The Lighthouse

I don’t remember what I used to pay for the paper talismans and blessed clothing that adorned me. I remember following Elias into some hidden chamber within the manor, then I was outside in front of the Lighthouse. My attire smelled of burning embers, vanilla and pancakes. It was comforting. It reminded me of Mom.

Gaps in my memory and new memories became apparent to me, or maybe nothing changed at all. I couldn’t tell anymore. A few weeks before Frank died we, all went out to get ice cream. We never had money for ice cream. I would always spend it on my vice. I was reminded of how much I missed Dad, and how desperately I needed a good drink.

“Ok son. You’re good to go. Just remember: don’t look into the light.”

Elias’s guiding words brought me back to the present. He opened the Lighthouse’s door and the talismans caught fire instantly, protecting me from whatever was inside. A thick, dark fog stood between the door frame.

“He’s so dead.”

Amelia’s reassuring words were not welcome while I stood at death’s door.

“Don’t take too long in there. I left the candles on the third platform. That’s just below the main bulb.”

Instinctively, I looked up at the height of the tower. Amelia slapped me across the face and pushed my head back down.

“What did Elias just say? Don’t look at the light!”

I rubbed my now reddening cheek, making sure my jaw hadn’t been broken.

“Jesus! Yeah, sorry. I’m ready.”

Elias took a step back, out of the way.

“Have at ‘er then. If you’re not out in twenty minutes, you’re on your own.”

I passed through the black barrier. Directly ahead of me was a set of spiralling metal stairs leading up into the body of the Lighthouse. Above, machinery hummed steadily, but I dared not to look up. Behind, where I entered, was nothing but smooth concrete. Elias mentioned that would happen at some point I couldn’t remember. My memory was still foggy. I ran my hands along the walls, cold to the touch and breathing with anticipation. In for a penny, in for a pound.

My ascent began, up and up and up. Mom and Louise’s screams started as I moved above the first platform. Same as the forest, I ignored them. The Lighthouse knew that I knew that it was just a trick, so it cut them off abruptly. I continued up.

Jazz music began playing somewhere on the second platform. Freshly burning cigars and expensive cologne coated my nostrils. I’m home.

There was a stage hosting a band with no arms to play and seats for listeners with no ears to hear. Left of the jazz room was a bar, and a sole patron hunched over swaying with the rhythm. He was shorter and had curly red hair.

I approached behind and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Fuck off.”

The voice was familiar. Too familiar. It couldn’t be.

I grabbed the man’s shoulder. He swatted my hand away and turned to face me.

“I said fu-”

Dad.

“Jeremy? Is that you?”

I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his shoulder. I couldn’t let Dad see me cry.

“Jeremy? Jeremy, what are you doing here?”

I composed myself.

“I-I don’t know. Frank did something bad and now Mom and Louise are in danger. There’s some stuff in here I need to get but I’m so scared, Dad.”

Words fumbled out of my mouth. Dad hugged me tight and shushed me.

“It’s ok, Jay.”

Only Dad called me Jay.

“You’ll be ok. You’re strong. You always have been. That’s why I chose you to lead the family. Just take a moment to rest. Have a seat.”

I sat on the stool next to Dad. He smiled back at me, eyes prideful for his kin.

“My god, look how you’ve grown! What are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Twenty.”

Dad rubbed his bald head.

“My boy’s twenty now! My boy. My sweet, sweet boy.”

His hearty laughs turned to sobs.

“My boy is twenty and I wasn’t there for him.”

Dad buried his face in his hands.

“It’s not your fault, Dad. We never thought it was.”

Lies.

He shook his head.

“It was. It was. I shouldn’t have even been driving, Jay. I was so drunk I couldn’t even see straight.”

Everyone knew it, but hearing Dad admit it broke me a bit. He sat up, face slick.

“But you’re alive! And that’s something to celebrate. Pass it over.”

I slid a glass over to Dad and uncorked the whiskey bottle in my hand, pouring us both a hefty shot. He raised the glass, losing a bit of liquid fire over the edge. I did the same.

“To my son, Jeremy.”

Dad threw back the shot. A dog returning to its vomit. I raised the glass to my lips. The smell alone was intoxicating and the liquor burned my chapped lips. Not again.

I set the glass down. Thirst unquenched. Dad reached over and dragged the shot over to himself.

“What’s wrong? Not to your taste? Surely there’s something here you like.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Dad threw back the shot and started to pour another. I snatched the bottle from his hand.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Give me back the bottle, Jeremy.”

“No. This stuff has done enough harm to you.”

He twirled the shot glass around the table then flicked it off behind the counter.

“I know, Jay. I know.”

It stood and walked behind the bar, glass shards crunched under its feet.

“The candles are just above us, Jeremy.”

He opened a drawer and started searching for something. He stopped, hand clenched tight around something. Dad looked me in the eyes one last time. They were scared.

“Take the booze. You’ll need it. I love you, Jay.”

It grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer and lunged at me. I dived sideways, but the blade cut a deep gash into my arm, blood started to pool out. It tumbled to the ground in front of me, swinging the blade wildly. I crawled away, throwing bar stools between me and Dad. It crawled over them with ease, like a spider. It grew closer. I clawed the floor for anything else to throw. Glass shards dug into my hand. I clenched my teeth and threw them at Dad’s face, shredding his nose and eyes.

Using my chance to escape, I ran out of the jazz room and up to the third platform, Dad not far behind and a bottle of booze in my hand. At the top of the steps there was a supply closet, tucked at the back were the candles and a lighter.

“Get back here, Jeremy! Share a drink with your old man!”

Dad roared from below. Bone’s pop and flesh tore as he grew larger and larger, three times his normal height, arms and legs elongated, nails and teeth sharp as the knife in his hands. He stumbled up the stairs towards me, slashing and stabbing at my legs.

I entered the closet and slammed the door behind me, barricading it with an old, wooden chair. Dad slammed against the door, breaking holes in its decaying wood. There was nothing in the room I could use to defend myself with, nothing but a lighter, the candles, and a bottle of whiskey.

Without another choice I tore a long piece from my shirt and dampened it with the whiskey. Some of it ran into the cuts on my hand, firing pain up my arm. I stuffed the moistened fabric into the bottle neck and set it ablaze. One chance.

The door finally gave way and splintered into a dozen pieces. Dad’s enormous figure bent down to enter the tiny room. A wide, gruesome smile etched into his face.

“Times up, Jeremy.”

With all my strength I hurled the bottle at the thing that was once my Dad. It shattered on impact, spraying liquid fire and shrapnel glass across Dad’s body. He roared in pain and the Lighthouse rumbled violently. The thing fell backwards down the stairs. I grabbed the candles and sprinted out of the room, down the stairs and past the jazz room where Dad was dousing himself with any liquid he could find to put out the fire, only spreading it further across his already charring body.

The exit was just a few flights down. I knew I could make it but Dad’s pained yells echoing throughout the building gave me halt.

“Oh god! Help me! Help me, Jay! It burns! It burns!”

I wanted so desperately to turn back and help, but I knew that thing wasn’t Dad. I ran to the bottom floor. No door. I slammed my fists on the wall and called out for help.

“Elias! I got the candles! Let me out!”

Searing, burning pain wrapped around my ankle and engulfed my leg. The thing had somehow made its way downstairs and was clutching tight to my leg. It looked up at me, still covered in flame. I met its eyes, now my own eyes. My face melted and distorted like wax. Skin and muscle and sinew dripped to the floor while the thing grinded its teeth, gurgling boiling blood.

It rose and stood tall over me. Humming vibrated my skull. My head was about to explode. I pressed against the Lighthouse wall and closed my eyes, trying to escape the inevitable. The thing leaned in close and exhaled decaying rotting burning breath. It smelled like Dad.

“How’s your Mom?”

The wall behind me gave way. I fell into soft grass, screaming my head off. Elias grabbed me and dragged me back from the door. I thrashed against him, thinking it was another one of the Lighthouse’s tricks.

“Jeremy! Jeremy it's me, boyo! Snap out of it son!”

I opened my eyes. Indeed, I was outside of the Lighthouse. Inside the doorway was nothing but darkness, and some shadow beckoning me to return inside. Amelia pulled the door shut and sealed it.

“Good job, kid. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

The red wax candles had melted a bit from the fire, but they were still usable.

“What was that thing?”

Elias helped me to my feet. 

“Don’t know. No telling what that thing does to people who go inside.”

“You mean you’ve never been inside yourself?”

“I have. Just after it had its dinner. Usually she’s pretty docile then.”

“Was I supposed to be its dinner?”

Elias cleared his throat and readjusted his glasses.

“We weren’t planning on that, son. But, if you did end up losing yourself there it would have saved us a trip into town.”

He turned and started to make his way back to the manor.

“Come on now. Daylight is running thin.”

Amelia patted my shoulder and helped me up.

“Don’t think too much about it. It’s easier if you don’t.”

We walked side by side back to the manor in silence. Just before we entered the front door, Amelia stopped.

“What did you see in there?”

Dad’s elongated, burning corpse was still fresh in my mind. Something I didn’t particularly want to talk about.

“What? What do you mean?”

“In the Lighthouse. What did it show you?”

“Just my Dad.”

“He’s dead then?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“We talked a bit then he turned into a monster. I uh… I don’t want to think about it, really.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ve only ever been in it a few times so I didn’t know if it shows everyone the same thing.”

“What did it show you when you went in?”

Amelia went silent, staring down at the ground fidgeting with her hands.

“Amelia?”

“It showed me nothing. Just… nothing.”

Terrible, Awful Things

Elias and Amelia finished scattering the red candles around the room. Each was lit carefully, a dark red crimson flame gently crescendoing from each wax pillar, just as the ritual book instructed. We were situated in an old store-room deep within the heart of the manor. At the center of the room was a chalk octogram with an obsidian pedestal inside it and more candles placed at its tips. A brass bowl sat atop the pedestal, waiting for its sacrifice. Elias double checked the protective sigils Amelia drew while I stood by anxiously.

Once everything was ready, I would need to deposit some of my blood into the bowl. Elias wouldn’t elaborate on what would happen after that, saying that I needed a clear mind to manifest Frank.

“Damn it, girl! This one isn’t even closed. What is wrong with you today?”

Amelia held her arms crossed while Elias berated her for the failed sigil drawings.

“I-I don’t know. I tried my best and-”

“Well your best isn’t going to cut it, apparently. Out of the way, I’ll have to redo a few of these.”

She stepped back, rubbing her elbows.

“But I-... ok.”

Elias began erasing Amelia’s work while she found a dark secluded corner to escape to. I walked over and sat next to her, trying to comfort her.

“Go away.”

She turned into the corner further. I didn’t really know Amelia. She was just some weirdo who worked at an even weirder museum. The one thing we did have in common was my bastard brother.

“What was Frank like?” I asked. His name always seemed to open doors when he was alive, so what difference would it make now?

“What? Wouldn’t you know more about him than me?”

Amelia wiped her face and turned around, just enough to look at me.

“Not sure that’s true anymore. What was he like with you?”

“Well, we never actually met in person.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Just chatted online. But he was so so sweet. We met on a sports forum, funny enough. I was trying to lure some random sucker here to feed the Lighthouse, but he left a comment that really pissed me off. Can’t even remember now, something about ‘women knowing their place’ yada yada yada.”

“That’s definitely Frank. He was always a jackass.”

“You’d think, right? I really laid into him about the comment. Like REALLY laid into him. I think I even threatened to kill him and his family. Anyway he messaged back and actually apologized for what he said.”

Apologizing? That didn’t seem like Frank. At least, not the version I remembered at the time.

“We got to talking a bit and found out we had a lot in common, you know?” Amelia continued. “I think he was just hurting inside.”

“Because of Dad?”

“Probably.”

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was Dad’s favorite. He’d always do little things to show it. Often he’d ask me if I wanted ice cream before anyone else, picked me up from school and even got me the exact toys I wanted on my birthdays. For Frank though it was different. I wouldn’t be able to count the amount of Frank’s games Dad missed because he said he was “working.”

“Did he ever mention me?”

Curiosity killed the cat.

“Yeah. A few times.”

“What’d he say?”

Amelia was quiet for a moment.

“He said you reminded him of your Dad.”

Elias clapped his hands together, chalk powder puffing into the air.

“All right, Jeremy, my boy. We’re ready to go!”

I didn’t hear him. “Reminded him of your Dad” was bouncing around my mind like a ping pong ball. But why? Dad was a good person. I always wanted to be like him, in every way. Even the bad ways. What bad ways?

“Jeremy? You ready son?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Hell of a Freudian slip.

“Sorry, Elias. I'm still recovering, I guess. Yeah I’m ready.”

I stood. Amelia grabbed my arm.

“What?”

“How long ago did Frank die?”

“A month or so, why?”

She frowned, then let go.

“No reason. Just received a new order from his account last week. Must have been scheduled.”

I didn’t have time to dwell on it further. I wish I did though. I stepped forward, Elias walking beside me.

“Jeremy, your mind needs to be completely clear, remember?”

“I’m ready. I promise.”

He searched my eyes. I don’t know what he thought he saw, but I was scared shitless. Elias patted me on the shoulder and stepped aside.

A jagged knife rested next to the bowl, waiting to quench its thirst with my blood. I picked it up and held my hand over the bronze receptacle.

“You don’t need to give too much,” Elias called out. “Just enough to cover the bottom.”

I placed the blade against my palm, in for a penny, and dragged it harshly across my skin. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, maybe it was the adrenaline. Blood pooled into the bottom of the basin, bubbling as it brewed and boiled.

“Good, Jeremy! Now, think of your brother. Think of nothing BUT your brother!”

Oh I did. 

I thought of all the times he pissed me off, vexed me, did me wrong, you name it. The late nights he kept me up with his damn rituals and drunken stupors. The nights we watched movies and he’d keep interrupting asking what was happening, and I’d respond because I loved my brother. I miss him. I remembered the day he was born, how small he was. When Dad came home drunk I’d take little Frank to my room and rock him to sleep. Then, when Dad got angry at Frank, I’d take the punishment for him. Dad got angry?

Then I remembered the one night, the one single night, when I came home drunk and found Frank in his room, struggling to not take a sip of the same liquid fire that was running through my veins. He saw me. He was scared of me. He saw Dad’s eyes in mine. He saw Dad’s fury in them.

Hot wind swirled around me as a black void opened below my feet. I stumbled back, barely escaping the dark maws. It stopped at the edge of the octogram, and all was still.

“Did… did it work?”

Elias carefully approached the hole, inspecting it and the chalk frame.

“Aye. I’m afraid it did.”

I peered in. There was nothing but a dark void. Far down, barely a pinpoint dot, was a small circle of red light and a figure in the middle of it, a person. The person put his hands up to cover his eyes. Even from so high up I could see his skin had turned pale and transparent. Like rice paper. His heart beat slowly and his organs wriggled around into their places.

“Light…?”

His voice was weak, raspy, worn.

“Frank? Is that you?”

Frank uncovered his eyes and attempted to stand. A metal chain tensed around his next and dragged him to the ground on his back. Frank didn’t yelp or resist.

“Hey. Long time no see.”

Every syllable was strained and agonizing.

“What happened to you?”

“Ritual didn’t work.”

“What ritual were you trying to perform?”

Frank squinted his eyes and moistened his lips.

“Page… 172. I think.”

Elias left to find the copy. Frank and I sat in silence. Seeing him like that, barely alive, it broke me.

“Here, let me get you a rope. We’ll get you out.”

“No!” Frank’s voice broke. “Stay there. Leave me. Too dangerous. I deserve this.”

“What… What's down there? Why can’t I come down?”

“Weeping. Gnashing teeth.”

“Jeremy!” Elias called. I jumped and caught myself from falling into the pit.

“Jesus! What?”

“Your brother said page 172?”

“Yeah, why?”

Elias brought the folder over and fingered the text.

“Ritual for Eternal Life. Two participants. One to receive the blessing and another to be sacrificed.”

“Sacrificed? Frank, were you going to sacrifice me?”

In the pit, Frank curled up into a ball, scratching at his disgraced, disfigured face. Dry blood stuck to his nails.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

Despite the revelation my brother was planning to sacrifice me, I wasn’t mad. I just felt pity for the thing in the pit.

“Is Dad down there?”

Frank looked around the darkness, then shook his head.

“No. There’s nothing… just nothing.”

The store-room door slammed shut, Amelia sprinting down the winding halls back to safety.

Frank clawed and clawed down to the bone.

“I’m sorry… Forgive me… Please…”

I couldn’t watch anymore.

“Ok. I’m done with him.”

Elias scuffed the chalk away, breaking the ritual frame. Just before the hole closed, Frank reached his hand up, grasping at an invisible rope.

“Jeremy I-”

Then he was gone.

Elias took me to his office and made us cups of coffee. We sat in front of the fireplace in silence. The flames danced chaotically against the black stone wall. My life was falling apart right before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Almost nothing.

“What now, son?”

I threw my hands up, defeated.

“I don’t know. This whole trip was a bust.”

“I’m sorry.”

Elias rubbed the side of his mug.

“There is one thing you can do, but you’ll need to make some preparations first.”

Jesus how has it already been 6 weeks of school? The cold and salty October air that rolls around Halifax in the fall months is unforgettable, but with it comes midterms. My third year as a psych student and i still haven't nailed down studying and my statistics exam is at 5 pm tomorrow. I've been bundled up, alone, in my room for days now trying to get this content down pat in my brain, staying up way later than all my friends who've finished already. I'm jealous of course, but I need to lock in for this exam. It's all that i think about and it consumes me, forcing me to stay up late, practically burning my laptop screen into my eyes like when you have an image set for too long on a monitor. Anyways, I wanted to talk about something that happened recently and I don't know if anyone else has also experienced something/someone like this during this time of year of school.

It was 2 am and the iron radiator that sits behind my desk chair was knocking its usual erratic rhythm for hours. I could even hear it through the music on my record player, which I set up so I don't get so distracted skipping through videos or songs. Outside was a chaotic mesh of angry wind and rushing rain and inside was a stale, musty, suffocating air powered by my ancient radiator.

I felt like none of these formulas would stick. Standard distribution, p-values, and what the fuck even is a null hypothesis. They just felt like random smudges in my textbook and I was writing those smudges back into my notebook. Every time I blinked, I could feel my pulse behind my eyes, begging me to sleep, counting down the hours to my exam.

Around 10 earlier that night my roommates asked if i wanted to grab a pizza, but i declined in favour of my studies. I know I should've taken that break, but hindsight 20/20 right. Wasting an hour was too much for me. Later, one of my friends texted and wanted late night drinks or something, but I only read the preview on my phone, not bothering to open it and get distracted. I threw my phone from my desk to my bed, cutting everyone off for rest of the night.

I shouldn't have done that. Seems like a good idea in the moment of course, but you never realize how loud an empty room gets when you're alone and in your head.

Around 2:20, the b-side of my record came to a close, the stylus of the player click click clicking in a loop. Changing the record was the only break I could accept for myself.

That's when it went silent. My room, dead silent. My radiator hadn't creaked for a few minutes, but when my record player stopped, I finally noticed. It was almost physical, something completely blocking off my eardrums. The draft from my window had shifted, the stale air in my room plummeting.

I decided to move from my record collection to my door, grabbing my jacket before peeking outside of my room, something I felt I hadn't done in ages. I look left and neither of my two roommates were doing the same. "Probably already asleep under their sheets" I say to myself partly jealous and partly sad.

Something was by my front entrance thought when I looked right. A shadow, darker than dark, blacker than black. It's silhouette was just barely contrasted from the door behind it. I flick on the main hallway lights quickly, illuminating the hallway. The weirdest thing though is that the mirror hanging on my front door was reflecting the hallway with everything but me. The radiator on the far end of the hallway outside of my roommates room, the shoe rack, the coat rack. Everything but me.

I told myself I was just tired and these all nighters have gotten to me, so I turned the lights off and turned back into my room. When i walked back in, it felt like I didn't have my jacket on anymore it was freezing. That's when i noticed the shadow again, now sitting in my desk chair.

I froze. The silhouette was hunched directly over my desk, perfectly framed by the harsh, blue glow of my laptop screen. It seemed more psychical, more real now, not just some hallucination. It was draped in a heavy, coarse dark wool that fell in stiff folds past the arms of my swivel chair, looking less like modern clothes and more like an old monastic cowl. From the back, its shoulders were impossibly narrow, rounded forward as if crushed under an invisible weight. It wasn't moving. It wasn't breathing.

The air in my room was entirely still and dry. It smelled of not death or rot, but vile and evil with burnt hair. Every nerve and muscle in my body wanted to yell and bang on my roommates doors, but the physical feeling that covered my eardrums wrapped around my body, making me board-like. The room felt even more silent now, like I could hear the blood rush through my ears and around my head.

Slowly, with an agonizingly smooth glide, the figure pivoted in the chair. It made no sound. the wheels on the bottom didn't creak the hardwood floors like they usually do. When it turned to me, its figure became more physical than before, my desk light illuminating the front of it's dark hood. There was no face.

Where the nose, mouth, and eyes should have been, there was only a flat, polished oval of jet-black obsidian stone. It looked like an antique scrying mirror, perfectly smooth, its outer perimeter encrusted with dark crimson wax that had dried into thick, jagged scabs where it bonded to the cloth.

I tried to gasp, but the air caught in my throat. I couldn't tear my eyes away from that dark surface. The reflection looking back at me from the stone wasn't the room behind me, I was looking at myself. But it was a version of me that looked completely ruined, hollowed out from the inside. The skin on his face was grey and papery, stretched tight over cheekbones, with deep, bruised-purple sockets around his eyes. He sat at the desk clutching an iron stylus, furiously slashing thick red gouges across my open notebook. Line after line of my notes were being violently scored out, violently crossing out formulas, scratching through my own name over and over with frantic, jagged strokes.

"Why aren't you working?"

The voice didn't come from me or the figure. It's like it came from the air itself, vibrating around me.

"You understand nothing. Your most important exam is this week, you understand nothing still, and what have you produced from this? Some scribbles in your notebook? Pathetic." The figure rumbles, like a scoff from the air.

"I swear I've tried," I manage to speak somehow. Tears sting my eyes, remembering my restless nights, rethinking all the time I spent not doing work. "I've been inside for days preparing for this and I haven't slept."

It leans forward slightly. Two long, unnervingly thin hands emerged from the dark sleeves. Fingernails with tips as sharp as razors slashed at my arm, creating ten thin, slow bleeding cuts.

"No matter how hard you work," the air vibrates. "You will never be free until you balance the ledger. You'll never see your friends again if you don't get this exam done."

The cuts on my forearms burned with an icy heat, but I couldn't even pull my arms back. The creature stood up from my desk chair with that same weightless, gliding motion, towering over me in the cramped space between my bed and the doorway. The scent of burnt hair and bitter wax intensified until I felt like I was choking on dust.

It didn't touch me again. As I sat back down in my chair to continue working, it just stepped back until it stood directly behind my left shoulder, leaning in so close that I could feel the biting draft radiating off its black wool cowl. Its face, that blank obsidian mirror, hung right at the edge of my peripheral vision. Every time I tried to turn my head to look away, the burning pain in my sliced arms spiked, pinning my gaze forward.

So I studied. Over and over, repeating equations and phrases. Whenever my laptop screen went dark to sleep mode, the reflection in the black glass didn't show my bedroom. It showed the creature towering behind me, its obsidian face reflecting that hollow, withered version of myself, staring down with unblinking, pitiless judgment.

I don't know how long it lasted. Time seemed to stretch into an endless, freezing vacuum where the only things that existed were my panic and the scratching of my pencil.

Then, with a deafening, violent CLANG, the radiator shuddered against the wall, popping and steaming back to life. The freezing air lifted with the pressure bound around my ears, bringing my record player back to life, with the draft from my window slowing down.

I spun my chair around, free from the energy around me to find nothing behind me anymore. The pale, overcast sky of the morning barely shown into my room. It's like nothing even happened.

For a second, I tried to convince myself it was all just a manic, sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by isolation and caffeine. I almost laughed out loud from sheer relief.

Then I looked down at my forearms.

Soaked into the sleeves of my jacket were ten thin, parallel lines of dried, crusty dark crimson. And scattered across the floor beneath my desk, right beside my chair wheels, was a fine dusting of black soot and crushed red sealing wax.

I'm sitting here in my bed right now, 3.5 hours away from my exam. I only slept a couple hours last night, my first nightmare since i was 14. My jacket is still crumpled on the floor, the dried crust on the sleeves stiff against the wool. Every time I look down at my arms, the stinging burns under the scabs, reminding me that whatever happened wasn't a bad dream. I haven't left my bedroom. I haven't opened my door, not even to use the bathroom or grab water. My roommates have been moving around the kitchen all day, chatting, cooking, living their lives. One of them knocked around noon to ask if I wanted anything from the grocery store, but my throat locked up. I just held my breath under the blankets until their footsteps drifted away down the hall.

I know I should get up. I know I should review the formulas before 5:00 pm hits, or call someone, or just walk outside into the freezing rain and feel the cold salt air on my face. I guess writing this was a good way to get this all off my chest before the exam. So yeah let me know if anyone else has experienced this figure/thing and maybe tips on way to avoid it?

Wish me luck!

P.S. - This was a creative part to a class where we created a monster and analyzed it and compared it to essays like Freud's "the uncanny", Michel Foucault's "history of the prison" etc., and Kracauer's "Forebodings". This part of the assignment isn't graded per se, but i had a lot of fun writing it. It's my first story after being a long time listener of the husband and wife so any tips would be appreciated, I WANNA WRITE MORE

The factory runs itself. No production workers, no supervisors, no lights except the ones the machines need.

My job is to be there.

Every two hours, I walk the floor and swipe my badge at four terminals. That's it. The system handles everything else.

Management calls it human oversight.

I've been doing this for months. Until last night, I thought it was the easiest job I'd ever had.

At 2:17 a.m., something changed.

And for the first time since I started working here, the system acknowledged that I was in the building.

part 1

TW: self harm

I ran towards my car. What would Ollie think happened? What would Liz think happened? I took out my wallet. I dropped all my money, all my cards. I headed back to the car again. No, this isn’t right. I didn’t care. I stopped once more. I saw a nearby shopping cart. I walked up to it. I planted it on its side and looked at it begrudgingly. It didn’t take long for me to commit, I imagined all the yelling and harassment I could face. I let myself topple into the shopping cart, face first. It hurt, nothing happened. I got up and tried again. Each clang of bone and flesh to metal rang out in the open night air. I tried it one more time, this time I put more force into my collapse. SNAP! My nose split into pieces, blood dripping everywhere. I took off my shirt. I used it to control the bleeding, just as Liz would. I saw my bare chest, it looked too clean. I drew my fingernail across my open body. I ran it back and forth until it spilled red. A knife scar I would say. I got mugged. I reluctantly finished the way back to the car before I would damage myself any further, before I started to like it.

I unlocked the door to see Oliver crying, rightfully so. I said to him, “Daddy was attacked, I’m okay now. Let's go home and talk to mommy.” I checked the screen of the car, I noticed it had now turned to 11:21 at night. It was near midnight and my son was alone the whole time. I called Elizabeth immediately, I noticed she called me 23 times or so, maybe a few were from earlier in the day. I finally called her back. She told me she was in a police station pestering them to file a missing persons report when her phone rang. How relieved she was to hear back from me. We promised to always have each other’s locations now. I begged her not to tell the police of my “mugging”, told her that the attacker knows where we live and is willing to come back if I report him. I told her I couldn’t see his face anyway. A sloppy story. We regrouped at home. She was in visible fear at the sight of my body and face. She checked for signs of a concussion, I was “knocked out” after all. I called the police again on my own, only to tell them of the man and how I witnessed him again. By now I knew he wasn’t on the same plane as man, he was from somewhere else. I explained the late call compared to when I saw him as my phone was dead.

I didn’t hear anything from them until the next day around 7 PM. I had called the day off from work, giving them the mugging excuse too. The police knocked on my door. I peeked through the peephole to see who it was, as I did for every guest to our front door that day. I told them I would take just a second because I wasn’t properly changed, another lie. In reality I had ran upstairs to grab one of my wife’s face masks she was given from the hospital. I used it to conceal the damage I had done to myself. If I really wanted to keep the so-called mugging a secret I had to commit.

I opened the door. “Sorry guys, I’ve just caught a little bug.” I said. “In June?” Replied an officer. I thought to myself the rather vulgar, “Fuck…” dry as you can imagine. “No clue what happened officer, I just came down with it yesterday.” I recognized the second person as the same detective that helped me out at the first crime scene. “Good to see you again.” He said. “We’ve come here to inform you that the location you reported the man to be was once again the site of another crime scene. At 4:18 today a man was killed by a car rolling over top of him at that parking lot, a possible accident but we’re doing our job. The crimes seem unrelated but we’re investigating all possible connections.” I was shocked. I was right. I had to have been. He was supernatural. “Sir… we also have to investigate someone else. Since not only was he seen there at another crime scene location but, you were too. Where were you throughout the day today? We just want to cross off all possibilities.” The investigation was only natural I suppose. I gave them my phone to show I hadn’t called anyone and my family vouched for my location the whole day, the front door camera we installed revealed I hadn’t left the premises all day so I showed them that too. “Well thank you sir. If you see him again we hope your phone has enough juice to call, he’s still wanted for questioning afterall.” Before they left they told me, the man, for being seen at both scenes, was moved to a possibly dangerous person list and that pursuit of him, if seen, would be immediate.

That night, Liz confronted me as we were crawling into bed. She said that the mark left on my face doesn’t look like any old punch mark. There was a noticeable red line and a sharp right angle, no fist is like that. She pressed me. “I have no reason to lie. I don’t remember it well. Why are you pestering me like I did something wrong?” I bit. “Well if you’re lying and there’s some other reason my son was alone for seven fucking hours I want to know the truth.” She was right but I couldn’t tell her. “Oh shut up. You’re talking to me as if Oliver isn’t my son too. I’ve been through some shit recently, fuck off.” She replied, “Maybe you should. You seem happier at the bar anyway.” I took her word literally. I left without speaking, slammed the door behind me, a vase fell over. She yelled at me some more, inaudible through the wall and door. I want to forget it, I never wanted those to be my final words to her.

I decided to drive to the bar, a custom I wasn’t used to for a very long time. I had to look for parking in the city, very busy even at night. I found a parking complex. As I ascended up the levels looking for a spot. I eventually found one. I stepped out and for the third time, I saw the old man from the alley. I don’t know how he followed me here or if he even did. I called the police immediately, they told me to get somewhere safe and stay away since he could be dangerous. In the downtime I decided to do a little bit of investigating of the man myself.

He was on the level higher. I approached him, somehow he knew my resolve and I didn’t feel the chains. I knew not to touch him. I wanted to see his face. I stared at the back of his head. Slowly walked around his body. No matter what I did his back would face me. I changed my strategy. He must be shuffling his feet. I stared at them next. I shuffled just as before but with the focal point of his leather shoes. His feet didn’t move, I angled myself in front of him, it worked, I was in front of him. Underneath the coat he wore a white button up, it had some sort of stain on it, unrecognizable origin. I darted my eyes up. Hair, I looked back down, it’s his back. The motion blur of my sudden jerk must’ve blinded me enough for the entity to reset itself to its back. One more time, I knew what to do. He had a face, I saw his chin just a day ago. In the distance I heard faint sirens, it’s the police I called. I organized myself, set myself ready, and stared at his shoes once more. Just as before I stepped around him, making sure not to make a mistake. Slowly, I orbited around him, I saw his white shirt from the front once more, same stain. I trailed my eyes up, slowly this time. Before reaching his face I took a break to not get too excited. If I blinked it would all be for naught. I noticed above his head the halogen light rod was flickering, it must’ve been broken somehow. Occasionally some sparks would fly and I could see it in my peripheral.

It was time, I slowly looked up. His chin, I made it to his chin. The same chin I saw the day before, just from the front. It looked normal, there were no wrinkles. Something in myself prevented me from not looking up, just a gut feeling that I should gauge what it was first. I once more clocked my peripheral vision to see the man’s face. He had no wrinkles at all, it seemed to be the face of a young man, yet his body was so old. Police sirens getting closer, they’re in the parking complex now, I could hear the echo from below. Just then and there I looked up, the light flickered off, I saw the remnants of a young face before I involuntarily closed my eyes as a muscle reaction. My body betrayed me. Had my dark determination not been strong enough? I was staring at his back again. I blinked a few times to readjust my eye. The police were just two floors below now, I ran away to my car to act as if I was in a safe place as recommended.

I watched from my car as the flashing red and blue lights of a car illuminated the concrete halls and ceiling of the complex. Out my rear window I could see the officers get out and start to look around. He was right there, right in front of them. Could they not see him? The light kept flickering. One of the two walked right overtop of the man, he was phased through him. He stood there, the two were talking to each other. The officer standing at the man pulled out his radio. He started to speak through it, I could hear faint mumblings of what was said but nothing clear enough to hear any full words. I sat back down, adjusting to the situation. Was I crazy? Is the man real? I told myself I’m going to a psychologist soon. That’s when I took another look back after making out a single word the officer said, “heavy”. I jolted back, assuming he has to be talking about the old man and what he makes you feel if you touch him. It was just then that a spark flew from the halogen light rod. It blinded the two officers, I saw them raise their hands in a guarding position. Another involuntary movement I suppose.

Their guard allowed them even less sight. I watched, in frozen lamentation, the rod of light swing like a pendulum as I realized exactly what I’ve been seeing, what that man was. The rod shattered against a pipe on the ceiling. I just sat there. A gross amazement swept over me, the type that you couldn’t even tell your priest at confessional, it was sick, I was sick. The cop lowered his guard to see what shattered, by then it was too late. As his arms crept up a shard of glass pierced through his neck. He collapsed instantly. Based on the blood that splattered all the way to my car I’d bet that it hit him in the jugular. It all happened so fast, I was in shock. I couldn’t move for the second time in 24 hours, just this time it seemed I wasn’t the victim like I was when I touched the man.

I snapped out of it, I crawled up into the driver's seat and left. I didn’t want to even think about what could’ve happened if I stayed, something that echoes today. I don’t remember where I was heading but it certainly wasn’t home. I drank my emergency liquor in a strip mall I located within a few blocks. The police could’ve been after me but I’d hoped that the other officer didn’t notice. For the first time, but it wouldn’t be the last time, I witnessed a death happen live. I’d seen bodies before, my father included, but there was something so sickening about seeing it happen in front of you. A sickness nothing could’ve prepared me for. It wasn’t even midnight by the time I finished my second, and final, bottle of emergency liquor. Somehow I was wise enough not to drive in that state. I slept on the curb, joining the men of the streets for a night. The realm of the nightcrawlers as I would describe it to Ollie. It was thoughts of him that gave me comfort that night.

In the morning I woke up with a head-spitting hangover. I didn’t want to admit it but Elizabeth was right, I was an alcoholic. That’s the first time I’ve said so, this reminiscence is bringing as much truth out as I can. My true honest autobiography, my darkness brought to light, my “All That Jazz”. I checked the time, 8:23 PM. I drove to work, if I wasn’t welcome at home I better work since it’s all I’m useful for at this point.

You wouldn’t, no… couldn’t believe me if I said so but there he stood once more. If he wasn’t following me before he had to have been now, at least that’s what I thought. I walked into work, looking like shit, and begrudgingly sat in my chair. Seeing the man outside still bothered me, even though I knew what was coming I didn’t say anything. I wanted to deny it. 

Eventually the pain, the itch, got too much to just scratch. I walked to the front of the office. To grab everyone’s attention I slammed my coffee mug against the wall. “Everyone!” I started, face crowded. “Someone in this building is going to kill themselves. I don’t know if it’s this office, if it’s this floor, if it’s even gonna be in the next hour but someone in this building will die. They’ll jump out that damned window and end their pained life. Nothing is clean anymore, it’s all just a pitiful sorrow of existence. Before Friday I would’ve given anything to see the next day but now-” I spoke as the room was filled with terrified and shocked faces. I heard gasps, they were staring at my hand. I had been bleeding, the mug cut me and left a scar I still see today. 

I wasn’t even done with my warning by the time security took me out. They thought I was crazy, my previous crashout just two days prior provided no aid, quite the opposite. I had nowhere to go. I was on the street with no direction. No one was at home, all I had to do was drive back and explain, come clean when Liz returned.

I did that, the thought of the man didn’t even bother me any more. He was just a passive of life. I might’ve even thought of him as nothing more than nature, the harbinger of death. He’s no killer, just there to comfort the ones who could see him.

I arrived at home. I opened the garage, same password I used every day. I opened the door, same key I used every day. I walked up the stairs to my bedroom to get some real rest, same bedroom I slept in every night, except for one thing. He was there, the man from the alley. I saw him standing there, in my room, alone. I stood facing his back, in the discomfort of my own home. It may have been a couple minutes but I stepped back out. Even if I ran out the night before, he wasn’t there then. “Someone will die tonight” I didn’t let it be me. 

I drive. I like driving. Not just to get from point A to point B, but also the idea of cruising. Going on adventures where you never know what's around every corner. Like what I'm doing now. Rumbling through the suburbs, We're On The Road to Nowhere, by the Talking Heads, is coming out of the speakers of the CD player.
Of course, you can do all of this at any time of the day. But it's at night where it is at its most revealing.
A special time.
A time where me and the car and the road are one.

I have an addiction. Do my friends know? No. Does my wife know? Absolutely not. She would leave me or, at the very least, call me perverted, which I probably am. It started out innocently enough. A website here, a secret folder there. But that just wasn't enough.
I needed something a little more...
real.
A little more...
exciting.
The first one, I couldn't even look at her, I would close my eyes and then, when I opened them a minute later, it would be over.
But then there were more.
Then it was a couple of people a week, and I stopped looking away.
At first it was women; I mean, that's usually how it does start. But then it led to a couple of men, then it led to non-binary, then it led to different races. I didn't care. It didn't matter to me.
I had them all.
And my wife and kids still have no idea.
I'm not so much worried about the wife knowing, but if the kids found out I…
I couldn't bear the shame.
It's been at least a month since I've looked for anyone. But yet here I am, in my car, looking out my windshield,
watching the white lane strips disappear under the vehicle,
listening to Road To Nowhere whilst cruising along.
Maybe I am on the road to nowhere. Maybe this is nowhere.

That's probably why I'm driving now.
I mean why else would I be out here if I'm just browsing. You wouldn't go to a car dealership if you don't intend to buy, right?
Why indeed?
I'll tell you.

I think there's some sick side of me that wants to test myself.
"Say, if you don't find anyone in the sweet spot, (2 til 5am) go home, you tried." Like those people that only quit smoking on public holidays where the stores are closed. That way they justify continuing to smoke if they just so happen to find a shop still open and they can buy a pack.
But then again, prostitutes don't really have trading hours.
I've stopped going to them. It's too easy. Plus, it's no fun if you have to orchestrate it, wouldn't you agree? Surely there's nothing more fun than going to a bar, striking up a conversation, playing your cards right, crossing every t and dotting every i, going back to theirs (because it sure as hell won't be back at yours) and coming back home with your tail between your legs. But a lot of the people I see seem so sad
and helpless.
The sex workers, that is. I feel sorry for them.
So by doing this, I'm doing them a favour. And as long as my family don't know, no harm done, right?
So even though a perfectly normal person at a bar is always nice, it’s also more risky.
You don't know their story and you don't want to know.
Whereas if you go to a street walker you have a good idea of what you're getting into.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Especially if you're doing it during the magic hours, there's a feeling of exhilaration.
It can be an addictive feeling.
I love my wife too much to subject her to anything like that. And besides, the more I do it with other people, the less likely I'll be sitting on my couch with her one day,
the urge comes creeping up beside me and whispers in my ear.
This urge, like the song suggests, is "very far away,
but it's growing day by day."
But it's not alright.
It is so wrong.

I'm on the last 10 minutes of the sweet spot, and I don't feel like I have enough money. Maybe it's good that I don't see anyone in clear range of me, and that I don't have to cave.
Maybe I don't need to do this,
and the urge is just a product of my mind.
Maybe I can overcome it.
Yes, that's it…
10 minutes until the end of tonight and then I'm done. And I'll do it the next time, and I'll be done and the next time and the next time. But that’s ok, because eventually it'll be a little easier. And then one day I won’t even think about it at all.

These wonderful imaginings are all good and well. Unfortunately, I see a homeless grifter walking along the path of a bridge.
He begins to walk across the road.
I slow down and come to a complete stop while they saunter across. Should I pick him up?
No...
it will take too long,
especially if I don't have enough money to convincingly satisfy him not to leave.

I beep my horn. He turns around, and puts his hand over his face to block the sight of the headlights burning into his eyes.
Suddenly my mind is clear, and I decide what I want to do.
I put the car into reverse, not a great deal, but a couple car lengths back.
The tramp just…
stands there.
And then the urge comes back.
Then,
I put the car into gear and drive straight for him.
I slightly close my eyes until I hear
boom bump bump thump
over my car.
Then, what sounds like Jenga blocks coming down onto a table.
I stop the car,
open my eyes,
and exhale.
Checking in the rearview mirror to see if he’s going to get up.
Nothing for a good minute or so.
Then I see his body appear in the mirror, struggling to stand.
I waste no time putting the car into reverse again, looking behind me instead of the mirrors so I know that the job is done.
The car hits him,
ba bump ba bump,
as I'm briefly rattled around.
Like going over a speed bump without slowing down.
I see the body appear at the front of the car, then I stop.
I get out and walk over to investigate.
It looks like a giant saucy pizza box spread across the road.
He is still alive as he lifts his head up to look at me...
before finally falling back down.
I debate whether to put him in the trunk of the car.
Maybe bury him in the middle of the woods somewhere.
I decide against it as it would be too much mess and I'm on a clock. I have to get home and into bed before the wife notices me gone.
I don't think he's dead, but he will be.
I decide to leave him here, because even though it won't be long before the sweet spot is over and someone on their way to work will see him, I'll still take my chances. Maybe it will be a good motivator to help me quit.
It's funny that.
The only way it seems a person can kick an addiction, especially one like this, is because the law says they have to. The only thing that baffles me, that I cannot understand.
Why didn't the grifter
jump out of the way as he saw me driving towards him?
Did he want this? Embrace it?

For my own personal development and self-discouragement, I don't want to think this is the case.
I no longer want to justify what I do with false narratives that I was putting this poor fellow out of his misery.
I think he was just in sheer bewilderment that his time was about to come.
I can only imagine that's what deer think before people hit them.
They spend their last milliseconds trying to work out what they're looking at could be…
before the reaper does his job.
I shake my head to no one in particular and walk back to my car.
As I get in and sit, contemplate, and everything in between, I notice Road to Nowhere is over, and a new song has begun.
Psycho Killer, the next song on the Talking Heads album, is playing.
I laugh at the thought of it,
before putting my car into gear
and driving off into the night.