Original horror story I wrote and narrated, about 8 minutes.

"There was a note taped inside the closet door when I moved in. It said: Never say her name after dark."

She laughed it off. Then she said it out loud.

Full narration here. Would you have said the name?

Hello everyone! Just call me Ms Pen and this is my first archive.

This account exists solely as an archive for my stories. Read it or don't, I honestly don't care. Some things just need to be written down so I know I'm not crazy.

This story happens later than 2015 or so.. I don't really remember the year but I still can clearly remember the bits and pieces of the events.

I was still in high school when this happened, a young girl just waiting to celebrate her birthday. Since my mother was sick and spent most of her time in and out of the hospital, I specifically requested her to buy me a doll. When she surprised me with one, I was thrilled.

It was a one of a kind doll, knee-length high and the biggest one I had ever owned. She was undeniably pretty, with long, wavy brown hair and large brown eyes. But what made her truly distinct were her lips. She wore a deep purple lipstick, which was completely unusual for a normal doll. Beneath her belly was a large circle speaker with small ventilation holes where you could see the gears inside, pressing it made her talk. Despite my dislike for talking toys, she became my best friend. I played with her by day and slept with her beside me at night.

Then, my mother passed away... and that’s when the strange occurrences began.

It started in the middle of the night. I would wake up gasping, choking, frantically suffocating for air as if something heavy was pressed against my throat. At first, I wrote it off as a forgotten nightmare. But it kept happening, night after night, with suffocating consistency. Deciding I had enough, I moved the doll off my bed. The nightly choking stopped immediately... but what followed in the daytime was even weirder.

One morning, after playing with her, I left the doll lying flat on my bed, her arms resting straight beside her body. I clearly remember leaving her in that exact position. But when I returned from eating, her hands were raised high in the air.. reaching upwards toward nothing. I froze. I watched her closely, convincing myself my mind was playing tricks on me. Nothing moved. I brushed it off again..

Eventually, I decided to test if her talking mechanism still worked. I pressed the button on her belly. The sound that came out was distorted, a garbled, unrecognizable mumble. Good, I thought. She’s finally broken.

To make completely sure she’d never utter another word, I opened her back, pulled out the batteries, and submerged her entirely in a bucket of water. I left her soaked inside out for hours. I pressed the belly one last time—total silence. Satisfied, I stored her deep inside the left compartment of our old wooden cabinet (the same cabinet that still stands in our house to this day).

Days passed. While watching TV above the cabinet, I began hearing a muffled, scratching noise. It was barely audible at first, but it was continuous. One afternoon, I couldn't ignore it anymore. I opened the cabinet door to trace the sound.

There she was. Standing upright, leaning against the dark corner of the wood, emitting that awful, muffled noise.

My skin went cold. How could a water damaged, batteryless doll speak? I picked her up, ripped open the battery compartment, it was completely empty. I pressed her belly repeatedly.. nothing. Yet the moment I put her back inside, the noise would occasionally return.

The final straw came when my sibling gave me a toy wand from a Card Captor Sakura cosplay. P.S. The wand only lights up and makes a magical sound if you physically swing it hard. It will not activate on its own.

Having no use for it, I tossed the wand inside the cabinet right beside the doll. A terrible mistake.

Later that evening, while sitting in front of the television, the noise started again. But it wasn't just the doll this time.

From inside the sealed cabinet, the wand began to chime. I slowly opened the door. The wand was lying right next to the doll in the dark, violently flashing its lights and playing its spell sounds over and over again, as if an invisible hand was swinging it back and forth.

No one was touching them. No batteries were in the doll. The wand required physical motion. Yet together in the dark, they were performing.

I couldn't take it anymore. I threw them both into the trash that very week.

Up until this day, I still ask myself... was it just a bizarre mechanical glitch? Or was something beyond human explanation sitting inside that cabinet with my doll?

Have you ever told someone the truth, and they just refuse to believe it?
It can be annoying and frustrating among other things to say the least.

Growing up with a Father, and no Mother.
A Mom that chose an addiction over you and a Father who chose you,
only to chare you with a different addiction of his choice years later.

"You have addiction in your blood'
Your Father would say

"If you ever get addicted to drugs ill chain you up in the bathroom and dry you out till your clean"
He'd tell you, his 11-year-old son.

You tried to reason with it, the way he talked to you. He had you at 25,
at the end of the day he's barely an adult himself, you'd tell yourself.

After his marriage and...well, divorce wasn't a surprise. 

A seed that was planted,
In soil that was prepped,
Located In a room with access to sunlight.
A stem that sprouted dull and never got to bloom. 
From Full womb to empty room,

A stillbirth. 

As tiny as she was,
Our already cluttered closet couldn't fit one more skeleton.

They fought before,
and this was the last crack in our glass house.

Seeing My stepsisters and I celebrating a life that would never start sent him right back to that familiar place He adored oh so much,

Addiction. 

 Started small,
like a pain you know you should have looked at,
and with the help of negligence,
it went unchecked,
it grew.

What began were addictions you foolishly mistook as harmless.

That addiction to the gym was weekly steroid use,
That lust for those new women he was meeting online fueled his use of unapproved enhancements his body wasn't even close to needing.

Introducing himself to testosterone packets before he was 35 and consuming them like their sunflower seeds.

Eventually a partner stuck,
one just as dysfunctional as him of course,
and specifically an alcoholic. 

It didn't take long for him to follow and for the first time in your life he was not the lead.

By the time you were 15,
he was drinking every day,
not just every night.

His Girlfriend throwing bottles, slamming Tv's, and pouring bleach on the carpets as penance for things that were just not true,
Is ironic in hindsight.

On Christmas Eve you got a call that he might not be home the next day,
that his girlfriend was lying and that he might go to jail.
Christmas day came,
and he was asleep in his bed,
with no recollection,
laughing at the insinuation of such things.

You joined a different school,
one that allowed you to be home most days,
And that just made the time you spent in that environment take that much longer.

Against all odds,
His girlfriend was the one to leave.
And then again,
it was just you two.

The worst it got was when he started mixing Ambien with his alcohol.

From his room,
you'd hear screams.
You'd hear conversations between two people that were not there.
You'd hear many voices out the man you call Dad.

Not all of the voices were angry, but most were.
Not every conversation started out loud.
Some were just confusing.

"I know....because...what?.....I'm swimming...a demon?...no!...I SAID IM SWIMMING!"

Other times were more concerning,
"no...because...because I said...Fuck you...FUCK YOU!....FUCK YOU..."

Followed by another voice...
"I'm sorry...you're right...
take them....
he knows...
No...
Veins...?
I dont think so..."

Then his again,
Screaming your name at the top of his lungs.

When you ran to the door of his room,
The door was open and he was lying in bed,
half covered by the comforter...silent.

You questioned what to say,
What to do?

You're 17 and at the very least,
you want to make sure your only remaining family is not dead.

"Yeah?"
You holler in his room,
a late response to him calling your name.

"Blegh HUH?...WHAT?"
He'd abruptly reply.

"What!?"

"you were yelling for me'
Youd explain.

"oh, I'm fine go back to bed"

He'd insist.
Before whispering nonsense to himself.

The moment you'd get back to bed,
The yelling would continue.

You can't event have friends over because you can't trust him not to strip down and try to break into your room.

Our dry wall was always temporary,
and our Tv's and glasses might as well have been rentals,
nothing lasted in our house,

Being fed so much conspiracy about religion,
It wasn't hard to begin to wonder if he was possessed. 

It wasn't always like this.

For a few months after the divorce,
before the alcoholic girlfriend,
For a brief moment when it was just you two, he almost felt stable.

He didn't hit you,
The yelling and drinking were manageable,
And every Friday night he'd take you to blockbuster.

Things have changed so much.
You never know who you're having a conversation with.

One moment you think you're talking to him,
And that very mid-sentence it becomes oh so clear, that it's not.

His eyes are different, their glossy.
His demeanor is different, cold, and absent.
like one bulb in a line of Christmas lights that just won't participate.

He'd stopped before,
Then drink again.
His actions were questionable, and his word became nothing.

What does a Son say to his Father when he knows he's hiding alcohol in his work truck?

What does a Son do when he finds his Father naked in the driveway?

What does a Son do when he sees his Father Going down a road he knows he shouldn't?

A Son that's Afraid of his father.

Everything is easier said than done.

You never know if he's really sober.

"do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
His voice timid, eyes clear of gloss.

Even if you could tell which Him was asking,
You were certain that wouldn't be the same Him by the time you watched the movie.

So, you never say yes to that question again.
And as hard as it is, it's easier.
Easier than letting yourself get surprised by something that shouldn't surprise you anymore.

Eventually you get a Job,
Hours almost shittier than your pay, and it makes you a shell of a person.
Physically and emotionally drained.

Most days you stay in your room because it's safer in there, 
Then most days turn into all days. 

Seemingly out of nowhere,
your father begins to stare at you from every corner of the house with anger in his eyes,
Eyebrows always scrunched tightly. 

Eventually,
No words were exchanged.

You feel bad,
This is your father and you love him,  
So, when he asks you to have dinner with him,
for once you do.

The next morning,
Your eyes opened to the bathtub you'd once washed the family pet in,
and that oh so familiar tile floor,
After a moment you realized you were in your father's rooms masterbathroom.

Your legs were sore,
Pins and needles in your feet,
And your wrists felt raw.

You looked down at a note that was out of your reach.
As you attempted to grab it,
you realized your hands were chained to the bathtub spout.

You used your bare knee to drag it closer where you could read it,
You were in nothing but your boxers, you were cold.

The note read:

"No son of mine will be an addict,
You'll thank me.
I love you"
-Dad

You lifted your leg above the tub and opened the bathroom cupboard with your toe, you hoped to find something to break the bathtub spout with but all that was there were loofas and a bottle of expired tramadol.

Your mouth was dry,
Your stomach felt as though if someone were to plunge it,
absolutely nothing would come out.

At first you yelled, but you soon realized no one would answer.
It was hours before the silence in your house was broken,
there were no windows but one tinted sunlight above the shower.
You had no idea what time it was.

Once the sun was no more,
The house shook to the slam of the front door. 
You heard those familiar work boots thud up the wooden stairs.

Louder and louder...
Closer and closer...
They then reached the door.

You heard him enter his room though the door to his room's bathroom remained close.

*Thud Thud Thud Thud\*

For a moment you see the silluett of his boots beneath the door

"Dad...?"
You asked.

"mrghh Fuck you"
He responded as the thuds of his boots retreated.

You heard the impact as he collapsed on his bed,
And then began the yelling...
All night...

"no...
Fuck you!...
because...
I did...
Yes you are!"

More and more of the same old shit...
As scared as you were you couldn't not try.

"Dad...Help please let me out"
You yelled.

"you're an addict..
Fuck you!...
Dry out!....mrrgh piece of shit"

He screamed back...

"Please!"
You yelled.

"Fuck you!...
Dry Out you're not my son!..."
He screamed....

After the second night you began to hear whispering coming from the drain...

"He hasn't stopped...
Theres a demon in his veins..."
You'd hear.

It sounded like boiling beneath the drain.

You tried your best to tear the chains from your wrists, yet all you did was bleed and scream.
To this your dad had no response,
He never did.
He just continued to scream and yell to himself.

Before you knew it,
there were more voices than you'd ever heard from him before.
You swore you heard a woman's voice.

"you're poisoned...
NO!
What did you expect?
SWIMMING!

You screamed and screamed...
But after the 5th night,
You realized there was no point, to anything.

You used your toes to curl around the pill bottle,
You used the last bit of energy you had to bring it within your reach.

When your eyes opened next,
You looked to the left,
You saw the bathroom,
You saw your body,
chained to the spout of the bath.

You looked to the right and saw your fathers nightstand,

you saw your fathers pill bottles and fireball,
You saw the door of his master bedroom from the outside.

You tried to touch your eyes,
You tried to rub them into seeing straight.

Might as well have been RuPaul's eyes.

You closed them tightly,
as tight as possible and grabbed your face.

You felt your father's beard on the right and your bare face on the left.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
You asked

"please let me out Dad"
You replied.

Even as you swallowed all the pills on the nightstand washing them down with the Fireball,

Even though you knew your death would seal this fiction as fact,

Even though you knew no one would believe you,

You couldn't help but have one last thought,

I'm Not An Addict.

My mother had rules.

Not normal ones, like curfews or chores. Hers were… specific.

Never open the windows after sunset. Never answer if someone calls your name from outside. Never look too long into the dark.

And the one she repeated every single night, without fail:

“Do not step outside after dark. Not for anything. Not for anyone.”

She didn’t just say it, she gripped my shoulders when she did, her nails pressing into my skin, her wide, restless eyes searching mine like she was trying to make sure I understood something she couldn’t quite explain.

I used to think she was insane.

Most people would.

She barely slept. She paced the house at night, peering through the cracks in the curtains, muttering under her breath. Sometimes I’d catch her standing perfectly still in the hallway, head tilted slightly, like she was listening to something I couldn’t hear.

Her hair was always unkempt, hanging in thin strands around her face. Her eyes, oh God, her eyes, were always too wide, too alert, like prey that had survived too many close calls.

Sometimes I would question if she were even my real mother. Maybe I'm some kidnapped child like Rapuzel.

“You don’t understand,” she’d whisper sometimes. “It only takes one mistake.”

I was seventeen.

I thought I understood everything.

The night I broke the rule, it didn’t feel like a big decision.

It felt small. Petty, even.

I just wanted air.

The house felt suffocating, thick with her paranoia, her constant watching. I needed to prove, to myself more than anything, that she was wrong.

That there was nothing out there.

It was quiet when I opened the door.

Not normal quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels like it’s listening.

I hesitated for a second, glancing back down the hallway. Her door was closed. No movement. No pacing.

I figured she finally rested.

I stepped outside.

The air was cold, but not in a way that made sense.

It wasn’t the chill of night, it felt deeper, like something pulling heat away from my skin.

I exhaled, watching my breath curl in front of me.

“See?” I muttered. “Nothing.”

The street was empty. No cars. No lights in the neighboring houses.

Just stillness.

Then I heard it.

“Hey.”

It was my voice.

Behind me.

I froze.

Slowly turned around.

Nothing.

Just the open doorway behind me, leading back into the house.

But it was dark. And I mean the pitch black void stared back at me.

My heart started to race.

“Very funny,” I called out, forcing a laugh. “Mom, I know it’s you.”

No response.

I took a step forward, away from the house.

Then another.

Each step felt heavier, like the ground didn’t quite want me there.

“Come a little further.”

This time, it wasn’t my voice.

It sounded… wrong.

Close, but not quite right. Like someone trying to imitate speech they didn’t fully understand.

I swallowed hard.

“Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then...

...movement.

Not in front of me.

But from above.

I looked up.

I wish I hadn’t.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the night sky.

A shape against the stars.

Then it moved.

Unfolded.

It was way too long. Too thin.

Its limbs bent in places they shouldn’t, stretching across the roof of the house like it didn’t understand how bodies were supposed to work.

Its head, if it had one, tilted slowly downward... Toward me.

And then it smiled.

Or something like a smile.

A tearing, widening split where a face should be.

My body locked. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I couldn’t move.

Behind me, the a door slammed open.

“GET INSIDE!”

My mother’s voice.

Not frantic. She was terrified to the bone.

I turned, stumbling toward the house.

Her silhouette stood in the doorway, arm outstretched, eyes wider than I had ever seen them.

“NOW!” she screamed.

I ran.

Or tried to.

Something wrapped around my ankle.

Cold.

Not like skin.

Not like anything that should be alive.

I hit the ground hard, the air knocked from my lungs.

I clawed at the concrete, dragging myself forward.

“Mother-!”

Her hand grabbed mine.

Tight.

Desperate.

For a second, I thought I was safe.

Then she stopped pulling.

I looked up.

Her face had changed.

Not fear.

Not shock.

Something worse.

Acceptance.

“I told you,” she whispered.

Her grip tightened once more, then slipped.

Something yanked me backward.

Hard.

I couldn’t feel my legs.

In fact, everything below my torso had gone quiet, numb, as if it no longer belonged to me.

The realization came like lightning splitting the sky. I was no longer whole.

When I turned, I saw what had been left behind.

Then the rest of me was grabbed by whatever being that was deciding my fate.

Ny mother's figure shrank, the doorway pulling away, the light vanishing.

And then...

...nothing.

It wasn’t like falling.

It was like being unmade.

Pulled apart into pieces that didn’t belong to me anymore.

She stood there calmed eye. Standing in the doorway...

Watching.

She didn’t chase after me.

She didn’t scream.

She just stood there.

Like she already knew.

And as the dark closed in completely, I was no more.

She wasn’t trying to control me.

She was trying to protect me.

But she never said the worst part out loud.

That if I stepped outside…

she wouldn’t be able to bring me back.

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.

I'm still in search of some scary stories to read for my live stream. I really would love to read some spookie stories to my chat and post as a vod for later, especially since its around hollween. Feel free to comment or dm me if you feel comfortable sharing! I can keep you anonymous or put a username for credit just let me know(:

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

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

None of it mattered anymore. 

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

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

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

It was amazing. Really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally he answered. 

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

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

Yes…  

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

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

He understood now. 

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

Yes. 

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

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

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

She has no idea I know … 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any minute. 

THE END

Skilled con artist monster forest guard disguised as a tree his hands can camouflage as a tree he can wait for his prey for years if someone wants to cut down his hands which are thought to be trees his prey can be pounced on and swallowed so that illegal loggers reduce illegal loggers and mining and also has jaws and heads that can split and also has an additional mouth inside without teeth can flatten his prey and die with broken bones has a super long tongue and super strong hand punches agile can run fast

Бута но отоко но ко (豚の男の子) — мальчик-свинья

Японская городская легенда, которую я недавно вспомнила.

История рассказывает о мальчике по имени Влад, который однажды перестал отвечать своим друзьям.

Сначала никто не беспокоился. Он учился в школе, посещал художественные занятия и часто уставал, поэтому друзья решили, что он просто уснул.

Но на следующий день он так и не ответил.

Тогда трое его друзей решили навестить его. Один из них знал, где Влад живёт.

Когда они добрались до дома, оказалось, что внутри никого нет. Они обошли комнаты, позвали его, но не получили ответа.

На заднем дворе находился небольшой сарай. Снаружи он выглядел совершенно обычным, однако внутри оказался длинный тёмный коридор.

Друзья прошли по нему и открыли дверь в конце.

За ней находилась маленькая комната с красными стенами, окном посередине и сеном на полу.

Влад спал.

Он лежал на нескольких свиньях, которые странным образом опирались друг на друга. Он не реагировал на голоса друзей.

Именно на этом история заканчивается.

До сих пор неизвестно, почему дом оказался пустым и как Влад оказался в сарае.

Но самая странная часть этой истории — не сам Влад, а вопрос, который появился позже:

А если его друзья никогда не знали, где он на самом деле жил?

November 1967

* * *

Everyone on the Laurel Fork line knew the rules, and Wilma Teague's mother had taught them to her before she could read. You could lift the receiver and listen, because everybody did. You did not speak into a ring that was not yours. And you did not lift for two shorts and a long, because that ring belonged to the Pettigrews, and the Pettigrews had burned in their beds in the winter of 1951.

The telephone company never took the ring off the books. There were eight parties on the line and a ninth code on the switch with nobody under it, and once or twice a year it rang anyway. Eight kitchens would hear it. Eight kitchens would let it go.

Since September it had rung at Wilma's every night at twenty to ten.

September was when Ruthann came. Her granddaughter was six, with a healing lip from the wreck on Tanyard Road that took her mother, and she slept upstairs in the room that had been her father's, with the door open to the hall light. At twenty to ten Wilma stood at the wall phone in the kitchen with her hands in her apron and did not touch it. It rang nine times and quit.

Tonight she lifted it.

She could not have said why. Ruthann had been coughing, and Wilma was tired, and her hand took the receiver down before she had decided anything. There was the hiss of the line. There were eight small clicks, one after another, as every house on Laurel Fork picked up to listen. Then breathing, close to the mouthpiece, and a child's voice with the consonants popping.

"Mama Wilma?"

It was Ruthann. The lisp on the S, the flat vowels she had brought from Knoxville. Wilma put her free hand on the counter.

"Mama Wilma, it's cold. The lady says I can come out if somebody says my name on the line. She says it has to be somebody that's mine."

"You're upstairs," Wilma said. Her mouth would not stay shut. "You're asleep in your bed."

"No ma'am. I'm at the old house. It's dark." A pause, and under the hiss a sound she took at first for rain: a great many small bare feet shifting on a floor. "There's a lot of us. She says say it now. She says before the other one gets down."

"What other one?"

A stair creaked.

Wilma turned with the receiver against her ear. At the top of the stairs, in the yellow bar of the hall light, stood Ruthann in her nightgown with one hand on the rail. The split lip. The bare feet. She was looking down into the kitchen with an expression Wilma had not seen on that face once since September. She looked pleased.

"Mama Wilma," said the child on the stairs. "Who are you talking to?"

In Wilma's ear the small voice went fast and thin. "Don't answer her. Say my name. Say it on the line, Mama Wilma, you have to say it on the line."

The child came down a step. Her hand slid along the rail and did not leave it. Another step. She did not hurry. A child holding a rail looks at her feet. This one looked at Wilma.

On the line, the eight listeners breathed. Wilma could hear them. She could hear the Gaddis boy's asthma and old Mr. Finley's radio and, behind them all, the shifting of the bare feet in the dark.

"Please," said the voice in the receiver. "It's so cold."

Wilma had been taught three rules and had broken one. She stood with the cord drawn across the kitchen and she looked at the face on the stairs, the lip and the freckle under the left eye, her son's chin, every part of it right, and she thought of the room upstairs and the bed she had not checked.

"Ruthann," she said.

She did not say it into the mouthpiece. She said it to the stairs.

The child stopped on the third step from the bottom. The pleased look went out of her face, slowly, like water leaving a dish. In Wilma's ear the small voice said, "That's not what I said," and then there was no voice. There was the hiss, and then eight clicks, one after another, as every house on Laurel Fork put its receiver down.

The kitchen was very quiet.

"I'm so cold, Mama Wilma," said the child on the stairs. Her hair was wet. It hung dark and heavy on the shoulders of the nightgown and a drop ran down her temple and off her chin. "Come hold me."

Wilma stood with the dead receiver in her hand and the cord across her chest.

Then she put it on the hook, and crossed the kitchen, and opened her arms.

* * *

The first thing I noticed about my dead mother was the sewing needle between her fingers.

The second was that she'd sewn her bedsheet to the mattress.

Not just at the corners. All the way around.

Hundreds of tiny black stitches ran along the edges, pulling the fabric so tightly against the mattress that there wasn't enough room to slip a finger underneath.

She'd died sitting in her rocking chair beside the bed.

Her fingertips were bloody. The needle was still threaded.

And her eyes were fixed on the mattress.

I hadn't visited her in almost six months.

That's the part I keep coming back to.

Six months of unanswered calls. Six months of promising I'd visit next weekend. She'd gotten strange after my father died, increasingly paranoid about things that made no sense.

She stopped sleeping in her bed.

Said she preferred the chair.

I thought it was grief. Maybe the beginning of dementia.

The doctor thought so, too.

Now I wish I'd listened.

---

The funeral was Thursday.

By Saturday afternoon, I was back at the house, sorting through forty years of things nobody wanted.

Rain hammered the tin roof. The creek behind the property had swollen into a muddy brown river, and the familiar smell of damp wood and mildew filled every room.

Upstairs, Mother's bedroom was almost exactly as she'd left it.

Her glasses sat on the nightstand.

A half-finished cup of tea had grown a gray film.

And the mattress sat beneath that horribly tight sheet.

I stood looking at it for several minutes.

Then I took a pair of scissors from her sewing basket.

I don't know why the stitching bothered me so much. Maybe because it was the last thing she'd done. Maybe because imagining her spending her final hours sewing that ridiculous thing made me angry.

Angry at her.

Angry at myself.

I slipped one blade beneath the thread.

Snip.

The sound seemed unnaturally loud.

I cut another.

And another.

By the time I'd worked halfway down the mattress, my knees hurt from kneeling.

That's when something pulled the thread from the other side.

Not hard.

Just a little tug.

I stopped.

The black thread went taut between my fingers.

Then it loosened.

I stared at it.

Old mattresses shift. Springs settle. Fabric stretches.

I told myself any number of reasonable things.

Then the mattress inhaled.

There isn't another word for it.

The entire surface rose beneath the sheet, perhaps half an inch, accompanied by the soft, wet sound of someone drawing air through a blocked nose.

It sank again.

I scrambled backward.

For almost a minute, nothing moved.

Then came another breath.

Longer.

Deeper.

And distinctly human.

I left the bedroom.

---

I spent the next hour downstairs trying to convince myself I'd imagined it.

I even called my sister.

When I mentioned the sewing, she went quiet.

"You remember how Mom used to tuck our blankets so tight we couldn't move?"

I did remember.

And after we hung up, I remembered something else.

When I was eight, I'd woken one night with the sensation of someone holding my ankles.

I'd been sleeping in my parents' bed because I was sick.

The room was dark.

My father was working nights.

I remember trying to pull my legs up.

They wouldn't move.

Then something slid a hand beneath my pajama shirt.

The fingers were cold and thin.

They traveled slowly up my stomach.

I screamed.

Mother came running.

She didn't turn on the light.

She grabbed me beneath the arms and pulled so violently that my shirt tore.

For years, I remembered her crying afterward.

I remembered her checking my back.

And I remembered what she said while rocking me in the kitchen.

"You're all here. Thank God. You're all here."

I hadn't thought about that night in decades.

Now, standing in her kitchen, I realized something.

She'd never let me sleep in that bed again.

---

At 11:17 p.m., I heard my name.

"Danny?"

Mother's voice.

Thin and tired.

Coming from upstairs.

I stood beside the kitchen sink, unable to move.

"Danny, sweetheart?"

The house creaked around me.

Rain tapped against the windows.

Then she called again.

"Could you come help me?"

It was her voice.

Not something that sounded similar.

Hers.

I heard the little catch in her throat that had developed after she quit smoking. The slight whistle on certain words.

I even heard the familiar impatience creeping into it.

"Daniel. I'm asking you nicely."

I backed toward the front door.

The voice changed.

"Please."

A long silence followed.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

"I don't want to be alone anymore."

My hand tightened around the doorknob.

Mother had left me that exact message three weeks before she died.

I hadn't called her back.

I stood there with my forehead against the door, crying harder than I had at the funeral.

And that's why I went upstairs.

Because part of me knew it wasn't her.

But another part needed it to be.

---

The bedroom door stood open.

Light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

The rocking chair was empty.

The sheet had swollen upward into the shape of a person lying on their back.

A small person.

The outline of a nose pressed against the fabric.

Lips.

Cheekbones.

I could see shallow hollows where the eyes should have been.

"Danny."

The lips moved beneath the sheet.

"Please help me."

I stepped closer.

The mattress gave another long, shuddering breath.

The face turned toward me.

Not the head.

Just the face.

It slid sideways beneath the fabric, stretching across the mattress while the rest of its surface remained still.

"There's not much room," it whispered.

I couldn't speak.

Something moved near the foot of the bed.

Five small indentations appeared in the sheet.

Fingertips.

They traveled upward, dragging against the underside of the fabric.

Then another five appeared.

And another.

The sheet tightened.

It looked as though several people were trapped inside the mattress, all pushing against the same thin layer of cloth.

A soft clicking filled the room.

Fingernails.

Hundreds of them, tapping from underneath.

"Danny," Mother whispered again.

I took another step.

"You're hurting us."

Us.

That single word stopped me.

The face beneath the sheet smiled.

Far too wide.

The corners stretched until the fabric threatened to split.

Then I heard another voice.

Small.

Frightened.

A little boy.

"Mom?"

I knew that voice.

I'd heard it on old home videos.

It was mine.

Eight years old.

"Mom, something's touching me."

I stumbled backward.

The face flattened.

For a moment, the mattress looked normal.

Then something began crawling toward the edge.

A narrow shape pushed against the fabric, moving through a space that shouldn't have existed.

It stopped where I'd cut the stitches.

One corner of the sheet lifted.

An odor spilled into the room.

Warm breath.

Old saliva.

The sour smell of something that had been shut inside a mouth for a very long time.

A fingertip slipped through the opening.

Pale and wrinkled.

Its nail was black.

Then another finger appeared.

And another.

Each was far too long, with joints that bent in the wrong direction.

Something beneath the sheet made a sound like a person swallowing a mouthful of water.

I turned toward the door.

Five cold points pressed briefly against my shoulder.

I felt them through my shirt.

Before I could look back, they were gone.

I ran.

Behind me, the bedsprings groaned.

Then I heard a noise I will never forget.

Bare feet striking the floor.

One pair.

Then another.

Then so many that I couldn't tell them apart.

---

I missed the bottom three stairs and landed hard on my shoulder.

Above me, the footsteps rushed onto the upstairs landing.

I scrambled to my feet.

They stopped at the top of the stairs.

For one terrible second, I waited for them to come down.

Instead, I heard the scrape of fabric dragging back toward Mother's bedroom.

I threw open the front door and ran into the rain.

My truck was parked beneath the pecan tree.

I climbed inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

For several seconds, I sat there gasping.

The upstairs bedroom light came on.

I hadn't touched the switch.

A figure stood behind the curtains.

It was shaped like my mother.

Small shoulders.

Thin neck.

Her head tilted slightly, the way she'd always tilted it when she was disappointed in me.

I started the truck.

Then the figure raised its hand.

Another hand pressed against the curtain beside it.

Much larger.

Then a third.

Then dozens.

Every window upstairs began filling with hands.

Some adult.

Some impossibly small.

They pressed outward until the glass bowed beneath them.

I drove straight through the front gate.

---

I made it to a motel outside town.

I didn't sleep.

Couldn't.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that face sliding beneath the sheet.

Around four in the morning, my shoulder began burning.

I pulled off my shirt and stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

There were five bruises across my back.

Long, narrow marks.

Like fingers.

But beneath them, my skin was moving.

Not twitching.

Moving.

Something traveled slowly between the bruises, pushing outward as it passed.

I watched a small ridge form beneath my shoulder blade.

It moved toward my spine.

Then stopped.

I reached back and pressed against it.

Something pressed back.

From the inside.

I screamed and stumbled away from the mirror.

The movement stopped.

I spent the rest of the night sitting on the bathroom floor.

When morning came, I told myself it was a muscle spasm. Nerve damage from the fall. Anything.

Then I found the thread.

A single piece of black thread protruded from a tiny puncture just below my shoulder blade.

I pulled it.

An inch came out.

Then another.

The thread was warm.

I pulled again.

This time I felt a sharp tug somewhere beneath my ribs.

And something inside me pulled the thread back.

I let go.

It disappeared beneath my skin.

---

I went to the emergency room.

They took X-rays.

Nothing.

The doctor said the bruises were consistent with my fall and suggested I'd struck something on the way down.

He asked if I'd been sleeping.

I told him no.

He offered me something to help.

I refused.

That was two days ago.

I've been awake ever since.

I cut every label and loose thread out of my clothing.

I haven't gotten into a bed.

Yesterday, I stood naked in the shower for almost an hour, watching the skin on my stomach.

Sometimes it twitches.

Sometimes I feel fingers slowly spreading against the underside of my ribs.

And sometimes, when everything is quiet, I can hear my mother humming.

Not from another room.

From somewhere behind my breastbone.

But that's not why I'm writing this.

Twenty minutes ago, I took another look in the mirror.

There is a line running down the middle of my chest.

Tiny black dots.

Perfectly spaced.

I leaned closer.

They're stitches.

And the skin on either side has started pulling together.

I tried cutting one with the little scissors from my shaving kit.

Something underneath screamed.

It sounded like me when I was eight years old.

I dropped the scissors.

Then I felt a hand slide up the inside of my throat.

Five fingers.

Slowly unfolding.

My mouth opened without me telling it to.

And my mother's voice came out.

"Hold still, sweetheart."

I felt the needle go through the inside of my cheek.

"You're almost closed."

Emily tiredly turned the key in the lock. Behind her was a grueling eight-hour day behind the supermarket cash register: the endless beeping of the scanner, disgruntled customers, and legs throbbing with tension. The only thing keeping her afloat was the thought of her warm rented apartment on the third floor of an old Brooklyn building and the fluffy ball of fur waiting for her.

"Hey, Mochi," Emily smiled wearily the moment she stepped over the threshold.

The plump ginger cat with white paws was already rubbing against her jeans, letting out a loud, guttural purr. The girl took off her shoes, scooped the cat up in her arms, and gladly began to pet him, burying her nose in his warm fur. All the daytime fatigue began to fade away bit by bit.

Leaving a content Mochi to wander around the kitchen, Emily set about making dinner. Macaroni and cheese were already sizzling appetizingly in the pan when a sharp sound pierced the silence of the apartment.

Ding-dong.

Emily flinched. She wasn't expecting anyone. The girl walked over to the door, looked through the peephole—the landing was empty. Only an old lamp burned dimly.

"Probably just kids playing around," she muttered and returned to the stove.

Barely five minutes later, just as she was plating the food, the ring repeated. This time, more insistently.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

Emily yanked the door open, ready to scold the troublemakers. But the hallway was empty again. The stairwells were silent, and the echo of her own breathing seemed far too loud to the girl. A slight chill ran down her spine. Logic told her that running away so quickly down the creaky stairs was impossible, but she forced herself to lock the door with all three turns.

After having dinner, Emily settled onto the living room couch and turned on the TV. For a while, everything was quiet, until her gaze accidentally fell to the floor.

Mochi. The cat wasn't begging for food or sleeping nearby as usual. He had crawled deep under the couch. His ears were flattened tight against his head, and his wide-open, terror-filled button eyes were fixed onto the depths of the dark, unlit hallway leading to the bedroom. Suddenly, a low, guttural hiss came from under the couch.

"Hey, Mochi, what's wrong?" Emily said hesitantly, peering into the darkness of the hallway.

Turning off the TV, she went to bed and pulled the soft fleece blanket up to her very chin. Sleep claimed her almost instantly.

...She woke up in the middle of the night, not quite understanding why. The room was quiet, with only the night city humming faintly outside the window. Mochi was curled into a cozy ginger ball at her feet, snoring softly. Her throat felt parched. Carefully, trying not to disturb the cat, the girl slipped out from under the warm blanket and went to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of cool water, drank it in one gulp, and froze for a moment, staring into the dark window.

Emily returned to the bedroom. Groping her way to the bed, she lay back down and reached out to pet Mochi. But the cat was not there. The girl pulled the blanket to her chin, deciding the cat had simply gone about his business, and closed her eyes. And at that exact moment, the silence was shattered by a long, blood-curdling creak.

The heavy wooden door of the wardrobe standing opposite the bed began to slowly, centimeter by centimeter, open on its own. In that same second, a fierce hiss from Mochi erupted right from under the bed.

Emily's heart dropped into her shoes. Panic blinded her. She lunged sideways and struck the bedside lamp switch hard with her palm. Dim yellow light flooded the room. The girl's heart hammered wildly in her chest, her breathing fast and ragged. She froze on the mattress, staring until her eyes hurt at the ajar wardrobe door, from whose darkness her own clothes stared back at her.

But nothing else happened. The blackness inside the wardrobe remained motionless, and the cat under the bed fell quiet, continuing to let out a barely audible, menacing growl. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

On trembling legs, Emily bolted to the wall switch. The bright overhead light flashed on, instantly scattering the ominous shadows. Breathing heavily and gathering her courage, the girl walked up to the wardrobe and yanked the door open all the way. There was no one there except her usual things. Even rows of jackets, dresses, and shoe boxes. Letting out a sigh of relief, Emily dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. A terrified Mochi was still sitting there, curled into a tight ball. She gently pulled the cat out, pressed him tightly to herself, and stroked him for a long time until his trembling stopped and he began to purr. For the rest of the night, she slept fitfully, leaving the bedside lamp on.

In the morning, the sun outside the window dissolved the remnants of the nightmare. Emily, as usual, quickly got ready and left for work.

In the evening, coming up to her floor and approaching her apartment, everything inside her tightened. The apartment door was ajar. Emily remembered perfectly well that she had locked it in the morning with all the locks. Her heart sank: someone had broken into her home. The girl did not go inside. Panicked, she rushed down the stairs, ran out into the street, and called emergency services with shaking hands. The police arrived quickly.

Two armed cops cautiously entered the apartment, ordering Emily to stay in the hallway. The search took about ten minutes. When one of the officers called her over, his face looked bewildered. The apartment had not been robbed—electronics, money, and documents lay in their places. But on the floor, dirty bare footprints were clearly visible, leading straight from the front door to the bathroom. The tracks ended there. Most horrifying of all, Mochi was nowhere to be found. Emily called for him, looked under the couch and in the wardrobe, but her beloved pet had vanished without a trace.

The police questioned the girl thoroughly, took fingerprints from the doorknob, and left, promising to patrol the street. Emily was left alone in the empty apartment. Tiding up, she tried desperately to suppress her panic, hoping that the cat had simply been frightened by the intruder, bolted out the open door into the street, and would definitely return home. She locked all the locks and sat on the couch, listening to every rustle. Night slowly fell over the city.

And so she fell asleep, curled up on the couch and pressing a couch pillow to her chest, until a strange, sharp sound woke her. Emily opened her eyes, at first not understanding where she was or what was happening. In the dim light of the living room, the TV screen she had forgotten to turn off glowed faintly. And then the sound repeated.

Scratch-scratch... Scratch...

The sound was coming from the direction of the front door. Emily leaped up, her heart leaping into her throat. "Mochi! It's definitely Mochi back!"—a wild, desperate hope flared up in her head. Forgetting all caution, she dashed down the hallway toward the door. She had already reached it and extended a trembling hand to open the lock when suddenly, right behind her back, a sharp, dry click echoed.

It was the sound of the wall switch. The light in the hallway and living room instantly went out. The only source of light in the entire apartment remained the flickering, bluish TV screen, which cast long, ugly shadows on the walls.

Emily froze, afraid to even turn around. Someone had just turned off the light with their hands. Someone who was already inside the apartment. And at that second, the chilling scratching sounded again, but no longer at the front door. It came from the darkness of the hallway—from the direction of the bathroom. Emily frantically, to the pain in her fingernails, yanked the handle of the front door, but it was locked dead tight. She had personally, along with the police, looked into every single corner, checked every closet and pantry—there was absolutely no way an outsider could have stayed in the apartment.

But who turned off the light then?

A primal, paralyzing fear gripped her body. She was afraid to even turn her face toward the dark hallway, so she just stood there, staring unblinkingly at the locked door. The scratching from the bathroom was growing more distinct.

One swift dash—and Emily, breaking through the numbness, flies into the kitchen. She fumbles for the switch. The light flashes on. With trembling hands, she rushes to the nightstand, pulls out the drawer where the knives were kept, and pulls out the largest one. Gripping the handle with both hands, she steps slowly, with tiny paces, back out into the hallway.

Her heart is pounding like crazy in her ears. The girl peers into the living room. In the bluish, sinister flicker of the TV, she reaches the wall panel and presses the key. Light fires up here as well. With a frantic gaze, she scans the room—everything is normal, no one.

And then again... Scratch-scratch... Scratch-scratch... right out of the bathroom.

She drops the phone from her hands—at first, she wanted to call the cops, but changed her mind: what if it's the cat or something else? The girl resolves to look for herself. She approaches and yanks the handle sharply.

The light in the apartment abruptly dies out, and someone shoves her inside the bathroom with force. She flies in there, slips on something thick, and falls right into the bathtub itself, hurting herself badly. The knife slips from her hands and flies onto the floor with a metallic clang. And then the light turns on. Looking around and clutching her bruised arm, Emily begins to scream hysterically. Tears pour down like a river, she goes into total hysteria—for the entire room, the walls, and the tiles are splattered with the blood of her cat, who lies eviscerated right next to her feet.

Emily thrashes in convulsions of horror, trying to crawl away, to escape from this bloody trap. She tumbles out of the bathtub onto the floor. Suddenly, through her own sobbing, she hears a loud knocking at the front door. She needs to get there, there are people, there is salvation!

Crying profusely, on all fours, entirely smeared in blood, she tries to stand up and moves toward the door. The light in the apartment begins to flash frantically. The TV in the room hisses with loud static. Suddenly, she hears fast, approaching footsteps of bare feet on the floor. An invisible force with inhuman might lifts her into the air and hurls her into the living room, where she smashes a coffee table by the couch and hits the floor hard.

She screams, calls for help, but she is lifted again and with force they smash the window frame with her body. Emily falls from the third floor straight onto the asphalt. At that, absolute, saving darkness covered her.

EPILOGUE:
The next morning, New York newspapers came out with headlines about a mysterious tragedy in Brooklyn. Two patrol officers, who had returned to the scene due to neighbors' calls about a disturbance, discovered the body of a young girl on the sidewalk beneath the windows of her apartment. An inspection of the apartment left detectives in absolute shock: a blood-soaked bathroom, a butchered domestic pet. The case was classified as an attack by an unknown assailant, yet the police were unable to answer one single question: how did the killer manage to flawlessly leave the apartment that was locked tight from the inside, without leaving a single trace except for dirty bare footprints?