[Part 1]

[Part 2]

[Part 3]

[Part 4]

[Part 5]

[Part 6]

Saturday was supposed to be the day I fought for more time with Toby.

I had a folder and a proposal all set out, and now it was all for nothing. I called my lawyer from the driveway, and he said he’d already spoken to Alicia’s attorney, and everyone agreed to postpone. “The existing arrangement stands,” he said. “Ian, I’m going to say this once. Don’t make decisions about Toby just because she can’t object right now.”

I had worried about what Alicia might have said about me in that room, but I would've given anything to have her sitting across from me, perfectly healthy, ready to tell a mediator what a lousy father I'd been.

The bedroom door had been shut since the night before. Rebecca had kept Toby downstairs, and Priest had told her not to let anyone enter until the recovery crew arrived. He'd complained about leaving his toys behind, but not nearly as much as I'd expected. 

That morning, Rebecca was at the kitchen table with her laptop open. She’d been up all night. When I sat down across from her, she looked at me for a long time, and I realized what had changed. She’d stopped trying to catch me out. 

“I’m not going to ask whether you’re exaggerating,” she said. “I saw the damage to my sister’s arm. It looked like it had been wrung.”

“Okay.”

“So I’ll ask the real questions. Can you take the chest out of the house?”

“CATALOGUE wants to. They’re sending a team.”

“Is it safe to leave Toby here until they do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it come through something else? A cupboard? His closet?”

“I don’t know, Rebecca.”

“I can’t remember the last time you actually gave me a straight answer,” she said.

“I’m working on it.”

 “He’s done with it. That’s it. No more games or interactions with that toy chest. We take it all off him today.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” I said, tracing the rim of the mug. 

“Why?”

“That thing froze when Toby shouted at it; it actually listened to him. If he stops coming around and it doesn't know why, what's it going to do then?” 

She exhaled through her nose but didn't argue. Neither did I. 

Toby wandered over in his pajamas, dragging his old stuffed rabbit by one ear. He'd had it since he was a toddler, and it was looking worse for wear.

He asked if Mom was feeling better. Rebecca said she was, and that they’d go see her tomorrow. He nodded and climbed onto a chair and asked for cereal. I caught myself studying the rabbit and made myself look away. It’s hard to be someone’s father while you’re inspecting him all the time.

“Dad,” he said, mouth full. “Are you staying?”

“For a bit.”

My phone buzzed. It was Alicia. 

“Rebecca’s staying with him; that’s non-negotiable,” she said. “And nobody from that organization examines him, tests him, talks to him, or so much as takes his temperature without asking me first. I don’t care who they are.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Don’t tell them. Make them tell me.” A pause. I heard a monitor beep somewhere behind her. “Ian. Thank you for staying with him.”

“Of course.”

Neither of us apologized, but I put the phone down, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. A guy like me should know better than to get comfortable with a good feeling. 

Priest called just as I drained the cold dregs of my coffee. CATALOGUE had a crew standing by at my house. They were going to haul the rest of the items out at once if nothing went sideways. A separate team was on standby for the wooden toy chest. She wanted to know how fast I could meet them. When I told Toby where I was going, he looked up from the cereal.

“The wardrobe?”

“Yeah, bud. They're taking it somewhere safe.”

“Is someone going to be there?”

“What do you mean?”

“When they take it.”

“There'll be plenty of people.”

He looked down at his cereal. “Tell them not to break it.”

I almost asked why he cared but caught myself. I knew how it’d sound, and suddenly I was just thinking about a six-year-old kid sitting alone at a table while his mother lay in a hospital bed. 

“I’ll tell them to be careful,” I said.

“Promise?”

“I promise they’ll be careful.”

He nodded and went back to his cereal. I’d been making a lot of promises lately. I told myself I wouldn’t make it a habit.

The crew had my driveway blocked by the time I got to my place.

There was a flatbed sitting out front with a box trailer, a hydraulic tail lift, and an arm crane tucked along the tray. Six people were hauling gear off the back. Three of them were sealed in heavy grey protective gear, hoods pulled up. The others were in standard trade pants and hi-vis. If it weren't for the hazmat suits, you would’ve sworn they were just standard removal guys. 

I'd expected CATALOGUE to bring in some specialist equipment I wouldn't know the first thing about. Instead, I was looking at gear you could find in any decent removal depot, being handled by people who knew which end of a strap to pull.

I stopped on the sidewalk and just watched. Nobody seemed particularly interested in the house. One person checked the paperwork against the labels on the crates while I overheard another asking whether they were allowed to touch anything without clearance. The answer was a firm no. 

Watching them unload the gear, I couldn't help thinking about Henry. Things had felt different at work without him.

I'd taken time off after Henry got hurt. My supervisor had been understanding about it, but I couldn't keep sitting at home waiting for something else to go wrong. A few days earlier, I'd finally called and told him I was ready to come back. He'd paired me with a mover named Eddie, who'd been working the other trucks for a couple of years.

Eddie was a nice enough guy. We finished two jobs ahead of schedule, which was more than I could say for most days with Henry.

The strange part was how much I hated it.

Eddie barely spoke. I should've appreciated that. Henry could turn a five-minute job into twenty just by opening his mouth. He'd complain about everything and somehow have the wardrobe loaded before I'd even finished telling him to shut up.

It wasn't Eddie’s fault. But halfway through carrying a sofa down a narrow staircase, I'd caught myself smiling at something Henry would've said and then remembered he wasn't there.

A voice brought me back.

“No! Not that end. You'll have the thing rolling down the driveway.”

One of the older men was standing beside the truck, watching a younger worker struggle to maneuver a loaded dolly down the tail lift. He stepped in, adjusted the strap, and showed him where to put his hands. The worker muttered something I couldn't hear, and the older man laughed.

It reminded me of Henry. For a moment, I almost expected him to be standing beside me. 

Instead, the man turned and spotted me.

“Ian, was it?” He looked to be in his fifties, with grey stubble and work gloves tucked into his belt. He walked over and offered a hand. “Name’s Mercer. I run recovery. Priest tells me you move furniture for a living.”

I nodded and shook it. 

“Eleven years,” I said. 

“Then you've probably shifted more wardrobes than half my crew.”

“None that fought back.”

Mercer gave a short laugh. “You'd be surprised. So how’d you get it in the truck?”

I explained how Henry and I had managed it with two dollies and a ramp. 

“It’s heavier than it looks, and it’s impossible to move when it wants to fight you.”

 Mercer nodded slowly. “That makes sense with what we’ve seen,” he said, jerking a thumb at a woman in full grey hazard gear holding a tablet. “Foster’s technical. She watches the monitors while I do the moving. We try not to step on each other’s toes.”

Foster raised two fingers from her tablet without looking up. Inside the sealed clear faceplate of her hood, she kept nudging her glasses back up her nose with her cheek, her hands too bulky in the gloves to do it properly.

I showed him what had been moved after Marshall and Priest left. Mercer wanted weights, so I gave him the figures off the top of my head, all slightly wrong against their paperwork. For the first time since CATALOGUE got involved, I had something useful to tell them. When I told him the dolly we used on the tank had bent a leg, he snorted.

“Rule number one: never trust a company dolly.” He kicked the tire of a heavy orange one resting against the tailgate. “Harper frame, rated for half a ton. Management got us three.”

“I figured you lot would have something a bit fancier,” I said.

Mercer glanced at the dolly. “What's wrong with that? It does the job, doesn't draw attention, and we can get replacement parts on a Tuesday.”

“So you're cheap.”

“Privately funded,” he corrected. “There's a difference.”

They started with the portrait. It went into a protective enclosure, a crate like a coffin made of that grey grid material, and slid up the ramp without fuss. The dresser and the wardrobe they examined and left. The tank was next.

Mercer gathered the men around the frame. “Six inches, no more. If anything shifts, you lower it. If I tell you to stop, you stop. Nobody goes reaching underneath to save a strap or a bit of equipment. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. Mercer walked the support frame, checked the straps, looked at the ceiling clearance, and nodded.

“Take it up.”

They raised it six inches.

For a moment, everything was fine. The amber liquid rolled from one end of the glass to the other in a slow, heavy wave. Mercer said, “Hold,” and the wave should have settled.

It kept going. Back and forth, the surface rising higher on each pass, though nothing was moving the tank. The wave built against the glass with a low, wet knock I’d heard before. I’d heard it from my bed, through a wall, at three in the morning.

“Lower it now,” Mercer said calmly. 

They set it down. The wave stopped. All at once, as if someone had put a hand flat on the surface. The amber went perfectly still.

Nobody spoke.

Foster stepped forward, stopped at four feet, and angled a penlight through the glass. The beam lit a pale cone in the dark liquid.

The liquid moved toward it.

It gathered at the lit spot, a dense bulge that rose against the glass and pressed outward like a thumb pushing through cloth. Foster moved the beam. The bulge slid along the inside of the wall, following, stretching through the rest of the liquid. She moved it left, and it went left. Up, and it climbed.

The bulge flattened against the glass and formed impressions, pale rounded patches, like palms. Then it divided. Hundreds of droplets, each the size of a bead, scattered across the inside of the tank, and they began to move on their own. Some climbed. Others went sideways. A few met, merged into one, and then split again.

“Everybody back,” Mercer said. “Lift is suspended.”

He made the right call. But it came too late.

Someone said, “Sir,” in a thin voice. A technician pointed at the base of the tank, at the outside. Droplets had appeared on the glass. I couldn’t tell where they’d come from. They gathered along the lower edges of the glass, where there shouldn't have been anywhere for them to escape. One slid down and fell to the concrete without a sound. It sat there, round and bright, and then it put out a transparent thread and pulled.

It crawled slowly, drawing itself forward with a thread that contracted and slackened. Another dropped beside it, and another. There were a dozen on the floor now, creeping in no clear direction, each one trailing a faint wet line.

Nolan was nearest. I don’t know his first name. He was a young guy wearing a hi-vis vest, and he was backing away from the lifting frame when a thread caught the sole of his boot.

“Don’t move,” Mercer said. “Nolan. Stay exactly where you are.”

The liquid spread. It spilled into the grooves of the tread and began to climb the stitching in thin, bright strands, dividing as it met each seam. Nolan looked down. I watched his face change in a second. Confusion first, then just pure, raw terror. “It’s inside,” he said, panic in his voice. “It’s in my boot. Oh, God, it’s in my boot.”

“Is it burning?” Foster called.

“No, it’s—” He stopped. “It’s moving and pressing. Something is pressing my ankle from every side. Sir, please. Get it off. Please.”

The crew moved as one. Two men took his arms. A third dropped to one knee with shears. Foster called for a containment tarp, and someone threw it down around him. The shears went into the laces. A strand of amber lifted from the leather, rose, and reached toward the blade, probing it, like a snail’s horn feeling the air. The man with the shears flinched, adjusted his angle, and cut away from it. I could see the boot’s leather moving, small ridges passing under the skin of it.

“Hold him,” Mercer said. “On three.”

They peeled. The boot opened a few inches and then abruptly shut. Nolan screamed, and everyone waited with their breath held until the pressure eased. They got it off. His sock was dry. He sat down hard on the concrete and stared at it, breathing hard.

“I can still feel it around my ankle,” he said. “It’s still moving.”

“Nolan. Look at me,” Foster said. “There’s nothing there.”

The boot twitched.

It lay on the tarp where they’d dropped it, and it twitched again. A lump pushed up through the opening, the size of a plum. It slid out onto the concrete, then paused. It started across the floor, toward the tank.

“Contain it,” Mercer said. “Now.”

A technician dropped a sealed vessel over it, a clear dome with a rubber gasket, and pressed it flat. The lump moved around inside, bumping the sides. It circled, then stopped, and its surface began to contract in a small, steady rhythm. 

I looked at the tank.

The liquid in the tank was doing the same thing, a slow pulse running through the amber like a heartbeat in water.

“Foster,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. “Look.”

She looked at the dome, then the tank, and then she crossed to the dome and put two gloved fingers on its base, as if checking for a cable.

“They’re not connected,” she said quietly. “They’re thirty feet apart.”

The pulses went on. In. Out. In. Then, mid-beat, both of them stopped.

“Someone get Nolan checked over,” Mercer said. “I don't care if the skin's unbroken. He doesn't go back on the job today.” 

Nolan was taken for medical attention. The boot was bagged, and the dome containing the separated liquid was secured for transport. Mercer suspended the recovery. 

They packed the equipment as though finishing an ordinary job. Nobody went near the tank. Foster documented the dome on her tablet, murmuring numbers. I stood beside her and asked whether it had been trying to hurt him.

“We don't know,” Foster said. “It might've been responding to the light or the boot. It might not have noticed Nolan at all.” 

Mercer ran the barrier tape clear out to the curb. The tank stayed put on the concrete, ringed in orange cones. The wardrobe and dresser stayed put. He’d put a hard stop on the job, and he wasn't budging. I argued with Mercer. The wardrobe was still in my garage, and I wanted it gone. He let me finish. 

“I get it,” Mercer said, looking me straight in the eye. “If it was my place, I’d want the thing gone too. But my manual covers static loads, and that tank isn't static anymore. I’ll bring the crew back when we’re cleared.” 

Foster was checking something on her tablet when a notification came through. She read it, frowned, and opened a photograph.

“One of the smaller items we recovered from your property. The lab's just reported it missing.”

She turned the screen around.

A black plastic rectangle, with two shallow circular indents where the reels should have been. That had been the first thing I'd picked up in Unit 114.

“Did somebody lose it?”

“No. It was sealed in a containment case. The seals were intact, and there’s no evidence of interference.”

Mercer sighed. To my surprise, he looked more annoyed than shaken. “It’s the third this quarter.”

“Third?”

“Some Returns disappear,” Foster said. “Some in days, some after years. We haven't found a pattern.”

I looked toward the garage, and a ridiculous relief overcame me. “So if we waited long enough, the rest might disappear too?”

“Some might. But the wardrobe's an Interface. They don't behave the same way, and I wouldn't count on anything vanishing before it hurts somebody.”

I thought about Henry, and the relief dissipated.

I asked for an update on Unit 114. She said they’d tried to trace it, but the company had a transfer entry with no origin facility and no tenant name. 

“Somebody still had to put it in the unit.”

“True,” Foster said, glancing toward the garage. “It might not have been a collection at all. If that wardrobe was already active, anything sitting next to it for long enough could’ve been taken, twisted around, and left in that unit for a while. The weirdest pieces in there might just be the oldest ones.” 

I remembered standing outside Unit 114 with Henry, looking at all those boxes and wondering what we might get for the contents. We'd been trying to work out what kind of person would keep so much useless furniture. For all I knew, I'd interrupted something halfway through making it.

Priest arrived at four, carrying a laptop and a folder. She looked like she hadn’t slept either. She asked Mercer for his report, listened to it in silence, and then asked if I’d sit with her on the porch step.

“How's Nolan?” I asked.

“Being examined. Mercer says he should be alright.”

She shut the report and rested her hands on it for a moment. “I'm sorry we couldn't get the furniture out, Ian. But I've got something else I think you should see.”

She opened the laptop. The first picture showed a toy truck on a grey tarp with a scale ruler beside it. The wheels had been fused to the body, melded into the chassis like a toy that had been dipped in wax. The second showed another truck. This one had four wheels, loose and slightly crooked, mounted on stubs that were too long. The third had wheels that turned and were in roughly the right places.

“Same toy?” I asked.

“Same type. These are three different appearances, in what we think is chronological order. We’re working from Toby’s account and the dates he gave Rebecca. We rarely get to see how a Return develops. Usually we find them long afterward. Here, we've got several stages and a witness.” 

A square popped open on her laptop. Dr. Marshall’s face appeared in front of a bookshelf. “Ian,” he said. “I’m sorry about Alicia. Regarding the sequence, it isn't certain. But the correspondence with what Toby demonstrated is difficult to dismiss.” 

“It’s learning from him,” I said.

My chest tightened. 

“Nobody’s going to use him as a research subject, Ian. Alicia’s already told me what she’d do if we tried.” She almost smiled. “I’m not interested in encouraging him, but I am interested in understanding what he started.”

“He wasn't just getting presents,” I said.

Priest shook her head. “No. He was showing it how to make them.”

Marshall leaned closer to his camera. “Ian, there's something you need to understand. Whatever's making these objects, getting better at copying them doesn't necessarily mean it understands what they're for.”

“Yeah? Well, it knows enough to hurt people.”

“That isn't what I'm saying.”

I sat back.

I'd spent weeks wanting to believe that whatever was behind the wardrobe meant us harm. It was easier that way. 

I could feel something unpleasant building in my chest, a mixture of anger and guilt that I didn't particularly want to untangle. Henry was still hurt. Alicia was still in hospital. Whatever the thing intended, I couldn't change either of those facts.

I looked away from the photographs. There was another question I'd been meaning to ask, and right then, I was grateful for it.

“Can you talk to the manifestation directly?” I asked instead. “So we can find out what it wants with my son.”

Priest looked at Marshall. Neither answered immediately.

“We've attempted communication before,” she said. “Not with this particular manifestation, but others. Usually we get nothing useful.”

“So what's different now?”

“Toby,” Marshall said. “He's demonstrated that this manifestation can observe, remember, and reproduce what it's shown. That's more than we've been able to establish with most of the others.”

Priest glanced toward the garage. “It's worth considering, provided Mercer approves the conditions.”

Marshal continued. "We'd like to show it a sequence of images and sounds, then monitor the Interface for a response.”

“And if it responds?” I asked.

“Then we'll have something to work with. We're not expecting a conversation, Ian. At this stage, we'd settle for knowing whether it can tell a photograph from a moving picture.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Mercer wouldn't let anyone near the tank an hour ago. Now you want to run an experiment in the same garage?”

“Not near the tank,” Priest said. “The recovery suspension concerns physical handling. Mercer won't authorize another lift, and nobody's crossing the exclusion line. This would be a remote observation test, with the equipment set up outside the restricted area.”

I still wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea, but Priest assured me nothing would happen without Mercer's approval. He spent the next hour reviewing their proposal before finally agreeing, under strict conditions. 

They set it up in the garage that evening.

Mercer had divided the garage with barrier tape, leaving the tank and its surrounding floor sealed off at one end. The wardrobe was on the other side, accessible from the open garage door. 

A monitor and a speaker were set on a folding table twelve feet from the wardrobe, wired into a laptop, two cameras, and a bank of meters I didn’t recognize. Foster ran the equipment while Mercer stood by the garage door with his arms folded and a hand radio on his belt. He’d given the team exactly three stop conditions. Any physical movement from the wardrobe, any physical contact with the interface, or any signal from the other team.

I stood behind a yellow line taped to the concrete. Dr. Marshall was on a laptop screen propped on a stool, his face lit blue.

They started with basic stuff. A plain sentence recorded in a flat, neutral voice: This is a table. An image of a black circle against a white background. A triangle. They set it to loop three times on a small monitor, then stepped back to watch the feed.

Nothing happened.

The feed on the monitor was normal. I started to think the creature didn’t care about strangers at all, that it only wanted to talk to someone who could get down on a carpet and show it something.

Then the picture bent.

The image broke into blocks, and the speaker let out a low, warbling noise. Foster checked her cables. “Something's coming back through the output,” Foster said. “I don't know whether it's responding or just interfering with the signal.” 

The blocks shifted around. It was just a cluster of eyes and mouths sliding over each other in a constant, twitching blur. The furniture around it canted at crooked angles that made your eyes hurt to look at. Things duplicated and overlapped.

The speaker produced voices.

They weren't forming words, just fragments of noise. They stacked over each other, five or six at a time, moving up and down with no rhythm at all. But every so often, just for half a beat, one sound would sharpen into something that sounded almost like speech. 

Priest changed the input. A square, then a circle. The picture changed slightly. Never the same way twice.

“Is it responding?” she asked.

A shape formed. Two doors and a wardrobe, and it hung for three seconds before folding in on itself. Then a person stood in front of a wardrobe, whose outline blurred into the wood until you couldn’t tell where the man ended and the furniture began.

“Is it showing us something?” I asked. “Is it trying to?”

“It might be echoing a pattern,” Marshall said from the stool. “We can’t read more into it.”

The picture shifted again, and for a moment, I thought I could make out something familiar in the mess of shapes. A child's face, perhaps, or just two dark spots above a curved line. It disappeared before I could get a proper look.

“What if we showed it Toby?” I asked.

Priest turned toward me. “What?”

“A picture of him. You've been showing it shapes and all that other stuff. Maybe it'll respond to someone it actually knows.”

She glanced at Marshall, who had gone quiet on the laptop. “Ian, I don't know if that's advisable.”

“It's just a photograph. He won't be anywhere near it.”

“That doesn't mean it can't affect him,” Marshall said.

I looked toward the wardrobe. The grey sheet hung motionless over the doors.

“I want to try,” I said.

Priest didn't answer immediately. She looked at the photograph still flickering on the monitor, then back at me. “We'd need Alicia's agreement. It's her son too.”

I rang her. I explained what they wanted to do, although I probably made it sound a good deal less frightening than it was. She wasn't happy about it. She made me repeat that Toby wouldn't be involved, that nobody would approach him, and that the experiment would stop if anything unusual happened. Only then did she agree.

I found a photograph on my phone from one of my supervised visits. Toby was sitting at a picnic table, holding up a plastic dinosaur. His hair was sticking up at the back, and he was grinning so widely that one of his eyes had nearly closed. I remembered taking it. He'd spent ten minutes telling me facts about dinosaurs, half of which he'd made up, and I'd listened to every word.

Foster connected my phone to the equipment and brought the photograph onto the monitor.

For a while, nothing happened.

Then the speaker clicked.

It was such a small noise that I almost missed it. The photograph remained perfectly still.

Foster leaned toward her instruments.

“Getting a response,” she said.

The screen flickered. Toby's picture disappeared for half a second, then came back.

Except something was wrong with it.

His smile was wider. The corners of his mouth had stretched toward his cheeks, exposing more of his teeth than there should have been. One eye was slightly lower than the other. 

“Is that the original image?” I asked.

“No,” Foster said. “The input's unchanged.”

The picture blinked out and returned.

This time Toby had too many teeth.

They weren't sharp or bloody or anything like that. There were simply too many of them, crowded together in neat little rows. His hair had also turned into a smooth brown shape, like somebody had painted it onto his scalp.

I knew the effect. I'd seen those videos online where somebody fed a photograph through an AI generator over and over again, using each new result to produce the next. The mistakes accumulated until the original person had disappeared into something that only vaguely resembled a human being.

This looked like that, except the changes were happening right in front of us.

The image broke apart and reassembled.

Toby's face had become longer. The dinosaur had melted into his hand, its little plastic legs protruding between his fingers. His eyes were bright, perfectly circular spots, with no whites around them.

Another flicker.

Now there were two versions of my son sitting at the picnic table. One was much smaller than the other, but they shared an arm. Their smiles were identical. Behind them, the picnic benches had multiplied into an impossible arrangement of wooden slats.

“What is it doing?” I asked.

Nobody answered.

The speaker made that clicking noise again. Then another. Then several in quick succession.

On the screen, the smaller Toby disappeared. The larger one remained, but his face had shifted sideways, leaving one eye floating against the background. The dinosaur's head had become part of his shoulder.

I felt sick.

“Turn it off,” I said.

Foster glanced at Mercer.

“Wait,” Marshall said from the laptop. “Just a moment. We need to establish whether it's reproducing the photograph or—”

The screen changed again.

There was no picnic table anymore.

Toby stood alone in a room full of furniture. I recognized the same crooked chairs and impossible cabinets from the earlier images, but they were crowded much closer together now. Toby was in the middle, his little body stretched vertically, arms hanging almost to the floor.

His face was still smiling.

Then another version of him appeared beside the first.

They came faster now. Children with Toby's hair, Toby's clothes, and Toby's smile, but none of them were quite right. Their fingers overlapped, their legs ran together, and soon I couldn't tell where one child ended and the next began.

The speaker started making noises I couldn't describe. Now and then I caught something that sounded like a laugh, or the beginning of a word, but it was gone before I could understand it.

The pictures began changing so quickly that I couldn't follow them. The image kept rebuilding itself, each new version looking less like my son than the last.

“Stop it,” I said.

Something struck the wardrobe.

It was a single, heavy thump, loud enough to make me jump. The grey sheet jerked outward and settled again.

Mercer straightened by the garage door.

“Foster. Kill the feed.”

She pressed something on the laptop. The screen went black, but the speaker didn't stop.

The noises grew louder, rolling over one another in a horrible, bubbling rush. I could hear low, distorted sounds like somebody trying to speak through a pipe full of water. They rose and fell together, faster and faster, until I couldn't distinguish one from another.

Then the monitor came back on without anyone touching it.

Toby's face appeared again.

Or what was left of it.

I couldn't tell which parts were supposed to be his eyes anymore. There were openings all over it, round and dark, shifting across a pale surface that folded in on itself. Something resembling his mouth ran from one side of the screen to the other. 

Another thump came from the wardrobe.

Then another.

The frame shook beneath the sheet. I heard the wooden doors rattle against their fittings, followed by a deep, splintering creak. Something pushed against them from the inside, bowing the timber outward before it snapped back.

“Everybody out,” Mercer ordered.

Foster was already pulling cables from the equipment.

“Leave it!” he shouted. “Get back!”

The wardrobe struck again, so hard that the metal fittings on the lifting cradle rattled behind us. Dust shook loose from the garage rafters. The sheet slid halfway off, exposing one of the doors.

It bulged outward. The middle of the solid timber swelled toward us, stretching like rubber around something pressing from the other side.

For one horrible moment, I thought I could see the outline of a face beneath the wood.

The speaker screamed.

That was the only word I had for it. The screen flashed white, then filled with hundreds of tiny, malformed faces, all crowded together, all bearing some distant resemblance to Toby. Their mouths opened and closed in a frantic, uneven rhythm.

I had the sudden, sickening impression that they were calling for him.

Mercer grabbed my arm.

“Ian. Move.”

I hadn't realized I'd stepped over the yellow line.

He hauled me backward just as the wardrobe struck its doors again. The whole thing rocked on its base. One corner lifted several inches off the concrete and slammed down.

Foster finally managed to disconnect the experimental equipment from its power supply. 

The screen died, and the speaker cut out instantly.

For a moment, all I could hear was the ringing in my ears. Then there was another knock.

A single tap from somewhere inside the wardrobe. We stood at the garage entrance, watching it.

Nothing moved.

The grey sheet hung crookedly over one door, and the exposed timber looked perfectly ordinary. The wardrobe stood exactly where we'd left it.

Nobody seemed particularly eager to approach.

“Test's over,” Mercer said.

Foster nodded. She was breathing hard inside her hood. Marshall was saying something through the laptop's tiny speakers, but I couldn't make out the words, and I didn't particularly want to.

Priest came over to me.

“Ian?”

I couldn't answer.

My hands were shaking. I put them in my pockets, but that didn't help. My mouth had gone dry, and I kept seeing that last image, the mass of faces opening and closing, all those wrong versions of my little boy.

I looked back toward the wardrobe.

I wanted to believe it had simply been confused, that it had missed him.

But for the first time, I was frightened not just of what it might do to Toby, but of what it might try to make of him.

Priest’s phone went off a while later. She took the call on the porch, and I heard her low voice through the screen door. When she came back inside, she’d gone very still.

“The team at Alicia’s,” she said. “Nothing happened during the test. The chest is secure, and Rebecca kept Toby out of the room. But the technician recorded something odd.”

“What?”

“One of the toys at Alicia's changed while we were testing. An extra limb moved from one side to the other.”

“You're sure?”

“We've checked the photographs. The change happened sometime between our last inspection and the end of your experiment.”

“So it could've been a coincidence.”

“It could. But I can't guarantee what we do here stays here.”

“Was Toby anywhere near it?”

“No. Rebecca kept him downstairs.”

“And Alicia?”

“We've informed her. She's spoken to the team.”

“Then we’re done,” I said. “We’re done experimenting. I mean it, Priest.”

“I’ll suspend them until we’ve compared both sites.” She didn’t argue. She looked more tired than I’d seen her. “Mercer wants to revise the plan anyway. The tank needs special containment, and nobody wants to move the wardrobe if moving it could start something somewhere else. You’ll have the furniture for a while longer.”

“Great,” I said. “Just perfect.”

She had the grace not to say anything.

I got back to Alicia’s house at eight.

A CATALOGUE technician met me at the door. Toby's bedroom was sealed, and they were monitoring it from the hallway. Nobody would attempt to move the chest until the two Interfaces had been assessed together.

Rebecca had made soup. I told her the recovery had hit an unexpected hazard. I said experienced people had seen something they hadn’t planned for.

“So the chest isn't moving,” she said, her voice tight. “And Toby stays put.”

“For now,” I said. “I asked Priest about taking him off the property.”

“And?”

“She advised against relocation for the time being. They’ve got the bedroom isolated, eyes on the chest, and the perimeter marked. If we move him and it follows, that’s two houses in the red zone instead of one.”

Rebecca glanced down the corridor. “So we keep him trapped in here with it.”

“I don't like it either. But we don't know if moving him means getting him away from it.” 

She went quiet for a long moment. “And Alicia went along with this?”

“Priest laid it out for her. Alicia wants him downstairs, away from that room, and someone with him constantly. The crew stays until they can haul the chest away.”

She stared at me for a long time, her eyes searching my face. Then, very slowly, she set the ladle down on the bench.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’m still terrified, Ian.”

“Yeah,” I said, resting my elbows on the laminate. “Me too.”

Dinner was ordinary. Toby ate half his soup, asked about his mother twice, and settled on the living-room floor afterwards with a pile of the normal toys. I noticed that Toby was turning a plastic horse over in his hands, running his thumb along a crack in its leg.

“What are you doing there, bud?”

“It’s broken. I wanted to show him how to fix it.” He didn’t look up. “Aunt Becca said I'm not allowed to play that game anymore.”

I came down off the sofa and sat on the carpet next to him. “She’s right. It’s not because you did anything wrong. It’s so everybody stays safe, okay? Until the grown-ups figure out what’s going on.”

“But what if he’s already started something?”

“Then it’ll have to wait.”

“He doesn’t like waiting.” His voice rose. “He doesn’t like it when you stop in the middle. He gets upset.”

“Toby,” Rebecca said from the doorway, gently. “Sometimes we have to stop, even when we don’t want to. That’s part of being a good friend.”

Toby looked up at me.

“Dad, do I have to sleep here again?”

“Just until they can make your room safe.”

“He'll be wondering where I went.”

I didn't know what to say to that. I could've told him his friend would be fine, but I didn't know that either.

“Come on, Toby. You need some sleep.”

“But—”

“It's late, buddy. We'll talk about it tomorrow.”

He looked at the horse for a long time. Then he put it on the carpet, very carefully, and climbed onto the sofa. I couldn't tell whether Toby was worried about his friend's feelings or frightened of what might happen if they stopped playing. 

I stayed with him for a while before I went into the kitchen to help Rebecca with the plates.

When I came back, the horse was gone.

“Did you move it?” I called.

“Move what?” she said.

“The toy on the floor.”

“I haven’t left the kitchen.”

I walked the room twice, checking under the sofa and behind the cushions. Then I stood in the middle of the carpet and listened, and I heard, very faintly, the small hollow clink of something being set on a shelf.

It came from the kitchen.

I opened the cupboard above the sink, the one where Alicia keeps the plates.

The horse was on the second shelf, between a stack of dinner plates and a mug.

It was the same horse. I turned it over in my hands. The crack in the leg was gone. The plastic had closed over it, seamless and smooth, as if the break had never happened. The leg was fixed, but the knee bent the wrong way. I stood in Alicia's kitchen holding the toy, and I remembered what Toby had said about leaving things unfinished.

It was playing by itself.

Rebecca came up behind me. She looked at the horse, then at the cupboard, and I watched the color drain from her face.

“I asked you this morning,” she said.

“What?”

“Whether it could come through somewhere else.”

I looked at the cupboard again.

“We don't know if it came through there.”

“Well, it didn't walk in, did it?”

I put the horse on the kitchen counter. Rebecca went to get the investigators, and two of them came into the kitchen to photograph the horse. One took the toy away in a sealed container while the others stayed behind to check the doors and cupboards.

I left them to it and went back to the living room.

Toby was fast asleep, his rabbit tucked against his chest. I wanted to keep him that way, asleep and unharmed, with nothing worse to worry about than whether he'd get pancakes in the morning.

I still didn't know what the creature wanted or whether it even understood what had happened. Maybe it didn't miss Toby at all, and the horse was just another object it had found and decided to improve.

But as I sat there listening to my son’s steady breathing, I found myself wondering something I hadn't considered before.

Maybe it was lonely.

I know, I know. It sounds bad. But I've tried everything, everything, to manage my period. None of it worked.

It's been a problem since the beginning. Nothing can prepare you, as an eleven year old, for waking up in a pool of blood. 

My legs, panties, shorts, and bedsheets would be covered in thick, sticky blood, and I would run crying to the bathroom to clean up. You can’t imagine how embarrassing this was.

Throughout middle school I was terrified to be caught without a tampon, or that I would get up when the bell rang only to find a stain on my plastic chair. 

So as soon as I was in college I went to the nurses office to get whatever I could.

I started with the patch. Besides having a peeling, tacky sticker on my arm which clung to all my clothes and made me look like I was trying to quit smoking, it also gave me soul crushing depression. 

From there, I went on to the ring, which fell out when I had sex and wildly increased my anxiety, to an IUD which was inserted with all the tender care of a chainsaw. I hobbled to my car after the appointment, crippled by the pain that should have been “just a pinch.” I was so terrified of the removal that I endured the debilitating, torrential periods for years before I finally had it removed.

Even with it out, there was no relief. 

Every month I endured migraines, extreme cramps, and low energy. And of course, the blood. It was no better now than when I was in middle school. Every month I looked like a pale, sickly scarecrow while my lady bits spewed a level of liquid that would make a surgeon queasy. 

How could I still be dealing with this as an adult woman? It seemed like everyone else had a solution that worked for them. Mine seemed like it was getting worse with age, not better.

I stayed up late every night googling side effects of different medications, pros and cons of surgery, and what worked for everyone else. Every pill name I typed into the r/birthcontrol sub dredged up posts with comments like “THIS PILL RUINED MY SEX DRIVE,” “my skin looks like shit now,” or “I gained 25 lbs and my anxiety is worse.”

Well I didn't want to take that one I guess.

But one comment led to another and the next thing I knew I was on the holistic pages. Underneath the bullshit suggestions to try turmeric and center my aura, I found the first comment referring to a solution.

“I've used Judy's method, it helped me more than anything else. I'm feeling great.” One user wrote.

I squinted at the screen. What the fuck was Judy's method?

I read on.

“I wish I'd tried it sooner.”

“Pain is gone, migraines are gone, period is gone.”

“I feel better than ever.”

I opened a new tab and typed “Judy's method +period +reddit” and hit enter.

Google redirected me to some posts on r/birthcontrol, r/naturalremedies , and r/craft_users. I clicked on the last one. 

The post brought up a recipe. I read eagerly, growing more and more confused. 

What kind of a craft page was this? 

I checked the header, which described itself as “a gathering place for natural witches, practitioners of holistic exploration, and those seeking alternative solutions to our medical challenges.” 

Ok.

I went back to the page. I did have the ingredients.

Salt, from the kitchen.
Sage, from my garden.
Blood, from my own body.
Seven candles.
Three rusty nails. 
And hair from a familiar.

I wondered if my pumpkin spice candles and dog hair tumbleweeds would work. I skimmed the instructions. They seemed simple enough, especially for someone who had no experience with anything like this. 

What the hell, I thought. Nothing else has worked. Might as well give it a shot.

 Over the next week, I gathered up the items on the list while I waited for my period to start.

One mortons salt canister, a bundle of sage, seven candles, three rusty nails pulled from my fence, and a clump of dog hair later, I was ready. 

Oh. And a small plastic shot bottle of menstrual blood.

It was a full moon and the Saturday before Halloween, which felt right. I went down into my basement and pulled up a screenshot of the instructions on my phone. 

With the salt, I drew a circle.

The sage I lit, blew out, and sat on a plate to smoke.

I spaced the candles evenly around the circle, hoping that cucumber melon and pumpkin spice didn't cancel each other out.

The nails I laid between the candles, point in.

The dog's hair I sprinkled around.

And the blood vial I held in my hand as I sat cross-legged in the middle.

I pulled up the screenshot on my phone and re-read the instructions. I read the words out loud, chanting them exactly seven times-

Except in the middle of the chant, the box fan in the corner, which was on a timer, kicked on and blew out 3 of the candles.

“Dammit,” I muttered. I got up and pulled the plug on the fan. I sat back down, relit the candles, and finished the chant.

The candles flickered. I shivered, and exhaled slowly. Nothing seemed any different. I laughed it off and cleaned up my mess before going to bed.

But when I woke up this morning I felt like total shit. 

My skin was cold, clammy, and whiter than ever. The skin under my eyes looked green, and a huge angry zit was forming on my chin. 

And there was blood everywhere.

 It's like an explosion down there. I'm typing this from the toilet right now. At this rate, my period will be over in a few hours instead of a few days.

Or I'll bleed out, and be dead.

I searched for Judy's method again. When I found the page, my heart sank.

My screenshot cut off a few steps. I hadn't finished the spell.

“Fuck,” I whispered. I went back to the reddit page and commented on the original Judy's method post.

“Hey guys.. I feel so much worse after doing this. I might have missed some steps and my fan kicked on in the middle of the ceremony so I had to get up and re-light some candles. Thoughts?”

Within moments my phone pinged. 

“You broke the circle? You might have invited something in.”

Well that sounded bad. It pinged again:

“Was it a full moon? It's supposed to be performed on a new moon for emptiness.”

Oops. Missed that one..

“Sounds like your uterus might be possessed now.”

Great. 

I feel like shit, look like hell, and everything is coming out of everywhere. Im beginning to wonder.. is my uterus possessed? Am I about to die from blood loss? Has anyone else tried Judy's method?? Send help.

Hey does anyone in the NKY area know when the construction on Woodward will be done? I had no idea this was happening and I had to take an alternate route to work this morning… making me 20 min late.

Edit 1: here just to rant again. This is making me so annoyed. Waking up 20 min early every day and for what. It’s been two weeks, does anyone know when this will end?

Edit 2: ok seriously it’s been a month, and I have yet to see a single sign with any sort of announcement or detour. And now they blocked off the entrance to West Maple, so I have to go in a giant loop just to get to the grocery store. My manager has started making snide comments about me being late, but how am I supposed to plan ahead when literally none of this is announced.

Edit 3: ughhhh this literally feels targeted at this point. My other route for work is also blocked. Has anyone even seen them actually working yet? Every time I pass, all I see is the road block and empty equipment. If they’re not going to make progress can they at least let me go to work? I had to park a block over and walk today, I seriously cannot figure out how I’m supposed to get in.

Edit 4: me again. It’s been THREE MONTHS. I’m so done. Are they just tearing the whole city down at this point? I was in the middle of making pasta tonight when I realized the freaking box was empty. But going to the grocery store is such a hassle at this point it’s not even worth it, I just gave up on dinner.

Edit 5: is anyone else’s life being completely destroyed by this construction? I just had my quarter review…it wasn’t great. I think she’s just concerned about me, which valid, but what am I supposed to do about the literal rebar sticking out of the dirt where I’m supposed to get on the highway? My coworker says she’s just been taking a back way through a neighborhood nearby, but I swear I spent an hour driving around in circles and still couldn’t get anywhere within a half mile of the office. I’m done trying, I’m just going to call in sick tomorrow. And screw it I’m going to waste my money on DoorDash too, there’s no way I get to the grocery store tonight.

Edit 6: they freaking shut down the sidewalk right outside the parking garage of my apartment. I literally cannot move my car. At least it’s finally a good enough excuse that they’re letting me work remote this week. Is this even legal? I’m not in walkable distance of anything other than the Graeter’s on the corner. Guess it’s ice cream for dinner.

Edit 7: no one warned me that working remote was this depressing. They’ve blocked our garage for over a week now and I haven’t seen an actual person since. I called my landlord but they just said they can’t do anything, shocker. They said it’s city mandated, but I called the city board and they didn’t know anything about it. At least I know they’re actually working and not just blocking it for nothing. They constantly remind me by CUTTING CINDERBLOCKS outside my window starting at 7 in the freaking morning. Technically legally they aren’t even supposed to start until 8 according to noise regulations I found online, but you know what the sooner it’s done the better.

Edit 8: okayyyy something really weird happened today. My instacart order put all of my groceries across the street because they “couldn’t reach me.” I thought they were just being lazy and didn’t want to walk, but I can’t get down? I live on the third floor, and when I tried the elevator, nothing happened. The button kept lighting up, and it sounded like it was moving, but the doors never opened. I think it was just repeatedly opening and closing on a lower floor. I tried the stairs too, but the door won’t budge? Like it’s locked or something. I put in a maintenance request, but I’m starting to get paranoid. What if there’s a fire? Also I guess my groceries will just sit there? Unless I decide to climb out my window.

Edit 9: Everything is still blocked. I keep staring out my window. I can see my groceries across the street. I know they’re spoiled at this point, but I’m seriously considering tying my bedsheets and jumping out the window. I’m so sick of microwave popcorn. No one is answering my calls or emails. I just try to pretend everything is normal and get through meeting after meeting, but it’s hard to stay awake.

Edit 10: I went to the window for my morning gaze at my rotten eggs and milk, but even that’s gone now. I thought the construction was just like sidewalk repair or something, but I guess all the construction was for a new building right next door. There’s scaffolding and tarps put up a foot from my window. I already had such little natural light…ugh. I can’t wait until this nightmare is over.

Edit 11: stairs and elevator have been out of order for actual days now. I tried knocking on everyone’s doors on my floor, but no answer. Maybe they’re all locked out? Or they’ve starved to death like I’m doing now lol. Does anyone here have any legal advice for this situation? This is inhumane at this point, but I don’t even know where to start calling. Non-emergency police? 911?

Edit 12: there’s bricks outside my window today. Maybe this will be over soon. I should have called the police while I could. Since the brick outside went up I’ve had no cell service. Apartment wifi is out too. Idk it didn’t seem like enough of an “emergency” at that point, but I should have just called. I didn’t want to waste their resources. Now I’m stuck here with nobody. I’ve been pounding on everyone’s doors every other hour at this point, no one is here. Maybe my landlord sent out some sort of email notice that I missed? Some post on a cork board somewhere? I know these notes aren’t even going anywhere at this point, just more drafts queued up for whenever service comes back. If it comes back.

i’m so hungry. I’ve gone through what little snacks I still had. I just sleep all day, it’s so dark with the new building. I pace the hall when I have energy. What do I even do at this point. I tried to do laundry to make myself feel remotely human. Sometimes I open the window and touch the bricks outside. It feels like they’ve been there forever. They must be testing the fire alarms for the new building, they go off all day. It’s all I hear until around 8:00 pm. But then I swear I wake up to them at midnight too. I think the sound is just haunting my dreams lol. Ooh maybe if I set off our fire alarm someone will come break down the door. I hate that I’m actually considering it, but it might work.

I lit a paper towel on fire. And another. The smoke set off the alarm in my unit, but nothing happened for ten minutes. So I tried opening the door to set off the building alarms. There are only bricks. I’m so confused. I must be delirious at this point because my apartment door opens to a wall. Like it’s always been there. No hallway. No stairs. No elevator. Only bricks. What do I do. What do I do.

I’m so stupid, I must have missed some note. Some email. Some warning. Something. I should have paid more attention. I just burn things and pray someone sees the smoke. Notebooks, clothes, anything. My greatest luxury now is running water. I shower until it goes cold, and then I stand until I shiver. I’ve missed something. The bricks are still outside my window. The bricks are still outside my door. At this point I would jump if there was enough room between the buildings. This is torment. But I earned it, I’m sure I was warned somehow. Everyone else got out. Everyone else paid attention.

I knew it was only a matter of time. I haven’t even opened my bedroom door, but I can see it. The crack of light under the door, the kitchen light. It’s gone. I know the bricks are there. I can’t bring myself to open the door and see them. I know they are there. I cry so hard my eyes bulge from my face, and then I drink water until I puke. And then I will do it again. And again. There is no more stove to burn things. There are no more things to burn. I will crawl in my bed and I know I will wake up to four brick walls. I will wake up in complete darkness and feel the ridges of cement against my feet, my elbows, the back of my head. I am putting on socks now and gathering every blanket I can find so that I might at least wake up warm. I have stared at the clock for 43 hours, but I am so hungry. I am so tired. It is time to close my eyes. The bricks will be here, and they will have always been here.

When I got the call telling me my grandfather had died, I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel anything at all. We used to be close. He'd even given me a key to his house back when we still had a good relationship. But over the last few months, he'd become a horrible person. He wouldn't let me visit him, and whenever I called, all I got was a barrage of insults.

My lease was ending in a few days, and I figured I could move into my grandfather's house. I wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea, but I didn't have a particularly well-paying job, and saving money on rent would help.

My buddy Rory helped me move. I opened the gate and headed toward the front door. I unlocked it, and we stepped inside. When I turned on the lights, I was stunned.

There were strange symbols scrawled in chalk all over the floor. I couldn't make sense of any of them. The walls were covered in painted eyes. Terrifying eyes.

I heard Rory take a deep breath.

"Holy shit. Owen, are you sure you want to live here?"

I looked at him and told him I didn't have much of a choice. He simply nodded.

We slowly made our way through the house, checking one room after another. It was the same everywhere. Walls covered in eyes and floors covered in symbols.

Eventually, we came across a locked room. The door was also wrapped in chains.

"Do you know what's in there?" Rory asked.

"No. I have absolutely no idea. And I don't even know how I'm supposed to get inside."

Considering everything else I'd seen in that house, though, it didn't seem like the biggest problem.

I could tell Rory was eager to get out of there.

"Hey, man, I gotta go. I promised Amy I'd spend more time with her."

I gave him a suspicious look.

"Sure. I get it."

I thanked him for helping me move and watched him leave. When the door clicked shut behind him, an uneasy feeling settled over me.

I ate dinner, watched some TV, and went to bed in the room my grandfather had decorated just the way I'd wanted when I was younger.

Around midnight, a series of loud bangs jolted me awake.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I turned on the light, grabbed my phone with the flashlight on, and slowly followed the sound. I switched on the lights as I made my way through the house.

The noise was coming from the locked room.

I'm not a coward, but I packed my things and drove straight to Rory's place.

He offered me a spare room, and the next day, he came back to my grandfather's house with me so we could figure out what had caused the banging.

When we arrived, Rory looked up.

"Hey... See that open window up there? Could it be in that room?"

I thought about it.

"Yeah, the location would make sense."

The corners of Rory's mouth twitched.

"And what if the ghost is just a window banging against its frame in the wind? Like it might be doing right now?"

I was embarrassed. Very embarrassed.

I thanked him for his help, said goodbye, and headed inside. I found my grandfather's tools and decided to open the room.

It must have taken hours, but when I finally managed to remove the last chain, I gathered all my courage and opened the door.

The room was empty except for a life-sized painting on one wall, its canvas covered in a mixture of different colors.

"Great," I said to myself. "So this is the secret of the mysterious room."

When I told Rory about it over the phone, he burst out laughing.

"And you were scared to open it! Honestly, though, after everything we saw, I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd found a corpse in there."

We said goodbye a few minutes later. I closed the window and left the room.

I decided to clean up the house. First, I'd scrub all the chalk off the floors. The next day, I'd buy some paint so I could start covering up the eyes on the walls.

I was just about to start cleaning when my phone rang. An unknown number. I hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Hello, am I speaking with Owen?" a man's voice asked.

"Yes, speaking."

"My name is Johnathan Harris. I was your grandfather's attorney. I'm calling about the house you're currently living in."

I frowned.

"Has something happened?"

"I'm afraid so. Shortly before his death, your grandfather asked me to revoke the deed transferring the house to you."

"Wait," I said, confused. "So he wanted to take back the house he'd signed over to me?"

"Yes," Johnathan replied.

I fell silent for a moment, trying to process what he'd just told me.

"Hold on. Are you telling me the house isn't mine?"

"Legally, the situation is more complicated than that. We'll need to examine the reasons your grandfather had for taking this step. Since he's passed away, the process will be more complicated than it would be under normal circumstances."

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"That will depend on the outcome of our review. For now, I'd advise you not to make any structural changes to the property."

We said our goodbyes, and I stood in the middle of the living room with the phone still pressed to my ear. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard.

I knew my grandfather had been unbearable lately, but I never expected him to do something like that.

Angrily, I grabbed the mop and started washing the floor.

Suddenly, I heard a whisper right beside my ear.

"Oweeeen..."

I spun around, but there was nobody behind me. However, I noticed black stains on the freshly mopped floor. I touched one of them. It was wet and slimy. The stains led toward that room.

I wanted to run, but I couldn't. Something was forcing me to walk toward it. I had no control over my own body. My legs were trembling, yet I kept moving forward. It felt as though a cold draft was blowing against my back.

I reached the doorway. The room looked exactly as it had before, except for the painting.

The colorful blotches were beginning to form a figure.

I blinked several times to make sure I wasn't imagining things.

I wasn't.

I heard the voice beside my ear again.

"Oweeeen..."

This time, it was clearer. I recognized it. It was my grandfather's voice.

"Destroy the painting."

I froze. I couldn't move.

The voice spoke again.

"You have to stop it."

I bolted out of the room and ran toward the front door. I grabbed the handle and pulled desperately. Nothing happened. I tried again, this time using both hands, but the door wouldn't budge. It was as though some heavy object had been shoved against it from the other side.

A slow creaking sound came from behind me.

I turned my head, but I couldn't see anything.

I ran into the kitchen. My eyes landed on a lighter. I grabbed it, took a bottle of vodka out of the fridge, and hurried back to the room.

I burst inside and looked at the painting. The figure was now clearly visible. It was an old man with a terrifying grin. I watched as his mouth began to stretch wider.

I wasn't going to wait any longer. I poured the vodka over the canvas.

I flicked the lighter and watched as the flames slowly consumed the painting.

Then something came from inside the canvas that made my heart pound even harder.

Someone took a deep breath and let out a hoarse cough.

Burning hands burst out of the painting and grabbed me by the shoulders. I could feel my skin sizzling. I tore myself free and ran out of the room toward the front door.

I tried the front door again.

This time, it opened.

I ran outside and called the fire department and the police. My shoulders were red, and blisters were beginning to form on my skin in several places. The firefighters found nothing inside the house, and the police looked at me as though I'd lost my mind.

I couldn't blame them. If I hadn't experienced what happened myself, I probably wouldn't have believed it either.

I'm staying with Rory now.

Today, I met with the lawyer to discuss my grandfather's estate. As I was leaving, he handed me an envelope that my grandfather had supposedly wanted delivered to me personally. Apparently, he'd insisted that I read the letter myself.

I stared at the envelope for a long time before finally opening it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Written in my grandfather's shaky handwriting were these words:

Owen,

Under no circumstances should you move into that house.

And NEVER open that door.

You must not let it out, and you must not do anything to that painting.

And most importantly, Owen, if you start hearing my voice, don't listen to it.

It's not me.

The worst sound in the world isn't the wet crunching of a hammer hitting a skull. It's when that crunching gives way to the hammer striking concrete because the person swinging just can't stop. I learned this while cowering behind the curtain of the locker room showers, where I'd been since the attack started.

That horrible ringing sound is all I can hear now. It cut through the sound of the men rushing to grab the kid swinging that hammer. It counted time as I lied to investigators about what I knew. It rings out now as I write this confession. Mom and Dad, I'm sorry.

The coaches really don't watch us on those long runs. They just make us stretch and then give us a time to be back. They tell us to “take it easy” that it's a “long slow run” and we should make it long. That's what made it my favorite. Just the guys out on those trails talking about grades, games, and girls. 

Of course we kind of naturally split up, y'know? It wasn't really on purpose, but some kids just are slower than the others. Usually it was just the varsity guys ahead and we kind of left everyone behind. I don't know how Jeff caught up if I'm honest, but he was there that day.

We'd picked a different path than usual. One we'd never seen before, but it looked normal for a long time. Just before we were going to turn around we saw it though. That fucking church.

I mean it was normal at first, normal for an old building at least. It was creepy but in that Halloween haunted house way, not the serial killer lived there way. Still, no one wanted to go in. We kinda just stood outside and made up stories about it.

Like someone got crucified in it or they all got raptured or they all drank the Kool-aid. I think Anthony said it was probably a puritan place. Sam said it was satanic now. Arch told us he'd take Kathy McGuire there and we all gave him shit for that. Jeff told some kind of joke. I don't really remember because we were too busy trying to tackle Arch.

“Let's go in.” I don't remember who said it, but I remember the idea sticking immediately. Anthony said I should go in, but I told him off. Then Jeff said we could all go together, but Sam told him that would ruin how creepy it was. I think everyone wanted it to be a test of courage, but we were all too scared to take it.

Arch didn't let up. You know how he is. When he sees a sore spot that's what he pokes at. He brought up that time I peed watching Lost Tapes at his 12th birthday sleepover. Said he knew I was too scared. I really thought about going after that but turned it on him instead. 

Told him if he was so happy to take a girl in there, he should find out where he was going to lay down with her. Sam said he was going to take Arch’s mom in there, and that set Arch off in the way it always did. 

While they were fighting Jeff tried to get Anthony and me to go together. Anthony said fine, but Arch was worked up. He shoved me and told everyone I was challenged first and I had to go. 

Jeff said he'd go with me so I turned it on him. “If you wanna go so bad, do it. You want to run with us anyway, prove it.” I wish I hadn't said that. 

He said no. I mean, we all kinda had. It's just hard to say no when everyone starts piling on. Jeff said we could go together, but I'd already given Arch a target, and Arch was mad enough as it was. Sam tried to calm him down but couldn't. 

Arch didn't mean to hurt him. Just talked about running stuff. Jeff really was a weak runner. Kind of weak overall, that's all. We just joked about that. All of us. Until Jeff said he'd prove he could hang and he'd show us we were scared of some empty building. 

We all laughed, but the laughing stopped when Jeff stopped at the door. I tried to give him a thumbs up but I don't think he saw it before he went inside.

It took a long time for Jeff to come out. Long enough for me to pee and for the guys to start throwing rocks at the crooked cross above the door to try and knock it down. When we couldn't find any more rocks Sam said someone should go get Jeff and Anthony said we would all go. Just before we all got to the door he came out.

He wasn't different or anything. He just shrugged and said, ‘Just a dumb church.’ If we had more time we would have probably gone in, but we had to get back or we'd have to do extra runs later. We agreed to go back next long run but I'm really glad we didn't.

Sam patted Jeff on the back and we all took off. While we were jogging we had a million questions. Jeff told us all about the broken pews, the glass everywhere, the Bible on the pulpit. Said he thought about bringing it, but thought it was more important to find a spot to take Arch’s mom. We laughed and Arch punched his arm, but it was all fun.

It was all fun for a while. Jeff could keep up with us most days and he was getting better at joking around, so we just let him come along with us. Sam even started acting like an older brother. He protected Jeff when he called Arch's mom a cow. Arch might have bitten his head off had Jeff not made a joke about turning vegetarian.

By the end of that month he started beating Anthony in sprints. Sometimes he'd even beat me. He was getting better. Changing, too. I swear he looked a little taller, but maybe he just stopped slouching.

There were a few other things I guess we could have seen. Jeff stopped showering with the rest of us. He'd go into the handicap stalls with the curtains. He also started eating more, like a lot more, but that was normal we thought. 

The coaches noticed Jeff changing too. Started egging us varsity guys on. Telling us they might need Jeff to trade spots and this and that. Coach stuff, but I can't say it didn't work. All of us tried harder, started running extra, even though we knew coach wouldn't actually do it.

We'd break off from the big group to run further and faster. Started leaving the juniors in charge of the younger kids so we could focus. Jeff was one of those juniors. We thought he was cool but we found out that he was being mean to some of the freshmen on the team too, little pranks like stepping on their shoelaces or bumping them off trails. That got back to Coach, and we got rewarded with a lecture on ‘brotherhood’ and ‘responsibility’ and ‘setting an example.’

We were panting after practice one day when Jeff made a joke about replacing Anthony. Saying maybe if he didn't have “ratty ass shoes” he could run faster. It could have been harmless, but you know Anthony's family. How he couldn't really do that. How much he needed the chance at a scholarship. 

No one wanted to explain that to Jeff, and no one was going to tell him we saw Anthony crying. After that Anthony didn't really wanna hang out with Jeff anymore. I think we all needed a break from Jeff. Even Sam kinda ignored him for a bit. 

At least until the fight. Well, “fight.” We all took off running when we heard Jeff was getting into it with Scott, the big football guy. Later we heard that Scott had said something about Jeff being a virgin and Jeff told Scott he was a cuck because his girlfriend, Kathy McGuire, had slept with the whole team. Then they started scrapping.

When we got there it was towards the end. Sam was yelling for Jeff to stop as we fought our way through the crowd. Arch was yelling that he'd kill Scott. Everyone was cheering. Until the snap.

When the screaming started the crowd broke apart and we saw what happened. Jeff was sitting with a crooked nose on top of Scott's back. He was pulling Scott's arm back toward him, twisting it at the wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Like a fucked-up spiral.

When the teachers got there Scott wasn't the one crying. He was just staring at his arm. Jeff was all blood and snot and tears. We didn't get close to him, but we could tell he was freaking out. We all were.

That was the day we had that assembly on conflict resolution and when we all got dismissed early. Scott and Jeff got a week suspension so they could “investigate what happened.” I don't think Scott has been back to school though.

The next Monday, we tried to go back to normal. Running, class, hanging out. Jeff was still suspended, and for a while we forgot about him. When he finally came back, he didn't make some grand entrance or anything. He was just kind of there.

He was a lot quieter, which made a lot of sense considering everything. I wouldn't even know how to tell you guys if I got suspended, much less what I'd do with myself for a whole week. Jeff must have had a bad time with it though, because we couldn't get anything out of him. 

He kind of faded into our group. Like he was still laughing and running with us, but he was dimmed. Even when Arch would take shots at him, he would just laugh. When they started construction on the regular showers and we could only use the private showers he always went last. 

I know it's weird but we waited for him one day. Just kind of trying to hang out and see if he was alright. We didn't peep on him or anything weird, but the way he got out and covered his body made me feel like a creep. I'm glad we did though because we saw that rash.

It was all over his chest and ribs. Red and ugly and you could tell where he scratched until it bled. It was gross, and Arch asked if he had AIDS, but no one laughed. We were being jerks and Jeff told us so. He was pissed and yelling about trust and friends and privacy. Saying ‘I thought you guys were my friends!’ He didn't stop until the coaches came out to make sure we weren't fighting. After that everyone but Sam shuffled to class. He probably stayed to apologize.

I saw Jeff later sitting in the courtyard when I left class to pee. He had his head down, staring at his hands. Praying, maybe. Or just talking to himself. He didn't see me so I thought about just leaving. But I came up from behind him and almost put my hand on his shoulders. Before I could, he whipped around and looked pissed.

I fumbled some small talk, then fumbled an apology about that morning even harder. When I finished saying sorry, he didn't even look at me. Just shook his head and told me to ‘Fuck off.’

He didn't run with us the next day. I got everyone to agree to get him some donuts and apologize when he came back. That was the plan at least, until he came back like a jerk. He wouldn't talk to us, wouldn't listen to us. Sam tried but couldn't get anything out of him. 

Arch decided he didn't care about apologizing anymore and tried to get him to respond at all. Started poking at him, saying he wasn't really being a friend himself. We tried to tell Arch to knock it off but he started calling him a freak for what he did to Scott. 

That got his attention. Jeff got up in Arch's face telling him his mom was a whore and that Arch's dad wasn't actually his dad. You know how Arch gets about that. So they went back and forth before Arch shoved Jeff. 

Jeff shoved Arch hard. Really hard. Arch tripped over those tools they'd been using for the showers. We were trying to stop Jeff but he pushed us away way harder than he should have been able to. Jeff was on top of Arch, punching him. Arch was apologizing. Jeff just kept punching.

Anthony ran to get the coach. Sam went to Jeff, tried to pull him away, to talk some sense into him. Jeff grabbed one of the hammers that had fallen. When he swung it down, Sam screamed. He was holding onto Jeff. I ran into the showers and hid. Covering my face and crying. 

I hid until the sound stopped. Until the coaches pulled Sam away from Jeff and dragged Jeff out. Until they came and got me. I think in my head I was still hiding until now.

I didn't tell the police about the church, about how Jeff changed. I didn't try to lie to them, I just didn't want them to think I was crazy or to think I was making something up. 

You guys were the best through all of it. Mom, thank you for holding me while I cried. Dad, thank you for sitting and watching the game with me. I didn't like the beer, but it meant a lot getting one from you.

School still hasn't returned to normal. Everyone says we'll still graduate on time. Honestly, it doesn't even matter anymore.

There's a ton of people posting online about Arch like they knew him. Saying there should be a 5K dedicated to his memory. It pisses me off. They didn't know Arch like that. Not like we knew him. 

I wanted to do our own run for him. To go out to the woods and just go until we couldn't. Sam was down for it but Anthony never replied. He's still not texting us and his parents don't want us going over. He'll come around though, I know it.

Thank you guys for letting Sam stay with us as often as you did. Those late night talks were more important to us than we could ever say. I'm sorry I lied, we were smoking weed that night you caught us giggling. It was probably the first time we'd laughed in a bit. 

Sam was funny like that though. Even before everything he was able to be laughing one second and then sad the next. In one of those talks he told me he had been diagnosed with depression. I probably should have reacted better than a stupid “What the fuck?”

It just caught me off guard. I felt bad I didn't know, and then I was mad when he told me his dad called it “Pussy Disease.” 

He talked a lot about his dad. Even now I hate that guy. I hate the way he treated Sam. Our Sam. My Sam.

The same guy who fought us all to order pineapple pizza. The dude who was the first to sign my cast when I broke my arm.

When he showed me the bruises on his ribs I almost went over to his house by myself. Sam wouldn't let me. He told me “bruises heal” like some sort of wise man. He showed me when the bruises stopped being that ugly purple. Then he showed me when the rash started covering them.

I asked him about it. He said it started when he started having the dreams. 

He said he was dreaming about what happened, and I told him I was too, but he said he was dreaming about what Jeff said. He said when Jeff was hitting Arch he was talking about the church. 

I hadn't thought about that church with everything going on. I asked Sam if Jeff was really still upset about having to go in the church. Sam said that wasn't it. Jeff had been crying and whispering that he wanted to go back.

Jeff had said it was a normal church. I didn't get it. Then Sam started saying it wasn't. He would scratch his side and tell me we should have gone in.

I told him it was “bullshit” and we couldn't know what was gonna happen after he went in. When I would tell Sam that Jeff just changed he would get mad. He started getting mad a lot. He started scaring me.

He was scratching like Jeff, and he was mad like Jeff, but it wasn't the same. Sam would brood, he would give me the cold shoulder. He started talking about how shitty his dad was and how he just wanted him to stop.

The last time he came over I held him. I was holding him as he cried and shook and whispered how much he hated his dad and everything. I tried to ignore him when he said those things. Especially when he was talking about his dad and ending it all. Especially when he started crying about the church.

I wish I had never let him go. I wish I had made him stay. Most of all I wish I was a better friend.

He would still be here if I was.

I remember where I was when I found out. In my room, doomscrolling, when I got a text telling me to check the news. They said there was a shooting and that two people were dead. I had to watch the video three times because I was sure I heard the news guy wrong. I couldn't understand why he was saying Sam's last name.

I tried to call him, I was trying to call him when you guys came in. I didn't get it when you guys started apologizing or when you guys were crying and hugging me. I didn't want to get it. 

He was there two nights before. I held him. I listened to him say he wanted to end it and I just thought it was his emotions talking. I didn't know he meant it.

The news said it looked like a fight. That Sam was just trying to defend himself. That he'd been beaten until he broke. I believe that. Everyone does. What he did to his dad had to be done. But what he did to himself? I still haven't figured out how to forgive him for that.

I don't think I've been okay since. I'm still mad at him. I'm mad at everything lately. Like there's an itching coming from inside my bones. Like my marrow is boiling. 

I feel it when I wake up. I feel it in my dreams. Dreams where I see the church. The church that rings and tells me that I am a fuck up. That I'm a monster. That I'm the reason my friends are dead.

I can't stop itching myself. I scratch and scratch and my fingers come away from my sides bloody and aching. 

I'm scared. I don't want to hurt you guys. I don't want to hurt anyone. I want to run away. I'm going to that church that took my friends. That took everything.

I'm so sorry. I won't tell you where it is. I love you.

I'm going back, and this time, I'm going in.

We did the vast majority of our work during the day, mostly because it was dark out there when the sun set. No artificial light for miles - unless you counted our shoddy diesel-generator camp lights that were unreliable at the best of times, and what little natural light we would’ve gotten was perpetually strangled out by a near-constant cloud cover. Even with the benefit of daylight, the snow fucked up our visibility something fierce and one wrong move could lead to a series of wrong moves that could then either lead to you sliding on your ass down a sheer cliff or falling into some godforsaken ice pit to freeze to death.

Well, at least the pay was good.

We were surveyors, working out of █████ at the time on a corporate contract. The company, mind you, was American, but they themselves had some sort of contract with the government out here to build a research station in the mountains. We had the actual building plans, but we weren’t really privy to what the actual purpose was. If I had to guess, it was probably weather monitoring, maybe geological data. I worked on the preliminary stages of a couple similar facilities before - albeit in less isolated spots, and we did… mostly the same thing there. Map out the site, take some altitude readings, gauge the general structural soundness of the surrounding area, and send that data off to our engineers. I could go into the specifics of it all, the software we worked with, how to calibrate an altimeter, or how to properly utilize a laser rangefinder to determine the distance between two distant points - but I won’t bore you with that. Being bored with the specifics was my job.

Ordinarily we’d use satellite imaging to simplify a lot of this stuff, but █████’s national security was pretty tight and considering we were technically international, that whole thing was no bueno. It wasn’t like they were full-on isolationist black-out-the-map, but… not far off. Took a lot of clearance for us to even get in here without too many restrictions. A few of our team actually had to stay back home thanks to minor infractions or nebulous red flags. You’d think that they wouldn’t care quite so much about this kind of secrecy, considering their borders expanded vastly in either direction - the product of countless subsumed nations, eventually coalescing into a whole either by force or desperation - and most of that land was completely empty save for snow and rocks.

Well, it was no skin off my back either way. Just meant we had to do more by hand.

For the most part, save for the occasional supply drop, we were on our own. There were no roads - even the eventual facility was to be served by helipad primarily - and the nearest city was maybe a hundred miles of barren tundra away. The only people outside of our direct team that we came into contact with were a number of indigenous ████ people, who maintained a largely traditional, disconnected lifestyle explicitly protected by the government. I’d quietly thought this was odd, as they historically certainly didn’t care to protect the cultures of those who at one time lived independently in places that would later cease to exist, dissolved and assimilated and integrated into their great economic machine. Maybe their ways were preserved as a form of cultural pride, or maybe it was penance for some great tragedy - an unspeakable evil inflicted upon them in times long past, having since been forgotten and normalized by the march of time.

Well, the ████ were a strange people anyway. Skin and hair both as pale as the moon - with eyes that didn’t stare, but lingered slightly too long on whatever they were looking at. Curious and hungry. We didn’t interact with them terribly often, but their villages dotted the foothills and plateaus, and occasional contact was an inevitability. They weren’t territorial or aggressive, mind you - for the most part they just watched, their children particularly taking interest in our strange equipment and puffy polyester jackets, their eyes watching in awe from underneath the thick, flowing cloth that swaddled them as though they were witnessing some great secret.

Among our number in the camp was a guide. This man was of their tribe, but had left in young adulthood to pursue a life among the glittering towers of the distant cities. He was in his middle ages now, but still knew how to navigate the mountains like the back of his hand, those same strange eyes working to great effect in discerning which identical patches of snow contained either solid footing or a lethal drop beneath. He was indispensable, and in the few instances we did have to communicate with the native population, he would facilitate contact and serve as a translator - the majority of them had no knowledge of the English language, after all. He was a quiet man, though he was not unfriendly, and often shared in food and drink with the rest of us after a long day trudging through the snow.

On occasion, should the weather unexpectedly grow in intensity when we were far from the camp, he would negotiate with the locals and have it arranged for us to stay the night in one of their villages. As they frequently traveled from village to village themselves, stopping and resting as they traversed the wastes, each of their villages had a small building to house wayward travelers. They were well-insulated with furs, and the wooden walls were carved with strange, beautiful patterns. Silent as ever, they provided us with food and drink. Largely dried meats and an unfamiliar - yet pleasant - liquor that tasted sweet. Each morning, our guide spoke to them in their language once more, and each morning we left without issue.

It was one of these nights that I thought to ask him about his culture, the culture of the strange mountain tribe that had silently watched us for months now. Ordinarily, he did not like to discuss such things, and I did not like to ask - but the liquor had seemingly loosened both of our tongues that night. He told me two things. First, he explained that they believed in a sort of magic. Not the kind you read about in fantasy novels or the kind that a teenager would try to invoke in their house by saying shit into a mirror - but an ancient magic, an evil magic that flowed through all things of flesh and leaf and stone and could awaken at any time. I asked what this actually meant in practical terms, and he told me that it was the reason for their passive observance. They believed they were particularly susceptible to its influence, and they were always on alert for that which did not make sense - a sign of the terrible thing.

Then, paradoxically, he told me something that - at least to me - certainly did not make sense. He said that time did not matter to them, and that their history, their folklore, were actively shaped and remodeled by experiences in the present. To that, I said that most people did that, because that’s just how culture works.

He shook his head. It was more than that. He gave an example, using one of our colleagues - a safety guy named James who, at the time, was still back at the base camp. He said that, if James were to walk into camp and begin interacting with the locals, it would be as though James had always been there. He would have an invented history, an active integration into their stories, their childhoods, and maybe their ancient past. Each member of the tribe would seamlessly integrate this into their own history, a collective rewrite using knowledge of what existed in the current time to supplement the past. Likewise, if one of their villages were to be destroyed in a great avalanche, perhaps they would rewrite history so that it never existed at all. Stricken from the record, along with its denizens. Maybe they would weave a tale about how the village was destroyed by an agent of the “evil magic”, a nameless figure they would later contextualize as the next stranger to visit town, who would be met with fear and violence. This, he claimed, was a way of fooling the magic, which also did not care about time. False histories would trick it, and keep it from interfering with their lives.

This just left me with more questions than answers. I asked him if he still believed the same, and he laughed, telling me that “Time’s arrow flies a strange path.” I think I honestly understood less than I did before, because I didn’t know what that meant. Either way, I then asked another question. I asked him, considering he had spoken to the tribesmen, what role they had given us in their story. He said that I would have to ask them myself, as they did not say - beyond the apparent fact that they did not ascribe us the role of an adversary. We stepped outside of the hut and he drew a few small symbols in the snow. Those symbols, as he informed me, meant something along the lines of “Who speaks the outer language?”, and that I may be able to find someone who is able to speak English who could tell me.

I was still somewhat intoxicated, so maybe I was just ballsy at the time, but I was curious enough now that I felt like I had to know. It was dark out, suffocatingly so, but the village was aglow with the flame of a large bonfire at its center, which a few of the strange tribesmen lingered near still, drinking and watching the children run about in circles. I approached them, and they stopped - all their eyes now curiously examining me with that same bizarre look. I crouched down in the snow and traced the same symbols the best I could, and their eyes turned towards each other now, speaking softly in an odd tongue I’d only heard from a distance before. A woman, the one closest to me, pointed to a hut around the edge of the village, the windows alight with the flicker of a fire still burning inside. I realized I didn’t have a way to say “thank you”, so I hoped a brief nod would suffice.

I brushed aside the furs draped over the hut’s entrance and saw an elderly man inside, crouched by the hearth, bundled in cloth marked with more strange lettering. Whether he was worn by the elements, or just by age, he looked impossibly old. Wrinkles creased like the waves and trenches of a great ocean, framed by a beard white as the snow outside. He turned to me, his head rotating slowly and with great effort. To my surprise, the man smiled warmly - the first glimmer of emotion I had seen from these people - welcoming me to sit in near-perfect English. I did so, taking a seat on a fur laid out on the opposite end of the hearth. I told him his English was very good, and asked him where he learned it.

At this remark, a strange emotion - a mixture of nostalgia and confusion - crossed his face, subduing his smile and settling his rippling flesh for a moment. He told me that I had taught him English, back when he was a young man. Well, that was obviously not correct, because I didn’t know this guy and I’d never been here before. Never even been close - this was my second time in Europe period and the first time was a week in Italy for a wedding. He was also easily pushing 80 while I was 32, so that was off the table. I supposed, in the moment, that this was my “story”, that someone had come to the village, taught him English, and left. Now, I was filling that role.

I decided I would play along, and I pushed a few more inquiries towards the old man. Why did I teach him English? Why was I in the village? Maybe I was being an asshole, “culturally insensitive”, if you will, but this was slightly amusing and I thought that if I kept asking more specific questions, eventually he would trip up. To my surprise, he did not. He told me that I came to the mountains as a traveler, seeking refuge from the oppressive night. I stayed with his tribe for a time, and taught them my own tongue as a means of payment - though none was necessary. Though most of his peers were now long-gone, the proliferation of English having largely disappeared with it, he had never forgotten the language - as I had told him a story in English once, before I vanished back into the darkness from whence I came, and he did not wish to forget it.

I asked him what the story was, and his expression changed again, his smile fading into a more downcast, imperceptible emotion. Something I’d never seen before. He told me that he couldn’t tell me the story, because I had made him promise to never tell it again. I asked why, and he just said that, when I told him the story, I did not like the ending. Neither did he. It was a terrible ending, and one that both of us wished to forget. He smiled again, sadly this time. He was happy that I had forgotten, but he never had. I apologized, which in hindsight was insane because I had never told this guy a story in my life, but he told me that there was no need. Someone needed to know the ending, and he was just happy to see me again after all these years.

I sat with the old man a while longer, listening as he recounted various other stories from “my” time at the camp - all unfamiliar and impossible. None of them were the story. Eventually, the hearthfire began to die down, and I bid the old man farewell. As I pushed aside the furs that sealed out the frigid mountain air, he said something very strange. He told me that he wished I brought my dog along with me this time, because it was a very friendly and beautiful dog that danced and played with the children in the snow and he very much would’ve liked to see him again, much as he was hoping to see me again before he passed. I didn’t know what to say to this, so I just apologized again. I told him that the dog was old, and could not make the trip. He understood, and I went back to my hut, where I slept and left the next day. A month later, we left █████ altogether, and I never saw the old man again.

The thing is, I never had a dog. Not as a kid, not as a 32-year old surveyor. Not until 8 years later, when my wife would bring home a Husky pup from an animal rescue. A pup that grew into a very friendly and beautiful dog that very much liked children, and very much liked to dance and roll in the snow on cold winter nights, when the moon was high in the sky and the snow was gently falling, a thousand glimmering flakes matting his fur.

Strange coincidence, that’s all.

Every year, a day or two before the day of days, the town’s favorite holiday that they treat like a sport, the Halloween broadcast would play on a random radio frequency. Some people would try and figure the frequency out beforehand, try and catch the start of it, but most would assign their kids to scramble the radio dial until they picked up a signal. Our parents were crazy about it. Every year, on the twenty-ninth of October, they would sit my brother and I in front of a few radios to play with the dials until we heard something other than the three outlaw country stations. 

My lucky radio was my Spider-Man alarm clock. Right on the eve of the eve of all hallow’s, I caught it. 

Like every year, it was hosted by…someone. Nobody knew who he was, but he had a raspy, man’s man voice. A Kurt Russell, an Eastwood, Elba or any number of Eds or Ethans. Maybe even a Joe Pesci. Take your pick. Your tone. We would always argue about it, who it sounded like. My brother, Cory, was always adamant that it sounded the most like the guy from the Goosebumps intro. 

Reader beware, you’re in for a scare. 

I still can’t decide what he sounded like, after all this time it’s hard to remember, from that day until tonight I’ve started unplugging all the radios the moment the air gets that autumn chill and the indescribable scent that comes with it. The smell of going to buy school supplies, picking out a costume, leaves in the air. 

Anyways.

The radio picked the voice out of the warble and it was the first year that I caught the beginning of the broadcast. Even today, I’m baffled by how he decided to start it off. 

“Ring-a-ding-ding, it’s time for your treats and tricks! Let’s see…I suppose I’ll start with the good houses, right? I heard from a little ghoul that all the houses on Nimrod Avenue have full size bars, and to take extra care to stop at one-oh-one, they’ve got the soda slide. Make sure to watch your step going up though, Mrs. Mcgillicuddy just broke her hip on the uneven sidewalk. Here’s hoping that that doesn’t disrupt too much tomorrow night!” 

I punch my brother in the arm, he’s too busy staring dumbfounded at the fact that I found the broadcast before he did to remember to write down this vital info. How are we going to plan a proper trick or treat route if we can’t remember the good spots?! He starts scribbling on a lawyer pad. “You’re getting all this, right?” I asked. 

He turns the pad, in red ballpoint, a bright FUCK YOU has been scribbled. 

“Part two of our broadcast is what houses to stay away from! Unless you really want to have a bad time.” The voice stops for an uncomfortable amount of time before resuming, making us vibrate in anticipation, not noticing the slight disruption in the background of the dead air. I think about that moment all the time. There was noise, yes, and it seems important now, but I can’t remember enough of it to tell. “All of these houses can be found, or rather, avoided, on Wendy Lane. To start us off, one-thirty-seven gives out raisins, but this will be their last year giving out treats before the accident. Ten-oh-one won’t give you back. Ten-one-ninety-one will give you a bible and an apple. Ten-twenty will have their porch light on but no one is home. Ten-eleven is haunted, and not in a fun way. Twenty-two has a haunted house with a moral, so that can be skipped. Let’s see…ten-thirty has a wonky doorbell, but they also don’t want you to knock so play it by ear. Finally, one-oh-one has stupid decorations and should be avoided at all costs.” 

“Did you get all that?!” I interrogate as he scribbles.

“He’s going so fast!” 

We share a quizzical look as the voice takes another long pause, this one also having some kind of noise in the deep background. This one I remember, a deep, rhythmic thumping. “Don’t touch that dial now, it’s time for your lucky numbers!” He sounds out of breath. “Eleven. Sixty. Twenty-two. Six. Twelve.”

He takes a deep breath and we lean in with anticipation. We don’t notice that every radio gains the hum of the inhale. Every radio turns on and blares the last number. 

“TEN-THIRTY.” 

Our ears clamped onto the sides of our heads at the sudden volume, missing the lead up to the show’s outro. I managed to peel my hands from my head in time to hear it. 

“That, boys and ghouls was this year’s broadcast. I’ll catch you next year! If you don’t make it there, then I’ll be seeing you soon.”

---

Trick or treating started for us the next day after dinner time, around seven. Our block always sucked, so we skipped it. With me clad in my pirate costume and him in his lazy, almost too old to even go trick or treating slasher mask, we hit a couple of houses along the way to Nimrod Avenue to get the good bars. These houses were fine, nothing special. The only one I really remember is the house with the refrigerator box out front that had a guy hiding inside of it that had made me pee my costume the year before. 

What a dick. 

Long story short, we made it to Nimrod Avenue in record time but sure enough, the block was swarmed with all the other kids in town who had listened to the broadcast, or heard it from friends, or a friend of a friend of a friend who has an uncle that works at the broadcast station and says that radio guy is actually Elvis. Thankfully, there were still some good bars left, and some good soda, which I’m still a little surprised about. Not so much the soda, only a few kids were brave enough to climb across the fenced off sidewalk paving stone that tripped up Mrs. Mcgillicuddy to get their random pick of a variety pack. The fact that any of the houses still had candy bars when we got there was the real shocker, even for halloween, a town the size of mine would have to be giving out free lottery tickets and smokes to get a crowd like that.

Actually, it was Nimrod Avenue. A few houses probably were. 

Oh my god, that’s why there were so many parents tagging along there too! 

I’m getting away from things. 

After a very short three hours, our pillow cases were filled to the brim with all manner of goodies. Candy corn, odd shaped lollipops, far too many sour candies for my young, unrefined palate to appreciate at the time and oddly, a single green apple. If you are wondering now if the green apple is related to the last halloween I spent with my brother, push that thought from your mind. It was just an apple. 

Not even a very good one. 

“Should we see what those houses on Wendy Lane are like?” My brother asked as we stepped back out into the night, just as the sodium street lights blinked on. One by one as we walked past. 

“Which ones?” 

“Well, they’re all bound to have candy.” He shrugs, pulling out the crumpled legal paper that he was taking notes on. The back of it still stained with the bright red FUCK YOU. “But we could check out the haunted house, the haunted house with a moral and that house with the wonky doorbell…” he traces his finger on the page, “ten-oh-one, we can shout in a window. Sound good?” 

I nodded enthusiastically, foam pirate hat nearly capsizing as I did. 

Radio Guy had been right. The house wasn’t haunted in a fun way, and the haunted house with a moral was closed by the time we got there. From the looks of things the moral should have been ‘don’t throw a shitty haunted house, otherwise it will get egged.’ 

We stand in front of the house with the wonky doorbell. All things considered, it was a normal enough house. Red gable roof, white siding, picket fence, paved walk up to the door, one that has been decorated lazily with a sheet of plastic with a graphic of a beckoning skeleton. “Here we are. Ten-oh-one. You first.” He nudged me, making me nearly trip on the attached fabric boots of my pirate costume. 

“Nuh-uh! This was your idea! You go first.” I draw my fake plastic sword. “Lest I cleft you in twain. Avast!” He puts his hands up in fake surrender. 

Looking back now, I’m grateful that I got to know him long enough that we started being friends, and not just family members. How lucky I was to see him find me funny. “Alright, alright, I’ll go first. Don’t shiver your timbers. You have to come up the steps with me though.” 

“Why?” 

“I’ll look like a crazy person if I’m just shouting on the steps by myself. Come on!” He leans forward with a sly grin. “Or are you too scared of a little old porch?” 

He had catered to my deep love of pirate lingo. I had no choice but to join him on the porch. 

“The doorbell looks fine to me,” he said with a shrug when we got up the steps. 

I looked at it. Sure enough, it was lit up as if it had power, and was even decorated. One of those light up eyeballs that you have to press to ring the bell. Before I knew it, he was reaching for the eye. 

The eye emitted a light green hue from the cheap LED on the inside of it that illuminated his finger as it reached towards it. Inching closer and closer. He smiled a shit eating grin as he took his sweet time reaching for it, trying to build suspense. “AHHHHHHHH!!!” He faked a yell that spurned a jump from me just as his fingertip reached the pupil. “Hm.” 

A short, nothing noise came from him as he didn’t meet the resistance he was expecting to find. The blackness of the pupil was a deep hole that extended inwards to the doorbell. Maybe it went so deep that you could crawl all the way into the bowels of the house. 

He pulls the tippy tip of his finger out and tries to depress the plastic iris to ring the bell. No dice. “Maybe the button is inside it?” 

I wish I never said that.

He pushes the tippy tip of his finger back into the pupil and begins to insert it deeper, sliding it in to the first knuckle before he noticed. Noticed that the circumference of the pupil grew hundreds of tiny teeth like a Lamprey. Before I could warn him they clamped down and started to chew. Gnashing and gnawing quicker than he could pull his hand away, quicker than I could react. They chew harder and faster, faster and stronger than a six year old like myself could have done anything about. Within a second of the teeth sprouting I was left alone on a bloody porch with an eyeball that let out a horrible belch that smelled of rotten meat, burnt hair, and all manner of candy. 

---

That was nearly twenty years ago now, and now I write this as I watch my kids play with a few radios to find the broadcast, and maybe another voice has joined Radio Guy’s shifting persona, maybe I’ll hear it. As I read and reread what I’ve written, I can’t help but realize that maybe if Cory hadn’t gotten the house number wrong he would still be with me, he’d be a good uncle, be a good brother. 

When my kids came of trick or treating age, I worked it out with a few other helicopter parents that we would have our own private trunk or treat type event on the thirtieth where we can keep a close eye on them and they can still have their fun. I know that doing it the day before Halloween will keep them safe, just like I know that if we went to the right house and rang the right doorbell, Cory would still be here. 

After all, 10/30 is my lucky number. 

The first time I heard somebody coughing inside my bedroom wall, I assumed it was my neighbour. I live in a terraced house, so hearing people through the walls isn't particularly unusual. I've heard arguments, televisions, a dog that barks whenever its owners go out. Once, I could hear somebody practising the trumpet for nearly an entire Sunday afternoon.

But this cough sounded close. It was a horrible, phlegmy cough, followed by the sound of somebody trying to clear their throat. I actually said, "You all right, mate?" and laughed to myself afterwards.

A few seconds later, somebody said, "Yeah."

I sat up in bed. The voice hadn't come from next door. It sounded as though somebody had spoken from inside my wardrobe, which stood against the adjoining wall.

I got out of bed and checked it. There was nothing inside except my clothes and a suitcase. I even moved the suitcase because I was beginning to feel ridiculous. I stood there listening for a while, then went back to bed.

That was about six weeks ago. I'm writing this from my sister's house. I haven't slept at my own place since Wednesday, and I don't intend to go back.

I bought the house three years ago. It's an ordinary two-bedroom terrace, probably built around the 1920s, in a fairly unremarkable residential street. The previous owner had lived there for decades. He'd done a lot of the decorating himself, including some fairly questionable alterations to the upstairs rooms.

My bedroom had built-in wardrobes along one wall when I moved in. They were hideous things, with sliding mirrored doors that kept jumping off their tracks. I ripped them out during the first month and replaced them with a freestanding wardrobe. Behind the old wardrobes was a plain plasterboard wall. I painted it, moved my furniture in and never gave it another thought.

At least not until the coughing started.

Over the following week, I heard somebody on three separate occasions. It wasn't always coughing. Sometimes it sounded like somebody shifting their weight in a chair, or scuffing their shoe against the floor. Once, at about eleven in the evening, I heard a very distinct sigh.

I went next door the following morning. My neighbour is a woman called Denise, who lives alone and has been there much longer than me. I asked her whether she'd recently moved her bedroom around.

"No. Why?"

I explained that I could hear somebody through the wall.

"Well, it's not me," she said. "My bedroom's at the back."

This confused me because my bedroom was at the front. I asked what room was on the other side of my wall.

"The landing, I suppose."

"Do you have a wardrobe against it or something?"

She frowned. "No, love. It's just the stairs."

That made me feel better, initially. If her staircase ran along the wall, then I was probably hearing her moving about. Old houses carried noise in strange ways. I mentioned the coughing.

"Wouldn't have been me," she said. "I've been staying at my daughter's this week."

She'd been away since the previous Friday. I didn't tell her about the voice.

I started recording the noises on my phone. Not because I thought the house was haunted. I wanted something I could play to a builder, or possibly the council if there was a problem with the adjoining property.

I got almost nothing for the first few nights. The recordings were mostly traffic, the radiator clicking as it cooled and me occasionally turning over in bed. Then, last Monday, something happened that made me stop sleeping in the bedroom.

It was around half past one. I'd been reading on my phone and was just about to turn the light off when I heard a scraping sound. I held my phone against the wall and started recording.

The scraping continued for maybe fifteen seconds. Then came a small knock. I knocked back. There was a pause. Something knocked twice. I knocked twice.

This time there was no reply. Instead I heard the unmistakable noise of somebody dragging something heavy across a wooden floor. I shouted through the wall for whoever it was to stop. The dragging ceased immediately.

I waited, holding my phone against the plaster. Then somebody spoke.

"Do it again."

I actually felt my stomach tighten. Not because of what was said, but because of how clearly I heard it. There was no muffling whatsoever. I could hear the man's saliva moving in his mouth.

"Who's there?" I shouted.

I waited for an answer, but none came. I slept downstairs with the television on.

The following morning I listened to the recording. You could hear the scraping and both sets of knocks. You could also hear my voice shouting. But the recording didn't pick up the man speaking.

I listened to it with headphones, then through my laptop speakers. There was a faint rustling noise at the point where he'd said something, but nothing resembling words.

That afternoon I contacted a local builder named Graham. He'd done some work for me previously and I trusted him not to invent an expensive problem. I explained that I thought there might be a gap between my wall and the adjoining property, possibly left over from some old alterations.

Graham came over on Tuesday evening. He tapped along the bedroom wall with his knuckles. Most of it sounded solid, but a section behind my wardrobe was noticeably hollow.

"Probably dot and dab," he said.

I asked what that meant.

"Plasterboard stuck onto the brickwork. That's all. Won't necessarily mean there's anything wrong."

He moved the wardrobe away from the wall and took some measurements. Then he asked whether I'd had the room altered. I told him I hadn't. He measured again, this time checking from the bedroom door to the far wall.

"Funny," he said.

"What is?"

He asked whether he could look downstairs. We went into the living room, where he measured across the front of the house. Then we went back upstairs and he repeated the measurement.

"Your bedroom's narrower than your living room."

"How much?"

"About twenty-eight inches."

He said some difference was normal, given the construction, but not that much. There could be a boxed-in service space, or possibly a section of an old chimney breast behind the plasterboard. I mentioned the previous owner's wardrobes.

"Could be something they covered up," he said.

He offered to cut a small inspection hole. I agreed. Graham went out to his van and returned with a drill, a small torch and one of those inspection cameras plumbers use. He drilled a hole a few inches above the skirting board. A little cloud of plaster dust fell onto my carpet.

Then he fed the camera through. I watched the screen over his shoulder. There was brickwork on one side and the back of the plasterboard on the other. The space between them seemed much larger than I'd expected.

He moved the camera around. "Well, there's your gap."

"How big?"

"Looks about two foot, maybe more."

He moved the camera further in. Something pale flashed across the screen. He stopped.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Dunno."

He pulled the camera back slightly and turned it towards the floor. There was carpet inside the gap. It was an old brown patterned carpet, flattened and dirty, but unmistakably carpet.

Graham stared at the screen. "That's bloody strange."

He adjusted the camera and moved it along the floor. A few inches beyond the carpet was something that looked like a shoe. He pulled the camera out.

I asked why he'd stopped.

"Think somebody's been in there."

"What do you mean?"

"There's stuff on the floor. Might've been an old cupboard, something like that."

He didn't sound convinced. I asked him to put the camera back in, but he suggested making a larger opening the following morning. He wanted to check how the wall had been constructed before removing anything.

As he packed away his tools, he asked me something. "How long have you been hearing these noises?"

"Couple of weeks. Maybe longer."

He looked towards the wardrobe. "Does it sound like they're moving about?"

"Sometimes."

He nodded, then told me to keep the bedroom door shut until he came back. I asked whether he thought somebody was living inside the wall.

"I wouldn't have thought so," he said.

But he looked at the hole again before leaving.

That night I stayed downstairs. I'd put a piece of masking tape over the inspection hole before moving the wardrobe back, although I couldn't really say why. I suppose I didn't like the idea of something being able to look into my room.

At around midnight, I heard footsteps overhead. They were slow, irregular footsteps. At first I thought somebody was walking along Denise's landing, but then I remembered what Graham had found.

I muted the television. The footsteps continued. There was a creak, then another, followed by a short scraping sound. I stood at the bottom of the stairs. The noise stopped.

I called out, "Hello?"

There was no answer. I went upstairs, keeping the landing light on. My bedroom door was closed. I opened it and reached for the switch. Nothing appeared out of place.

Then I noticed the wardrobe. I'd pushed it right against the wall earlier. I remembered because one of its legs had caught on the carpet and I'd had to lift it slightly. Now it stood several inches away from the skirting board.

I looked at the gap behind it. The masking tape was gone. Not peeled away and left hanging. Gone completely.

There was something dark around the inspection hole. I went closer. The plasterboard was wet. A little patch of moisture had spread around the hole, maybe the size of a fifty-pence piece.

I leaned forward to look at it. Somebody breathed out on the other side. Warm air touched my face.

I fell backwards against the bed. For a second I couldn't get my feet underneath me. I scrambled across the mattress, knocking my bedside lamp onto the floor.

As I reached the door, a voice spoke from behind the wardrobe.

"Sorry."

It was quiet. Almost polite. Then came the cough.

I got out of the house without my shoes. I sat in my car for about ten minutes before I was calm enough to drive. Eventually I went to my sister's, where I told her somebody had been getting into my house. She wanted me to call the police. I did.

Two officers came to the property the following morning. Graham arrived shortly afterwards. The officers searched both floors and the loft. They found nothing, although one of them agreed that the space behind the plasterboard needed investigating.

Graham was reluctant to remove the wall with the police standing there. He explained that he needed to locate the fixings and make sure there were no electrical cables running behind it. One of the officers asked whether there was any other access.

"Possibly through next door," Graham said.

I went to get Denise. She let us examine her landing and under-stairs cupboard. There was no door or obvious opening in the adjoining wall. Graham measured the space from her side.

He stood on the landing with his tape measure extended, then asked to come back into my house. We returned to the bedroom. After measuring again, he looked at the officer.

"There's something I don't understand."

"What?"

"This gap doesn't belong to either house."

He explained that there appeared to be a narrow passage running between the two properties, separate from both internal walls. The officer asked whether somebody could get inside.

"Well, somebody put the carpet down."

Eventually they agreed to let Graham open the plasterboard while the officers remained downstairs. I stayed with him. He cut a rectangular section from the wall, roughly two feet wide and four feet high. He worked carefully, avoiding the electrical socket nearby.

When he pulled the plasterboard away, we both saw it. There was a narrow passage behind the wall. The brown carpet ran along the floor. It was filthy and worn almost smooth down the middle.

The space extended in both directions, disappearing beyond the reach of Graham's torch. It was just wide enough for somebody to walk sideways. And somebody had been using it.

There were marks on the brickwork at shoulder height, as though clothing had rubbed repeatedly against the walls. Near our feet lay a crushed plastic water bottle and an empty crisp packet. Further along the passage was a small folding chair.

Facing my bedroom wall.

For several seconds neither of us spoke. Graham crouched beside the opening and shone his torch towards the chair. That's when I saw the holes.

There were several drilled through the plasterboard, all at different heights. From the other side they would have been almost invisible. Tiny dark marks in the painted wall. One lined up with my bed. Another looked directly towards the bedroom door.

The third was at the height of somebody sitting on the folding chair. I realised where it pointed. My pillow.

I went downstairs and told the police. One officer immediately came up and looked through the opening. His colleague went outside to check the neighbouring gardens.

They asked whether anything had been stolen or whether I'd seen anyone entering the property. I told them about the voice. The officer looked uncomfortable.

"Could be somebody's been staying in there," he said. "We'll need to establish how they're getting access."

I asked whether he was going inside. He said they weren't going to send anybody crawling into an unknown confined space without knowing where it led. He contacted someone on his radio, and Graham was instructed not to disturb anything else.

We waited downstairs while the officers made arrangements for a more thorough search. I remember feeling relieved. Somebody was actually taking it seriously. There was an explanation for the noises, even if it was a frightening one. A person had somehow found a way into the space between the houses and had been secretly watching me.

I was already thinking about changing the locks and getting the whole wall rebuilt. Then Graham came downstairs.

"Can I show you something?"

He took me into the hallway, away from the officers. He had a photograph on his phone. It showed the folding chair and the carpet running along the passage.

"Look behind the chair," he said.

I enlarged the picture. At first I couldn't work out what he meant. There was a dark patch of brickwork near the floor. Beside it was a line of pale marks. I turned the phone sideways.

They were fingernail scratches. Hundreds of them. They ran along the bottom of the wall in two parallel lines.

"The chair's facing the wrong way," Graham said.

I looked at him. "What?"

"Whoever's been sitting there wouldn't have been looking through the holes."

I studied the photograph again. He was right. The folding chair faced away from my bedroom wall. Towards the bricks separating the passage from Denise's house.

I asked him what that meant. He shook his head.

"I don't know. But look at the carpet."

There was a long worn strip through the centre of it. I'd assumed it was where somebody had been walking. Graham pointed to the marks on either side.

"There's nothing to suggest anybody's been walking down there."

"Then what's worn the carpet?"

He didn't answer. Instead he went back upstairs. I followed him. He shone his torch through the opening again. I could see the chair, the brickwork and the narrow passage stretching into darkness.

Graham held the torch steady. "Look at the scratches."

They were close to the floor. Not where somebody's hands would naturally rest if they were sitting in the chair. They were at the same height as the carpet.

I crouched and leaned towards the opening. That's when I heard it. A cough. It came from somewhere deep inside the passage.

Graham recoiled so quickly he knocked his shoulder against the wardrobe.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

He nodded. We both stood very still. Another cough came from the darkness. Then something began moving towards us.

I can't describe the sound properly. It was a heavy, dragging noise, with an intermittent scrape against the bricks. Graham backed towards the bedroom door. I stayed beside the opening, staring into the passage.

The beam of my torch picked out a movement at the far end. Something pale was pressed against the wall. At first I thought it was an arm. Then it moved, and I saw a hand.

A human hand, resting flat against the brickwork with its fingers pointing towards the ceiling. Another hand appeared beside it. They moved alternately, gripping the uneven mortar. Something was pulling itself along.

It came closer. I could see a head pressed sideways against the bricks. The face was turned towards the wall, so I could only make out an ear and part of a jaw. Its body was squeezed into the narrow space.

The shoulders looked completely wrong. One was higher than the other, pressed almost against the back of its head. Its legs trailed behind it. The soles of its shoes scraped against the carpet.

I backed away. The thing stopped. For a moment it remained absolutely motionless. Then its head turned.

I heard a horrible series of small clicking sounds as its face rotated towards the opening. It was a man's face. Or something close enough to one. His cheek was flattened against the brickwork. One eye was almost closed, while the other protruded beneath an eyebrow rubbed raw.

He looked at me. And smiled.

"Do it again," he said.

I ran. Graham was already on the landing, shouting for the police. I followed him, but before I reached the stairs I heard plasterboard snapping behind me. Something struck the bedroom floor. Then there was a rapid scraping noise.

The officer who'd been standing downstairs came up towards us. Graham shouted that somebody was inside the wall. The officer ordered us downstairs while he called for his colleague.

I tried to explain what I'd seen. I remember shouting that it was coming out of the bedroom. Then my bedroom door moved. It had been left half-open. Something pushed it from the other side. The door swung shut.

The officer drew his baton. "Police! Come out of the room!"

There was no reply. Then somebody coughed. The officer approached the door. He pushed it open.

The bedroom was empty. The plasterboard opening had been ripped wider. Broken pieces lay across the carpet. Graham's torch was still shining into the passage.

And the folding chair was gone.

The police searched for hours. They brought additional officers and eventually arranged for someone to inspect the adjoining spaces. They found that the passage extended along most of the party wall, but it wasn't continuous. Sections had been blocked off by old brickwork and timber supports.

They also discovered a concealed opening beneath the floorboards in my loft. According to the police, someone could conceivably have entered the passage from the roof space and moved around without being seen. They didn't find anyone.

The chair was never recovered. Neither was the water bottle or the crisp packet.

I was told that somebody had probably been squatting in the house and had escaped when the officers arrived. I asked how the person could have got away without anybody seeing them. They said they couldn't rule out another access point.

I asked whether they'd found the fingernail marks. One officer told me the bricks had been damaged, but there was no way of establishing how. I didn't argue. I just wanted to leave.

My sister drove me back that afternoon to collect some clothes. Graham met us there because he'd promised to board up the opening before we left. He looked exhausted.

I asked whether he'd told the police what he'd seen.

"Yes."

"What did they say?"

"Didn't really say anything."

He helped me carry my things downstairs. Before leaving, I went into the bedroom one final time. The wall was covered with a temporary sheet of plywood, screwed into the timber behind it. There were little piles of plaster dust along the skirting board. My bed had been pushed away from the wall.

I collected my phone charger from behind the bedside table. That's when I noticed something on the carpet. A fingernail. It was long and yellowish, with a little dark dirt caught beneath the tip.

I stared at it for a few seconds. Then I noticed another beneath the bed. I didn't touch either of them. I went downstairs and asked Graham to come back up.

He looked at the nails without speaking.

"Did you see his hands?" I asked.

He nodded.

"What did they look like?"

He swallowed. "Didn't see them properly."

I told him they were long. The fingers had looked thin and strangely jointed, and the nails had been scraped almost down to the skin. Graham stared at the plywood covering the opening. Then he said something I haven't been able to stop thinking about.

"I don't think it was watching you."

I asked what he meant. He pointed towards the bed.

"If somebody's been sitting in that chair facing the other wall, and those holes are behind the chair, then they weren't watching you while they were sitting there."

He paused. "They were listening."

That was the last time I went upstairs.

I've been at my sister's since Wednesday. The police have advised me to improve the security of the property. Graham has agreed to come back next week with another builder to seal the passage permanently, although I'm considering selling the house instead.

I'm not sure anyone will believe what I've written. I probably wouldn't have believed it myself before this happened. There is one more thing, though.

Last night my sister was getting ready for bed when she asked me to help move a chest of drawers in her spare room. She wanted to put a lamp beside the bed I'd been using. We pulled the drawers away from the wall.

There was some loose wallpaper behind them, and I noticed a small round hole in the plaster. It was probably left by an old fixing. I wouldn't have paid it any attention a few weeks ago.

My sister went downstairs to get an extension lead. I crouched beside the hole and looked through it. I couldn't see anything except darkness.

Then somebody on the other side of the wall cleared their throat. I stood up and backed away. There was a cough. A familiar, horrible cough.

I went straight downstairs and told my sister we needed to leave. She thought I was joking at first. Then she saw my face. We got into her car and drove to a hotel.

She's asleep in the other bed now. I've been sitting up all night trying to work out what to do. About an hour ago, I heard her cough in her sleep. It was an ordinary little cough. She turned onto her side and settled down again.

A few seconds later, somebody coughed from inside the wall behind her bed. It was an exact imitation.

Then I heard the sound of a folding chair being opened.

When I was a child, I thought everyone’s dead came home.

Not as ghosts.

Not exactly.

Ghosts were something people talked about on television. Pale women in mirrors. Doors opening on their own. Cold spots in empty rooms.

What happened in Bellwether was different.

It was normal.

On the last Thursday of every October, before the sun went down, everyone in town went home.

Stores closed at four.

School let out at noon.

The gas station chained off its pumps.

The sheriff drove slowly through town with his lights on, not his siren, and reminded anyone still outside that they needed to be indoors before dark.

Nobody called it a curfew.

We called it Home Night.

There were rules.

Every family had their own little variations, but the important ones were the same.

Lock every door before sunset.

Close every curtain.

Leave the porch light off.

Don’t answer the phone after midnight.

Don’t look outside if someone calls your name.

And if you hear someone knocking, no matter who they say they are, do not open the door.

The last rule was the one adults repeated the most.

If someone you love comes home, let them pass.

I never really understood what that meant.

I didn’t need to.

Children accept the world they’re given.

If you grow up near train tracks, you learn to sleep through the trains.

If your father works nights, you don’t think it’s strange that he eats breakfast at six in the evening.

And if the dead walk through your town once a year, you learn not to look out the window.

I remember my first Home Night clearly.

I must have been five.

My aunt Ruth raised me. My mother died when I was a baby, and my father was never part of the picture, so Ruth was the closest thing I had to a parent.

She made Home Night feel almost festive.

She cooked stew.

We baked cornbread.

She let me stay awake later than usual.

Before sunset, we walked through the house together while she checked every lock twice.

Front door.

Back door.

Cellar.

Kitchen windows.

Bedroom windows.

Then she pulled the curtains closed and put towels along the bottoms.

I asked why.

“So they can’t see the light.”

“Who?”

She smiled like I’d asked why the sky was blue.

“The people going home.”

That answer satisfied me.

Later that night, I woke up on the couch to someone walking down our street.

There were no cars.

No voices.

Just footsteps.

Slow.

Dragging.

One foot.

Then the other.

Scrape.

Step.

Scrape.

Step.

I sat up.

Aunt Ruth was in her chair beside me.

She wasn’t asleep.

She was watching the front door.

The footsteps stopped outside our house.

Three knocks came from the porch.

Soft.

Polite.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Then a woman said my aunt’s name.

“Ruth?”

My aunt closed her eyes.

The voice came again.

“Ruthie?”

I remember smiling because whoever was outside sounded old and sweet.

“Who is that?”

Aunt Ruth grabbed my wrist so hard it hurt.

“Quiet.”

The woman knocked again.

“Ruthie, honey, it’s cold.”

Something changed in my aunt’s face.

Not fear exactly.

Pain.

She stared at the door for what felt like forever.

Then the woman outside said, “You don’t have to forgive me. Just let me see you.”

My aunt began crying.

Silently.

I had never seen her cry before.

The voice remained outside for almost an hour.

Sometimes talking.

Sometimes knocking.

Sometimes just standing there.

Eventually the footsteps continued down the street.

Scrape.

Step.

Scrape.

Step.

I asked Aunt Ruth about it the next morning.

She told me it had been my grandmother.

My grandmother had been dead for eleven years.

I asked why she didn’t let her in.

Aunt Ruth said something I didn’t understand until much later.

“Because that wasn’t the part of her that loved me.”

That was life in Bellwether.

Nobody talked about Home Night outside of Home Night.

The other 364 days of the year were ordinary.

Football games.

Church picnics.

School fundraisers.

Teenagers smoking behind Miller’s Feed & Supply.

The same five old men eating breakfast at the diner every morning.

Everyone knew everyone.

Everyone knew who had died.

That mattered.

There was even a section in our local newspaper called Those We Remember. At the time I thought every town printed one.

Names.

Birthdays.

Death dates.

Sometimes photographs.

The paper ran it every October.

Adults would cut out certain entries and tape them inside cabinets or tuck them into family Bibles.

I thought it was sentimental.

Now I know they were keeping count.

The older I got, the less frightening Home Night became.

By thirteen, I treated it like a snow day.

By sixteen, my friends and I joked about it.

Mara Bell lived two houses down from me. She was my best friend from second grade until graduation.

One Home Night when we were seventeen, we texted each other from our bedrooms.

She dared me to look outside.

I told her she was insane.

She called me a coward.

Then she sent me a picture through the tiny gap in her curtains.

The street was empty except for a man standing beneath the dead streetlight across from her house.

The photo was blurry.

He wore some kind of dark coat.

His head was turned toward Mara’s window.

I immediately called her.

“You’re an idiot.”

She laughed.

“He’s just standing there.”

“Close the curtain.”

“He looks familiar.”

“Mara.”

There was silence.

Then she whispered, “I think that’s my uncle.”

Her uncle Brian had died in a motorcycle accident when we were twelve.

I told her to get away from the window.

She did.

A few minutes later, someone began knocking on her front door.

I could hear it through the phone.

Mara’s mother started screaming at her to go downstairs.

Then the knocking stopped.

Something tapped against Mara’s bedroom window.

Second floor.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Mara dropped the phone.

I heard her scream.

Then her mother.

Then nothing.

The call disconnected.

I spent the rest of the night sitting beside Aunt Ruth in the living room.

The next morning, Mara texted me.

I asked what happened.

She said nothing.

I asked about the tapping.

She replied:

I’m not talking about it.

And she never did.

Not until years later.

I left Bellwether three months after graduation.

College was four hours away.

I was excited mostly because I had spent eighteen years in a town where everyone knew my aunt, my mother, what grade I got in chemistry, who I took to prom, and which booth I preferred at the diner.

I wanted anonymity.

I wanted somewhere that didn’t feel like it had been watching me grow up.

The first October away from home changed everything.

I was sitting in my dorm with two girls from my floor when I asked what their families did for Home Night.

They stared at me.

I thought maybe it had a different name elsewhere.

“The thing at the end of October,” I said.

One of them laughed.

“You mean Halloween?”

“No. Before Halloween.”

They still didn’t understand.

I explained the closed businesses.

The curtains.

The knocking.

The dead relatives.

By the time I finished, neither of them was smiling.

One of them finally said, “Anna, what the fuck are you talking about?”

That was the first time I understood that Bellwether was not normal.

I called Aunt Ruth that night.

She dismissed it immediately.

“Different places have different traditions.”

“That isn’t a tradition.”

“Sure it is.”

“Dead people walking around isn’t a tradition.”

There was a pause.

Then she said, “Have you actually seen a dead person walking around?”

I hadn’t.

Not clearly.

There was always a curtain.

A door.

A dark window.

A blurry photograph.

Maybe Bellwether was just full of superstitious people reinforcing the same story generation after generation.

That explanation became easier to believe the longer I stayed away.

I stopped going home for Home Night.

Aunt Ruth hated that.

Every October she called.

Every October she asked me to come back.

Every October I found an excuse.

Exams.

Work.

Money.

Bad weather.

Eventually she stopped asking.

I graduated.

Moved again.

Found a job.

Built a life that didn’t revolve around one Thursday in October.

Bellwether became a story I rarely told because whenever I did, people reacted exactly like those girls in my dorm.

Like I had escaped a cult.

After a while, I started wondering if they were right.

Then Mara called me.

It was August.

I hadn’t spoken to her in almost two years.

I knew something was wrong as soon as I heard her voice.

“Anna?”

“Mara?”

“You need to come home.”

I laughed nervously.

“Good to hear from you too.”

“It’s Ruth.”

My aunt had pancreatic cancer.

Stage four.

She hadn’t told me.

I drove to Bellwether the next morning.

Coming back felt like driving into a memory.

The same water tower.

The same diner.

The same cracked statue outside the courthouse.

Even Miller’s Feed & Supply was still open.

But something felt different.

There were fewer people.

More empty houses.

More curtains permanently drawn.

Aunt Ruth looked half her old size.

She was sitting in her chair when I walked into the house.

For a second I had to pretend I didn’t notice.

She smiled.

“You finally came home.”

I hugged her carefully.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would’ve come home.”

“That’s generally what happens when someone tells you they’re dying.”

She laughed.

Then coughed for almost a minute.

I stayed.

At first I planned on a week.

Then two.

Then I started working remotely.

By October, I had basically moved back into my old bedroom.

Aunt Ruth worsened quickly.

Hospice started visiting.

Mara came by constantly.

She had never left Bellwether.

Neither had most of the people we grew up with.

One evening I asked her why.

We were sitting on Ruth’s porch.

Mara looked toward the road.

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

She rubbed her hands together.

“You really don’t?”

“If you’re talking about Home Night, no.”

She went quiet.

“You never wondered why people don’t leave?”

“People leave.”

“Not many.”

“Small towns are like that.”

“No.”

She looked at me.

“Small towns lose people. Bellwether keeps them.”

I laughed.

Mara didn’t.

“Do you remember my uncle?”

Immediately, I remembered the photograph.

The tapping on her second-story window.

“You never told me what happened.”

“I looked at him.”

“That’s it?”

“No.”

She swallowed.

“He looked back.”

A cold breeze moved through the yard.

Mara rubbed her arms.

“He knew I saw him. After that, he started coming every year.”

“To your house?”

“To my window.”

My stomach tightened.

“You said you were upstairs.”

“I was.”

Neither of us spoke for several seconds.

Finally I asked, “How?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to let him in.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“He didn’t always ask with words.”

I stared at her.

Mara looked exhausted.

Older than thirty.

“Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he scratched the glass until his fingers bent backward.”

“Mara-“

“The last year my mom was alive, he used her voice.”

I stopped.

“She was standing beside me,” Mara continued. “I could hear her breathing right next to me, but outside the window he was using her voice. Saying my name.”

She looked toward Aunt Ruth’s house.

“You were smart to leave.”

That night I confronted Ruth.

I expected her to dismiss it again.

She didn’t.

She was lying in bed, almost too weak to sit up.

When I said Mara’s name, her eyes opened.

“She told you.”

“Some of it.”

Aunt Ruth sighed.

“I told that girl to leave years ago.”

“What happens on Home Night?”

“You know what happens.”

“No. I know the bullshit version people tell children.”

Her face tightened.

“Watch your mouth.”

“You’re dying, Ruth. I think we can survive the word bullshit.”

She almost smiled.

Almost.

Then she looked toward the window.

The curtains were already closed.

Home Night was six days away.

“There are the remembered,” she said.

“What?”

“The ones who still have somewhere to go.”

I sat beside her.

She continued.

“Most of them don’t hurt anybody. They walk. They visit. They stand outside old houses. Sometimes they speak.”

“The dead.”

“Yes.”

The ease with which she said it made my skin crawl.

“And the others?”

Aunt Ruth looked at me.

“The Forgotten.”

I waited.

She didn’t continue.

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

She turned away.

“Ruth.”

“Some people die with nobody left to remember them. Some are forgotten slowly. Some deserve to be forgotten.”

“And?”

“And they still come back.”

Aunt Ruth’s voice became quieter.

“But they don’t know where home is anymore.”

I thought about the newspaper.

Those We Remember.

The photographs.

The names saved inside family Bibles.

“That’s why everyone keeps records.”

“Yes.”

“So the dead remember who they are?”

“No.”

She looked at me again.

“So we remember who they are.”

I felt something shift in my stomach.

“What happens if you don’t?”

Aunt Ruth closed her eyes.

“They learn someone else.”

I didn’t understand.

She refused to explain.

Two days later, she stopped eating.

The day before Home Night, hospice told us she probably had less than forty-eight hours.

That morning the entire town began shutting down.

By noon, people were already indoors.

Mara came over carrying grocery bags and a wooden box.

“What’s that?”

“Ruth asked for it.”

Inside were dozens of small index cards.

Names.

Birth dates.

Death dates.

Descriptions.

Silas Wren.

Margaret Hale.

Thomas Bell.

Evelyn Cross.

Some names I recognized.

Most I didn’t.

At the bottom was one card written in red ink.

UNKNOWN MALE.

NO NAME.

NO FAMILY.

DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE.

I held it up.

“Who is this?”

Mara took it from me immediately.

“Put that back.”

“What is it?”

“Anna.”

“Who is he?”

Aunt Ruth spoke from the living room.

“Silas.”

Mara froze.

I looked between them.

“The card says unknown.”

Ruth’s voice was barely audible.

“Because that isn’t his name.”

That afternoon, she finally told me what happened.

In 1952, a man arrived in Bellwether.

Nobody knew where he came from.

He rented a room above the old pharmacy.

Worked odd jobs.

Called himself Silas Wren.

Then children started disappearing.

Three in one summer.

The town suspected him.

Nothing was ever proven.

Then a fourth child vanished.

A group of men dragged Silas into the woods.

He never returned.

The child was found alive three days later.

Silas had been innocent.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

Ruth stared at the ceiling.

“They buried him without a marker.”

“And he came back.”

“The next Home Night.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing at first.”

Her eyes moved toward me.

“He knocked.”

The men who killed him began dying.

Not on Home Night.

After.

One walked into the river.

One hanged himself.

One cut his own throat in his kitchen.

Each had reported seeing Silas outside their homes.

Then their families began seeing him.

Then people who had never known Silas saw him.

The town destroyed photographs of him.

Stopped saying his name.

Removed him from records.

They thought forgetting him would make him disappear.

Instead, they made him something worse.

“He forgot himself,” Ruth whispered.

My skin prickled.

“And now?”

“Now he learns.”

“What does that mean?”

Ruth started coughing.

Mara answered.

“He watches.”

I turned toward her.

“If one of the Forgotten sees you clearly, they start learning you. Your face. Your voice. Your memories.”

“That’s impossible.”

Mara laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“So is my dead uncle climbing a two-story wall.”

Aunt Ruth grabbed my hand.

Her grip was shockingly strong.

“That is why we do not look outside.”

That night, Home Night began at sunset.

The town disappeared.

No traffic.

No porch lights.

No dogs barking.

Nothing.

Mara stayed with us.

Aunt Ruth was too sick to be moved, so we made up the couch beside her bed.

For several hours, nothing happened.

Around ten, footsteps started outside.

Dozens of them.

Some slow.

Some quick.

Some dragging.

Occasionally a voice.

Names whispered from the road.

Doors knocked on farther down the block.

Once, somebody laughed directly outside our kitchen window.

Mara and I sat together without speaking.

At 11:43, Aunt Ruth died.

There was no dramatic final breath.

She just stopped.

I had been holding her hand.

One second she was there.

The next she wasn’t.

I remember staring at her chest, waiting for it to rise.

It never did.

Mara started crying.

I did too.

Then someone knocked on the front door.

Three soft knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Mara looked at me.

“No.”

I couldn’t speak.

The knocking came again.

Then Aunt Ruth’s voice said, “Anna?”

Every hair on my body stood up.

It had been less than five minutes.

“Anna, honey?”

I stared toward the hallway.

Mara grabbed my arm.

“Don’t.”

“That can’t be her.”

“It might be.”

“What?”

“The remembered come home too.”

Aunt Ruth knocked again.

“Baby, I forgot something.”

I started crying harder.

Her voice sounded perfect.

Not sick.

Not weak.

The Ruth I remembered from childhood.

“Anna?”

I stood.

Mara pulled me back down.

“She told you the rule.”

“What if it’s actually her?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

That sentence destroyed me more than anything else.

The voice outside eventually stopped.

Footsteps moved away.

I sat beside my aunt’s body until after midnight.

At some point, the power went out.

The entire house went black.

Mara swore.

I reached for my phone.

No signal.

No internet.

Nothing.

Then we heard glass break downstairs.

Not a window.

Something smaller.

A lamp maybe.

Mara stood.

“Did you lock the cellar?”

I looked at her.

The cellar.

In all the chaos with Ruth, neither of us had checked it.

We heard the cellar door creak open.

Mara whispered, “Upstairs.”

We moved into the hallway.

Something was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

I couldn’t see its face.

Only the outline.

Tall.

Thin.

Too still.

Mara stopped breathing.

The thing lifted its head.

Then it said, in my voice,

“Mara?”

She made a sound like she’d been punched.

I grabbed her.

We ran upstairs.

The thing followed.

Not running.

Walking.

One step at a time.

I slammed my bedroom door and locked it.

Mara pushed my dresser against it.

The footsteps reached the hallway.

Stopped.

Then Aunt Ruth said from the other side of my door,

“Anna, honey?”

I covered my mouth.

Mara shook her head violently.

The voice changed.

My mother spoke next.

I had never heard my mother’s voice.

Not once.

But somehow I knew it was her.

“Anna.”

My knees buckled.

“Open the door.”

Mara grabbed my face in both hands.

“That is not her.”

The doorknob turned.

Slowly.

“Anna,” my mother said again. “I’ve been waiting so long.”

I started toward the door.

Mara slapped me.

Hard.

I stared at her.

“You don’t know her voice,” she whispered.

That broke whatever spell I was under.

The thing outside laughed.

Not my mother.

Not Ruth.

Something wet and broken.

Then it began scratching the door.

Slow at first.

Then violently.

Wood splintered.

Mara screamed.

“We need to get out.”

“Outside?”

“It’s already inside.”

The scratching stopped.

Silence.

Then something whispered directly beside my ear.

“Anna.”

I turned.

The window was open.

I know it had been closed.

A man was standing outside.

Not on the ground.

Outside the second-story window.

His face was inches from mine.

There was nothing beneath his feet.

He wore an old dark coat.

His skin was gray.

His eyes were milky except for tiny black centers.

And his mouth—

His mouth was smiling with my teeth.

I screamed.

He screamed at the exact same time.

With my voice.

Mara dragged me backward.

The thing outside tilted its head.

Then its face changed.

Not physically.

Not like a movie.

It was more disturbing than that.

For one second, I simply knew I was looking at Ruth.

Then Mara.

Then myself.

Like my brain couldn’t decide who the face belonged to.

The bedroom door burst inward.

We ran.

Down the stairs.

Past Ruth’s body.

Through the kitchen.

Mara stopped at the back door.

I grabbed her.

“What are you doing?”

She stared at it.

Outside.

The one place we had been warned never to go.

Behind us, something stepped into the kitchen.

“Anna,” it said.

My voice again.

Mara unlocked the door.

We ran outside.

I had imagined Home Night streets my entire childhood.

I had pictured empty sidewalks with a few wandering dead.

I was wrong.

There were hundreds.

Maybe thousands.

Every yard.

Every street.

Every intersection.

Men and women in clothes from every decade stood silently in the darkness.

Some looked freshly dead.

Others barely looked human.

A little girl in a burned dress stared at us from beneath a tree.

An old man without half his face stood beside a mailbox.

A woman in a hospital gown wandered barefoot down the center of the road.

Every single one turned when we stepped outside.

Mara whispered, “Don’t look at their faces.”

We ran.

I stared at the pavement.

Voices erupted around us.

People calling names.

Crying.

Laughing.

Begging.

Hands reached from yards but stopped at property lines.

I realized then that the houses weren’t keeping the dead out.

They were giving them somewhere to go.

The Forgotten were the ones wandering between them.

Something followed behind us.

My footsteps.

Exactly half a second after mine.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Step.

I ran faster.

So did it.

Mara pulled me toward the church.

“Why there?”

“Records.”

The church kept the oldest burial records in Bellwether.

Names.

Families.

Deaths.

Memories.

We reached the cemetery behind it.

The gates were open.

Hundreds of figures stood beside graves.

Most weren’t threatening.

Some sat quietly beside their own headstones.

Some touched names carved into stone.

Some watched houses in the distance.

The remembered.

Then I saw the empty patch of earth near the back fence.

No marker.

Nothing growing there.

Mara stopped.

“No.”

A man stood over it.

Silas.

Or whatever remained of him.

He looked at me.

And smiled.

Then he said my full name.

Not just Anna.

My full name.

The name of my elementary school.

My college.

My first apartment.

My mother’s name.

Things I had never told anyone in Bellwether.

My first kiss.

The song Aunt Ruth used to sing while cooking.

The nightmare I had when I was eight.

The exact words I had said to my mother’s photograph when I left for college.

He had been learning me for years.

Maybe since I left.

Maybe longer.

Mara whispered, “Anna, don’t answer him.”

Silas stepped closer.

“You came home.”

His face changed again.

This time into mine.

Perfectly.

He looked exactly like me.

Then another voice came from behind him.

“Anna.”

Aunt Ruth.

She stood beside an old grave several yards away.

Not sick.

Not young either.

Just Ruth.

My Ruth.

She looked sad.

Silas turned toward her.

For the first time, his smile disappeared.

Ruth pointed toward his unmarked grave.

Then looked at me.

I understood.

Maybe she wanted me to remember him.

Not the monster the town had created.

The man.

The person they murdered and erased.

“Silas Wren,” I said.

Mara screamed, “Anna, no!”

Silas froze.

I said it again.

“Silas Wren.”

The cemetery changed.

Every whisper stopped.

Every head turned.

Silas stared at me.

I thought I had made a terrible mistake.

Then he looked toward the empty grave.

Something almost human appeared in his face.

Confusion.

Pain.

Recognition.

I told him what Ruth had told me.

“You came here in 1952.”

His mouth opened.

“You rented the room above the pharmacy.”

He stepped toward the grave.

“You were accused of taking those children.”

Another step.

“You didn’t.”

His face began changing faster.

Mine.

Ruth’s.

Mara’s.

Strangers.

Hundreds of them.

“You were murdered.”

Silas dropped to his knees.

“You had a name.”

The thing wearing everyone else’s faces finally became one man.

Thin.

Dark hair.

Deep-set eyes.

Young.

Terrified.

Human.

Silas looked at his hands.

Then at me.

“I remember,” he whispered.

Behind him, something moved through the cemetery.

Not a person.

Darkness.

Shapes retreating between trees.

The Forgotten.

All of them watching.

For one second I understood the mistake Bellwether had made.

We thought forgetting protected us.

It didn’t.

It starved them.

It hollowed them out until they had no identity left except what they could steal from the living.

Silas looked toward Aunt Ruth.

She nodded.

Then she began walking away.

Toward the road.

Toward home.

I called her name.

She turned once.

Smiled.

Then disappeared among the others.

Sunrise came an hour later.

The dead vanished gradually.

Not dramatically.

They simply became harder to see.

Like figures disappearing into fog.

By the time the sky turned orange, Mara and I were alone in the cemetery.

Silas was gone.

The empty patch of earth remained.

Three days later, we gave him a headstone.

SILAS WREN

1919–1952

WRONGLY ACCUSED.

REMEMBERED.

People were furious.

Others cried.

Some thanked us.

Bellwether hasn’t decided what to do with the truth yet.

I buried Aunt Ruth beside my mother.

Then I left.

Mara left too.

For the first time in her life.

That should have been the end.

It wasn’t.

Home Night was almost a year ago.

For months, nothing happened.

Then I started noticing people outside my apartment building.

Never the same person.

Always watching my window.

An old woman.

A teenage boy.

A man in a business suit.

A little girl.

Whenever I looked directly at them, they walked away.

Last week, I received an envelope.

No return address.

Inside was one of Aunt Ruth’s index cards.

I don’t know how.

I burned those cards before leaving Bellwether.

This one was blank except for a sentence written in red ink.

IF ONE OF THEM LEARNS YOU, DON’T LET IT FOLLOW YOU HOME.

I haven’t slept since.

Because Bellwether’s Home Night is supposed to be next Thursday.

And someone just knocked on my door.

If the moon seems extra big or a particularly potent yellow, don’t be the first to blink. 

I shouldn’t be telling you that. But I’ve been playing alone for two weeks, and I need help, and this is the only place I could think of where people might actually take me seriously. I’ve searched online for hours and found nothing. So if any of the following sounds familiar, please reach out.

Some context:

I’m the night manager, day manager, and housekeeper of a small hotel off a highway exit hardly anyone takes. The sign under the exit number literally reads: NO SERVICES. We get about one guest a week if we're lucky. I live in Room 108. The owner, Mr. Hadley, lives three states away and communicates almost entirely through emails about the thermostat.

I’ve been lurking on this sub for years, mostly during dead overnight shifts, and I always assumed that if I ever posted, it’d be fiction. I wish I’d been right about that.

Two weeks ago, a guest checked in and left something behind. I’ll get to what. First I have to explain how he checked in, because that’s when things started.

It was a Tuesday, around 2:40 AM. The chime on the back door went off. That’s normal; there’s a lot behind the building and most people park there.

The man who came down the hall was dressed head to toe in black. Black suit, black shirt, black tie, black shoes polished so bright they caught the fluorescent light. He looked like he’d come from a funeral. He had an old leather briefcase with brass latches in one hand and a closed umbrella in the other. The umbrella was dripping, leaving a little trail across the tile. I’d been inside since noon and hadn’t known it was raining.

He asked, very fast, almost like he was reading off a card:

“I would like a room on the east side of the building. At least the fourth floor. With as many windows as possible.”

I remember that wording exactly, and you’ll see why it matters.

Our booking system is ancient and it took forever to load. The whole time, he checked his watch. Not glancing at it. Checking it, every couple of seconds. Wrist up, eyes down, wrist down. Wrist up, eyes down, wrist down. Like a metronome. He never looked at me once.

He also kept drifting. Our lobby has no windows and doesn’t connect directly to the outside. There’s a long hallway from the front doors that bends at a right angle, so no light from outside ever reaches the desk. He kept backing toward that hallway, a step at a time, until he was halfway down it with his neck craned toward the bend. Like he desperately needed to see the sky and couldn’t stand that he couldn’t.

Wrist up, eyes down, wrist down.

When the room grid finally loaded, every room showed as occupied except one: Room 417.

We had no other guests that night. And our fourth floor only goes up to room 416.

I figured it was a glitch. Old system, phantom entry. I should have refreshed the page. Instead, because I was tired and he was making me nervous, I just marked 417 as booked and handed him a key card from the drawer. It didn’t occur to me until later that we’d never had a key for 417. I still don’t know where it came from.

He crossed the lobby faster than I’ve ever seen a man in dress shoes move, grabbed the key card without touching my fingers, and sprinted up the stairs. He didn’t even look at the elevator. He left the umbrella leaning against my desk.

I assumed he’d come back down in five minutes, annoyed, and I’d put him in a different room and comp him breakfast.

He didn’t come back down.

Fifteen minutes after he left, I remembered the east side of the building doesn’t have any windows. Not one. The whole east face is a mural of a lake at dusk, dark water and pines under a moonless sky. I’m fairly sure Mr. Hadley’s late wife painted it. 

An hour later I’d mopped up the umbrella water and reset the wifi (it dies every night at 3:00, like clockwork). I remember the water on the floor was warm. Not room temperature. Warm, like bathwater. It bothered me in a vague, sleepy way at the time. It bothers me a lot more now.

I needed air. I walked down the hallway, around the bend, out the front doors, and the night met me completely clear.

Not a cloud in the sky. Not a puddle on the asphalt. The gravel was dry. The grass was dry. The only car in the back lot, a long black sedan, was dry and cold when I touched the hood.

I didn’t put it together. I’d been awake for twenty hours on vending machine coffee. I just stood there thinking huh, it stopped.

The moon was out.

It was big. Really big, sitting low over the trees past the highway, and it was yellow. Not the warm orange of a harvest moon. A sick, buttery yellow, like a light bulb seen through a dirty lampshade. I remember thinking it didn’t look big so much as close. Like it had leaned in.

I walked around the side of the building and slid down the wall into the grass. I just wanted ten minutes. I tipped my head back against the stucco, looked up at the moon, and felt my eyes start to drift shut.

That’s when it happened.

The moon blinked.

I know how that reads. But I’ve replayed it a thousand times, so I’m going to describe it exactly as I saw it. 

It wasn’t a cloud; there were no clouds. It wasn’t my own eyes closing. I was looking at it out of the corner of my vision, and the light dimmed, top to bottom, like a lid sliding down over something wet. For a fraction of a second the moon was dark. Then the darkness pulled back, bottom to top, and the yellow returned.

Brighter, I think. Like it had just woken up.

I sat bolt upright. My heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth. I kept staring, waiting for it to happen again. It didn’t. It just hung there, fat and yellow and close.

Then I noticed something that scared me more.

I was leaning against the east wall.

I hadn’t thought about where I was going when I walked around the building. I’d just picked the side with the soft grass. I looked up at the wall above me, at the lake and the pines and the moonless sky.

There were windows in it.

Rows of them. Four stories’ worth. Small square windows cut right through the painting, like someone had punched holes in a canvas. They were all dark, except one.

Fourth floor. I counted. Seventeen from the left.

It was glowing yellow.

I don’t remember going back inside. I don’t remember walking around to the front, or the hallway, or the lobby. The next thing I remember is standing in the elevator, pressing the button marked 4. The button was warm under my finger, the same way the water had been.

I don’t remember the ride up. I don’t remember the doors opening. I remember the fourth floor hallway, and I remember that at the end of it, where there’d always been blank drywall with a fire extinguisher bolted to it, there was a door with brass numbers.

417

It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut. Yellow light was leaking through the gap.

I pushed it open.

The room was small. Smaller than any of our rooms. Just a bed, still made, and the briefcase lying open on the bedspread. I saw what was inside as I walked past. A cheap plastic hand mirror. And eye drops. Dozens of the little single-use bottles, and every one I could see had been twisted open and squeezed flat.

There was one window on the far wall. The curtains had been dragged all the way back and pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. The moon filled almost the entire window. I could see texture on it, craters and gray seams, and it was so yellow the whole room looked jaundiced.

The man stood in front of the window with his back to me, perfectly still, arms at his sides. His watch was off. It was lying face up on the windowsill. I could see his reflection faintly in the glass. His eyes were wide open. Red-rimmed. Wet. He looked like he hadn’t blinked in a very, very long time.

I opened my mouth to say something. Sir, you can’t be in here. Something stupid like that.

He spoke first. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t move at all.

“Do not be the first to blink.”

I looked at the moon.

I don’t know why. I think I couldn’t not look. It was right there, filling the window, and the moment my eyes met it I felt it look back. That’s the only way I can put it. The way you feel someone staring at you across a room before you turn around, except a thousand times worse.

So I stared.

I stared until my eyes burned. Until the edges of my vision went fuzzy. Tears ran down my face and into the corners of my mouth, warm like the water off the umbrella. Every nerve in my body was begging me to close my eyes, just once, just for a second. But I didn’t, because the man beside me still hadn’t. I understood somehow that this was a game, and that you did not want to lose it.

The moon swelled in the window. It was getting closer.

I didn’t blink.

I looked away.

I tore my eyes off it, turned my whole body toward the door, and ran. Down the hall. Down four flights of stairs. I didn’t stop until I was behind the front desk in the windowless lobby with my back against the wall. I only let myself blink once I was sure there was no sky anywhere I could see.

In the morning, the man and his car were gone. The key card for 417 was sitting on the front desk in a little puddle of warm water. The booking system showed no record of him. The fourth floor had its fire extinguisher back and no door. The mural had no windows.

But on the carpet right under the fire extinguisher, there was a sheet of paper folded into quarters. Damp. Warm.

It’s typed, on what looks like a typewriter. The bottom third is so water-damaged the ink has run into gray clouds. I’m transcribing exactly what I can read and leaving out nothing except what’s illegible.

THE LOOKING GAME

You may only begin when the moon is larger than it should be, or a yellow you do not recognize. If you are unsure whether it is the right moon, it is not. You will know.

1. You must be in a room on the East side of a building. 
2. You must be at least four stories up.
3. The room must have no windows.
4. Do not bring anyone with you. If someone follows you into the room, they are playing.
5. Do not be the first to blink.
6. It will try to make you blink.
7. Crying is permitted. Closing your eyes is not.
8. If you cannot continue, you may look away. Looking away is not losing. Looking away is postponing [this word is crossed out by hand, and something else is written above it in pencil, but I can’t make it out]
9. You must continue the game after

That’s where the water damage starts. I can make out the number 10 and possibly the word “mural.” There's a handwritten section crammed between Rules 3 and 4. It's in a different hand than the word above postponing. It reads:

Check the time before you look up. Note it. You will not be able to check it again until the game has ended, and you will want to know how long it lasted.

That’s it.

So. A few things.

The man’s request at the desk, “a room on the east side, at least the fourth floor, as many windows as possible,” covers Rules 1 and 2. But Rule 3 says the room can’t have any windows. He clearly asked for them, and his room had one.

He checked his watch obsessively before he went up, and left it on the windowsill once the game started. That's the handwritten rule.

The eye drops, I think, were him trying to get through Rule 6.

He left the door open. I walked in. Rule 4.

I didn’t blink. I looked away. According to Rule 8, that’s not losing. But someone crossed out the word that tells me what it is.

-------------------------

The last two weeks

I’ve been keeping notes. Here’s the short version.

Night 1: Moon noticeably bigger. Same yellow. I didn’t look directly at it. I could feel it there anyway, like someone reading over your shoulder.

Night 3: Emailed Mr. Hadley asking if there had ever been a Room 417, or ever windows on the east wall. No answer. He usually answers within an hour.

Night 5: The moon was sitting on the tree line at 1 AM. It’s never that low that late. I went back inside and stayed in the lobby until sunrise.

Night 6: Looked at the mural in daylight for the first time since that night. There’s a small dark shape on the far shore of the painted lake now, half hidden in the pines. I’ve looked at that mural every day for six years. It wasn’t there before. It could be a man in a black suit. It’s facing the sky.

Night 9: The umbrella the man left is still behind my desk. Tonight it was wet again. Dripping. I didn’t touch it.

Night 11: Booking system loaded instantly for the first time in years. Every room green. I scrolled down out of habit and, for about two seconds, there was a single gray square at the end of the fourth floor. Then the screen refreshed and it was gone.

Night 14 (tonight): Mr. Hadley still hasn’t replied. The moon is so bright tonight that it’s lighting the lobby hallway all the way to the bend, which shouldn’t be possible. I haven’t gone outside.

-------------------------

I need to know if anyone has seen these rules before, especially the rest of Rule 9. I need to know what replaced the crossed-out word in Rule 8. And I need to know what Rule 10 says about the mural.

If you’ve heard of The Looking Game, played it, or know someone who did, please comment or DM me. Especially if you’ve seen the moon blink.

And if you hadn’t heard of it before today: I’m sorry. I’ve read Rule 4 about forty times. I don’t think reading counts as following someone into the room. I really don’t think so.

But if the moon looks bigger than usual tonight, maybe just don’t look up.

He came up to me on the street one day. I was walking not far from that outdoor, high-end mall to a sandwich spot where I had placed a pickup order. I didn’t think twice about him when I first saw him. Seeing homeless people was a daily occurrence in the city, and the only reason I gave him a second glance was because of how much he stuck out among the wealthier shoppers around him. I never did learn if he actually was homeless. God only knows where he came from.

He was a short, thin, dirty-looking, middle-aged man in ratty clothing that was too big for him. The top half of his face was covered with a sun-faded baseball cap, his chin and cheeks covered in unkept grey stubble. He was standing by the button for the crosswalk, looking around as if he was lost. I soon noticed that he was staring deeply into the faces of people walking around him, one after another, as if he was trying to make eye-contact with whoever would take him up on it. No one spared him a second glance, of course they didn’t, but I kept an eye on him for safety. 

I continued walking towards the small crowd that was waiting to cross the street so that I could stand among them. Before I got to them, the Man turned his head and his eyes landed right on my own. I got my first good look at his eyes: big, blue eyes that stared out from behind rectangular, wire-frame glasses. His eyes had an almost innocent quality to them, they held no heaviness. I thought to myself that he must be crazy. I stared back, as was my habit to show people walking on the street that I was not someone to be messed with. Regardless, he strode toward me as if someone had fired a starting pistol. He stopped directly in front of me, forcing me to come to a halt as I stared at him in confusion and frustration. 

The first thing that hit me was his stench: a mix of dried piss and rotten food. I opened my mouth to tell this creep to screw off, when he interrupted me.

“We’re going to the grocery store,” he said, then turned and began to amble along.

Suddenly, I was walking in step behind him. 

It took me a moment to realize I was following him. I tried to stop, to turn around, but I couldn’t. I had lost control of my own legs. I tried to turn my head around, to reach out and grab a telephone pole or something to stop myself, but it was as if my brain no longer controlled my body. We kept walking, weaving through pedestrians as we made our way down the sidewalk. I tried to open my mouth to yell, to say anything at all, but it would not listen to me. I could feel that my face was frozen in a look of ambivalence. 

I was starting to panic. I could feel my eyes darting in every direction, pleading for strangers to look at me and free me from whatever this was. What had happened? Had this man drugged me somehow? Was I dreaming? Was I going insane? Was it witchcraft? All I knew was that I was following him, and I could not stop. 

We made it to the grocery store and walked inside. He walked me to the produce section and stopped in front of the apples. He didn’t look up at me as I unwillingly stopped next to him. He pointed at a section of the apples with a dirty fingernail and spoke.

“Straighten all the Granny Smith apples, turn every other one upside down. One at a time.”

To my shock, my hands reached out and began to straighten the green apples in front of me. I continued for what felt like hours, unable to even turn my head away from the task. I could feel everything. It was still my body. My hands cramped early on, and I never stopped to stretch them. He watched the entire time, offering miniscule critiques of my performance which my hands would respond to, correcting my work. He never looked away, never got bored. You would have thought we were doing surgery by the level of care that he and my body gave to our task.
Finally, I finished. I was amazed that no grocery store worker had stopped us. Customers had walked and reached around us many times, but no one seemed overly concerned by our work. Would I have said anything had I seen this? I would have hoped so, but I wasn’t sure.

“Move on to the tomatoes. Turn them all upside down.”

Finally, after several sections of produce, he walked me to the front door and out onto the street. 
“Walk home. I will see you tomorrow.”

So I walked home. Unable to disobey.

When I crossed the threshold of my apartment’s front door, my body snapped out of it. I froze where I stood. I began to shake, then slowly angled my head down to look at myself. I appeared ok. I patted myself in several places. I was fine. I took a few steps in each direction to be sure that I was in control of my own movement. When I was confident that I was, I sprinted back out the door.

It took several minutes to run to the nearest police station, but I ran the whole way. It took almost an hour to get seated in front of an officer, but I waited. I explained what had happened. I demanded some sort of drug test, which they eventually gave me. I asked how it was possible. The officer stared at me with a confused look on his face after hearing me out. He brought in his supervisor and he listened to my story as well. 

“Did he threaten you or something?” The supervisor asked. “I’m sorry, I’m just not sure I get what you’re saying.”

“Well… no, but-”

“Did he indicate in any way that if you didn't do it, there was going to be any consequence?”

“No, but-”

“So a stranger told you to do something, and you just did it? You didn’t walk away?”

“I couldn’t!”

It went in circles for several more minutes. In the end they told me to just walk away next time. I couldn’t seem to make them understand that I very literally had no control of my own body.

Later on, the drug test came back. I was negative for everything. 

I didn’t sleep at all that night, terrified that the Man would make good on his promise of seeing me the next day. I called my office and said I would work from home that day. 

Around eleven in the morning, there was a knock at the door. I froze, careful not to move a single muscle. There was no way he knew where I lived. I was pretty sure he hadn’t followed me.

Then a voice called from behind the door: “Come outside.”

My legs stood me up and walked me to the door. I fought my body with every ounce of my will, but it didn’t make a difference. My hand shot out and turned the doorknob, then pulled the door open. 

He stood there, in the same dirty clothes as the day before, his blue eyes magnified by his thick glasses. He stunk just as bad as he had. 

“Let’s go.”

That day he brought me to a gas station and had me taking very deliberate steps to make a square, all while facing the same direction. It was ninety-eight degrees out and we were out there for four hours.

As soon as I was free, I got in my car and drove for hours. I ended up in the desert in a little town in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to get as far away as possible. I would figure it out from there. I pulled into a gas station as the sun came up, having driven all night. I filled up the tank, then went to get back in my car.

He was already sitting in the passenger seat.

We drove back and went to the mall. He had me count all of the lightbulbs in the building. I didn’t finish by the time the mall closed, but he let me go home, assuring me that we would finish tomorrow. I tried tying myself to the bed that night, plugging my ears with noise-cancelling headphones, and blindfolding myself.

I got up first thing in the morning, not having heard or seen a thing, the blindfold still tight across my eyes. I easily pulled my right arm free of the shoddy bond I had tied and freed myself completely. I felt myself stand and leave the apartment. I could smell him as soon as the door opened. We walked for several minutes, leaving my apartment building, walking on the street, and entering another building. I could hear people beside us as we went. I heard some quiet comments about my blindfold, and each time it lit a small flame of hope in me that they would stop to ask what was going on. No one did. Eventually, I stood still and took off the blindfold, unwillingly, and saw the Tyrant smiling at me. We finished the lightbulbs in the mall that day.
This happened day after day. Every time it was something different, but it was always strange. One day, he brought me to the public library and we went through the stacks, taking books out one at a time, rotating them in midair, then putting them back just how we found them. It always went on for hours, and each second was agony.

I never understood why he made me do any of this. He was dedicated to watching every task he made me do, but none of them made any sense nor did they benefit him in any way. It didn’t matter how useless the motion, he was passionate about it. He would encourage me as we did whatever we did, never losing patience or enthusiasm. He never introduced himself, or spoke of anything that didn’t have to do with the immediate task or to tell me that he would see me the next day. I didn’t know if he was homeless, if he had a name, or if he was even human. It seemed that he had no sort of identity outside the completion of these useless ordeals. 

I took to calling him “the Tyrant.”

My boss was getting concerned about me. I had been working from home for days, and as far as she could tell, I had not been getting anything done. I forced myself to go into work one morning, extra careful to make sure that the Tyrant was not following me. I convinced myself I could shake him, but a part of me knew otherwise. I parked a mile away then called a ride-share that took me the rest of the way, so that I couldn’t be tracked from or by my car. It worked for the first half of the day. I went about my work day the same as I always did before the Tyrant appeared.

Then, in the middle of a meeting, he showed up. 

He had walked all the way to the conference room door. Somehow he had gotten past the locked front door, reception, and up to this floor unobstructed despite looking like a security risk. No one had stopped him. The whole room turned when he walked into the conference room. 

“I’m sorry, are you lost?” My boss asked.

The Tyrant did not spare her a glance. His eyes found mine as I trembled. 

“We are taking the bus,” he said, before turning back around and walking out the door.

I stood up and walked to the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my coworkers staring at me as if I was crazy.

My boss called after me as I walked out, unable to turn around and offer an apology or even an apologetic look. She followed me to the door, but stopped at the threshold and watched me follow the Tyrant continue along the sidewalk. 

Just like he promised, we rode the bus that day. That was it. We would sit on one for God knows how long, then he would randomly have us switch to another. I quickly recognized that there was no logic to what we were doing. We were not headed in a consistent direction. He would often have us double back in the same direction using a different bus line, or we would ride in a big square. I tried so hard to get someone to recognize that something was wrong. I stared like a madman at anyone and everyone. No one met my glance. There was an old woman who sat across from me who I stared at for several minutes, my eyes wide as saucers as I tried to get her attention. I tried to force my jaw open to make a noise, but it would not happen. I watched the woman step off the bus after several stops. The Tyrant spoke to me every so often, assuring me that we were “almost there” and relating the plans for the nonsensical route as if it mattered. 

Before the buses stopped for the night, we got off right in front of my car and he walked off.
When I got home, I sobbed for hours. I sobbed until no more tears came. I sobbed until my voice went out so I was just lying on the ground shaking as my face continued the sobbing motions. I felt hopeless. There was no way to escape this. There was no moving away. There was no asking for help. Who would believe me? 

No. The Tyrant had me. 

Then the idea came to me. 

It took a few days, but when I got what I needed and set it up, I was sure it would work. Before I went to sleep, I tied myself to the bed as best I could, spreadeagled. This time, I bought handcuffs, and cuffed myself to the bedframe, then tossed the key as far as I could. I tried my best to get out, but I couldn’t. Finally, this would work. After almost an hour of uncomfortable fidgeting, I finally fell asleep.

It was morning when the pain woke me. I felt my arms straining against the restraints, the metal of the handcuff digging into the skin of my wrists and the rope on the other hand burning as it rubbed against me. My hips shot up and down from the bed, trying to wrest the remainder of my body from its prison.

Nice try. 

I had to wait for several minutes as this continued. The pain in my wrists was growing, blood was starting to trickle down my arms. I thought I would dislocate a limb. Then the door unlocked: he forced me to give him a key after the last time I tried to lock him out. It swung open and I caught a glimpse of his impassive face. As always, he looked the same, but then…

PING.

I wish I could have grinned at him as he stood up a little straighter, alarm showing everywhere but his soulless face. For the first time, he looked startled. He looked to the source of the small noise, and saw the grenade whose pin he had just pulled by yanking the door open.

BANG!

My eyes burned and my ears rang. I turned my head away from the scene and shut my eyes tight. That was when I noticed that I wasn’t struggling anymore, that I had moved my own head. I looked down at myself and attempted to flex my hands. They moved when I wanted them to.
I turned to look at the door and my breath caught in my throat. The remains of the Tyrant were slumped against the wall, his entire left arm and the left half of his chest were gone, only bloody red meat remained. I could see his brain on the left side of his head. His eyes were glassy and lifeless.

Jesus, how am I going to explain this to the cops?

I took a few deep breaths, steadying myself, and when I was ready, I took a deep breath in, preparing to yell at the top of my lungs for help. Someone would come hear me and untie me, I would yell all day if I had to, but someone would come. I was free.

“HEL-”

My voice caught in my throat. My arms went rigid.

No.

Then, searing pain as my body tore my hand out of the handcuff, shredding layers of skin and breaking bones. My now free, mostly ruined hand, now fumbled at my other restraint until my other arm was freed.

Thankfully, he did not make me look at him as I untied my legs, but I heard him. He sounded as if nothing was wrong.

“Put me back together. Every last piece.” 

(FOLLOW ME ON INSTA AT RUNDABEG.HORROR FOR MORE HORROR SHORTS)

The power went out at 7:06 pm.

But I’d say our flame had been out for about a year and a half. 

She said I was living two different lives—my late night party animal lifestyle as a locally famous bartender, and the nice guy during the day pretending he was ready for a wife and a family. 

She wasn't wrong.

I’d been behind the bar for 17 years straight. God, had it really been that long? I thought I could do both. Be both. And I was. But I also didn't realize I was losing her. 

Until she divorced me 2 months after our wedding.

There’s something so beautiful and tragic about the hope a woman can hold onto for her man. Thinking every new holiday, anniversary, birthday… even exchanging wedding vows… could be the thing that wakes him up, changes him for the better…

She had a daughter before we met, Annmarie. 

At hibachi for her 8th birthday, her mother and I were unsuccessfully silent-fighting behind her back. We were staring daggers at each other over Annmarie’s curly head as she sat between us, masterfully eating her shrimp fried rice with kiddie chopsticks. 

Her mother mouthed to me: "Well, aren't you gonna say something?” 

Annmarie, without even dropping a shrimp said: "He already did. With his eyes.”

Annmarie loved me. And that was enough for her mother to fight for what was left of our love. And to hold onto the hope that someday I would change…

Buying this house was my grand effort to make that change. To show her I was ready. 

“Buy the cheapest house inside the best school district” was my buddy’s advice. 

So, here we were: A broken family. Sitting in an old fixer-upper without power.

And tonight was Annmarie’s 9th birthday.

I was committed to showing them a future they’d enjoy. A future we’d all love.

I hadn’t moved much of my stuff into the house yet. And honestly, I hadn't expected her to accept my invite. I hadn’t seen her in over 4 months.

So when she said yes, I had to scramble.

I thought hibachi delivery and Netflix would be a decent effort. 

With the power still out, that would be tough.

I searched for a flashlight in one of those small, hidden storage doors under the staircase.

But I could only find an old lamp.

Really old.

Then I joined them in the family room.

It was awkward. No technology. And nothing really to talk about. Just the silence from simmering all of our scars.

Luckily Annmarie was not only super cute but fiercely curious. She started fiddling with the lamp.

And found a secret compartment with a little latch that slid open. 

Inside was an old, folded piece of paper with writing and markings on it.

We discovered it was a “how to” for shadow puppet techniques, dated 1866.

Analogue entertainment for the win?

The paper had increasing levels of complexity for creating shadow puppets. Level one was your classic one person stuff: a crow, a bunny, a dog.

Annmarie chose the crow. 

As she flapped her finger-wings creating a soaring crow shadow on the wall, her mother and I flapped our lips through some small talk: 

“How’s the new job?”

“How’s your mother?” 

We stumbled into some turbulence but found some common ground by planning some home projects to “spruce up the place.”

We stepped away, walking through the kitchen, then the family room. There wasn't any light, but the darkness forced us closer.

It was kind of nice, actually.

Planning for the future, that's a good sign right? Staring out into the moonlit backyard through the bay window found our lips orbiting each other, nearing a kiss—

Then a crow slammed into the window. 

Then another. And another. 

BLAM. SPLAT. SGLUSSSHTT.

Leaving a smear of blood, guts, and feathers. 

“Oh, my god, Rob… were those birds?” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Wow, yeah.” They had dropped dead onto the stone patio below. “Looks like crows maybe?” 

“ROB!” Annmarie’s voice yelled out. 

We ran back to her in the family room.

“You okay sugar cookie?” Her mom asked.

“Yeah, I just need Rob’s help.”

The shadow puppet diagrams were getting more complex.

She needed a second person. These techniques were next level, utilizing three hands and even four. 

As we intertwined our hands into the level two animals, a smile spread across her mom’s face. 

Glimpsing her happiness reminded me: I was living two lives. But I really liked this one. Why did I keep jeopardizing it? Yeah, I was a late bloomer but goddamn I'm 37 now. Time to grow up. 

Her mother clapped at each successful attempt of a new shadow puppet from us and we all laughed together at each terrible failure. We eventually achieved them all. 

But the directions prompted us to flip the page over for the final shadow puppet.

The sight of it shook my soul.

As if in a single instant I had been dragged through the bowels of ancient hell, through caves containing creatures far older than the existence of the universe.

Annmarie just giggled and said it was “really ugly.” 

But it required 6 hands. Would take about 6 minutes to achieve. And must be held for 6 seconds.

So we recruited her reluctant mother.

On our third attempt, we managed to mangle our fingers together enough to eke out the outline of this monstrosity.

“Yay! Now hold it for 6 seconds… one… two…” Annmarie smiled, staring at the shadow growing larger and larger on the wall…

“Three…. Four…” Her mother beaming at this authentic family moment.

“Five…” I started to count…

But I was spellbound by the shadowy creature… looming larger and larger up the wall, bleeding onto the ceiling… almost appearing as if it was forming a real, skin-like texture… scaly goosebumps with pricks of coarse hair beginning to poke through the wall paint…

“Six.” 

We couldn't move. We sat transfixed. Necks bent upward mesmerized by the monster forming before us. It loomed large and ominous on the wall, growing larger and larger than all the other shadow puppets had, almost as if it were about to tear away from the wall as a living, breathi—

Then the power came back.

The lights flashed on.

And the shadow monster was gone… for now.

9:13 pm.

Just like when the 2am lights come on for last call at the bar… reality began to set in, and the harshness of our past was fully re-illuminated.

Her mom pulled Annmarie’s hands from the menage immediately. Like the light was shining on all my faults. Spotlighting our resentment. 

“Come one Annmarie, we should go.” She ordered.

Crazy how the shadows of the heart can just appear anytime. I’d seen this expression on her face many times. And Annmarie’s. She wanted to forgive me. Her body was here. The effort. The want. But her heart… Her soul… was pulling her away. Trying to sever the tether of our past. We both knew we needed to let go, but we were haunted by a phantom love… like starlight… a love-light extending from a relationship that no longer existed…

I forced a smile. Watching them pack up their things. Annmarie’s eyes staring into my soul, ripping my heart to shreds. Her mother’s distant look, like looking through our past, into an alternate future she wished existed, at the man I should’ve been but never was. 

I looked behind me, hoping that man was there. I’d trade places with him in an instant. But, he wasn’t. It was just me. Broken and begging.

She was saying goodbye for the final final time… I could tell.

The front door closed… to the new house, and to any chance of a future. 

I was left standing there, just me and my monsters.

Then… the power went out again. 

I stood in the darkness crying for a minute or two. Then searched for the matches.

Strike one. Strike two. Strike three… I was out. The match box looked like it had been rained on once, or twice, or 100 times. So I sat in the darkness in silence…

Until a lighter flicked next to me—

SPARK.

It was Annmarie and her mother. She re-lit the lantern with her lucky green BiC lighter. And sat back down. My heart melted faster than butter on a hibachi grill.

I couldn’t contain my happiness as I looked at her: “I thought you quit?” 

“It seems I can't let go of the things that will eventually kill me.” She smirked. A little spark in her eye.

She knelt down on the floor with her daughter and me, “Now, where were we?”

Annmarie flipped over the shadow puppet paper. 

And there was the drawing of that hideous monster again.

I noticed some other writing scribbled frantically at the bottom, but the ink was smeared, and the edges tattered. I was trying to make out what it said—

But Annmarie was so excited for us all to be back together, so we mangled our hands together and counted to six…

But nothing happened. Just an innocent shadow on the wall.

Maybe it was just my demons taunting me…

Annmarie ripped her fingers from the cluster, “Now what?”

Try and entertain a 9-year-old without technology, I dare ya.

"Maybe there’s some board games in the closet?" 

“Boooooring," Boasted Annmarie.

“Thats why they call them bored games,” I punned. They both looked at me like I was the king of unfunny.

“So when are we moving in, Mom?” Annmarie jousted slyly.

We stared at each other. Laughed awkwardly. 

Annmarie feigned innocence.

“Well my little sugar booger, we’re just visiting right now. We’ll see how it goes, ok?” She glanced at me, cautiously optimistic. 

I beamed a massively cheesy grin. Couldn’t be happier.

“School starts in 8 weeks, so you better get a moooooove on it…” Annmarie laughed hysterically to herself.

She made a pun, just like me. My eyes teared up. Her mom was speechless, staring at our chemistry. She was the only thing keeping us all together if you were to ask me. But, the love and admiration of a child is not nothing.

I had an idea — I found a few used candles from a kitchen drawer, which we bundled together. I grabbed an old bag of marshmallows from the pantry. Annmarie’s mom had a Hershey bar in her purse. Annmarie had some Teddy Grahams in her backpack. This was actually not bad.

We sat around the kitchen island and her mother lit the candle bundle.

“Birthday s’mores, anyone?” I said.

Annmarie’s smile was bigger than the moon. I started to sing:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUUU..."

But as the candle flames flickered on the wall behind them, a terrifying shadow began to form.

I saw Death in Philadelphia.

Or Death saw me.

It’s dark out. Activity in the streets is fading. We’re in a diner.

You need to relax on that thing, she says.

My ringless fingers halt their progress on my presentation.

You have all of tomorrow to polish it off, she says.

She’s some bleached blonde half my age.

I guess you’re right, I reply. Let’s go do something.

I pack my computer into it’s bag.

Then we’re outside. An ambulance siren wails. She walks beside me with the confidence of someone who has the time to not live a life she truly wants. We enter a gelato parlor. The only difference between gelato and ice cream is the price.

An expanse of flavors stares back at the small seating area. Two other people are there. An old fat man calmly eating and a tall, clean shaven olive skinned man standing behind him. I make sudden eye contact with the latter.

His pupils are dark. They seem almost vacant and empty, continuing into a huge expansive darkness.

I knew this man.

My mother knew him.

My father knew him.

My brother knew him.

My grandparents knew him.

My daughter knew him.

He appears as a vague taboo joke until suddenly he’s there. I’ve spent my entire life denying and avoiding any acknowledgment of him. My entire life. But what does that matter now? He’s right before me.

Death.

I froze where I stood. She walks a few steps ahead of me then looks back.

Are you okay? she asks after a few quiet moments.

Death’s eyes widen, broadening the holes to the void. His face melts into a look of shock and confusion.

Don’t you see him? I ask.

See who? She says.

I drop my computer bag. Forget it.

Every impulse in my brain fires. This is one of the most natural feelings a man can feel.

Run.

I burst out of there. As I sprint down the sidewalks I convince myself I can feel the blossoms of Death’s depths getting weaker.

Hey, she calls after me. What’s wrong?

I keep going.

What’s wrong? she shouts.

I hear a faint sound of surprise followed by a violent wheeze in the gelato parlor. My adrenaline screams at me, Go, go, go. Save yourself. Protect yourself. Preserve yourself.

One of the most natural feelings a man can feel.

Forget the computer. Forget the hotel room. I had to get out of there. So I tried to head for the airport. My flight doesn’t leave tomorrow anymore, it leaves now.

Vehicles get us places faster. That’s why we invented them. So we don’t drain our lives away walking and get out of danger quicker.

I pull out my phone. The screen is black. A deep aching black with only emptiness inside of it.

Then the screen turns on. Never mind.

The Uber is called. It leaves me no choice but to pause on a street corner. Every cell of me jitters. My head spins all around the maze towering buildings. Death could be waiting. Just waiting to peer his head around anyone of them. Rear his head, dark eyes locked on me, sneaking up behind and-

Are you-

Yes. Airport. Now, I say.

I get in the car.

Hurry.

He drives off. The car rattles down the street. I swear I can feel Death standing on every street corner.

We get on I-95. The car soon comes to a halt behind a field of numbingly red taillights.

Crap, I say.

Sorry, man. There’s been a huge pileup, my driver says.

The car never moves. Other cars soon fill the space behind us, boxing me in. I’m not getting farther from Death. It seems like at any moment Death could step out of a car and walk right over here and there would be nothing I could do about it.

I wasn’t going to let that happen.

I opened the car door and got out.

Dude, where are you going? my driver asks. I’m already gone.

Cars seem to slide by me as I sprint by them. I’m probably giving everyone a great mystery of the evening.

Why is that guy sprinting between lanes?

Because he’s avoiding Death.

That’s not even that unusual of a thing. Everyone else here is doing it too.

I keep going.

The flashing red and blue lights are getting closer. Soon I’m at the site of the pileup and it’s not pretty.

Several ambulances, a firetruck, cop cars. Shattered glass crunches under my feet and I see officers standing around an upside down obliterated car.

It’s as though I’ve gone unnoticed. Except when I run by a couple of EMTs placing an oxygen mask on a man in a stretcher. Standing beside him is the fat old man from the gelato parlor.

How did he-

That’s not him.

We make eye contact.

The same dark abyss. Reaching out and corrupting all that isn’t under it’s control. And he scowls in confusion.

I’m too panicked to scream.

He found me.

He’s right here on top of me.

Go, go, go. Save yourself. Protect yourself. Preserve yourself.

I dash by him on to an area of the freeway clear of all traffic. I’m completely exposed but there’s nowhere to run.

Keep on to the airport. Keep on to the airport. Keep on to the airport.

Before I realize it I’m on the ground. My face is scraping into the concrete. All that skin I’ve spent so much time tanning and all those moisturizers and supplements I use to look young is getting sanded into ground.

I swear I can feel Death on me. He’s getting closer. He’s right beside me.

I look up, blood trailing down my face to see Death face to face.

Nothing’s there. Never mind.

Picking myself up, I make it for the airport.

I keep sprinting for nearly hour until I reach it.

My timing was perfect. A flight was about to leave for Silicon Valley and there was an open seat.

I get on. Buckle my seat. Swivel my head between the window and the cabin. Making sure Death is nowhere near.

But the flight doesn’t leave.

I just keep waiting and waiting and waiting. Nothing happening.

Come on, come on, come on, come on, I keep whispering.

Death could be coming at any second. Walking straight to me and I’d have no escape.

Come on, fly the plane away already. Please, I get up and shout.

A few heads lazily turn toward me.

A flight attendant walks over.

I’m terribly sorry, sir, but there has been a hold up. A couple of people on a connecting flight are coming and-

Get this plane in the air now, I scream. Now.

Sir, calm down please.

Now.

Calm down.

I’m in danger.

Sir, if you don’t calm down we are going to have to remove from the flight.

Fine.

I sit back down and keep waiting.

Your precious flight is at risk? My life is at risk.

I see a dark figure walking up the runway. Is that Death?

A paunchy man wrangling a backpack, duffle bag and suitcase walks in. Is that Death?

A few more people start to follow after him.

Are they Death?

I don’t want to make eye contact with any of them.

Eventually, the plane gets on the runway and makes it into the air. Goodbye, Death.

#

I can’t sleep.

The constant humming of the plane as it cruises through the air makes me worried that it will go silent. What then?

There are many things to be worried about. What if Death was already on the plane? What if he’s here waiting for me? What if at any moment he gets up and-

The plane shakes.

I gasp.

It’s fine. It’s fine. Death’s not going to get me.

The darkness outside the plane feels like it goes on forever.

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

I was such an idiot for dropping my computer bag earlier. But what was I going to do? Run with it?

Maybe it would have been worth carrying. That’s the entire reason I’m going to Silicon Valley. On that laptop was the only copy of a presentation for a conference. I spent months working on it.

The presentation was on mind uploading. An entire detailed rundown of potential breakthroughs in information technology that could lead to us being able to copy our brains into a computer. Then we could live forever. No more death.

Everything dies, but ideas, beliefs, morals and the imagination remain. Those are information. Your mind is information. Translate that into the a computer, you’ll escape death.

Just imagine the potential. No one truly wants to die.

Some are fascinated by death and all the things around it. But I can’t stand it.

When my grandpa died, he had an open casket funeral. I refused to go and my parents forced me into the car. Made my mom cry because of it. Then at the funeral, I clamped my hands over my eyes the entire time. And by that I got what I wanted. Never looked in the coffin. Because in that casket wasn’t my grandpa. It was just an empty pile of meat dressed up in a suit already starting to rot.

When my dad was dying in the hospital, I left the room in his final moments and never came back in. The moment that last gasp of air was forced out of his mouth by trembling lungs, my dad was no longer in there. Just a husk.

When my daughter died, I only picked my wife up from the hospital. What would there be to see? Just a small pale corpse that used to my daughter but was now an object?

If I can get through life without needing to see it, then why see it at all?

The guy sitting across from me is staring.

I can feel his eyes.

Eyes that might be holes to a vast realm of blackness and the blackness wants me. Maybe he’s been waiting since I got on the plane and he’s been just waiting for the right moment.

Sir?

Don’t reply. Don’t reply. Don’t reply.

Sir?

Surprisingly formal for Death.

Sir? he says more loudly.

If I don’t look it’s not real. If I don’t look it’s not real. If I don’t look it’s not real. If I don’t look it’s not real.

Sir?

What?

You dropped your phone.

He held out his hand holding my phone. I quickly made eye contact. Bright blue eye’s that don’t show me anything.

Oh, thanks, I say taking it back.

It’s all good.

#

The plane lands. The electric white cabin lights burn my eyes as they brighten.

We reach the gate.

Thank you for flying with us toni-

I spring up and shoot down the aisle. Many other passengers are already standing up, eager to get off too. Maybe they’re escaping Death too.

A few people start to step out. I collide with some old lady. She yelps and I go down and fast hard. Something hits my head. I groan.

Everything’s blurry. I feel bright hot and wet blood creeping down my face. My vision is flood with stars.

Breathe.

I try and force myself to get up. My fingers are fired with tense crushing pain.

Breathe.

I scream.

Breathe.

Oh my gosh, man. I’m so sorry.

Breathe.

Someone just stepped on my hand.

I can’t breathe.

I get up and go all the way down the aisle and across the passenger boarding bridge.

Soon I realize that all the car rentals are closed. I quietly curse in fury.

That’s when I finally get the clarity that I must be an idiot.

I just flew clear across the country. There’s no reason to be running anymore. For all I know, Death is still back in Philly.

Taking a breath, I sit down on a bench outside. A couple of cars and shuttles lazily drive by. Something sharp hits my head.

I spring up in panic.

Get away from me, I shout to no one.

Looking back, I see a small twig. It fell from the dying tree behind the bench. There’s nothing I can do but take a good long look at it.

Grey, gnarled and crusty. Ready crack into a million pieces like old clay. A few webbed husks of leaves desperately cling to it, refusing to say it’s dead.

I divert my eyes away from it and toward a trash can. An old half eaten burger sits shriveled on the rim like an abandoned bird nest. A couple of maggots squirm around it, made like writhing orange warts under the lone streetlight.

Death is here.

I take off running down the street. I can outrun Death. I swear I can outrun Death.

No time to wait for a bus. Death is all around me.

My chest deeply aches. My lungs burn. My breath is short. My feet burn. My skin glistens with sweat.

But I have to keep running.

Go, go, go. Save yourself. Protect yourself. Preserve yourself.

I make it to the hotel I booked. The bored deeply indebted college student at the desk tells me my room is clean and ready. Taking my key card I jog up the stairs. Death could be waiting for me in the elevator.

At my room’s floor, I try and make it down the hallway as fast as I can. An intense crushing ache screeches through my weary chest and I collapse to the ground. My skinned face slamming down and once again oozing with blood.

The whole world is blurry and shaking. The pain feels like a prison I can’t handle. The deep syrupy light of the hotel room hallway makes it seem as though I’m trapped in an unending nightmare. I shiver through the pain as the image of Death emerging out of one of the doors explodes in my mind.

With an ugly groan, I force myself back to my feet. Almost there. I agonizingly hobble down the hall and reach my room.

Slamming the door behind me, I stable myself on the wall.

I must be safe here.

I have to be safe.

I can’t run anymore.

I just can’t.

If only I could have been alive in a different era or didn’t have to worry about this now. Only a few more years. Just a few more years, I swear. The way technology is developing, we could upload our minds and live forever. I could live forever. Death will be no longer a problem for us.

A thin translucent string of saliva dangles out of my mouth.

My presentation. I can still give it tomorrow. Inform the public. Inform the programmers. Inform the shareholders. Get them interested in the idea. Just imagine it. No more Death. We could escape it. I could escape it. I swear.

I get my phone out of my pocket.

I just need more time.

I dial up her number.

Only a few more years. After this presentation, everything will be secured. No more Death. For real.

Hello? she asks groggily. What the heck happened? Why did you run?

I gasp and spit.

Did you pick up the computer bag? I force myself to say coherently.

What?

Did you pick up the stupid computer bag?

Uh, yes. What’s going on? What is this?

I’ll fly you over here.

What? Why?

I need that bag. I need the computer. I need you to bring it.

For the presentation?

Yes, for the stupid presentation. I need you over here, I shout.

Are you okay?

I need. I need. I need. I need. I need. I need, I sputter.

Are you oka-

Beep. Beep. Beep. The phone sounds dead and solid. Almost obnoxious and uncaring. I angrily tap at it, trying to call her again but it only goes to voicemail. Stupid internet must have gone out.

No. I need. No. I need. No. No. No, I rasp.

I back myself up to the wall and slide down to the ground.

My head rotates to stare into the dismal darkness of my room’s entryway. It’s seems deep, black, vast and with no end. Not even a bar of light below the door where the hallway light harshly seeps in.

Please, no, I say.

Footsteps. Slow calculated footsteps softly sinking into the carpet.

Please, no. Leave me alone, please, I cry.

I see Death emerge from the darkness. A short, pale, skeletally thin woman in a blue hospital gown and a few wiry bits of long hair desperately clinging to her scalp. Death walks toward me, arms unmoving.

No, I scream helplessly. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

Death walks around me like a predator then stops.

Please, no, I say. I don’t want to. You can’t.

Death extends hand for me to take.

I feel my body starting to give out. I can’t even move my legs anymore. Glancing at my phone I can see the internet is already back but what good will it do me now? Do I really think the police will stop Death?

I sigh.

Please, no, I whimper. I can’t.

It’s time, Death says.

No. I can’t die.

Death extends her arm closer to me.

I sigh again.

Before I go. May I ask something of you?

Death nods.

Why were were you surprised to see me in Philly?

I was surprised to see you there because I had an appointment with you here tonight, Death says.

I let out a sad pained chuckle.

It’s time, Death says.

Can I tell my story?

Death nods.

And now, there’s no more to tell.

I’m ready to take Death’s hand.

This requires some context. I currently live in an apartment, and in my room there’s a big window. When i lay down in my bed at night, i can look out that window, and i can see another apartment building with 3 windows, one for each floor.

The first and second floor windows have nothing but lamps in them. They’re usually turned off at night, and i’ve never seen activity from any of those windows, while looking out at any point of the day. The third floor is another story though.

The third floor window has just like the others, a lamp. The lamp can sometimes be on at all hours of the day. Odd, since there’s no reason to have a lamp running, if nobody’s in the room, right?

Well, i’ve been living in this apartment now for about a year. I haven’t really been paying mind to that apartment until very recently, so i have no idea how long this activity has been going on. But what i can say is that every time i have woken up in the middle of the night, the man has been watching me from the window. I have very good eyesight, and the apartment window is no more than 10-15 meters away from mine.

The man uses binoculars. Every time i have woken up from my sleep, i look towards that window in paranoia, and he’s always there, staring! You would atleast expect him to turn away, walk away or maybe just look somewhere else outside, but no. He keeps looking, like it’s a normal thing to do. I had to put down my blinds, so i could get some peace of mind, knowing that he couldn’t see me sleeping anymore.

It creeps me out so badly. The problem is that even when i had my friend over the other day, and for context, he was sleeping in the living room, directly beside my room (that also has windows exposed to the same apartment complex), the man still stood there watching like nothing was wrong! I thought at some point i was going crazy, but no, even my friends can attest to the crazy man with binoculars, watching me, at all times of the night.

The scariest thing for me is that i know i won’t see him when i go to sleep, but if i wake up, i’ll always know he’s there, watching, looking at me peacefully sleep, for hours on end, and then eventually go back to his ”normal” life.

To describe how he looks, he is a bald middle age man, maybe 45-55 years old, with a beard. I can’t really make out any other features, but he is definitely not the type of man you would like to be watched by (if any ofc).

I don’t know if he’s got a mental disorder or something, but i don’t like the feeling of being watched while i sleep. Hopefully, he will move out soon, or maybe consider using those binoculars to watch some birds or something in nature instead.

This is not an ARG, this is actually real. Hopefully he gives up soon, cause this creeps me out so badly.

My husband died in a cave diving accident two weeks ago. Well, at least that’s what I thought until the night he showed up at our front door.

A billowing wave of vertigo washed over me when I first saw him. Of course, there was relief somewhere in there, but so much about his return didn’t make any sense. After all, the authorities had searched for him for days. Ultimately, it lasted a week. It was hard to reason with the idea that he had miraculously survived being stuck within the cave system for that long. There was the question of air supply, food, and managing his body temperature.

Considering it was only meant to be a cave mapping expedition his team hadn’t decked him out with a surplus of gear. Even so, they had pressed the matter of safety. In total, he was accompanied by 14 other divers. The teams were paired together in groups of three. Everyone called to the task was an experienced diver and all their equipment was inspected the day of. On paper, it wasn’t supposed to end up the way it did, but it had.

I’ve always hated this hobby of his. Nothing could ever make me understand why he couldn’t just do something else, something less perilous, but I digress.

Initially, the cavern had been mapped by a submersible, but the surveyors decided it would be best to send down volunteer divers to confirm the measurements and put guidelines on the routes. Jordan and his team were swimming through a passage when he told one of his partners he had seen something. Apparently, there was an offshoot cavern that wasn’t detected by the submersible. I can picture him now, eager to see it for himself, ready for the discovery and ever so keen to explore. Jordan was a pioneer in his own right. He loved a good adventure, loved the idea of finding something wondrous and new. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with him, but he didn’t have to be so reckless about it.

I’m told that in his blind pursuit, he disregarded the advice of his diving partners. They say he told them he’d check it out quickly and that he’d be right back. Right back turned to a minute and then a minute became minutes and by the time it was an hour they had already called for a rescue team. Before the rescue team arrived, one of his partners went in after him, but that diver had come back explaining that further into the canal was too tight for her to fit. The rescue team persisted regardless, but sure enough, the canal was too small. They couldn’t understand how Jordan had managed to fit, because there was absolutely no trace of him elsewhere. So they attempted to look inside with a camera.

I got to see that footage myself.

There was nothing. Nothing, but a vast expanse of a suffocating void. The camera ventured around for hours, but still, there were no new clues to the whereabouts of my husband. Not a trace of his gear or rubble or anything. Not a single trace of my Jordan. He was gone. It was as if he had just vanished. A few days after that, I was left with the ultimate decision, and with a heavy heart, he was pronounced dead. We held a service by the place he loved most, his final resting place. The ocean.

I was just as hollow as the casket I tried to imagine him in. Surrounded by loved ones mourning him yet disoriented because he wasn’t actually there. That night I kept picturing him walking through the door, kissing the top of my head and telling me about the dive and everything he might’ve seen on it. But that didn’t happen. I wept and slept alone. His side of the bed felt unbearably cold. His absence left its very own cavern within our home, within me.

But then he came home.

On such an ordinary day no less. Insubstantial when compared to the hassle of funeral and estate planning that had occurred the days prior. My body was huddled into a piteous ball, rotting on the corner of the couch as I scrolled through my phone reminiscing over old videos of us together. Then, the doorbell rang. It was late, much too late for a delivery driver or the press. My thumb tapped the security app and when I saw what was on my doorbell camera I practically threw my phone. Standing in the fisheye lens frame was a figure clad in full scuba gear. It was as if I had seen a ghost. I rushed to the door, hands trembling as I turned the knob. What kind of sicko plays a prank like this, I thought. Did they view my suffering as some kind of joke? My shoulders tensed as I opened the door, but when I did, when I looked up, it was truly him. Jordan stood there, hunched over in the doorway wetsuit still dripping.

“I’m home, Dear.”

The wail that escaped me bordered on inhuman. I lurched forward into him, my body quaking with frenzied sobs. His heavy hand patted at my back before sliding down, over and over. The movement felt stiff, almost practiced. I was barely done embracing him before he pushed past me, stumbling into the foyer. He had begun to strip off his gear, peeling out of the second skin that was his wetsuit until he was completely naked. It fell to the tile with a poignant thwack.

“Oh, Dear. I am famished. Love, what’s for dinner?”

“Jordan,” my voice hushed and gravely from days of crying, “Where have you been?”

“On my dive, of course. I’m just coming back a little late.” He stumbled around looking over our walls and shelves like a kid on a field trip to the Smithsonian.

“A little late? It’s been two weeks!” He halted as I exclaimed.

The turn of his head was unsettlingly rigid as he peered back in my direction.

“Should I not have come back, Dear?”

The question floored me and instantly I was overcome with guilt. He was right. I had been provided with a miracle, something so many others could only dream of. My husband had found his way back to me and here I was fussing over the details.

“No, no, no. That’s not what I meant.” I wiped the tears from my eyes and straightened out my back, “I’m sorry, you’re right. How about you just sit down and get comfortable? As a matter of fact, I’ll whip up your favorite. How does salmon sound?”

His movement as he descended upon me was mechanical, expression flat as he approached. For some reason I froze, my body stiffening as he stood before me. I couldn’t gauge what he was about to do. Thankfully, he simply snaked his arms around me pulling me in with an unsure squeeze. His lips were upturned into a thin-lipped smile. The kind of smile you give your dentist, not your wife.

“Dear, that sounds exceptional! I cannot wait to consume this.” I was so relieved to be released from his clasp, but his scent still lingered. It was briny and smelled of damp limestone.

Without another word, he continued to peruse around our home. I walked over the trail of his gear,  making my way to the kitchen. Our fridge was empty for the most part. I found it hard to eat over the past couple of days. Thankfully, we had some frozen fillets and vegetables. I tried to keep my mind on cooking and just being grateful that my husband had returned, but something wasn’t right. I saw that video. I saw how small that canal was. Jordan was, is, a big man. Tall and well-muscled. The partner who sought him out was a five-foot-nothing woman, thin and lithe. Even she couldn’t fit through there, so how did he? And how had he gotten himself back out?

My eyes trailed him as he ventured around, picking up and putting down whatever he could get his hands on. I wanted to think he was just excited to be back. That he was just relieved to have survived that crazy ordeal. But he wasn’t acting like someone safe and sound back home. He was behaving like it was all, well, new. As if he had never seen it all before.

After I finished preparing dinner, I set the table for us. Normally, we would just eat on the sofa together with food tray stands pulled out as one of our shows for the week played on the TV. But this wasn’t a normal dinner and I didn’t feel normal and Jordan wasn’t acting normal. We sat across from one another at the table. I was in pajamas I had worn for days and he was still completely naked. Vacant eyes scanned over the food, his tongue darting out to lick the corner of his lips.

“This looks divine, Dear. Let’s dig in!” He ignored the fork and knife he was previously holding up like tuning forks. Instead, he chose to dig his hand into the fillet, greedily shoveling it down his throat.

Jordan wasn’t a stickler for table manners, but this was unusual. The more I watched him the more I realized that something was deeply off about him. His skin looked unusually tight. Maybe it was dehydration?

I picked up the water pitcher before taking his glass and filling it. The sound of the ice clinking was barely audible in comparison to the gulping erupting from his gullet. I gently slid the cup towards his side of the table. He took a pause from his meal, eyes honing in on the water. He dropped the food letting it fall from his mouth and back onto the plate, before grasping the glass and guzzling it all down with a delighted hum.

“Jordan, how was the dive?” My breaths felt uneven, but I ignored it. I tried to ignore it.

He held the glass away from his lips, face smeared with fish and ice water.

“Oh, it was splendid, Darling! A real success I’d say.”

“Really? Did you just get lost down there then? How did you find your way back?” My throat felt so dry. It was as if I was suffocating, but I knew I could breathe. I could breathe and everything was normal. But it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t.

“Dear, I was never lost. I was just looking around. That’s all!” He filled his mouth with all of the ice that sat at the bottom of the glass and began chewing it robotically then swallowing.

“Looking around? …Okay.” Something is very wrong. “Well, what did you see then?” 

The glass cracked as he bit into it.

The cup shattered as his teeth came down again and again, sharp shards slicing into the roof of his mouth, gums, and lips as he chewed it absentmindedly.

I screamed.

He had the nerve to look at me shocked, before putting it down and spitting out what fragments he could onto his plate.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” I leapt from the table. I wanted to call an ambulance, call the police, the news, anyone.

“Oh, Dear! I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just so thirsty. I must have gotten carried away.”

“You need to go to the hospital. We need to go to the emergency room.” My words came out weaker than I intended. My hands trembled at my side as I paced back and forth.

“No, no. I am perfectly fine. Everything is fine.” The chair creaked as he stood from the table, blood still staining his lips, “I just need a good night's sleep. We can talk about all that stuff in the morning.”

My eyes were trained on my feet now, but I could hear him rummaging through the kitchen. Yet, I was still too shocked to care. Once he was finished with whatever he was doing in there, he made his way over to the couch and plucked the throw from it to drape over my shoulders and keep me still. It was decorative and usually I would’ve fussed about using it, but it was the most comforting thing he had done to me since being back.

His cold, damp hands ushered me over to the stairs when suddenly he stopped behind me. His eyes were fixed at the top of the steps, his shoulders wound up like tight springs. Perched curiously at the peak was our pretty little Persian, Luna.

“She’s missed you too. She’s been holed up under the bed since you left. She must’ve come out when she heard your voice.” I continued onward, petting Luna as I made my way to our room.

“Oh, yes. Our little Luna.” His voice seemed to lose its previous gusto. Hesitantly, he followed behind me, but when he reached for Luna she bowed her back and hissed with a ferocity entirely unlike her. Her paws rolled forward as she bolted away from him, diving into the room and under the bed. For a moment, he was frozen in place.

“Oh, geez! What a welcome, wouldn’t you say?” As though nothing happened, he continued past me and that’s when I saw what was clutched in his other hand. It was salt. He had brought up the full container of table salt.

“Jordan, why do you have that?”

“Hm, oh this? Well, I just thought I’d take a bath is all. Rest my muscles and such. Don’t mind me, Dear. You just get in bed and then I’ll be right there.”

I mindlessly nodded, but his answer only proposed more questions. My fingers weakly clutched at the throw, the beadwork uncomfortable against my skin as I sat myself down on the bed. Jordan waltzed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and sure enough the sound of rushing water followed soon after.

I couldn’t possibly understand why he would want to take a bath after being lost at sea. Hadn’t that been enough water? And why was he using table salt instead of Epsom? Why had Luna hissed at him with vitriol that I hadn’t even seen her offer to strangers? Luna loved Jordan.

But Jordan wasn’t acting like Jordan.

My refusal to think about it only made me want to think about it. Maybe he had hit his head down there. Whatever he went through it must have been traumatic, so it was ridiculous to expect him to just be himself right after. We could talk about it once he was done bathing. I heard the water from the spout shut off with an abrupt squeak and as though I was anticipating it my shoulders relaxed.

My back sank back into my headboard as I stared off looking over at his nightstand. It was the same as he’d left it, completely untouched. I’m sure he’d make it all make sense to me and then we could go back to the way things used to be. Maybe he’d even quit cave diving and we could do something together instead. Everything was going to be okay. That’s what I told myself as I waited for him to climb into bed. But as I started to drift off to sleep, the bed remained empty.

I was jolted awake by an abrupt yowl erupting from the hallway. My feet stumbled frantically as I rushed out of bed to inspect what was causing all of the commotion. There was nothing that could prepare me for what I saw.

Jordan’s jaw was dislodged at an unfathomable angle and Luna was halfway down his throat, her body writhing and thrashing in a feeble attempt to escape. Only the white of his eyes were visible as they were rolled back into his head. Instantly my own wailing melded into a chorus alongside Luna’s as I began to beat at my husband with the beaded throw. A thunderous growl erupted from his throat as he disgorged and released her. Luna fell to the carpet, fur sticky and flat against her body. Once she got her bearings she ran yowling the whole way in horror at the ordeal.

“What is wrong with you?! What the hell were you doing?!”

“I was just getting a good look at her, that's all. I didn’t mean to upset you, Dear.”

Bewildered. I felt completely bewildered. I couldn’t even begin to know how to respond to him.

“Oh, darn. I’ve gone and upset you again. How about I make us breakfast? Let’s get this morning started the right way.” I couldn’t stop imagining the way that his jaw unhinged like a hogfish around our Luna. The man that walked down the stairs felt like a stranger to me.

Thankfully, I was able to find Luna and she let me check her out without too much of a fuss. She was fine for the most part, just covered in spit. I don’t know. It had that smell. That funky, salty smell that's coming from Jordan. It’s so hard to describe, but it reminds me of an aquarium touch pool or the beach when the tide is low. He smelled like seawater but specifically when it was teeming with life. Like a fishbowl that needed a good cleaning.

The chair rocked under me slightly as I bounced my foot nervously; my fingers played at the stray thread of my sweater’s sleeve. The fire alarm was blaring and I could see him frantically waving the smoke away from it. I could’ve helped, but my mind was elsewhere. There were more pressing matters at hand. I had questions and I needed them answered.

After some time, Jordan came from the kitchen and presented me with a bowl. Not a plate. A bowl. Underneath the heap of runny eggs and blueberries, I could make out what I could only assume to be a pancake. His eyes gazed over me expectantly as I timidly combed through my “meal”. I took a hesitant bite from a piece of my pancake and immediately wretched at the overwhelming taste of baking soda. Across the table, Jordan was shoveling down his meal like the night before.

“Mighty fine if I do say so myself. What about you, Dear?”

“We should tell everyone you’re back. Your mother needs to be the first to know and then we’ll need to go down to the hospital so they can-”

“Let’s worry about all of that stuff later, Honey. Today can just be about us.”

“What does that even mean? I don’t think you understand, Jordan. We held a funeral. We thought you were dead. We don’t just get to pretend all of that never happened. You need a medical evaluation. Hell, maybe a psychological one. We have to go see someone-”

“NO!!!” He erupted from the table and for just a moment I am certain I saw his body swell in size. His expression remained eerily flat, but his voice. Oh god, his voice. Just a deep, guttural croak. I was frozen there as he walked up to me. He knelt down and leveled with my eyes, his hands rested on my face and they were cold. So, so cold. And finally I could see how glassy his eyes were. Milky, hollow husks.

“No, Dear. Just you and me. Just how it should be. How about we watch a movie?”

He started to swirl and blur in my vision. I held onto that image. The image of him swimming amongst my tears. His comforts just as empty as they had been the night before. Pat. Drag. Pat. Drag.

Pat.

Drag.

The day was rather uneventful. We watched a movie and caught up on chores. He didn’t talk about what happened in the cave and I didn’t ask. It was probably the most time we’ve spent together in months. We moved here for Jordan’s work and he’d been so busy ever since between that and diving. It felt nice just spending the day together, like old times. I had almost forgotten about the morning when we were just about to go to bed. Instead of going to his side of the mattress he made his way to the bathroom.

“Just gonna take a bath. I’ll be right out, Dear.” Before I could protest, he closed the door behind him.

I don’t know why I did it, but I know now that I wish I hadn’t. I waited for the faucet to stop and then I waited and waited for him to come to bed. Then I was sick of waiting. Quietly, I slipped from the covers my steps certain as I neared the bathroom door. The silver of the knob glinted against the light of the moon as it washed in through our bedroom window. Open me it said. Come see for yourself.

And I did.

Our master bathroom was dressed in lunar blue. The tiles plain mottled slate danced with the shuddering shadows of leaves in the night breeze. Little ghosts that taunted me to come closer. The drip of the tub’s spout echoed rhythmically.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

From the entrance, I could see the tub was full, but there was no Jordan. At least, not at the surface. I crept closer until I was standing over the bath and that’s when I saw him. Swaying about like laundry in a basin was Jordan or at least the shell of Jordan. Grey eyes gawked at me but were completely devoid of consciousness. His mouth was agape, but not a single breath was taken. He was empty, just a bag of skin that drifted aimlessly within the water, except I could see something rippling to and fro within him. I watched the mass as it traveled rolling around in his gut, then crawling through his chest and throat until I was met with a singular polychromatic eye. And then he screamed. That guttural croak of a scream. His body expanded almost instantly and suddenly he had burst to the surface.

My throat was hot with panic as I wailed. My hands grasped for anything, anyone as I flew from our bedroom and down the stairs and into the kitchen. I threw open our drawers searching for a knife and grabbed the first I could find. But my phone. Where did I leave my phone?

“Dear, don’t you know it’s rude to walk in on someone bathing?” His voice was still somewhere between Jordan’s and that thing's. As if it hadn’t completely settled yet.

I clutched the knife behind me, turning towards the stairs. He stood there, still dripping. My heart pounded hard in my chest threatening to burst out. The pressure in my head was a warning that I may soon pass out. My phone. Where did I leave my phone?

“Oh, I get it now. I know what you want.” His lips pulled back into that tight unnerving smile, “I got just what you need.”

He began to saunter down the stairs.

His shoulders shimmied and his hips began to turn and sway as he made his way over to me and the laugh that escaped me was one of unnerved horror and complete utter disbelief. I think he took it as delight.

“Honey, I’m gonna give it to you and I’m gonna give it to you good.” A flimsy tendril dragged over his eye. He strolled closer until he was just an arm's length away. My knuckles tensed as I clenched the handle of the knife still hidden at my back.

He raised a single hand, wiggling his fingers before sensually sliding it down his chest and stomach until he was over his penis. He gripped it at its base and then he began to pull. His fingers dug into the flesh, nails biting into skin and he pulled and pulled and I could see old brown blood beginning to ooze as he tried to tear away at the flesh.

Losing all the composure I had initially been able to muster I broke out into a fit of wailing. This seems to have broken his concentration as I brought the knife to the front clutching it to my chest with fear and confusion.

“Oh! Oh, geez! Dear, what’s wrong? I thought this was what you wanted!”

“Why the fuck would I want any of this?! What are you doing?!”

“Well, you came looking at me and you had the knife! I was gonna give it to you! You know, so you could-”

My knees gave out as I fell to the ground sobbing. I’m certain I was having a panic attack.

Jordan stared at me, expressionless, but his own confusion was evident.

“Let’s get you to bed, Dear.”

I don’t know why, but I didn’t fight when he helped me up. The knife fell to the tile with a cold clank and I felt so embarrassed at the version of myself I saw within the metal. Warped and barely visible but still a mess all the same.

Jordan sat me in the bed, tucking me under our duvet and draping our sofa's decorative throw over top. I lay flat on my back, staring up at our ceiling, and this time he sat on his side of the bed. His hand rested on my thigh. Pat. Drag. Pat. Drag.

“You’re not my husband are you…”

I was met with silence. My jaw clenched tight and I was just about to force myself to ask again, but then he spoke. Not aloud, but within.

No. No, I am not.

When morning came I was catatonic. I could still hear and see everything around me, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I couldn’t bring myself to move. I couldn’t bring myself to cry. I just didn’t want to feel. Once again, my world had been turned upside down. Only this time I didn’t know what up or down really was.
Jordan. No. Whatever puppeteered Jordan came in to check on me. It tried to get me out of bed, tried to get me to eat. But I refused. I didn’t want to play this game. Whatever it was. I just wanted my husband back. But not like this.

When night came, I had finally found the strength to get up. I had questions and I needed answers. But he was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere in the house, including the bath. I searched under the bed, but only Luna came out. I scoured the backyard, but was met with nothing. Then finally, I knew where he would be.

The drive to the beach didn’t take long. I parked the car and stepped out, welcomed by the sound of the night tide and the light of a glorious full moon. I could see a trail of steps in the sand, going towards the shore. Standing with his back to me at the water's edge was Jordan. His hands were held pensively behind his back. He didn’t look at me as he spoke.

“I believe it’s best that I leave.”

My chest was tight. Wound up with a tsunami of emotions.

“You…You are so selfish. So that’s it? You just drag me here away from my friends away from my family and this is how it ends? I gave up everything, everything to be with you. I gave up my career. I gave up my home. I gave up myself and you think you just get to leave? What about everything we made together? What about Luna? What about me?!”

The muscles of his back flexed, but otherwise he stayed still. His silence was as palpable as the salt that lingered in the air.

“You know, when you said we should have a baby I thought that me saying we should wait until you get more time to be home would make you actually put in some effort to, I don’t know, spend more time with me? But you didn’t. Instead, you just threw yourself into more work, into more anything, just to not be with me. Why? Why do you do that? You act as if I said no, but you knew what I meant. Why am I always the one compromising Jordan? Why am I always the one giving up pieces of myself to hold onto you?”

The waves thrummed against the sand like a melancholic metronome.

“And that woman. When she told me she went after you, she was crying so hard. At first, I thought she was so sad because she thought I was mad she couldn’t find you, but then she showed up to the funeral and she was just bawling. Just absolute waterworks over my husband and I don’t even know who the hell she is. Who is that woman Jordan?”

Tears painted my face, but I wiped them. As he turned to me I knew the importance of seeing him clearly for the last time.

Not Jordan faced me. His expression remained even yet his oil-slick eyes were solemn as he spoke. His voice was as steady as the tide before us.

“In his final moments there was nothing he regretted more than traversing by my lair. Just you and him. That is how he wanted it to be. He wished for anything, anything to get to sit beside you one more time enjoying one another's presence. He did love you, Jasmine. He loved you.”

Without another word, I watched as it ripped itself out of my Jordan. It unhinged his jaw like a door, pulling itself out as his body fell to the sand, folding over itself like an empty wetsuit. The creature was a gelatinous mass of eyes and tendrils. My eyes burned as I tried to fathom its ever-shifting hues under the light of the moon. The swirling patterns screamed at me the way a diamondback’s scales yell out at a mouse.

Run away. Don’t come near me. I will kill you.

When the next tide came it took to it and into the sea it went, washed away with the brine. I flew over to Jordan, my Jordan. His body now a truly empty husk, but I held him to me and I wept. The sounds of my cries crescendoing amongst the song of the tides. The shell of my husband so empty and lifeless. But he was mine. All mine.

Beach security found me cradling Jordan’s slough. I gave the authorities quite a hard time as they tried to seize his remains for an autopsy, but in the end they succeeded. They still don’t know what to make of it and nobody believed me when I told them the truth. They’re saying I must have had a fit of trauma-induced psychosis due to the state I found his body in. My parents have since stepped in and have me seeing a grief therapist. She’s supposed to help me make sense of my feelings and surprisingly it has been helpful. That's why I’ve decided to write out my account of the ordeal. Though I’m certain she will write this off as further delusion and recommend that my psychiatrist increase my prescription dosage. But I know what I experienced and I certainly know what I saw. I still don’t understand why that thing decided to slide out from the depths and play ventriloquist with my husband’s corpse or why it then chose to trail back to our home and attempt normalcy, but what I can say is that in a way I am grateful for it.

Because, it let me get to see my Jordan one last time.

It all started here

https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/9YR8vFMJsR

The first time I heard him call for her, I was on the linoleum floor of the hospital room, my palm resting on his scalp. He was a man—older than me, with gray in his beard and knees that didn’t straighten all the way. There were scars across his back like old leather straps. But when I ran my fingers through his hair, he went still. His eyes closed, and he leaned into my hand like a dog that’s been kicked too many times and doesn’t know what gentleness is supposed to feel like.

Then he turned his head toward the door and made this sound—low, guttural, almost a moan. “Ma,” he said. Then again, “Ma.”

The doctor and I just looked at each other. We didn’t get it at first. Then it clicked.

“She’s coming,” I told him. “She’s on her way.”

His whole body jolted. He scrambled up so fast he almost took me out at the knees trying to get to that door.

I’ve replayed that moment every night since.

My name’s Cal Mercer. I run a demolition crew. Last Thursday, we broke into a room that wasn’t on the blueprints at the old Coldwater Packing plant. Inside was a man in a pen. Not a cell—a pen. Straw on the floor, a metal bell on the wall. He had a tag in his ear like cattle do. It read 17-B.

We found photos tucked behind a loose cinderblock. One showed him as a kid, maybe four or five, asleep against something huge. The thing holding him had skin like pale rubber and six fingers. The boy was smiling in his sleep.

I ended my last post there because what comes next isn’t just about him. It’s about me. And Sam. And how fucking easy it is to lie to someone who wants to believe you.

The cops held us until sundown. They took statements, bagged our tools as evidence, told us not to come back.

I sat in a folding chair by the loading dock, watching uniforms come and go. Every time one looked my way, my stomach tightened.

Sam usually can’t shut up. That day, he was quiet. Just sat there rubbing his hands like he was trying to wipe something off.

“You think he knew?” Sam asked finally. “What was happening to him?”

“He knew we weren’t them,” I said.

Sam held up his hand. There was blood dried under his thumbnail from where he’d grabbed the man’s arm to keep him from bolting back inside.

“He ate like my kid does when she’s starving,” Sam said. “Just… grateful.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You remember his face when you gave him that second granola bar?”

I nodded.

“Whole life in a cage,” Sam said, voice thick. “And a fucking granola bar makes him light up.”

We sat there for a long time after that.

Then Sam said, “There were three pens, Cal.”

“I saw.”

“Two were empty.”

Yeah. I saw that too. Saw the fresh straw, the full feed bags stacked against the wall. Enough for more than one.

When they let us go, Sam got pissed because they kept our inspection camera. It was borrowed. Expensive.

I snapped at him—”Who gives a shit about the camera? We just pulled a person out of a fucking box.”

It was a cheap shot. I’m behind on payments for the skid steer. Using my personal card for diesel. I didn’t tell him that. Instead I made him feel like an asshole for worrying about losing a tool we can’t afford to replace.

He didn’t fight back. Just said, “All right, Cal,” and kept loading the truck without another word.

I should’ve apologized.

I didn’t.

Driving home, my daughter Nora called.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “People are saying you found bodies.”

“Just one man,” I told her. “He’d been living there awhile.”

“Was he scared?”

I remembered the screaming. The way he clawed at the concrete when we dragged him toward daylight.

“Terrified,” I said.

“But you helped him?”

“Tried.”

“That’s good, Dad.”

She still says things like that. Still thinks I’m someone worth saying it to.

I told her I’d take her to that photo exhibit Saturday. She asked if I was sure—like she was already preparing for me to cancel.

“I’m sure,” I said.

After we hung up, I sat in the driveway with the engine off and thought about that little boy in the photograph—asleep in the arms of something that wasn't human.

I wondered if anyone had ever made him a promise before.

And if he would've believed them if they did.

I could tell she wasn’t particularly impressed with me.

She wanted to know why we’d opened the concealed door instead of contacting the property manager, whether we’d moved anything inside the enclosure, and exactly how the man had reacted when Sam struck the railing with his flashlight.

I explained everything again.

When I described the man dropping onto his knees and covering his head, she stopped writing.

“Did he do that before or after you opened the enclosure?”

“Before.”

“And the gate was still locked?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he look toward the gate when he heard the noise?”

I thought about it.

“No. He just dropped down. Like he knew what was coming.”

“What did you think was coming?”

I shrugged.

“Something bad, I guess.”

Vale looked at me for several seconds.

“Did either of you strike him?”

I felt my face get hot.

“No.”

“I’m asking because we need to establish what happened.”

“We didn’t hurt him.”

“All right.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“Look, I know we shouldn’t have gone into that room without calling somebody. I know we probably screwed up your investigation by opening the gate. But we found a grown man lying in his own piss inside a fucking livestock pen. We weren’t going to close the door and wait around until somebody told us what to do.”

She let me finish.

Then she said, “I wasn’t suggesting you should have.”

I felt like an idiot.

That was becoming a recurring problem.

She opened a folder and slid a photograph across the table. It showed the little room behind the pens, the one with the padded chair and all the pictures on the wall.

“We’ve established that somebody was using this room recently. There was fresh food packaging, a working heater, and cleaning supplies that don’t appear to have been there long.”

“So whoever kept him there could still be around?”

“Possibly.”

“What about the pictures?”

“What about them?”

I tapped the photograph.

“The thing holding him. Have you figured out what that is?”

She watched me for a moment.

“We’re examining everything we recovered.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

I was starting to understand why she was a detective.

She could tell you absolutely nothing while making you feel like you’d just had an entire conversation.

Then she asked whether I’d be willing to visit the man at the hospital.

Apparently, he’d been causing problems.

He’d pulled out an IV, refused several meals, and bitten a nurse when she tried to remove the identification band from his wrist. Nobody had been able to get him to communicate, but he’d responded to a recording of my voice from one of the officers’ body cameras.

“Responded how?” I asked.

“He became calmer.”

I stared at her.

“You’re telling me he recognizes me?”

“We think he might. The doctors believe a familiar person could help.”

I didn’t particularly want to see him again.

I know that sounds awful, but I hadn’t slept much the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him crouched in the straw or remembered the enormous hand wrapped around that little boy.

Part of me wanted to go back to tearing down buildings and pretending none of this had happened.

But then I thought about how he’d looked at me when I’d given him water.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll go.”

The hospital had put him in a private room away from the busier parts of the floor. A social worker met me near the elevators and introduced me to Dr. Nwosu, one of the physicians overseeing his care.

She was a small woman with tired eyes and a surprisingly direct way of speaking.

Before we went inside, she explained that they still didn’t know how much language he understood.

“He appears to recognize certain sounds and routines,” she said. “But his responses aren’t always consistent. We’re being careful not to assume he lacks understanding simply because he can’t communicate in ways we’re familiar with.”

“Can he talk?”

“He’s made several vocalizations. We haven’t identified any reliable words yet.”

“What about his legs?”

Her expression changed.

“There’s extensive damage to his joints. Some of it appears to have developed over many years.”

“Can you fix it?”

“We’re still assessing him. Physical therapy may help, but I don’t want to promise you something we can’t deliver.”

She showed me through a small observation window in the door.

The man was sitting on a mattress on the floor.

They’d moved the hospital bed against the wall after he repeatedly tried to crawl underneath it. He was wearing a hospital gown, although he’d pulled it halfway off one shoulder, and somebody had given him a thick gray blanket.

He was rocking gently with his knees tucked beneath him.

Every few seconds, he rubbed a corner of the blanket against his mouth.

He looked smaller than I remembered.

I asked how old he was.

“We don't know. Our estimate is somewhere in his early to mid-forties.”

"Jesus. He's older than me."

She nodded.

For some reason, that made everything feel worse.

I'd spent the morning complaining about unpaid bills and a sore back. This man had lived four decades inside a room smaller than my garage.

Dr. Nwosu explained that his health was unusual in several ways.

He had nutritional deficiencies, old injuries, and the kind of muscle and joint changes you'd expect from prolonged confinement. But he also showed evidence of medical care.

Some of his injuries had been treated properly. Several of his teeth had restorations that required specialized equipment, and there were surgical scars that appeared to have healed cleanly.

I asked if that meant somebody had been taking him to a doctor.

"Not necessarily," she said. "Only that someone with access to medical knowledge and equipment treated him."

"Why would somebody do that and then keep him locked in a pen?"

She looked through the window.

"I wish I knew."

Then she opened the door.

The man didn't notice us immediately.

He was sitting with his back against the wall, staring down at the blanket in his lap. His hair had been washed, and somebody had trimmed a few particularly tangled sections of his beard.

He looked almost ordinary from that angle.

Then he shifted, and I saw the way his legs bent beneath him—not like human legs should bend, but like something kept too long in too small a space until it grew into its confines permanently. The bones seemed wrong beneath skin mapped with scars both old and new—some clean surgical lines, others ragged like something had torn at him once and healed badly without proper care except where it mattered most for keeping him functional as livestock must be kept functional so they don't spoil before their time comes due—

Dr. Nwosu kept his voice low. “Hey there. Someone’s here to see you.”

The man looked up. His rocking stopped. For a few seconds he just stared, then made a soft noise in his throat and started crawling toward me.

I got down on my haunches. “Hey, buddy.”

He halted about two feet away. His eyes went from my face to my hands, then he ducked his head like he was waiting for a blow.

I thought I’d scared him, so I eased back a little.

But then he came closer before I could figure it out—just leaned in and pressed his forehead right into my open palm.

I froze.

He stayed like that, just this gentle, steady pressure against my hand.

From the doorway, Dr. Nwosu said, “I think… I think he wants you to pet him.”
I moved my fingers slowly through his hair. His eyes closed immediately and a deep, pleased sound came from his throat. I kept rubbing, and he moved closer until his cheek rested against my knee. For a few minutes, he seemed completely happy. I don't know how to explain what it felt like—a grown man with a gray beard and scars all over his body responding to the kind of affection you'd give a dog. The worst part was how natural it seemed to him. No embarrassment, no confusion. He wanted somebody to pet him, and when I did, he relaxed completely.

I remember looking at his hands resting on the floor. The knuckles were thick with scarred skin, the palms looking more like the bottoms of someone's feet than hands. I wondered how old he'd been when he stopped walking upright. Had somebody forced him to crawl? Punished him for standing? Or had he simply grown up in a place where nobody ever showed him how a human being was supposed to move?

I kept thinking about the picture of him standing as a toddler. At some point, he'd been able to walk. Someone had taken that away from him.

After a while, he lifted his head and looked toward the door. Then he made a noise I hadn't heard before—three soft sounds, a pause, then three more. His eyes stayed fixed on the doorway.

I looked at Dr. Nwosu. "That's what he was doing when you brought him out of the pen?"

She nodded. "He's been doing it regularly."

"What's it mean?"

"We aren't certain."

He made the noise again, and this time I heard something underneath it—something close to a word. Something like "muh." He looked at me. "Muh-duh."

I felt my stomach tighten.

Dr. Nwosu crouched beside us. "Can you say that again?"

The man glanced at her, then back toward the door. "Muh-duh."

I stared at him. "Is he saying mother? Do you think—" I thought of the photographs—that enormous pale arm wrapped around him, holding him while he slept.

Without really thinking, I asked, "Are you looking for your mom?"

His whole expression changed. His eyes widened and he made a sharp, excited sound. "Mom!" he repeated, then began calling louder: "Muh-duh! Muh-duh!" He scrambled toward the door so quickly he almost fell backward. He grabbed the handle and tried to pull himself upright, but his legs trembled beneath him. He made a frustrated whining noise when he couldn't reach properly.

Dr. Nwosu moved toward him. "Easy now, it's okay."

He ignored her, staring through the little window in the door and making that calling sound over and over.

It was horrible to watch. He looked excited at first—almost joyful—but when nobody appeared, he became agitated. He scratched at the door and tried to push his fingers beneath it.

When Dr. Nwosu gently guided him away, he began crying—not screaming or throwing things, just crying. He sat on the floor looking toward the hallway, making those soft noises between sobs.

I tried to comfort him but he pulled away.

It took almost ten minutes for him to settle down.
“That’s our working assumption.”

I stared at the words.

Somebody had trained him.

Not just taught him to do things, but studied exactly how he responded to punishment and rewards.

They’d documented how much he ate, how well he slept, and how he reacted when separated from whoever cared for him.

There was even a note about his vocal behavior.

Prolonged isolation produces persistent calling. Appetite decreases until caretaker contact is restored.

I thought about him crying against the hospital door.

Vale clicked to another page.

The folder crackled in my hands, the paper inside the color of old teeth. It was a growth chart, but it tracked things that had nothing to do with a child. Height. Weight. Notes on compliance.

Some of the lines were just numbers. Others made the cold coffee in my gut lurch.

Resistance to positioning: Moderate.
Correction response: Satisfactory.
Unassisted standing: Discouraged.

I leaned in until my nose almost smudged the screen. “Unassisted standing?” My own voice sounded foreign.

Vale didn’t move.

I read it again. They didn’t just let him stay down. They trained him to stay down.

Further down, another line.
Quadrupedal mobility established. Further correction unnecessary.

I shoved the laptop. It screeched across the tabletop. My throat felt like it was packed with sand. Yesterday I’d felt sorry for a man who couldn’t walk. Now I knew they’d beaten it out of him.

“Why?” It came out raw, like a cough. “Why would you do that?”

Vale just shook her head, slow, and opened another window. Dozens of folders, each labeled with a cold string of numbers and letters. 12-G. 08-C. 22-F.

Her cursor hovered, a nerve twitching in her wrist, then clicked. The screen bloomed with a high-resolution nightmare. An infant, splayed on bare concrete, its skin mottled and raw.

Another click. An old woman, skeletal, curled on soiled straw, a metal tag stapled through the loose skin of her wrist, the number 43-B stark against the bruised flesh.

Another.

The same featureless gray walls, the same rust-streaked feed trough bolted to the floor like an altar.

A woman sat against the wall, a toddler’s face buried in her neck, an older child’s head a dead weight in her lap. All three wore the steel bands. The woman was staring directly into the lens, her eyes not pleading, not even sad, but utterly hollowed out, two voids where a soul should have been.

“Have you found them?” I asked. “Any of them?”

“Not yet.”

“How many are there?”

“Twenty-nine confirmed individuals.”

The number just hung there. Twenty-nine.

“Jesus Christ. Where are they?”

“We’re working on that.”

Heat prickled up my neck. There were pictures of kids behind bars and she was talking about “working on it”.I jabbed a finger at the woman frozen on the screen. “Those kids. Are they alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“How old is that picture?”

“We’re still establishing dates.”

I had to turn away from the glow of it, from her calm face.

“I understand you’re upset,” she said, her voice low and flat. “So am I. But yelling at me won’t find them faster.”

She was right. I hated that she was right. I muttered something like sorry.

She gave a tight nod and pulled up a new scan—handwritten notes on cheap lined paper.
Subject: 17-B
At the top: Birth

“He was born there?”

“It appears so.”

I kept reading.
Dam: 09-A

I knew that word from my grandpa’s farm. A dam is a breeding female.

My eyes stuck on the number. “They logged his mother like she was stock.”

Vale didn’t say no.

Further down.
Weaning
Stock
Breeding Cycle
A list of infant IDs under 09-A’s number.
Some had dates next to them.
Others had one word: Culled

I looked at Vale, my voice dropping into something quiet and mean. “These are fucking livestock records.”

“That is one interpretation,” she said carefully.

“One interpretation? What other one is there? They weighed babies like calves. They put his mother in a breeding cycle.” My hands were trembling on the table edge. “They broke a man until he thought crawling was normal and eating from a trough was dinner.” The words tasted like metal. “They kept him in a goddamn pen.”

Vale waited until I was done, her own calm finally fracturing to show the exhaustion and dread underneath.“I agree the evidence points to systematic… husbandry,” she said, spitting the word out like it was rotten.“But we don’t know who, or how many, or where the others are now.”

She shut the file. Her knuckles were white where she gripped it. "There's something else," she said, her voice dropping so low I had to lean in. "Behind the refrigeration unit downstairs. A reinforced passageway. It's not on any of the prints."

My throat went tight. "A basement?"

"Could be."

"You go in?"

"No." She finally looked up from the desk, and her eyes were flat, exhausted. "Structural's shaky. There's live power running to it." She let that hang between us for a beat. "And fresh scuff marks on the floor leading in."

I remembered the warm, damp air that had sighed out from behind that broken section of wall. The lights still on down the hall.

Someone was still using this place.

"How far back does it go?"

"Don't know."

I swallowed. "Could there be more people?"

Vale didn't blink. "Yes."

It was the first straight answer she'd given me all day. She looked as hollowed out as I felt.

Before I left, I asked if Sam could swing by later to grab our gear once her people were done.

She told me the site was still an active investigation and that neither of us should come within a block of it.

I promised we wouldn't.

I meant it when I said it.

When I got home, there was a text from Nora asking if we were still on for the photography thing tomorrow.

I thumbed back a yes, pick you up at ten, just like we planned.

Then I sat on the couch and pulled up the photos from Coldwater Packing on my phone.

Don't know what I was looking for. Maybe just wanted to see the place looking normal again—like it had when we first rolled up. Just another rotting building.

Scrolled through shots of the loading dock, rusted electrical panels, busted refrigeration units. All boring as hell.

Then I found one Tyler had snapped of Sam near the processing line.

Sam had his hands on his hips, staring up at a section of overhead track with that pissed-off look he gets when something isn't where it's supposed to be.

Behind him, against a concrete wall, was some old piece of machinery crusted with rust.

And near the floor, half-hidden behind it, a rectangular metal grate.

I zoomed in.

The grate was painted the same shitty gray as the wall. There was a dark stain beneath it, like something had seeped out for years. The screws holding it in place looked new.

I stared at the photo until my eyes hurt.

Then I sent it to Sam.

“You see this?”

He wrote back five minutes later.

“Yeah saw it yesterday”

“What is it?”

“Vent probably”

I typed again.

“Vale says they found something under the building.”

No answer.

A few minutes went by.

Then my phone buzzed.

“I know.”

I sat up straight.

“What do you mean you know?”

Nothing.

I called him.

Went straight to voicemail.

Tried again.

Same thing.

I was starting to get pissed when Nora called. Her voice was too bright. She asked if we could do lunch at that little Italian spot near the museum instead of downtown. I told her yeah, fine. My thumb kept tapping the screen where Sam’s last message glowed.

She started telling me about this photography project she’s doing for school. Shooting abandoned places—old houses, empty stores. Normally I’d half-listen while scrolling through emails or thinking about work. But today her words hooked into me. She said these dead places hold onto little pieces of the people who left. A coffee cup on a sill. A kid’s drawing taped to a door. Like the buildings didn’t know they were empty yet.

I thought about those photos tacked up behind the pens. That padded chair sitting alone. Blankets folded neat at the foot of each cot. Somebody made a home there. Or something did.

Nora stopped. “You still there?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“You got quiet.”

“Long day.”

She hesitated. “You’re not gonna have to work tomorrow, are you?”

“No. I’m all yours.”

“Promise?”

I closed my eyes.“Promise.”

After we hung up, I made a sandwich and tried to watch TV. Couldn’t focus. The bread tasted like nothing. Around ten, I checked my phone again. Still nothing from Sam. I was about to call his wife when he finally rang. 10:47. I remember because I looked at the clock and thought about giving him shit for calling so late.

“Hey asshole,” I answered.

He didn’t laugh.

“Cal.”

His voice was all wrong—thin and stretched.

“What is it?”

“Listen to me.” He was whispering. There was an echo behind him, and underneath that, a steady plink… plink…like water dripping in a deep place.

“Where are you?”

A pause.

“Coldwater.”

I sat up.“What?”

“I’m at the plant.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

“Cal, just listen.”

“Sam, it’s a crime scene.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing there?”

He took a shaky breath.“Came back for that grate.”

I stood up.“Jesus Christ, Sam—why?”

“Wasn’t gonna go in. Just wanted to see where it led. There’s a service crawlspace under the loading dock.” I could hear him moving. The gritty scrape of his boots on concrete.“Thought maybe there was an access panel. Then I heard something.”

I stopped looking for my keys.“Heard what?”

“Crying.”

The whole room got quiet.“Where?”

“Under the floor.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”"Sounded like a cat at first. Weird little noise through the vent. Got closer… then I heard ‘help’."

I rubbed my forehead hard."Sam, get out and call 911."

"I yelled through the grate—nothing. There's a hatch under the dock. Wasn't locked."

My stomach turned."Tell me you didn't go down."

Silence."Sam."

"I'm already down here."

I grabbed my keys."Goddammit—get back outside."

"Just wait—"

"No—I'm calling Vale."

"Cal—I can hear them."

I froze."Them?"

Nothing for a long time.

Then through the phone—faint—a wet, hitching sound. Couldn't make out words. Just crying. A kid.At least that's what I thought.Sam whispered, "You hear that?""Yeah.""That's what came through the grate."There was another sound—

A metallic scraping sound echoed down the line. Sam’s breathing hitched. “Hello?” he called out, his voice bouncing off unseen walls. “Is someone there?”

The soft crying cut off.

“Sam, get out of there. Now.”

He didn’t listen. “Hey—I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m here to help.”

Something clanged against metal. I heard him jump back. Then, under his breath: “Holy shit.”

“What is it?”

“There’s another room back here.”

I pressed the phone hard against my ear. “What kind of room?”

“Like a cell. There’s a door with one of those reinforced windows.”

“Don’t open it.”

“There’s someone in there.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach. “Who?”

I could hear him shifting, his breath coming quicker. “A woman.”

I remembered the photos Vale had shown me—a woman on concrete, two kids huddled close.

“Is she hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can she see you?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then Sam said, “She’s just sitting on the floor.”

“Sam, listen to me. Back away and call for help.”

No answer.

“Sam?”

“She’s wearing one of those wristbands.”

My blood went still. “Like Seventeen?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Then Sam spoke up, louder this time. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

Something rustled in the background.

“Ma’am, I’m gonna get help, okay? We’ll get you out.”

A faint sound came through—soft, almost like sighing.

Sam went quiet for a long moment. Then, barely a whisper: “Cal?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s smiling at me.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Okay.”

“No—you don’t get it. She’s smiling like she knows me.”

Another scrape of metal. A sharp click.

Sam’s breath stopped.

“What was that?” I asked.

Nothing.

“Sam?”

I heard him step back. Once. Twice.

“Cal… there’s someone else down here.”

My grip on the phone turned slick. “Who?”

“I don’t know.”

A new sound came through—low, dragging, wet. Like something heavy being pulled across grit.

Sam muttered something I couldn’t catch. Then: “Jesus Christ.”

I was already sprinting toward my truck. “Sam, get out!”

No response.

“Sam!”

The woman made a sound again. Clearer now. A light, airy laugh—like a slow leak from a tire.

Then Sam yelled, “Stay back!”

Something heavy hit the floor. A horrible scrape followed by wet slaps—like raw meat hitting concrete.

I heard him running—hard, panicked steps echoing off close walls.

“Sam! Talk to me!”

He was gasping, sucking air like he’d been gut-punched. He managed four words before his voice shattered: “What the fuck are you?”000

A crash—glass or metal breaking.

Sam screamed—not scared, but shocked pure animal terror—cut short like his throat had been torn out.

Then silence. Thick. Wet.

I stood by my truck, phone glued to my ear, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I tasted metal.

I kept yelling his name.

Nothing.

But the line was still open.

For a few seconds, all I heard was the faint buzz of the connection and something else now—a drip… drip… drip hitting concrete near where Sam must have fallen.

It sped up. Spread.

Then footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Not human.

Each step landed with purpose—a dense, final sound.

They stopped near Sam’s phone.

I held my breath.

A soft clicking sound came through, close to the mic. Two clicks. Pause. Two more.

Just like Seventeen when he got nervous.

Calling.

The thing standing over Sam’s body was calling for something.

My legs buckled. I dropped onto the truck’s running board, jeans soaking up cold rainwater I didn’t feel.

I tried one last time: “Sam?”

No answer.

But then—breathing.

Right into the microphone.

Slow, wet pulls of air through fluid-clogged lungs. Each exhale rattled, but under it—a faint mechanical whirring, like an old motor struggling to turn.

Then I heard a low noise.

It sounded like the cooing noise you’d make to a spooked horse. Gentle. Reassuring.

Then the line went dead.

I called Sam back. Voicemail. Tried again. Nothing.

My hands shook dialing 911. I told the dispatcher my friend was inside the old slaughterhouse, that I’d just heard something happen to him over the phone. She asked if I knew who did it.

I almost told her. About the photos on my phone. The pale limb with too many joints. The six fingers. The boy curled against something that looked like it was made of wax and bone. I said I didn’t know.

She asked where I was. Said cops were already rolling toward the property. I told her I was home. She said stay there.

I didn’t.

I grabbed my keys and got in the truck.

Stupid, I know. I should’ve waited. Looking back, almost every choice I made was wrong.

But Sam had been with me eleven years. Helped me start the company when I had nothing. Worked for free when we were slow. When my wife left, he came over with a six-pack and let me bitch on the porch for three hours.

Now he was under that building.

I’d heard him scream.

I wasn’t staying home.

Ten minutes down the road, my phone rang.

I swerved hard reaching for it.

Sam’s name glowed on the screen.

I answered. “Sam?”

Silence.

“Sam—where are you? Talk to me.”

Nothing.

I pulled onto the gravel shoulder, engine idling. “Sam, the police are coming. Just tell me where you are.”

A rustle came through the speaker. Dry, like straw shifting.

I held the wheel tighter. “Sam?”

A low exhale. Wet. Soft.

Then a voice.

Not right—not like a person’s. Like something that had heard words but never felt them in its own mouth. The spaces between syllables were all wrong. Some parts hissed with too much air; others clicked deep in the throat.

It spoke slow.

“Good.”

I didn’t move.

A few seconds passed.

“Good.”

Another sound—a scrape, like plastic dragging over mic mesh.

Then, softer than anything, a tone so tender it froze the blood in my veins:

“Good boy.”

The call dropped.

I sat there on the shoulder, phone in hand, staring at nothing.

I called Sam again. And again. Must’ve tried a dozen times before I reached the Coldwater gate.

He never picked up.

He still hasn’t.

TW-DV, mental health, addiction, child neglect

When I was growing up, I never realized I didn't have a normal childhood.

I was blissfully unaware that my government funded lunches and hand-me-down shoes that were too small and eventually permanently fucked up my feet were anything out of the norm. Kids can be cruel, though. They enlightened me on how poor and white trash my family was by all collectively RSVPing to my birthday party only to go to a party at someone else's house, where they called and tainted me for thinking anyone would ever want to come to my trailer home.

As I got older, I noticed. I noticed how our bottle of cranberry juice in the fridge was always spiked with vodka. I noticed that my mom would stay in bed all day or randomly or pull me out of school to drive 5 hours to the beach on a random October day.

I didn't really mind not having friends or boyfriends even through high school. I had my pet cat Dot and he got me through bouts of craving companionship. While most girls were getting ready for prom and dreaming about the fairy princess weddings, I was home cleaning the trailer. My only dreams of a husband was having someone who was legally obligated to kill spiders for me.

Having ants and roaches in the food was a nightmare. But the worst ones were the spiders.

I'd have everything so clean even that bald, white Mr T knock off would take notes. I'd climb into bed finally feeling a little sense of comfort in the chaos. Until I'd see those little legs sticking out from behind my poster on the wall next to my bed. No matter how hard I tried, those 8 armed arachnids accosted my peace.

I was losing sleep and it was starting to get noticeable. At school, one particular knuckle dragging chuckle fuck thought it would be a good idea to comment on it.

"Hey bitch! Your under eyes are drooping as much as your tits! Did Mommy's fuck friend keep you up all night?".

This elicited a completely clownshit coerced cackle from his cohorts. I usually don't engage but I was maxed out.

"All of the ammo and baggage in my life and THAT'S the best you can do? It took you half a day to come up with an insult so weak the temperature of the room is giving me a better burn."

He didn't like that.

"Fuck you you stupid slut. You just want my dick."

My eyes rolled back so hard I probably looked better than some AI poltergeist creation.

"Oh, sweetie. I don't fuck kids. Whether it's yours inability to breathe with your mouth closed or those muscle tees from the toddlers section not supplying enough oxygen to your brain, I know your mental age alone would put me on some type of watch list. Try having an actual conversation with someone; you're SO close to being a real boy, Pinocchio!"

This woke the best sooner than I'd expected his brain to be able to process it and the next thing I knew he was in my face about to hit me.

That's when Cory got up and shoved him away from me. Cory and I didn't know each other beyond a few classes together over the years, but he was a decent sized WR on the football team. He was a pinnacle player people didn't mess with because he carried the senior varsity team.

Cory turned and asked me if I was okay. I wasn't comfortable with anyone sticking up for me, so I just mumbled thanks and ran to my car.

The rest of the year i went pretty unbothered at school. Except for Cory. He was making more of an effort to engage with me. I have the social skills of a soup can and didn't really know how to respond to him.

Graduation came and he asked if he could have my number to keep in touch. He texted me just an hour later asking me out.

He was genuinely kind and caring to me; something I'd never experienced before. That led to me falling extremely attached extremely quickly. Within a year he proposed. I said yes under the condition that he would always kill spiders for me. He laughed, knowing my past, and swore he would.

As anyone with a full formed frontal lobe and magic of sight could foresee, marrying someone that quickly led to disaster. I'd painted every red flag white for a while. He didn't have to work to isolate me because he knew I had no real family or friends. I was getting the courage to leave when I found out I was pregnant.

I didn't tell him. I wanted to be a mom more than anything, but I knew that a child would permanently tie him to me in ways that a marriage wouldn't. I was secretly getting things in order to leave him and safely carry and raise this baby on my own. That's when the spiders started showing up.

We'd barely had more than a handful of them in the year we'd been living at our place. I kept things showcase tidy-partly for my fear of spiders and partly for my fear of him. I was shocked when I came home to see a large black spider on the wall of the kitchen. When I screamed, Cory dutifully ran in to kill it and comfort me. Those were the moments he reminded me that despite everything he was my protector.

It wasn't a one off, though. It happened again just three days later. Then two days. Then every day for a week.

Dot was too old to catch them or even point them out like he used to. Cory's entire demeanor seemed happy to have them. I was getting extremely on edge. I called for an expensive service to spray. I checked every seal on every window and door. I got drain covers. It seemed to work.

After 2 blissful spider free days, I'd finally had a great night's sleep. I had my first OB appointment and snuck off to finally make some real steps towards the future for me and this baby. We did the new patient song and dance, I tucked the little picture in a secret spot with a velcroed bag under the seat of my driver's side and went home to hopefully continue this wonderful day.

I'd barely been home for 15 minutes when I got a call from the doctor's office. They said my urine was flagged and I needed to speak to a state worker. I swore it must be a mistake, I've never done drugs and I don't drink. They said they checked it twice.

I was devastated. I proactively called the worker to clear things up ASAP and we planned to meet the next day.

I cried myself to sleep that night. When I woke up in the morning, I tried to be as quiet as I could to not wake up Cory. Everything was good until I saw the spider leg broken and resting on my pillow. I chucked that contaminated cushion clear across the room because I am absolutely not sleeping on it ever again.

I was so worked up that it was all I could manage to get dressed and meet the worker on time. She seemed nice enough. She had me provide a urine sample again. She asked about my life and upbringing. My mom had been in and out of trouble with her substance choices forever so it wasn't exactly something I could hide. She asked if I'd ever experimented and I honestly told her never. I hoped this would all be cleared up.

The weekend came and went before she called me and said I tested positive for cocaine and alcohol; my Mom's two favorites. I was crying in disbelief, swearing it couldn't be and was a lab error or something. She had heard it all before. I was forced to attend groups for addiction and parenting. I was beyond heartbroken.

When Cory came home, he asked me how my day was. He pried when I said fine, and said he could tell I'd been crying. I told him I'd seen a spider and he came and held me and promised me he'd keep an eye out.

I eventually went to shower and there it was. Another. Fucking. Leg. On my soap.

I screamed and Cory ran in yelling what the fuck. I cried and told him there's a spider somewhere in here. He helped me to the bedroom to change and said he'd dutifully spray and clear the bathroom. Little comfort that provided. I sat up all night thinking every little itch on me was a spider

I kept finding spider legs and even webs all over the house. It was so bad I wound up trying to sleep in my car, holding my ultrasound picture for comfort. I didn't know what was happening in my life but I knew I was going to do whatever it took for my baby.

I don't know which of the Fates I pissed off in a past life because the next day was nothing short of poetic irony. My boss pulled me in for a chat citing how tired I looked. I laughed because it reminded me of the day I really met Cory at school. He put me on a "vacation" to get myself together.

I parked down the street because I didn't know what to tell Cory about being home so early. I had to get ready to go to a mandatory class. I pep talked myself to just run inside and change, cite a last minute work meeting if Cory asked, and be in and out and ready for the class.

I had a minute of hope when I saw he wasn't home. That was immediately shattered by seeing at least 10 spiders in our living room alone. I screamed so loud even old Dot jumped. I slammed the door, I don't even know if I locked it, and hide in the safety of my car. My entire world was coming down and nothing made any sense. We'd never had spiders before. I've never done drugs or drank more than a few social occasions, but absolutely not while I've been pregnant. I told myself just get to the class, and sort things out later.

The "class" was a typical AA/NA set up. All of us were ordered to be there for one thing or another. The stories people openly shared as if they were chronic victims of the world stirred up anger from my childhood. My mom only drank because of a man, or her boss, or me. She only used because everyone used her as a scape goat. All of these people sounded just like her and it was disgusting. When a "mom" shared that she was only here because her daughter was stupid enough to open the door and walk into the street when she was heroin napping on the couch I'd had enough.

I opened my purse for some gum or candy-anything to distract me from these horrible people. I practically jumped out of my seat and screamed, chucking my bag across the room. Everyone looked at me like I'd pulled out a gun or something insane. I apologized and said there's a spider in my purse and I HATE spiders.

The man running the group got up to retrieve my bag and I begged him to kill the spider for me. Instead of seeing his blue collar boots curb stomp that creature back to hell where it came from, this fool bends down and picks something up. He asked if this was the "spider" and held up one of those plastic Halloween spider rings.

Everyone laughed and I tried to stammer out that I really thought it was a genuine spider and apologized citing exhaustion. I collected my things and excused myself, embarrassed by the scene I'd caused and wondering how the fuck that thing got in my bag.

It didn't take long for my work to call me. She insisted I meet her at my home to discuss the incident. I asked if there was anywhere else we could go because my house was full of spiders. She took. Long breath and offered to meet me at the local park.

I waited on a bench by the little coffee cart, racking my brain for explanations. I didn't want to sound crazy, but I know what I saw at home. When she came into view, I stopped dead seeing that Cory was with her.

I tried to get up and leave, shaking my head no I wasn't doing this with him here. They both had looks of genuine concern for me and talked softly like I was some fragile fucking child, which just pissed me off.

The lady told me I needed to be hospitalized for evaluation and my safety. Cory pleaded and said he just wanted what was best for me-and the baby. He KNEW.

I felt completely cornered. I tried to turn for my car when Cory grabbed my arm. Out of instinct and panic, I turned around and throat punched him. Apparently that wasn't in line with a sober and sane mother of the year response and I was forced into a psychiatric hold.

I knew I sounded crazy, but I begged for someone to believe me.

They checked the house and found no spiders. Cory was more than enthusiastic to share the pest control receipts and clean home, citing we never had any spiders. My blood and urine samples returned positive again for alcohol and cocaine. I was ordered to stay for treatment and supervision for the safety of the baby.

Cory came to visit me. They let us walk around the courtyard to talk. I looked at him not knowing what to say. He grabbed my hand and smiled.

In the sweetest and most unnervingly calm voice, he said he loved me. He told me he knew I was pregnant the day I found out. He'd "wanted to protect me" and had hidden cameras in every room, including the bathroom, of our home. He saw my searches for divorce lawyers and custody laws in our state. He said this wasn't supposed to happen. That when he switched out my birth control he thought the baby would help me understand that I was his. He wanted to remind me of how much I needed him by placing spiders and their body parts around so he could sweep in and save me. He'd spiked my daily iced tea with just enough to show on a test without completely derailing me.

The worker had actually spoken to him from the first day at the hospital. His concerning statements coupled with my freak out at the group all pointed to me being a paranoid addict, mirroring my mom.

I threw up. Not from the baby, but from the horror and disgust of this man and his actions. He wiped the corner of my mouth and rubbed my stomach. He reminded me that once I was out of treatment and home, I didn't have to worry about anything. Even though he would have custody of our baby, as long as I followed the rules he would always be there to kill spiders for me.

An old couple found him while hiking. Their trail had taken them deep into Elderbark forest, about two hours from the nearest road. They’d taken a moment to rest under the pine trees, laying out a blanket and food they’d prepared, when from somewhere in the distance, they’d heard a whining noise. The husband later detailed that he’d believed it to be a wounded animal and, ever the naturists, they had set out to help. The fog was thick that day, so much so that the figure only came into view when they were about ten feet from it. The man was alone, standing faced a way from the couple, completely naked. His skin had grown a shade of red in the cold, but he made no effort to warm himself, instead keeping his arms to his side as he wept. His thin frame revealed his ribs and spine as they lurched and shook with his sobbing. The husband had ushered his wife to remain a distance behind as he approached the man. He crept up cautiously and levied the man with questions in a reassuring tone, like he was trying to calm a bucking horse.

“How did you get out here?”

“Are you lost?”

“What’s your name?”

To this the man made no reply, instead remaining faced away from the couple staring seemingly at nothing. Even when the husband had reached the man and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, he made no indication that he had noticed the couple’s presence. The man’s skin was ice-cold, so the husband sent his wife away to fetch the man the blanket they had left earlier. She returned about three minutes later and together they attempted to warm the man as they called the authorities.

 

 

By the time we arrived at the scene, the man had come slightly out of his stupor. Still, he made no reply to our questions but as we talked to him, he now followed us with his eyes. The man had no provisions with him of any kind, and we never found his clothes. In the fog and cold weather of that day there was no logical explanation as to how he had wandered out here on his lonesome, the man was cold sure but for the distance he would have had to walk he should’ve been suffering from hypothermia. The working theory became that the man had perhaps been abducted and left out in the woods to die. With us we had brought a change of clothes for the man, we attempted to hand these to him but eventually decided we would have to dress him ourselves, as we did this the man laid there motionless. Gently, we guided the man back down the trail. We had made it about halfway back towards the road when suddenly the man spun back the way we had come and tried to flee. We made chase and pleaded with him to stop but in the end, we had to tackle and restrain him, he remained handcuffed for the rest of the journey back.

 

 

When we had placed him in the back of the police cruiser the man spoke for the first time. “Where am I going?” he said in a shaken tone like he had just been woken from a dream. We began calmly explaining to him his situation and that he would have to accompany us to the police station to answer some of our questions. To this the man became very distressed and began thrashing around in his seat and pulling at the doors in another attempt to escape. He remained in this state for the following twenty-minute drive back to the station and even began screaming and throwing verbal abuse at me and my fellow officer “You fucking pigs, I’ll fucking kill you for this!”. He didn’t have the look of a maniac, the wild hair or rotting teeth of a Manson, but rather he was a slight man, with a short professional haircut and a clean-shaven face. Such fury inside his unassuming frame seemed inhuman, like a man possessed. When we arrived at the station, I readied myself for an almighty struggle getting him out of the car and inside the building. But instead, as soon as we turned into the parking lot the man became suddenly calm and reserved, as so he had made his last desperate contest and now his fate was inescapable he could no longer find the energy to fight.

 

 

He was ushered into an interview room at the back of the station, away from the whirlwind chaos of the main lobby, where an official interview could finally begin. Initially, he did not answer any of our questions, he had not fallen back into a catatonic state like before, he was simply ignoring us like some petulant child. It was only when we laid out the possible charges of indecent exposure and threatening an officer that we managed to wring some answers out of him. He claimed his name was Marty Krane, a banker in the local area. When asked about how he had ended up in the forest, he stated that he had simply “felt like going for a walk” and had not expected to be harassed for it. To the question of his having no clothes, he answered only that he had “lost them” and would often strip down in order to “fully embrace nature”.

“Only when returned to our natural state, can we fully understand ourselves officer.” he had expressed in an almost mocking tone. However, this story was a complete fabrication. When asked to recount the trail he had taken into the woods, he couldn’t detail a single landmark or identifiable feature he had passed, nor could he explain his complete lack of provisions. And most importantly, there was no record of any Marty Krane living in the area. The closest we got was a Martin Krane, but he had passed at just age thirteen about twenty years ago. The official report stated “misadventure” as the cause of the death, but I was familiar enough with the case to know that was an oversimplification.

 

 

The boy had been waiting at the bus stop with his friends when he had “vanished”, that was the other kids’ exact words, that they had turned away for just a moment, before he simply “vanished”. There was huge search effort for the following two weeks; dogs, helicopters the whole shebang. After the two weeks, they had actually begun growing worried that they would never find him, perhaps it would’ve been better if they hadn’t. A group of cavers had been in the process of excavating what they believed to be an unexplored tunnel inside a local cave system. The entrance to the tunnel had been obscured by about ten inches of rock and had only been discovered when one of the cavers had heard wind howling from a small crack in the wall face. The excavation took about a week for the three of them to complete, but they went about their work with the feverish excitement of discovery. Unfortunately for them however, someone had beaten them to the punch. Inside the three feet by three feet tunnel was the emaciated corpse of a teenage boy curled up inside. The group of cavers fled to the surface in terror and called the police, upon arrival the officers were able to identify the body as Martin Krane thereby ending the search. The exact specifics of the discovery were obscured from the media due to their disturbing and confusing nature; I only later learnt of them from whispers and half-truths from older officers around the office. The official story only told that the boy had unfortunately been discovered deceased and that the exact events were “still being worked out”. It certainly didn’t mention the fact that the cave the boy had been found in was around five hundred feet below exactly where the bus stop had been.

 

 

Growing tired of the lies and excuses, my partner took the man’s fingerprints and left, we had each independently concluded the man was a nut job. Being left alone with the man for the first time, I quickly grew uncomfortable, there was something about the way he looked at me, a disquieting grin, like he knew about some big joke that was being played on me. It was then that he leaned in over the table and in a hushed voice such as if someone might overhear.

 “I can tell you, if you like?” that unsettling grin again, we were coming to the punchline now.

“Tell me what exactly, perhaps you can start with your real name?” I attempted to assert myself as the dominant voice in the room but to no avail, I was shaken.

“I can tell you what happened to little Martin?” His grin was now at risk of breaking into full on laughter. I rose and stormed from the room. I felt sick, partly due to whatever disgusting game this creep was playing, but also because I so deeply wanted to know what he was going to say next. I informed the front desk that I would be heading home, let someone else throw that weirdo in his holding cell.

 

 

When I arrived back the next morning there was a grim air about the place, more than usual that is. It was only when I got to the front desk that I found out what had happened. Last night, about two hours after I had left, “Marty” had been found dead in his holding cell, swallowed his own tongue supposedly. Dumbfounded, I slumped back over to my desk. Laying there was the paperwork for “Marty’s” arrest, I suppose it was only fair it had been left to me, after leaving last night like I did. Among the papers was the fingerprints we had taken. Suddenly, a deep chill worked its way up my back, a dreadful curiosity I couldn’t shake. Tentatively, I brought up the records of the boy that had gone missing. With them was the fingerprints that had been taken after he had been found in the cave. They were a direct match for the man in the woods.

 

If you met my father, your first thought would not be that he is a “hippie” or a conservationist.  He was a very cut-and-dry type of guy.  He was a white-collar desk jockey, with the only spice in him being the occasional beer at church gatherings.  However, he was far from mundane; he loved his wife and me above all else, with a palpable passion.  The root of this passion and devotion to his family is understandable.  

Throughout their early twenties together, Mom had several miscarriages.  Every attempt to start a family was foiled by nature’s cruelty. Years of disappointment soon led them to an era of depression.  Around this time, my Dad moved them to a new home out in the sticks.  

It was here he took up planting trees in our extremely expansive property.  It was and remained his sole passion, outside of raising his future child.  Mom always described it as “a way to get his mind off things”, aka he was depressed.  

Well into their late thirties, they had me.  They always joked about how fat I was, that I had been growing in Mom well before she was pregnant, that I had been eating all the other “attempts”.  I guess it was the type of humor they needed just to cope with all they had been through, relieved at last.  In fairness, I was almost ten pounds when I was born.  Hefty.  

It was this backyard that I learned to walk, run and climb.  The spruce and pines grew alongside me, sprouting and climbing toward the sky. 

Then there was my father’s pride and joy, the oak tree.  

It rooted itself in the center of all its siblings, the first tree planted and the largest one by far.  It was a wonder in the county.  Within its short lifespan, it had developed rapidly and expansively.  Its straight, thick trunk rose over sixty feet, coated in hundreds of healthy, long branches, and sprouted heavy bushes of immense leaves every spring.  

Under this expanding canopy I spent my developmental years.  I was delighted by the tree, which in turn pleased my father.  However, it was the lone tree I was never allowed to climb.  I learned this the hard way.  

One summer, when I was eight, I decided the younger oaks and pines were no longer an efficient challenge for my climbing skills.  So, I dared the mighty oak in the center of our grand yard.  I was beyond the first several branches, easily ten-plus feet off the ground, when I heard my father burst through the back door.  I nearly fell out of the tree and clung harder to my branch when I heard my father yelling as he approached.  He had never yelled at me before.  

I came down, red-faced and ashamed.  Composing himself, my father sat me down and laid down the only LAW he ever explicitly gave: “Never, ever, climb that tree.  It is sacred.”  
And so it was to me from that day forth.  

Years rolled on.  I was soon a teenager, with little interest in the man-made forest behind my fortress of solitude.  My high school friends were always jealous of the near-infinite hijinks that I could get up to in those trees.  In classic teenager fashion, I simply shrugged and complained that there wasn't much else to do at my place.  So, before long, I began hosting friends, going as deep as we could get within the spotty forest.  

It was a prime location for potheads and drinking, and only my closest friends enjoyed the luxury of camping.  My parents were lax, to say the least.  They were in an eternal state of bliss, for all I knew, as there were few times I recall them dismissing a request or a friend of mine from the premises.  Until one Summer night, junior year.  

My secret circle of buds was camping out with me, in my private green canopy.  One of whom was a lot rowdier than normal.  One too many drinks and far too much weed.  Larson had his camping hammock tied several feet off the ground between two sturdy trees.  We all eventually followed suit, laughing all the while.  Thus, the idea sprouted, and Jim, another pal, shouted: “Wait! Let's make a canopy city! Come on, let's make all our hammocks in a circle so we can all climb to each other!”  

This retrospectively lame idea got drunken approval from everyone.  Including me.  Until I realized which tree I'd need to climb to complete the elongated ‘circular canopy city’.  I looked up at its strong, sacred limbs, anxiety sobering my senses.  The one law I shared as sacred now stared down at me.  I don’t remember who, or how many, but my stalling was rebuked by several slurred voices behind me.  I didn’t want to be the buzzkill, so I complied.  With shaking hands, I began my ascent.  

With muddy shoes, I heaved myself over the lowest branch.  My inebriation was resurging, so my balance was tardy at best.  Shooting myself upright, I reached for the next section of the tree.  I realized that I had already disappeared into the green.  Doubtful, drunken whispers were below me.  Shaking the anxiety from my head, I continued upward.  

In a blink, I found myself on the oak's crown.  Looking over the countless moon-kissed treetops.  Shouting below broke my trance.  My friends must have realized I was far beyond the spot I was to strap my hammock.  I wasn’t sure why I had kept climbing.  Perhaps the taboo was too alluring once I had indulged.  Soaking in the sight one last time, I began my descent.  About halfway down, that's when I slipped.  

I felt my mud-caked shoe slide frictionlessly from the branch below.  All of my weight shifted, and I went spiraling downward, my body smashing and cracking tree limbs as I fell.  With a thud, I hit the last shoot, which broke my fall, as my torso wrapped around it.  The shouts and concerns of my friends were drowned out by breathless gagging as I vomited up the night’s beer and liquor, while being winded at the same time.  One shout silenced all others.  Even in my state, I flinched, recognizing it immediately.  With dry eyes, I glanced up.  My dad was jogging through the treeline toward us.  

Some of my friends ran off.  Others helped me to my feet and stood by me, awaiting a stern talking-to.  I was radiating shame and embarrassment.  And its personification pooled by my feet, at the base of the tree.  

Clutching my chest, searing pain shot through me all at once.  Each weak breath was met with stabbing, icy flares.  But as my father approached, another discomfort manifested.  I felt a twinge through my heart, as if it had vibrated.  Next thing I knew, I had crumpled to the ground, gripping my chest, wheezing in pain.  Gasping, my friends cried out to my dad, uncertain of what to do.  He pushed them aside, kneeling beside me.  All while staring wide-eyed at the oak tree.  Examining it.  

It felt like every vein, every major artery, was flicked, like rubber bands, within my ribcage.  Horrified, certain I was having a heart attack, I whimpered like a child for my dad to help me.  His attention remained on the tree, scanning every broken limb and fractured sprout.  
“Dad?”  Still in the fetal position, I pulled at his shirt. “I think I need to go to the hospital.” 
He finally turned to me, his face a mixture of disappointment and relief. “No, thank God no.  The pain will pass.  The damage was minor… you're ok.  Just breathe.”  

Unable to do much else, I lay there and greedily inhaled and exhaled, begging the aching to stop.  My father, kneeling beside me, offered a comforting hand on my back as I heaved.  His calm presence was the lone salve to my suffering.  

My friends were dismissed back to their homes the next morning.  I had been carried inside and lain in bed like an ill child, where I slept deep into the next day.  Afternoon sun bled through my curtains, waking me up in time to hear my father stepping outside and marching to the back of the property.  A dull ache lingered in my torso, along with soreness from my stomach’s impact with a tree branch.  I turned over, determined to sleep the sun away.  Sleep returned, while I listened to the faint whistling of my dad outside.  

It was late into the evening when I sauntered downstairs, shame draped over me like a veil.  I spotted my dad sitting alone in the living room.  He looked up from his book and waved me over.  Cringing, I obeyed and plopped into the chair across from him.  Fully expecting an earful about ‘disrespecting his one rule’ and ‘endangering myself and my friends, I was surprised when he began with.  “I’m glad you have such loyal friends.  God knows when I was your age I didn’t have many who would stick with me when a parent busted us.”  

I nodded, still bracing for the pep talk.  
“Come on, get up.  I want to show you something.  I think you’re old enough to know.”  
I followed him to the back door, where two shovels sat at attention against the wall.  “Grab a spade.  We’ll need to dig for you to see.”  my dad said, grabbing one himself.  

I followed my father silently as he led us to the crown jewel of the woods.  Passing a few familiar spruces and pines, we halted next to the towering, sprawling oak.  A fresh wave of shame went through my aching torso after I saw the multiple broken branches.  Until I noticed the larger ones were now wrapped in bandages, like splints for a fractured arm.  The memory of my father’s whispering the afternoon prior resurfaced. “Did you do that?”  I pointed to the lowest offshoot.  

“Yes.  It’s…very important to me that this tree stay healthy.”  He replied in an almost reverent tone.  “And now, I can show you why.  Start digging at the base of the trunk.  Be very, very careful to avoid its roots.  Place the spade gently on the topsoil, and slowly use your weight to pierce the dirt.”  He demonstrated with immense care.  Then gestured to me to follow suit.  

The moon was bright that night.  It shone through the canopy, dancing like electrified diamonds on the soil.  The light, paired with my father’s ever-dimming work lamp, illuminated the delicate operation before me.  Deeper and deeper we dug, each shovel load delicately upturned.  

I was about shin-deep into the earth when I felt it.  A quake.  Soft and rhythmic.  I stood frozen while my father continued the excavation.  His process had slowed, grown more delicate.  He glanced at me.  I read his face and resumed my dig.  

Another hour passed; we were almost waist-deep now.  The rhythmic pulsing in the earth grew louder with each inch upturned. At last, my father held his hand up. “Stop.  Let me dig the last of this.”  Gladly I exited the pit.  

Standing over my father, I stared over his hunched shoulders as he worked the remainder of the job.  Suddenly, he threw the shovel and squatted, resorting to digging with his bare hands.  

All the while, I stood there, entranced by the rhythmic drum we had uncovered.  My enchantment was broken by my father.  He shot straight upright, eyes fixed down upon whatever he had just uncovered.  Eager to see, I slipped back into the pit.  My feet were met with the vibrating ground, the sound echoing like the organ of a church as it bounced off the earthen cathedral walls.  The quaking pulse had quickened, beating against the earth with systematic thuds.  

“Son,”  My father said, back still turned to me. “Look down here.”  
With timid steps, I inched over to him.  Leaning over his shoulder, I looked down with him.  

There were roots.  Thick, encasing roots.  A wooden ribcage protecting the wonder held within.  Convulsing within the mighty oak's entanglement of life, sat an immense, human heart.  

Blood-soaked dirt caked its moist membrane.  Its valves and offshoots were connected to the very roots of the tree that shielded it.  Each violent influx shook the turf it rested in.  Now exposed to the air, I could hear each beat slosh and splash the interior contents along its intended tubing, engorging them as they passed through.  

I gazed at it, my mind racing with incoherence.  My legs trembled with each pulse, sending shivers up my spine.  My father placed a hand on my shoulder, raising himself up.  “This tree is your protector and your spring of life.  Its limbs are your veins, and its trunk is your arteries.  If it suffers, you suffer.”  He sighed as he turned to my pale face. “As long as this tree lives, you live.  That was the agreement.”  

My legs nearly gave out. “Now you know.”  He said,  “I’m sorry it had to be this soon.  But you need to understand.”  He heaved himself out of the hole.  I numbly followed.  We stood together, gazing down into the open pit.  “It was the only way we could keep you.”  He continued, his solemn tone returning, “Your heart is with the earth.  Nourish the earth, and it will nourish you.”  He patted my back.  “As we have done, so must you when we’re gone.”  

A placed a hand over my chest, feeling my racing heart, while staring at the other.  My eyes widened upon realizing it.  They were in sync.  With a shudder, my hand fell limply to my side.  My father gave me space.  Stepping back, he leaned on his shovel, waiting patiently for some reaction to sprout from my features.  

Crickets and owls orchestrated their symphony through the woods.  The buried heart provided the bass to the decrepit harmony.  I stood, listening to this alien choir, my chest tightening as I watched the entombed organ quicken its pace.  Blue veins pulsating, chamberways palpitating.  I could almost feel the exact reactions from within my ribs.  

“What should I do now?”  I mumbled from numb lips.  
Reemerging under the shade of the oak tree, my father replied.  “Live as you have.  But, above all else, remain true to this earth.  And this forest.”  He patted the trunk lovingly.  “When your mother and I are gone, it's up to you to take care of yourself.  And that means this tree.”  

With that, he began gently throwing clay and turf back over the pit.  Digesting these revelations, I stood like a stock, silent and upright.  My eyes fixed on the contorting muscles being slowly reburied before me.  Stomach acid churned violently, threatening to rise up my throat.

I flinched back into time as my dad patted the last of the earth to fill the hole.  The only trace of its existence was the patch left behind amidst the green grass; like a scar after a procedure.  The ground was still again, yet I could not shake the memory of its quaking from my legs.  Like an imprint, the shadow of the heart’s beating still tremored up my spine.  

The remainder of the night is a blur.  My dad guided me back inside, to my tense mother, who clearly had been sitting in silent anxiety since we left the house.  With a loving hand, she led me upstairs to my room, where I was greeted by a TV freshly organized in the corner.  Beside it, a collection of games and a generous bag of candy.  My mom’s love had filled the bedroom, an attempted salve to my fresh wound.  The gesture was unappreciated at the time.  I was still numbed from my experience.  I wish I had had the presence of mind to hug her.  I was her baby, still a kid in her eyes.  

My father knew better now.  We never discussed the absurd situation again.  What few soft questions I would pass across the dinner table were met with a stern silence. I suppose he wanted me to live a normal life, and this meant no explanations, no discussion of the ‘agreement’, nothing beyond a solemn stare across his lawn at the towering oak.  

I recall the remainder of that first year well enough.  Restless and lonely.  For many long nights I would lie awake, picturing my heart, pulsing in the earth within its cage of root and soil.  I would sneak out some evenings, when I knew sleep would never come.  I would stand in front of that oak tree for hours.  Staring directly at its tendrils burrowed in the dirt.  Able to picture perfectly how they crisscrossed around that solitary organ.  

Sometimes, I thought I could feel the creatures and insects slither and crawl over it.  I'd shudder at the thought of countless, cold, tickling limbs of centipedes, or clammy, moist slugging of worms invading my mind’s eye.  I could never tell whether it was all in my imagination or an accurate sensation.  

My social life was marred for a couple of months, but I rebounded eventually.  There was no more late-night camping in my backyard.  My closest friends, the ones who were there that night, understood.  Not that I wanted to camp, even if I was allowed.  The thought of my whole body lying on the ground near that tree, with the only barrier being a thin sleeping bag, haunted me.  Able to feel the earth softly drum beneath my head, ba-bump, ba-bump.  Never in my life had I been so grateful to have a second-floor bedroom.  It was my lone sanctuary from that phantom drumming.  
 
Years passed, and the sting of the revelation subsided.  The forest, although still avoided, was no longer a looming specter.  Time normalized my strange circumstance, and soon I was a young man.  College came and went, my parents aged and aged.  I retained my vitality, only growing taller and stronger.  By the time I was middle-aged, I still looked thirty.  I lived at home, worked remotely, and cared for my now-elderly parents.  The forest grew all the while.  

My father passed away in his sleep at eighty-one.  The night before, he had called me to his bedside.  A knowing look in his dull eyes.  With a raspy, ailing voice, he whispered, “Take care of it-... Take care of yourself, son.”  I nodded as he offered a final handshake before drifting off to his final rest.  

My mother soon followed, passing at eighty-three.  Our final interaction was the afternoon before.  Lying on the couch, she smiled up at me as I brought her a glass of water.  A shaky hand grasped my forearm.  “Our agreement has been a blessing,” She said. “Without you, none of this happiness I feel could exist.”  

She emptied her glass before continuing, “Your father was willing to make that agreement, no matter its cost… I as well.”  She looked up at me, smile contrasting her grave face, “We are off to uphold our end of the agreement now… Just know, not once, not a single moment in my life, did I regret it.  I love you so much, sweetheart.  Live a long and beautiful life.”  

My confusion and anxiety emanated off me.  She read this, and resumed, “Take care of that oak, and all its brothers and sisters.  Promise me you will.”
I nodded.
“Good…Good.  It was all worth it then.”  
Before I could inquire about this mystery my father never dared elaborate on, she slipped into a deep sleep.  

She passed that evening.  

I buried them both on the edge of the forest.  Inheriting the property, I felt no need to leave.  Rather, a duty to my mother had revised my perception of those woods.  I owed it to them to carry out that promise.  I never did find out what I cost them, what they sacrificed to give me life.  No books or journals in the house even hinted at it.  

My heart continues to beat amidst that soil.  Its oaken fortress grows in strength each passing year.  Despite my body's health and retained youthfulness, my mind grows old.  A melancholy has overshadowed my life.  More and more I find my thoughts wandering down a winding trail of almost hypnotizing meaninglessness, only to lead to the same location each time.  The oak tree.  

It's planted squarely in my brain, its roots pulsing deeper and deeper into my grey matter.  It's not a malicious presence, but rather a beckoning.  Almost two decades have passed since my parents departed to fulfill their debt.  And I have enjoyed the fruits of that debt, physically.  Yet, this yearning continues to enwrap my thoughts.  And like the forest I oversee, it grows.   

I am now almost ninety-four, in the body of a forty-year-old.  All of my friends have passed on.  My home stands alone amidst miles of forest, detached from the few remaining settlers in the county.  Solitude has allowed these tendrils to burrow farther, and I fear they have reached my heart, for it grows nostalgic for the earth. 
  
   This life was a gift from my parents, and the soil.  But it is ultimately mine, and I have grown tired.  All my desires have been usurped by one remaining obsession.  

I hold the very shovel my father used all those years ago.  The wind sways the immense canopy that hangs over me.  With a final, gentle push, I upturn the last of the dirt.  Staring into the pit, I gaze at my heart, watching it throb with soft, calm jumps.  

I must return this gift, and I am glad of it.  This yearning has dissipated, replaced by contentment.  As I prepare to return to the soil, my last hope is that this may reduce my parents’ debt, whatever it may be.  

May my love for them nourish this forest.  I am ready now.  Tonight shall be my final rest.

If you happen to pass by my woods, please be sure to give my parents and me a wave.  I am certain my heart will beat in gratitude within the earth.  

I’m from Russia, and I want to share something strange that happened at my grandmother’s dacha. To this day, I still can’t explain what happened that night.
It happened at around 11:50 PM. My brother, my dad, my grandfather, my grandmother, and I were all inside the house.
We have two small dogs. They’re usually very loud and bark at almost anything that enters the property. Even if a cat wanders into the yard, they’ll start barking. That’s why what happened that night was so unusual.
I was sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea with my grandparents, while my dad was in the living room. The kitchen and living room are practically connected, so we could easily hear anything happening near the entrance.
A couple of minutes before everything started, both dogs ran into the living room and hid under the couch.
They stayed completely silent.
That was unusual. Normally, they would bark immediately if they heard or noticed an animal outside. But this time, they just hid under the couch, as if they were afraid of something.
At around 11:50 PM, we heard something scratching at the entrance door.
It wasn’t a quiet scratching sound. Whatever was outside was scratching hard enough to make the door shake slightly.
And there was something else that made the situation even stranger.
The entire perimeter of our house is equipped with motion sensors that are supposed to turn on the lights whenever something moves nearby. But not a single light came on.
We live in a region of Russia where large predators, such as wolves, aren’t normally found around residential properties. Of course, some ordinary animal could have been outside, but the situation didn’t seem to make much sense.
My dad grabbed a firearm and went toward the entrance to check what was happening.
That’s when I noticed my grandmother.
Her facial expression suddenly changed. She looked genuinely frightened and immediately told my dad not to open the door.
He didn’t listen.
My grandmother stood up so abruptly that she actually tried to stop him physically, but he opened the door anyway.
There was nobody outside.
My dad looked straight ahead, but we didn’t search the entire property. So I can’t say that there was absolutely nothing out there. All I know is that nobody was standing directly outside the door when he opened it.
Afterward, my grandmother said that my dad had let an evil spirit into the house. She then spent a long time praying.
I don’t know why she reacted that way. Maybe she had her own beliefs or reasons for being so afraid. But the look on her face and the way she desperately tried to stop my dad are things I still remember clearly.
The next morning, I decided to inspect the door.
There were three scratches on the outside of it, approximately 60 centimeters above the ground.
They looked like claw marks to me. I found it difficult to believe that an ordinary cat could have made them, although I can’t say for certain what caused them.
We also found no tracks or other obvious signs on the ground near the entrance.
No paw prints. Nothing that could clearly explain what had approached the door during the night.
I still don’t have an explanation for what happened.
I’m back home now, and while writing this story, I’ve noticed occasional cracking noises and other small sounds around me. I understand that these noises can have completely ordinary explanations, but after that night, I can’t help paying attention to them.
I’ve even visited both a psychologist and a psychiatrist and undergone medical examinations. As far as I know, the results showed no health problems.
I’m not claiming that something supernatural happened at my grandmother’s dacha. I’m simply trying to understand how all these things could have happened together: the dogs hiding in silence, the scratching, the shaking door, the motion sensors failing to activate, my grandmother’s reaction, and the three scratches we discovered the next morning.
If anyone has a reasonable explanation, I’d genuinely like to hear it.

I (21F) work as an overnight stocker at a grocery store in a city located about half an hour from my home. Most of the exhaustion wore off after 2 weeks of working the late shifts. I still get a bit drowsy when I have to drive home at 5 AM and the road is dark and quiet, and that’s usually when I’ll put on my pop-rock playlist up super loud to keep myself from drifting into another lane or getting too sleepy. The last stretch of road before my home is pretty curvy and I tend to get a bit carsick after I get to my house.

Today I got broken up with. My boyfriend decided he didn’t want to deal with long distance anymore and he felt too “held down” during his time at college, which is surprising to me because we were just talking about our life after graduation. We wanted a nice wedding at a church in the city even though we were still so young, and he seemed like he wanted to get married more than I did. Oh well. I don’t really have many friends here and the only person I’m really close with is my dad. I get frustrated looking at my coworkers getting along or groups of strangers about my age laughing in groups. I wish I had someone that I could confide in about everything that’s been happening recently. 

Today I finished up my shift after 8 hours of overthinking and start walking to clock out 10 minutes before I usually do. I just wanted to get home and sleep more than anything. I get into my car and put on something upbeat to distract myself from my thoughts. I find myself almost drifting off a few times and I ran one red light on accident. There’s a few people on the sidewalks carrying around shopping carts and I had to swerve to avoid a few walking slowly across the street without seeming to be aware of their surroundings.

I was about 5 minutes from my home when a figure steps out right in front of me while I was turning onto the windy road. I try and swerve while my tires squeal, then I get jolted forwards with a loud thud. The figure is violently knocked over by my bumper and slams onto the pavement. There’s a good amount of blood splattered on my windshield. I slam on my brake pedals so hard my leg is almost locked as my car drifts into a trench on the side of the road. It’s pitch black outside except for my headlights. My heart pounds and I feel like vomiting.

I sit in my car, hands shaking, and reach for my phone to call 911. I get connected with an operator while the reality of what happened sets in.

“911, what’s the address of your emergency?”

“Please help me. I think I hit someone with my car.”

“Okay, where exactly are you?”

“Umm, fuck, I don’t know, like right before [O] Road?”

“What city?”

“[REDACTED].”

“Okay. Tell me exactly what happened.”

I tell her in detail about the small amount of information that I know. Outside of my window, I see long brown hair on the pavement slightly moving. I’m unsure if it’s from the figure still being alive or if the wind is moving the hair.

A few seconds of silence.

“Hey, the guy is still underneath my car and I can see something moving. He might still be alive.”

“Is it safe to approach him?”

“I think so. Hold on.”

I open my door and approach the body on the road. I can’t see much, just some twisted limbs and long hair. Lots of blood.

“Hello? Sir? Can you hear me?”

“Is he responding to you?”

I move closer and discover that the figure was a woman, probably about a few years older than me. She’s laying completely still and her breaths are labored…they sound almost crunchy. 

“I think she’s still alive.”

“Is she breathing?”

“I think so.”

The woman rolls her head until she is looking directly at me and her wet, rattled breaths stop as I catch a glimpse of her bloodshot eyes.

“I need you to put your phone on speaker and begin chest compressions. Place the heel of one hand in the center of her chest and your other hand on top.”

I do as the operator says.

The woman continues her breathing as I begin compressing her chest.

“Fuck. I’m not doing this hard enough. How fast am I supposed to even do this?” 

I hear sirens in the distance getting closer. 

“About twice per second. Keep a steady rhythm, and don’t stop until the paramedics take over.”

It seemed like an eternity before they finally arrived. They assess her, ask me a few questions, then transport her into the ambulance. 

“Have the paramedics arrived?” The operator asks.

“Yeah, they’re here.”

“Ok. Please remain at the scene until the police arrive.”

A few moments pass.

“Ma’am, before I disconnect, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you do it?”

“What?”

The line disconnected. 

I sit in complete silence as the lights and sirens disappear into the distance. 

I feel sick to my stomach and step back into my car and turn on the lights. I try to call my dad but his phone goes straight to voicemail. I cry for what seems like an hour while trying to avoid looking at the dark blood splattered on my windshield.

The police finally arrive. I feel my heart settle a tiny bit as I see an officer come out of his car and come to my drivers’ seat window.

“Are you the driver?”

“Yes. I called 911.”

“Okay. Are you hurt at all?”

I actually never really stopped to think if I’ve been hurt. I never felt anything during the collision, but I do see a bit of bruising on my arms from when I must’ve hit the steering wheel.

“Umm no. Not seriously.” I show him my bruises. 

“Alright. I need you to step out of the vehicle for me. We’re going to get your statement, and I’ll need to see your license and insurance.”

I nod and reach for my wallet, my hands still trembling.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
“No. I just got off work.”
“What time did your shift end?”
“Five. I work overnight.”

He writes something in his notebook, then looks back at me.

“Did you see the woman before you hit her?”

“It was so dark. I tried to avoid her but she just came out of nowhere.”

He pauses for a few moments.

“Alright. We’ll need to finish documenting the scene, but you’re free to go for now. Someone is probably going to contact you for a follow-up statement.”

“What about my car?” I look at the smeared blood on my bumper and on the windshield.

“You’ll probably want to clean it before driving it much more, unless we need to come back and hold it for whatever reason, you should be good to take it home. And, uh, the paramedics mentioned something about the lady’s condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, they said there were signs of decomposition.”

My stomach twists.

“She was breathing. I heard her. I told the operator!”

“You said that in your 911 call?” The officer looks at me uncertainly.

“I was doing CPR. I could hear her breathing. She was moving.”

He pauses, then writes something down. 

“Alright. If you remember anything else please let us know. Someone may follow up with you.” He clicks his pen and heads back to his vehicle. “Please, get some rest tonight.” He takes a moment to sit in his car, then drives off.

I buckle myself into my seat and finish the drive to my home. I keep a steady 15 mph as I’m constantly reminded about what happened due to the messy obstruction on my windshield. It looks darker now. It’s turned into a deep, muddy brown in places. I turn on the wipers and immediately regret it as thick blood is smeared all throughout the glass. I pull the lever to spray washer fluid over the windshield. I’m able to see a bit better now.

I pull into the driveway to see my dad’s blue truck parked out front. I’m going to have to explain this to him in the morning, but for now I’m just glad to be home. I know I’m too old to be sleeping with my parents, but I climb into my dad’s king size bed without him noticing. I don’t know how else I’m going to sleep tonight. My eyes close to the sound of his loud snores, and I finally slip into a dreamless silence.

At about 8:30, I’m woken up by my dad while he’s leaving for work.

“Hey, what happened last night? Did you hit a deer? Are you okay?”

I only got about two hours of sleep and in my groggy haze, I forgot what had happened last night. It felt good to finally get that and the breakup off my mind while sleeping. I could feel the anxiety kick in and my stomach drop as I explain to my dad what had happened.

“Some crazy lady walked out in front of my car. She was taken away and the police came and talked to me,” I yawn and stretch my arms, trying hard to mask the shakiness in my voice.

“Wow. Well, I’m glad that car isn’t too damaged. I loved that thing. We can clean it together when I get home. Get some more sleep if you can, I know you have work tonight.” He’s worried, I can see it in his eyes.

“Dad, what’s going to happen to me? Was it my fault?” I feel tears well up in my eyes and a knot tighten in my stomach. 

“Sweets, I’m sure you’re not in trouble. I know it’s been a hard week for you. You know you need to be taking your anxiety medication.”

I didn’t even tell him about my breakup, I didn’t want to stress him out even further. He didn’t even like my ex, but he saw how happy I was and held his tongue for me.

I grab my bottle labeled “Buspar” and take a few pills as prescribed. I guess I have to be consistent for it to work, but at least I have the comfort of knowing it will start working soon. I hear the door shut and the jingling of keys as they lock behind my dad as I close my eyes again.

I wake up to my alarm. 4 PM. My dad will be home soon. I walk over into the kitchen, grab an energy drink, and scroll Instagram for a while. No DMs. No texts from anyone. I’m 21 and have the most lonely existence out of everyone I know. I watch as everyone else takes trips to Japan, announces pregnancies, and graduates college, trying to squash the jealousy and resentment in my stomach. I set my phone down and finish my drink. 

My phone begins to vibrate.

I’m getting a call from an unknown number.

I know I shouldn’t be unsettled because the officer said I would be receiving a follow-up soon, but I can’t answer the phone until I know for certain who is calling.

The voicemail pops up after about a minute. I open it and press the button for it to be on speakerphone. There’s silence for a few seconds.

Then I hear it. 

I hear the rattling, labored breaths. The sound of sirens in the distance.

What the fuck? Was this a recording of what happened last night?

Then I look at the transcript.

“You did this to me.”

My heart sinks. 

Maybe she’s alive. Maybe she wants to talk. I call the number back. It takes a few seconds to connect, then I hear a voice.

“Hi, [REDACTED] police department, how can I help you?”

“Umm, did you call me to follow up about the collision on [O] Road yesterday?”

He read my name and asked me to confirm.

“Yes. Is everything okay? Did you find out what happened to her?”

There’s a pause on the other end.

“I’m calling to follow up on the incident. We reviewed the scene documentation, and the report is being updated to reflect a suspected deer collision.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen.

“What?”

“A deer collision. Based on the damage to the vehicle and the evidence recovered at the scene.”

“No, I hit a woman. A woman with long brown hair. I called an ambulance. The paramedics came. I spoke to the police officer who was there.”

“I understand that you’re distressed, ma’am, but the documentation we have doesn’t support that account.”

“Then where is she?” I feel my mind race.

“I’m sorry, who?”

I pause. 

I hear a keyboard clicking in the background.

“Ma’am, you should contact your insurance company as soon as possible. Do you have any more questions for me?”

“No. That’s all.”

“Thank you and have a great rest of your day.”

The call ends.

The voicemail has disappeared.

I blink, thinking somehow that will make it reappear. My call to 911 from this morning is still there, 23 minutes long. My call now is still there. No voicemail. No breathing.

I need to eat something. But the thought of eating makes me sick. 

Outside I hear cars driving past. I hear my dad pulling up in the driveway and walk outside to meet him. He’s got soap and a few large sponges and rags. I feel a bit relieved. Maybe we can wash away the remnants of that deer and move on. We get to work.

I called off tonight. I need sleep. Maybe I can try driving tomorrow.

Dad made us Sloppy Joes after washing my car and I was so happy just being with him that I forgot about everything on my mind for a second. Then, I felt okay to open up to him about how I’ve been feeling, the breakup, the woman, the guilt, the loneliness. He listened to every word, hugged me for a good few minutes, then told me to go get some more rest. I couldn’t help but feel like he was worried about me. I might be worried about myself.

I wake up next to my dad again.

He went out for work and left me alone here. 

I check my phone. 8:30 AM. No new messages. No DMs. Typical.

I should probably shower, but I’m too tired to move. My mousy brown hair is getting greasy and tangled. It’s freezing. I put on my black hoodie and sweatpants, crawl back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin, listening to the familiar sounds of the house settling around me.

My dad won’t be home until this evening.

I close my eyes.

A car passes outside.

Then another.

I don’t think much of it. We live close enough to the road that I can hear traffic from anywhere in the house, especially at night.

A few minutes later, I hear a horn.

It’s loud enough to make me open my eyes.

Another horn follows, then the sharp squeal of tires against pavement.

I sit up.

For a moment, I consider staying in bed. It’s probably just someone driving too fast around the bend. People do it all the time.

Then I hear a crash.

I throw the covers off and hurry to the front window.

A white sedan is stopped at an angle across the road. Its headlights illuminate the trees and the empty stretch of pavement ahead.

The driver of the sedan gets out.

He looks down at the front of his car, then turns to stare at the road. He’s talking to himself, or maybe shouting at someone I can’t see.

I press closer to the window.

There’s nobody else out there.

The man suddenly looks toward the passenger side of his car. He takes a few steps backward, shaking his head.

He stands still. I watch as he completely freezes for about 5 minutes. Then he slowly walks into his car and drives away.

I stand at the window for another minute, waiting for something else to happen.

Nothing does.

I go back in my room. My heart rate is higher than usual. I know it’s probably just a distracted driver or someone having a car issue. Happens every day here. 

I hear something.

A slow, rattling inhale. 

It’s almost too quiet for me to hear.

I hold my breath and listen.

It stops for a minute.

I walk outside of my dad’s room.

I hear the crunchy breathing again. It’s coming from somewhere inside the house.

I grip my phone and get ready to run out the front door. The breathing is getting louder. I turn my phone flashlight on without averting my eyes from the front door. The air in the hallway smells sickening, like blood and sweet, rotting flesh.

I run for it. The breathing almost starts to sound like a roar directly behind me as I race towards the front door. I rip my car keys off the kitchen counter and quickly slam the door behind me.

I get into my car and start it. I don’t even have shoes on. I just want to see my dad. My GPS loads the car dealership he works at and I book it. 45 minutes away.

My radio starts on its own. There’s a chorus singing a hymn, but it’s different somehow. Some of the chords are wrong. Very wrong. It’s suddenly interrupted by a news report.

“—we interrupt our regular programming with a developing story out of [REDACTED]. Emergency services are responding to a serious traffic collision on [O] Road, just south of the [R] property.”

I froze.

“According to preliminary reports, a female pedestrian stepped into the path of an oncoming vehicle at about 8:55 o’clock this morning. The driver stopped and contacted emergency services, attempting to administer first aid before paramedics arrived.”

I stared at the dashboard. 8:47 AM.
How is that possible?

“Police have confirmed that the pedestrian sustained catastrophic injuries. Paramedics at the scene have reportedly noted signs of advanced decomposition, though authorities have not yet released the identity of the woman.”
My mouth went dry.
I reached for the radio dial, but my fingers wouldn't cooperate.
“Witnesses describe the woman as having long, brown hair and wearing dark clothing. Authorities are asking drivers to exercise caution in the area, as the pedestrian has reportedly been seen standing in the roadway even after emergency personnel arrived.”
The speaker crackled.
Underneath the announcer's voice, I heard it.
That wet, broken breathing.
I yanked my hand away from the radio.

“Help me.”

I sat there, staring at the radio in shock, tears welling up in my eyes. 

“Help me.”

The voice was clear as day. Outside of my car.

I pull over and park onto the side of [O] Road. Almost exactly where the collision happened. I exit my car, almost entranced by the voice. Someone needs my help. 

There it is.

The rattling.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Do you need help?”

It was coming from the other side of the road. Louder this time. I grab my phone, ready to call 911. I cross the center line to see nothing at the other side of the road. No blood. No woman. No more breathing.

“Help me.”

Directly in my ear. My hair stands up. 

I look towards the intersection to see headlights barreling towards me. 

I try to move.

8:55.

Within my head the doubts were increasing, my anxiety was rising. I was moving from the town I grew up in and experienced so much, to a city by the ocean which I barely knew. I loved the ocean that is true, and the job was enticing, I was hired as an investigative journalist by the top newspaper in the region. I had some success before this move, as a soldier and after as an editor, for I studied english and literature before the war. Now even after being hardened by life quiet a bit, I still had this unexplainable anxiety. I’ve always had anxiety, but whenever changes came it got worse. It effected not just my mind, but my whole body as well. My thoughts were chaotic, I constantly imagined failure as an outcome. I had no idea how to combat this crazy feeling. Praying inside a church helped me sometimes, so I did before finally driving out in my car. Most of my belongings were coming by train, I only took a few things in the car, very important objects. Like my guns for instance.

 

Most of the drive up north was by the coast and time to time I stopped and got out to look at the cliffs and the waves. I found myself looking over my shoulder at each stop, thinking that someone might rob me. There it was again, the expectation of the worst outcome. 

 

The fact that I was able to drive all the way up without imagining myself in a car crash was a miracle within itself, for usually I couldn’t drive for more than an hour without that thought popping up in my head.

 

It was a city split up in four major parts. I know that sounds funny, because you’d assume that it’s the basic directions, but actually it was layered. The port and harbor were the more gloomy and dangerous parts, that area was called Dreamport. Then it was followed by a section of apartments and townhomes called Midtown, followed by so called city center where my new job at the newspaper was located, also museums, town hall, police station and hospital. The top part of town consisted of manors and larger homes, where the rich lived, was called Lancewood. When I entered the Eagle Chronicle, the newspaper building, the first person who approached me was a pretty, short, dark skinned woman. She spoke softly and calmly and knew exactly what she wanted. Her name was Marylin and she was my new boss. Marylin filled me in on the details about the city parts and said that she had a job for me already. A famous jazz musician, Been, was admitted to the cities’ asylum and she wanted me to see if he’d talk to me and tell me what happened. I of course agreed, I had to make a good first impression and in fact I went to the asylum right after situating in my small apartment right on the border of Dreamport and Midtown.

 

The asylum was located on the east edge of Midtown, right next to the water. It was quiet easy to find for it was a tall dull white building. I showed my new professional ID inside and the doctor allowed me to meet with this jazz musician, Been.

 

Been was an older african american man, I never heard his music, but I have heard of him, some people that I knew even said they’ve seen him perform.

 

He sat there at a corner table with a gloomy look on his face, but by no means he looked crazy. As I sat down at the table with him he was very pleasant and polite. I asked him if he could tell me why he was taken here and to my shock his answer was that he wanted to be taken here. To be safe from “him”. I asked who he was referring to and he said the boatman. As he mentioned the boatman his eyes got big and he began to shake, I didn’t want to cause any more distress, but had to ask where this boatman was, he simply said that I’d find him at Dreamport harbor and that I wont mistake him for anyone if I see him. Then he completely broke down, it seemed he wanted to tell me more, but couldn’t.

 

It was getting late and I headed to my apartment. On my walk back my heart couldn’t help but ache for the poor talented man. I thought of what this boatman could have done to scare him so much. Perhaps it was a codename for a gang leader. Either way, I had to get sleep before doing anything further. Just before my new place I saw a typical eatery and went in. It was white and red with tall round bar stools. I sat on one of those and ordered a coffee with some sausage and bread. The eager owner, Frank, mountain of a man,  gladly to served me, I was the only one inside.

 

I rather enjoyed my simple meal and thanked Frank before heading out, he gave me a simple advice and that was to not go out much in these parts at night, unless I had a gun. I was grateful for this tip and grateful for owning guns. I figured it would be a while before I could afford to upgrade my living space higher up the city.

 

 

I had a small balcony and despite imagining worst possibilities, like someone shooting at me at night, I still went out and sat there before bed. It was rather quiet. Here and there I could hear a stray cat or a dog. I saw a few filthy rats run across the street barely illuminated by a small street light. Further down the road the light of the eatery was still on. I wondered if it was always open. I expected more activity, but the lack of it was a good thing and I began to relax, as my eyelids got heavy I realized that it was time to sleep. I went inside and laid in my hard bed with short sheets. I knew what was the first thing I was going to buy when I reported back and got my payment.

 

 

In the morning I was obviously stiff. Previous night Frank told me about a market near by and I went there to get a few products, on the way I stopped by the Frank’s eatery to get a coffee and a waffle, he was gone, to no surprise, but his daughter, a lovely brunette, took over the morning shift. I made some small talk with her and then hurried to the market. After buying some dried foods and cans I brought them back to the apartment.

 

It was time to go to the Dreamport harbor and look for the boatman mentioned by jazz musician Been. The day was somewhat sunny, which I figured was a rarity for this city, most of the people’s faces showed almost an offense at how bright it was, although it was just average amount of sunlight. I smiled watching the gloomy people, somehow it made me feel better about myself.

 

The streets at Dreamport were not properly aligned, their structure was crooked and at times I’d run into a dead end. I figures this made Dreamport even more dangerous at night, if one had to escape from danger. After much frustration I finally reached the harbor, which was actually well guarded and beautifully decorated. To my wild surprise I saw crowds of tourists there! Balloons, kids, families, pony carriage rides. This wasn’t a horrific place I pictured after speaking to Been. As far as boatmen, well there were dozens of small ships, large ships and row boats that someone could pay for. I had my hands full to say the least. As I walked along the water and observed, none of them looked scary or menacing, one sailor had a large scar on his face, but when approached, he was very friendly, obviously wanting to make money. I didn’t have much, but I gave him some cash in exchange for information. He told me about other boatmen around there, said that few had past criminal records and the most popular one was named Peter, who only used a row boat, but somehow always had customers.

 

I went to see this Peter and he was easily spotted. A tall, handsome blonde young man, he wore a nice dark blue suit and a large brim fedora of same color. He smiled as I approached and revealed a row of perfectly white teeth. His english was perfect, so were his manners. It was no surprise that he was most popular here. I figured I could get some good information from him and went ahead and paid for a boat ride with him. He welcomed me to his slightly larger than average rowboat with soft seats and took the rowing positing. We immediately departed. My first question was silly, I asked him if he was ever worried about large waves, or waves from other ships. He said that on this side waters were always calm and still and that he rowed in a different direction of the larger ships. He also told me that harbor was active at night as well and that some people took customers and went out into ocean with lamps and candles. Sometimes customers wanted to stargaze, which was a great attraction according to him.

 

While talking with Peter I lost track of time and when I looked back the harbor was far away. I could see an island in the distance as well. Peter noticed my gaze and told me that it’s called the Unlucky Island. As I asked why, he said that a serial killed left bodies there and that the case was never resolved. He said it with absolute calmness and a hint of nostalgia, which made me uncomfortable. He noticed and laughed, Peter proceeded to joke that he could shake or tip his boat in a way that customers could fall and apparently there were sharks in these waters. I forced a smile, but the joke made me even more uneasy and nervous, I was already imagining the worst outcome, him feeding me to the sharks, or killing me and stacking my body on the island.

 

Peter’s smile was gone and he was very serious, then he proceeded to tell me that he could read customer’s minds. I laughed and asked him to tell me what I was thinking of, he said I was imagining him killing me and dumping my body on the island. I froze and fear took hold of my body. He laughed hysterically and told me that it was a joke and that he could tell by my expressions and staring at the island what I was thinking, but this did not ease me out of my horror. Peter proceeded to turn around and on the way back he told me his experiences during the war. He talked about how the enemies would put kids and women in front line and thats who they had to shoot first to get to the soldiers. I made no mention to him about me ever being at war, but I found it strange that he talked about the experience that traumatized me the most during my time there.

 

Upon my arrival back at the harbor I got away from Peter as fast as my nervous and stressed body could carry me. I was certain this guy was a psychopath, but was he the one I was really looking for? I wasn’t sure.

 

Nevertheless, I went back to the Eagle Chronicle and told Marylin details of my chat with Frank, then I proceeded to tell her of crazy boatman, but told her that I wont use the name, she was fine with it and very pleased with my work. I was paid a good sum of money, she said I could take a few days off, but since I clearly had the right skillset, she wanted me on a recent missing people’s case and gave me the file.

 

Things were moving fast for me in this city and after I had dinner, I sat in my crummy apartment with a lamp and read the files. By the look of it, most missing people were singles, either city dwellers or tourists. Half were reported last seen at the Dreamport harbor. This did not warm my heart as my mind straight away shifted to Peter, but I had to be professional and tell myself that there could be other possibilities.

 

I decided to ask a few witnesses or better to say people who saw the victims last. This time I had my revolver under my coat. The first eyewitness was an older married couple, their neighbor, a middle aged single man went missing. They last saw him in the tourist part of the harbor closer to nighttime, eating on a bench. This wasn’t all that helpful, neither were few other witnesses. I spent the whole day asking questions, but did not get the answers I hoped for, it was time to go the route that I should have started with, the police station.

 

Upon arrival, a cranky officer stared at me and was annoyed when I told him I was from the newspaper. He said they always made the police look bad and I apologized and assured him that I will make sure to have a good mention of him. This seemed to work as he found the papers I needed. I asked if any of the victims were found dead later, and he said no. Then I followed by asking if he thought that this was the same serial killer that dumped bodies on the island. He looked at me funny and said there have never been such a case and that someone pranked me. My blood chilled since as usual I pictured worse case scenario, Peter was a serial killer and gave me a hint. Either that was true, or he made a disturbing joke, either way I had to know.

 

Closer to nighttime I rented a small rowboat, I didn’t want to go out during bright time for I could be easily spotted. I rowed to the small island in the cover of darkness. The waters were calm and the sky was clear, I loved the view of the stars, but I had to focus on the task at hand.

 

I hid my boat in the bushes and creeped through the tiny island, trying to make no sound, then I heard something on the other side, it sounded like a short muffled scream. I crutched down and hid in the bushes as I peeked out to look upon the beach.

 

I will never forget what I saw next, illuminated by the moonlight on the sand lay a dead body of a young woman. Above it stood a tall creature with tentacles coming from the ribs and arms. It slowly turned and looked into my direction. It was Peter. I backed up,  crawled out of the bush and out of sigh. As I did that I heard him laughing loudly. I ran, tripping, falling, and moving in a panicky and frantic way, yet I made it to my boat and pushed it out into the water. I began to row with all of my might, as I distanced myself from the island I could see his boat still on the sand, unmoved. I continued to row with a bit of relief, but then I heard a noise and something pumped the boat from below. Again in horror I began to row like a madman, with every drop of my strength, the island was becoming smaller as I knew I was nearing the harbor and then two tentacles emerged from the water and wrapped around the front of the boat. I was screaming for help, but no one was around. Peter’s head emerged next. His mouth was stretched out and filled with rows of needlelike teeth. He laughed and lunged at me. I was able to shoot my revolver just in time hitting his chest area and he back up, but then raised his head and let out a horrifying sound which I cannot describe. The port was near and being a good swimmer I jumped and swam to the closest docked boat. I climbed on top of it as I heard sounds in the water behind me, but I ran without looking back, I ran all the way to Frank’s eatery.

 

Once inside, I sat shaking and constantly looking at the door. Frank made a joke about me falling in a puddle and brought me coffee, I asked him to keep it coming, I did not intend to sleep that night.

 

In the morning I was jittery and not feeling like myself, but I walked to the police station and told them that there was evidence of wrongdoing on the island and that boatman Peter was the culprit. I did not mention that he transformed, for I’d be joining Been at the asylum if I did so. Police were skeptical as it was, but went there with me. They found skeletons and body parts. The handsome boatman and public’s favorite, Peter, was nowhere to be found and his apartment was empty.

 

The case made me popular and I got a promotion. I was able to move to the better part of town and thankfully further from the Dreamport harbor. However I did still visit Frank’s eatery time to time.

 

Last night I was walking back from work in the dark and behind me I heard a laugh that was eerily familiar, I quickly turned, but no one was there. I ran to my townhome and once inside I stood by the window peeking out and shaking on fear.

 

 

I wasn’t going to find peace after all.

It was a long day. I just wanted to get through it. I just wanted the pressure to easy. Stop by the bar was just part of my routine. I told myself to only have two or three drinks, but you know how it goes. Two or three drinks becomes four or five. I needed to get home. I did not want to leave my car at the bar. I have driven home a hundred times before and always been safe. As I drove, the lines on the road seem to move but I am almost home. The damn radio station is playing that same song that is so frustrating. I just looked down for a second. When I looked up, there was a cat in the middle of the road. I swerved; I lost control.

Here I lay, looking up at the night sky. I can't feel my body. I can’t move my body. I can taste blood. I can’t die. There is so much I wanted to do, so much I wanted to apologize for. I wanted to see her again. Am I a bad person? Is there a heaven? Shit, is there a hell? I must live! I must get up. I must get up. Why can’t I move. I can’t die now!

I can see an approaching light. If only I could get help, I will be ok. The light is getting brighter. The light is so bright. The light is so big. What if I get hit again. Why can’t I move? The light grows so bright and then the light is out. Complete darkness. No sound, no feeling. Will I be ok? A warmness complete overwhelms me. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I go to speak but nothing comes out. I can feel this pressure over all of me. I can feel the pressure building. I am suddenly falling. All the warmth is sucked out of me. It is almost like I have never experienced warmth before. The cold is bitter. I scream. I can finally scream. I scream for anyone to hear. Please help me. Is there anyone there!?

I am weak and hungry. I scream into the darkness. I am trying to look but I must have something over my eyes. I try to remove what is over my eyes. I feel a thickness on my face. It just smears. Something grabs me. I thought I was yelling before. I thought I was cold before. My mouth is being filled with something. All I know is it is warm and it fills me. Finally, the panic is gone. How sweet is this taste. I could be here forever. I love this feeling. I love the warmth.

While this feeling gets almost too much, it is ripped from me. I want it back! I can't find the source. I need more. The feeling was so intense. How could I ever live without this. I am still warm, but I want to be filled. I search and search and I can't find the source. In my search, I find myself struggling to move. I have a darkness come over my thoughts. The pressure is back. I must live. I didn’t get a chance to see her. Who is she? Before I can have my next thought. I can't think anymore.

I am awake. I can move but my movements are so slow. I can see now! Where is that source? I scream but this time, I am suddenly warm again. I find the source and it is beautiful again. It warms my insides. Oh, how much I love it. There are times where I can get my fill and days where I am ripped away from the source. Sometimes, I have to fight to find it but every time I find it, it is total bliss. This was on repeat, I would wake, find the source, eat, and sleep. Slowly, I gain the ability to move. Slowly, I gain the ability to see.

I tried to stand but my back wouldn’t allow me. I tried to see what was around but it felt like everything was daunting and wet. The noises around me were sharp and sudden. I wanted to scream but I became afraid. What was I afraid of? When I would go to the source, there were others. Others like me. I was cautious of them, but they seem to bring me no harm.

I was awake. I was fed. I was safe. This was the way things were. When I slept, I would have these dreams. Dreams of a place I use to know. There would be these hands. They would touch my face. They were warm. Warm like the source. The warmth, the taste, the comfort. After many days of this bliss, there was this sound. I ran. There was a crash and then it was chaos. The others were screaming. They were running. I could hear gnashing of teeth. I could not move. I don’t want to die. Then there was a silence. A silence that was dangerous. I waited. I fell into the familiar darkness. When I woke to find the source, there was nothing. This world has grown cold again.

I screamed out like before, but nothing came. I looked around but there was no source to find. I waited. The source did not come. I screamed again. Nothing answered. I did not know what to do. I did not know where to go. But my body knew. My body moved. And I followed. I went from shadow to shadow.

The hunger grew. I needed to eat. Where before, hunger was a call, the source would answer. Now hunger is a hole. I found a place that was quiet. I curled up. There was no warmth to find. I created my own. The world was cold but I was safe.

When I woke, I saw movement. It wasn’t the wind. My hunger spoke to me. I immediately got ready. I waited. I waited for the perfect moment. It came into view. It had a bunch of legs. It looked disgusting but my body craved it. My body jumped. My mouth bit in. The crunch, the legs. I tried to spit it out. I tried to gag. My body ate the whole thing. The hole was a little smaller. I did not want it. The hunger was quieter. I hated that it helped. I hated that I fell into the darkness a little easier.

I first realized I might want to try caving when I thought about crawling into the oil well on my parents’ property.

I had never gotten too close before. Mom and Dad had forbidden me all my life, when the workers were around, when the machinery was still, and it had never really called to me. The pumpjack loomed too harshly against the horizon, austere and violent, and when the workers labored, it bellowed out awful noises and swung like Themis’ scales. The bulk of the apparatus honestly still scared me, as well as the idea of the suffocating, iridescent sludge within, but the second it occurred to me that it all tied to a tunnel into the earth, something lit up in my brain: some hubris, some excited sector of castigation, that overrode my faculties and had me stumbling out in the twilight to leer at the lip of the well from a short distance, fingers toying idly with the smooth plastic of the lighter in my pocket until I had the fleeting thought that flicking the spark wheel might blow up my entire family.

I clasped my clammy hands in front of me instead and approached. It wasn’t terribly interesting; just an old steel tube with a rotten and sickly sweet stench that wafted up from the depths of a long, dark hole. I thought about sitting on the edge of the steel, dangling my feet over, and lowering myself down, down into those depths to see what was on the other side.The sirens’ song of a crush injury.  But the squeeze wouldn’t be tight enough, I thought.

That night I dreamt of a smaller well, a sort of plaything for a child make-believing about oil barons. My ears rang and the well screeched, but still I climbed inside as if the sounds were simply a lullaby drawing me to my bed. I barely fit, the walls snug against my ribs and hips and shoulders, but as I let gravity suck me down, I knew what it had felt like, the thing that never became a memory. In the dream, there was only the idea of pain. I’m not sure what happened in the end; I woke up sharp and sudden in my bed, at first nearly frightened, and then almost satisfied.

The next few days were spent on daydreams of the well and recollections of long past similar situations. Crawling through plastic playground tunnels when I was a child, hiding in closets with my friends as a drunken teenager, sneaking into a festival curled up in a car trunk. These were fine, almost suitable distractions, but I dreamt of them at night, too, along with what I was more keen to be distracted from: the vision of a glistening coffin being lowered into a cozy grave and suffocated with dirt. Sometimes I woke up with soil under my nails. Sometimes I could almost taste earth and clay in my mouth.

These nightmares and mysterious stains were a bit too much for me. I was never incredibly tolerant. I figured I just had a bizarre, slightly macabre new hyperfixation that my mostly-ghosted therapist would probably easily link to trauma, and I just as easily assumed that I knew how to remedy it. I’ve indulged in worse before, so I texted my friend, Moore, from college, who does spelunking and skydiving and all the other adrenaline-producing shit rich kids pay for when they get bored and want a taste of manufactured danger. He briefly pretended to care whether I had experience in the field and accepted my redirection without much concern for my or his wellbeing. I think he worked in risk management; it’d probably given him some sort of alarm fatigue.
My experience, of course, was nonexistent, and his was too low to take a clueless charge down into the bowels of the uncaring earth, but maybe he did believe me when I hinted at knowing a bit more than nothing. Maybe it was some combination of attraction and indifference; maybe it was pity. There’s a chance it had even been some misguided, cold vitriol that had inspired him to allow himself the opportunity to see me dig my silver spoon into rock and mud, but regardless, he didn’t share his motivations if he had them, and instead emailed me a time and place, as well as a brief checklist:

• helmet
• knee + elbow pads
• headlamp (800 lumens)
• rainboots 
• backpack (water, food, batteries, extra headlamp, 3 flashlights)

I was glad for the succinct nature, the lack of request for a chat over dinner or a briefing over coffee. I hadn’t spoken to Moore since college, didn’t have anything good to catch him up on, and wasn’t terribly curious about his own life beyond his ability to go where I never had. My interest wasn’t as locational as it was geological; the act of discovery and the sights within the caverns of our region weren’t of as much importance to me as the scrape of stone and the kiss of closeness. I’d be lying if I said I fully understood it, but then again, I’d never chased the motivation behind my impulses.

I didn’t tell anyone where or when I was going, what my plans were, why I had a sudden urge to deeply inconvenience myself by squeezing into the bowels of the earth. Survivalists and explorers, from my limited research, say you should always let someone know when you plan to return in case of emergency, but I assumed Moore would take care of that. I didn’t talk to many people anymore other than my parents, at least during the daylight hours, and despite my adulthood, I had the feeling my family would try to dissuade me from my adventure. To them, it would seem woefully dangerous at best and passively suicidal at worst, and I didn’t care to listen.

I also didn’t care to listen to Moore, who spoke more than I remembered. His mouth was open the second I climbed out of my car, my boots crunching onto the sparse gravel of the informal parking spot located on the shoulder of a weaving, forested road. He’d been rummaging through packs when I rolled in, working by the hatch light of his SUV and the dim morning light that filtered through the leaves above, but he whirled when I approached, squinting at his phone, at me, at the woods around us. “You’re a little late,” he said, getting a good look at my shoes.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he said. He didn’t sound annoyed, but he didn’t sound thrilled. He’d always been a little too blasé for me. Maybe it was his general demeanor, just a calm guy, but I didn’t like the lack of a leg to stand on I had with him. It would be better if someone was excited at the opportunity to show me the hidden innards of the ground, explain their weird little hobby to me in a way that I could tune out, grab my pack for me and clip me to whatever I needed to be clipped to. Instead, he was methodical about the whole thing. “You bring everything I told you to?”

I nodded. It was a simple list of provisions for what was supposed to be a pretty simple day expedition. I’d stayed awake a lot of nights now looking through pictures and go pro footage of different cave systems, Mammoth Cave, Jewel Cave, the Carlsbad Caverns, but I think any of them would suffice for what I needed.

“You’re gonna fuck up your jeans.”

I blinked at him. He hadn’t specified much for clothing beyond the required safety equipment and general coverage, but he was wearing a stupid-looking yellow polyester suit. I had on sturdy pants, long sleeves with a jacket, the boots and pads and gloves required of me. “That’s okay,” I answered, and he blinked back, shrugged, and bestowed into my hands a crumpled windbreaker from the trunk of his vehicle before he slung his pack over his shoulder and started off into the woods.

The lock systems on our rides beeped their sharp goodbyes at us as we trekked down the worn trail. I pulled the windbreaker over my head at a brief pause and had to hustle to catch back up with Moore, who wasn’t purposefully hurrying but was still moving at a pace I wasn’t accustomed to. It was early fall, cool and damp in the after dawn hours, but I could still feel clammy perspiration building up under the insulated layers of clothing I had on, trickling down my spine like a nose bleed. I took shallow swigs from one of my plastic water bottles as we ventured along, then a surreptitious pull from a patterned tumbler. Moore only looked back when I stumbled over rock or root, but he told me generally of the cave we were marching to.

It’s probably not completely undiscovered but it’s not well documented. No official trail signs leading us towards our destination and Moore says no maps or videos online of it, either. He’s been in once or twice, spurred by the spirit of exploration to branch away from the more well-traversed cave systems in the nearby area, and he says it’s simple, roomy at its best parts in ways that mimic a hike and with a few tight squeezes, but nothing snug enough to be dangerous, no sumps or pits or other vocabulary terms I didn’t recognize that he had to explain. There had been relics of dusty old equipment when he’d ventured in, beer cans and food wrappers illuminated by the beam of his headlamp that indicated it had been touched not just by civilization, but by the heedless, youthful population of humanity that meant it should be an easy trip for people like me. It was maybe a bit reckless on his own part to take me along into a largely unexplored cavern, but I didn’t feel any trepidation as I followed him. All I really felt was the lull of the forest around me, the wet chill of perspiration and autumn, the burn of my calves as I traipsed along the half-trail and of my throat when I took a drink between blurs of still green trees and dirt.

“Becca.”
“Hm?” I crunched to a halt behind Moore. He was standing still at the edge of the clear cut through the brush, and I raised my eyebrows in a mirror of his expression as I re-did my hair tie that didn’t need to be redone.

“I asked if you’d talked to Lacey’s parents. You heard from them at all?”

This did make me feel something other than boredom, for just a second. I pulled at my hairband a little too tightly and snapped it, cursed and fished another out to yank my ponytail back. I shook my head while I did it, pursing my lips like I had something in my mouth I couldn’t let go of, then said, “No,” when he kept looking at me. It was simple, and it was partly a lie. I had received several messages from Lacey’s parents and her sister. My parents had received calls, and our reps had received emails. We just hadn’t responded to any. My mother had brought up the idea of me calling them back, but when I thought of that, I wasn’t smothered tight by the earth or by metal or a wooden box; I was spinning aimlessly up, up through the air, in a direction I didn’t understand. So no, I said, and no, I meant, but it wasn’t for their lack of trying.

Moore accepted that easily, with neither pleasure nor derision, and I took another drink. Down, down, swirled the embers, like a whirlpool, like a tumbling hunk of metal on a hill, down the way I wanted to go. Moore stepped down, down, a gentle incline through a raggedy grove of foliage that he parted and pulled until a swath of rock was revealed. There was a generous enough entrance cut into the stone, jagged and short enough to have to stoop into, but nothing like a mailbox slot. Nothing like my oil well, my wooden box.

“Gypsum,” Moore said with a hint of pride. He tilted his head towards the cave entrance. “Others in the area are mostly dolomite. S’a karst forest. I think.” He shrugged, kicked a stone away with a scuff of his boot, and explained none of those words to me. With one last scrutinizing look at my gear, he bent to step into the maw of the rock and reminded me, “Make sure you do what I say. Let me know if anything is too much for you.”

I ducked in behind him. The entrance to the cave was pale and glittered softly in the brief rays of weak sunlight that managed to worm through the trees. The ground crumbled beneath the heels of my boots and I was distracted enough by squinting into the approaching darkness that I scraped my helmet against outcroppings of rock a few times. Moore didn’t look back at my noises, which were mostly brief stumbles and the chafe of my gloves against the rock wall for support. The air was quiet and somber, colder than the outside in temperature even at this shallow depth, but more so, empty of the vibrant life of the forest. If there was life in this cave, it was near silent; we were the loudest things, our footfalls interrupting and echoing, and only when Moore paused to flip on the bulb of his headlamp did I hear it. Almost inaudible, more of an idea, a gentle whisper of air came from the depths. It came in stilted puffs, only truly able to be felt once I had heard it, and they were just barely warmer than the air around us. They caressed my face like the breath of an animal, and their smell was mostly stale and stagnant and earthen like that which surrounded us, but tinged with something like metal and decay. I wrinkled my nose. Moore took a deep pull.

“Hey, if it blows, it goes.”

If it blows, it goes.
If it blows, it goes.
If it blows, it goes.
If it blows
It goes.
I go.
I go.
I do, I go.

Breath in and out through working lungs. A drink down. My headlamp was flicked on like the high beam of a car, by someone else’s fingers, Moore reaching back and taking the wheel, and the cave came into wet repose again. Dampness clung to the walls and ceilings and floors like spit, and everything was beautiful and boring and awful. It was a harsh, alien landscape, dirty white stone and nonsensical edges. It felt like stepping over tooth and tongue and into mouth, into gullet, into lung. This was the throat of the world, breathing quietly, frozen and gross and–I shrieked as a spider the size of my palm skittered across the ground in front of me, my boot striking out and missing. Moore swung his gaze and his light towards it, catching a streak of amber body as it disappeared into a hovel of rock, and he laughed.

“Yeah, there are animals in these sometimes. Usually just bugs, bats, but I’ve seen scorpions and stuff, too. Gnarly little guys.” He stepped on ahead, his footing surer than mine. “This is mostly just walkable, but there’s a little pass up ahead, and the other side is pretty. Little cramped on the way in, but plenty of room for standing and exploring once you’re through.”

In the cave, all was dark except that which our light illuminated. We were glaring intrusions under the stalactites, and I felt artificial, like I was in a dream. Everything was a bit too quiet; all the noises were us and the distant blowing breath. Moore swept his headlamp over different rock formations, took pictures and videos and pointed things out to me, and I looked dutifully but distractedly. I was uneasy, but not claustrophobic; in fact, I had too much room. I could stand to my full height and stretch my arms out almost fully to the sides to run my covered fingers through the sweaty trails inching down the cave walls. To Moore, I may have looked reverent, but I felt like I was free falling.

I stopped greedily when he halted our expedition in a small dip of the system. It was off a left or right turn; I hadn’t been keeping careful track, but he’d left cracked glowsticks along the way to aid dimly on our way back. He sat down on a mineral ulcer jutting from the ground and I crouched. We ate quickly. I was surprised to find that I was hungry. I hadn’t felt it, but we’d been walking for a couple hours, so it made sense. I drank from a crinkling water bottle and the sloshing tumbler and my eyes blurred momentarily, but they righted themselves as I waited for him on the cave floor. We didn’t move on till he was ready; he had the wheel, and my life was in his hands.

“This is the squeeze,” he announced easily, pointing out a hole that carved itself into the rock wall a few feet above the ground. It looked natural, eroded, and like an altogether bad idea. He’d been through this way before, so I knew it was big enough for his larger frame to crawl through, and I could see it in the width as well, but it was still overwhelmingly small in context. My heart hammered insistently for a few beats as I stared and half listened to his explanation of technique, some foul mix of fear and excitement.

“Yeah, I can do it,” I told him when he asked. I wanted to do it, and so I would. Maybe this was really what drew me underground, the opportunity to overcome hesitance and nervousness and to do something through sheer willpower. I watched as he folded himself into the orifice and shuffled inside. It wasn’t beautiful or graceful, but it was practiced. He went slowly but easily, and there was enough room for his pack to clear the ceiling. I let him disappear and slough through stone until he presumably made it to the other side, and his echoing call came through the tunnel, too quiet to understand but enough to hear. I brushed stray hairs behind my ears and bent at the knees in front of the mouth and called back. “What? I can’t hear you!”

For a moment, all was silent except for my own pulse, and I felt the exhale upon my face through the squeeze. If it blows, it goes, I go, I blow. My ears rang in response to the nothingness and my vision blurred gently at the edges again, like sleep encroaching, and then the wind from where the sky can’t touch whistled again, like static like sirens like screaming like a choir singing, and bubbled into another garbled response that was half Moore’s voice and half not. I squinted and recoiled, and it groaned again, the tunnel, before I heard, “Bec!”

“S-sorry!” I didn’t give it time. I didn’t think twice. I twisted myself in an approximation of the shape Moore had been in when he entered the tunnel and shoved myself forward. My footing wasn’t great, and the rubber of my boot slipped against the slick floor, but I was able to push pull drag myself forward, until I was in. My body hunched in crawl, forced down unnaturally by the low ceiling, and I took a moment to get my bearings. I was surrounded by walls the color of aged bone, pockmarked by time and dirty water, and it was all close enough that if I shifted, I would collide with it in some manner. I took my first tentative drag forward and shuddered as rock bit into my leg through my pants. Mud smeared down the parts of my body that brushed the floor, and water dripped down onto my helmet, ran into my eyes and over my lips. I felt like I was lost to the earth, already buried alive, and the air was full of false promises as I sucked it in. But it was perfect, and I kept going, inch by inch and foot by foot through the tunnel.

It was almost euphoric, having the itch scratched gently after all the dreams. This was maybe the first time in my life I had truly known what I wanted. I crawled and bent as the ceiling lowered, scooting myself forward more by the toes of my shoes and the pads of my fingers than anything. Something scuttled by me again in the small breadth of space between myself and the left wall, but this time I didn’t scream. I imagined it crushed by my body as I moved forward. I imagined myself wrapped tight by the earth. It was a mother’s embrace, and I was the petulant child, the one who angered her. I winced as I scraped my helmet against the ceiling, laughed breathlessly to myself, and realized I was at a very narrow point. Far ahead, I could vaguely see the glow of Moore’s headlamp.

Toes and fingers were not bringing me forward anymore. The rock above me held my head back like a trick when I tried, and when I bowed close enough to the ground, I couldn’t move my limbs in the right order anymore. I faltered for a moment, wrapped in the world, seemingly unable to move. “Get down on your stomach, Becca,” Moore called down the passageway, flickering his light. “It’s just an army crawl. You got it. Breathe out if it feels too tight.”

I lowered myself belly to earth and looked around with bright, concerned eyes. How terrible would it be to be stuck here? A shift forward, just an inch or so. How long could you survive in this exact position? A scoot that got me a little farther this time. How scary would it all be? A drag powered by my weak arms. Would it hurt more or less than a car crash? Moore’s headlight loomed in the distance, almost blinding me when I stared straight down the tunnel, so I fixed my eyes down with the little room allotted to me and kicked my splayed leg to move me forward. The ceiling was still a good half foot about my back, but this time, I didn’t move. I couldn’t feel if my foot had lost its purchase or if I was snagged on some fishhook jutting from the walls, but I hastily returned my leg to its position and pushed forward again. Nothing. Stagnant, still, and I tried to turn to look behind me, suddenly overcome by the feeling that grave things were coming from behind me and clinging to my limbs, but all I succeeded in doing was thunking my helmet against the wall. I swore and sucked in a ragged breath and tried to pull this time, but I was so disoriented by the cessation of movement that I wasn’t sure if I was moving at all.

“I’m stuck!” I shouted to Moore, who wasn’t that far away at this point. “I don’t know what on–”

“You’re fine.” I was not fine, but he sounded sure enough. “It’s not tight enough to actually be any trouble. Just relax, breathe out, and go slow. Take your time. It’ll work.”

My fingers twitched and scrabbled against the rock, my breath getting away from me. I felt feral in my nerves and my excitement. My lungs emptied out with a stuttering breath, I closed my eyes, and I toed forward again. This time I felt the scrape of movement, and I held my breath, latched on, and inched forward until I was dizzy. It was only minutes until I tipped over the lip of the tunnel, addled and cumbersome, into the next room. My shoulder hit the ground hard, and I giggled mindlessly for a second before I got the gall to crack my eyes open.

“You good?”

Moore hovered over me, his face pinched, but I focused on the cavern behind him. It was beautiful. I nodded, breathing out my pain and accepting his hand. He tugged me up and I saw the chamber upright. Much of it was shrouded in darkness, but he had his flashlights arranged in an illuminating, outward facing circle that shed light on some of the closer features beyond the scope of my headlamp. The walls and ceilings were formed from the same glittering gypsum, but gossamer tendrils and rosettes spiraled from the rock like marble carvings. They looked delicate enough that a single touch would break them, but drops of water rolled over their edges into standing pools of water across the muddy floor. The water rose only around shin deep, but it glimmered foggy and serene in the still cave, and the same tendrils reached up from the bed like coral flowers. Blind fish and pearly snails hid amongst the mud and pebbles, like tiny bones come to life, and I crouched down beside the little pond. It was like I had been suffocated in the tunnel and born again to a strange eden.

“This is really beautiful,” I said, and it was sincere. I watched as a drop of water from above sent a placid ripple through the water. “How did you know this was here?”

“This is where I ended up before,” Moore replied, shrugging like it was matter of fact. “You’ll see stuff like this a lot in the hobby, but it’s usually when it’s already been found by someone else. Most of the time it’s still pretty untouched, but I kinda like that this is just for me and a few other people so far. No trash in here, so I’m not even sure if the teenagers tried it through the tunnel. Lame, ‘cause that’s an easy crawl. Usually the good sights are on the other side of some stuff that’ll seriously kick your ass.”

It was a nice thought, finding something special on the other side of it all. There wasn’t much to the cavern all in all; a bit of space beyond the light, more alabaster spirals and tranquil water. I stepped carefully around the pools and watched creatures mill guilelessly through the beam of my flashlight. I was approaching what would soon turn into boredom or complacency when I saw it, new, less than beautiful. A mass the size of a softball undulated through the foggy water, and as it drew closer, I saw that it appeared to be a clew of worms tangled together, red as blood and moving through the pool like they were each the searching limb of an organism. The knot moved over one of the bone snails and when it passed, the shell was still.

“What the fuck.” I grimaced and turned to head back towards the exit before I saw anymore worm amalgams, only to jump when Moore was standing perfectly still behind me. His eyes were wide and the rest of his face flat. I gestured to the pool. “Sorry, worms…”

“Yeah, that’ll happen,” he said. He tightened his grip on his flashlight and shone it behind me, towards the far wall. “Look.”

I crossed my arms and followed the beam with my eyes, squinting through the dark. There in the epicenter of the light was a tunnel–another one, smaller than the one we’d entered from, shaped oblong and low. The flashlight beam quivered, and I looked back at Moore. “I thought you said there was only one crawl.”

“I thought there was,” he said hurriedly. His hand still trembled and there was a manic gleam in his eyes as he lowered the beam to show him the way across the floor to the wall. While this was about the physical sensation for me, a recreation of living and unconscious nightmare, it meant something altogether different to Moore. It must be something like the thrill of discovery, or maybe the chance to ensconce himself so far in the earth that no one knew where but him. He didn’t seem to mind having me along if it was the latter, and he beckoned me to follow him. “This wasn’t here when I–I didn’t see it the first time. I don’t know. I looked all through this chamber, maybe I got turned around and confused it for the entrance, but. I mean, we have to go through.”

“It looks tight.”

“Is that a problem?” He eyed me with a look I hadn’t seen in a long time. He wasn’t trying to strongarm me into it. He looked beseeching, like it would make him vibrate out of his skin if I allotted him the opportunity to crawl into this tunnel. I didn’t know if this was all protocol or not. The knowledge lay with Moore, and it seemed like he was handing me the control. I turned my attention back to the narrow opening, just wide enough for him to slip into, just barely more than wide enough for me. He was explaining something about how we could go together this time, how he’d talk me through any tight spots and we’d back out if he felt it getting too cramped, and I was thinking about how much I wanted to feel that moment at the precipice. Being brave and stupid and crawling into this hole would give me what being cruel and stupid had not been able to: a lasting memory of the squeeze. What had Lacey felt, at the end? The fear of death and the trapping embrace of metal on all sides, while I slept soundly through the worst of what I’d done and still lived. This would be how I found it. I cut Moore off mid-sentence with a short nod and he smiled bigger than I’d ever seen.

It was a snug fit. Moore disappeared into the cleft in the rock slower this time and shouted back at me when he felt he had cleared enough ground for me to follow. He’d had to shimmy off his pack and shove it ahead of him, so I copied the tactic as I bent and twisted myself enough to fit into the entry. It was awful immediately. Rock pressed at my sides and my stomach and if I lifted my head too much or tried to come up from a belly crawl, the ceiling bit at my scalp and spine. My flashlight had just enough room around my pack to illuminate a short distance in front of me, showing rock and narrow path and Moore’s shoes farther ahead. I shuffled forward, feeling terrified and embraced and correct.

Every inch was arduous, much harder than the first tunnel, like the earth itself was rejecting us. I had to shed my helmet and push it ahead with my pack, but I told myself that if Moore could make it through, then so could I. The only way we knew there was somewhere to make it through to was the air; if it blows, it goes, and the quiet puffs of air emanated out from the tunnel. In the claustrophobia, I thought that they even felt stronger, sounded louder, like the source was closer now. We surged forward like devolved creatures, half blind and wriggling through the dirt and over stone, holding back conversation to keep from inflating our lungs enough to make it harder to traverse the depths. We went so long without speaking that when Moore cursed under his breath, it scared me so badly that I flinched upward and met the rock skull first. I gasped loud and felt an immediate wet rivulet trickle through my hair, dripping onto the ground before me.

“You good?” Moore called over his shoulder, pausing his forward momentum.

“Yeah, just a–a gash on my head,” I replied. I wanted to reach up instinctively and feel at the wound, but my arms were pinned too tight for that. I settled for wrinkling my face to try to direct the blood from my eyes and taking a breather. “What made you–” I didn’t finish my question, because I quickly saw the answer. A clutch of amber spiders, at least a couple dozen, streamed past Moore in the tiny cracks left around his body, on ceiling, floor, wall. They scuttled over his legs and shoes, directly towards me, and I cried out and tried to shove myself back to no avail. They weren’t interested in me, of course, but they weren’t dissuaded enough by my presence to give me a wide berth as they worked their way around me either. I felt phantom limbs brush through the cut on my head and squeezed my eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to stand and run in that moment. I kept my eyes closed so long that Moore had to call out to me again, and I shook my head as much as I could, although he couldn’t see. “Maybe we should turn back. I don’t want to crawl into a nest.”

“Probably not in the tunnel,” he reasoned, his voice distant and muffled by the rocks surrounding us. He pulled himself forward a few more inches and muttered something, but it was muffled again not just by the stones, but by a whistle of air and the sound of loud scraping. I froze and saw his feet do the same ahead of me as the sound grew louder, or closer, and I assumed the worst. We were going to be truly crushed in a collapse or at least trapped here in this coffin. I shrieked and Moore started to say something that was probably meant to calm me, but it was cut off this time by a lurching gurgle. It sounded like the noise someone makes when the driver stomps on their brakes too suddenly and they’re choked by their seatbelt. There was nothing after. His feet moved neither forward nor back.

“Moore?” Nothing. “Moore!” Nothing from him, but the scraping returned, and this time I felt the ground quiver with the wind that blew in. It carried the same smell as earlier but stronger, earth and brimstone and tangy copper. I tried to push myself backwards quickly again on instinct, like with the spiders, the fleeing fucking spiders, and got nowhere. The walls of the tunnel shook the vodka in my veins into bubbles and rattled my skull, and I grabbed for useless purchase on the ground, only to feel something wet touch my fingertips, dampening my pack. I jerked my hands back as much as possible in the cramped space and fixed my flashlight on the offending liquid. Thick streams of blood clumped with hair and something gray writhed through the mud and fed the dirt, and for a second I thought my head wound had cracked open and spilled my viscera onto the ground before me. I stopped breathing, frozen by an impossible sight, and could only swallow hard as I pressed down my pack and shone the light on Moore’s shoes.

A river of blood flooded out from underneath him. He was perfectly still. I nearly jerked my shoulder out of the socket maneuvering my arm so I could reach forward and tug at the heel of his boot, my voice still trapped in my throat. He didn’t respond at all, but the ground shuddered and breathed again, and the steady scraaape echoed through the tunnel. The dim edges of my light barely penetrated the tiny space between his back and the top of the ceiling, but I could swear I saw the rock move downward. Not violent and sudden like the cavein I had feared, but slow and methodical. Like teeth coming down. Like something was chewing… I felt the barest twitch of his foot and my heart hammered so hard I thought I was going to die right then and there in the tunnel from shock or excitement that he hadn’t just been killed and left me here alone. But the twitch wasn’t him trying to signal to me; it was the rubber of his heel slipping out of my soaked fingertips as the jaws of the tunnel pulled him forward just slightly, just a few inches, enough to leave a streak of blood in his wake.

I found my voice then. I screamed and I probably swore, but my ears rang so loudly that they blotted out all rational thought in my mind other than the breathing of the cave, the chewing of the cave. I tried in vain a third time to shove myself free of the mouth of a stone beast and was met again with the catch of stone against me. I watched as the tunnel bit down on Moore’s body again, through the last bit of recognizable head I could see over the hump of his shoulders, and I realized in that moment that it wasn’t just pulling him forwards into whatever horrible rock maw it had; it was moving forward as well.

I could’ve passed out. I really wanted to pass out, actually, to go blissfully unconscious and not have to deal with the fear of what was approaching me, the total confusion regarding what was happening to me, and the inevitable crushing pain. Instead, my brain stayed woefully awake, my nerves singing in anticipatory pain as I watched the tunnel eat Moore’s body. Everything in me trembled, but I started to work myself backwards at the same painstaking pace I’d had to crawl forwards with. It felt wrong. It felt like strolling away from a tsunami. It felt like driving through a guardrail. It was slow and difficult and I could barely tell I was making any progress at all, and all I had was the hope that the rock was slower. I wished I was sober. I should’ve gone in sober. Maybe this was all some horrific hallucination caused by the combination of alcohol and cave gases, I thought, but then I saw the ceiling come down on my discarded helmet and crush it like an eggshell. I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was watching Moore slide away, the stone inch closer, followed by gore and death and impossibility. But I don’t know if I’ve ever been as relieved, either, as when my toes slipped off the edge of the entrance finally.

It took maybe five more awful minutes to work myself back far enough that I could tear myself from the wall. I fell from the entrance and expected to hit hard ground, but instead I crashed into something slippery and slick. I fumbled my flashlight as I tried to get my footing and found that the floor of the cavern was covered in shining white mucus. It clung to my clothes and body as I wrenched myself free, and I backed away from the hole in the wall slowly. It was breathing loudly know, exhaling rot and fear into the cavern, and I wondered if the teeth would follow, or if that was the mouth. Maybe the whole cave system was the mouth. Maybe I was in the stomach. I stared for too long, recklessly, until I felt a stinging on my forearm and looked to find a clump of the blood red worms from before, wriggling and intestinal, some with metallic pincers sunk into my skin. I shrieked and ripped it away, but the shining penny-colored prongs took a chunk of my flesh with it, and the skin left around the bite began to redden and swell immediately. I turned blindly on my heels at that and splashed through the snot and saliva and water filling the cavern, coughing and wretching as it soaked me. The flashlight circle Moore left had been covered so I just ran like a madman until I found it, the first tunnel, and threw myself in headfirst.

At this point, after the tightness of the other crawl and the consumption of my friend, it was the easiest thing I’d ever done. I army crawled forward, soaked to the bone in blood and congealed mess, and didn’t stop until my flashlight flickered out. I banged it against the ground to restart it, and it waxed and waned through dim light, but the insides had probably been damaged by the fall or the moisture and soon it darkened permanently. My other lights were in my abandoned pack, so–fuck it, it was a straight shot. I forged forward through the darkness, crawling, crawling, quickly and then as fast as I could as I felt wind at my feet and heard the rumbling scrape of stone behind me. It was pitch dark for what felt like miles, and I imagined myself trapped in a labyrinth down there, running like a rat until the earth caught up to me, but then the blue sheen of a glowstick far, far in the distance caught my eye. Salvation, eden, heaven, paradise was above ground and I would cherish it well. I dragged myself forward with renewed vigor and collapsed out of the tunnel’s mouth once more, into the navigable beginner caves I’d been promised at the start of all this.

The smartest thing at this moment would’ve been to follow the glow and run back towards the surface, but some stupid animal thing in my head had taken over, some sort of testament to Moore’s exploratory spirit, and I turned back to the tunnel. The glowstick didn’t leave near enough light to see anything substantial by, but something in my head insisted that I see if anything was following me. I didn’t have my pack anymore, but I did have the plastic lighter in my pocket. I fished it out with haste, held it close to the entrance while standing back like I was ready to run, and flicked the flint wheel with trembling fingers.

I didn’t see anything. I don’t know if the force of the explosion knocked me down or if I dropped to my knees of my own accord, but I ended up splayed on my back on the cave floor as the spark from the lighter ignited and presumably devastated the tunnel. Rubble from above sifted onto my face like snow, and it was all I could do to right myself. My head swam and I almost stumbled back the wrong way, convinced I was heading towards the glowstick before I realized it was an eruption of blue flames. I coughed and turned again, stumbling at the fastest jog I could muster and navigating by the comparably pathetic glowsticks, gripping onto walls to lead myself out. My eyes stung worse than the flash burn when I first saw the light, but I reached towards it like a child to its mother all the same and tripped forward, forward, forward, until I was out of the cave’s mouth and spilling onto the mud. I cried out and rested my face against the ground for just a moment before I pulled myself to my knees, wiped my nostrils clean, and started the hike back to the cars.

Sunset was tinging the horizon when I reached them. I wasn’t afraid. Being above wasn’t scary. I had foolishly taken my keys into the cave with me, but I tried Moore’s passenger door and it popped open easily. Risk management my ass, I thought as I gingerly climbed in and reached up to the sun visor over the driver’s side which, sure enough, had his keys sequestered away against the mirror. I took them down in a hand almost too weak to grip them fully and hoisted myself over the center console to collapse in the seat. It wasn’t lost on me that just hours ago, Moore had sat here, and now he had succumbed to the earth. I didn’t know what it all meant. I didn’t understand why that had happened or truly what had happened at all. I knew I would live it over and over in my dreams, and that I would remember this time. But I don’t think it was my fault. I don’t. That’s comforting to me, as I turn the keys in the ignition and reach into the pocket of the windbreaker to feel at the grooves of the patterned tumbler stowed away there.

The first thing you need to understand is that the man we found wasn't chained up. No shackles, no ropes, nothing. The gate was locked from the outside, yeah, but inside that room he could move around all he wanted. When we finally got it open, he wouldn't come out. Not wouldn't—couldn't. His body just… refused.

I spent twenty minutes crouched there talking to him like you would to a scared dog. Offered him food, water, help—anything I could think of. But his eyes kept darting past me down that empty hallway like something was gonna come charging out of the dark any second. Every time I gestured toward the door, he’d flinch back like I’d raised a hand to him.

Getting him outside was worse. When we finally carried him through the doorway, he screamed—this raw, tearing sound that didn't even seem human. One of my guys thought we’d broken his arm carrying him.

I’ve been in demolition eighteen years. I’ve pulled homeless people out of condemned buildings, cut animals out of walls, cleared rooms where you could still smell death in the air. Thought I’d seen it all.

I was wrong.

My name’s Cal Mercer. Thirty-eight, divorced. My company’s been one bad month from folding for three years straight. I’ve got a fifteen-year-old daughter named Nora who lives with her mom. I love her more than anything, but I keep letting her down.

I’m telling you this because every decision that put us in that building came down to money. I took a job I shouldn’t have, ignored things I should’ve questioned, pushed my crew into a situation none of us understood—all because I couldn’t afford to say no.

The place was an old meat-packing plant called Coldwater Packing. Shut down seventeen years ago. County acquired it after the bankruptcy and finally scrounged up the cash to tear it down.

That’s where we came in.

It wasn't a big job, but it covered payroll. Me, Sam Ortega—who’s been with me eleven years—and Tyler, a kid who started last spring. We were supposed to spend two days clearing out leftover machinery and checking the structure before demolition the following week.

We showed up a little before eight Thursday morning. It had rained overnight. The parking lot was all broken asphalt and puddles, weeds growing up through the cracks waist-high in places.

The building itself was what you’d expect: stained brick, rusted equipment, shattered windows. Somebody had taken down the main sign years ago, leaving a pale rectangle on the wall where the paint hadn't faded.

Sam looked it over while we unloaded the truck.
"Think anybody ever got murdered in here?"
"Couple million cows, probably."
"I mean people."
"Not till today. Keep asking stupid questions and we'll see."

Tyler laughed. Sam didn't. He was staring at the loading dock.
"That door looks new."

He was right. One of the big roll-up doors had been sealed with a heavy steel panel. The bolts looked newer than anything else on the building.
"County probably put it up to keep kids out."
"Then how come the front door looks like somebody kicked it in with a truck?"
"Ask the county."

He shook his head and went back to unloading.

I should've paid more attention.

Inside, most of the place had been stripped clean years ago. The main floor was this huge space with drainage channels cut into the concrete. Rusted meat hooks still hung from an overhead track.

We spent the first hour checking for structural issues and taking pictures of equipment that wasn't on the inventory.

Around nine, my phone buzzed. A text from Nora:
*You still coming Saturday?*

I'd promised to take her to some photography exhibit she wanted to see—one of the few things she still wanted to do with me.
*Of course*, I texted back.

A minute later:
*You said that last time.*

That one stung. I'd missed her school presentation two weeks before because a job ran late. Before that, I canceled dinner because one of my trucks broke down. There was always a reason.

I started typing some long excuse about work and responsibility, then deleted it.
*I'll be there. Promise.*

She sent back a thumbs-up emoji. For some reason, that felt worse than if she'd told me to go fuck myself.

I put my phone away and got back to work.

The first thing that felt off came around ten. Sam called me over to an electrical panel near the old cold storage rooms.

Most of the wiring was ancient—brittle insulation, cut conduits, empty cabinets. But one section had fresh screws holding the cover on, and a new cable ran off into a conduit along the ceiling.
"Somebody's been doing electrical work," Sam said.
"Could've been from before they closed."
He pointed at a label on the cable.
"That stuff isn't seventeen years old."

He was right. The new wiring connected to a small distribution box that wasn't on any of the original plans.
"Maybe security," I said.
"Security for what?"

I didn't have an answer.

Sam popped the box open and checked the terminals with his meter.
Then he looked at me.
"There's power."

That got my attention. The county told us specifically the building was disconnected. Live wires on a demo site aren't just unusual—they're dangerous.

I told Sam to leave it alone until we figured out where it was coming from.
He gave me that look he gets when he knows I'm cutting corners.
"You're calling somebody, right?"
"After we finish the walkthrough."
"Cal."
"I said I'll call somebody."

He held up his hands and backed off. Sam knows me too well—knows when I'm avoiding something because I'm worried about time or money.

I wasn't planning to do anything stupid. Just document it, mark it off, let the county deal with it before demolition started.

Around eleven, we reached the refrigerated storage section—six big rooms connected by a narrow service corridor. Most were empty except for some old equipment bolted to the floors.

The smell changed back there.

The rest of the building smelled like damp concrete and mold. Back here there was this faint chemical odor—like vet clinic disinfectant—and under it, something else.

Sam smelled it too.
"You smell that?"
"Yeah."
"Smells like animals."

I stopped walking. He was right. That unmistakable barn smell—old bedding, urine, something warm and sour.

We checked the nearest room—empty except for some scattered insulation. The next had collapsed shelving.

The third room was where we found the wall.

At first glance it was just a concrete-block partition at the back of the room, partly covered by crumbling insulation panels. But when Tyler pulled one of the panels away, he exposed a clean vertical seam in the mortar.
"Hey boss—this supposed to be here?"

I checked the plans on my tablet. According to the drawings, the room should've extended another eight feet.

Somebody had built a wall across it.

I tapped a few spots with my hammer. Most sounded solid, but one section near the center had this hollow resonance.

Sam ran his hand along the mortar joint.
"This has been added."
"Yeah."
"What's behind it?"
"Probably old equipment."

There was a patch near the bottom where the mortar looked newer. Tyler crouched down and scraped at it with a screwdriver.

A chunk crumbled away.
Something metallic underneath.
"Hold on," I told him.

I got my flashlight and looked closer. There was a steel frame behind the blocks.

We cleared away more loose material and uncovered what looked like the edge of a narrow door—hidden behind a false section of wall made to look like part of the original masonry.

That should've been when I stopped and called somebody.

Instead, I told Tyler to get rotary hammer drill because now this hidden door meant more paperwork more delays more costs

It took us twenty minutes to knock out enough cinderblock to see the door. Behind the masonry was a steel panel with a simple padlock on the outside. The metal wasn’t rusty; in fact, compared to everything else in the building, it looked like somebody’d been using it recently.

Sam pulled the handle. “Locked. Want me to cut it?”

I nodded.

He got the cordless grinder from our equipment cart and sliced through the lock’s hasp. When the door finally came loose, he pulled it toward us.

Warm air drifted out. That was the first thing I noticed. Not the smell—though that was stronger now—not the darkness beyond the doorway, or the faint mechanical humming coming from somewhere inside. The air was warm. We’d spent all morning in a building so cold you could see your breath in some rooms. Standing in front of that passage felt like somebody’d just turned on the heat.

“Somebody’s using this place,” Sam said.

I didn’t argue.

I shone my flashlight through the opening. The passage was narrow, painted concrete walls, low ceiling. A line of electrical conduit ran along one side; several bare bulbs hung overhead. The nearest one was lit. Beyond that, the corridor disappeared around a corner.

I made Tyler to stay by the door and call our county contact. Then I stepped inside with Sam.

People ask why we didn’t call the police right away. Looking back, I wonder the same thing. But at that point I figured we’d found an illegal grow operation or squatters using part of the abandoned facility. Maybe somebody stealing electricity, living in the back rooms. Wasn’t the first time we’d run into people occupying a building they weren’t supposed to be in.

We walked about thirty feet before the corridor opened into a rectangular room. Three large metal enclosures stood along one wall. Looked like livestock pens—heavy steel-barred fronts, each with a sliding gate that could be secured from the outside. Concrete troughs ran along the bottom of each partition. Floors covered in straw—fresh straw. Buckets were stacked beside the entrance; a long-handled brush hung from a hook; several folded blankets sat on a shelf. Somebody had swept the walkway recently.

We were staring at the enclosures when Sam said, “What the fuck?” At first I thought he was looking at what I was looking at. Then he grabbed my sleeve. “Cal—look.”

Something moved in the farthest pen.

I raised my flashlight.

A man was lying against the back wall. Naked except for a piece of cloth around his waist.

For a second I thought he was dead. He was curled up on his side, legs bent all wrong underneath him, arms hugged tight against his chest like he was holding himself together. Face buried in straw.

“Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

Nothing.

Took a step closer. “Can you hear me?”

He lifted his head.

I still can’t get his face right when I try to tell people. Forty, maybe. Hair thinning and greasy. Beard thick. Skin the color of old dishwater. Deep lines cut across his forehead and around his mouth—not age lines, but strain lines, like his face had been pressed against something hard for a long time. Old scars crosshatched his shoulders. But it was his eyes that got me. Not scared. Not relieved. Just… measuring. Like a dog that’s been kicked enough times to know the difference between a raised hand and a thrown stone.

“Fuck,” Sam whispered.

The man shuffled back into the shadows, moving on his knuckles. His knees were swollen lumps, his feet bent at angles feet shouldn’t bend. Palms like old leather.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” I said, voice low.

He looked at the ceiling. At the gate. Made a wet click in the back of his throat.

“What’s your name?”

He dropped his head.

“Do you know where you are?”

Silence.

Sam moved closer to the bars. “Cal. We need to call someone.”

“I know.”

“Right fucking now.”

He pulled out his phone. While he talked to 911, I crouched down. The man watched me from the back of the pen. Up close, I saw the band on his wrist—thick, worn leather, like something off a workhorse. A metal tag stamped 17-B.

“What’s that mean?”

He looked at his wrist. Looked back at me. Then he reached down, picked a piece of dirty straw off the floor, and put it in his mouth. Just started chewing. My stomach turned over.

Right then I figured he was disabled. Locked away by some fucked-up family. I didn’t know.

Sam came back. “Cops and ambulance are coming. Don’t move him.”

“Okay.”

“What is this, Cal?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look at his legs.”

They were bent permanent, hips jutting wrong. And when he opened his mouth again, I saw his teeth—worn flat, like he’d been chewing on rocks.

That’s when Sam’s flashlight clanged against the bars.

The sound rang through the room.

The man flinched so hard he bit his tongue. Dropped the straw. Folded into himself, face shoved into the bedding, whole body shaking. Then this sound came out of him—a high, reedy whine, like air leaking from a tire. He pulled his knees up tighter and a dark stain spread under him in the straw. Pissed himself from fear.

“Jesus, Sam.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Back up.”

Sam moved away. I kept talking soft, telling him it was okay, that no one was mad.

He didn’t look up. Just kept shaking.

That’s when I saw the bell hanging by the gate—heavy, iron, with a little wooden hammer beside it. The kind you ring for supper on a farm.

The striker was worn smooth from use, the brass darkened by a thousand greasy thumbprints. I stared at it, then back at the man cowering in the corner. That bell wasn't for calling people to dinner.

Sam looked like he might vomit. "What do we do?"

"We wait for the ambulance."

"Should we at least open the gate?"

The man was breathing through his mouth, shoulders pumping like bellows. Leaving him locked in that pen felt like leaving a dog in a hot car. "Yeah," I said. "Get the bolt cutters."

The lock gave with a sharp crack. The gate swung open.

"Come on, buddy. You can come out now."

Nothing. He stayed put, face hidden in straw.

I crouched by the opening. "Door's open. See?"

He glanced up, then buried his face again.

The granola bar from my pocket got his attention. His nostrils flared when I opened the wrapper. He moved forward a few inches on hands and knees, keeping low like an animal avoiding a kick.

I set the bar just inside the gate. He approached slowly, then lowered his face and took it with his teeth.

Sam turned away. I didn't get why until I watched him eat—crushing the food with his molars, head down, crumbs falling into the straw. When he finished, he looked up with this... hopeful expression, like maybe he'd done good.

I gave him the second bar. Same thing.

Then the water bottle. I unscrewed it, took a drink to show him. He watched my throat work, then lowered his head to the concrete and opened his mouth.

I moved the bottle closer. He followed it, mouth still open.

Sam's voice cracked. "Cal."

"He's waiting for you to pour it."

The realization hit me right in the gut. This man had never drunk from anything but a trough or a poured stream. I found a plastic container, rinsed it, filled it, set it down. He drank from the bottom like a horse at a bucket.

When he finished, he looked up at me—pleased. Almost grateful.

And Christ, that gratitude made me want to put my fist through a wall.

I still think about that moment more than any other. Not the scars or the smell or how his ankles were bent all wrong from never standing straight.

Just a grown man waiting for someone to pour water into his mouth like he was livestock at feeding time.

The ambulance took twenty-five minutes. A long time to stand around in that hallway, trying not to look at him. We’d finally gotten him out of the pen by luring him with a bottle of water, like you would with a stray animal. He wouldn’t stand. Every time I got a hand under his arm to help him up, he’d let out this choked gasp and drop back onto all fours, his knuckles scraping the concrete. His legs worked—I saw him stretch one out to hook a plastic container with his foot—but the idea of walking upright just wasn’t in him.

I kept pointing at the open door, making encouraging noises. He’d shuffle a few feet toward it on his hands and knees, stop, look back at his pen, and make this low, keening whine from the back of his throat. It was the sound of a creature who knows its safe place is being taken away. I felt like a monster, but I put the water bottle farther down the hall. He crawled to it. I moved it again. He followed.

We were almost to the main corridor when he froze. His head came up, nostrils flaring. Then he made a new sound, a deep, guttural crooning—*hmm-hmm-hmm*—like he was calling for something. He did it three times and went still, listening. The hallway was silent. He did it again, louder. When nothing answered, his whole body started to shake.

I knelt down, put a hand on his back. His skin was cold and damp. “It’s okay,” I said, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring back into the dark where we’d found him, like he was waiting for whoever was supposed to come.

By the time the paramedics showed up, he was crying silently, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his cheeks, still making that crooning noise.

There were two of them—Dennis, an older guy with a tired face, and a younger woman named Rachel. They stopped dead when they saw him. Dennis asked how we found him, if he’d said anything. We didn’t have answers.

Rachel crouched down slowly. “Hi there,” she said softly. “My name’s Rachel.” He watched her like she was a strange dog that might bite. She showed him her empty hands, then touched his arm. He flinched but held still. His pulse must have been racing because her professional mask slipped for a second when she felt it.

“Does he know his name?” she asked me.
He made the crooning sound again.
“Just that,” I said.
She nodded, but her eyes were wide as she looked at his legs, the thick pads of callus on his hands and knees.

“How long’s he been in here?”
“No idea.”
“Did you give him anything?”
“Some water. A couple granola bars.”
She shot me a look. “You fed him?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t give him anything else.”
My stomach dropped. I’d been so proud of myself.

They decided to move him toward the entrance since the stretcher wouldn’t fit. Rachel talked to him the whole time, calm and low. He followed her on his hands and knees until we reached the main room.

Then he saw the open loading bay door.
Grey light washed over the wet asphalt outside.
He went completely rigid.
Rachel reached for him. “It’s okay, we’re just going out.”
He screamed.
It wasn’t a human sound—it was raw, primal terror ripped out of him from some deep animal place inside his chest. He threw himself backward, smashing into the concrete wall. Dennis caught him before he cracked his head open.

The man thrashed like a caught bird, scrambling blindly toward the shadow under an old machine, his fingers tearing on the rough floor hard enough to leave smears of blood.

“Stop! Let him go!” I yelled.
Dennis released him.
The man curled into a tight ball against the wall, arms clamped over his head, shaking so hard I could hear his teeth chattering.

No one moved.
Sam finally said it: “He’s never been outside.”
We got him back into a corner away from the door. The paramedics started working on him again while they called for more help.

When the first cop walked in a few minutes later, I felt this stupid wave of relief—like now it was someone else’s problem.
I really thought it would be.

The first officers took their time with us, the air thick with the smell of old straw and disinfectant. Their questions were methodical, predictable. Where exactly had we found him? Who else had keys? I answered carefully, my eyes drifting to where the ambulance crew was trying to coax the man onto a stretcher. He kept twisting his head toward the pens, making that soft, guttural noise in his throat—like a calf separated from its mother.

Sam was sitting on an overturned bucket by the loading dock, the plastic water bottle trembling in his hand. I lowered myself beside him. The concrete was cold through my jeans.

“You alright?”

He shot me a look. “What do you think?”

I didn’t answer. After a minute, he said, “That fucking bell.”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t even look. Just dropped. Like his bones turned to water.”

“Conditioned,” I said.

Sam shook his head. “Who does that?”

He took a long drink, then stared at the stained floor. “You see his face when he finished those bars?”

I had. He’d looked… content. Almost blissful. Sitting in his own filth, and two granola bars made him light up.

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth. “My kid—Lily—she gets that look when I bring her those fruit snack things. All bright and stupid.” His voice cracked. He wasn’t a crier. I’d seen him take a wrench to the face once and just spit blood and keep working. Now he was swiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

I put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shrug it off.

Later, an officer led me back toward the pens. The space felt emptier without him there. The straw was matted and dark in one spot. The water container lay on its side. The bell hung silent.

The officer’s flashlight cut across a gap between the last pen and the wall. “What’s back there?”

“Didn’t know anything was.”

He nudged the door open with his boot. Inside, it was almost cozy—a chair, a rug, a lamp. Like a waiting room.

Then I saw the pictures.

Dozens, maybe more, tacked up in rows. A baby on a blanket. A toddler standing, wobbly but upright. A kid with a wooden block. A teenager with soft eyes and that same birthmark by his ear.

My stomach turned.

The officer flipped open a small album on the cabinet. More photos. The boy asleep in straw. Smiling beside a trough.

Then one where he’s ten or so, beaming, clutching some carved thing. Happy. Uncomplicated.

I thought of Nora on that pony, beaming under her ridiculous helmet.

Then I saw the hand resting near the boy’s shoulder.

Too big. Fingers too long, knuckles too pronounced. The palm was nearly the width of his chest.

The officer turned the page.

Another photo: the boy asleep, curled against something massive and pale. A thick arm wrapped around him, skin loose and wrinkled like a elephant’s knee, elbow joint all wrong.

A huge hand, pale and thick-fingered, lay across the boy’s stomach. The officer’s breath hitched, then went quiet. We didn’t speak. He turned the page.

This one was older. The boy was maybe three or four, curled asleep on a blanket, his face pressed into something large and pale that filled the edge of the frame. An arm was wrapped around him—not gripping, just there. The way you hold a kid who’s fallen asleep on you. I’d done it with Nora a hundred times, her dead weight warm against my chest.

The boy’s own small hand rested on that arm. He looked peaceful. Safe.

I kept looking. The hand holding him was bigger than his whole middle. The skin was loose, creased like old leather, the knuckles thick, the nails long and blunt.

Then I saw it.

I counted the fingers.

Counted again.

Six.

Six huge fingers resting gently around a sleeping little boy.

And the boy was smiling.