking straw wrapper, leaving the limb hanging limp and useless from its socket.

The other construction workers dropped the cash. Inside the diner, the waitress flinched and stumbled back from the window. The remaining patrons stared out at the parking lot in stunned silence.

August held his breath as he reached for his right hand. Gripping his dislocated finger, he forced it back into place with a practiced motion. He flexed his hand, checking that his fingers still moved as they should.

Only then did he take the briefcase back into his familiar grip.

The construction workers rushed to their fallen friend, their threats forgotten. They barely spared a glance at the wallet lying in the rain-soaked pavement as they helped him to his feet. Judging by the screaming, they'd be taking him to a hospital soon enough.

Stay away from violence, August. His mentor's voice echoed deep in his ears. The gifts we bear demand sacrifice and pain. Do not let your pain become familiar to you.

Those were among the last lessons his master had taught him before his untimely demise. The words had seared themselves into August's mind, never fading no matter how hard he tried to forget them.

His mentor had been more than a teacher. He'd been August's greatest friend, the man responsible for the gifts he carried and the person who had shaped him into who he was. August owed him everything, from the upbringing he'd never had to the jacket hanging from his shoulders.

Even now, the weight of that old jacket felt familiar. The handle of his mentor's briefcase, however, still felt a little too large in his hand.

August stared down at it for a moment. Then he shook himself from the memory.

The construction worker's fading screams drifted across the parking lot, mixing with the distant rumble of passing vehicles. The cold air bit at August's bruised cheek, and his right index finger throbbed with every heartbeat.

He adjusted his grip on the briefcase and turned back toward the road.

He had a little girl to find.

And, after all, he'd made a promise.

August wasn't going to break another one.

The Bugs Lead Home- Summary

After coming down with a sudden and unexplainable illness Ruth is bedridden, forced by her doctor never to leave her home lest it aggravate her condition, and she must believe him, he's her husband after all. Forced solely to rely on him after her illness stole all of her memories from her life before, she must piece together who she is and how she came to be this way. As her thirst for knowledge grows he becomes stricter and controlling, and she slowly learns that perhaps he's hiding something about her mysterious ailment - or who he is altogether.

(This is a story I wrote, it is in chapter format, 14000 words, and vaguely takes place in around the 1800s. I am just putting it in a link to the pdf instead of just posting it here because it's very long)

content warning: medical horror

Carrow County in Northeastern Ohio had always been strange. The idea that my little hometown in the Western Reserve, wedged between Appalachian foothills and Lake Erie, could have a normal day was foreign even to me in elementary school back in 2003. Things were always just a little off, and the rules ironclad. It didn’t matter who you were or how bad you thought you were, you kept away from genial strangers and any solicitors brave enough to dodge the dog and ignore twin barrels inches away from their faces, and further more you never went outside at night. Ever. As an adult I know much better now. As an adult I now understand much more.

The first time I noticed something that me and my friends considered weird were the string of suicides in the senior class here in little old Bellwether. Roughly half the class suddenly kicked the bucket, seemingly everyone who decided to go look in the County Courthouse records for their senior projects. What I’d heard from my buddy Bill was that some of the records dated back to 1803. I thought that was a bit interesting because the town was founded in the late 1700s, I think 1767 but my memory isn’t so good since the concussion. I don’t really remember a lot lately, but my doctor says that’s nothing to be concerned about. Yet. My father wouldn’t let me go look though, he was insistent that anything that would potentially cause that much trouble was much much too intense for a middle schooler who “pretended” to write stories.

It always sounded meaner than I think he meant it to but he also didn’t understand me struggling with ADHD, always thought it was a lack of motivation or not “wanting it enough” or some nonsense that was the damage of some boomer who thought he was Dusty Rhodes giving the “Hard Times” promo to a Gen-X kid who would be a father at 18. My mother would laugh it off and say I was being too sensitive if I got hot about it. She ended up leaving with her boyfriend after the suicides happened. I wonder if she’s doing better in Essex surrounded by all those universities and queer-folk. Everyone knows Innsmouthers and how they don’t really care for outsiders.

Bellwether remained though, the old blue-blood money from the richer of the Connecticut yanks who settled the county held things together for most people. It helped, of course, that you could make $12 serving the local brew or pushing carts at McKay’s. You just had to deal with the town and the people in it that couldn’t quite cut it. I mean just the other day I saw the same Civil War reenactors that have been performing since my dad was little at least, still looking sixty. Roughly. Though they smell god-awful now, and their grey and blue look a little more red every year. If you could keep your wits about you or your shit together, Bellwether was a nice enough place to call your home.

My dad took mom jumping ship hard. I couldn’t imagine a man who wouldn’t. But he also couldn’t take off work; He was a solicitor, or at least he preferred that term to lawyer or attorney, for one of the oldest families in the county. The Whitlocks. They were one of the six founding families, the other five being the Templetons, the Osborns, the Parsons, the Chambers, and lastly the Mattias. As a kid I asked my dad why the Whitlock family was the only one with a given name that didn’t end with an S, he told me that he didn’t rightly know. He also said that he didn’t ask questions of his boss. That year he’d also scored his firm the Mattias account, I think it was the first time I saw my mother cry. She didn’t look happy, I didn’t understand why.

But I keep digressing, losing my train of thought. It’s harder than ever to keep things straight. I think I understand why mom cried that day, maybe why she left. The boyfriend is beyond me, he was uglier than Simon Magus must’ve been after being stoned to death. I like ‘em cuter, more like girls, but I like girls more. Anyways, my senior year’s coming to a close and for my senior project I decided to look into our family history. We’ve got a fairly big house now and dad is often busy juggling legal entanglements for the two prosperous families he works for so I’m just here digging through stuff on my own more often than not. The other day I found a journal written by my grandfather. It was buried in the bottom of an ancient looking “Cedar Hope Chest” from 1942, and yes I had to Google what that was. I’m not some kinda freaking anthropologist at 18 or whatever. Archeologist? Whatever. Point being, I found his dress uniform, a journal, a bunch of medals, and a service pistol I recognized from Call of Duty: World At War.

The M1911A1 was in amazing condition, a couple YouTube tutorials and I was able to relatively unconfidently take it apart and put it back together. The old man left two full magazines in addition to the one already in the thing, plus a bullet already chambered. Admittedly that tickled something in my skull. The whole box did really, it had that old wood smell of something that was well used and now just sits around waiting to rot because nobody takes care of it properly anymore. With my new toy relatively cleaned, filled, rechambered, and the safety locked in place, I moved over to the second floor library and sat in the window with the journal. It took a few minutes and another five Lockpicking Lawyer tutorials to pop the bad boy keeping me from my A+. And growing hungry and thirsty at this point I went downstairs to crack a cold Mountain Dew Livewire and throw some ramen noodles in a sauce pan. Before you even think about it, I don’t care if the chicken flavor is basic. I like it and you can lick a toad if you disagree. Plus those two go down so good together, I don’t even care. But with my stomach full I could finally focus enough on my task to actually get started. Hopefully you’ll forgive my weaving in and out of focus when I tell you what the old man wrote.

The first fifty or so pages were a preamble to some wild stuff, his father had moved the family out of Red Hook when he was five. Apparently the Brooklyn neighborhood had at least one Satanic cult that kidnapped kids and sacrificed them. I found a newspaper article about it on my phone but I’m a little leery. It read like the kinda nonsense that conservatives would hurl at Dungeons & Dragons or Harry Potter twenty years ago to stay relevant. It was the kind of thing the man had struggled avoiding to my understanding as his grandfather had uprooted the family prior to that for similar reasons, abandoning Brichester and then Severn Valley entirely because of a supposed cult to some sort of old Pagan god that contains a slur in its name that I’m not willing to repeat. Let’s call it Quake because that’s the name it has in that game. Quake’s cult made my great-great grandfather’s hackle rise so hard he emigrated to America in 1896. Quake’s boys must’ve really scared Granville Llewellyn Darrington because on arrival he changed his name and the family’s last name as well, that’s how he became Percival Morris, and began the line of Percivals. His son was named Clement Morris and my grandfather Percival Morris II.

Well, Clement caught wind of something similar to Quake’s cult happening in Red Hook and couldn’t sell his real estate fast enough over some Satanic Panic nonsense, he packed up immediately and moved everyone westward. After settling in Bellwether, he quickly joined the CCDCFCS or as it’s officially known: The Carrow County Drainage, Culvert, and Flood Control Subcommittee. Us people with too little time to bother remember that just refer to them as the Ditch Committee -- Interesting thing I just noticed reading it back; My grandfather, Percival II was also in the Ditch Committee though he doesn’t specify what they do at all. Just tally marks related to the number of “encounters” and “clots removed”. Anyways, Clement would make his money speculating on the local coal mine same as the other bluebloods but his friends, Zebekiah W. Osborn and Kai York invited him to some sort of secret group that would meet at the local Carnegie Library and stay through the night doing god knows what. According to the journal, my grandfather tried to follow him once, but it didn't end well for the switch that broke in half over my grandfather’s hands while he repeated Ecclesiastes 7:21 until it was committed to memory. It’s then noted that he noticed an odd purple color that “felt cold and otherworldly” coming from that direction over the city’s skyline on the evenings they met. There’s a choice bit at the bottom of the page.

“I went out late tonight, I could swear I heard screaming and the sound of something wet hitting the ground. When I looked up I could swear I saw a man with wings in the moonlight and a tower rising behind it. That’s the first time I saw a dead body. I tried to help her but the bleeding was too much. She apologized and told me to run. I can’t wash the red out of my hands.”

Shoot, dad’s back. I need to hide that gun and the journal. I’ll update this when I get through more and have time.

D-AH LIN AH-JAH CHINDI TSE-NILL AH-LOSZ JAD-HO-LONI TSAH AH-NAH KLESH DIBEH KLESH A-WOH A-CHI AH-JAD NASH-DOIE-TSO NASH-DOIE-TSO

My Mother Is a Cultist

I took Louise inside, locked the front door and closed all the curtains. I double checked everything inside to make sure nothing could fall on, stab or otherwise brutalize my little sister. Then, after being satisfied with the safety precautions, I went to Frank’s room to find evidence to support my theory.

The door to his room was wide open. A thick darkness pooled out of the room, I couldn’t see far past the doorway. A dull hum began to fog my mind as I approached. I reached out to touch the substance, fingers brushing against the dark threshold inside the door frame. It was cool to the touch and smooth like glass. As I stepped forward to pass through the obsidian-esque fog, Mom emerged from the darkness and slammed the door shut, locking it behind her.

She stuffed something down her shirt then turned to face me. Dark bags hung under her eyes and tear stains trailed down her cheeks. She had two, old leather-bound books under her arms.

“Everything ok, honey?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, trying to hide the concern in my voice. “What were you doing in there? Did you not hear the crash outside?”

“Outside? What happened outside?”

“A car almost ran over Louise and-”

Horror washed over her.

“Oh God! Is Louise ok? Are you ok?”

“Yes, yes Mom. We’re both fine. But I think one of the neighbors-”

Her calm, tempered demeanor returned.

“Oh. That’s too bad. I’m glad you guys are safe.”

She pushed past me. The door to Frank’s room was still locked.

“Hey Mom, can I get into Frank’s room for a sec?”

Mom froze, still as a statue. I wasn’t even sure she was breathing anymore.

“Why?”

“He uh. He borrowed a game a while back and I was just wanting to get it back.”

“I can pop in real quick and get it for you. Just tell me where it is.”

So so still.

“Oh no, it's ok. I’ll be quick.”

I turned and walked toward Frank’s door.

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

Fast-paced footsteps approached behind me.

“No.” Mom commanded. “You are not to go into your brother’s room.”

Her presence was terrifying. I stood a good foot above Mom, but the oppressive aura that towered right behind me was leagues taller. I was terrified to turn around.

“Ok,” shaking. “I won’t, Mom. I promise.”

“Good. Now give Mom a hug.”

In a strange way, it didn’t seem like Mom was asking for a hug. Rather, something else was telling me to hug “Mom.”

I turned around, trying to control my shaking, but it was just Mom with a joyful smile on her face. I bent down and hugged her. She hugged me and rubbed my back just like she did with Frank and Louise.

“Oh, Jeremy. I love you guys so much. You know that right?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you know that I would do ANYTHING to keep you guys safe?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good. Now go get Louise. I’m making Lasagna for dinner!”

The curse had got to Mom. I knew I had to get into Frank’s room now. Late that night, after Mom and Louise went to sleep, I got up and tried Frank’s door again. It didn’t budge. I couldn’t risk breaking down the door and waking up Mom so I had to find the key.

I waited at her door for a good 30 minutes, making absolutely sure she was asleep. I pushed the door open slowly and began to creep across her room at a snail’s pace. At any movement or sound from her, I was prepared to drop to the ground. Mom was a heavy sleeper, but I didn’t want to risk anything.

Quietly, I searched the room, finding the key on Mom’s nightstand attached to a necklace. Right next to it was a set of picture frames containing old pictures of Louise, Mom, myself and Dad.

I hadn’t seen Dad’s face in years. He had a thick, red beard, like a dwarf’s. He was short like a dwarf too. I guess I got most of Mom’s genes. She was tall and skinny. Mom used to have long, dirty-blonde hair. Now, it was greyed and thinning. No doubt a result of the immense stress she had been under. In every picture where Mom and Dad were together, they were smiling. They made each other so happy.

Among the pictures of us kids, Frank’s pictures were absent. There were no pictures of Frank around the room at all. Mom had taken them all into her arms and was asleep with them. She coddled the glass and wood frames like they were her own children, sobbing softly in her sleep.

I hesitated in taking the key for a moment, but my mission was too important. I snatched the key-chain and exited the room just as carefully as I had entered.

Frank’s bedroom door unlocked easily and creaked open. That same obsidian wall stood before me. I pushed against it gently and the membrane gave way. I hadn’t seen Frank’s since Dad’s death. It was totally different from what I remembered. Sports posters and bikini calendars I had helped Frank put up were replaced or covered by cheap bookshelves etched with arcane sigils and stuffed with old, decrepit books. The air was pungent, salt and moisture that coated my nostrils and throat.

In the dead center of the room was a massive octagram drawn into the wooden floor with a dark, red substance. Probably blood. I didn’t stop to inspect it further. Something else caught my eye. In the center of the octagram was an old, black, leather-bound tome. It looked no different from the other books lining the shelves and the books Mom had, save for its scarlet edged pages.

Despite the occult symbols and strange presence of the room, I didn’t feel threatened or in danger. The room almost seemed to recognize me. Accept me. Accept my blood. The same blood that ran through Mom and Louise’s veins and the same blood that once ran through Frank and Dad’s. The book’s covers and spine were blank and smooth, like the dark wall of fog in the door frame. On the inside cover was a printed title.

“An Astute History of Occult Practices and Why You Should Never Perform Them, Third Edition Revised”

I flipped through the faded, scarlet pages which were warm to the touch. A start contrast to the ice-cold leather cover. Most of the text in the book was a language I didn’t understand, but various notes left by Frank translated portions of it. What I read in that book, along with the extremely detailed pictures, was all I needed to confirm my suspicion that Frank had caused this curse that plagued our family.

Sitting in the middle of the octagram I flipped through the pages, trying to make sense of the alien text within. Deeper into the book Frank’s notes became less frequent. Frank had performed three rituals so far: one to make people like him more, the second to enhance his athletic abilities, and the third to let him speak to the dead momentarily.

Just to see if Frank had written any more notes I flipped through the remainder of the book. As I did, a small bookmark fell out of the back cover. On the front was written, “From A.B.” I picked up the bookmark and unfolded it, a letter.

“Hey Frankie-Pie! Here’s that book you asked about. Just remember our deal! ;)

Here’s an easy sentence to help you get started with translation.”

A series of glyphs were written below this, along with Frank’s translation”

“Your heart is mine forever! Kidding! Or am I?”

I didn’t know anybody with the initials “A.B.” that Frank had mentioned. I would have searched through some of the other books in the room, but the sun was starting to rise meaning Mom would be up soon to make breakfast. Placing the bookmark back, I spotted a small library stamp at the bottom of the back cover in fine, blue ink.

“Property of Montauk Historical Society of the Supernatural.”

Montauk. Montauk. Montauk.

I committed the name to memory then placed the book back exactly as I had found it. I exited Frank’s room and locked the door behind me. Just in time as down the hall Mom’s morning alarm went off. I hurried to my room and closed the door. Soon after, on the other side, footsteps paced past. 

Then silence.

Something was wrong.

Had I made too much noise? Did the lock or door not fully shut? What about the key? Where was the key?

I patted myself down. Nothing. A shadow crept under the door crack.

I left the key in the lock.

“Jeremy? Are you awake?”

I was completely still. My breath was shaky but quiet. There was no way Mom could know I was in Frank’s room.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

“Jeremy. Wake up, Jeremy.”

I started walking towards my bed, slow and steady.

Step by step by step.

The safety of my sheets were inches away.

Underneath my weight, the floorboards groaned and creaked, loud enough for Louise on the other side of the house to hear.

I dived into bed and turned over under my covers. The door swung open and slammed against the wall. Mom gilded over and towered over me. I didn’t turn around to look, but could feel her cold gaze piercing through me.

“Jeremy. Did you go into Frank’s room?”

“What?” I responded in my best “just woke up from sleep” voice.

“Did you go into Frank’s room?”

“No Mom, I didn’t.”

She loomed over me still.

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

I turned over to face whatever stood above my bed, but only saw the silhouette of Mom in the doorway.

“Of course sweety. Sorry to wake you.”

The next few days I spend hours scrolling through sketchy websites and conspiracy forums trying to find any information on Montauk. I found a few posts from people saying they had visited the place, but no one had an address. I messaged users directly in hopes of getting anything to point me in the right direction, but the only replies I got were “bro doesn’t know,” or “lol normie,” or other more derogatory messages.

I was just about to give up, when I received a random message with a set of coordinates attached.

“Don’t tell anyone I sent you this. I don’t want to end up like the others, but you gotta see this place.”

Searching the coordinates online brought me to a small, white mansion next to a lighthouse on the edge of a cliff. In front of the house was a wooden sign covered in faded and chipping teal paint. Written across the front in pristine white cursive, like it had been painted the day the photo was taken, was a name.

“Montauk Historical Society of the Supernatural”

Jackpot.

Montauk

The user who sent the coordinates and I kept chatting for a while after. They gave me a brief rundown on Montauk and some dark web links for further research. According to them, the Montauk Historical Society of the Supernatural was found sometime in the early 1800’s. By “found” I don’t mean it was founded and built over time by some cultists hundreds of years ago. Rather, the Montauk building was discovered, already built and operational, by early pioneers exploring the area that is now modern day New York.

There was only one journal entry that I could find from that expedition that found Montauk. All references to it speak as if the place has always existed.

“We found a strange building along the coast. It is a massive, English house with two floors next to what appears to be a stone lighthouse. The house appears to be made of wood, but the texture is too smooth and the material is a cloudy white. Contrarily, the beacon seems to be made entirely of harshly compacted stone, colored the same as the house. Its surface is cool to the touch and likewise smooth.

“As dusk was falling and snow was soon to be upon us, my compatriots and I took refuge inside the mansion. We should have known that awful place was from the devil the moment we laid eyes on it. Entering, we immediately made note that its interior far surpassed what was seen on the outside. Its halls twisted and folded in ways that bent and broke the minds of us who tried to map it.

“I wish not to remember what we witnessed in its unending rooms. The entry was the only safe place it seemed, so we chose to make camp there and keep one person on guard in rotation. The first to be claimed by the complex was poor Benjamin. In the middle of the night, just before his shift ended, Benjamin ventured out towards the lighthouse in a trance. According to Philip, who saw the whole, terrible thing, Benjamin entered into the lighthouse, climbed to the very top, then threw himself off into the sea below.

The next few pages are written in the same language as Frank’s books are. The only other page that is written in English is the final one.

“Now, I am the only survivor of this hell. Montauk has chosen me to be its prophet, its puppet, its keeper, its slave. I will not. I am heading back to the colony to gather manpower and enough gunpowder to deface this entire landing. If anyone finds this journal, then we have failed in our mission.”

From what other information I found, Montauk currently acts as a library cataloging strange happenings, books and artifacts from around the world. They also, funny enough, have a gift shop that sells “low-grade supernatural conduits.” Little gadgets that the place claims to be items of power, but I haven’t seen any proof the items they sell actually work. However, the books sold or rented out from Montauk are another matter. Most, if not all, of Frank’s collection came from Montauk. I have yet to find a ritual within those books that hasn’t caused some horrible thing to happen to its caster.

During my weeks of research, Mom continued to go into Frank’s room doing God knows what for hours on end. Whatever she was doing though seemed to keep the curse from reaching us inside the house. Anytime we went out, Mom and I would keep our heads on a swivel to make sure we’d avoid any supernatural accidents. We were careful, but careful still got us numerous fender-benders, bruises and scratches from runaway tires, vicious animals and whatever else decided to attack us.

Mom was content with this new life of paranoia and constant terror. I wasn’t, but the only way I figured we’d be able to reverse the curse is if I went straight to the source.

Two weeks out from moving off to college, I told Mom and Louise I was going on a short vacation. A little “final bit of freedom hurrah.” Mom, who I thought would grill me on who, what, when and where I was going, hardly lifted her eyes from a bowl of viscous liquid she was strenuously stirring.

“Ok. Have fun.”

I gave Mom one last hug before heading out.

“I will. Love you too, Mom.”

She mumbled back.

“Uh huh…”

Louise was more worried about it than Mom was.

“Why are you going bubba?”

“Bubba needs to take care of some important business. Can you take care of Mom for me?”

“Nuh uh!”

“‘Nuh uh?’ What’s that mean?”

“‘Nuh uh’ you’re not going!”

I set my bags down and dropped to eye level with Louise, puppy eyed and pouted lips trying to convince me to stay.

“Listen. You’ve seen the bad things that have been happening, right?”

She nodded her head.

“Then you know something bad is eventually gonna happen to one of us.”

Again, she nodded. Less confidently.

“But Momma said she was protecting us.”

“Yes, but Momma isn’t herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because that Bastard, Frank cursed our family and Mom is suffering from it,” is what I wanted to say, to shout from the top of my lungs for the whole world to hear. I couldn’t. Louise could not know the true nature of it all.

“Ok, let me put it this way. If you let me go on this trip, then Momma won’t have to protect us anymore because the bad things won’t happen anymore.”

“Really? How?”

Admittedly, great question. I had no clue if Montauk would even be able to help me in the first place.

“I just know, and if you stay here and take care of Momma then I won’t have to worry about her while I’m gone. Plus, you’ll get to wear the big-girl pants of the house!”

Her eyes lit up in excitement.

“Woah! Really?”

“Yep. Really.”

She twisted side to side, face scrunched, thinking hard.

“Ok. You can go. But bring us back a present, ok?”

I held out my pinky to her.

“I will. Pinky promise.”

She looped her finger around mine and we shook, singing my soul over to a child on the basis of a lie.

I landed in New York 6 hours later.. As the plane touched down, a seagull flew into one of the jet engines. Somehow, bone fragments shot up toward the window I sat next to and almost punctured the glass.

Not wanting to risk anything else, I quickly disembarked and gathered my luggage avoiding anything mechanical or electrical. Outside of baggage claim I opened my bags and made sure everything I packed was still there. Somehow, a small necklace made of animal bones and hair, my hair, made its way in the bags. Reason told me that it was Mom who put it in there. I hesitated putting it on. Mom had been protecting us from the curse, but I didn’t know for sure if the ends justified the means. In the end though, I trusted Mom and put it on.

The charm seemed to work, as immediately after I flagged down a taxi who, in a rare stroke of luck, had already transported a few people to Montauk in the past and was the user who sent me its location. After a few hours' drive, they dropped me off at the end of a long dirt path leading through some woods.

“Just keep straight and steady on the path, kay? Don’t veer off, no matter what you hear.”

I paid them for the ride and then some extra for the information and started down the path into the thick trees.

What little sunlight remained in the day pierced through the evergreens and hardwoods that loomed tall over me. I followed the driver’s advice to the letter. Never turning or straying from the thin path.

Behind me I heard a twig snap, and felt the same presence Mom exuded. Despite the voice sounding identical, I knew whatever was behind me wasn’t Mom.

“Jeremy. Why did you come here?”

I didn’t respond. I kept my head straight and continued forward.

The thing approached from behind, then stopped. The bracelet on my wrist started to hum and burn. Then, it took Louise’s voice.

“Bubba. Why did you leave us, bubba? Momma is hurt bad. She did something to her wrist, Bubba!”

It was getting harder not to look back, but I didn’t. At least I don’t think I did. Images began to flash in my mind. I saw Mom holding Louise’s lifeless body. Her head was crushed in and her clothes covered in tire marks. 

Then another. 

Dark, spindly legs burst from Mom’s back and her jaw had broken in two like a spider’s. A dark figure stood before her, tall and dark and void. It drained Mom’s essence as she leaped on top of Louise, tearing her to shreds. 

That image stuck in my head long after I crossed the threshold out of the forest and the voices and visions stopped.

I was in a vast, green clearing on the edge of a seaside cliff. In the center was a modern two-story house made of faux wood. Standing tall next to it was a pristine granite lighthouse. The beam whirled above me in a steady, hypnotizing, counter-clockwise spiral.

Mom’s necklace tightened around my neck, burying itself into my skin and choking me. I scratched at it, trying to get it off. My nails caught under the band. Using the slight give I shoved my fingers under the necklace and pulled as hard as possible. 

As soon as the necklace snapped away, my mind fogged over, a dull hum echoing throughout my skull.

The lighthouse called out to me and I remembered the account of old Benjamin. Poor old Benjamin. The fool who ascended that Babelian tower and cast himself from it into the embrace of a frigid ocean. I knew I would follow his path down if I gave in. Yet I marched on.

Step by step by step by step.

My vision narrowed and all I could see, all I could think of, was that tower. Oh the great seducer. That glorious granite pillar jutting out into the sky. I wanted to be part of its holy resonance so badly. My hand reached for the door. For the steel barrier that separated me from pure bliss.

Then I was tackled from behind. My head slammed hard into the granite pillar and I lost consciousness.

I'll let you guys in on a little secret. We've been smack dab in the middle of the zombie apocalypse for the last decade. We've just gotten really, really good at covering it up. It's no surprise really, I mean we've known how to deal with the undead since Romero made us afraid to step into shopping malls. It's been drilled into us for almost a century; destroy the brain, aim for the head, double tap the head, did you make sure to destroy the brain?

As a society, I think we were ready for the novelty of the dead walking, maybe not the reality of it. The first couple weeks, when pale rotting husks rose from their slabs with a hankering for flesh, well the poor underpaid mortuary workers were swiftly devoured. Once the shock of seeing a shambling muncher come stumbling towards the rest of us wore off, the zeds were dispatched rather easily.

You know how many blunt instruments there are in a hospital? And how easy it is to cave someone's head in? The human body can perform extraordinary feats of strength whilst under extreme duress. Nadine would have explained it using hyper specific technical terms.

I just call it "hulking out."

The melee that followed "Z-Day" was brief and bloody. Despite the undead being slow and dull, even the slightest scratch could lead to infection, and a bite was surefire way to join their maggot filled ranks. I can't speak to the other hospitals and accident scenes and what not, but our clinic had about eight corpses that came lumbering out from the basement, one of them still chewing what I assume was Doug's femur.

I was standing there in my olive-green scrubs chatting up Nadine, while she humored my boorish attempts at flirting. If I recall I had just cracked a joke about being the only guy nurse and all the attention that granted me. A lie of course, was just trying to make myself look appealing. I don't know why I tried so hard, we'd known each other for years at that point. Anyway, where was I, ah yes.

The zombies.

The smell hit us first, all at once in fact. Like a tidal wave of putrid fumes slamming into us. The basement door creaked open, and the first shambler shambled on in. I heard this crunch of bones snapping, and slabs of meat slopped to the ground. The guy was a big and buck naked. I could tell from the Y shaped scar on his chest the autopsy must have been recent. The stitching was loose, withered, deflated bags of organs and muscle plopped out of his chest cavity and onto the ground.

We could hear more waltzing in behind him, their eyes glazed over, a hint of manic orange to them. Their skin was pale and grey, almost like tissue paper. Tiny, coal black spider-webs danced around what was once their arteries. It was just me, Nadine, the receptionist Darcy and Walter the custodian on the floor at the time. When Nadine saw the creatures she dropped her pen to the ground, and her eyes went wide with astonishment. Walter was still mopping the floor, oversized headphones on his head. Darcy looked up and screeched, instantly running the other way. The big one snagged Walter by the shoulder who looked up and went as pale as the corpse trying to take a bite out of him.

Walter pushed him off and raised his mop. It was like something out of a movie; he broke the mop over his knee like a twig and then in one swift motion stabbed the big zed right in the jaw with a pointy end. Must have nicked him right in the stem because he twitched for a moment then slumped down. The ones behind him were unbothered by their slain comrade, and raised their arms and moaned, this mournful thing that sent shivers down my spine.

Now I'm not a big fella by any means, but I ain't scrawny either. I reached around the reception desk and yanked a keyboard and just started bashing the nearest one in the head with it. Black ooze spurted from every hit, and the corpse just kept tanking it. Each strike cleaving a bit more of skull and plastic keys away every time. Nadine had a scalpel in her pocket and started going for eyes.

Darcy came back with security, big jarhead looking guy by the name of Mike. Mike had a billy club in his hands, and a twisted look in on grizzled face. He charged towards the hoard, I swear to God, yelling "SEMPER FI DO OR DIE!" and just started whaling on the zeds. It was like he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.

I mean shit I played the hell out of Left 4 Dead 2 back in med school so in a way I suppose so was I.

I'll be blunt, everything that happened after Mike barged in is a bit of a crimson blur. I'm not saying I don't remember but, well the last CLEAR thing I recall is the one with Doug's femur hanging out of its mouth grabbing Nadine by the shirt collar.

When the haze cleared, I was being smacked across the face by a guy in a national guardsmen outfit. I shock off the blow and looked past him. The ground was littered with bloodied tarps, mostly black ooze, and one body bag that was strapped up and twitching. Nadine was giving a statement to another office; her white coat stained with gore. She saw me staring and gave me a bashful smile and wave. The officer turned his head, mild amusement sprouting on his worn mug. I was about to stand and greet her when the guardsman pushed me back down.

He couldn't have been more than nineteen; I could still see puberty wreaking havoc over his terrified face. The AR in his hands shook, his trigger finger lacking any discipline.

"Sir." He managed to squeak out. "I need you to remain seated until the doc is done examining you." He motioned to the guy in the hazmat suit prodding me in my peripheral. It was then I noticed they were everywhere, speaking in hushed, filtered voices. Darcy had a blanket draped over her trembling visage and a cup of coco in her hands. Her make up was melting down her cheeks as she prattled on and on about poor Mike. Her eyes kept flicking to the body bag, and my heart sunk.

"Hey, can't put the poor fucker out of his misery?" I rasped, my voice a strained whisper. The guardsmen glanced behind him and shrugged.

"Orders are to restrain till we get newly dropped back to base. Figure the eggheads want fresh meat to examine."

"Mr. Larson that's a grotesque thing to disclose to a civilian." The hazmat next to me muttered with disdain. "Go outside and await further reprimand, I'm sure Evans will want a word with you." The guardsman slunk away like a whimpering pup, and I was left with the hazmat. He groaned as he stood and removed his gasmask. He had a kind face, and saddle bags under his eyes.

"Mr. Brooks, I must say you're rather lucky. You don't have a scratch on you." The hazmat seemed impressed.

"Is-is everyone ok?" I asked, noting Walter was nowhere to be seen.

"More or less. The infected seem easy to dispatch but dangerous in large numbers. There only seemed to be a handful here."

"Oh God, the hospital-" I shot up.

"Already under wraps, Mr. Brooks. Much like every other institution in America. If I can be candid for a moment, casualties are actually far below our initial projections, by the time we get past the first wave I suspect only a few hundred will be consumed by the virus." He sounded almost proud of that grim statistic. He must have noticed the horror creeping onto my face, as he then sighed and extended a hand.

"My apologies, my name is Doctor Howard Fine. I'm in charge of clean-up operations for this sector." I took his hand, his blue coated hand firm to the touch.

"Devin Brooks. So, what's going on around here doc, is this the big one? Should we get the bunkers prepped or what?" Fine laughed at that.

"I'm afraid you've watched one too many horror movies, Devin." With that he explained.

I won't spout the same boring monologue Fine did, I'll just stick to the basics.

Basically, the government cocked something up in a Bio Lab in the Alaskan wilderness. They found some ancient pathogen frozen in a block of ice and thought it would be a bright idea to thaw it out and see what it did. The virus, dubbed "Lazarus-52" went airborne almost immediately. We're working with "Walking Dead" rules here, it's in the atmosphere and we're all breathing it in even to this day. That little tickle in the back of your throat? It's not just the sniffles.

Now to the government's credit, they were actually pretty prepared for this. In a shocking display of bureaucratic competency; they enacted what is internally known as "The Zed Plan," which basically gives the head of the CDC full jurisdiction to combat any rapid and possibly apocalyptic pathogen with extreme prejudice.

The rapid response, teamed with the fact that zombies have been memed into mocked obscurity by countless lampoons and parodies that no one would believe any footage that leaked online, well they barely had to work to cover it up.

The virus was also slow to reanimate, taking between two to four hours to fully gestate. Within the week, the initial wave was a light drizzle instead of a raging typhoon.

Most people involved in the outbreaks took a payout, one or two loudmouths were dispatched, let's say. Some of us got offered a job. Or in my case, I begged for one. I'm making it sound like I was recruited into some shadow cable that hunted the undead, far from it. Nadine's resume caught the eye of Fine and one of his assistants got eaten, that was it. I begged to be dragged along, blinded by the feverish notion that I was gonna be a hero who saved the world.

Let's just squash that notion, there no heroes here. Just a bunch of cogs working a thankless job making sure the dead stay in their lane. I don't even wanna fathom the amount of money and effort it takes to network the decade long conspiracy of keeping Lazurus-52 under wraps, so I won't.

I will say I make a modest salary, and my new job is basically "corpse inspector." Each day, I go to a dozen or so hospitals and morgues and inspect them. Under Plan Zed, each morgue operator has been instructed to drill a hole into skull of every corpse that comes in. Any minimal amount of damage to the cranial tissue will prevent reanimation, Lazarus is a fickle bitch. That's all they are told mind you; it was passed on as some new OSHA safety law or something like that.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the bodies have a little hole right in the forehead. I can tell by how much they scrambled to do it by the fresh sludge oozing from the wound. Sometimes it's a black, viscous fluid running down their forehead. I ream into the workers pretty hard then, they don't know how lucky they are their incompetence didn't get them eaten.

That's all the job is really, driving around looking at the dead. There is some paperwork in between, mindless busy work to break up the monotony of driving. Once in a while I'll help out on a retrieval call, ya know those cases of a zombie wandering in public. Thank God for bath salts, perfect cover story.

One time I did crowd control while they wrangled a zed while chowing down on a squirrel. This was in a public park mind you, crowd was laughing their ass off at it. Lotta filming, which in this day and age you can't stop so ya might as well let the video run its course. I saw one video where someone had overlayed one of those cringy dog ear filters over the zed with the caption "POV: Your dog gets off the leash."

Diabolical, really. The comments made my stomach churn more than the footage itself.

One or two of them mentioned how it wasn't bath salts and the government is hiding something from us. Those guys were clowned on pretty hard, told to shut up and take their meds.

I still hear from Nadine, sporadically though. Her theories on Lazarus catapulted her to new heights I could scarcely dream of, let alone achieve.

Last week I got a call from her, the shrill ring of my cellphone made me shoot up like lightening from my brief nap at the wheel.

"Go for Dev." I groggily spoke into the phone.

"Dev, it's been ages. How ya been?" Nadine was typing as she spoke, I could hear the clickity clacks of her nails against her keyboard.

"Fine, just been swamped with paperwork, and ya know that morgue in Keene keeps sliding on processing, they're gonna get a risen on their hands if they don't-"

"Fantastic excellent to hear. Listen have you encountered any Znines lately?" She interrupted, barely acknowledging what I had been venting.

I sighed; it was this again. Her cross-species theory.

"No, Nad. No zombie yellers. Which is a good thing, because we can't contain Laz if it jumps ship. That'd be it, game over."

"Yes yes I know, which is why it's important to stay vigilant of the virus's mutation potential. I've done some experiments in the lab recently to induce cross species contamination."

"Why the fuck would you do that?" I snapped at her.

"To come up with counter measures if it occurs naturally." She scoffed like I was the idiot. "We can't just keep sitting around complicit in the status quo, we need to attack 52 head on."

"Sure, why not." I shook my head, there was no talking to her when she was like this.

She told me to keep her updated of any Znines I caught wind of and I promised I would, and that was that.

So that's it then, that's my life in a nutshell right now. I drive around making sure corpses stay corpses. It might sound exciting but it's boring, and just plain exhausting. Even the odd zombie, it's not fun to deal with. One bite, one scratch, and I'm chained up in a black site somewhere while my ex-girlfriend pokes and prods me with a stick.

You know what's really screwed up? I've heard we actually have a cure for Laz. All we'd need to do is release it into the atmosphere and let clouds do the rest. But every time it comes up, it gets pushback. "Oh, what if the public finds out what it was for, oh what will happen to the department, all those people outta a job. What if we need Laz in the future, ya know zombie slaves." The people up top are always frothing at the mouth at the thought of zombie labor, I'm sure they got some chained up in mines somewhere.

Nothing will change, long as there is a single penny to be made off Laz. We will just sit on the pot warming our asses over boiling water.

I might talk more about this job later, get it out of my system. I ain't worried about being found out or anything like that, no one will believe me anyway. This all probably reads like some god-awful zombie fan fiction. Which if ya wanna believe that sure go nuts. I will say this.

Careful if you ever take a job at a funeral home. Every coffin is sealed tight now, just in case. If you ever hear tapping on the lid from the inside?

Just let it alone, walk away and go about your day.

Ya might not like what ya see if you open her up.

“Tap,tap,tap.”

I awoke to the sound of tapping, it seems it’s coming from my window

“It must be that dumbass tree again” I said as I mossied out of bed.

“It does this every time it’s the slightest bit windy”. I grumbled as I waddled over to my window.

I opened the window so the branch would stop hitting it. Right at that moment I shook off my grogginess and remembered I cut that branch down last week, so what was tapping the glass? My neighbor did mention about a month ago that he had a woodpecker in his yard, maybe it's that. I poked my head out of the window and looked around. When I turned my head to the left I saw two beady eyes, soulless and hollow. The eyes moved further back and promptly flew away into the night out of view.

“Thank God, it was just a woodpecker, I thought some creature was outside of my window”. I said with a slight chuckle of relief.

“Tap, tap, tap.” in my room this time

I pulled my head back into my room and reached over to my nightstand to turn my lamp on. Before I could pull the string I saw something in the corner of my room, a man, a man freakishly tall with ripped and tattered clothing. You know how they say there’s fight or flight, well there’s a secret third option, freeze and that's what I did. I couldn't move, I was paralyzed with fear, then I heard it.

“Tap, tap, tap.” right behind me it startled me and I instinctively turned around to look. There was nothing, then I realized what I was doing and turned back around to keep my sight on him. He wasn't there, where the fuck did he g-.

I took a sip of my coffee and said “So you said it was a home intruder that killed him”.

“Yep”. my partner Paul said casually while taking a bite of his donut “snapped his neck clean round, one hand too”

“One hand, ya right” I said in disbelief

“No seriously, there were indentations and a red mark of a hand right there on his face, I saw it for myself I did”. His country accent was showing, he usually hides it. “If you don’t believe then go to the morgue and check for yourself”.

I still didn’t believe him but curiosity got a hold of me. “fine I’ll go down there, only if you do too You know the place gives me the creeps”. We went down to the morgue after I finished my coffee. 

“Look Barnes, it’s a gruesome sight, even I threw up in my mouth a little bit”. Paul is the type of detective to brag about his kills, it’s a rare sight to see him distraught. “It’s right over here”. His voice had softened slightly.

“I thought I was the one who needed company, it sounds like you’re about to cry”. I said jokingly, I didn’t actually mean it of course.

“I’m not! It’s just disturbing; I can joke about stuff like this up there, but down here is a different story”. He actually does sound disturbed. He reached for the cloth and pulled it off of the man

“Oh my God!” It didn’t mean to say anything, it just came out. “Clean round is an understatement”. I was struggling to keep my breakfast down. His neck wasn’t just snapped backwards, it looked like it’s done a full 540°. His jaw was broken, both his eye sockets were caved in, and there was a large, I mean LARGE bruise that resembled a hand. “Are you sure it wasn’t a bear?”

“No, the coroner said it was definitely a man’s hand”. He said with full confidence. “What’s weird is there’s no fingerprints, no hair, no DNA whatsoever. From what I’ve heard it’s the number one case in the county”.

“I just can get over how big the hand is, how tall did you say he was”. I asked while examining the corpse.

He was staring at the corpse too, looking for tiny details we could have missed. “Coroner estimates about 8 feet”

I was in shock an 8 foot man with the strength to unscrew a man’s head with one hand “I think we should leave, I’m about to be sick”

As soon as he heard that he covered up the corpse as if he was thinking the same thing. “Ya, good idea”.

As I turned around I heard something.

“Tap, tap, tap”.

“Did you hear that?”. I said with discomfort, eager to leave.

He looked at me like I’ve gone crazy. “Hear what?”. 

“That tapping, how’d you not hear that?” Just as I was saying that I looked over at the coroner's office window, and heard it again.

“Tap, tap, tap”

The coroner took a sick day today so no one should be in there; so why is there a tapping coming from his office window? Right as I thought that I saw the face of an old man in the darkness of the office, he was severely bent over but still taller than the average person. He had tattered and ripped clothing just barely hanging on to his tall and frail body. 

“What the fuck is that!” I yelled at the top of my lungs while pointing. I blinked and he was no longer there, just gone, like he never existed in the first place

He looked at me like I just insulted his grandmother. “What the fuck is what? Are you alright Barnes?” He said while trying to see what I was seeing.

“I-it was a m-man! There was a man standing in the coroner's office tapping on the glass! How did you not see him?” I was yelling in a frenzied panic.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and yelled at me “Barnes! There’s nothing there, calm your ass down! There’s no tapping, and there’s definitely no man!” He walked towards the office and opened the door, showing me there’s nothing. “See, nothing, absolutely nothing” maybe I was just seeing things because of the body. I’m sleep deprived, distraught, and probably dehydrated, ya I’m just seeing things.

I started to walk “O-ok let’s go back upstairs I’m starting to hate this place even more.”

“Good idea, I'm getting cold anyways.” Paul said with his hands in his pocked probably from the chill. 

“You know Barnes you should take the day off after that little event” he looked me up and down. “You look like shit anyways.”

I sighed “I guess you’re right, I’ll talk to chief about it” I gathered my things and walked off. While walking I kept seeing the man in my peripherals and behind doorways. I began to walk faster into almost a run, I could no longer see him so I looked behind me. Nothing, I turned back around and bumped into something. “Ow, shit!” when I bumped into it I fell and got the wind knocked out of me. I rubbed my eyes and looked up, it was him, he’s real? I thought I was just seeing things.

“Noooooo.” He strained in an elderly voice. “Noooooo.” He said again, louder this time. “Noooooo!” He’s yelling at this point, his jaw almost unhinged, and his eyes bulging out almost out of socket. I blinked and he was gone again, in his place was the police chief asking if I was ok.

“Helloooo? You ok Barnes? Ya bumped into me and zoned out for a second” he said in a concerned voice.
“Ya, I'm fine.” I said while rubbing my eyes and standing up. “Hey chief, can I take the rest of the day off? I just, I just don’t feel right.” I'm fully stood up now.

“You do seem off. You have no open cases and I need my detectives in tip top shape. Sure, you can go home, but I expect you to come back well slept and at the top of your game.”

“Thank you sir.” I left the station and went home. I live alone, I'm not the family man type, I don't even have a goldfish, just me and the mildewed air of my crappy apartment. I threw all my things on the dining table and fell face first on the couch and let out a groan of relief. “Uuuuuugh, finally home. Sleep, bed, now.” I could barely speak I was so sleep deprived. I wanted to get in my bed to rest but I couldn't move from the couch, I felt myself quickly fall into a deep sle-.

“Tap, tap, tap.”

I was woken up to a tapping on my living room window.

“Tap, tap, tap” louder this time

“What the hell is that noise!” I then realized the man tapped the office’s window. When I first saw him. “Was I not hallucinating, is he real?” I thought to myself. “Could he be in my house right now? What does he want from me? Does he want to hurt me or kill me? What does he want with me!” my thoughts were going wild, and then I heard it, I heard him speak.

“Three.” he said in that same strenuous ancient voice. I stood up from the couch and turned a light on so I could see him. There he was standing in the corner of my living room next to the window. He almost has a perpetual darkness shrouding him, concealing him. I finally got a good look at him, this thing that made me seem crazy in front of my partner. He really was 8 feet tall, too tall for a standard room; his neck was crooked and slouched due to his height. He had decaying grey skin, thin white hair, bulging eyes, and sunken cheeks. His clothes were dry rotted, tattered and hanging from his thin frame. 

“Tap, tap, tap.” He tapped on the glass next to him. “Three.”

“What about three?” I said with a shaken voice.

“Three taps, three sets, three deaths. Three.” His voice was somehow clearer now, like he has almost a cruel passion for his rule of three. “ You're three.” 

“What do you mean I'm three, you've only killed one.” I was confused, was there a third? Or is he just messing with me?

The man, no creature spoke up. “What was his name? Ha, ha, ha Paul, that's it” he laughed with pauses in between like it hurts to show emotion.

“Paul? No! I just saw him not too long ago, he should still be at the station.” I can feel tears filling up in my eyes, Paul was my best friend. The only thing stopping my tears is the small belief that Paul could still be alive.

“Did you think the morgue was for you ha, ha, ha.” he lets out that hideous laugh again. “It was for him, not you. You’ve been asleep for two days, funny how long a man can sleep with sleep deprivation.” he cracks a small grin, in the process his skin splits and dust falls off of the corner of his lips.

“Two days, how? I just laid my head down. And Paul too, Paul's dea-.” “crack!”

“Enough conversation.” 

“Tap, tap, tap, three.”

cw: graphics violence, gore, burns

“It’s revenge, plain and simple.”

Detective Harvar stood in front of a bleeding house. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a square jaw. As he looked forward, his brown trench coat flapped with winter’s chilly winds. Five dead, and one of the five had a mutilated face that no one could identify at the moment. Investigators and police combed the gutted house, attempting to determine who had done it and why. But Detective Harvar could already figure out why.

“How could you tell?” A woman’s voice came from beside Harvar. She was a rookie in the police force. She was told to follow along with Detective Harvar, but she had no idea this was something she would be dealing with.

“Look at the bodies,” Detective Harvar said, pointing out some of the bodies lying across the lawn. “These people were obviously trying to flee the scene but got caught in the crossfire. They suffered, of course, from the knife wounds. The stab wounds were placed for a quick, ugly death. But that one inside, face pulped to anonymity, was planned.”

She gagged at this analysis. “How could you be so nonchalant about it?”

He shrugged. “When you've seen all the horrors humanity offers, you get used to it.” His phone buzzed. He answered. “Harvar speaking.”

“Harvar, are you at the site?” Harvar’s supervisor asked.

“Yes, I am. Do you have anything?”

“I do. Have you been on any of your socials today?”

“I have not, I’ve been busy.”

“You need to get on right now! There’s a video clip of what happened there last night!”

“I’m on it,” Harvar quickly said without a second thought. He hung up and looked at the first app he saw. He opened the video tab with a click and finally found a shaky clip.

In the video, you could hear a woman panicking, breathing heavily as she ran around the house. There was a body on the floor, bleeding out. The woman pushed open the kitchen door, then froze in terror.

There stood a broad, shadowy figure, a man beneath him begging for his life. But the monster never answered his plea. With hatred, rage, and a voice that could sound like it came from the devil, it spoke.

“Just like Frank! The last thing you’re gonna see is you!”

Then the man slammed his knife repeatedly into the poor soul below. The woman screamed as the video stopped playing.

Harvar didn’t waste a second. “GET YOUR CHIEF ON THE LINE NOW!”

The rookie flinched at his outburst but quickly did as she was instructed. Harvar put a hand to his forehead as he realized who had done it, and guilt knotted his gut for missing it.

“Ryder…”

Six Months Before…

“Again, I have to question our friendship,” Ryder laughed as he drove.

“What?!” Frank asked in wild expressions. “I’m a joy to be around. I should know, I could even ask myself.” Frank flipped down the sun visor and looked at himself in the mirror. He flexed his skinny arms like he had muscle to show.

“Aren't I me? Oh, yes, I am, me!” Frank then flipped the sun visor back. “See, mirror me would never lie. After all, the mirror always shows the real you.”

Ryder shook his head with a chuckle. “I’m so done with you. I can’t believe you just talked to yourself in the mirror.”

“Someone gotta appreciate me, and I do,” Frank said, flipping down the sun visor again. “Don’t you?”

They soon drove up to Frank's shabby studio apartment. It was barely more than a place to sleep. The studio looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for ages. Frank leaped out of the car and started walking towards his home.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Ryder asked.

Frank turned around. “What? I was just going to open the door.”

“Well, pick some stuff up,” Ryder said, opening his trunk. “It was your idea.”

“That you paid for,” Frank said as he returned to the car.

“Don’t remind me,” Ryder laughed.

They then began to unpack the car full of beer, tequila, and food. Ryder didn’t mind hauling more; years on the grocery floor had conditioned him to lifting a lot. Frank, meanwhile, wrestled with a six-pack of beer.

They started setting up for the small get-together when they entered the house. They laid out shot cups, chips, and snacks. The place was a wreck, and they left it that way. Once everything was done, Frank posed in front of a full-body mirror. Ryder chuckled and handed him a beer. Frank graciously took one as they got a foldable porch chair.

They sat and watched the setting sun, reminiscing about how it used to be. Growing up felt too complicated, and everything was much simpler back in the day. As they drank, a red car pulled up to Frank’s studio.

Frank gulped, and Ryder looked at him. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

Frank nodded nervously. “Yeah, it should. After all the money spent here, it should equal what I owe.”

“I hope so.”

“I promise I’ll pay you back!”

“Don’t sweat it. If this gets you out of your debt with him, I’m okay with this being payment.”

Frank smiled. “Thank you, man, you’re the best.”
“What else are friends for?”

The red car stopped directly next to Ryder’s car. Then, from the driver's side, a mammoth of a man stepped out. He was wide and built like a tank. He had a buzz cut, thick eyebrows, and a beard to match.

On the passenger side was the man's girlfriend. She had bright blonde hair and even brighter blue eyes. She claimed to be a supermodel online, where most of her money comes from.

Then, from the back seat, a round man stepped out. He didn’t seem interested in being here. They all strolled up to Frank and Ryder. Frank stepped up to the group. “Hello, Billy, Sara, and Jack. Welcome to my crib. I hope you guys enjoy the food.”

Billy, the big man, looked at Frank strangely, then he looked towards Ryder, “Sup, Ryder, I haven’t seen you in a minute.” 

Ryder shrugged. “Been working.”

“This place is so gross,” Sara said with disgust.
“I don’t care, I just hope there’s food here,” Jack said.

Billy nodded. “Well then, come on, Frank, show me around. It's rude to keep your guests outside.”

Frank quickly nodded. “Oh yes, sorry! Come on in.” The trio began to walk inside Frank’s house. “Hey, Ryder, watch my beer, please.”

“Sure,” he said as they escaped inside. 

Ryder caught a strange look on Sara and Billy’s faces. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or something else. 

Ryder stood looking back at the horizon for a moment. With one more sip of his beer, he heard a loud shatter. Ryder acted instantly; he dropped the beer and ran inside. 

As soon as he opened the door, a gun butt cracked against his face. Ryder went down with blood flying. Ryder was dazed for a moment, but as he regained focus, he looked towards the chaos before his eyes.
Billy’s big foot was on Frank’s throat. Frank tried to scrape and wiggle his way out, but Billy held firm on Frank. In front of them was the full-length body mirror. Ryder saw everything, especially the pure terror on Frank’s face.

Ryder was ready to stand up and attack Billy, but he felt a cold metal piece touch his head. “Don’t you dare move or I’ll shoot,” Sara said.

Ryder wanted to move boldly; he tried to save his best friend, who was only a few feet away. But he couldn’t do anything; if he risked being shot, it would have been pointless.

“I’ve given you so long to pay me back, and you throw this stupid, lame ass party for me?! You think I wanted a party?! No! I want your money! This whole thing was pointless!”

Billy pressed harder on Frank’s neck. Frank desperately tried to break free and scream, but all that was coming out was a whimpering sound. Ryder couldn’t take any more; he acted. He rushed Billy, but he got nowhere near him. 

BANG!

A bullet tore through Ryder’s calf. The sudden shot startled Billy, causing his foot to snap Frank’s neck. Frank let out one last hopeless gasp as his body went limp, staring in the mirror.

Ryder screamed in pain from his wound and the best friend he had just lost. Billy looked down without feeling, “Well, there goes my money.”

“You monster!” Ryder shouted. “You killed him! I swear, I’ll get you back! I’ll kill you!”

Billy looked down at Ryder with the same disconcerting look he had for Frank. “Have I ever told you, I don’t like your voice?” Billy then looked at Jack, who was eating a bag of chips. “Jack, could you grab that tequila there?”

 Jack looked at the liquor and handed it to Billy. He quickly uncapped the bottle and walked towards Ryder. Ryder was ready to strike; his hatred for Billy was far more than his pain.

Sara ran into the kitchen, twisting the stove’s burners open, soft hisses lost under the chaos. “I’ll shoot again,” Sara bellowed. “And this time, I won’t aim for your leg.”

Did Ryder care about that anymore? Why should he? His best friend is dead, and the man who did it was right in front of him. But that would mean Billy gets to keep living while Frank doesn’t.

 Billy reached for Ryder’s throat. Ryder gasped suddenly as Billy poured the tequila down on Ryder. He coughed as the alcohol burned his throat and the bullet wound to his leg. Billy dropped Ryder as Ryder coughed out the pain.

Ryder was in a faraway daze, too busy to find air in his lungs. But he heard something, something far more terrifying than he ever thought.

Click!

A sudden whoosh. Fire raced up his chest. Ryder screamed and lurched to the sink, clawing at the faucet, water hissing against burning cloth and skin. Then he caught it: the thin, chemical hiss of open gas.

At that moment, he knew someone had turned on the gas. He didn’t see where the trio was, but that was his least concern. He bolted to the back of the studio as he dropped and rolled, the last remaining flames licking at his clothes.

As Ryder faltered toward nonexistence, he watched a poor home burn to ash, a place filled with one man’s hope and dreams, a man who once lived a great life. Ryder’s best friend's corpse was burning to a crisp. 

Ryder woke up in the hospital with a loud gasp. He looked around, thinking he was in a crazy dream. But as soon as he saw the burn marks across his body. It was true. His best friend was killed by Billy, whom Sara and Jack helped.

Anger he’d never known uncoiled in him. He wanted to hurt someone. The unfairness of Frank’s death, watching him die staring at himself, festered. Billy deserves the same.

He glanced to his left and saw a mound of gifts for his recovery. His family and friends must have come by. But one thing stood out from the other gifts: a green box labeled ‘Frank.’

Ryder reached for the box. He was still sore, but he wanted to know, no, needed to know, what a box with Frank’s name on it was doing here. Once he grabbed it, he opened it as if it were the last thing Frank would ever give him.

As he opened the box, there were two letters, one saying “Frank’s Will” and the other “Note For Ryder,” and a reflective surface underneath. 

The Will said: “This is a gift to Ryder, Frank's best friend.”

With that, he put that aside and looked at the following note. It said: “Dear Ryder, since you're reading this, I’m most likely dead. But that's okay because I’ve probably made millions, and you can have all my savings from being famous.  And if I didn’t, then I’m sorry.”

Ryder chuckled. “Even in death, you still find a way to make me laugh.” He thought.

“Anyway, if I, for some reason, got hit by a bus on my way to my adoring fans, then I want to give you something special. It's an old, cheap Halloween mask I got a long time ago. But basically, it's a mirror mask. I always really liked the way it looked. I’m not sure why, but I liked that when I looked at it, I could see myself staring back. And maybe knowing that, perhaps you’ll have a little piece of me since I’m gone. But take care, man. Even though you won’t see me again, just know I’ll be in your mirror mask daily, hoping things will improve for you each day.
PS. Sorry if I sounded like a stalker, but  I know you get what I’m saying.”

Ryder was emotional after reading his best friend’s note. He wanted to see the mask. When he pulled it, its reflective shine glimmered through the room. Its aged appearance was clear. There were cracks randomly across the mirror, and small areas where it had clearly been warped.

As Ryder looked at the mirror, Frank’s quote flooded his mind. “After all, the mirror always shows the real you.” Why didn't Ryder see himself when looking at it if that was the case? He saw a monster ready to be unleashed? 

Ryder’s friends and family came to see him during his hospital stay. But all of them were frightened when he spoke. The fire burned his throat severely. The doctors said he was lucky even to be able to talk. But the voice was haunting, as if a dark soul had risen from his body and seized his throat.

Ryder quickly got used to the voice; he thought it fitting since Frank’s death. When his family and friends asked what happened, Ryder considered telling them the truth. But deep down where that hatred rested, it told him no. Even when Frank’s parents asked separately who did it and why, Ryder simply told them it was thieves.

As soon as Ryder was ready to leave, he was immediately confronted by the police. He was interviewed constantly by a detective named Harvar. To Ryder, he seemed like a competent man who could figure out that Ryder wasn’t telling him the whole truth.

But Ryder stuck to his guns; he never let slip that he knew who showed up or how they looked. That anger that rested inside him grew every day. Now, Billy was breathing the air that Frank couldn’t. Billy could look into a mirror daily to see himself alive and healthy, whereas Frank could not.

 Afterward, Detective Harvar encouraged Ryder to bring up any new information so they could capture the fugitive. Ryder nodded along, but he had no intention of following through. There was only one way Ryder would get his justice, and that would be through him. Billy will die, and it will be by Ryder’s hands.

Ryder began a new journey. He underwent physical therapy to get used to working again. As soon as he got paid, he went to his local gym and registered for a membership.

 Weeks blurred into months. Ryder, the man who once stocked shelves at midnight, lifted until his arms gave out. He ran until his lungs burned with flames. He studied combat clips frame by frame, replaying them until he could perfect them. 

Seasons shifted as Ryder barely noticed. He was building himself one bruise at a time, not stronger, but harder. 

At home, he faced the reason he was on this path. The mirror glimmered when he entered. He put on the mask to remember his best friend. While it was one, Ryder would begin to practice more. Practicing fighting with the mask on until he and the mask were one. 

The mask gave him comfort like no other; it felt like Frank was guiding every step of the way and showing Ryder just how to kill the man who killed his best friend. And when he kills Billy, he’ll ensure he’s looking right into the mask and delivering him the same fate as Frank.

Soon, winter showed itself, and Ryder became something he saw in the mask that day. He was ready to show it to Billy. Ryder searched the internet for Billy to see if there was any news or parties he might be attending. He found his date, and Ryder was ready.

Ryder ordered supplies, including a bulletproof vest, a handcrafted dagger, a long-sleeve sweater, black jeans, and motorcycle gloves. When the day arrived, he gathered his gear and put it on, like a soldier getting ready. He looked back at his apartment, knowing there was no turning back.

He glanced back at his own full body mirror. Ryder was much broader and bigger than he ever was before. The knowledge and practice he gained over the grueling months only made his anger worse. He allowed that part to drive him because he wouldn’t be on this path without it.

Ryder put on the mask again and fully embraced himself in the mirror. The full-body mirror showed the monster Ryder was. He left his apartment and went to the party. 

The party was at Billy’s house. There was booze, women, and men bouncing around to loud music. Many were drunkenly stumbling into the night, but this was too easy for Ryder.

He slipped past people; a few gave him odd glances, but they didn’t stop him. Ryder stormed into the house looking for the big man. The room was packed with people dancing to loud music.

Someone grabbed his shoulder, “Hey, man, Halloween was a month ago.”

“GET OFF!” Ryder's burned voice boomed as he elbowed the man in the face.

People gasped and walked away from the small fight. That small commotion brought out the man in charge, Billy.

He hadn’t changed, still built like a tank: buzzed haircut, thick eyebrows, and a beard to match. Ryder was ready for this moment, but the anger, hatred, and memories of Frank catapulted him into action.
Ryder charged Billy with a powerful swing. The hit made Billy step back in shock. That clearly hurt him much more than he expected. Desperate, he grabbed a large man near him. Jack, the big man, who ate the food and handed Billy the tequila.

“Get him!” Billy screams, tossing Jack to Ryder.

The round man never stood a chance. With a flick of Ryder’s wrist, he brought out his dagger. He easily sliced through Jack’s gut. Jack stood there stunned, but the room erupted with pure fear. The people were like wild animals, scared by a gunshot and running in a wild, directionless manner. The blood dripped from the hilt as Ryder pulled it out.

Jack fell to the floor in agony and crying for mercy. Ryder didn’t give him a second chance. He looked directly at Billy. Ryder rushed at him again, and Billy pulled out the gun he'd been hiding in his pocket and fired. The bullet thudded into his vest.

Though the bullet hurt Ryder more than he thought, the adrenaline pumping through his veins was pushing him harder towards his target. Billy was shocked that Ryder kept coming. He was going to shoot again, but Ryder grabbed his hand and jabbed the knife into his gut. 

There was a moment where they both stared at each other, and Ryder knew Billy was scared. He wanted Billy to feel more before he ended it. 

“This was a long time coming,” Ryder growled.

“Wha-what?”

Ryder pulled the knife out and punched him. Billy sprawled, skidding through the kitchen. There was a moment when Billy was alone. He was about to escape, but he was slammed with a boot as soon as he did.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” Ryder asked, his voice low and torn.

Billy turned around as he tried to crawl away. But his back pressed up against a counter. He begged for his life. “Please, let me live! I’ve done nothing wrong! I can give you whatever you want!”

Ryder growled. “I don’t want your money. After everything you’ve done! You don’t deserve my mercy!”

Ryder brought up his knife, ready for his kill. “Now, just like Frank, the last thing you're gonna see is you!”

For the briefest of seconds, Billy realized who the man was behind the mask.

“Ryder?”

Ryder slammed the knife into Billy’s skull. But he wasn’t done, he kept going, smashing his face until there wasn’t anything left. Blood caked the ground and Ryder, and now his mission was complete.

But something wasn’t right to Ryder. The anger and hatred that festered in his soul for so long weren’t going away. It still lingered, wanting more. He grabbed his head, trying to force it away, but then he heard something screaming behind him. 
He looked, and three women were behind him, recording him on their phones. That made the anger and hatred gain even more influence over him, and this time Ryder didn’t fight it.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!

The girls screamed as they ran. Ryder chased through the kitchen and back into the living room. He saw Jack on the floor begging for help. He wanted him to meet the same fate as Frank. 

Ryder quickly turned Jack to face him. As Jack saw his murderer, Ryder drove the knife deep into Jack’s heart. Jack let out one last gasp before he died, looking straight into the mirror mask.

Then Ryder charged towards the girls again. Two of them got out, but the third one was left out. She screamed and banged on the door. Ryder grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to a window. She screamed, punched, and kicked, but Ryder didn’t let go. 

He brought her up to face the mask. With a simple slice at the neck, the arteries were cut and blood poured. He pulled her back and threw her at the window. The glass shattered as her body limped on the window frame.

Ryder heard more screams, knowing they were the two women before. He leaped out the window to give chase. They were near the door as they began to run. With no effort, Ryder grabbed the first one nearest him. Turning her around easily, he jabbed the knife from the bottom of her jaw and up into her brain. She stared lifelessly into the mirror mask as her body flopped.

He didn’t spare a second; he charged again at the last one, who was running away from him. He tackled her down, loud crunches and bones were breaking underneath his pressure. She let out a desperate wail of pain.

When Ryder stood up, he looked down at the last woman who ran. He recognized the blonde hair; she was Billy’s girlfriend, Sara. She looked up to face the reflective mask that was Ryder.

“Please,” she begged. “I didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

“Oh, but you did,” Ryder’s scarred voice said. “You shot me and let Frank die.”

Her eyes widened with intense fear at that name. “No, no, please, we weren’t going to kill him! We were trying to scare him! We didn’t want that! Please, you gotta believe me! Billy dragged me out there; it's all Billy’s fault!”

But her pleas fell on deaf ears; Ryder didn’t care; he knew what he was doing, he was killing them for Frank. The justice system would just lock them away, not address the problem.

Ryder lifted his solution to the problem. Sara screamed for one last desperate plea as Ryder drove the knife deep into her heart. She stares deep within the mask, seeing herself die in real time. Soon, the last bit of air that came from her left her body forever.

Ryder stood looking around the massacre he had created. Though those people who killed Frank finally perished, something snapped in him. The anger and hatred were still there, asking for more violence, more people to face the fate as Frank. Because it wasn’t fair for Frank, why would it be fair for anyone else?

He pocketed Sara’s phone, still recording, just as the sirens drew closer. He knew he would need to run to continue his mission. Now, his new purpose in the world is to share Frank's fate. The last thing anyone would see is themselves.

One month later…

“Another one!” Harvar’s supervisor screamed. “Why can’t we catch this guy?! He’s only one man, and now we have death in our city!”

“I’m doing everything I can, sir,” Harvar said.

“Do you know what the reporters are calling him now? Mirror! They gave a goddamn name to a serial killer! I know it's not new, but I don’t want this in my town! And yet here we are. If we can’t find Ryder, things will worsen for everyone. The state would get involved, and the problem would escalate up the chain!”

“Again, I’m trying to track him down, but he’s gone off-grid, and since he only strikes at night, he wears all black, it hasn’t been easy.”

“I don’t need excuses, I want results! We must find a way to capture this man, or we’ll all lose our jobs.”

“Yes, sir,” Harvar simply agreed.

“Good, I can’t believe that Ryder kid got by you. I thought you would have figured that out.”

Harvar clenched his fist but did his best to calm himself down. “He had no history of physical violence. I figured that he was hiding details of the people who killed Frank. But without evidence, I couldn’t prove anything.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Harvar’s supervisor sighed. “Just go back, do what you can. We’ll catch this guy even if it's the last thing we do. I can’t wait until this is over. Because I’m tired of seeing the same damn hashtag every time he’s on the news, “The last thing you’re gonna see is you.” How stupid.”

Detective Harvar went to his car for a smoke break as he saw what people said about Mirror or Ryder. A rumor was spreading about whether, if you see a reflective surface behind you on your phone or a mirror, it means he is hunting you.

Detective Harvar knew that wasn’t true. They were trying to make this boy into an urban legend. And that wasn’t the case. He was a man who had lost someone dear to him. He thought vengeance would end with their deaths. Instead, it turned him into something unstoppable.

To Detective Harvar, he felt for young Ryder. He saw the signs of trouble but had no proof to push forward. He knew if he had, this situation would have never happened. It was his fault.

Harvar killed the screen and slid into the driver’s seat, preparing to drive off. But before he did, he noticed something strange in the rearview mirror. From a small corner of the police building, an oval reflective surface was shining brightly.

Detective Harvar swerved to face the corner, but to his surprise, there was nothing. There wasn’t anyone there, not even a mirror. He looked back into the mirror in his car again, and nothing was staring back this time.

He shook his head, thinking it was all a part of his imagination. That rumor was getting to him. There was no way Ryder was hunting him down. Right?

Hello, I'm not much of a poster and just lurk most of the time here. I would just post this in our town's subreddit but that's pretty much dead so I thought I would find some more help here.

Anyways, there's this park that's sit's about a block or two away from 45th street. It's called Orwell park or something like that, and I see it pretty much everyday because of the bus stop that sits across the street from it. It's big and mostly empty, except for the playground that sits in a corner on the far opposite side. It's pretty much just a big open field, I never see people use it much. Aside from joggers and people walking their dog and such. Hell, I can't even remember the last time I used it. It's pretty much better there ever since I moved there when I was eight.

However, there's been something really strange going on for the past few years and so. But I've never really looked much into it until something crazy that happened just yesterday, but I'll get to that later.

My earliest memory of something strange happening at the park was about two or three years ago, I don't remember exactly, but I was definitely in high school when it happened. I used the bus to get to and from school. It was early in the morning, the grass was wet in morning dew, the sun was rising but still hiding behind houses, casting long shadows everywhere. I was walking my way over to the bus stop, the park was slowing rolling into view behind the corner of a house. That's when I first noticed them.

They were off to the side of the park, right next to the sidewalk, I was hard to tell because they were a bit far away. It look like a father and his son. They were just standing there, facing towards the center of the park and looking up. I followed their gaze upward, nothing. It was just a clear, orange tinted sky. No clouds, nothing.

At first I thought it was some weird mediation exercise or something. But they just continued to stand there, again, I couldn't see what they were doing easily because they were standing far away. And I didn't feel like bothering some guy and his kid about standing in the park eight in the morning. So I just stood there until the bus came.

I waited for the bus for like 30 or so minutes, not once did they move or look away, at least from what I could tell. Even as the sun rose and sunlight went into their faces, they still stood there. Heads pointed up at the sky. They were like frozen or something, it was so weird. They were gone by the time I came back from school and the bus dropped me off. I remember it not sitting well with me, even before the other stuff that happened afterward. Still, it didn't trigger alarm bells or anything.

The next instance of something like this happening at the park was a couple months later. Winter was on the horizon, and all the geese were migrating. This time it was something a lot more vivid. I remember autumn leaves blowing past my shoes as I was on my phone, texting my friend about some partner project back at school. There were a flock of geese flying straight over the park, in their usual V formation.

Man, it was so sudden, it was almost as if a switch was flipped. I remember everything stopping all at once. The wind that was bombarding my face suddenly died, the trees and leaves stopped rustling. Singing birds became dead silent. Even the honking geese. Something became wrong with the flying geese especially.

I looked up from my phone as this was happening, the geese suddenly just fell. Not just that, they weren't even moving. They're made no sounds nor movements as they tumbled down through the air. All except for their heads. All of their heads were facing the same direction, all downwards, they were even tilting and angling their heads to keep staring towards this specific point like they were locking onto something. Despite them twisting and turning while falling through the sky

I watched as they kept falling and falling. I was too stunned to even speak or process what the hell was happening. As the geese fell, they're heads slowly began turning up and up. In the empty silence, I watched as their falls concluded one by one. Crashing onto the grass. I could even hear the sounds of some bones breaking, they were all likely dead or dying at this point. But still. Their full attention, was whatever was in the sky.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the flip switched back off. The birds sang again, the wind blew in my face as it did before. Leaves drifted off branches and rolled past my feet as if nothing occurred. Even as the world seemed to return back to normal, their bodies continued to lay there, bloodied feathers rustling in the wind, blowing along the sea of grass.

I cant even describe the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that I was going through in that moment. That was when I realized that something was horribly wrong with Orwell park. That feeling stuck to me through the whole day, I couldn't even sleep that night. Was it normal for geese to even fucking do that? was I hallucinating? Do I tell someone about this? who would I even call? what would I even say? I didn't know what to even make of it.

Apart from the park, life pretty much continued on like normal through out high school. Whatever these events are, they were few and far between. But usually they weren't as memorable as to what happened to those geese. Remembering them fall out the sky like that still puts a uneasy feeling in my gut to this day.

The next notable event that I witnessed was spring of that year. Around this time I was a lot more focused on what was going on around me, especially that park. This time I saw a row of birds sitting on top of powerlines. Completely still like last time.

I think it's important to mention that there's these electrical towers that go through the middle of the park. I guess that's why the park was built, because building homes directly underneath them isn't really allowed.

Anyways, that's what these birds were sitting on top of. All of them were sitting completely still. Not unusual from what I saw the other times. But what was different this time was that all of them were staring almost level to the powerline. So, whatever the hell they were looking at, if they were even looking at anything at all, was floating up there, somewhere.

That's when I noticed the trees, they're planted all along the sides of the park. They all looked pretty healthy to me, except. All of the leaves and branches were pointing towards that same point the birds were looking at. I don't really know how to describe it, it's such a small detail that i didn't even noticed it until that day. And mind you, this had been going on for around a year at this point.

It looked like all the trees were leaning or even gravitating towards it, the point. That's what I've dubbed it at the time. Lazy i know but it's not like I had much to go off of. It's literally some just some random spot that all these animals just freeze and stare at for some reason. Which now includes trees I suppose.

Anyways, there was nothing else that was worth taking note of. The birds were like the whole time as i waited for the bus. And gone by the time I came back. And now every time I see that park, I can't help but notice how the trees continue to grow and lean more towards the point, as if their branches are trying to reach out towards it.

This continued for the entire time I was in high school. The times I would catch some animal staring at the point were rare and happened months in-between each other. After graduating and going off to college, it would be a long time before I set foot around that park again.

Now, the last event I witnessed literally happened yesterday. And, is the final nail that caused me to make this post. I was back home for the the day. The reason was because we were putting our old cat, Kit. (Short for KitKat) to sleep. She lived a long, and I'm sure very happy life. Hell, my parents got her before I was even born, so she was older than me and I've had her for my entire life until that point.

Over the years her health had been steadily declining, but over the last couple of weeks she had stop eating almost entirely. Only taking a nibble or two of food every day. I was up to date about our cat's health, and when my parents called and told me the news. I drove all the way back home so I could be there on Kit's last day of life.

The vet came in after a few hours I arrived. Me, my parents, younger sister and brother all gathered around her as the vet laid her to rest. Lots of crying and hugging was shared. I'm going to miss that fluffy orange ball so much. After a while, I needed to go out of the house and clear my head.

I'm going to be honest, I almost completely forgot about all the shit happening at the park at that point. From college, to Kit getting put to sleep half a hour ago, my mind was completely occupied.

I sat on a bench right next to the bus stop, my heart felt like it was getting twisted, I was trying my best not to cry on that very bench. The memories of giving that cat her favorite treats, her loud purring whenever I rubbed her fluffy belly. It was all flooding my mind. Until a voice and the sounds of some struggle interrupted my precious thoughts

"Butters! come on! what has gotten up with you?"

I looked up and turned my head with blurry eyes to see a dog engaging in a tug of war with it's owner over the leash from across the street. Right next to the park. It was refusing to even go on the sidewalk. It was whining as if pleading for it's own life. It's paws scratched against the grass as it's whimpers echoed through the air.

"Okay fine. You win." The owner groaned, finally giving up. "We're skipping the park today if you are going to throw such a fuss about it."

Dog was very skittish as they left, poor thing was shaking so much. It wasn't looking up, so what was it so freaked out about? I turned to follow the dog's gaze. As I looked straight ahead, from across the street. My heart stopped.

It was kit.

Sitting on the grass just beyond the sidewalk, right there. Looking up at me expectingly. Her tail doing a slow dance as it moved through the air. I shot up from the bench. It was her. But she just died. I WATCHED her die literally half an hour ago. This couldn't be real right? This was likely just some random cat that look exactly right her right??

But she was right there. She looked healthy as ever. She didn't look sick or however she looked by the time she died.

I can't even describe all the emotions and thoughts there were going through my mind. I was so shocked, but so so happy. Was I just seeing and imagining her out of grief? was I just seeing something?

I left the bench and began crossing the road. That's when kit starting moving. She would move backwards. She did it seamlessly too, like she was almost moonwalking. Each step I took she would go further and further into the park. Well beyond the sidewalk and onto the grass.

But I didn't mind, I didn't even care. All that matters was that I was seeing my precious kit again. It was almost like a miracle. I didn't notice that the wind blowing in my face suddenly stopped. The birds stopped singing their songs. That all the noise and movement from the world around me suddenly died.

I stopped on the sidewalk, one more footstep away from stepping on the grass. Kit was on her back now, rolling in the grass as she presented her belly. Emitting her lovely purr as she reeled her head back, looking at me expectingly.

Tears were streaming down my face, I missed her so much already, and there she was. Lying on the ground for a belly rub. Was this the universe giving me one last chance to feel her soft fur again? To hear her loud, warm purrs?

I heard a commotion from my left.

I turn to see a rabbit running from down the street, it looked like it was getting chased by a coyote or something. I watched as the rabbit ran from its pursuer, down to the sidewalk I was standing on. It took a sharp turn as it came near me, running onto the park and the grass.

Moments after, the rabbit froze. then I watch as it slowly arced it's head to sky. It's limbs and muscles flinched and spasmed, as if it was looking against it's own will. It's head stopped moving, now locked onto the sky. It's movements ceased.

The coyote came soon after it. Unhinging its jaws to clamp down onto the rabbit's next. But as soon as it went onto the grass. It stopped. Freezing and it's gaze turned upwards too.

My body froze as I came to the realization, that wasn't kit. Oh god, what was hell was it then? why was it pretending to be my cat that died not even an hour ago? how? I looked away from the two critters. Who are likely gone now. I turned back towards kit.

She was gone. The spot she was just laying in was just empty. Suddenly, the wind begins to blow in my face again. Sounds came flooding in as the world seemed to have gone back to life. I feel this pressure all around my body come off of me. It was like a weight that I didn't even realize was there.

I ran all the way back home. Right now I'm typing this in my room. I'm not going to college today, probably for the rest of the week either. I'm too scared to even think. My hands are shaking so much. Has anyone come across ANYTHING like this? Please help. Do I just avoid the park from now on? is this normal? I am just seeing things for some reason? Just help please. just comment some input or something.

I haven't slept since, I haven't eaten either. I think my parents are starting to get concerned, but they probably figure that I'm acting like this due to putting Kit to rest. I don't know what's going on. For all I don't know nor understand is that whatever this point or whatever the hell this thing is NOT normal. I don't know what it is. I don't know if it's some god or alien or demon or whatever the fuck.

It's drawing animals and people to stare into it. And it was trying to lure me. Fuck what do I do? please. Oh god, what if it starts going after me? can it? will it start hunting me? I'm trying to be calm but I'm so terrified. Any help or input at all will be so much apparated. I don't know what to do.

Creeping cold and whistling wind,
The rising snow leaves houses pinned.

Powdering snow that dampens and packs, piling up and building, it erases our paths.

The prey adapt, turn white with snow, for they still need to hide if predators show.

The frost, it bites and nips like little teeth, and to my flesh it starts to seethe.

I burn and burn and run away, I leave my clothes behind, astray.

I'm now warm, nice and toasty, against an icy tree, I sit nice and cozy.

I close my eyes, I drift to sleep, and while I rest, the cold comes to creep.

In my dreams I'm warm, I laugh, I play, but in reality, against that tree, I turn black with decay.

Jesus how has it already been 6 weeks of school? The cold and salty October air that rolls around Halifax in the fall months is unforgettable, but with it comes midterms. My third year as a psych student and i still haven't nailed down studying and my statistics exam is at 5 pm tomorrow. I've been bundled up, alone, in my room for days now trying to get this content down pat in my brain, staying up way later than all my friends who've finished already. I'm jealous of course, but I need to lock in for this exam. It's all that i think about and it consumes me, forcing me to stay up late, practically burning my laptop screen into my eyes like when you have an image set for too long on a monitor. Anyways, I wanted to talk about something that happened recently and I don't know if anyone else has also experienced something/someone like this during this time of year of school.

It was 2 am and the iron radiator that sits behind my desk chair was knocking its usual erratic rhythm for hours. I could even hear it through the music on my record player, which I set up so I don't get so distracted skipping through videos or songs. Outside was a chaotic mesh of angry wind and rushing rain and inside was a stale, musty, suffocating air powered by my ancient radiator.

I felt like none of these formulas would stick. Standard distribution, p-values, and what the fuck even is a null hypothesis. They just felt like random smudges in my textbook and I was writing those smudges back into my notebook. Every time I blinked, I could feel my pulse behind my eyes, begging me to sleep, counting down the hours to my exam.

Around 10 earlier that night my roommates asked if i wanted to grab a pizza, but i declined in favour of my studies. I know I should've taken that break, but hindsight 20/20 right. Wasting an hour was too much for me. Later, one of my friends texted and wanted late night drinks or something, but I only read the preview on my phone, not bothering to open it and get distracted. I threw my phone from my desk to my bed, cutting everyone off for rest of the night.

I shouldn't have done that. Seems like a good idea in the moment of course, but you never realize how loud an empty room gets when you're alone and in your head.

Around 2:20, the b-side of my record came to a close, the stylus of the player click click clicking in a loop. Changing the record was the only break I could accept for myself.

That's when it went silent. My room, dead silent. My radiator hadn't creaked for a few minutes, but when my record player stopped, I finally noticed. It was almost physical, something completely blocking off my eardrums. The draft from my window had shifted, the stale air in my room plummeting.

I decided to move from my record collection to my door, grabbing my jacket before peeking outside of my room, something I felt I hadn't done in ages. I look left and neither of my two roommates were doing the same. "Probably already asleep under their sheets" I say to myself partly jealous and partly sad.

Something was by my front entrance thought when I looked right. A shadow, darker than dark, blacker than black. It's silhouette was just barely contrasted from the door behind it. I flick on the main hallway lights quickly, illuminating the hallway. The weirdest thing though is that the mirror hanging on my front door was reflecting the hallway with everything but me. The radiator on the far end of the hallway outside of my roommates room, the shoe rack, the coat rack. Everything but me.

I told myself I was just tired and these all nighters have gotten to me, so I turned the lights off and turned back into my room. When i walked back in, it felt like I didn't have my jacket on anymore it was freezing. That's when i noticed the shadow again, now sitting in my desk chair.

I froze. The silhouette was hunched directly over my desk, perfectly framed by the harsh, blue glow of my laptop screen. It seemed more psychical, more real now, not just some hallucination. It was draped in a heavy, coarse dark wool that fell in stiff folds past the arms of my swivel chair, looking less like modern clothes and more like an old monastic cowl. From the back, its shoulders were impossibly narrow, rounded forward as if crushed under an invisible weight. It wasn't moving. It wasn't breathing.

The air in my room was entirely still and dry. It smelled of not death or rot, but vile and evil with burnt hair. Every nerve and muscle in my body wanted to yell and bang on my roommates doors, but the physical feeling that covered my eardrums wrapped around my body, making me board-like. The room felt even more silent now, like I could hear the blood rush through my ears and around my head.

Slowly, with an agonizingly smooth glide, the figure pivoted in the chair. It made no sound. the wheels on the bottom didn't creak the hardwood floors like they usually do. When it turned to me, its figure became more physical than before, my desk light illuminating the front of it's dark hood. There was no face.

Where the nose, mouth, and eyes should have been, there was only a flat, polished oval of jet-black obsidian stone. It looked like an antique scrying mirror, perfectly smooth, its outer perimeter encrusted with dark crimson wax that had dried into thick, jagged scabs where it bonded to the cloth.

I tried to gasp, but the air caught in my throat. I couldn't tear my eyes away from that dark surface. The reflection looking back at me from the stone wasn't the room behind me, I was looking at myself. But it was a version of me that looked completely ruined, hollowed out from the inside. The skin on his face was grey and papery, stretched tight over cheekbones, with deep, bruised-purple sockets around his eyes. He sat at the desk clutching an iron stylus, furiously slashing thick red gouges across my open notebook. Line after line of my notes were being violently scored out, violently crossing out formulas, scratching through my own name over and over with frantic, jagged strokes.

"Why aren't you working?"

The voice didn't come from me or the figure. It's like it came from the air itself, vibrating around me.

"You understand nothing. Your most important exam is this week, you understand nothing still, and what have you produced from this? Some scribbles in your notebook? Pathetic." The figure rumbles, like a scoff from the air.

"I swear I've tried," I manage to speak somehow. Tears sting my eyes, remembering my restless nights, rethinking all the time I spent not doing work. "I've been inside for days preparing for this and I haven't slept."

It leans forward slightly. Two long, unnervingly thin hands emerged from the dark sleeves. Fingernails with tips as sharp as razors slashed at my arm, creating ten thin, slow bleeding cuts.

"No matter how hard you work," the air vibrates. "You will never be free until you balance the ledger. You'll never see your friends again if you don't get this exam done."

The cuts on my forearms burned with an icy heat, but I couldn't even pull my arms back. The creature stood up from my desk chair with that same weightless, gliding motion, towering over me in the cramped space between my bed and the doorway. The scent of burnt hair and bitter wax intensified until I felt like I was choking on dust.

It didn't touch me again. As I sat back down in my chair to continue working, it just stepped back until it stood directly behind my left shoulder, leaning in so close that I could feel the biting draft radiating off its black wool cowl. Its face, that blank obsidian mirror, hung right at the edge of my peripheral vision. Every time I tried to turn my head to look away, the burning pain in my sliced arms spiked, pinning my gaze forward.

So I studied. Over and over, repeating equations and phrases. Whenever my laptop screen went dark to sleep mode, the reflection in the black glass didn't show my bedroom. It showed the creature towering behind me, its obsidian face reflecting that hollow, withered version of myself, staring down with unblinking, pitiless judgment.

I don't know how long it lasted. Time seemed to stretch into an endless, freezing vacuum where the only things that existed were my panic and the scratching of my pencil.

Then, with a deafening, violent CLANG, the radiator shuddered against the wall, popping and steaming back to life. The freezing air lifted with the pressure bound around my ears, bringing my record player back to life, with the draft from my window slowing down.

I spun my chair around, free from the energy around me to find nothing behind me anymore. The pale, overcast sky of the morning barely shown into my room. It's like nothing even happened.

For a second, I tried to convince myself it was all just a manic, sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by isolation and caffeine. I almost laughed out loud from sheer relief.

Then I looked down at my forearms.

Soaked into the sleeves of my jacket were ten thin, parallel lines of dried, crusty dark crimson. And scattered across the floor beneath my desk, right beside my chair wheels, was a fine dusting of black soot and crushed red sealing wax.

I'm sitting here in my bed right now, 3.5 hours away from my exam. I only slept a couple hours last night, my first nightmare since i was 14. My jacket is still crumpled on the floor, the dried crust on the sleeves stiff against the wool. Every time I look down at my arms, the stinging burns under the scabs, reminding me that whatever happened wasn't a bad dream. I haven't left my bedroom. I haven't opened my door, not even to use the bathroom or grab water. My roommates have been moving around the kitchen all day, chatting, cooking, living their lives. One of them knocked around noon to ask if I wanted anything from the grocery store, but my throat locked up. I just held my breath under the blankets until their footsteps drifted away down the hall.

I know I should get up. I know I should review the formulas before 5:00 pm hits, or call someone, or just walk outside into the freezing rain and feel the cold salt air on my face. I guess writing this was a good way to get this all off my chest before the exam. So yeah let me know if anyone else has experienced this figure/thing and maybe tips on way to avoid it?

Wish me luck!

P.S. - This was a creative part to a class where we created a monster and analyzed it and compared it to essays like Freud's "the uncanny", Michel Foucault's "history of the prison" etc., and Kracauer's "Forebodings". This part of the assignment isn't graded per se, but i had a lot of fun writing it. It's my first story after being a long time listener of the husband and wife so any tips would be appreciated, I WANNA WRITE MORE

Foreword: Names have been changed, because they’re linked to missing person cases my town.

I’ve never been the kind of guy who finds his own life interesting enough to talk about it, but I think this one story deserves to be written down, just in case. Stick with me, however, because even though I’ve always had vague dreams of being a writer, I’ve never really taken the time to sit down and write, so this might be a bit of a bumpy read.

I live in a small town where everyone knows everyone else. The kind of town that always hides a dark secret in stories like this one. The kind of town where a teenager disappears and the writer always makes it so it’s the actions of a vicious serial killer hiding among your neighbours. As such, it shouldn’t be surprising to hear that about a month ago, Olivia, one of my best friends, disappeared.

In real life, however, our town is just really fucking boring, so nobody thought anything about it. Just another runaway trying to get as far as possible from this shit hole. She would be back after a day or two. I don’t want to get into too much detail about my own life, because this isn’t about me, really, but I ran away once. I spent one whole day in the abandoned mansion at the outskirts of town, smoking pot and cursing my life. Then the cops came around and took me back home, as they always do with runaways who thought that house was a good spot to hide.

But this isn’t that story, so let’s get back to Olivia. Most people believed she ran away, but I never really saw it. Sure, lots of kids do it, but Olivia wasn’t the kind of girl with demons to escape from. She was the prettiest, smartest girl in school and I’ve met her parents: they’re great people. And, above all else, she was dating the coolest guy in town: my best friend Reed. The guy has the looks, the smarts and the athleticism. Put the two of them together, and you had the kind of high school sweethearts you only see in movies.

But, if she didn’t run away, that meant something else happened to her, but I never could figure out what. Maybe her parents were monsters in disguise, or maybe old man Bentley, whom I always found a bit creepy, really was hiding something behind all those wrinkles. I had many theories floating in my head, but there was one thing I knew for sure: my man Reed had nothing to do with it. I knew that because he was absolutely destroyed when he learned the news. The kind of irreparable grief that glued me to him just to make sure he wouldn’t do anything I’d regret.

Then, about a week after her disappearance, Reed called me asking if I was available. I had been making plans with some online friends, but they understood. About five seconds later, my guy was now texting me that he was in front of my house. The drive between our places isn’t long, but it isn’t that short either.

Anyway, I guess that’s enough context for how we got to that old mansion I mentioned earlier. Just picture those *small* mansions that are mostly one huge rectangle with one corner taking the form of some kind of rounded tower trying to break the monotony of it all. The place looked even more haunted than I remembered. Nature was still far from reclaiming the place, but its valiant effort was ongoing, and plants crept all over the outer walls. Rumours were that the family living here had been chopped up and/or vanished into the night, depending on who you asked. Then, nobody with the kind of money to buy this place really wanted a house on the outskirts of a small, dying town. So here it stood: a multimillion-dollar flowerpot.

“Come on, man. The police must have been here a hundred times already. Let’s just go home,” I pleaded with my friend. I knew what he was thinking. At this point, however, entertaining this kind of hopeless hope was more likely to hurt him than to help him.

“No, you don’t get it… I know she’s here,” despite the certainty he exclaimed, Reed sounded out of it.

“Dude,” I concluded, confident he caught everything I wanted to convey.

Reed shook his head and just shot me a look that told me he wanted to agree but couldn’t. “I know how it sounds. But I think she told me she’s here.”

Now, even without knowing what I know now, I probably should have taken my friend by the hand, forced him back into his car and drove him back home. The guy was snapping in real time, and it was my job to make sure he wouldn’t do anything crazy. Truth is, however, that I knew there was no resident evil in that mansion. Only maybe a resident raccoon. But you didn’t live a whole childhood in a small town surrounded by miles and miles of woods without getting your rabies shot renewed a couple of times. What was the harm in just getting a look around?

As a sign of good faith, I led the charge, jumping the short iron fence and making my way towards the big wooden double doors. The broken glass on the left door betrayed the absolute darkness within the house. As I continued towards it, I looked behind to see Reed slowly crossing the fence, one leg at a time. I had never seen our town’s very own basketball star moving so slowly.

But then, just as I was about to snark, I placed my own leg on the first step leading up to the porch. As soon as I shifted my weight to it, the wood collapsed under me, consuming my leg. Sharp splinters biting into my limb as it made its way down. I had already thrown myself into the forward motion and my body carried on, leaving my limb to sink even deeper while the hard edge at the top of the stairs caught me in the ribs, leaving me splattered on the steps, breathless.

It may sound as if it hurt like a bitch, and it did. 

I felt the tears welling up in my eyes and I would have yelled in pain if there had been any air left in my lungs. However, the whole experience soon turned positive, because I heard my good old friend laughing at me.

“Need help?” he barely managed to ask between two giggles.

Before I had even caught my breath, he was pulling me out of the rotten staircase and on his knees taking a closer look at my leg.

“Welp, guess it’s only good news: the bleeding looks superficial, and your pants are way cooler now.”

I snatched my leg back from his hands, turned around and jumped the steps up to the porch. Fortunately, this part of the house was still strong enough to hold my weight, and I landed safely in front of the doors. I took out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight before pushing the doors open.

The first thing I noticed was that the place was way worse than I remembered, and I thought to myself that I wouldn’t spend even a day here, much less a whole week. Then again, I’m sure the current absence of natural lighting didn’t help lighten the mood. I really wondered what we would do if our phones ran out and we had to navigate this space in the dark.

The entrance hall was a large square space with a door on each side and a corner staircase in the back of the room, leading to a mezzanine I couldn’t trust at all. Even now, I half expected to crash down to the basement.

The carpet in the middle of the room looked like it once carried a regal design, but the only thing it carried now was a layer of something brown and fluffy. The rest of the room was equally … lush.

Among all the rotting furniture, a grandfather clock alone stood the test of time, resting upon the staircase. Its glass was shattered, and its hands were frozen, but the intricate carvings in its frame were still impressive. It truly was a wonder nobody had touched any of this while it was still in working order.

As I was still taking in the weirdness of it all, a meaty hand landed on my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get to the kitchen,” Reed said.

I really didn’t get how he knew what room he wanted to visit, but I guess I was in too deep now, so I just led him to the kitchen, taking him through the door on the left, leading to the dining hall. The table in the middle of the room must have once been imposing, but it had long since been split in two by what I can only presume were amateur wrestlers. The only dinner to be had on it now was for termites.

The sooner I could indulge my friend, the sooner I could get home and jump online with my friends, so I stopped looking around and walked up to the door at the end of the room. As soon I opened it and made it into the kitchen, Reed passed by me and ran to the corner of the room, where I knew a trapdoor waited.

“Yo,” I called out. “You really want to go down to the cellar? There’s no way it’s even breathable down there. Let’s just call out for Liv and then be on our way.”

Reed threw me a look that meant it was time to shut up. The man was off his rockers. If he really wanted to go get himself some lung fungi or whatever, I wasn’t about to stop him, as long as it would put his mind at ease. He threw the trapdoor open, which sunk into the wall behind it with a loud crack. Surprisingly, the musty stench that permeated the kitchen as the foul air escaped from its prison wasn’t the worst thing ever. Still, I would have never spent a week down there, especially if I had been a very pretty girl who usually leaves behind a lavender scent wherever she goes.

In a moment, Reed was gone down the hole and that was left of him was the slight glow of his flashlight. 

Then, nothing was left. The darkness had swallowed him.

I took a step closer to the edge and yelled out for him.

“Yup!” a voice echoed. I had never been down there, but there was no way this place should be deep enough to create this resonance. Against my better judgment, I decided to follow him, if because I wanted to be with Reed if anything happened. 

As I was about halfway down, my head still sticking out of the hole, I heard a soft creaking above me.

The weight of the world crashed down on my skull. I was thrown off the stairs and fell down to the hard concrete. My phone slid away from my grip and my arms, which I barely had time to put up in front of me, scraped on the rough floor. Before I could even howl in pain, a blinding light was staring me in the eyes.

“You OK, man?” Reed asked. This time, even he couldn’t find it funny.

I took a deep breath. “No. Not really, bro. The door cracked my head or something,” I answered, trying my best to focus on his voice rather than the pain pounding away at my brain.

I felt his strong hand on my arm, and he got me up on my feet in one swift motion. My friend was about two heads taller than me, which came in handy as he parted my hair. “Looks fine, but I’m no doctor. We can get out of here if you want…” he said, the last words filled with hesitancy.

Even though he sounded as if he really wanted to stay here, for some reason, I had just about enough of this damn house and I wasn’t about to wait here until it collapsed on me. “Let’s just go. She’s not here, man,” I spat, maybe a bit more intense than I intended.

As I put my feet on the stairs and pushed on the wooden flap, it made me accept that those long years of internet browsing hadn’t left me with the most athletic build. I thanked the stars that I was stuck here with the greatest athlete in this whole stupid town. I got off the stairs and pointed up to Reed, a motion instantly explaining the whole situation.

He handed me his phone before putting his feet on two different steps and placing both of his hands on the trapdoor. As I saw veins form around his muscles, my heart sank. Reed let go, took a deep breath, then pushed again.

After a third and final try, he slammed his meaty fist in the rotten wood, which, for once tonight, stood strong. “Fuck you!” he yelled as he threw his other fist at the obstacle.

I could feel my breathing quicken as my friend let himself fall off the stairs. Seeing my worsening state, he put his now-scraped knuckles on my shoulder. “Yo, let’s just call the cops,” he said, “they have to earn their paycheck somehow.”

I nodded, yet my body barely moved. I had always been terrible at dealing with anxiety. My three stress responses were: Flight, freeze, or freeze, and right now, fleeing into the all-consuming darkness behind me seemed like an even worse idea than doing nothing.

Reed snatched his phone back from my hand and quickly typed the three digits that would be our salvation. Just as he was about to put it up to his ear, his eyes opened up like a deer in headlights. “Yo, my old piece of shit doesn’t get reception down here. What about yours?” he asked, somehow still exuding calm.

As I was still trying to recapture my nonexistent natural cool, Reed took my phone from my hand and tried the same operation. I watched in horror as he put his feet on the stairs and stick the phone right up to the trapdoor. “No fucking way!” he spat in anger. He stepped down, casually flipped the phone in his hand to give it to me right side up.

“OK, man. I need you to come back to earth. From what I saw this place looks pretty big, but there’s two of us. We’re looking for a shovel, an axe, or something big and sturdy. Anything I can use to smash this piece of shit door to smithereens.”

Now I know that he was just trying to get us out quickly, but at the time, I’ll admit I was a bit irrational. “Why did you bring us here, dumbass?” I answered. My voice was barely a whisper, but it was filled with the anger of someone that had just learned he was about to die one of the most pointless deaths in history.

“You won’t get it, man, especially now that we’re fucked. Let’s get out and we’ll talk laugh about it over some food,” he answered.

“No, fuck you,” I answered, whispering at first. “Why did you bring me down here? She’s not here. Obviously, she’s not here!” my voice slowly graduating to cries.

Reed put his hands in front of him to protect himself from my verbal assaults. “OK, OK. Look, after she disappeared,” he began, “I started dreaming about this place. Now, I realize it sounds stupid, it’s just an old creepy mansion. But I just thought maybe it meant something. I don’t know, man…” he paused.

“I’ll try anything to see her again.”

Now you might think I’m dumb, but even though he didn’t say anything I didn’t already know, those words made it all click for me. I wanted to see Olivia too. I had always liked her very much, but I knew I would never understand how much harder it was for my best friend. I guess that moment of weakness from him was enough to snap me out of my panic, because I simply grabbed my phone from his hand. “Sure, let’s get to it, then,” I reassured him, “we’ll be out of here in no time.”

As I turned my light to the basement, what Reed had meant sunk in. The place was huge. We were currently stuck in a long corridor, bricked in by two stone walls, but even that single hallway ran way longer than it should have. There was absolutely nothing but cold stone and intrusive vegetation in this passageway. Maybe the stress and claustrophobia were kicking in, but I could have sworn that, from where the trapdoor was above ground, that single corridor ran a bit more than the mansion’s remaining length. My light barely reached what seemed to be a medieval-looking rounded door at the end of the tunnel.

Reed took the lead, just like it had always been before Olivia went missing. I followed him, my eyes darting between the ceiling and the floor, making sure there wasn’t anything like a loose stone out to get me. I could still feel the beating drums in my head and my leg and arms were burning up, but whining about it wouldn’t do us much good. All I could do was make sure I didn’t get hurt again. We walked for what seemed to be at least three minutes. The longer we walked, the more I felt like the door was always stretching just out of reach. Even then, we eventually arrived at a solid slab of wood acting as the only thing keeping us from what I could only hope was the wine cellar. 

Reed reached for the wrought iron handle and pushed. The door refused to move, dead in its frame. We were truly trapped in this godforsaken basement. I could feel my dinner making its way up my throat as my heart pounded away at my skull.

Then, he pulled, and the door gave way. The slight musty smell became overpowering. The new room was indeed the wine cellar I had expected. Old wooden racks covered the broad rectangular room wall to wall. Yet, the only things aging down here were the mushrooms, fungi and plants that had found here a perfect sanctuary for their clandestine growth cycle.

The second thing I noticed, however, were the stairs leading up to the outer basement exit. Of course, there would be another way to get in and out if they needed to load in barrels and stuff. Reed noticed it too, and he broke into a sprint towards it, bouncing up the stairs before finally slamming his whole weight into the doors, smashing them open. My friend almost fell on the other side, barely managing to keep his balance on the narrow wooden stairs. As he peered outside, at something I couldn’t see, he muttered three words which were common in his vocabulary, but that I would have rather not heard right now. 

“What … the … fuck…”

At least he wasn’t running, so it probably wasn’t a wolf, a bear, or the living dead. I carefully crept up to him and peered outside. Even from my lower position, I could already see part of what was wrong.

Even though the sky was as clear as I had ever seen it, and there wasn’t a single cloud covering the bright moon, I couldn’t catch a glimpse of any stars.

Other than our very own satellite, the heavens were black and devoid of their usual sparks. Now, this might not sound weird to you, city folks, but trust me, around here, the stars are pretty obvious, especially right at the edge of town. This scenery just felt wrong. Even the moon itself looked different, as if it was a plain grey ball, smoothed over and lacking its distinct craters.

Bravely, Reed stepped outside, allowing me to move on up, and I quickly realized that the sky hadn’t been what he reacted to. In the overgrown backyard of this estate was an extended patch of raw soil which must have been a luscious garden at some point. It was still abundant; it just lacked any of the flair you would expect from a plot of land maintained by a professional gardener. Among the wild and fertile foliage, you could see the greenhouse. Its glass had been shattered, and its steel frame was bent and rusted, but it stood as proud as it could. The problem was inside the structure.

Protruding from all the other greenery, eight brown cacti, or rather something I can only describe as such, grew inside and out of the greenhouse. They spread far and wide, one of them even sticking out of the shattered roof. The plants were sectioned off in what looked like four parts by thinner segments acting like joints, as the plants were bent haphazardly around these midsections. They all found rest on parts of the greenhouse’s frame, as if they were ready to rip it apart from the inside. What unsettled me the most were the spikes on them. Instead of what I expected from this kind of flora, these spikes looked more like thousands and thousands of short hairs, forming a soft coat around each plant. 

Whatever those were, I wasn’t the only one unsettled by them, as Reed was staring right at them, glued to the outer wall of the mansion and slowly creeping towards the corner of the main building. Personally, I would have given anything to have a botanist with us to confirm this was standard North American flora, because I simply couldn’t believe it.

“Let’s just go home, alright,” I said to my friend. 

As I spoke, the wind felt like mocking me, because the plants jolted wildly, their pointed ends crashing into the metal frame, playing a clanging cacophony.

This really hadn’t been my night up to that point and I just decided that now that it was finally available to me, flight felt like the right choice.

I just booked it, running past Reed, who got off the wall and started running beside me as soon as I passed him. In no time, we were in front of the house, far away from those creepy plants and that godforsaken basement. My friend noticed our new problem before me, however.

“Fuck! Who stole my car? We’re in the middle of nowhere!” he exclaimed.

Indeed the old sedan which was supposed to take us far away from here was nowhere to be seen, leaving only the cracked concrete in front of the half-collapsed garage. This truly was the worst night ever.

“Fuck this,” Reed eloquently added. “I’ll call my dad to pick us up. The fucking car can fucking wait.”

He barely looked at his phone before instantly spiking it to the ground at his feet, which thankfully was the dirt right beside the parking space. He reached both hands to his face and rubbed them, seemingly to calm himself down. “Piece of shit phone never works. Just call anybody at this point, I don’t care.”

I dreaded the moment my phone screen lit up, because I already knew what I would find. Of course, my cell phone wasn’t getting reception either. It wasn’t particularly surprising, considering our town’s network was spotty at the best of times in the best of spots. Obviously, Reed heard the whole situation from my face, because he simply shrugged.

“Fuck it. Let’s walk, it’s like 45 minutes or something. No big deal,” he concluded, resigned.

Just like that, everything had been said, and Reed took off on the main road that would eventually take us home. For a moment, though, I wondered if we shouldn’t just go the other way and see where that would take us. Maybe I had been unto something when I ran away from home a few years ago.

Somehow, this whole experience had turned Reed back into his old self, and he was chatting the night away as if we weren’t surrounded by dark woods filled with wolves, bears and other predators that could tear us to shreds on a whim. As I answered his monologues on various subjects with one-word answers, my attention was focused just about anywhere but my friend. Had the trees around here always been so tall? How was it possible we still couldn’t see any stars in the sky? Why had I never noticed the road out here was so badly maintained and overgrown? I guess everything just looked way worse than it was while you were high on adrenaline and concussed.

We made it most of the way without me tripping over myself and breaking an arm on the street. I couldn’t feel my head or my limbs anymore, but I knew I would feel terrible tomorrow morning, if we made it to then. As we crossed into the gigantic clearing confining our small town, I finally realized how wrong this scenery felt. I had always associated home with the small-town charm of a clear sky, filled with stars so innumerable it had to be seen to be believed. But tonight, we were left with a night sky darker than any I had ever seen before. 

Under this omen, we stepped onto the main street, surrounded by the houses of our neighbours and friends. We were finally home. This terrible night had come to an end. Reed would still have to report his car stolen and all that, but at least he would be alive to do it. At that moment, I even remembered thinking that maybe I had panicked over nothing. The night had been pretty tame, all things considered.

As I was taking in the warm and flowery air of home, I looked over to old man Bentley’s house, on which I could always count to welcome us back. His home was a traditional yellowish square, surrounded by a white picket fence. He always kept his yard adorned with as many flowers as he could grow. But tonight, what I saw on his front lawn made me finally throw up, after I had almost managed to keep it in all night.

Reed immediately fell silent as he heard me retch behind him and turned around to put a reassuring hand on my back. As the bitter afterburn scratched my throat, I tried to concentrate on that feeling, just to avoid thinking about what I had seen.

In front of Bentley’s house, in the soil right beside his door, was a fluffy white behind. What seemed to be a snowshoe hare was sticking out of the dirt. As I looked back to make sure I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, I saw that these weren’t the only bodies in his yard. I could distinguish, right beside them, half a black cat’s body. Someone had seemingly buried the poor animals headfirst into the ground. In fact, it looked like his colourful garden had been fully replaced with these grim trophies, showcasing of a variety of small creatures. 

These were indeed trophies, because that’s all they could be. It might have been in poor taste, but Halloween was coming up and it had always been Bentley’s favourite holiday. He always went a bit overboard with it, and it simply was too much for me tonight. Then I looked over to the neighbour’s house and saw the same kind of decorations, but there, a doe could be seen sticking from the flowerpot on the porch, bent over and lifeless. They had barely taken the time to stick its head in the dirt, such that the neck was bent at an angle that shouldn’t be possible, at least for anything living.

At that point, I couldn’t control myself. I screamed as I had never screamed before. A shriek that probably sounded as if I was being murdered. In unison, limbs from the ground jolted. They weren’t digging themselves; they simply reacted with like inquisitive critters reacted to an unusual noise. How could anything be alive in these circumstances?

 “I see you haven’t changed one bit, Quince,” a female exclaimed behind me, maybe a few feet away.

Without even looking, still entirely focused on the bodies slowly returning to their natural inertia, I knew who had spoken.

“Olivia!” he exclaimed, with true joy instead of the poor facsimile he had been trying to put on for a week now.

I heard him start running, disregarding our surroundings.

When I looked over to the girl, she indeed had the same face as Olivia. Green eyes just like hers were staring at me and short blonde hair reached down to her shoulders, straight and combed, just like Olivia’s. Even Olivia’s leather coat was still spotless and glossy. Reed pounced on her and crushed her in his arms.

“I’m so happy you’re here, babe,” she said, with the same melodious voice Olivia had. Her face, however, betrayed no emotions. She was still staring blankly at me. “You’ll finally get to meet Mommy. Hell, now that I think about it, I’ve never even shown you a picture of Daisy.” 

As she spoke, she finally moved her arms, which up to that point dangled beside her, not returning my friend’s warm embrace. She brought her hand to her lips and produced a sharp whistling sound.

Before I could even register the large shadow rushing towards him, it had pounced on Reed, effortlessly wrenching him away from Olivia’s body and throwing him to the ground. The beast had four legs and a long snout like a canine, but most of the resemblance with an animal I could recognize ended there. It was big, bigger than any wolf I had ever seen. Even on all fours, its back reached up to fake Olivia’s face. There was not a single strand of hair on the pale, pinkish skin, that stuck to its bones. Its “tail” appeared as if a branch had been forcefully grafted at the end of its spine; I could even spot what looked like leaves decorating the end of it.

Its face was right over my friend’s, two long rows of teeth completely visible, as it lacked any semblance of lips to conceal its weapons.

I could do nothing but stare as it ripped into Reed, my friend barely letting out a single scream before it tore away his throat in one snap of its gaping maw. In an instant, my best friend wasn’t anymore.

“Hey, you should probably run,” said Olivia’s mouth, in a mocking tone. This time, it even made the effort to convey emotions, as a smirk appeared on her lips, perfectly reddened by the same makeup Olivia had worn every day.

I knew it was right, but I couldn’t move. A fog overtook my brain and smothered any thoughts I could have had.

The humanoid petted the back of the beast, its finger bouncing up and down on each of its bulging vertebrae. “Daisy, make sure to leave some for Mommy: this one is a good catch. The other is all yours,” she clarified, tenderly.

As it spoke, something clicked in my head and my legs listened to reason. Reed wouldn’t have wanted me to die without a fight. He would have wanted me to give it my all.

 The four-legged monster was still enjoying its meal while I was halfway to Bentley’s house. I was jumping the fence just as the beast finally registered its master’s command and turned its gaze towards me. When I landed on Bentley’s lawn, every single body jumped up as if they had been startled. Tiny legs tapped away at the air, trying to escape what they thought to be imminent danger. Thankfully, it seemed that none of them were eager or able to hinder my escape.

As I made my way up the front stairs, I heard weighty thumping start up behind me. I managed to make it inside and lock the door before the creature caught up to me, which couldn’t have taken more than a couple seconds, because a heavy blow shook the whole house shook before I had even fully turned the lock. From the other side, I heard what I can only describe as a long, cavernous moan. Safety was anything but guaranteed. Bentley’s house was small, the main room in which I currently stood was split between a kitchen, a living room and a dining room without any doors to divide them. At a glance, only the bedroom and the bathroom seemed to be viable hiding spots, and neither would take more than a few minutes to fully comb. Maybe I could sneak out the window, but where would I even go from there?

Then, as I took more and more time analyzing every single choice, slowly concluding that each one was worse than the last, there was a soft knock at the door.

“Quince, don’t be dumb. You can’t hide in there forever. That door wouldn’t hold Daisy for a full second if I asked her to jump through it,” it stated.

“What the fuck have you done to my friends?” I screamed through the door. At that point, I think I had already given up on self-preservation, so answers were the only thing left.

“Friends? Did you lose some along the way?” it asked, allowing curiosity to invade Olivia’s voice.

“I’m talking about Liv, you bitch!” I yelled back, unamused.

The first answer I got was hysterical laughter. It truly sounded like my friend: she could even fill the air with the same harmonious giggling. Before now, I had always found it enchanting. “You… You…” it tried to articulate in between spurts of laughter.

Then, the creature calmed down and cleared her throat. “You’re so scatterbrained, Quince,” it chuckled. “I’m gone for a week, and you forget my face? I guess that’s not what you were ogling all the times I caught you staring at me.” 

It erupted into another series of giggles.

“Look, open the door, we can talk. It’s not like you have anything left to lose, right?” it said, compassionately.

I don’t know if it was the fact that the creature managed to fake it so well that it angered me, but I managed to find remnants of defiance I didn’t even know I had.

“And what if I don’t?” I asked.

“We’ve been over this, Quince. Daisy is well trained, so she won’t break down the door unless I ask. Trust me, though, even if she doesn’t, you’ve got nowhere to run. She has the nose of a hound dog, and you reek of chicken.”

I didn’t see any point in putting her claims to the test and, against my better judgment, I opened the door. Before me stood Olivia’s body, as resplendent as the day we lost her. Behind it, at the bottom of the steps, dutifully sat “Daisy.” Out of its mouth, a brownish, viscous liquid fell out continuously, as drool would out of a dog thinking about its next meal. Now that I had the time to look at it clearly, its broad, sharp fangs were brown and had the same scaly texture as its tail, which was lying flat on the ground behind it. Its eyes were two bright yellow spots, with what looked to be small, white petals sprouting outwards from all around them, folding upon themselves every few seconds.

The Olivia-shaped creature looked back at it and threw a single finger in the air, ordering it to stay put. It then stepped into the house, taking off her coat in a casual motion and tossing it on the nearest couch’s armrest. I slammed the door shut as soon as it crossed the threshold. 

It sat right beside her coat and threw her arms in the air. “So… What do you want to talk about?”

“WHY DID YOU KILL REED?” I roared, hoping to get a reaction out of it.

It rolled her eyes like Olivia always did when she thought someone was particularly stupid. 

“Look, you were never supposed to come here. But now that you did, Mommy needs fertilizer. Reed is top-shelf, you know? You, on the other end… Let’s just say I’ve seen better. Still, humans, in any shape, are hard to get around these parts,” it explained wittily, as Olivia usually did the plot of a movie she saw the night before.

“Where the fuck are we, Liv?” I asked. Her name slipped out of my mouth by itself as I lost myself in the green eyes that reminded me of the girl I had loved.

“At my mom’s. I usually come by once a year. This year, Fall’s got me really down, so I might have overstayed a bit. Guess this is all my fault, sorry about that,” she shrugged.

“That doesn’t explain anything!” I yelled at her.

“You’re mad, I get it. You guys don’t really believe in the cycle of life. You spout cute nonsense about it, but when it’s your time to die, you go out kicking and screaming. Things die so other things can live. No need to be a bitch about it.”

She stood up and grabbed her coat from the armrest.

“I think I should probably go back to my other mom,” she admitted, “but if you want to stay here until the next pollination, you’re welcome to. Mommy’s a great host, you’ll see.”

As the creature headed towards the door, putting her coat back on its shoulders, I couldn’t resist grabbing it by the arm. “Wait, Liv, don’t leave me here.”

It looked back at me with Olivia’s playful smirk plastered on its face. “Aw, are you finally going to confess? I’ve always liked you, Quince, just not in that way.”

Having put the final question to rest, she ripped her arm away from my grip and opened the door. Daisy valiantly sat at its post. As her body stepped down the porch, Olivia’s finger wiggled at the beast. “OK, Daisy, Quince is a guest. Be a good girl,” she said, in the same voice you would use to speak to a baby. She looked back at me. “Unless he tries to leave,” she added.

Then, Olivia lifted her arms and put her hands up to the pale beast’s neck. Its skin reddening as Olivia’s manicured claws scratched away at its throat. “Who’s a good girl, huh?” asked Olivia, “that’s you! You’re the best girl!”

I swear I saw a smile appear on that thing’s face. The corners of its maw drew back and stretched its skin even tighter on its skull, almost ripping its own flesh apart with the rough edges formed by its bones. 

“Don’t worry, Daisy, it might be a long time, but I’ll always be back,” reassured Olivia. My friend’s body lifted its palm and the beast slammed its own paw into it. Even though the movement had seemed effortless for “Daisy,” Olivia’s hand dropped a few centimetres from the sheer weight of it. Like its teeth, Daisy’s claws were brown and scaly, but they had seemingly been trimmed down to inoffensive stubs.

The creature opened its jaw wide, bloody pieces of my best friend still dangling from its teeth. It expelled air from its gigantic orifice, creating a guttural cough. Then, Olivia simply walked away, leaving me to stare at the monster, which turned around to stare at its mistress as it abandoned it. Maybe this was the chance to run I needed, but I didn’t feel like testing Daisy’s speed, or its bite strength.

So here I am, sitting on old man Bentley’s couch, typing this on my cell phone while Daisy sleeps on my feet, its enormous mass reaching all the way up to my knees, pinning me between her and the seat. I have yet to decide if I want to try my luck running, or if I’d rather just live out as long as possible around here…

Olivia, if you find this. I’d like to believe there’s still a part of the girl I grew up with in the thing that stole your face. Maybe, if there is, you could spread this story around, since no one would ever believe it anyway. I just want people to know what happened to Reed. 

He was meant for more than this.

I Know You See Me
Silas Whitney

As I sat on the cold shore, a man crawled out of the sea. I watched him through the black lenses of my glasses, keeping perfectly still. Pretending as if I didn’t notice him. He dragged himself out of the foam and into the wet sand just before me, panting and soaked. He wore a set of dark rags, the same ones he always had. His hair draped and dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain of black ink. He crawled to the dry sand where I sat and propped himself up beside me. I kept my eyes forward as if I were blind and deaf, completely oblivious to his entrance. He sat by me, close enough that others might fancy him a brother. I refused to look at him as a fire burned in my chest. I pretended not to notice, but I did notice. I always noticed him.

He turned his head toward me, still heaving breaths into his thin chest. His arms draped over his bent knees and his fingers rolled like cats’ tails, long and curved. I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know that those empty irises would be boring into my temple. I didn’t need to see the inverted colors of his eyes, the whites made blue, the blue made black, the black made white, to feel the icy grip of their glare. 

And the last thing I needed was to hear his voice. One would expect such a creature to have a deep, rasping voice. I wished he did. Instead, his voice was far worse. I wished he had the voice of a snarling beast or a mocking imp. But his voice matched mine. The same voice I hear in my own mind, the one I hear in my own ears when I hear myself speak. He wouldn’t even give me the deniability of my voice as one hears their own on a recording. It was my own voice as I always hear it in my own skull. 

“I know you see me,” he said. His voice was breathy and wrapped me as if he were whispering into both of my ears. I didn’t answer, but I could hear his mouth curling into a greasy, black toothed grin. “I know you hear me.”

I kept my eyes forward. Of course I saw him, of course I heard him. I always did. He scooted closer and I could feel his breath. Though I kept myself completely still, my heart beat against my bones like a cornered beast. 

“I can hear you too,” he said. He extended his hand and his long fingers wrapped around my chest. He squeezed until my breaths became shallow and sharp. “I hear you always.” Still, I did not look or acknowledge him. I gripped tightly to the sand under my fingers, but still I did not look. 

“One day,” he said. “One day you will have to look. One day…” I could feel my eyes wanting to flick to his face, but I kept them locked on the empty horizon. “One day you won’t be able to ignore me.” I knew he was right. He had only grown stronger since the first day I caught him in the corner of my eye. 

Slowly, he chuckled to himself and released his grip on me. I fought myself to keep from gasping. I did not wish to give him any inclination that he might have broken my thoughts. 

“One day.”

He dropped back to a lying position and slithered back into the wet sand, back into the foam, and back into the cold ocean. He left no trail. Left no evidence of his presence, save for my own memory. I know he is right. One day I will not be able to keep my eyes from looking. I will not be able to ignore his words. Neglect will fix nothing, but I can muster no other resistance. 

I kept my eyes on the crashing waves as they beat against the sand. Each wave pulled a little earth away from the coast and carried it off into itself, back into the deep. 

But then, just as the water pulled back, I saw a pearl, unearthed by the waves. I could have retrieved it, but I stayed. I watched it glimmer in the single beam of sun from the cold clouds overhead. I watched as the water came back and bore it away, back into the endless black of the sea. I closed my eyes. 

“One day,” I said. My hands shook as I loosened my grip on the sand. “But not today.”  

When Mallory Donahue's husband Max came home late and covered in blood two weeks ago, she naturally assumed the worst.

“I thought, ‘Heck if he's not gone and relapsed again,’” Mallory said.

Thankfully for the young couple, Max's wounds that night had come from something much less concerning, a regular drunken bar fight. “It was over a woman,” Max explained. It could easily have been worse.

“So much worse,” said Mallory. “Like it was before, when he just couldn't help it. He couldn't help taking risks to help people.”

“Before” means three years ago, in the months prior to Max's diagnosis of SHS, Spontaneous Hero Syndrome, known to most of us simply as Courage.

“It's a real debilitating condition,” said Max. “Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business, trying to go to the store to buy some beer or electronics, when suddenly you hear a child scream—before you know it, you're trying to figure out what's going on, trying to help the kid getting hurt. It's not even a decision. You just act.”

“You can imagine the chaos that creates for yourself and your family,” said Mallory.

“Many women would have left, and I understand that,” said Max. “I'm blessed that Mal didn't. She stuck by me. She was my rock. She gave me the strength to finally get help.”

Together, Max and Mallory sought the aid of Dr. Anton Wellberger, one of the pioneers of BCT, Behavioural Cowardice Therapy.

“For many patients, admitting Courage is shameful. There's a real societal stigma attached. It takes a strong individual to understand that what they're feeling is not only abnormal but destructively antisocial,” writes Wellberger in his best-selling book, The Wellness of Inaction.

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According to experts, a healthy human should not desire to help others unless doing so will result in a likely reciprocal benefit in the future. “It's just not what humans evolved to do,” said Evan Mink, a leading evolutionary psychologist from the University of Chapata Falls.

There is also the question of consent.

When the Post reached out to Eva-Marie Plum, of Plum & Plum Associates, she explained: “Take the example Max provided. He's walking down the street. He hears a child scream. Who is to say the child wants him to respond in any way to its scream? Moreover, let's assume Max does investigate and sees that the screaming child is being brutalized by a group of adults. If Max intervenes to try to ‘save' the ‘victim,’ he does so without the child's consent. As a lawyer, I immediately think, 'Yikes, Max!'

“And that's before considering the rights and consent of the brutalizing adults. Does Max know these adults lack the right to brutalize the child? Have they consented to being prevented from continuing their brutalization? It just opens up this massive kettle of legal fish.”

When asked what you should do if you ever find yourself in a situation like Max's, Plum gave the following advice: “If you're ever unsure, if you feel like maybe you have the instinct to do something: CAR, Cease-And-Retreat. Then call police. When they arrive, they will assess, gather consents and take the appropriate corrective action.”

“It's not wrong to feel the desire to help,” writes Wellberger. “It's only wrong to act on it.”

He also admits that, prior to his invention of BCT, the treatment of SHS could be seen as relatively primitive, which put many people off from coming forward with the condition.

“We used to treat Courage with electroshock; chemical cowardizers that had many significant side effects, including decreased libido; and hypnosis—all very outdated methods. Now it's more civilized. You're part of a group. You sit in a circle. You converse. You witness volunteers being abused right there in the room, and you learn to ignore it. You acquire skills: box breathing, meditation, disassociative techniques. You learn that it's OK to just let life happen.”

Max recalled one retreat in Mexico where, for an entire weekend, he and a dozen other so-called “hard cases” took psychedelics while the retreat administrators continuously assaulted paid locals.

“It was a tough, life altering 48 hours. I was face-to-face with my own heroic demons. I saw God,” said Max. “He had the body of a translucent, rainbow coloured salamander.”

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These days, both Max and Mallory attend a non-denominational New Church, where they sing songs and learn tolerance.

“Courage is a kind of judgement, and only God has the power to judge," said Mallory.

When asked when he knew he had been cured, Max pointed out that there is no cure. “There is only treatment,” he said. “Every day is still a struggle, but thanks to Dr. Wellberger, it's a struggle Mal and I can manage.”

However, he does recall the moment he realized the treatment was having a substantial effect. “It was back in December. I was in Dr. Wellberger's downtown office—at one of our weekly appointments—we were talking, when all of a sudden these guys in masks broke in. They were screaming, asking where he kept his money. They'd read his book so they knew he was wealthy. But when he said he didn't keep any money in the office, they started hitting him.

“I felt this surge of wanting to help, wanting to stop them, you know? But I forced myself to do my box breathing, my meditations, remembered my faith, and was able to stay calm in my seat.

“Dr. Wellberger was sobbing, bleeding from the mouth, screeching, terrified, begging me to do something, but my urge to save him—it was gone. I smiled, and as the masked men beat him, ransacked his office, smashed his face in with a crowbar, I didn't even CAR. I was able to maintain neutrality and watch. Be present in the flow of reality.

“After they'd killed him, and his secretary too, they left and so did I.”

“I was so proud of him,” said Mallory.

If you witness someone exhibiting Courage, please [report.]