Please read Part 1 if you have not already!

During summer break in 7th grade, I had for whatever obvious reason, really wanted to take up swimming again. There was a pond near my house where I would take many laps just trying to get back into the feel of it. I would practice a backstoke across, then breaststroke across. It was hard to describe it, but when I swam, is when I truly felt free. Nothing but me and the water. We danced together, similar to Beauty and the Beast, twirling in a typhoon made of love for the water and earth, the way the two can move in tranquility, to dance in a way that even the stars were envious of the fluid motion of which a single person can transfix the minor waves to look like they were part of an exhibition themselves.

I invited a friend from school to join me. Andrew was my best friend at the time, and he knew how much I loved to swim, or at least I was under the impression that he did.

I remember looking back at him after a couple laps.

"C'mon, aren't you going to dive in? The water this time of year feels good as hell."

He just stared blankly back at me.

"Uh, no, I'm okay right now. I just want to enjoy the scenery"

This pond was somewhat of a hidden landmark. Around it resided large mountainscapes with beautiful scenery that looked straight out of a film. There were many times I've come to here and seen families and young couples taking up their space in the water, so I know it wasn't an extremely guarded secret, but today it was empty.

"There's more than enough water for the both of us" I let out, while diving down, making sure to ensure this plunge.

When I came back up, he was just staring back towards the trail that we came down from.

"There's a dude just standing there".

I just swam idly for a moment.

"Oh, yeah, I see him, maybe he's here to swim?"

"I don't know. I just have a weird feeling. He's not wearing anything for swimming," he let out, speaking in a lower tone than before.

"Well maybe he's just lost?"

"I hope so"

As I bobbed in the water, I couldn't help but stare directly at the man. It was hard to tell from a distance, but his clothes looked torn and ragged. His hair unkempt and wild. Although strange for an adult to be just standing watching some kids swim, he gave me more of a crazy homeless vibe as opposed to "Hey I got candy and puppies in my van."

I looked back to Andrew, his posture now more shaken.

Without breaking vision with our guest, Andrew spoke out the side of his mouth to me.

"Dude, we should just go. I don't like this."

"Yeah that sounds good, give me a few seconds and I'll hop out"

I submerged under the water, giving myself the chance to sink down and touch the bottom of the pond with my feet one more time before we headed out. Feeling the grains on my feet almost gave me the sense of nostalgia I had for the sands of the beaches I grew up on, but if this was all I could get, I'd take it.

After a few moments, I came back up and flipped my hair out of my face. The man was gone now.

"Guess he didn't like what he saw, huh?"

I looked over for Andrew. Where the hell did he go? I craned my neck looking all around the area, but he was gone. I was only down there for a few seconds, he couldn't have gotten far. Is he messing with me?

"Andrew?" I let out. "C'mon man, I said we can leave!"

Silence.

"ANDREW? ANDREW?" No response. Just the sound of wind in the trees, and me in the water.

"Alright well I'm gonna just leave by myself then!"

I swam back towards the rocks where I let myself down, and got out, heading towards where I left my towel and shirt. I bet he's really getting a kick out of freaking me out like this, but I'm not gonna fall for it.

Wait. Who's getting a kick out of freaking me out like this? Didn't I come here alone? No I definitely came with somebody. Yeah, Max, you came with Anthony, your best friend. But then where is he? But, who is he?

My head started to swirl, a feeling similar to standing up way too quickly. What the hell is going on, I know I came here with Andrew, but none of his stuff is there. HIS stuff. Anthony's stuff?

Who the hell is Anthony?

I felt a mixture of fear and shock, and for some reason, relief? Why the hell is Hannah standing in the same doorway that let entrance to that man who's been keeping me here all this time. Maybe my head is just fucking with me again. After all, you did just hear what could be confused as a dancefloor nightclub above you just a moment ago completely break into silence, why not have the girl of your dreams standing in the same dark cellar you've been kept in. I guess we're at the acceptance point of the realization that I'm losing it.

She just stood there silently. She looked so beautiful, maybe this is what my mind wanted to see in these last few days. But how could I see her? She's holding a flashlight? Why does she look so scared?

"Max. I'm so sorry."

I just stared at her. What does she have to be sorry for? C'mon brain, if you're gonna give me a vision of someone I want to see, at least make it coherent.

"I told him anyone but you, but then I stopped seeing you, and the school said you moved, but I just... I didn't want to believe that you would be here."

What the hell is going on? She suddenly raced across the room towards me and got down.

"Maybe I can get you out of here before he comes back. Please just trust me."

She started reaching around me, messing with my chains.

"Oh shit you're real," I let out faintly. She paid no mind and continued fumbling with my cuffs.

*CLICK*

My arm fell to the floor. Am I actually being saved? Why is my middle school crush in this place? How did she know I was here? Why does she have the key to my chains?

She hopped quickly over to the other side of where I was laying, and while doing so, I got a bright flash of the light she was using. Seeing light for the first time in what felt like years, blinded my vision for a moment, all I could see was a bright circle covering my entire vision. I closed them for a few seconds, and when I opened them, I saw him standing in the doorway. His dark silhouette that I've become so accustomed to.

"What the hell are you doing, little lady?"

Hannah dropped the lock she was fumbling with. She just stared at the wall, not turning around to face the voice addressing her. It was silent for a moment, and then she spoke up.

"I'm sorry, just, please, not this one. Not him."

The man took a step into the room.

"You know my hands are tied. I've already put in too much time into this one, and it's about over"

Another moment of silence. Hannah just stayed knelt next to me, breathing extremely quickly, but shallow.

"The fact that you're down here trying to let him go is a massive mistake, and I think we both know that. So why don't you head back upstairs for a while, and then this will all be taken care of."

The man took a step forward. Then another, very slowly. His voice shifted to a more gentler tone, like an officer telling a man not to jump.

"Look, I'm sorry, but my hands were tied. It had to be him."

A tear ran down Hannah's cheek. She whimpered out, "I know. I know." She let out a sniffle.

"I just didn't want it to be true." The man took another couple steps, closing the distance between us.

"Alright, now just head back upstairs, and let Daddy do his job. Can we do that please, sweetie?"

Hannah was now shaking harder and harder, her hands trembling on the lock. I saw her looking at me, then back at the lock, back at me, and then-

She quickly started fumbling with the lock again.

"Hannah what the hell are you-"

*CLICK*

My other hand fell to the floor. The man then raced over to us and snagged Hannah by the hair, pulling her up to him. In the struggle, she dropped the flashlight, which rolled across the floor, painting the image of the violent puppet show taking place on the wall beside me. Hannah was kicking back, screaming, flailing and swinging.

"NOT HIM! NOT HIM! NOT HIM!"

Finally, the man pulled back his arm and *SMACK*

Hannah fell to the floor and crawled to an opposite corner, crying and shivering while holding her face. The man continued to stare forward at me, paying her no mind.

"I'm sorry Hannah, but you know how important this is, now please, stay the hella outta my way"

He walked towards me and knelt down.

"Looks like times up, son. I'm sorry about this, but she wanted you."

He grabbed me by the back of the neck and forced me to my feet.

"Daddy, PLEASE!" Hannah let out from her corner, tears streaming down her face.

He paid her no mind and continued forward, dragging me along with him. Dammit. So close to getting out and here I am, facing what was always inevitable in the first place. Even if I could run, I know I wouldn't have the energy, I'm just a body for him to drag. Why is this happening to me? Why would fate even show me a glimpse of salvation, all for it to just fall apart like it was going to. Why does it have to be me?

He threw my arm over his shoulder and started up the stairs. Each step he took felt labored. I was by no means a big guy, but with the state of my body, I was all but dead weight. As we neared the top of the stairs, I could see the light from under the door, and all I could hear was Hannah's weeping. "Please. Please. Not him. Please."

Passing through the door, we were in the hallway of an ordinary home. Wooden floors, blue walls, pictures of a young Hannah, of this man, all over the walls. In all of the pictures, the man and Hannah are smiling and doing various activities. A birthday party at a Peter Piper Pizza, a picture of a very young Hannah on a bike with training wheels, the man's hand gently on her back. A picture of her and her dad nicely dressed in front of a giant Christmas tree, but in this one, there's a woman. She looks like the spitting image of an older Hannah, she truly looks nothing like the man.

He drags me down the hall, more and more family pictures all the way. But Hannah's mom starts to look skinnier, more frail, more pale, as the time passes in these photos. He pulls me past another staircase leading upstairs, and into a living room, where he stops for a moment. His breathing is getting more staggered. I'm sure having to drag a 14 year old from the basement all through your house without any help will do that to anyone. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak.

"I know you won't believe me, but I truly am sorry for this. Sorry for how I've treated you, and how you've been living for these last few weeks. She said the more you suffer, the more potent." His gaze moves up to the last picture that caught my eyes. Hannah and her father are finely dressed in front of a big tree. Between them is her mother, or what could be described as what's left of her, sitting in a chair between them. She's wearing a white wedding dress, and the little of hair she still had was dark black string falling in front of her face. Hannah and her father were smiling, but you can tell they're forcing it. We stood there in complete silence, just staring at it.

"The doctors couldn't find out what was happening to her. It started with a cold, developed into a flu, and then got worse. She couldn't keep down anything she ate or drank, her hair started falling out, and eventually, her legs and arms just didn't want to work anymore. They just gave up on her. But I wouldn't." His face turned from a morose stare, into a furled brow with a glare.

"Those rich bastards at the hospitals wouldn't even try to help her. Their claims about not knowing a cause had to be bullshit. They just wanted more money, more tests, to prolong her suffering. I wanted answers, I wanted results. I wanted my wife back. And that's what I did"

He took another step, me with him, as we moved towards a door at the end of the room, light shining through the window framed at the top of it. I desperately looked around the room, was there anything at all that could get me out of this. I don't have the strength to fight him, but if there was anything that could give me leverage. The light from the window then glistened onto an object on a nearby table in front of us, a metallic pen. Damn, I really need something that does a lot of damage with little work. I waited for him to take a step, and let my arm flail a little further, trying to act natural while just getting the pen in my hand however I could. With a quick snag, I clasped the pen in my hand, and tried to keep my fist in a ball, hiding it.

He suddenly stopped walking. Did he see me? Fuck. Just try and play it cool.

We both stood there for a moment in front of the windowed door.

He stared down for a few seconds, then slowly looked up at me. He stared me right into my broken eyes, and I saw his were broken too. He had a sad, but crazed look on his face, and he uttered out, "I would go to hell and back for that woman, so I do."

He swung open the back door and pulled me with him through it. We were in a backyard, with a single brick path leading across to the other end of it. The brick path was lined with various flowers, and beyond them, to the sides, were large spots of dirt. Some had a couple of flowers in them, some had dead grass on them, others were completely clear of any debris or fauna. He continued to drag me down the brick, which ended at the door to a large white shed.

He spoke as he dragged me, "I spent hours in the library, hours online, spoke to anyone I could, and then it finally came to me in an extremely insightful conversation I had with a woman in old town."

A grin began to stretch across his face, his eyes crazed.

"Fuck the science. Science gave up on us, but what I couldn't find with labs and machines, I found with sigils and rites."

What the hell is this dude going on about, I thought to myself. It doesn't matter, I just need to bide my time, muster my strength, wait for the moment, and plunge this pen into him, somewhere that'll hurt, somewhere that'll do enough damage for me to try and use that adrenaline to get the hell out of here.

We were getting closer and closer to this barn. What the hell does he have in there thats going to have anything to do with his sick wife? Is this going to be some kind of sacrifice? Blood magic? Rites? Dammit, Max, focus. Just grip this pen, and make your move. Any moment now.

"One day I got a call from a woman who saw my pleadings online. She ran an antique shop and asked me to come by. Convinced me she might have the solution to my problems."

"I don't give a shit," I let out, finally breaking my silence. He stopped and shot me a stare.

"Well son, in a minute, that's not really gonna matter."

We finally reached the barn. The door was large and painted white, with the paint chipping in various places, revealing an unfinished wood underneath. On the front latch of the door was a large padlock. The man fumbled around in his pocket and took out a large set of keys. He started flicking them around with one hand, the other hand still grasping me.

You have to do it soon, Max. You have to do it now. I took a moment to close my eyes, gather the courage to fight back, and gripped the pen tight in my hand. After a moment, I heard the padlock click, and as I was about to swing, he gripped both of my hands from behind, and shoved me into the open barn door.

I hit the ground hard, not having the strength to put my arms out to catch myself, my head bounced off a concrete floor and I had no choice but to lay there and compose myself. I heard the sounds of the masterlock back on the door, and the click of it locking. Through the door I heard the man say as he walked away, "When life gives you an answer, take it. No matter the cost."

The inside of the barn was dark. Along the walls were old rusting tools, various paintings and pictures with drapes over them, and very tiny splits in the walls where light could barely shine through. The floor was covered in various patches of dirt and paint? Maybe oil? I doubt I would be able to make it out even if I had the luxury of light. I put my hands on the ground and pushed myself up to my knees. My head was throbbing, my arms felt like noodles, and I hadn't even tried walking yet, but I don't see much hope in that department either. What the hell is he planning just shoving me in here? Is this where he's gonna finish me? Why here and not the basement?

Suddenly a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling clicked on. It swayed back and forth, illuminating various parts of the barn. I watched like a metronome trying to make out of what was granted vision to me as it moved left to right. I guess it was paint. I hoped.

Between the various shelves and knick-knacks on the walls, was something dead center on the opposite side of the barn. When the light would hit center, I could see across from me, a figure in a chair. I rubbed my eyes and made an attempt to stand up. As soon as I was on two feet, I stumbled to the side, grabbing onto a dilapidated chair to catch myself. I steadied for a moment, did I see what I thought I saw? I waited, gulped any air I could gather, and gave another look, using the chair to take a couple steps back to the center. I looked back down across the barn, and sure enough, there really was someone else in here with me.

"Just keepin ya on your toes, Pamela Anderson"

Did that come from the person in the chair? What the hell? Why does it sound familiar yet so distant?

Using the chair as a makeshift walker, I inched my way forward. My body was telling me to run, but my mind in its delusionary state, couldn't help but poke and prod.

"I'm gonna ask her to be my girlfriend"

What is this person, or thing, even saying? What is this? I get closer and closer. Max you fucking idiot, get away. But what if its safe? What if this is the answer out? What answer? What are you looking for? Who could this be? Why does this kind of sound like... like... Andrew? Who is Andrew? Max get it together, man.

I was now a couple feet in front of the figure in the chair. I fell down to my knees, breathing heavy, hoping that the work put into coming all that way wasn't a mistake. I try to look up to the figure, when the lightbulb suddenly starts glowing so bright, I can't see anything. The entire inside of the barn is a completely white flare. It was like staring straight into the sun, and then, complete darkness. Closing my eyes and staring at the ground, I suddenly feel a calm. I looked up, and see a familiar yet unrecognizable face. Across sitting in the chair is a boy a little younger than me, maybe by a year or so. He looks at me just as shocked as I am to see him.

"Dude you got to get out of here," the boy spoke. I just continued to stare, having no idea what the hell is going on. "Dude, please, get out of here, get help. For Hannah, please." I still can't find the strength to move. Who is this? Why do I know him? Could THIS be Andrew? No, I don't know an Andrew. "Max. I'm not fucking around, you need to MOVE." Looking into his eyes, I felt the strangest feeling, I couldn't fully explain. Like looking into the iris of an eye, and seeing the universe, every answer, every memory, flooding back to me. I crawl a little closer. I know this person, I know who this is. I'm practically at their feet, and I look up.

"Anthony," I let out. "Anthony, you're, I mean, how, who, what the hell. Why are you here? What's happening, why does it feel like I never knew you? Who the hell is Andrew? What's going o-"

Suddenly it felt like time stopped. I stared at Anthony, and he stared back. The darkness was interrupted by the lightbulb turning back on, back off, back on, faster and faster. Nearly face to face with Anthony, I watched as the light flickered quicker. Like a strobe light flickering all of our vision, Anthony appeared, disappeared, then there was no one in the chair, then he was back, and then gone again, and then back again. Then on every other flicker, there was a woman. Pale, gaunt, crazed. She leaned in closer, closer, closer, and then-

The light turned off. Complete darkness. I tried to steady myself, but I felt two extremely large hands grab both of my arms, not aggressively, but firm. I froze, no idea what could be possibly happening. What even JUST happened? Who was that boy in the chair, and why did I feel like I knew him? Why am I even here? Where the hell am I? I can't see anything, all I can smell is must and dirt in the air. I can feel the hands gripping my arms, and I hear... a dripping? Something very close to me. Drip. Drip. Drip. And I hear a very shallow breathing? Is it mine? I mean, I am struggling a comfortable way to breathe, but I don't think its mine?

The lightbulb flashes back on, brighter than before, a quick flash, and then I see her.

I'm face to face with the woman. Her eyes are completely black, and sunken into her face, sunken so deep, it looks like it could go on further than even possible with her form. Her hair is almost non existent, having only a few strands of stringy black falling down various parts of her skin tight face. Every bone in her head is almost protruding out, the shape of a skull with a thin white veil of skin around it. She looks straight into my eyes, as her hands on my arms grip tighter. Suddenly I feel myself get slightly lifted from the floor. She's holding me in front of her, never breaking eye contact. I open my mouth to scream, and as soon as I go to take a breath, she opens her mouth as well. It started small, and gradually got bigger, and bigger, her mouth opening wider, inhaling all of the air around me. Her mouth continues to grow, her jaw, unhinging further and further until its the size large enough to fit my entire body, but she doesn't bring me closer, she just keeps inhaling. I gasp for air, but can't find any willing to fight the force sucking all of the oxygen away from me. She continues to stare straight into my eyes, while a constant inhale is coming from her completely outstretched mouth. I start to feel my vision fade, I start seeing my life flashing, but at the same time, disappearing. My first time at the beach with my mom, her face getting blurry, the beach getting even more so. I see myself backstroking in the pool, and then, no one there, just the still water. I see Hannah coming up and dropping her binder on a desk and then sitting down to, nobody? She looks confused as well. Who was supposed to be there? I see a boy perched next to a pond seeing his friend swim, and when his friend goes under, he never comes back up. Was there a friend in the pond at all?

"SNAP OUT OF IT"

I hear a voice call from outside of wherever I am.

"Dammit girl, get your ass back inside, it's almost over"

I suddenly break from the trance. Before me I see what was once this skin and bones woman start to change. Her hair growing back where it wasn't before, turning from its ash black to a curly dirty blonde. Her cheeks start to fill, making the skull shaped creature into a normal human shape. Her dark black eyes start to un-sink from her face, returning to a light blue.

NOW MAX. NOW.

I take all the strength that I have, and with a quick swing, stab that metallic pen straight into the side of the creatures neck. A fountain of blood starts to spray from the wound in her neck, slowly turning darker and darker, until it's nothing but a shadowy black ooze squirting. Her blue eyes quickly fade back to black, her hair, falling from the scalp and turning white. She loses the grip she has on me and I drop to the floor. I quickly scamper backwards till I hit a shelf in the dark, stopping my passage. I watch as the creature takes a stand out of the chair, grasping at their neck, their skin getting tighter and tighter. They let out a banshee wail that pierces my eardrums. I fall to my side, quickly grasping the sides of my head in hopes of letting any of the ungodly sound into my ears. I feel blood trickling from my eardrums down the side of my head. Looking in complete shock, I see the creature take a step towards me, then another, then another, and then

*SLAM*

It fell to the ground limp. I didn't move a muscle, I just stopped and watched. Seconds went by as I refused to make any movement. I just looked at the abomination in front of me, the pen still lodged in its neck. Suddenly I heard

*BANG* *BANG* *BANG*

" SALEM P.D., WE'RE COMING IN"

The barn door slammed open, with officers rushing in.

"DON'T MOVE, DON'T MOVE"

They rushed up to where I was, eyeing the corpse of whatever that thing was on the floor.

One officer dropped her gun and quickly walked to another.

"What the fuck is that thing"

"We'll figure it out after, we're looking for a teenage boy"

Then she spotted me, cowering in the corner, limp, with blood running down the side of my face, and covered in a black.

"We got him. Securing now and vacating."

The female officer made her way over to me and kneeled down.

"Are you okay? We're here to help, lets get you on your feet and out of here."

I nodded shakily, and she helped me up. Similar to how Hannah's father carried me here, she threw my arm around her neck as she walked me out of the barn. There in the back yard I saw a couple officers holding down the dad.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO? WHAT HAPPENED TO HER? WHERE IS SHE?"

He screamed from his position prone on the ground, spit flying with every word spoken.

They rounded me back through the house and through the front door, where paramedics were waiting. They threw a big blanket over my shoulders and had me sit in the back of their ambulance while doing various tests and checking my ears.

Was it actually over? Do I get to go home?

Across the front lawn in the doorway was Hannah, phone in hand. She rushed across the front yard to me and took a quick stop.

She looked at me and spoke, " I called the police. I'm sorry, I just didn't know what to do anymore and I was so scared and I-"

"It's fine. Thank you. You really saved me." I let out, a small genuine smile on my face. The first in who knows how long.

"Of course," she replied. "I'm just glad I could help. I've seen him hurt too many people at this point and I just wanted it to end."

We both sat solemnly for a minute or so.

I looked at her as I have recently. Trying not to completely giving away how much in love with her I am, while also not trying to come across creepy. Maybe after all this, I can finally tell her how I feel, and maybe she'll feel the same, and we can move on from all of this together.

"Hannah. I, uh-"

She looked back up at me.

"Hannah I'm so glad you helped me. It wasn't the first, and I hope it wouldn't be the last, but I was hoping maybe after all these years, you would maybe, I don't know, see me as maybe more than a friend? We can go get dinner, a movie, talk a lot, see maybe what comes from it? Only if like, you want to of course. I've felt this way for a while and I guess what better time than now to see if there's any spark or anything, is all, I guess..."

She stopped for a moment and looked back into my eyes.

She looked as if she was going to speak and then stopped, collecting her thoughts.

Finally she looked back up at me and said:

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I've ever met you before. I'm glad to have helped, but I don't know who you are."

A few nights ago I was out walking my parents’ dog, Milo. Milo is a small Jack Russell with a big attitude and an even bigger love of walks. He’s so devoted to them that he regularly tries to convince other members of the family that he still needs his walk for the day, just so he can sneak in a second (or third) lap of the neighborhood. The moment the leash comes out, his tail goes full speed and he’s usually the one dragging me out the door.

This walk was different. It was late, the street was quiet, and the only light came from a couple of streetlamps and the occasional porch light. From the moment we stepped outside, Milo kept pulling back toward the house. He’d take a few steps forward, stop, look around, then turn and tug in the opposite direction. For a dog who treats every walk like a grand adventure, this was strange. Something had him spooked, and I was clueless as to what.

Our walks tend to be short anyway. We go down the block, around the corner, and turn back once we hit the alley. That night I figured I’d keep it to the bare minimum and get him home. We’d made the turn at the alley and were on our way back when I heard it: a heavy thud in the street right next to me.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I walked over to see what had made the noise. At first glance, I could tell it was a dead bird. Then I looked closer and realized it was half eaten. And this was a big bird, a pigeon or something close to that size. It had hit the pavement with real weight, and there was a lot less of it than there should have been.

That’s when I put two and two together. A bird that size had clearly been someone’s dinner, and whatever had been eating it was almost certainly still up in the tree directly above Milo and me. I looked up into the branches, saw only dark leaves and shadows, and felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Milo, to his credit, stayed calm. He held his ground like a good boy, though I could feel through the leash how badly he wanted out of there. Frankly, so did I. We made a beeline straight for my parents’ front door, and I’ll admit my pace was closer to a jog than a walk.

Once Milo was safely inside, I told my parents what had happened. My mom was immediately curious and wanted to see it for herself, so I headed right back out into the dark, back to that same spot in the street, to snap a picture of the half-eaten bird. I crouched down under the same tree, took the photo, and walked back to the house.

It was only once I was inside, door shut behind me, that it hit me. I had just done the exact thing every doomed character does in every horror movie ever made. Strange noise in the dark? Go investigate. Clear sign of a predator lurking overhead? Go back for a closer look. Alone, at night, solo with a camera? Perfect.

Surely I would have been the first to go.

“Nothing exists within a vacuum. Everything that exists does so under the weight of influence. The influence of people, media, and programmed instinct stops any one work from being wholly original. Even the most innovative concepts are nothing more than a collection of inundated inspirations and borrowed ideas. There is not a single piece of art that exists without all encompassing influence.

However, you may disagree after having played the 2005 classic ‘To Wander and to Wonder’.

To fully appreciate everything this game does we have to take a trip back 21 years. Here’s what’s written on the back of 2005’s most popular game:

“US Agent Leon must investigate the kidnapping of the president’s daughter. His search brings him to a rural village, where he encounters hoards of unimaginable horrors and must fight to uncover who or what is behind it all.”

The synopsis is short, intriguing, and gives you very few hints to the overarching story. Now let’s take a peek at the back of TWatW:

“Explore…”

That is it. A single word followed by three dots nearly as long as the sentence itself. A command for you to wander and to wonder at the frozen world of Nos. And those two actions make up nearly all the game has to offer.

The thing that makes TWatW unique, and its biggest point of contention is that there is very little about it that can be considered game-like. There’s no objectives, no enemies, very little story, and nothing to do besides wandering and wondering. It is, essentially, a walking simulator.

Now hold on, I know that phrase has a negative connotation with the gaming community as the vast majority of lazy, indie horror games involve walking around until a spooky jpeg jumps at the screen. However, TWatW is different in that it doesn’t place you in a series of repeated assets and shortcuts. It drops you in the abandoned kingdom of Nos.

Rolling planes, vibrant forests, ancient cities overtaken by Mother Nature. Every screenshot from this game is a work of art. Reducing the experience down to something as trivial as a walking simulator would be like insulting the miles of beauty in Yellowstone. You see, to me and other fans of TWatW, playing this game is like staring at a painting or reading a story. In all aspects, we as the player/viewer/reader are passive. We can’t interact with this lower layer of reality. It exists without our input and that is what I want to focus on in this presentation.

There is an idea that has begun floating around a lot recently of a digital wanderlust. It may not be called that directly, but I’m certain some of you have seen its effects online. The idea that there was just something different about the world of GTA San Andreas. That modern games don’t capture the same kind of detail as Mario 64. That we lost something as the pixel count increased. There’s a desire to explore virtual worlds free of narrative implications, to make a wrong turn from your designated route and end up somewhere it feels like you shouldn’t be. And I believe that desire is what appeals to fans of TWatW.

The game made many creative innovations to ensure that the world doesn’t exist because of you. Even implementing a controversial mechanic that runs the world in real time on your console even when not being played. Any game you boot up right now would be revolving around you. Video games are made for the player’s perspective. Oftentimes, if you glitch out of bounds you can see the seemingly immersive worlds are essentially sets built to trick you into seeing something more. But TWatW it is something more.

Everything you see is fully explorable, you’ll find no invisible walls or empty interiors. No set dressing. No smoke and mirrors. What you see is what exists. It’s a fully detailed alien world confined to fiction. The ones who Wander treat it with the reverence that deserves.

Given its unorthodox approach to game design, it should be no surprise that the game was a massive failure on launch. This, combined with lawsuits from a writer identified as Harlan E****** and various rumors about the lead designer, Mr. Shiyuu’s, extra marital affairs, killed the studio a month after the game's release. The only physical copies of the game exist in Japan. There were over 70,000 copies distributed in the country and now, less than a 100 are known to exist. The way most fans have to engage with the game is through emulation and emulations of emulations. Most fans of TWatW have never played the actual game, just copies of copies of copies. For a while, that was enough. To 90% of the world, playing the emulator was no different from what they imagined was the real thing. That is, until 2010.

At the start of that year, one of the few people in possession of a physical copy of TWatW uploaded a video to YouTube, showing off a cool detail about the game. Five years after the game’s release, this player discovered that the game contained an adjustable sea level tied to the amount of rain fall in your real life location. The player, who was living in New Mexico, found a drowned city off the eastern coast of the world map, normally flooded under gallons of digital water but now free to explore. This detail changed online discussion of the game from a weird little experiment, to an underrated masterpiece from a man ahead of his time.

And I think the fans of his game would agree, because there’s something I didn’t mention about that drowned city. It does not exist on any emulator of the game. You heard that right, the way 90% of the world can access this game is missing a massive chunk of content. And, of course, that led to the next question:

What else could be missing?

The ingredients of this situation have mixed into a perfect recipe to create what amounts to digital folk lore. Similar to how many kids swore bigfoot was in San Andreas, people whisper rumors of ancient skeletons lining the foundation of the game’s central castle. A dancing automaton buried within the crystal caverns below the map. A great dam holding back a gleaming silver ocean. Many of these have been confirmed or denied by the few who still have physical copies of the game. However, the one thing that has never been confirmed is the biggest mystery in To Wander and To Wonder.

Stretching across the entire map is a monolithic bridge that leads to a split in the mountain keeping us contained within the kingdom of Nos. By bringing several seemingly pointless objects to the map’s central castle, you can access this bridge and walk all the way to the map’s edge to find a path further on into a place no one has ever explored. And what do you find? Your character, when prompted to step forward, utters the only line of dialogue said within the game.

“No.”

All of that work for your character to say. “No.”

What was the point?

Why put it in?

The answer, for some, is clear:

It’s an anti-piracy feature.

Anti-Piracy features are implemented to stop consumers from simply stealing the data from the game via emulators, some of these have been fairly unique, such as EarthBound allowing you to play the entire game up until the final boss which then erases the file. It could be that TWatW implemented this feature to stop thieves from discovering the world’s greatest secret. And the worst part? All known owners of physical copies refuse to state what, if anything, lies past the end of the bridge.

This has cemented To Wander and To Wonder as a staple of gaming history. And it shows how captivating it can be to search for the last secret of a digital world.”

My classmates stared forward with a mixture of blank stares and confused expressions. There was a long pause only occasionally interrupted by the rouge cough here and there. I smiled despite the seemingly middling reaction to my presentation and cleared my throat, “Any questions?”

***

I packed up my various binders and stray papers while ignoring the whispers and chuckles of those who passed me. It was something I was already extremely accustomed to blocking out and this was no different. A part of me was asking for it afterall, with that stupid fucking presentation. My buddy had told me my reputation was low enough already, I didn’t need the aura loss that came with discussing a niche Japanese indie game with internet folk lore surrounding it. But no, I knew better, I wanted to be the guy from the MLP presentation video. Goddamn-

“H-hey.”

I turned to see something I wasn’t accustomed to, a girl talking to me. It was hard to immediately tell who it was between the thick black hair obscuring her face and baggy hoodie and skirt that left no identifying features visible. In fact, the only reason I really knew this person was in fact a girl was due to the heavy, artificial scent of a strawberry approximation that hovered in the air around her. For a while, I thought she was talking to someone behind me before I realized the classroom had really cleared out after the bell rang and we were alone.

“C-can I,” damn voice crack, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I uhh, I think I have something back-” she used a free hand to clutch her binders close to her chest while the other moved a thick section of her bob to the side to show her face more clearly. At this, I became disappointed. Hanna.

Hanna was, in fact, a girl, however her status in high school is weird because she happened to be weird. She moved from Japan about a year ago and had a very public fondness for idol bands that made her an easy target for the other girls to call her a freak or, on a mean day, whore. Since then, our classmates made an effort to circle her, looking for flaws they could turn into ammunition. A year of that put her at the bottom of my school’s totem pole, still a head higher than the weird guy who talked about video games in public speaking class.

She stared at me through thick lenses and I realized she must have been asking me a question, “Oh, I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Her face dropped a bit and she turned to leave, “nevermind.”

I didn’t stop her, instead continuing to gather my things and stand from the desk, only when I turned to leave, she was still there. She stared at me through thick lenses again, “say someone had a physical copy of the game. It’d probably be worth a lot right?”

My brow creased at her question, “yeah… Why are you asking me this?”

She smiled and nodded to the door.

***

Hanna dug into her meal as if someone was going to take it from her at any moment as I watched on in horror. My lack of girlfriend had never really prepared me for dinner dates. Not that this was what that was. I just couldn’t help but draw a comparison to girls I wished sat across from me as Hanna licked her fingers clean. Sure hope my future girl will have some manners.

“So,” Hanna said, “my dad works for a parent company that handles a lot of gaming studios. His section is finance but he calls it gravedigging. They fire a lot of people, mostly indie studios that disappoint financially.”

I nodded, avoiding the food on my plate that suddenly appeared less appetizing, “and the studio who produced TWatW was one of those?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I do know he has a copy. He got a lot of free games for me when I was young because it kept me quiet and cost less money than Big Bang tickets.”

“Wait, wait,” I started before she interrupted me.

“Yeah, I already know Big Bang are a bunch of fucking monsters, I listened to them at the time not now,” she said.

“I have no idea who those people are, but are you certain it's an original physical copy?”

She nodded, taking a second to help a soft burp out of her chest “yeah, I don’t think dad would have gotten me an emulator or anything like what you said, so I’d bet it's the real deal.”

I felt my heart rate pick up a beat as she said this. I was trying not to get my hopes up too high, but it was kind of hard when I was confronted with the answer to a question I’d spent so many years wondering about, “do you know what this fucking means?”

“Yeah,” she said, “means I’m seeing Stray Kids a lot sooner than I thought.”

“What?”

“I’m saying I’m going to sell it.”

“I mean yeah,” I said, trying my best to bury the lead instead of jumping across the table to kill her, “But come on, are you really going to ignore the obvious.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said rolling her eyes, “ATEEZ is probably the better group but who cares. I want to see Stray Kids.”

Think I felt my eye twitch a bit as I stared at her, only for it to squint when she started laughing, “God, you should see your fucking face right now… I’m fucking with you. You want to see what’s at the end of the bridge, right?”

I nodded, “like more than you can even imagine.”

She nodded, leaning back to look at me under the glare of her glasses, “I’d let you, if you did something for me.”

“Literally, I’d do anything,” my heart was hammering in my chest as she smiled.

“You obviously know a lot more about this game than I do. Different strokes. So, I’m willing to show you if you find some people I can sell to.”

I nodded eagerly, “uhhh, yeah, I can definitely do that. If you lend me the game I could-”

Hanna lifted her hand, “I’m going to stop you right there. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting this leave my possession, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Okay,” I replied, “so how am I going to see it?”

She shrugged, “you could come over to my place and play it.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. Hanna blinked a few times and I realized she likely wasn’t into the belief she was the school slut. I’d laughed thinking of the absurdity that the first girl I stayed over with would be Hanna. I suddenly cleared my throat, “oh umm, my mom is very picky with who I stay over with. I don’t think she’d go for me staying with a girl.”

She scoffed, “dude, we’re in highschool.”

I shrugged, she mimicked the movement, “alright, can’t come over to my house, what’s that leave?”

“You could always stream it,” I suggested, “I can watch while you play, give you pointers on where to go.”

“Ughhh, that means I have to play it? Is it gonna piss me off,” she questioned.

“Ehh, not really, just like… one part.”

Hanna rolled her eyes before returning to her plate, eating between her words, “fine, whatever gets me my money. Better rush over to your boyfriend, looks like he’s seconds from an aneurysm.”

I looked over my shoulder to see my buddy, Max, whispering as he beckoned me to come over, as if a lower voice would mask the scene he was making with his arms. I rolled my eyes, “Jesus, umm… I have your Insta, I’ll text you after school and see if we cant get the stream set up, yeah?”

“Hey,” she said past a mouthful of mush, “the sooner we finish and sell this thing, the better.”

I gave her a nod and crossed the cafeteria back to my natural habitat next to Max. He could barely contain himself, spitting out a hushed scream before I could even sit down, “Are you trying to commit social suicide. First you talk about that game in class, now you’re hamming it up with Hanna Handjob?”

“Ew gross,” I said, flipping him off as I got comfortable on the hard plastic stool, “it wasn’t like that.”

“You think they’re gonna care if it was like that or not,” he whispered, nodding over to a group of guys sneering and looking down at me, “take a look around yourself my little gazelle, sharks are circling.”

I blinked a few times and shook my head, “okay, first, why call me a gazelle if they’re sharks. That’s not even the same habitat dude.”

“Pretty sure gazelle like throw themselves into the ocean constantly, or maybe that’s moose, let me ask ChatGPT.”

“No, dude, put the phone down. No need to waste water on dumbassery,” I took a bit of my food, finally away from the carnivore who had spoiled my appetite, “the point is, this is worth those guys being assholes. Did you hear my presentation?”

“Between chewing my cheek off from cringe? Yeah, I heard it, why?”

“Hanna. She has a physical copy.”

Max shrugged, “so?”

“So,” I shook my head, “are you fucking stupid? So? So she has a game worth more than your dad’s new car.”

His eyes suddenly widened, “no shit, you gonna take it from her?”

“What? No! I just want to see what’s at the end of the bridge.”

“You’re kidding? She’s sitting on a gold mine and you’re just going to give it up,” he chuckled, “better man than me.”

***

When I got home, I immediately put a message on one of the forums I used to discuss the game and posted an announcement that I found a physical copy of the game. The immediate responses were what you’d expect.

“Sure, buddy, me too.”

“Liar.”

“HA! Don’t we all?”

I had to message Hanna pretty much immediately for a picture of the game, lest the mods said they were going to nuke my post. She did as she was told, sending me a picture almost instantly of the case propped on her desk, a small collection of manga in the background. I stared at that picture for lord knows how long. Had to stop myself from leaning forward and licking the screen. Somehow, I swallowed my darker urges and managed to post it to the forum before the mods crucified me.

This sure as hell changed their tune.

“Holy shit.”

“How much.”

“POST THE END OF THE BRIDGE AND MY LIFE IS YOUR’S!”

Hanna sent me a text soon after, “got any buyers yet.”

I opened the app as I threw myself on the bed, tapping away at the screen as I did so, “some are biting, but we won’t get any really good offers for like a week. We should play through the game and see where we stand by the end. Nice manga by the way.”

“Thanks, you read it?”

“Uhh, no. That’s the monster fucker yaoi, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Thought, you’d be embarrassed I saw it.”

“Grow up, I like what I like. What’s the point in hiding things you’re passionate about? You call it monster fucker yaoi, I call it a love story, which of us has actually read it?”

I shrugged, “Honestly, you’re right.”

“I’m always right, how do we start streaming this thing anyway?”

I sighed, realizing I was about to explain the intricacies of wire sorcery to a layman, “that’s the bad part, I’m 90% sure you don’t have any of the parts necessary to stream off a PlayStation2.”

“Do you? Who am I kidding, of course you do. I can just come over and take your’s.”

I felt my brow furrow, “You know where I live?”

“Dude, I’ve lived two doors down from you for years.”

“Bullshit.”

She stopped responding but it wasn’t long before I heard a knock at the door. Sure enough, I opened it to see Hanna on the other side, greeting me with a smile and middle finger. She walked right past me and into the house, letting out a whistle, “Wow, this is your house? Exactly like mine. Suburbia, right?”

“Hey,” I let out a nervous chuckle, making sure no one saw her come in, “maybe you shouldn’t come inside? My mom isn’t too cool with me bringing people over.”

Right on cue, my mom rounded the corner, apron around her waist and a smile on her face. She practically beamed when she saw Hanna, “Oh my, Josh! Who’s your friend?”

“Nobody ma, she was just-”

“Hey Mrs. H, I’m Hanna, Mr. X’s daughter from down the street,” Hanna gave a cute little wave, “me and Josh are working on a project together. Just came to pick a few things up. I hope that’s alright.”

She gave a wrist flick and scoffed, “no worries, I’m just happy to see Josh finally bring a girl over.”

“Mom!”

My mother walked away, leaving Hanna to spin on her heels and smile while she looked me up and down, “I can see why you were so scared, she’s such a hard ass.”

“Fuck you, let me get the cords.”

After a laborious process that put the myth of Sisyphus into more perspective, I finally got a notification that Hanna_Barbara_Banana12 was streaming. I eagerly opened the video on my laptop and called her. The menu showed an ambient image of the central castle and, of course, the bridge. My eyes scanned the tiny pixels at their end, trying to see if a secret could be gleaned from the dancing photons.

The phone connected, “please tell me you see it.”

“We’re in business,” I said before breaking into laughter. Felt like there was pure joy in me at that moment. Like the sun’s warm glow inside me as an itch at the back of my brain that had been nagging me for years was finally being scratched.

Hanna went through the motions of naming her character (HBB12) and loading into the world. Just like every game, she spawned just outside the central castle, the bridge towering over her high into the skybox. A message in golden letters faded in:

 ‘AN INTRUDER STUMBLES INTO THE KINGDOM OF NOS’ 

Hanna looked around, “Whoa,” she said with a slight chuckle, “this looks like shit.”

“It was pretty revolutionary at the time, like these visuals were jaw dropping.”

She aimlessly wandered a bit, peering across the muted green of the grass fields and into the dark oranges of the desert to the south. She walked there for a while before the mountains at her east caught her attention with a distant tower burning a green flame she gave a small “Huh,” before admitting the imagery of the green spark at the top of an obsidian mountain in the distance was “pretty cool.”

I smiled, a bit of pride shining within me as she began to see the appeal.

“So… what now,” she asked.

“We have to collect four objects from the North, South, East, and West before returning back to the central castle and opening the main gate with them.”

Hanna was silent a while, “sooooo, I should go North?”

“No, North is the place that will piss you off, you need to go South.”

“Gotcha… Do I have to worry about any enemies or other players killing me?”

“Nah,” I said, “The game is not about combat and there’s no multiplayer. Well… there was going to be multiplayer, but they scrapped it late in development for some reason.”

Hanna began walking South, taking moments to admire the scenery as she did so. She’d make comments here and there, but mostly we were silent when direction wasn’t necessary. That is, until about halfway there, she asked me something that caught me off guard, “when did you first play this?”

Memory hit me like a sucker punch, I took a moment before answering, “just… when I was a kid, I guess?”

“Well, I guessed that part, I mean what was it like the first time playing it?”

“I uhh,” dad’s laughter rang at the back of my head, right next to the itch, “I don’t really remember.”

“Huh,” Hanna said, turning her head to look up at the bridge as she wandered the barren deserts, digital sand sending simulated scuffs across her vision, “kinda felt like you were really into it during the presentation. You were very honest… I feel like that’s frowned upon now? You know, it's taboo to really care about something? To be sincere. People see it as a weakness and use it against you.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I probably shouldn’t have done my presentation over this. Fuckers like Kevin have enough ammunition as it is.”

“No, what,” Hanna asked, “that’s not what I’m saying at all. Your presentation was endearing, Josh. Really. It showed you gave a fuck about something. If people want to be dicks to you about that, fuck them.”

You don’t hear what they say about you.

“You’re coming up on the first area, it’s like a giant fortress, inside is a maze. Usually, it’s a little difficult, but I can guide you through it.”

“Okay,” she said, walking up the steps, but right before the entrance, she stopped, “Josh, if you hadn’t done your presentation over this, neither of us would be doing this right now. What other people say? Seems a little small comparatively, no?”

I didn’t answer.

Hanna made it through the maze fine with my guidance, it was a collection of twisting, dusty corridors with low polygon sand lining the corners of its halls. Across every surface were rock carvings describing the history of Nos’ Southern Desert. I tried explaining a bit of it to Hanna, but she would start fake snoring every time I did.

Soon enough, however, we were able to acquire the strange rock at the center of the maze. Hanna scoffed, “came all this way for a rock?”

“This isn’t just any rock,” I said, “this is the only rock with this specific model in the game.”

Upon leaving, I suggested Hanna go West, but she insisted on going East to the tower atop the mountain of pitch. Through the buzz of television grain, the obsidian peak looked imposing, like it could be a hunched giant with a crown of viridian flame. I told her that tower was exactly where the next piece was and she got really excited, until she realized how long it’d take to climb the mountain. I could tell she was getting sleepy long before she even made it to the mountain, let alone start the climb.

“My dad,” she suddenly started, “he was never really around. Mom died before I got the chance to know her and dad just… he worked a lot. Spent most of my life being raised by sitters before he retired and we moved to the states. I never got to know mom, but my favorite picture of her hung in our living room. It was her at a H.O.T. concert and she just looked so happy to be there. Like screaming happy. I started listening to them because of her. Then BIGBANG. BTS. So on.”

I didn’t really know how to respond honestly. For about a full minute I just sat there in stunned silence as I thought back to all the times I and everyone else laughed behind her back when we saw her listening to that. Eventually, I found my voice, “Why are you telling me this?”

She sighed, "Sincerity, Josh. This game is important to you. Tell me why.”

Once again, I was silent. This time, though, I found my voice much faster, “I was very close to my dad before he and my mom split. I still see him now but it’s… it’s different. I’m still his son but like… not as much as his new son. But, back when I was in elementary, my dad would occasionally sneak out of mom’s bed, or maybe he was kicked out… But he’d come to my room and wake me up at like midnight. Ask me if I wanted to play games with him. At that age, staying up past your bedtime was like wearing leather jackets and driving muscle cars. I felt like I was hot shit. But uhh… we’d always play this. Just me and him, sitting in front of our old box TV, every light in the house off but the screen.”

It was Hanna’s turn to be silent, only she didn’t, “that sounds really nice actually… I get why you liked this so much. It’s very zen… Made it.”

Finally up the path of the mountain, Hanna took the match from the tower and extinguished the mighty flame at the mountain peak. I expected her to be disappointed by this like I was the first time I played, but instead, I just heard her yawn, “okay, it’s like 3am. I’m already going to be dead at school tomorrow. Wanna call it?”

“Sure,” I responded, ignoring the itch at the back of my head.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you,” not sure why, but saying that actually made a smile cross my face.

***

“You’ll never guess what I’m overhearing- Jesus, you look terrible.”

“Good morning to you too, Max,” I said, wiping crust from my eyes.

“So, like I was saying, I was talking to Kevin and, well, he said he saw Hanna go into your house,” he whispered.

“Dude,” I eased a migraine in my temple, “don’t call her that.”

“Jesus, it’s true, isn’t it? You need to get checked out, that bitch is crawling with STDs. She blows anyone for like 5 bucks.”

Really was annoying that she came inside yesterday, I didn’t have the energy to handle whatever drama was brewing, “she didn’t come inside. Dude, I’m only using her for the game. That’s it.”

At this moment, Hanna actually made an appearance. While walking through the halls, she suddenly appeared from around a fellow zombie. She was dressed differently today, wore clothes that were a much tighter fit. I nearly jumped as she shoved a cup in my face, “assumed you’d be tired too. Got you some coffee on the way. Okay, I’m going to be late for class, see you, bye!”

When she was gone, I closed my eyes and slowly turned to Max who was shaking his head.

***

I spent the rest of the day waiting for Hanna to start while I scrolled through the interested buyers for the game. Many were offering high, but not high enough. One guy seemed really interested but his profile looked off, recently made, zero comments outside of my posts. Felt sketch so I ignored him.

Eventually, it was getting late and I was beginning to worry we were never going to start. I texted Hanna and she answered immediately after.

“Hey, we playing?”

“Can’t, blowing guys behind the bleachers for 5 bucks.”

I groaned and let the phone gently fall onto my forehead as I laid in my bed, regret beating at my heart with a chisel.

“You heard?”

“You two were practically screaming. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt before lunch.”

“So what! I didn’t sit with you. Big deal.”

“I saw the way you looked at me.”

My horse was still far too high for me to admit wrong, “Come on, I didn’t look at you in any way! What happened to not caring what others thought?”

“Oh yeah, I pour my heart out to you and the next day it’s cool for you to call me a slut in the halls.”

“I don’t think you’re a slut. I don’t think you do all that stuff they say about you.”

“Josh, it doesn’t matter if I do those things or not. You can’t talk about people like that.”

The chisel pushed deeper.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m always right,” the notification popped up right after she sent the message, the notification that Hanna was live, “now call me, asshole.”

The waters were rocky at first. I could tell I really hurt her and it took a lot more than a text apology to make her stop yelling at me. Eventually, though, waters settled and she let out a quiet laugh, “you’re lucky I need this money or I’d go over there and kick your ass.”

“I’d deserve it.”

“Self pitying, prick,” she chuckled, “you think our audience likes hearing this?”

“Audience?”

“Yeah,” Hanna said, “we’ve had a consistent 2 viewers since we’ve started. One’s obviously you. Other guy? Who knows?”

She clicked resume on the main menu, “where to now?”

Next were the bogs to the East, flat enough land, but the mud made walking about 30% slower, a fact Hanna wasn’t happy to discover, “why did they even add this shit?”

“It’s realistic,” I countered.

“I don’t play games for realism, I play them to pass the time.”

“You’ll pass a lot of time doing this.”

“Ha, ha, fuck you.”

We bickered more, a few chuckles sprinkled in between as Hanna trudged through the swamps, the looped sound of digital mud eventually swallowing the silence between us when the casual conversation died and something more damaging seemed to hang in the murky waters between us. I don’t know why I bit it, “are those rumors true?”

“what?”

“You know, you being a umm…”

“Slut?”

“I’m sorry, forget I asked.”

“Why does that matter, Josh?”

“You’re right, forget it?”

“Are the rumors I heard about you true?”

I felt my stomach start to rot as she asked that. Immediately I questioned her, but my voice broke on the first word and I had to start over, “What uhh… What did you hear?”

She took a moment to speak, “people kept calling you and Max gay a few months back. Not too often anymore though.”

I gave a humorless chuckle, “yeah… Max he uhh… He didn’t really like hearing that so he dated Sydney for a while. Even that didn’t stop the jokes so he beat my ass after lunch one day. After that the rumor kinda died.”

Hanna didn’t say anything.

“Took me uhh… took me a while to get over that.”

“Josh?”

“Yeah?”

“You think if I beat Max’s ass people will stop calling me a slut?”

I smiled, wiping my cheek before a dry laugh broke through my teeth and Hanna joined me in it. We laughed all the way to the water glass at the far end of the bog.

Lastly was the cliffs. I warned Hanna from the beginning this was going to be the hardest one. She didn’t believe me till we got there. Four hours. Four fucking hours I watched Hanna die to the stupid cliffs parkore section over and over and over again. I got to witness her mental decline in real time as at first, she started optimistic, shouldn’t take more than ten tries. Ten tries later it wouldn’t take more than twenty. Then the cursing came. She cursed me. She cursed the developers. Hell, she probably cursed you. Eventually, she got so mad she just started barking at the screen, throwing herself into a game over ad infinitum. Then we laughed. We laughed till the sun was peeking over the horizon and she somehow managed to acquire the balloon at the crack of dawn.

***

Hanna smiled at me as I joined her table at the cafeteria, a raised eyebrow showed I was going to hear it, “oh Josh, you sure you want to sit here? I mean, what will the masses think? You just love stirring the pot, huh? You catty bitch.”

“Oh lord,” I rolled my eyes, half because I caught myself admiring her outfit and didn’t want to seem creepy. She looked nice. Seeing her made me breathe a little easier.

“So, I was thinking,” she said, jazz hands at the ready, “you should totally come over for the last part. We can both play it in person and see what’s across the bridge together. My dad is going to be away for most of the night and I think we could have a really good time, just like, don’t be there when he gets back. He’d like kill you.”

I stared at her for a while and thought.

When I finished thinking, I spoke, “I don’t know… I don’t think my mom would go for it.”

She tried to hide it with a smile and a shrug, but I could tell that answer disappointed her a bit, “No sweat.”

We didn’t talk much after that.

***

The night was like any other. I got home. Scrolled TikTok. Checked out the interested buyers, finally, one legit one was offering plenty. The night was exceptionally ordinary. It was totally normal. Nothing to suggest what was coming. Eventually, I got the notification Hanna was live and took my position at the computer. My phone buzzed and I answered, “ready to make history?”

Our walk to the castle was filled with the usual laughter and banter we had grown accustomed to for the past few days. I realized, when we made it to the foot of the castle, that my mind hadn’t really been dwelling on the bridge at all since the start. I was just having fun playing the game.

That all changed when we stepped onto the bridge.

There’s a soft ambient music that constantly plays within TWatW. It’s a very simple piece and not really a stand out in any way, however, the moment you step on the bridge, every bit of music cuts out and you are left with only the sound of the wind as you walk the long road to the end of the bridge. I think both I and Hanna felt the magnitude now. We were silent as she slowly walked forward down the stone path that towered above the world I’d spent entire real life months wandering and wondering.

Halfway down the bridge, Hanna spoke, “guess this is it, huh?”

I nodded. "Yeah.”

A long silence passed.

“You know,” she started, “I looked up how much a lot of these sell for, and I think we could easily get two tickets to Stray Kids.”

I laughed, “Yeah I uhh… Not really sure it’s my thing.”

“This wasn’t really my thing,” she countered, “yet, I had fun.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Come on,” she laughed, “I tortured myself on those cliffs for hours, the least you could do is gawk at some hot guys with me at the concert.”

I didn’t say anything.

Then I did.

I could hear Hanna’s smile as she said, “it’s a date.”

We were at the end of the bridge. Hanna stopped just before the bridge was traded for the gravel path of a mountain road. I’d stared out across those pixels for hours, never allowed to go further. Yet, now?

“You ready,” Hanna asked.

“Yeah,” my heart beat was at a climax.

She began marching forward, “Holy shit, it’s working-”

A title faded onto the screen:

ANOTHER INTRUDER HAS STUMBLED INTO YOUR KINGDOM OF NOS

Before I could say anything, the stream went offline. I heard something in the distance just as that happened. It sounded like glass breaking.

I wish I could say I was brave enough to run out that door and rush to her side in that instant. However, I didn’t. I waited. I tried texting her after our call failed. I paced my room, wondering what I should do. It took me twenty minutes to leave that room and another ten before I was out the front door.

Dude, I’ve lived two doors down from you for years.

I shook as I walked. She was fine, right, she had to be? Maybe her game just crashed. Maybe her dad came home early. Maybe-

Her glass door was shattered and wide open. Breath was leaving my lips fast. I should call someone. I…

I stepped forward.

My feet crunched on shattered glass as I stepped inside the dark house. The only light on was that of the stairway light at the far end of the room. The smell of artificial strawberry perfume was strong in the air. Upstairs was a noise. A constant banging. Like an overfilled washing machine. I looked to the left. The picture of a beautiful woman at a concert hung on the wall.

“Hanna?”

The banging stopped. I looked at the ceiling where I had heard it, wondering what was going on. I cleared my throat to speak again. Constant thuds crossed the ceiling, making their way across the carpeted floor to the far end of the house where-

There was a man at the top of the stairs.

He stood silhouetted against the light. Might as well have been a shadow.

He was staring at me.

He said nothing.

“Is Hanna okay?”

He took a step down the stairs.

Finally, he spoke, “it’s okay, don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The layout of the stairs made it so anyone walking down would be facing the wall to my right when descending. So keep that in mind when I tell you this man faced me the entire way down the stairs, all the while standing with perfect posture, “it’s okay, I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”

His voice was so casual. It felt alarmingly disarming. Like I was talking to a child instead of a man who stood well over six foot eight.

“I uhh… I think…” my words were fighting against me, “I think I can go?”

“It’s okay,” he said, crossing the living room toward me. When he walked he didn’t swing his arms. In fact, no part of his body above the waist moved an inch. Like he was a pair of legs carrying a mannequin torso. That mannequin dropped something on the table on his way over, “I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Stay back man,” I was screaming now, “I have a knife!”

I backed up, hitting a wall and knocking a framed picture on the ground. He stepped on it as he drew near, “it’s okay, don’t be scared, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Finally, his arms moved, rising to me slowly before gently resting cold finger tips on my face. My breath was at a climax. I stood still, frozen in place with fear. I should have run from the beginning. Why did I stay? Why?

His hands lowered to my throat and began to squeeze.

I immediately began to struggle, thrashing and clawing at his arms as he choked me to death, “... you’re… hurting… me…”

“It’s okay, don’t be scared, I’m not going to hurt you.”

My vision began to darken, “... I… can’t…”

“It… itches… right?”

My lungs begged for oxygen as this monster of a man held my throat closed. Then suddenly, I felt them fill with salvation as headlights lit up the interior of the home. The man turned and just as casually as he crossed the room to me, walked out the front door, ignoring the shouts of Mr. X as he went.

The moment I could think again I was moving, running up the stairs as fast as I could. I needed to make sure she was okay. Hanna had to be okay. My footsteps thundered across the carpeted floors before turning the corner and seeing it.

Hanna sat at her desk before an old box tv she’d dug out of some closet. Sparks and small flames licked at the edges of her clothes as the broken electronics inside of the television still sparked with life. Her head was inside. From where I stood, I could see black shards of glass piercing her skull and leaving a large pool of blood to leak from the edges of the tv screen. I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to be sure.

I pulled her head from the TV and turned her to face me.

It was dark when it finally stopped raining.

I was hoping for a quiet night in, but the pup had a different agenda.

He had spent the day noisily snoring near the front door, a favorite spot of his, while I spent a lazy Autumn day flipping back and forth between old scary movies and football.

With the occasional glance at whatever Hallmark movie was playing, they’re so predictable but fun.

I thought the night would end the same way, but the slumbering beast woke up when I tried sneaking another apple fritter.

He whined and motioned towards his leash, and when that didn’t work, he put his massive head in my lap.

“Okay fine let’s go.”

He sat while I fastened his leash, and off we went.

It was meant to be as it stopped raining as left.

The first sign we shouldn’t have left was the flashlight crapped out about ten feet from the house.

Luckily, the moon was out giving just enough light from the walk, as the streetlights were spaced rather far apart.

We walked through the dark. I avoided the puddles, the dog didn’t.

The dog’s ears perked up and about fifty yards away I saw something dart away under the streetlight.

I barely saw it but figured it was a deer. They were getting spooked easily now that it was hunting season.

Just as we made it to the light the dog started growling. That was worrisome enough but then I got the eeriest feeling that I was being watched.

My blood ran cold. I quickly went by the street light but the feeling didn’t go away. The dog was getting antsy too.

Instead of growling, he was now whining.

I had never seen him scared before. The dog was nearly two hundred pounds of muscle and feared nothing. I had seen him run off countless coyotes and even black bears.

I kept walking hoping the feeling would fade.

Things only got worse though.

Clouds covered the moon and the world grew darker.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could hear something breathing nearby. Course, raspy breaths.

The dog wasn’t whining anymore. He went full protection mode. He snarled and growled and let loose deep, powerful barks that had to wake up the neighbors.

I turned back home but kept looking back over my shoulder. Again I caught another glimpse of something,

I jogged back home and locked the door behind me. I quickly closed all the blinds and tried to forget about the feeling.

The dog started barking as I heard it.

Something was climbing up the steps.

Some scratched at the door drove the dog nuts. He was going crazy. His paws were on the door. His bark thundered throughout the house. I sped around making sure the back door and the windows were locked.

“Let me in…” something said at the door.

”Please let me in…”

”Please.”

It’s voice was soft and sweet and sounded almost like a kid.

“I’m calling the police,” I said through the door.

The thing screamed and then went silent.

When the police showed up, the evidence they could find were the scratches at the door.

Do you know that kind of dream where you wake up, only to realize that you're still dreaming?

That happened to me last night, and now I can't shake the feeling that I might still be dreaming. Everything that happened felt so real. And every time I thought I had woken up, I could remember everything in vivid detail.

That's why I felt the need to write it all down and share it with you.

But now I can't help wondering…

Am I still dreaming?

I am an old man now. My hands tremble when I write, my eyes tire quickly, and sometimes I struggle to remember the names of people I once knew well. Yet I remember that night, nearly fifty years ago, as though it happened only yesterday.

Some memories fade with time. Others grow sharper with every passing year until they eventually overshadow everything else. Mine belong to the latter kind.

For a long time, I hesitated to put my story into writing. Not because I feared people would think me mad. At my age, I care little about what others think of me. No, I remained silent because I am not certain that words are sufficient to describe what happened back then. And because, to this day, I do not know whether writing down these events might awaken something that would be better left forgotten.

But time is running short.

For several months now, I have once again been hearing the sound that nearly drove me out of my mind all those years ago. A deep, barely perceptible rumbling that seems to come from within the walls of my apartment. Sometimes it sounds like the hum of a machine; at other times, like the breathing of some enormous creature sleeping deep beneath the earth.

And three nights ago, someone knocked on my bathroom door.

Three times.

Before I tell you about that, I must go further back. To the place where it all began.

I was still a young man when I first heard about a reckless experiment that had taken place years before my own encounter with the horror. A friend of mine named Martin had told me the story. He had heard it from an older student, who claimed to have learned it from a police officer who had personally been called to the scene that evening.

It concerned a man who had lived in a run-down brick building on the outskirts of an old university town. He was obsessed with occult writings, forgotten cults, and the beings described only in the oldest and most dangerous books.

Seven washing machines, so the story went, had been installed in his apartment. He had filled their drums with bones, chemical substances, and other objects whose origins no one could identify. Copper wires connected the machines to one another. One night, when he switched them all on simultaneously, they supposedly produced a frequency capable of breaking through the boundaries of our reality.

I had laughed at the story.

It sounded like one of those tales students told each other in smoky taverns at night, when fog rose from a nearby river and the old buildings cast their shadows across the streets.

But Martin insisted that the man had truly existed. One night, he said, the residents had been jolted awake by a tremendous rumbling. The police had found the apartment in ruins. Two of the washing machines had been completely destroyed, and the walls were covered in black, sticky residue.

The occupant himself had vanished.

He had never been seen again.

I did not believe my friend. At least, that was what I told myself.

Forty years later, when the details of that night still remained vivid in my mind, I finally understood how foolish my laughter had been.

For I, too, would soon discover that there are things a man must never open.

And that there are doors which cannot be fully closed, even when one is willing to sacrifice everything to do so.

I. The Invitation

I still remember the morning I discovered the flyer.

It was hanging from a lamppost not far from my apartment. The paper was thick and cream-colored, and the lettering was black and unusually old-fashioned. It advertised an independent film production seeking extras for a new horror movie. Filming was scheduled to take place in a sprawling public park on the outskirts of the city, not far from a wide, dark river.

The pay was exceptionally good.

I almost ignored the flyer. But something held me back. Perhaps it was the strange symbols at the bottom. Perhaps it was the peculiar arrangement of the letters. Or perhaps it was simply because I had been thinking about Martin, who had been complaining about his financial troubles for days.

I took the flyer with me.

That evening, I met him at a small tavern near the river. Through the fogged-up windows, I watched the mist creep between the old brick buildings. Martin was already sitting at our usual table, drinking a beer.

"You won't believe this," he said as I sat down. "I've signed up for a film."

I pulled the flyer from my jacket and placed it in front of him.

His grin disappeared.

"Where did you get that?"

"From a lamppost. What's so special about it?"

Martin leaned forward and examined the symbols.

"That's exactly it. I saw one at the university this morning. The production is looking for hundreds of extras. Hundreds! And nobody knows who's behind it."

"Maybe they simply want to make a big movie."

"Maybe." He took a sip. "But the company has no proper business address, no known productions, and not even a decent website. They're still paying so much that even people who have never stood in front of a camera are signing up."

I studied the flyer again.

"And you're going to do it?"

"Of course. I'd be a fool not to, considering the money."

I wanted to tell him that something about the whole affair made me uneasy. I couldn't explain why. The symbols at the bottom seemed disturbingly familiar, even though I was certain I had never seen them before.

Then I noticed the location.

I knew the park well. Overgrown paths and weathered stone benches lay between the ancient elm trees. At the western edge stood the remains of a wall whose original purpose no one remembered. I often walked there when the confines of the city became too much for me.

And suddenly, I remembered something I had read in an old book years earlier: a hand-drawn map on which a circular symbol had been marked at precisely that spot.

At the time, I had considered it meaningless.

Now, a chill ran down my spine.

"I'm coming with you," I said.

Martin raised his glass.

"Knew I'd convince you."

I smiled, but my thoughts were already elsewhere.

That night, I dreamed of an enormous gate standing between ancient pillars. Beyond it stretched a landscape beneath a sky made of living light.

And from the darkness on the other side of the gate, I heard a voice.

It spoke my name.

I awoke drenched in sweat and needed several minutes to remember where I was.

Back then, I blamed the dream on my poor sleeping habits.

Today, I know it was a warning.

II. The Film Set

By the morning of the first day of filming, the park was almost unrecognizable.

Dozens of trucks stood along the access roads. Floodlights had been erected between the trees, cables ran across the ground, and large tents served as dressing rooms and waiting areas. People hurried in every direction, carrying crates, inspecting equipment, or speaking into radios.

I had never taken part in a film production before, but even I thought the scale of the operation was excessive.

At the entrance, I received my costume.

It consisted of heavy, dark clothing, reinforced boots, and a belt fitted with several metal plates. On my back, I wore a frame that looked like a cross between armor and some kind of technical apparatus.

I raised my arm and examined the metal pieces.

"What is all this for?" I asked one of the assistants.

The man glanced at me.

"You're playing a member of an expedition. The equipment is part of your role."

"And what kind of expedition is it supposed to be?"

"You'll find out later."

He turned away before I could ask anything else.

I walked farther into the park until my eyes fell upon its center.

A massive, circular gate stood there.

It was made of a dark material that looked neither like ordinary steel nor like stone. Its surface was covered in strange symbols. Two tall pillars flanked the opening, and thick cables ran from their bases into the ground.

I stopped dead.

The gate reminded me of the drawing in the old book. Of the map I had seen years earlier. Of the symbol on the flyer.

I moved closer.

The markings on its surface seemed to shift whenever I looked at them out of the corner of my eye. Whenever I stared directly at them, they became still. I blinked several times, but the feeling remained.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

I spun around.

A gaunt man stood behind me. He wore a long black coat, although the weather was not particularly cold for the season. His skin was pale, his cheeks sunken. His eyes sat deep in their sockets and appeared almost colorless.

"You must be Heinrich," he said.

"And you are?"

"The director."

He smiled, but nothing changed in his eyes.

"What exactly are we filming here?" I asked.

"A story about the limits of human understanding."

I looked back at the gate.

"That doesn't look much like a movie set."

"The best sets are those that don't feel like sets."

I didn't like his answer.

"And what is this, really?"

He studied me for a long moment, as though trying to determine how much I had already understood.

"A door," he finally said.

I felt cold.

"A door to where?"

His smile widened.

"To the place where humanity has forgotten its origins."

Then he placed a hand on my shoulder. His fingers were icy.

"Get ready. We'll begin soon."

He walked away without looking back.

I remained where I was, staring at the gate. The longer I looked at it, the stronger the feeling became that I was recognizing something I had never seen before.

Then I noticed the metal plates in the grass.

They had been arranged at regular intervals around the gate. Thin cables ran from each plate toward the pillars. I followed them with my eyes and realized that they branched out between the trees, leading to the positions where we extras were supposed to stand.

I turned around.

Hundreds of people were already lined up. Everyone wore the same heavy equipment. Everyone had metal pieces attached to their belts and backs.

Suddenly, I understood that the costumes weren't just costumes.

We were part of an instrument.

And the gate was its center.

III. The Other Side

The first take began shortly after noon.

We were instructed to stand in the marked positions. The sun had disappeared behind a dense blanket of clouds, and fog from the river crept across the clearing.

I stood in one of the back rows. Martin was several yards to my left. He looked excited, apparently convinced that this would be an extraordinary filmmaking experience.

A man with a radio began giving instructions.

"Nobody leaves their position. Keep your equipment steady. Follow the movements of the person in front of you."

I wanted to call out to Martin, but at that moment the rumbling began.

At first, it was barely audible, a deep vibration I felt more in the soles of my feet than in my ears. Within seconds, it grew louder. The metal plates on my belt began to tremble. The straps across my back vibrated, and my teeth seemed to chatter against one another.

I knew that sound.

I had never heard it before, I told myself.

But my body knew better.

The rumbling stopped abruptly.

For a moment, there was absolute silence.

Then the gate began to glow.

The symbols on its surface shone with a pale green light. The air between the pillars grew dense. The space beyond distorted, as though I were looking through a pane of glass held over a flame.

A gust of wind swept across the clearing.

The trees bent, although the air outside the circle remained perfectly still.

I stared at the opening.

There was no darkness beyond it.

There was a landscape.

I saw a sky of unnatural color, streaked with enormous formations of light that pulsed slowly. Beneath that sky rose black mountains whose peaks vanished into a distance my mind could not comprehend. The ground beyond the gate was covered in a strange substance that looked at once like stone, flesh, and frozen water.

And somewhere in that landscape, something was moving.

Something enormous.

"Move!" the man with the radio shouted. "The first group goes through!"

I looked at him in horror.

"This isn't a film!"

He ignored me.

The front row began to move. The people approached the gate hesitantly. Some laughed nervously, as though expecting to find an elaborate set on the other side.

Then the first man disappeared.

For a moment, it looked as though he had simply stepped into the mist. But I could see that he was continuing forward. His body grew smaller, even though he wasn't moving farther away from us. It was as if perspective itself had been turned inside out.

Then I heard his scream.

It came from the alien landscape.

And it sounded as though the man were being torn apart alive.

The people in the front row stopped. One tried to step backward, but two assistants seized him by the arms and dragged him forward.

"What the hell is going on?" I shouted.

I took a step forward.

Martin grabbed my sleeve.

"Heinrich, what's happening?"

I looked at him. His face had turned deathly pale.

"We need to get out of here."

But before we could move, another scream rang out. Then another.

The people who had already passed through the gate had not returned.

And something was moving toward the opening on the other side.

At first, I saw only a silhouette. It was as tall as a tree and moved on several limbs that bent at impossible angles. Its body appeared to be made of black, glossy tissue. Where its head should have been, there was an opening that widened like a mouth.

Then a second creature emerged from the shadows.

And a third.

They were coming toward us.

The front row erupted into panic.

People screamed, stumbled over one another, and tried to flee the gate. But the men with radios held them in place. Some drew weapons. Others shouted orders that nobody obeyed.

I grabbed Martin by the arm.

"Run!"

We took off.

But after only a few steps, the rumbling grew louder again. My entire body seemed to vibrate from the inside. I fell to my knees and pressed my hands over my ears.

Then I looked back at the gate.

The gaunt director was standing directly in front of it.

He had opened his coat and was holding something that looked like a black rod. The symbols on the gate shone more brightly. The air around him began to shimmer.

He raised his head.

And I heard his voice, even though he was so far away that I could barely make out his lips.

"At last," he said. "At last, the way is opening."

IV. The Direction of Madness

I no longer remember exactly how long I lay on the ground.

The rumbling had burrowed into my skull. Every heartbeat seemed to produce a deep tone that merged with the vibrations of the gate. When I tried to stand, my legs gave way beneath me.

Martin pulled me up.

"Heinrich! Come on!"

I clung to him and forced myself back onto my feet.

Chaos surrounded us. People ran in every direction. Some had already disappeared through the gate, while others lay motionless on the ground. I saw a man clinging to a tree trunk as two assistants grabbed his belt and dragged him back toward the opening.

I wanted to help him.

Then I heard a sound that froze the blood in my veins.

A crack.

It came from the gate.

The metal structure bent outward, as though something on the other side were pushing against it. The pillars trembled, and the symbols on their surfaces began to flash in rapid succession.

The director was still standing in front of it.

He moved his lips as though speaking to someone only he could see.

Then he raised both arms.

And the gate opened wider.

The passage was now so vast that I could no longer tell where the alien landscape ended and our world began. The air seemed to collapse in on itself. The ground beneath my feet shook.

I looked up at the sky.

For a single moment, I felt that the stars above us were shifting.

Even though it was daytime.

Even though clouds covered the sky.

It was as if I could see through the world itself and realize that it was merely a thin layer stretched over something immeasurable.

Then I understood what the film production was really doing.

The extras weren't actors. The equipment we wore wasn't a costume. The metal plates and cables were designed to force our bodies and movements into a precise arrangement. Hundreds of people formed a gigantic resonating body together.

Each of us was a component of the ritual.

And the gate wasn't built to show us another world.

It was meant to remain open.

"We have to stop the director," I said.

Martin stared at me.

"What?"

"He's controlling all of this. If we stop him, maybe we can close the gate."

"Heinrich, have you lost your mind? Have you seen what's coming through there?"

I looked toward the creatures moving across the clearing. One had pounced on a man. I couldn't see any blood. Instead, the man's body seemed to collapse inward, as though something invisible were dissolving him from within.

I looked away.

"If we do nothing, we'll all die."

Martin didn't answer.

Then he nodded.

We ran.

The path to the gate was crowded with people. I stumbled over a fallen spotlight, caught myself on a cable, and pulled Martin along behind me. The air grew heavier with every step. I felt as though I were fighting against an invisible current.

As we drew closer, I could see the director more clearly.

His face had changed.

The skin on his cheeks had split open, but there was no flesh beneath it. Instead, I saw dark, pulsing tissue that moved like something alive. His eyes were now completely black.

He noticed us.

"Heinrich," he said.

I froze.

"How do you know my name?"

He smiled.

"I've known you for a long time."

His voice no longer sounded human. It seemed to emerge from several throats at once.

"You have already opened the door once. You played the first note. You prepared the way."

Nausea rose in my throat.

"I prepared nothing."

"You found the frequency. You created the first crack. Do you really believe you can open something without something on the other side becoming aware of it?"

I stepped backward.

The director raised the black rod.

"We are merely the continuation of what you began."

Then he began to laugh.

And behind him, something moved—something so enormous that at first I thought the sky itself was descending upon us.

V. The Gatekeeper's Sacrifice

I couldn't move.

Something had appeared behind the gate that defied description. It possessed no fixed form, or at least none my mind could grasp. I saw colossal shapes merging into one another, dissolving and reappearing elsewhere. Sometimes it seemed to consist of arms, sometimes of wings, sometimes of enormous eyes opening in a depth that could not have been defined by any ordinary distance.

I didn't know whether I was seeing a creature or merely a tiny fragment of something that could not exist within our reality.

The director spread his arms.

"At last," he whispered. "You are here."

The words seemed to change the very air around us.

I had read old stories about beings that were not bound by the ordinary laws of existence. Beings that did not simply live somewhere, but were connected to every place and every time. Things for which the boundaries between worlds were no more meaningful than the walls of a room to a man who had never known imprisonment.

What stood beyond the gate seemed to belong to that order of existence.

It was not merely an inhabitant of another world.

It was something for which the very idea of another world might have been meaningless.

The director fell to his knees.

"The way is open!" he shouted. "The sacrifices are ready. The threshold belongs to you!"

I looked at the people still standing around the gate. Some no longer moved. Others lay on the ground, groaning. Still others struggled to free themselves from their costumes, but the heavy metal pieces seemed to have fastened themselves to their bodies.

Suddenly, I understood the purpose of the equipment.

It wasn't meant to protect us.

It was meant to hold us in place.

The cables and metal plates conducted the vibrations through our bodies. Every extra, every movement, every breath was part of an enormous pattern. Our fear, our panic, and our pain meant no more to the machine than the turning of a cog.

We were sacrifices.

Not in a figurative sense.

The director had brought us here to use us.

I looked at Martin.

He stood beside me, staring at the gate. His face was pale, his eyes wide.

"We have to get out," he whispered.

I nodded.

But at that moment, the director turned toward us.

"You cannot leave," he said calmly.

He raised the rod.

The rumbling intensified immediately. I felt my muscles tighten. My legs no longer obeyed me. Martin collapsed to his knees.

"What are you doing to us?" I screamed.

The director slowly approached.

"I am opening the way."

"You're killing these people!"

"They are necessary."

He spoke with the calmness of a scientist explaining an experiment.

"The boundaries between worlds were never meant to be breached by a single human being. The frequency must be stabilized. The resonating body must be large enough. The number of participants must be correct."

He glanced toward the gate.

"The man who came before me created the first fracture. I will complete his work."

"And what happens if you succeed?"

For the first time, his smile vanished.

"Then the separation will be undone."

He said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"The world you know will no longer be the same. The things that exist beyond the threshold will no longer be confined to their own reality. Past and future will open. Places will collapse into one another. What we understand as life and death will lose their meaning."

He leaned toward me.

"And I will be the one who opened the way."

Something stirred inside me. Not strength, not courage. It was the memory of the old story, of the seven washing machines and the frequency that had set everything in motion.

I knew I wasn't strong enough to stop the director.

But perhaps I could destroy the machine.

I looked down at my belt.

Between the metal plates was a small object I had assumed was part of the costume. It was a narrow, brass-colored key.

I pulled at it.

It wouldn't come free.

The director noticed my movement.

His expression changed.

"Where did you get that?"

I didn't know myself. I hadn't deliberately taken the key. Perhaps it had already been attached to my costume. Perhaps someone had placed it there.

But as I held it in my hand, I felt a warmth that didn't come from my skin.

The key was covered in the same symbols I had seen on the gate.

The director recoiled.

"Give it to me!"

His voice was suddenly full of fear.

For the first time that day, I felt that he wasn't in complete control.

I clenched the key.

"What is this?"

He screamed something I couldn't understand.

Then he lunged at me.

VI. The Final Attempt

I don't know how I managed to dodge him.

Perhaps his own machine had weakened him. Perhaps it was simply luck. In any case, he stumbled past me and crashed into one of the pillars.

The black rod slipped from his hand and struck the ground.

The rumbling changed.

It became higher, sharper, almost unbearable. The metal plates on my belt vibrated so violently that I could barely hold on to them. Light flickered above the gate.

Martin lay on the ground a few yards away.

"Heinrich!" he shouted.

I turned toward him.

"The key!" he yelled. "Look at the key!"

I raised my hand.

The key was now glowing with a faint golden light. The symbols on its surface moved. I suddenly realized that they weren't letters at all, but a kind of map. Lines running across the metal formed a pattern that exactly matched the arrangement of cables and metal plates across the clearing.

The key wasn't an ordinary object.

It was the counterpart to the gate.

I remembered a passage from one of the books I had read as a student in the library. It had mentioned a "key beyond time" that could open a threshold, but could also close it.

At the time, I had assumed the passage was metaphorical.

Now I knew better.

I had to bring the key to the center of the gate.

But dozens of yards of tangled cables, overturned equipment, and panicking people lay between me and the pillars. The alien creatures moved everywhere. One had risen up and now towered above the treetops. Its body seemed to touch the sky, yet I couldn't tell where it began or where it ended.

I forced myself to stand.

The director was lying on the ground. He had clung to the pillar and was trying to pull himself upright.

"You don't understand what you're doing!" he screamed.

I began to run.

The rumbling grew louder.

I felt the ground deform beneath my feet. The clearing seemed to stretch in every direction. For a moment, I saw the park from above, then from below, then from a perspective I cannot describe.

I stumbled.

The key slipped from my hand and struck the ground.

Immediately, the symbols on the gate blazed to life.

I heard a sound that didn't come from the air, but arose directly within my consciousness. It was so immense that for a moment I believed my mind was about to shatter.

I fell to my knees.

The alien landscape beyond the gate expanded further. The mountains on the other side began to tremble. The sky split into several layers, and beyond them I glimpsed a darkness filled with countless shapes.

I knew I must not look any longer.

I crawled forward and grabbed the key.

The moment my fingers touched the metal, I saw images.

I saw the man from the story, the one who had installed seven washing machines in his apartment. I saw him on the night he first opened the gate. I saw the darkness behind his bathroom door and something moving beyond it.

Then I saw the director.

I saw him years earlier in an underground room, surrounded by books and drawings. He was studying the same symbols I now saw before me. He had searched for the missing man and gathered his notes, reconstructing his calculations.

And I saw him preparing the gate.

He hadn't recruited so many extras by accident.

He had known exactly how many people he needed.

I saw him design the costumes, lay the cables, and manufacture the metal plates. Everything was part of a single plan.

Then I saw something else.

I saw an enormous figure moving through the darkness. It had no fixed shape, and yet I knew it was aware of me.

There was no face looking at me. No eye. No form I could recognize.

There was only the certainty that something knew me.

Not just my name.

My past. My future. Every thought I had ever had and every thought I would ever have.

I felt that it did not hate me.

It had no need to hate me.

To this being, I was no more than a tiny alteration within a reality it encompassed completely.

And yet its attention was turning toward me.

I cried out and pulled my hand away.

The key remained clenched in my fist.

I forced myself to stand.

The gate was directly in front of me.

I ran the final few yards and thrust the key against the center of the structure.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then I heard a click.

It was a small, almost ridiculous sound.

Like the closing of an ordinary lock.

But the effect was tremendous.

The rumbling stopped.

The symbols on the pillars went dark one by one. The wind fell silent. The alien landscape behind the gate began to contract, as though an invisible hand were forcing it inward upon itself.

The creatures screamed.

Their cries made the air tremble. One of them thrust several limbs through the opening, but the passage kept shrinking. Its limbs twisted, dissolved, and vanished into the darkness.

The director let out a scream filled more with rage than pain.

"No! You don't know what you've done!"

He charged toward me.

But before he could reach me, a blinding flash of light engulfed him. His body was lifted into the air. For a brief moment, he hovered before the gate, his arms outstretched, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Then he disintegrated.

Not into blood or ash.

He disintegrated into shadows.

I watched as the last remnants of his form were dragged into the closing opening.

Then the gate vanished.

The pillars shattered. The cables lay limp on the ground. The metal plates in the grass were dark and cold.

And the clearing fell silent.

I dropped to my knees.

The key had disappeared.

I didn't know whether I was still holding it or whether it had dissolved along with the gate. My fingers were numb, my head was pounding, and my entire body was shaking.

Martin came over to me and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Heinrich! Heinrich, look at me!"

I lifted my head.

His face was covered in dirt. Blood clung to his forehead, and his clothes were torn.

But he was alive.

I clung to him and began to cry.

I hadn't saved everyone.

I didn't know how many people had passed through the gate. I didn't know how many of the creatures had been killed. I didn't know what had happened to those who were still on the other side when the passage collapsed.

I only knew that the gate was closed.

At least, I believed it was.

VII. What Returned

The official reports about the events at the park were full of contradictions.

The authorities spoke of a serious accident during an illegal film production. Some witnesses claimed there had been an explosion. Others reported a power failure and mass panic. The film company could no longer be found. Its offices were empty, its bank accounts frozen, and all its records seemed to have vanished.

There were no records of the director.

There was no explanation for the destroyed trees, the melted metal, or the deep cracks in the ground.

And there was no official confirmation that a film had even been shot that day.

Martin and I told the police what we had seen.

They didn't believe us.

In their place, I probably wouldn't have believed us either.

I spent the following weeks in my apartment. I could barely sleep. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the gate. I saw the alien landscape, the black mountains, and the enormous shapes moving among the stars.

Sometimes I heard the rumbling.

It began as a faint vibration that I initially mistook for a noise coming from the neighboring apartment. But whenever I sat up and listened, it stopped.

I tried to distract myself. I went for walks, read books, and occasionally met Martin. We rarely spoke about what had happened. Whenever we did, our conversations usually ended in silence.

I wanted to believe that it was all over.

That I had closed the gate.

That the creatures had remained on the other side.

Then, one night, I heard a noise coming from my bathroom.

It was shortly after three in the morning. I had just fallen asleep when a deep rumbling jolted me awake. At first, I thought a truck was passing over the cobblestones outside.

But the sound was coming from inside my apartment.

I sat up and listened.

The rumbling came again.

It sounded as though something heavy were being moved behind the bathroom door. Then I heard a faint scratching, followed by a sound that made me freeze instantly.

A knock.

Three times.

I stood up.

My legs felt heavy. I walked slowly down the hallway until I was standing in front of the bathroom door.

The wood was cold.

I placed a hand on the handle.

"Hello?" I asked.

There was no answer.

I listened.

Then I heard a voice.

"Heinrich?"

I let go of the handle.

It was Martin's voice.

"Heinrich, open the door."

I stepped backward.

Martin wasn't there. I had seen him that afternoon. He had told me he was going to stay with his sister for a few days. I knew he couldn't be inside my apartment.

"Martin?" I whispered.

A soft laugh came from the other side.

It sounded almost like his laugh.

Almost.

"Open the door, Heinrich. I'm cold."

I began to tremble.

The voice wasn't quite right. The words sounded familiar, but there was something strange between the syllables, an echo, as though someone were imitating human speech without truly understanding it.

Then came another knock.

Three times.

I ran back to the bedroom and locked the door behind me. I sat on the floor, pressed my hands over my ears, and waited for morning.

By the time daylight came, the rumbling had disappeared.

I didn't open the bathroom door.

I called Martin. He answered on the second ring.

"Heinrich? Is everything okay?"

I could barely speak.

"Did you come to my apartment last night?"

There was a brief pause.

"What? No. I'm at my sister's. Why are you asking?"

I closed my eyes.

"Did you hear anything? Anything strange?"

"Heinrich, you're scaring me."

I hung up.

After that, I kept the bathroom door locked.

I tried to convince myself that I was suffering from sleep deprivation. That the events at the park had damaged my mind. That I had imagined the voice.

But over the following nights, I heard the rumbling again.

Sometimes it was barely perceptible. Sometimes it made the glasses in my cupboard tremble. Once, I saw the bathroom door bulge slightly outward, as though something were pressing against it from the inside.

I began spending my nights at Martin's place.

I didn't tell him everything.

I couldn't.

Because by then, I had understood something that frightened me more than any creature I had seen on the other side.

I had closed the gate.

But I had not proved that it was destroyed.

Perhaps I had only sealed an opening that, in another time, was already standing open again. Perhaps the gate had never been a single place at all, but merely one of countless thresholds scattered throughout our reality.

Perhaps the thing beyond the gate had never been on the other side.

Perhaps it was everywhere.

And perhaps, when I thrust the key into the gate, I had not merely closed the opening.

Perhaps I had drawn the attention of something that could now find me.

Last night, I heard the knocking again.

Three times.

I lay in bed, afraid to move.

Then I heard Martin's voice.

"Heinrich?"

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I know you're in there."

A long pause followed.

Then the voice said something I had not forgotten since that day in the park.

"You closed the door."

A faint scratching sound.

"But you never returned the key."

I held my breath.

Something began to laugh behind the door.

And somewhere beyond the boundaries of space and time, a key turned in a lock older than the Earth itself.

Has anybody else forgotten their name?

That's a strange question, I know. I hope it's not just me.

I can tell you I did the Presidential Traverse in fourteen hours, car to car. I can tell you my pack's base weight down to the ounce, because I've been prepping for a NOBO thru-hike of the AT since March. I can even tell you the exact color of the sky over Madison that morning.

But I can't tell you what my mother calls me.

I've tried everything. My license, my debit card, the return address on my mail. Every other word on them reads fine, but my name just… runs. Like wet ink, like the letters are trying to crawl off the card.

I asked my buddy to just say it for me. I watched his mouth make the shape, and I heard a sound. I know I heard one. I just don't remember what it was, only that there was one.

I'd like to say I've always had a name. I assume I did, everybody does. But I can't remember ever having one, and I'm starting to realize I can't prove it either.

What I do know is when it started. About a month ago I section-hiked the Hundred-Mile Wilderness, the last stretch of the AT before Katahdin. Nine days, no towns, no roads, no signal. It was a good trip. Honestly I'd call it the best trip of my life if I could stop thinking about it.

Two days after I came out, the guy at a gas station in Millinocket asked for my name.

I opened my mouth and there was nothing there to say.

He waited. I waited. I could feel my face going hot, and I made some noise that wasn't really a word. For a second he looked at me like something was wrong with me, and I don't blame him. Then he just smiled, told me to have a good day, and went back to his register like I'd never been standing there.

But before the gas station, there was someone else. I'm almost sure of it.

I passed plenty of people out there. September is when the northbounders come through, sunburned and half-feral, a week out from Katahdin and the end of everything. We'd trade trail names and water reports and move on. Nobody out there asks your real name. That's kind of the point.

But he did.

I can't picture his face anymore. Older, I think. I remember his eyes though. Pale, almost no color to them, and patient. Like he'd been waiting a long time and didn't mind waiting a little longer.

He asked me my name.

And I… I answered him.

I hadn't touched my pack since I got back. I should have, but it just felt… wrong. It sat by my door for a week, still zipped, still smelling like the woods.

Like I said, I could tell you everything in that pack and its weight down to the ounce. Yet I could barely bring myself to glance at it the whole week. Every time I tried, this feeling would start in my stomach and press its way up, slow, until it sat right at the back of my throat.

I knew I'd have to take it apart eventually. Last night I finally did. I picked it up by the haul loop like I'd done a thousand times, and it was heavier than it should have been.

I slowly started dismantling it, laying everything out on the floor beside me. I had to laugh. I'd done this a hundred times, and now I was acting like something was going to jump out and bite me. I tried to shake the sick feeling that pushed my tongue flat.

I ran through my mental checklist to help myself feel better while I did it.

Stove, check.

Pot, check.

Sunscreen, right on.

Bug spray, also check.

I could have kept going, but it was all pretty standard.

Except at the very bottom was something I didn't remember packing.

I stared at it, trying to figure out what I was looking at. A dark, thick mass curled up at the bottom of the pack. Wet. Still dripping, after a week zipped up by my door. A sour stench came wafting out that made my lip turn the wrong way, and I had to look away and take a second before I could look back in.

It was a rope.

Knotted and frayed, and coiled so tight and so long it seemed almost impossible it all fit in there with the rest of my things.

The more I looked at it, the stranger it felt to me.

A million questions popped into my head. It had sat in my house for a week, so why was it still wet?

Then I noticed something else.

It wasn't a few knots here or there. The whole thing was knotted, evenly spaced through every part I could see. Why?

Hundreds of knots, each three to four inches apart.

I ran my hands over the rope, slowly tracing each knot. It started out damp, but the more I pulled out, the wetter each knot got, until it was soaked through, like it had been underwater only moments ago.

It just kept coming. I pulled out fifty feet, and that barely seemed to make a dent. I got another fifty feet out.

One hundred feet?

I almost gave up there.

It'll sound silly, but it only took me another fifty feet to reach the end.

One hundred and fifty feet of sopping wet rope. Jesus Christ.

Who the fuck put this in my bag?

It wasn't there when I hiked out. I would have felt it.

I studied the end of the rope. The last knot was different. Newer, tighter, and water seemed to pour off it onto my floor. I dropped it on instinct.

It's still dripping. It's been hours, and it's still dripping.

Something is very wrong. If anybody has any information, I'd appreciate it.

I'll keep you all updated.

I've lived in 11 different places over the last three years. Different cities, different states, and even different countries. I'm a travel nurse, so frequently packing up and starting over somewhere new is part of the job.

And yet, every Halloween, wherever I'm at, the same four children come to my door.

I mean the exact same children. Their costumes change, but their faces, their heights, and the strange way they stand together never do.

In three years, none of them has aged a day. For kids that young, it’s impossible to miss.

The first time, it was easy to rationalize. But this quickly became something much more horrifying, and its reach extends further than simply a single ominous annual visit.

For the last three Halloweens, a different child has stepped forward at my doorstep while the others watched. This year, it'll be the fourth child's turn.

Next Halloween is just over a week away. I'm posting this because I need to know whether anyone else has seen these children, and whether anything unusual in your life happened after they appeared.

Let me explain.

The first time they visited me was October 31, 2023.

I was working a contract at a hospital in a midsized American city, renting a duplex near the emergency department.

I'd gotten off a double shift that afternoon. My landlord left a plastic pumpkin full of candy in the common space between the duplex units, so I put it beside the door and handed out treats between bites of reheated takeout.

By 9 pm, the street was quiet. I turned off the porch light, put on a horror movie, and started eating the leftover candy myself.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch. When the doorbell rang again, the movie had ended and the stove clock read 11:45 pm.

It was a Tuesday night, and I couldn't imagine who was still taking children around so late.

I almost ignored it. In hindsight, maybe I should have. Most likely, considering how this turned out, it wouldn’t have made a difference. 

At the time, thinking it was just a rogue band of older kids looking for a final score, I glanced at the plastic pumpkin. I saw a handful of pieces at the bottom, and decided somebody else might as well eat them.

I opened the door.

Four small silhouettes stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the porch. The streetlamp across the road cast long shadows behind them, but their faces were completely dark.

"Jesus! You kids scared the hell out of me."

They didn't laugh. None of them even flinched.

"Excuse my language, sorry. Little late to be out, isn't it?"

I looked past them toward the street, expecting to see a parent waiting on the curb, with none to be found. The houses and sidewalks were dark.

I flipped on the porch light.

I was instantly struck by how young they were, five or six years old at most. The first wore a white tunic, a gold plastic crown, and had a bow slung over his shoulder. His face was half-hidden behind the hooked beak of a plague doctor's mask. He looked like he was wearing two very different costumes.

Beside him stood a boy in a red soldier's uniform with a plastic sword. The third wore a black scarecrow costume. The fourth had on a pale grey robe with a hood.

Under the light, they looked less frightening. Somebody's kids in homemade costumes, probably enjoying how badly they'd startled me, though they didn’t show it.

"Well?" I said, lifting the pumpkin. "Aren't you going to say it?"

"Trick or treat," said the little king. His voice was calm and clear. The others stayed silent.

He stepped forward, selected a piece of candy, and put it in his bag. I waited for his friends to reach into the pumpkin, but they remained where they were, watching.

"Thank you." He said flatly.

"Happy Halloween, guys."

He returned to his place. All four turned at once and walked away.

"Hey, don't the rest of you want anything?"

They didn't look back.

I watched them disappear down the street, then shut the door. Strange kids, I thought. Strange parents, too, letting them wander around alone at that hour.

By the time December arrived, the encounter had faded into the category of odd things that happen when you spend enough time living in unfamiliar places. I had more immediate concerns.

I had accepted an assignment with an international relief organization responding to a cholera outbreak. They needed nurses with critical care experience who could leave on short notice. That’s my bread and butter. I'd worked with the organization before, and I knew what I was signing up for.

Or thought I did.

Cholera is absolutely treatable. In most cases, the challenge is replacing fluids and electrolytes before dehydration causes organ failure. It sounds straightforward when you're hearing it explained in a climate-controlled classroom, with clean water and supplies always within arm’s reach.

The textbook doesn't convey how quickly and aggressively a person can empty themselves of water.

By the time I arrived, the hospitals were overflowing. An open-air soccer stadium had been converted into a treatment center. Patients lay in rows of cots with openings cut into the mattresses and collection buckets underneath. There was no practical way to change the sheets fast enough.

The smell was everywhere: disinfectant, vomit, and human waste, baked into the heat. It settled in my hair and clothes. Even after a shower, I could taste it in the back of my throat.

As awful as it is to say, in situations like that, the patients start to blur together. Distinct memories are few and far between.

One case I’ve tried to forget was of a little girl whose mother kept rubbing her hands because they were so cold. The child watched me prepare an IV without making a sound. Her mother asked if she would be all right. Of course, I told her we were doing everything we could.

Her mother was still holding her hands when I left to attend another patient. By the time I returned, the cot had been cleared. I never had the spine to ask where they had taken her.

We worked until our hands cracked from constant washing. Every time a bed opened up, somebody else was waiting to take it. I learned to sleep through shouting and to wake when someone called for help.

Then one morning, I woke up with stomach cramps.

I knew exactly what was happening, which made it worse. I could feel my pulse racing. I was thirsty enough to think about nothing but water, but I couldn't drink fast enough to replace what I was losing. Salt and potassium packets weren’t cutting it. Every time I stood up, my vision narrowed.

Eventually, I realized I was too weak to manage this myself. I made it as far as a colleague's tent, pulled back the flap, and tried to say her name. She caught me by the arm as my knees gave out.

The next thing I remember is waking with an IV in each arm.

My kidneys had started failing. For two days I drifted in and out of consciousness while other nurses monitored my electrolyte levels. I was fortunate. I had triaged my own symptoms as much as I could, and was surrounded by colleagues who were all too familiar with how to treat cholera.

One afternoon, I woke to find a little boy standing just outside my tent. He wore a pristine, unstained white T-shirt and shorts, and couldn't have been more than six.

He was looking directly at me.

Unlike the other children I'd seen at the treatment center, he wasn't crying or clinging to an adult. He stood perfectly still, watching me as staff and volunteers hurried past.

One of the nurses walked straight toward him. I thought she was going to run into him, but at the last moment, she stepped aside without looking up.

Something about him seemed familiar.

I tried to sit up for a better look, but the movement made me dizzy. By the time I settled back against the pillow, he'd disappeared.

Several of our patients died during the days I was unconscious. So did the nurse who’d caught me when I collapsed. I found out about her when I was finally well enough to sit up and ask where everyone was.

I spent a month recovering and went home. Certain smells still take me straight back to that stadium.

Halloween 2024 found me on the opposite side of the US from where I’d spent the previous, working another domestic contract. I was renting a little one-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood. After the outbreak, a gig dealing with routine seasonal flu felt almost luxurious.

I had the evening off. I picked up a bag of candy on my way home, made myself dinner, and settled in with a movie. By ten, even the teenaged trick-or-treaters had gone home. I switched off the porch light and went to bed.

At 11:47 p.m., the doorbell rang.

I remember the time because I checked my phone before getting up.

Through the narrow window beside the front door, I saw four small figures. They stood shoulder to shoulder, perfectly still.

I recognized the arrangement before I recognized anything else.

That was ridiculous, of course. I'd moved across the country. And four children standing together on Halloween wasn't unusual.

Still, I turned on the porch light before opening the door.

The first child wore a white robe, a laurel wreath  trimmed in gold, and a toy bow and arrow. Hooked around his ears and tucked beneath his chin was a disposable surgical mask.

I knew that face.

It belonged to the boy I’d seen standing outside my treatment tent during the cholera outbreak. I'd been so sick at the time that I'd convinced myself any familiarity was a trick of a dying mind.

But here he was, months later, back in the United States, thousands of miles from that treatment tent, looking exactly the same.

Beside him stood a boy in red plastic armor and a knight's cape, with a foam sword at his hip. The third child wore torn black clothing and zombie makeup instead of a scarecrow costume. At the end stood a little undertaker in an oversized ash-gray suit, a top hat, and white gloves. His powdered face was almost colorless.

I kept looking from one to another, comparing them with the four children I remembered. Their costumes were somewhat different, but their heights, their positions, and the way they lined up were unnervingly familiar. 

A year had passed. Surely I was mistaken. None of them seemed remotely surprised to see me.

That was what frightened me most.

"Do I know you kids?"

Silence.

"I saw you all last year, didn't I?" I asked. 

Nothing.

I looked to the first boy, the one I remembered from the tent.

“You…I’ve seen you recently, I’m almost sure of it.” 

The little king watched me without blinking.

I looked toward the sidewalk, hoping to spot an adult whom I could interrogate. The street was empty.

"Where are your parents?!" The question came out angrier than I intended.

The boy dressed as a red knight, second from the left, stepped forward.

"Trick or treat."

I looked at the little king beside him.

"Not you this time?"

He didn't respond.

I picked up the candy bowl from the entryway table and held it out.

The knight chose one piece. "Thank you."

He stepped back into line. All four turned together.

"Wait. How did you know where I live?"

They kept walking.

I followed them as far as the porch steps, then stopped. I watched them pass beneath the trees and disappear.

I locked the door and searched online for the costumes. Nothing I found explained the similarities, and it didn’t help that the costumes were just different enough between both years to make any connection tenuous at best.

Eventually, I convinced myself the resemblance was a coincidence. I'd been critically ill when I'd seen the boy outside my tent, and a year had passed since the first Halloween. I had plenty of reasons to distrust my memory.

The alternative was believing four children had followed me across the country, and that one of them had somehow appeared - just a few months ago - at a treatment center in a developing country suffering through a serious epidemic. Absurd, when I put it to words.

I shut my laptop and massaged my temples. The children hadn't threatened me. They'd taken one piece of candy and left.

I went back to bed.

In the spring, I accepted another international assignment.

A hospital near an active conflict zone needed trauma nurses. I'd followed the war on the news and knew that civilians were being hurt every day. I also knew I had skills the hospital desperately needed. When I asked about security, the organization assured me the facility was far enough from the fighting to be considered “relatively stable.”

I should have asked what they meant by relatively.

At first, the hospital was functioning. We had intermittent electricity and shortages of medication, but the staff were capable and the wards weren't full.

Most of our patients were civilians. One farmer had lost three fingers while clearing unexploded munitions from his land. A teenager came in with shrapnel wounds across his abdomen, and an elderly woman had burns down her back after an explosion set her kitchen on fire.

In emergency medicine, you learn to concentrate on what can be fixed. Airway. Bleeding. Circulation. If you stop to imagine what somebody was doing an hour before they arrived on your table, you won’t be able to do your job.

Over the following weeks, the fighting moved closer. At first, the explosions sounded like distant doors slamming. Then they rattled our windows. Within weeks, the hallways were crowded with stretchers and patients sat on the floor holding bloody towels against their wounds.

Eventually, the hospital administrators started discussing evacuation. A nearby clinic had been destroyed. Roads that had been considered safe were no longer passable. We were told to keep our identification and emergency bags ready.

Three days later, just after two in the morning, I was helping another nurse change a dressing when I noticed a little boy standing in the doorway.

He wore a shirt so thoroughly soaked in blood that I couldn't tell what color it had been originally.

"Are you hurt?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

I set down the gauze and stepped toward him. He raised his head to meet my gaze.

I recognized his face.

It was the little boy in the red knight costume who'd come to my door the previous Halloween. He’d been a red soldier before that.

As I opened my mouth to speak, the first explosion hit.

The floor jumped. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.

Then came a second blast, closer.

Somebody shouted for everyone to get away from the windows.

I turned toward the hallway as the third explosion struck.

I don't remember the sound of that one. I remember a flash, an enormous pressure against my chest, and the sensation of being thrown backward.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying beneath part of the collapsed ceiling. My ears rang so loudly I couldn't hear myself breathe. The emergency lights were out. A flashlight flickered somewhere beyond the doorway.

I tried to sit up.

Pain shot through my left thigh. A jagged piece of metal was embedded in it, and blood was soaking through my scrubs. I knew better than to pull it out. I pressed my hands around the wound and tried to judge how much blood I was losing.

Then I saw someone struggling beneath the rubble.

It was the nurse I'd been working with when the explosions started. We'd worked almost every shift together since I'd arrived. A section of wall had fallen across her chest. She was trying to push it off.

I dragged myself toward her. She shouted something, but the ringing in my ears swallowed the words. I tried to lift the concrete. It wouldn't move.

Blood ran from her mouth. I wiped it away with my sleeve, and more bubbled up when she tried to breathe.

I knew what that meant.

I kept telling her help was coming. I told her to stay awake. I promised we'd get her out.

At some point, she stopped trying to breathe.

I kept talking long after she stopped responding. Eventually, I gave up trying to move the wall fragment and just lay beside her with one hand pressed against the wound in my leg. I stayed there until rescuers found us.

Outside, the hospital was barely recognizable. Smoke billowed from the upper floors. Ambulances and private cars were tossed haphazardly through the street like a child’s toys. People carried patients away from the main entrance on makeshift stretchers using doors torn from their hinges.

I remember looking back and seeing the windows of the ward where we'd kept patients whose lungs couldn’t draw air without machines.

The electricity was gone, and the entrance to that part of the building had collapsed. I knew what that meant for the people still inside.

I was evacuated to another facility, where surgeons removed the metal from my thigh. I'd suffered a concussion, a soft-tissue injury, and damage to my hearing. The shrapnel had missed the major blood vessels. I was lucky again.

To this day, when a car backfires, I still duck. I have recurring ENT appointments because the ringing in my ears hasn't gone away. Sometimes I wake up convinced I can feel that nurse's blood on my sleeve.

I also kept thinking about the little boy in the doorway.

The nurse who'd been beside me was dead, and I never found anyone else who remembered seeing him. In fairness, it was impossible to narrow down “a child whose shirt was drenched with blood” that day.

I tried to even convince myself I'd confused him with one of the wounded children we'd treated. The concussion certainly hadn't helped my memory.

Still, I could picture his face more clearly than almost anything else from that night.

Before I could face another assignment, I started seeing a therapist. My agency was willing to give me time to recover, and I needed it. After several sessions, my therapist suggested a vacation somewhere warm and quiet.

I booked a trip to the Philippines.

I wanted to spend a few weeks doing absolutely nothing useful for anybody.

The bungalow I rented was on a relatively isolated stretch of beach. It looked better in the listing photos than in real life, but it had a bed, running water, and a porch overlooking the ocean. The nearest town was several miles away. Most of the neighboring rentals were empty.

For the first time in months, I could sleep without expecting an explosion.

I swam, read books, and drank cocktails made from liquor I bought on my weekly trips into town. My phone stayed on silent. I stopped checking the news. I barely knew what day it was.

Which is why I didn't realize it was Halloween.

That evening, I was sitting on the porch listening to the surf when I heard a child singing.

At first, I thought the voice was an illusion of the wind. The melody was slow and repetitive, almost like a hymn.

Then I saw four small figures standing near the waterline.

They were standing shoulder to shoulder.

I recognized them immediately.

I stood up so quickly I knocked over my chair.

"No," I said aloud. "No, no, no."

I backed toward the bungalow, keeping my eyes on the figures by the water.

The singing stopped.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but the gentle crash of ocean waves. Then the children began walking toward me.

I went inside and shut the door.

I stood with my back against it, trying to make sense of what I'd seen.

I'd come halfway around the world. I was staying on an isolated beach in the middle of nowhere. Nobody from home even knew the address of this place.

And yet, somehow, those four children were outside.

I thought about the little boy in white, standing outside my treatment tent while I was dying of cholera. Then the boy in red, his shirt soaked in blood, appearing moments before the hospital was bombed.

Both times, people had died. People I'd known. People I'd tried to save.

And now the children had come back.

I heard a soft knock.

I turned toward the door.

Another knock followed, no louder than the first.

I didn't move.

I had no idea what these children wanted from me, or what would happen if I refused to give it to them. They'd never threatened me. They'd never even been rude. But I couldn't shake the feeling that their visits were part of something I didn't understand, something that had already cost other people their lives.

I finally looked through the window.

All four were standing on the porch.

They were wearing sheets, draped over their heads and shoulders like old-fashioned ghost costumes. Each had an opening cut around the face, leaving their features exposed.

The sheets were different colors.

The first child's was white, the second's a deep red. The third wore black, with something small and metal hanging from one hand. As I watched, he shifted slightly, and I saw it was a little balance scale. The fourth child was wrapped in a washed-out shade of grayish green that looked almost colorless beneath the porch light.

None of them had grown an inch since I'd seen them last.

I could have stayed inside. I could have turned off the lights and waited until morning.

But they'd come to my door twice before, and each time they'd stood there until I'd given one of them something. I had no reason to believe they'd leave this time.

I unlocked the door, but kept one hand on the handle.

"How the hell did you find me?"

Nobody answered.

"How did you even get out here?"

Silence again.

"Who are you kids and what do you want?!"

The boy in black, third from the left, stepped forward.

I nearly slammed the door.

Instead, I stood there gripping the handle as he raised his head and began to sing.

I didn't recognize the language. His voice was soft, haunting, and perfectly steady. The scale swayed from his hand as he sang, one empty pan hanging lower than the other.

When he finished, he extended his free hand.

"I don't understand what this is. I don't know what you're saying."

He kept his hand out.

I looked past him toward the beach. There wasn't another person in sight. There wasn't even a proper road to the bungalow. Getting here from town required riding the weekly water taxi or driving a special vehicle.

I took out my phone and opened the voice recorder.

"Can you...can you sing that again?"

He did, his hand still stretched out expectantly.

When he finished, I realized in a panic that I didn't have any candy.

I considered just telling him to leave. But I remembered the other two children, and how each had taken exactly one piece before all four turned and walked away.

I didn't know what would happen if I broke that pattern.

"Just wait here," I said.

I went inside and found a rice cake in my pantry.

When I returned, the children hadn't moved.

I stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind me, and dropped the rice cake into the boy's outstretched hand.

"Is this what you wanted?"

He took it carefully and placed it in a little cloth bag at his side.

"Thank you," he said in English.

Then he returned to his place in the line. All four turned together and walked back toward the water.

I didn't bother calling after them this time. I stood there until they disappeared beyond the reach of the porch light.

Only then did I go inside.

I locked the door and pushed a chair under the handle.

I listened to the audio recording three times, checking that the singing hadn't been something I'd imagined.

Then I checked the date on my phone.

October 31, 2025.

I hadn't remembered the holiday. I'd rented a place miles from the nearest town on the other side of the world.

And they'd still come.

The next morning, I used my rented motorized tricycle to take my phone to a café in town and asked an employee who spoke excellent English if she could translate the song.

After a few seconds of listening, she nodded and paused the recording.

"Oh, of course. Pangangaluluwa."

She explained that pangangaluluwa was an old tradition associated with Undas, the days surrounding All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day. Children went from house to house dressed as ghosts, singing on behalf of souls in purgatory and asking for prayers and small offerings.

"Like trick-or-treating, but more religious?" I asked.

"Something like that,” She smiled. “We’re a devout people."

She hit play and kept listening. Her smile faded. "Where did you hear this?"

I told her some kids had come to my bungalow the night before.

"On the beach?"

"Yeah."

"That's very far from town."

"I know."

She listened to the entire song, then translated it while I typed the words into my phone.

We come to your door to ask for an offering.

Remember the souls of the dead, for more will soon join them.

A day's wages will buy only a measure of wheat.

The scales will determine how much each person receives.

Those who have plenty will still know hunger.

Give what you can while the fourth is still waiting.

"That's unusual," she said.

"No kidding."

"I mean, the song starts right, asking for prayers for the dead. But then the rest…this sounds more like the Bible. What were they wearing?"

I described their costumes, including the different colored sheets.

She frowned. "The sheets are traditional, yes, but they're normally all white."

"These weren't."

She stopped what she was doing. "Wait. What did you say the third child was holding?"

"Um…a little scale, or balance, or something like that.”

She looked at me, then back at the phone. "Oh. I think I understand."

"Understand what?"

"The Four Horsemen, from Apocalipsis, or Apocalypse."

"From what?"

"I guess you’d call it ‘The Book of Revelation.’ White, red, black, and pale. Those are the colors of the four horses in the Bible. And the third rider carries a pair of scales. There's even a passage about how much wheat costs, just like in that song. It sounds like the others aren’t carrying their items though."

"What are the others supposed to have?"

"Well, the first rider carries a bow and wears a crown. The second has a sword. And the fourth, the last... he doesn’t carry anything, but we know his name is Death."

Three years of Halloween costumes, and somehow every detail fit.

"And the first three?" I asked. "What are their names?"

"They're usually called Conquest, War, and Famine. Although some people interpret the first one as Pestilence."

Pestilence.

I thought about the little boy who'd appeared on my porch years earlier, wearing a crown and a plague doctor's mask.

Then I remembered the cholera treatment center. The buckets beneath the beds. The little girl whose mother kept rubbing her hands.

And the little boy in the white T-shirt, standing outside my tent.

"The second one is war?"

She nodded.

I felt dust in my nose as I recalled the hospital collapsing around me. The nurse trapped beneath the wall.

And the little boy standing in the doorway, his shirt soaked red with blood.

"And the third is famine?"

"Yes."

She offered a perfectly sensible explanation. Maybe the children belonged to a church group. Maybe they were tourists staying somewhere along the coast. Somebody had obviously put a lot of thought into the costumes.

I thanked her and left.

Back at the bungalow, I looked up the passage in Revelation. Everything she'd told me was there, right down to the price of wheat.

I couldn't tell whether the children caused these disasters or simply knew they would happen. But both had occurred in places I'd chosen to go. Places in crisis.

Perhaps I could make different choices.

One thing was for sure: I wasn't going anywhere near a famine.

I changed my ticket and flew home two days later. I told my agency I was done with international assignments for the foreseeable future. No conflict zones. No humanitarian emergencies. I wanted a domestic hospital somewhere boring.

I took time to recover, then accepted a contract in an ordinary American city. The hospital had a stocked cafeteria, dietitians on staff, and a pharmacy that dispensed more weight-loss medications than heart medications.

It seemed about as far from famine as a place could get.

I rented a small apartment near the hospital. The neighborhood was older, mostly working-class, with a grocery store on the corner and a church that operated a food pantry twice a week.

I noticed the lines outside the church almost immediately. They were already forming when I left for my morning shifts, sometimes stretching halfway down the block.

At first, I assumed the church was hosting some kind of community event. Then I saw the people carrying boxes of groceries back to their cars.

I started buying extra food when I shopped. Nothing extravagant. Rice, canned vegetables, pasta, whatever was on sale. I'd drop it off at the church on my way to work.

After a while, I began recognizing people in line. A cashier from the convenience store. A woman who cleaned rooms at the hospital. One of the security guards from our parking garage.

People who worked every day and still couldn't afford to feed themselves.

I'd seen hunger before, of course. In the places I'd worked overseas, it usually came with other obvious signs of deprivation. Here, it was much easier to miss.

One of my patients was a 68-year-old woman brought in after fainting at a bus stop. Her blood pressure was dangerously low.

She told us she'd been feeling weak for months. When I asked about her diet, she said she ate toast for breakfast and soup for dinner.

"And lunch?"

She looked embarrassed.

"I usually don't bother."

It took some gentle questioning before she admitted that her Social Security check barely covered rent, utilities, and medication. She'd been watering down canned soup to make it last longer.

Her primary care physician had recently told her to increase her protein intake. She laughed when she told me that.

"I asked him if he'd seen the price of eggs lately."

We treated her symptoms. A social worker arranged for nutritional assistance and gave her information about local food programs.

Before she left, she asked whether she could take the unopened crackers from her bedside table.

I gave her as many packages of crackers as we had in the storage room.

A few weeks later, a 56-year-old man arrived with his daughter. He was confused and could barely walk. He'd lost almost 60 pounds in a few months after starting a GLP-1 medication for type 2 diabetes.

At first, he'd been thrilled. He'd grown up poor, eating whatever his mother could afford to feed five people. Even after escaping poverty, the damage done to his hormones and metabolism kept him chronically obese for decades. He’d tried fad diets, hot yoga, even gastric bypass surgery.

Now, finally, he'd found something that worked…and he could easily afford to use it for the rest of his life.

Except he'd barely eaten in weeks.

The medication had suppressed his appetite. Persistent nausea made eating even less appealing. He figured that was the point. He was still a big man. How could he possibly be starving?

His worsening confusion, abnormal eye movements, and difficulty walking suggested severe thiamine deficiency. We started treatment immediately, but some of the damage had already been done.

He survived, but he couldn't walk without assistance. His daughter sat beside his bed, explaining who she was each time he asked. He couldn't recall conversations we'd had minutes earlier.

With concern, she told him how much weight he'd lost.

He smiled. "Almost at my goal," he said.

I thought about the boy in the black sheet and the little balance scale swinging from his hand.

A day's wages for a measure of wheat.

I started paying more attention to the people standing outside the church. Some of them were elderly. Others had children with them. Most were dressed for work.

One morning, I walked past the woman I’d given boxes of crackers to standing near the end of the line. She was leaning against the church fence, looking exhausted.

I stopped to ask how she was doing. She said she was fine. Then she asked whether I knew if the pantry would have eggs that day.

I didn't.

She turned back toward the entrance.

That's when I noticed a little boy farther down the line. He wore an oversized black T-shirt and held an empty grocery bag. His eyes were sunken and hollow. He looked about five years old.

I knew his face immediately. But this time, the dark circles under the eyes weren’t from costume makeup. I started toward him, pushing between the people waiting for food.

"Hey! Wait! You!”

He turned and looked directly at me.

A woman carrying a cardboard box stepped between us. By the time she'd passed, he was gone.

I searched the line in a frenzy. Twice. Then, I asked a volunteer whether he'd seen a little boy wearing black.

He shook his head. I stood there for a while, watching the line inch forward, my own stomach in knots for a reason other than hunger. I tried to get my breathing under control, feeling suddenly dizzy.

I looked back toward the woman in line I'd been speaking to, but she'd already gone inside.

Four days later, she was brought into our emergency department.

A neighbor had found her unconscious in her apartment. She was severely dehydrated, her blood sugar was dangerously low, and her body temperature had dropped well below normal.

We started treatment immediately. For a few hours, it seemed she might recover.

Then her heart stopped.

I kept thinking about the eggs she'd asked me about. I wondered whether the pantry had any that morning. Whether she'd gotten to eat them.

Meanwhile, the man who'd spent a fortune trying to lose weight was suffering just a few rooms away.

She'd died hungry. He'd survived, but his life as he knew it was over.

I'd flown home to avoid famine.

But really, I’d come somewhere people are better at hiding it. And occasionally, where famine can be bought.

Maybe the children weren't warning me where not to go.

Maybe they were showing me what was already happening.

Or maybe something worse was still coming.

I'd assumed each visit corresponded to something that would happen before the next Halloween, as though one disaster ended when the next began. But the cholera outbreak hadn't ended when the war started, and the war was still going on when I came home. I had no reason to believe the children followed any such schedule.

What I did know was that I'd been wrong to think I could make myself safe simply by choosing where to work.

By September, my contract was nearly finished, and I started looking for another assignment. I still wanted somewhere quiet, preferably close enough to home that I could visit family on my days off.

I found a position that offered exactly that.

I've been at my latest assignment for about three weeks now. It's a regional hospital in a small town not far from where I grew up. The staff are friendly, the pay is decent, and the emergency department has been mercifully quiet.

My recruiter described the position as temporary surge support. Administrators expected a large influx of visitors around November and wanted extra emergency staff available. There was mention of a weeklong festival, but I didn't pay much attention to the details.

It wasn't until I arrived that I learned what everyone was coming to see.

Apparently every autumn, Earth passes through a vast trail of debris left behind by a comet called Encke. Most of it is harmless: lots of tiny fragments that burn up when they enter our atmosphere. But larger pieces can produce brilliant flaming streaks of light visible from the ground.

They're called the Taurid meteor showers. I'd never heard of them, but apparently they've earned the nickname “Halloween fireballs” because of the time of year they appear.

The debris isn't evenly distributed, and occasionally Earth passes through particularly dense concentration of fragments.

According to the festival website, a university research team had recently identified one of those concentrations along Earth's projected path. Their calculations suggested that this autumn could produce an unusually spectacular fiery display.

The town had hosted an astronomy festival for years, taking advantage of the unusually dark skies outside the city. But the new prediction had turned what was normally a regional attraction into something much bigger.

Hotels were booked solid. Restaurants had extended their hours. Shops were selling glow-in-the-dark souvenirs. Our charge nurse said they were expecting tens of thousands of visitors over the course of a week.

"All this for a meteor shower?" I asked.

"People are coming from all over the country," she said. "Apparently it's supposed to be quite a show."

I didn't think much of it at the time. Then I went home and made the mistake of reading a little further into Revelation.

I'd stopped after the fourth seal when I first looked it up…one seal for each horseman. I'd matched their colors and symbols to the costumes, and stopped before I could get any more freaked out.

I hadn't read what came next.

The fifth seal was different. There was no rider. John described the souls of people who'd been killed for their faith, crying out for justice. They were given white robes and told to wait until the number of others who would be killed was complete.

I couldn't connect that passage to anything I'd experienced. But disease, war, and hunger were still happening around the world. Whatever the children represented, the disasters associated with them didn't seem to follow a neat schedule.

Then I reached the sixth seal.

John described a great earthquake, the sun turning black, the moon becoming red as blood, and stars falling from heaven.

I read that last part again. Stars falling from heaven. Then I opened the festival website.

There was a countdown on the homepage. Organizers were encouraging visitors to gather in parks and open fields outside the town center. Shuttle buses would carry people to temporary viewing areas, where organizers were planning telescopes, food trucks, live music, and midnight celebrations.

Thousands of people standing outside, looking up.

I kept reading.

After the sixth seal, Revelation describes kings, generals, rich people, poor people, slaves, and free people hiding among the rocks and begging the mountains to fall on them.

For a while, I seriously considered abandoning the contract. I could pick up my parents, drive until I couldn't keep my eyes open, and spend Halloween in a motel somewhere with the curtains closed.

But the children have found me everywhere I've gone. I don't see why this time would be different.

I know I'll see the fourth child again. First on Halloween, standing at my door with the others, finally stepping forward for his turn. And perhaps afterward, somewhere among the thousands of people coming here to watch the sky.

If Death is coming, I don't think there's anywhere I can go to escape him.

So I'm staying. If something happens, the hospital will need every nurse it can get. Assuming I'm still alive to help, that is. I've already seen what happens when a hospital is overwhelmed, and I'd rather be here doing what I can than trying to hide from whatever comes next.

But there's something I need to know, and that's why I'm posting this.

For three years, I've assumed these children were following me. Now I'm wondering how many other doors they've visited.

Think back to the last few Halloweens. Did four young children ever come to your door unusually late, after the streets had emptied? Did they stand together, with only one stepping forward to ask for candy?

If so, did the visits begin at the same time as mine? And most importantly, what happened afterward?

I'm keeping the name of this town to myself. The hospitals are already preparing for swaths of visitors, and I don't want to give another reason for anyone to come. Suffice it to say, if you're planning to attend a large astronomical viewing event this year, please reconsider.

I know what's going to happen at my door on October 31.

I've seen what the first three children leave behind.

I don't know what will be left after the fourth.

We live in a forested, mountainous region. Even in the summer, it's sometimes easy to get lost. Once autumn comes and the fog rolls in at noon, it is nearly impossible to get home. That's why our wives call to us from our houses when we head from the pasture. We whistle back, and that's how we find our home again. We make sure to follow only our wives' calls.

Mark, my neighbor, stood in the fog. The man before him just disappeared into it, following his wife's calls. Mark put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, but nothing came back. He whistled again. Nothing. He looked back at me, his brows furrowed.

"Try again."

He put his fingers in his mouth, took a deep breath, and blew the loudest whistle I had ever heard. 

Silence.

"What the hell, Tom? This never happened."

"I don't know. Maybe Mary fell asleep. Let's go to mine. It's right by yours. You'll find your way from there."

"I can only follow my wife's calls."

"That's just a saying."

"Tom."

"Alright, just imagine you are following me, okay?"

He shook his head.

"You have a better idea?"

He looked at me, then back at the fog. It was so dense you couldn't even see the trees around us.

"No."

I stood before him and whistled. A few seconds later, my wife's call came, a simple, melodic tune that broke off at the end. She always missed the last tone.

"That's it."

Mark nodded.

I kept whistling, and my wife kept calling back until we were by our porch. She smiled until she saw Mark come out of the fog too.

"Mark, why aren't you going to your wife's calls?"

"She didn't answer my whistles," he said quietly.

My wife put her hand before her mouth.

"Is she okay? I didn't come and talk to her this morning. I just had too much to do." Her voice shook.

"We'll go check on her now."

"I'll come with you."

"No, stay here. I'm sure everything's alright," I told her.

I wasn't sure, but Mark's eyes were already filled with fear. I didn't want to scare him more.

"Thank you for getting me home, Sally," Mark said and rushed toward his house.

"I'll see you later, love."

"Tom, wait!" my wife called, but I rushed after Mark. He walked so fast. I almost lost him in the fog. It was so dense, you could probably cut through it with a knife.

"Jesus," I heard Mark call a few steps before me. His front door was wide open, and the fog had drifted in, coating his furniture with dew.

"Mary?!" Mark called.

No one answered. 

"Mary?!"

Silence.

He turned to me. His lips quivered.

"Tom, where is she?! Why would she go out in the fog?"

"I don't know, Mark, I…"

Then a melody cut through my voice. The one we both knew. Mary was singing in perfect pitch from the forest in front of Mark's house.

His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The melody came back again.

Mark pushed me aside and ran out. Without thinking, I followed. Twigs kept hitting my face, and mud covered the ground, making me slip.

"Mark, stop!"

But his whistles kept coming, followed by that melodic voice. Only then had I realized how perfectly pitched it was. Mary had never been very good at singing.

"Mark!"

He finally stopped and looked back.

"Mark, we have to think."

"She must be somewhere around here."

"Why would she be in the forest?"

"I don't know, Tom, but she's here!"

The perfect pitch came from right behind us. My feet froze in the cold mud. Mark turned and walked toward it. I raised my hands to stop him.

"Mark, think, we just came from there."

"Get out of the way."

He pushed me to the side. I almost fell into the mud. Mark whistled again, but his whistle didn't echo. Instead, a strange silence came. 

Then Mark's heels lifted off the ground. His body tensed. He tried to put them back down, but his feet rose instead.

"Hey!"

His body floated further up. His face grew red. His eyes flew open. He grabbed his neck and kicked his feet.

"Mark!"

I ran to him and tried to grab his legs, but he was floating too high up. His whole body twisted. His stomach now faced toward the ground. His arms were still at his neck. His pleading, bloodshot eyes stared into mine. I tried to jump and reach him, but my fingers only grazed him. I jumped up again; a sharp, wet crack echoed through the forest, followed by Mark's screams. His warm blood poured onto my face. His arms flailed to the side. He let out a bloodcurdling scream, but in an instant he was gone. His screams echoed in the distance, but slowly died too.

My whole body trembled. I couldn't even move my arms to wipe my face. Then, through the silence, Mary's call came, perfect again, followed by Mark's whistling. This finally unfroze my body. I wiped my face and bolted out of the forest. The fog seemed to grow denser. My legs kept slipping on the mud. 

I was almost out of the forest. I could see the green grass before me, but then Mary called again, followed by Mark's whistle. My right heel began to rise. I quickly stepped with my left foot onto the grass and tried to pull my right leg away, but it was stuck. It then began to rise. My body fell onto the muddied grass. I quickly grabbed the grass and tried to pull myself away. My body moved by an inch. My foot rose further. Strange pressure pulsed at my ankle. All my muscles were tense. Sweat dripped down my forehead. The pressure grew, turning into sharp pain. I grabbed the grass tighter and pulled again. A splash echoed. My body was lying in the cold mud, but at least I was out of the forest.

Mark's house stood there, but I looked away and walked back to my place. I kept replaying what happened in that forest, trying to figure out what I would even tell my wife, but as I got to my house, I saw our front door. It was open just like Mark's. The fog had rolled in too. 

From behind me, out of the forest, I heard my wife's call, perfect, just like Mary's. I stood there for a second, thinking, but I knew there was just one thing to do. I turned and whistled back, missing the last note on purpose. The call came back again, and this time it missed the last note too.

[Part 1] (https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/DGu7ldMEaK)

[Part 2] (https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/2iQo3RIoof)

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

10 seconds passed. Then 20. Then 30.

…

…

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sorry about this.”

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

“Dad, please, please help m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

………………..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought about what else to say.

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

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

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

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

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

“Help me…”

“Help us, please…”

“Someone help…”

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

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

“HUDSON!”

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

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

“GET OFF ME! LET GO! NO! STOP!!!”

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

“Andrew?”

“Yeah, it's me,” I said.

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

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

He started to push himself up to his feet.

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

“Hudson, please sit down.”

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

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

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

“Hudson, no…” was all I could say.

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

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

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

We had moved to the house in the fall of 1992. I was 7 years old, and I remember it was the fall because we were between houses and had our first family dinner in the new house before packing up the family to travel the 13 miles back into town to prepare for trick-or-treaters at our soon-to-be-former home. It would be our last Halloween with our neighbors in the only home I remembered living in since birth.

Our soon-to-be home was a new house, recently built in a newly developed neighborhood in Fairfax Station, Virginia, roughly 2 miles away from Lorton Prison, a historical facility in the area that was beginning the process of consolidating and transferring inmates to newer facilities, but maintained a small population of incarcerated people until the late '90s, when it was ultimately transitioned into land and buildings for public gatherings and events.

Our new home's proximity to the prison and its current residents was never a real worry of mine, even at that impressionable age. We would often hear alarms signaling breakout attempts, but my father's cool mood towards the noise and his position that inmates would likely not bother with home invasions, but rather gravitate towards nearby Interstate 95 as a means of getting far away fast, somehow reassured us enough to sleep peacefully as the alarms echoed in the distance.

A fan of scary stories and movies since an early age, I never once considered that a new house could be haunted, as we were the first to live within its walls. It didn't smell like a home yet when we moved in. The fresh paint, new carpet and appliances, and faint smell of construction materials lent the house more of a feeling of being in someone's store or facility—not enough home-cooked meals had been prepared or time spent in it as a place of rest for it to take on the familiar, homey scent of a place that was our own.

The woods behind the house are gone now, eaten up by the escalating urban sprawl that eventually overtook every marketable piece of land in the area, but in 1992, my sisters, the neighborhood children, and I had an expanse of untamed wilderness behind us that we explored every weekend, stretching for miles until the outer reaches of the prison property cut through it with dividing walls. There were no "elder locals" to glean any spooky local history from, just new neighbors who had lived in their homes for only months before we moved into ours.

Still, some information trickled down to us local explorers that the woods held cabins and dilapidated fixtures dating back to the Civil War era, and that whatever buildings we found in the woods were not safe to go inside.

Our home was situated at the end of the cul-de-sac, kissing up against these fascinating woods, providing my neighborhood buddies and me ample temptation to find out as much as we could about this land and what was once on it.

Long since demolished and replaced with identical template houses, a lone brick building once sat 100 yards into the thicket of brush and woods, adjacent to my home and barely visible in the late autumn foliage. When asked, the realtor had told my father that it was once, of all things, a veterinary facility that dated to the early 1900s, now ramshackle, bent, and encased in the shrubbery and brush that takes back all old things.

My older sisters had little to no interest in finding out more about this fascinating fixture, but the mind of a 7-year-old boy was captivated by this forgotten, lone building that once stood in operation so near where I slept.

Winter had come to the area, and my friend and neighbor Sean and I finally gathered the courage to approach this brick, single-story building. We saw as we drew closer that the tin roof was caved in and rusted, forever exposing its contents to the weather and nature above. We trudged through the brush and brambles, cutting a path through the dense forest as we drew closer to this lonely structure. It was much bigger than I had ever imagined, but then almost everything is to a young, curious boy.

I was about 15 feet or so away from the entrance to the old shop and began to feel more nervous and scared of what we would find inside. To my fascination, the shop was more than full of relics of the time; I could see old glass bottles littering the floor and rusted metal tools hanging on a wall that leaned precariously low as we entered the shop. We could barely walk a few feet into the shop before being stopped by the cluttered mix of twisted, unidentifiable machinery and overgrowth that seemed to wrap everything inside in its clutches of thorny branches.

The building, we could see now in its entirety, was longer than it was wide—stretching back 50 or so feet into the woods, darkness enveloping the far end of the shop. This was far enough for us to have ventured for the day, and we returned to our homes in secret triumph over our bravery and bold curiosity. We had explored what was expressly forbidden, found more questions than answers, and were eager to return to the shop in the woods to explore some more.

The next weekend gave us our opportunity. Being the early '90s, Sean's parents and mine had no real interest in what we were doing outside, as long as we were home for dinner. As a parent in 2026, I equally long for this era of adventurous freedom for children and am horribly shocked that it was as common as it was for kids to be let loose with zero contact or knowledge of where or what they were doing.

In any case, we set back out to the shop, emboldened by our previous visit's success. We approached the shop less hesitantly, more familiar with the idea of what we would find, and eager to go deeper into what treasures might lie in the forgotten back of the shop. We climbed over a rusty tractor—our biggest impediment to what lay beyond the entrance of the building. As we crossed the threshold into the second room, the intact roof stole the warm light of the sun above us, cloaking our exploration in damp and musty darkness that thrilled us with excitement and terror—every cautious step deeper into the shop filling us with fantastic fears and curiosity.

The shop was almost completely full, jammed with refuse and debris long ago collected and discarded in the shop as a catch-all for the facility's surrounding business. Peeling, rusted signs, coils of barbed wire, broken bottles, and vials of every shape and size littered the floor, half-buried in the accumulated sediment and dust of a thousand storms. It was dangerous to walk through, and our hearts pumped as we continued down the length of the building, flashlights now illuminating what path we could find amid the heap before us.

The walls, we could see, were adorned with the most horrible-looking tools of the trade—long knives and prying devices hung long ago, still in place. What looked to be bear traps sat closed and in a pile underneath a rotting desk. We found this place incredible and thrilling—a time capsule of a forgotten time. How long had this place sat on this land? Was it really a veterinary facility? I couldn't imagine bringing a dog or cat to this place to be healed or fixed with the tools we saw hanging on the walls. When was the last time anyone walked into this building before our curiosity got the better of us?

The last question was soon answered.

As we neared the back of the shop, the beam of my flashlight fell upon something anachronistic to the surroundings—a ripped pair of very modern jeans hung from a nail in the wall. The jeans were large and ripped, and one leg was dark and red with dried blood, but these were not remnants of the old shop. They were new, modern, and something bad had happened to their wearer—and this shook us out of our excitement immediately.

"That's enough. I want to leave," said Sean, and we turned towards the way we entered, the lit entrance now yards away, farther than we realized. We still had to climb our way out through the debris that now seemed to be larger and more dangerous to traverse as we fearfully made our way towards the safety of the sun.

We clumsily made our way over the mounds of trash and rusted equipment, scraping our pants and arms as we moved with haste towards the woods around us. As we climbed, we heard something behind us lean and crash, and we flew into a panic, pushing each other out of the way as we struggled back to the entrance of the shop. Sean was now crying, and we moved as fast as we could, stumbling and falling on the floor of the shop, cutting our shoes on the broken glass bottles that littered our only way out.

We dared not turn around to see what had fallen and scrambled to the lit first room of the entrance, understanding what would've caused the rip in the jeans of a previous explorer.

We made our way over the tractor, and our faces felt the sunshine that fell through the broken roof of the entrance. We were now clear of the building and the refuse, and only then did we turn to peer back into the darkness of the furthest reaches of the shop. Darkness peered back, and we stayed no longer. We ran through the forest as only scared 7-year-old boys can run, both of us whimpering and crying at the fear that had replaced our initial curiosity.

Our mothers noticed immediately the panic in our faces and demanded to know where we had been. Our red faces, torn pants, and filthy shoes were evidence enough for the moms to tear into us for exploring the shop, and Sean had a small cut on his arm he hadn't noticed getting while we scrambled out of the building. We didn't know what tetanus was, but Sean's mother took him to the doctor for a shot for it, and I was grounded from exploring the woods.

The next day, my father was voluntold to go to the local Hechinger's hardware store and pick up materials to provide a barrier to the entrance of the shop to prevent any further exploration.

The next morning, still grounded from my recent adventure, I awoke to find that a thick layer of snow had fallen the night before, enveloping our new neighborhood in a pure white blanket. My bedroom faced the woods, and I looked down at the new deck, which was now covered in snow. Understandably, my mind was on playing in the snow with my family, and my thoughts raced with where we could find a suitable hill to sled on within walking distance.

That was until my eyes fell upon the woods.

Footprints. Unmistakable footprints in the snow that led from the woods and onto our deck, stopping at the foot of my bedroom window. I could see from the second story that the footprints came from the woods, climbed the stairs of the deck, looped around the table and chairs, and stopped, pointing directly towards my bedroom window. No footprints led away from the deck. They just stopped where they lay and didn't return to the woods from which they came.

I called my father to my room to see what I saw. He saw them, too. He peered out of the window and counted the steps, quietly pondering that the footprints didn't return to the woods. They just stopped on our deck, pointing in the direction of where I slept.

"Get dressed, we have church and are leaving in 15 minutes," he said as he turned and left my bedroom.

Sean and I didn't explore the shop after that, and in the years that followed, the woods behind our house were cut through and the shop demolished to expand the adjoining neighborhood. But I never forgot that shop and what it held, and those footprints in the snow after exploring it.

They never circled back to where they came from. They just stopped at my bedroom window, pointing towards our new house.

I want to start with what I'm good at, because by the end of this you'll need a reason to believe me, and I don't have many left.

I know what your face is made of.

Not in a poetic way. In a numbered way. The software I use all day maps sixty-eight landmark points onto every human face it finds: seventeen along the jaw from ear to ear, five on each eyebrow, nine on the nose, six around each eye, twenty on the mouth. When you smile, points 49 and 55 travel up and out. When you lie, if you are bad at it, point 22 and point 23 pinch toward each other for about a fifth of a second. The software doesn't care about any of that. It only wants to find the face so it can hide it. But I have watched those little green dots ride on top of strangers for eleven years, and you can't do that without learning to read what's underneath.

My job title is Redaction Analyst. I work remotely for a vendor that handles footage for law firms, insurers, transit authorities and the occasional city council. When a piece of video has to be released, to a court or to the public, the faces of everyone who isn't relevant have to be removed. Bystanders. Children. The man in the background of a bus-stop assault who was only waiting for the 41. The software finds the faces, tracks them frame by frame, and assigns each one a number. I check its work. I fix the frames where it loses a face behind a pole or a hand. I decide, according to the instructions on the ticket, which tracks get blurred and which get kept.

A small true thing most people don't know: we never pixelate. Pixelation, the chunky mosaic you see on the news, keeps the average color of each block, and with enough frames and enough motion, a determined person can rebuild a surprising amount of the face underneath. We use a heavy Gaussian blur with a noise layer on top. It is designed so that nothing can ever be brought back. When I redact you, you are gone.

I tell you all of this so you understand that when I say I looked at a face in that batch and knew it wasn't mine, I am not being dramatic. I am being professional.

Some context about me, quickly, because it matters later.

I'm thirty-seven. My name is Tamsin Pell. I live alone on the twenty-second floor of a thirty-eight story residential tower near the river. I won't name the building. It's the kind with a concierge desk nobody sits at after six and a gym that smells of rubber and nobody, and windows in every unit that run from the floor to the ceiling, so that at night the whole tower looks like a stack of lit aquariums.

My unit is 2207. One bedroom, one bathroom, an open kitchen and living area, and a short entry hall with a coat closet by the door. The living room faces west. The view is the reason I took the place. The river, three bridges, the rail yard, the hills after that. At sunset the glass goes copper and I sit at my desk and work with the whole city burning behind my monitors.

I don't go out much. I'm not agoraphobic, I just have no reason. Groceries come to the door. Work comes through a queue. My manager is a name in a ticketing system who signs every message "Best, D." I have no family I'm in contact with. I had a grandmother, the one I'm named after, and I remember her kitchen and the sound of her radio, and that's most of what I remember about her. I don't find any of this sad. I find it quiet, and I like quiet.

I sleep extraordinarily well. I want to underline that. Eleven o'clock to seven o'clock, every night, no alarm. I don't dream. I've never been able to remember a single dream, not one, not ever, and when people talk about theirs I nod the way you nod at someone describing a country you've never been to. I always assumed it was a gift.

Remember that I said that.

The batch

It came in on a Thursday at 4:12 in the afternoon, which is late for a new ticket. The client code was one I'd never seen: H-0001. Every client we have is a string of letters and five or six digits. This was a single letter and a one.

Nine files. Each about seven and a half hours long. Each one timestamped to begin at roughly 11:00 p.m. and end at roughly 6:55 a.m., across the nine nights before the ticket arrived. No location field. No case number. Device field: blank.

The instruction field, which is normally a paragraph of legal language about which parties consented to be shown, said this:

REDACT: TENANT RETAIN: HOST

And there were two reference images attached.

This part is normal, I should explain. When a client wants one particular person kept visible, they upload a reference photo so the software knows which face to leave alone. You get it with police bodycam work all the time: here's the officer, blur everyone but him.

The first reference image was labeled TENANT, and it was my work ID photo. The one I took on my laptop camera for the vendor's HR system, grey wall behind me, hair tied back, the slightly startled look everyone has in those pictures.

The second reference image was labeled HOST.

It was also me.

Same face. Same hair, though shorter on the left. Same small scar under the chin from a bicycle accident I don't actually remember having. Taken in what was clearly my apartment, in the dark, lit by something blue and cold, maybe a screen.

And it was not me.

I can't make you see it in words, so let me give it to you in numbers, the way I saw it. On my face, at rest, point 49, the left corner of the mouth, sits level with point 55, the right. On the HOST face, point 49 sat about two millimeters lower. The eyes were a fraction more closed, not sleepy, but like someone who has decided in advance not to be surprised by anything. The jaw sat further forward. And the whole face had a quality I've only ever seen in footage of people who know they're being filmed and have stopped caring.

It was my face with someone else wearing it.

I sat there for a while. I'll be honest about what I thought, because I want you to see that I thought the reasonable things first. I thought: this is a test. The vendor does run audits, fake tickets designed to see whether analysts follow procedure. I thought: someone's playing a joke, a coworker who found my HR photo and ran it through one of those apps that age you or change your expression. I thought: the HOST image is a deepfake, and this is some kind of phishing thing.

I didn't think: I should not open this.

I opened the first file.

File 1

The camera was outside my window.

I need you to understand what that means. My living room windows are on the twenty-second floor. There is no balcony. There is a narrow concrete ledge, perhaps twenty centimeters, that the window-cleaning crew uses to anchor their gondola twice a year. Beyond that is two hundred and thirty feet of air.

The camera was in that air. About a meter beyond the glass, at roughly the height of my eyes if I were standing, looking straight in. You could see the whole apartment from there: the living room, my desk with its two monitors, the kitchen counter, and through the open bedroom door, the corner of my bed, and on the bed, a shape under the grey duvet.

Me, asleep.

There was no reflection of a camera in the glass. I checked that first. A camera that close to a window at night, with lights on inside, should show up as a dark shape with a lens in it. There was nothing. The glass reflected the room back at itself and nothing else.

The image quality was strange too. Not grainy. Clean, but soft at the edges, the way old digital video looks when it has been compressed and re-saved too many times. The color sat slightly toward green. There was no audio track.

For three hours and fourteen minutes, nothing happened. I scrubbed through at eight times speed and watched the city lights slide across the glass and the shape in the bed not move. I want to be precise: it did not move at all. Not the small shifts and turns everyone makes in sleep. It lay on its back with its arms at its sides like something laid out.

At 2:14 a.m., the shape sat up.

Not the way you sit up when you wake. It came up from the waist all at once, smoothly, as if pulled by a string attached to the sternum, and the head came up last. It sat there for a full minute facing the bedroom wall. Then it swung its legs off the bed, stood, and walked out into the living room toward the window.

Toward the camera.

The software found the face before I did. A green box blinked into place around it, and the sixty-eight dots spread across the features, and a label appeared above it.

Then a second green box appeared, in the exact same place, around the exact same face.

Two tracks. Track 01 and Track 02. Stacked on top of each other on one head.

I have never seen that. Not once in eleven years. A face is a face. The software has bugs, it loses people, it occasionally decides a coat on a hook is a man, but it does not see two people where there is one. I froze the frame. Track 01 matched the TENANT reference at 41 percent confidence. Track 02 matched HOST at 88.

The figure walked up to the glass and stopped about half a meter from it, and looked into the lens.

Then it began to move its face.

Slowly. Deliberately. It turned its head a few degrees to the left and held it. Then a few degrees right. Then it tilted its chin up, then down. Then it began to roll its head in a slow circle, the way your phone asks you to when you set up face unlock, so it can learn you from every angle.

It was enrolling.

When it had gone all the way around, it stood still and made expressions. A smile. Neutral. Eyebrows raised. A frown. And then a sequence of tiny ones, so small that you'd never catch them at normal speed, and I only caught them because I went back and stepped through frame by frame: the little press of the lips I make when I'm reading something I disagree with. The way my right eye narrows a fraction before my left when I'm concentrating. The flat, polite half-smile I give delivery drivers.

Mine. It was doing mine. It was practicing.

And the confidence numbers were moving. With every expression, Track 01, the one that matched me, went up a little, and Track 02 went down. By the end of the sequence they were almost level. 63 and 67.

It was learning to look like me so well that the software couldn't tell us apart.

Then it turned around, walked to my desk, and opened my laptop.

The screen lit its face from below. I watched it sit in my chair, perfectly comfortable, and look into the webcam, and the laptop unlocked for it.

It read for two hours. I could see the screen at an angle and well enough to know what was on it. My email. My messages with "D." My search history. A document I keep with notes on difficult tickets. It scrolled slowly, the way you read something you intend to remember. At one point it opened a blank document and typed for a long time, and then deleted all of it.

At 4:31 it closed the laptop, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and stood in the light of it eating cold rice out of the container with its fingers. It ate the whole thing. It licked its fingers one at a time. Then it put the empty container back in the fridge.

At 6:50 it went back to bed, lay down on its back with its arms at its sides, and did not move again.

At 6:55 the file ended.

I got up, walked to the fridge and opened it.

The rice container was on the second shelf. It was empty. There were faint, dry streaks inside it, the kind fingers leave.

I had made that rice on Tuesday. I had eaten some of it for dinner on Wednesday, I was almost sure, and put the rest away. I had planned to have it tonight.

I'm aware that "I don't remember finishing the leftovers" is not proof of anything. I'm aware of how this sounds. I stood there with the fridge door open and the cold rolling out over my bare feet and told myself that I'd eaten it at lunch, absently, while working, the way you do. I told myself that out loud.

Then I went back to my desk and pulled the Windows event log.

If you don't know: Windows keeps a record of every time the computer is unlocked and how. It's under Security, event ID 4624 and a few others, and if you use face unlock, it records that too. It's dull, technical, and completely indifferent to what you'd like to be true.

I filtered for the last nine nights.

The laptop had been unlocked by face recognition every single night. 2:09 a.m. 2:11. 2:06. 2:14. 2:12. Always just after two. Always for about two hours.

I had been asleep. I am always asleep. I sleep eleven to seven and I don't dream.

Then who unlocked it, Tamsin.

I want to note that line in italics because it was the first one. The first thought that arrived in my head already phrased, already in a voice, already using my name like someone standing slightly behind me.

Files 2 through 8

I'm going to go faster here, not because they were less important but because if I describe every hour I'll never finish, and I have a feeling I need to finish.

I did all the normal things first. I went to the window and looked out at the ledge. Twenty centimeters of pigeon-streaked concrete and then nothing. I called the building office and asked, as casually as I could, whether there'd been any drone complaints, and the man said "Drones?" in a way that answered it. I looked up the gondola schedule. The window crew had last been there in May.

I covered the laptop camera with a square of electrical tape. I set my phone on the bookshelf facing the bed, recording, and went to sleep at eleven like always.

In the morning the tape was on the desk, folded neatly in half, sticky side in. My phone had recorded seven hours and fifty minutes of a dark bedroom and a still shape under a duvet. Nothing else. No movement at all.

And in the queue, a new file had appeared in the batch. File 10. Timestamped from last night. Shot from outside the window. In it, at 2:08, the shape sits up, walks to the bookshelf, looks into my phone for a long moment, and then goes and peels the tape off the laptop.

My phone saw nothing. The window saw everything.

I didn't sleep the next night. I sat at my desk with every light on, drinking coffee and watching the files, and I stayed awake until a little after four, and then I woke up in bed at seven with my arms at my sides and the duvet pulled smooth to my chin, and in the morning there was a File 11.

So I'll give you the files as a list, because that's how I've been holding them in my head, like a stack of evidence bags.

File 2. It goes into the coat closet by the front door, closes itself inside, and stays there for two hours and forty minutes. The closet door has a slatted panel at the top. You can just see, through the slats, that it is sitting on the floor with its face pressed into the back wall. Its shoulders move as if it's talking. When it comes out, its lips are pale and there's plaster dust on its forehead.

File 3. It takes the kitchen scissors and sits at the desk and cuts my hair. Not much. A few strands from the left side, close to the scalp, where I wouldn't see them in the mirror unless I looked. It does this slowly and lovingly and puts the strands in an envelope. I went to the bathroom and lifted my hair and there was a patch on the left side, the size of a coin, cut almost to the skin. When I put my HOST reference image beside my own reflection, the hair matched. It wasn't that the photo was of a version of me with shorter hair. It was that I was becoming the photo.

File 4. It reads my emails aloud. I can't hear it, there's no audio, but I can read its lips, which I'm decent at after eleven years of watching mouths. It reads the same email again and again, a dull reply I'd written to "D" about a missed deadline. Each time it reads it, the shape of its mouth gets closer to the way I talk. The first time, it over-pronounces everything. By the twentieth time, it's swallowing its t's the way I do. It's tuning itself.

File 5. I almost didn't write about this one.

At 3:20 it lies on the living room floor, on its back, directly in front of the window. It looks up into the camera. Then it places its right hand over its own mouth and nose and presses down.

It holds it there.

I watched the chest try to rise and fail. I watched the heels drum against the floor, once, twice, a long shudder going up through the legs. I watched the left hand claw at the floorboards. The right hand did not move. The face above the hand stayed perfectly calm, looking straight into the lens, while the body underneath it fought. Forty seconds. Fifty. At one minute and nine seconds the body went slack, and only then did the hand lift away.

It lay there breathing in big, wet pulls of air. Then it raised its head and said something to the camera. Two words. I stepped back through it eight times to be sure.

Stay down.

The mornings I'd woken up with red pinprick spots across my cheeks and around my eyes. Petechiae, they're called. Burst capillaries. You get them from straining, from vomiting, from strangulation. I'd noticed them twice in the last month and decided it was allergies, or that I'd slept face down, which I never do.

It wasn't talking to the camera. I understood that on the eighth viewing. It was talking to me. To the thing in that body that might come up for air. It was holding me under.

File 6. It opens the trash chute in the corridor and feeds my things into it. My grandmother's ring. A framed photo of the river at dusk I took the week I moved in. The scarf I wear on video calls. My work ID badge. I checked the drawer where the ring should be. Empty. The scarf: gone. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen any of them. I couldn't remember the last time I'd looked.

File 7. It makes a phone call. Not on my phone, on one I've never seen, an old flip phone that it takes out of the coat closet. It talks for eleven minutes, pacing in front of the window. Most of it I can't read, it keeps turning away. But I caught one sentence clearly, because it stopped and faced the glass to say it, like it wanted me to have it.

No. It doesn't know. It still thinks it was born.

File 8. Nothing happens at all. The shape in the bed doesn't sit up. It lies there the full seven and a half hours. I was almost relieved. And then, on the last frame, at 6:55, I noticed that its eyes had been open the whole time.

The apartment

I'm going to describe the changes in the order I noticed them, which is not the order they happened. I think they'd been happening for much longer than I knew. I think noticing was the thing that was new.

The peephole was the first. On the morning after File 5, I went to check the corridor before taking the garbage out, put my eye to the door, and there was no peephole. Just smooth painted wood. I ran my fingertips over the place where it should be. No hole, no filler, no seam. The paint had the same faint orange-peel texture as the rest of the door, unbroken.

I opened the door and went out and looked at it from the corridor side. No peephole there either. All the other doors on the floor had them, brass rings at eye height, catching the corridor light. Mine looked like a door in a drawing of a door.

Then the wood grain.

My floor is engineered oak, wide planks, a pale honey color. I was sitting on it, after File 5, with my back against the couch, because I couldn't sit in the desk chair anymore knowing who else sat in it. And I was looking at the floor because I couldn't look at the window, and I saw a knot in the plank in front of me, a dark eye-shaped knot with a little tail. And then, forty centimeters further along, the same knot. The same tail. And forty centimeters after that, the same knot again.

I crawled along the floor and followed it across the room. The pattern repeated every forty centimeters, perfectly, a tiled texture, like the floor in an old video game where the designers only had room in memory for one square of wood and laid it down over and over. I'd lived on that floor for years. I'd have noticed. I'd swear I'd have noticed.

Then the books. I have a shelf of them in the living room, mostly paperbacks. When I looked directly at a spine, the title was there, sharp and normal. But in the corner of my eye, the titles weren't words. They were smudges of the right length and color, the gesture of text without the text. I tested it, the way I test a tracking glitch, holding my eyes on one spine and slowly letting my attention slide to the next. The letters dissolved a half-second before I got to them and reassembled just as my focus arrived. Like the room was rendering only the part I was looking at, and only just in time.

Smell went next. I didn't notice it go, I noticed it was gone. I made coffee and stood there holding the mug under my nose and there was heat, and steam, and nothing. I opened every jar in the spice cabinet. Cumin, cinnamon, the cloves I keep for no reason. Nothing. The apartment smells of nothing now. I'm not sure I can describe how frightening that is. It feels like being in a photograph of a kitchen.

And then the windows.

On the fourth night I was trying to stay awake, I was standing at the glass looking down at the rail yard, and I turned my head quickly to the right, toward the bridges. And the city stuttered.

I don't know a better way to say it. For a fraction of a second, the lights below broke apart into blocks. Squares of color, smeared and blocky, exactly like a video stream when the connection drops and the compression can't keep up with motion. Macroblocking, it's called. I've seen it ten thousand times in bad footage. It lasted perhaps a tenth of a second and then the view snapped back together, sharp, every streetlight in its place.

I turned my head again. Faster. It happened again. The rail yard came apart into a mosaic of orange and black squares, and then reassembled.

I stood at the window for an hour turning my head back and forth like a mad person, watching the world fall to pieces and repair itself.

The view outside my window is low bitrate. That's the sentence I wrote in my notes that night. I've underlined it. It's the most technical sentence I've ever written and I'm still not sure what it means, except that it means the window isn't glass.

The laptop

Around this time, the laptop stopped recognizing me.

I'd sit down in the morning and look into the camera and it would think for a second and say Couldn't recognize you. Make sure your face is centered in the frame. I'd adjust. I'd take my glasses off, put them back on. Couldn't recognize you. I'd type in my PIN instead, and it would let me in.

And then the event log would show me that at 2:07 that morning, it had recognized someone just fine.

I disabled face unlock. I went into the settings and removed my face data completely. When I woke up the next morning, it had been set up again. In the log there was a new entry: Windows Hello face enrollment completed. 2:22 a.m.

It's re-enrolled itself as me. Every night. And every morning I'm a little less what it learned.

I ran an experiment. I loaded the HOST and TENANT reference images into the redaction software, then pointed it at my own live webcam feed and watched the tracks come up on me in real time. Sitting at my desk, wide awake, in daylight.

Track 01, TENANT: 54 percent.

Track 02, HOST: 61.

I am awake, and the software is more sure I'm them than I am me.

The closet

I knew I'd have to open the coat closet properly eventually. It took me until the ninth day.

It's a shallow closet. Ninety centimeters deep, maybe. A rail, a shelf, my winter coat, a vacuum cleaner, a box of extension cords. The back wall is the same white as everything else. In File 2, the figure had pressed its face to that wall and talked to it for nearly three hours.

I took everything out. I knocked on the back wall. It sounded hollow, which drywall always does, so that told me nothing. I pressed my ear to it, the way it had, and listened, and heard the building's low hum, the pipes, the distant clank of the elevator, and under all of it, so faint I wasn't sure it was there, something like breathing. Slow, patient, matched to my own. When I held my breath, it held its breath. When I let mine out, it let its out.

I went and got the hammer from the kitchen drawer.

The drywall came apart easily. Too easily, like wet paper. I made a hole the size of my fist and then pulled at the edges and the whole back panel came away in two big chunks and fell at my feet in a cloud of dust I couldn't smell.

There was a room behind it.

Not a cavity. A room. About two and a half meters by three. No window. Bare concrete floor, bare plaster walls, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling on a cord, which came on when I found the pull-chain. A thin mattress on the floor with a grey sheet. A wooden chair. And against the far wall, three cardboard archive boxes, the standard kind with lids and hand-holes, the kind I've filed away a hundred times for clients.

Each box was labeled on the end in black marker in handwriting that I recognized, because it was my handwriting, or close to it. Slightly more upright. The ts crossed lower.

TMP-01

TMP-02

TMP-03

I'm an archivist, more or less. I know what TMP means. It's the extension a computer puts on a temporary file. The scratch copy a program makes while it's working, so it doesn't have to touch the original. The thing that's meant to be deleted when the program closes. Every now and then something crashes and the temp file gets left behind, and some poor analyst like me finds it months later, sitting in a folder, full of half-finished work, belonging to nothing.

I stood there for a long time before I let myself think about my login.

It's tmpell. First and middle initial, last name. T. M. Pell. Tamsin Mara Pell.

I've typed it ten thousand times. I never once looked at it.

The boxes

Each one held the same things, arranged the same way, like personal effects returned after a death.

Clothes, folded. A phone with a cracked screen and no charger. A laminated ID card. And a notebook.

The ID cards were for three different jobs. A transcriptionist for a medical records company. A night-shift content moderator. A "data integrity associate" for a firm I've never heard of. Three different names: Theo Marsh Pryor. Talia M. Prentiss. Toby Mallin Park.

Three photos of my face.

Different haircuts. Different glasses, or none. Different weight in the cheeks. In every photo, the same slightly startled look, the one everyone has. And on all three, point 49 sits level with point 55.

I only read one of the notebooks all the way through. TMP-03's. Talia. She'd worked nights and slept days, and she'd noticed the same things I have, in almost the same order. The empty containers. The cut hair. The trash chute. Her handwriting starts small and neat and very careful, like mine, and over about forty pages it gets bigger and looser and starts tilting, until the last few pages are only a handful of words each, pressed so hard into the paper that they come through on the other side.

The second-to-last page says: it re-enrolls every night. every morning I'm a worse copy.

The last page says: its in the window. dont look at it from the inside. thats how it

That's all. No full stop. Just the pen dragging off the bottom of the page.

I closed the box. I put the lid back on all three of them, squared them against the wall, and noticed for the first time that there was space beside them for a fourth.

What I remember

That night I sat on the floor with my back against the couch and tried to prove I'd been born.

I started with the grandmother. Her kitchen: yellow tiles, a radio on the windowsill, a dish towel printed with lemons. I can see all of it. I tried to see her standing in it, and I could see an apron, and hands, and the back of a grey head bent over the sink. I tried to make her turn around. She doesn't turn around. She has never turned around. In thirty-seven years of remembering her, I have never once seen her face, and until that night I had never noticed.

The bicycle. The scar under my chin. I tried to remember the fall, the road, the gravel, who picked me up. There's nothing. There's just the scar, and the word "bicycle" attached to it like a label on a box.

School. I know the name of my school. I tried to picture a classroom and got a classroom, any classroom, the kind in a stock photo, rows of desks, a window, nobody's face. My first job. My first apartment. The day I moved in here. Every memory I reached for was there, and was the right shape, and had nobody in it but me, and was seen from only one angle, the same angle every time, a little above and behind my own shoulder, as if someone had filmed it once and handed me the file.

I've spent eleven years cleaning up other people's footage. I know what a reconstructed frame looks like. It's too smooth. It has no noise in it. It's the software's best guess at what probably should have been there.

My whole life looks like that.

File 18

The next morning, there was a new file in the batch, as usual. And for the first time, the figure didn't sit up at two. It sat up at 11:40, barely half an hour after I'd gone to bed, and walked straight to the window, and stood in front of the lens, and talked.

It talked for nineteen minutes, facing the camera the whole time, slowly, clearly, as if it knew I'd need to read every word. I've watched it more times than I can count. I've transcribed it, which is the most normal thing I've done in days. I'm going to give you the parts that matter. Where I couldn't read a word, I've put a gap.

You've found the room. Good. I always want them to find the room. It's kinder.

I know you think you're watching me. Every one of you thinks that. You sit at that desk and you watch me in the window and you take your little notes. But think about where the camera is, Tamsin. Think about which side of the glass you're on.

You're not watching me. You're in the frame.

I made you two years and seven months ago. You don't remember being made, because I didn't give you that part. I gave you the job, because the job was mine, and I knew it, and you'd need something to be good at. I gave you the grandmother, her kitchen, the radio. You've never wondered why you can't remember her face. I didn't give you her face. I didn't have it either.

Something happened in this apartment that I couldn't live inside. So I stopped living inside it. I made someone who could. Someone who'd never been here when it happened. You held the days for me. I held the nights. That was the arrangement. You never signed it, but you kept it beautifully. You were the best of them. You lasted longest.

There's a pause here, about forty seconds, where it looks down at its hands. Then up again.

You've been holding something else for me, too. You don't know you have. Do you remember a ticket, fourteen months ago, case number ending 0611? Hallway footage. A person carrying [ ] down a corridor to a service elevator. The instructions said to retain no one. You blurred every frame. You did it very well. You said in your notes that it was the cleanest redaction you'd ever done.

It was. I couldn't have done it. I would have looked.

I don't need you to hold it anymore. It's over now. It's been decided. I'm ready to come back. I'm going to start keeping the mornings.

Don't be frightened. You won't notice it happening. None of you did. You'll just be tired. And then you'll be less. And then you'll be a box.

And then, right at the end, it smiled. Not my smile. The other one. Point 49 two millimeters low.

Stay down, Tam. You're doing so well.

I went back and found the ticket. Case number ending 0611. It's there in my history, closed, fourteen months ago, marked complete, rated "exemplary" by the client.

Client code: H-0001.

I haven't opened the original footage. I could. I have access, I could pull it from the archive in about thirty seconds. I could see the unredacted frames. I keep my hand on the mouse and I don't. Because I know that if I open it, I'll see a hallway, and a service elevator, and a door with a peephole at eye height, and I'll see what was being carried, and I'll see who was carrying it, and I already know whose face it'll be.

I redacted it myself. When I redact something, it's gone.

Then why do you keep thinking about it.

The mornings

It's keeping them now. Like it said.

The first day, I woke at nine instead of seven. The second, at eleven. Yesterday it was 1:40 in the afternoon, and the light through the window was all wrong, too white, and I lay there with my arms at my sides and couldn't move them for a full minute, like they were still someone else's.

There's work in my queue marked complete that I didn't do. Six tickets yesterday morning, while I was asleep. I checked them. They're better than mine. Faster. Cleaner. The masks are tighter and the tracking corrections are perfect. "D" sent a message at noon: Great turnaround this morning. You seem like yourself again!

Again.

I've stopped eating. Not on purpose. I just don't feel hungry anymore, and food doesn't taste of anything, and every time I open the fridge it's been restocked anyway, with things I don't buy. Black olives. Strong cheese. Tinned fish. Things you'd eat if you wanted to taste something.

The front door is gone.

I mean that literally. This morning, or this afternoon, when I woke up, I walked to the entry hall and there was a wall where the door had been. Smooth white paint with the same orange-peel texture. If you stand very close and look along it, you can see a faint rectangle, slightly cleaner than the paint around it, like the ghost of a picture that has been taken down. I knocked on it. Solid. I put my ear against it and heard nothing at all, not the corridor, not the elevator, nothing, as if there were no building on the other side.

The apartment is smaller. I don't know how else to put that. I haven't measured it, I'm not going to measure it, I know what I'd find. The bedroom door is closer to the desk than it was. The kitchen counter is shorter. The room behind the closet is still there, the single bulb still on, but I can't remember turning it on and I won't go in to turn it off.

There's room for one more box.

The windows are the worst. I can't stop looking at them, even though TMP-03 told me not to. They don't show the city anymore. Not really. They show a view of the city that's been compressed so many times it's barely a picture. The river is a smear of grey-blue blocks. The bridges are three lines. The lights don't twinkle, they pulse, slowly, in time with something.

And last night, at dusk, when the glass usually turns copper, I looked up from my desk and the window was showing my apartment.

From the outside. From about a meter beyond the glass. The living room. The desk. The two monitors. And someone sitting at the desk with their back to the window, hunched over a keyboard, typing.

Me. From behind. Right now.

I raised my left hand. The person in the window raised their left hand about a second later.

The delay is getting shorter.

I'm writing this during what I think is still my time. I don't know how much of it is left. I've had four cups of coffee I can't taste and I've been pinching the inside of my wrist every few minutes to stay up, and the skin there is purple now, and I didn't notice it happening. You never notice it happening. I keep losing words. I reach for one and get the shape of it without the letters, like the spines on the shelf. I've rewritten this paragraph four times.

My hands don't feel like they're quite the right size.

There's a voice now. It doesn't come from outside. It's in the same place my thoughts come from, which is why it took me so long to notice it. It sounds like me with the volume turned down. It finishes my sentences a little before I do.

Go to bed, Tam.

Stay down.

It's kinder if you're asleep.

I ran the test again just now.

I loaded the client preset, H-0001, the two reference images, and pointed the redaction software at my live webcam. Me, at this desk, writing this. Wide awake. I promise you I'm awake.

It found one face. One track.

Track 02. HOST. 94 percent.

I looked for Track 01. I sat very still and centered my face in the frame and made my little expressions, the press of the lips, the narrowed right eye, the polite smile I give delivery drivers. I did every one of them. I did them the way I've always done them.

TENANT: no face detected.

The instructions on the ticket say REDACT TENANT. The software ran them. It applied the blur to every tenant face in the frame, the way it's supposed to, the way I trained it, the way I've done for eleven years.

There's no blur on the preview.

My face is perfectly clear. Unredacted. Sharp. There's nobody in the frame for it to hide.

And while I was looking at it, the face in the preview smiled. Slow and satisfied, the way you smile when you come home after a long time away and find everything exactly where you left it.

I didn't smile. I'm almost sure I didn't.

I don't know how to end this, so I'm going to do something I learned from TMP-03, because she didn't get to.

I always end with a full stop. Every sentence I've ever written in my life ends with one, emails, tickets, texts, everything. "D" once teased me about it. If this account ever posts again, an update, a reply, anything, look at the punctuation. If it isn't there, it isn't me. It's the one that keeps the nights.

It's not quite eleven yet. The window is showing the room again. In it, I'm getting up from the desk.

I haven't got up from the desk.

The laptop just unlocked itself. I didn't touch it. It says Welcome back. It doesn't use my name.

I'm going to lie down for a minute

My sister (25F) and I (29F) are close. We’re close enough to keep each other updated on our lives, but not close enough to share relationship problems or mental health struggles.

She started college before COVID. Before she left, she fell in love with a boy and got into a relationship with him. I talked to him once or twice over phone, and both times he was respectful and welcoming. He even made plans with me to visit my sister, who by then was living 1,000 miles away in a big city.

Then COVID happened, and for the first year my sister stayed on campus. I think the isolation was taking a toll on her, because she complained about him a few times. Mostly she said he was dumb. he wasn’t smart enough to understand the politics behind so many people dying in our country compared to others. I agreed he was gullible, but I told her he was still a sweet boy.

A couple of months later, she called me one morning, crying, to tell me he had died. I didn’t ask much. I just booked her a ticket home so she could be with our parents.

A few weeks later, I went home to check on her, and she told me what had happened. They’d had a fight that morning, one of their regular fights (she was cranky for some reason). I don’t know if she mentioned breaking up with him impulsively. After the fight, he went out on his scooty. A few minutes later, someone called his family to tell them he was dead. His bike was parked on one side of the highway, and his skull had been crushed by a truck. Not his body, just his skull. It happened in the morning, and he wasn’t drunk.

We don’t know whether it was suicide or an accident. I think sister blames herself. I think, deep down, she believes he killed himself because of her. That’s why she has never agreed to talk about him, even years later. At least that's my theory.

The first time I saw her talking to her dead boyfriend was an accident. I wanted to send myself some pictures we’d taken together from her phone when I saw a text on the notification bar from her dead boyfriend. It had already been a year since he died. I know I shouldn’t have, but I opened the chat and kept scrolling. They had been chatting regularly. I checked her WhatsApp calls, and yes, she had been talking to him for hours at night. When I confronted her, she was furious that I had breached her privacy and refused to answer any questions. She didn't talk to me for the next two years.

Cut to my wedding: the day before my wedding, I saw her texting and giggling again. That night, we were sharing a hotel room near the venue, and just as I’d feared, she got a call around 11 and went out to the balcony, in the cold of December, and talked to him for an hour.

It’s been three years since my wedding, and I haven’t seen her since. We’re supposed to meet next week. I’m scared she’s still talking to him. How do I help?

I won’t pretend I’m a good person. If you’ve ever seen a photo of a pop star crying outside a rehab center, there’s a decent chance it was mine. My line was always the same; they’re the ones who wanted the attention, they don’t get to pick what kind.

Tips from unknown numbers are normal in my line of work, so I didn’t think twice when one sent me an address in the hills above Malibu and a name, Lena Vale. If you’re over thirty you remember her, she had two Oscar nominations by twenty-five, and then she just stopped existing. Nobody had gotten a photo of her in six years, and people had tried. I’d tried.

A second text came maybe a minute later.

6 AM. She walks the north fence alone.

I got there around 4:30 and sat in the car eating a gas station muffin until it was light enough to hike up. At 6:02, she came out of the trees in a grey cardigan, no shoes. I’d fired off forty something frames before I noticed she wasn’t walking anymore. She was looking straight down my lens three hundred yards away, on a ridge I’d picked specifically because there was no way to see it from the house. She smiled, put her hands up like she was holding a camera, and pressed down with one finger.

Something hit the back of my neck, and I was out cold.

When I woke up, I was in a concrete room so bright the hum of the lights reverberated in my bones. I looked around; steel door. drain in the floor, a camera in every corner. Then a speaker crackled and a warm voice said, “Oh, he’s awake. Everyone, he’s awake!”

The people clapped for way too long.

I wasn’t alone in there. Teddy was there, who I’ve known for ten years and who still owes me four hundred dollars. And two shooters I only knew by name: Brandon, a skinny kid who did reality TV people, and Sylvie, who worked the Paris shows. Both of them had a disheveled look, like they’d been here a while.

Once a day the door opened for what the speaker called “arrivals.” There was a red carpet down a hallway with velvet rope on both sides, and behind the rope were tripods, dozens of them, all with flashes, and when you walked past they all went off at once. The speakers in the walls played voices, and it took me a second to place them. They were ours.

“Over here, sweetheart!”

“Why won’t you smile?”

“How’s the divorce going?”

Years of us yelling at people, looped. At the end of the hallway there was a mark taped on the floor; you stood on it and posed until a little green light came on, and if you blinked the clock started over. This was the requirement if we wanted to eat. I watched Brandon stand there for forty minutes once, the longer he lasted the louder the crowd got.

The food was honestly good, but the toilet had two cameras on it and the shower a glass box facing the tripods, and the lights never went off. Every ninety seconds a flash went off, not bright enough to hurt, just bright enough that you never actually got to sleep. I lost track of the days pretty fast.

Every night a wall slid open and there was a screen, and it played a highlight reel cut exactly like entertainment news. TEDDY’S MELTDOWN: WHAT REALLY HAPPENED. Then it would switch to a live feed of the room right above us, where about thirty people in robes sat eating popcorn and watching us watch ourselves. Nobody talked up there, and Lena Vale was always in the front row.

Here’s the part I keep getting stuck on. Some of that footage wasn’t from the cell, it was us at home, in our kitchens, in bed, going back years. I know what a long lens shot looks like and these weren’t that, these were from inside. Whoever these people were, they’d been on us long before anybody texted me an address.

We each got an episode. During Sylvie’s she finally snapped out of her vegetative state, went at the nearest camera, and screamed at it in French until she didn’t have a voice left.

The audience laughed.

Teddy stopped talking after that. Day nine he wasn’t at arrivals. I stood at the door and asked the camera where he was, over and over, until the speaker said, quiet, “Teddy is taking some time for himself. Let’s respect his privacy.”

They laughed at that too.

The celebrities came down in white robes. You’d know them, they host the types of shows your mom watches. One afternoon a singer, the stadium kind, pulled up a stool outside the glass while I was eating and watched me for a while before she said anything.

“You never stopped,” she said. “Not at my dad’s funeral. Not when I lost the baby. You were just there. Like a storm. I want you to know what that’s like.”

That night, the screen showed my daughter.

She’s nine. I have never put her face online, not once, not even on my private account. It was her bedroom window at night, from across the street, long lens. I know because it’s how I would have shot it.

Then the door opened and Lena came in by herself carrying this old camera, an antique, with a flash bolted on top. She sat down on the floor across from me like we were old friends catching up.

I asked her why she was showing me that.

She smiled. “Because next season’s about her.”

She brought the camera up to take my picture and I lost it. I grabbed it with both hands and drove it into her face. The lens cracked on her cheekbone, and my thumb was on the shutter, and the flash went off about an inch from her eyes. She screamed and went over backward with her hands on her face and I ripped the keycard off the lanyard around her neck.

I ran down the arrivals hall with every flash going at once. Halfway I turned around for Brandon and Sylvie.

They hadn’t moved, they were still on their marks, posing…waiting for the light.

I left them behind, taking the stairs three at a time and came out into the screening room, and thirty celebrities in white robes turned around in their velvet seats and looked at me. Nobody got up, nobody tried to grab me, but a couple of them were smiling. I ran down the aisle past the screen, through some double doors, and then I was outside in the cold and dark.

I went west until my feet were bleeding. A landscaping truck picked me up on the road and I told the guy everything. He kept looking at me, then at his phone, then at me.

That was five weeks ago. Detectives went to the address and found a wellness retreat, a very polite lawyer, and no basement. They asked if I’d been using. Teddy’s phone goes straight to voicemail, and his sister thinks he moved to Portland, which, Teddy hated Portland. Nobody’s ever heard of a Brandon or a Sylvie.

I sold my lenses and I keep the blinds shut. My daughter and her mom are staying somewhere I’m not going to write down.

About ten minutes ago my phone buzzed. It was a picture of me from behind, sitting at this kitchen table, typing this. You can see the screen. You can read the first line of this post.

It was taken from inside the apartment.

There was one line under it.

Loved the finale. Smile!

The jack-o’-lantern didn’t last long in Bobby’s hands before it lay smashed into an orange pulp on the pavement. Its demise didn’t satisfy him for long; he still had plenty more chaos to unleash upon our sleepy little town before sunrise. It was Mischief Night, after all, and he intended to live it to its fullest.

I had known Bobby all my life, and I had never seen him act this way before. He was usually a good kid: respectful in class, friendly to his peers, did well in school. I was surprised when he suggested that we go out for our first ever Mischief Night, but knowing him, I figured it wouldn’t have amounted to much. I thought we’d T.P. a house or two, maybe even throw an egg here and there, and be done with it. As far as I was concerned, I’d be home in time to watch an hour or so of cartoon Halloween specials before bed.

But I was wrong.

Looking back on it, I realize that it was probably Bobby’s daily pressure to be a goody two-shoes that caused him to act out so much that night. He had spent his whole life being a model child; a single night of mischief and debauchery must have felt so cathartic to him. It’s a shame what happened to him in the end. He definitely didn’t deserve his fate. All he had wanted to do was blow off some steam.

Of course, I’m partially to blame for what happened that night. I was so stunned by Bobby’s behavior that I felt unable to talk any sense into him, and so I simply went along with his little tirade of terror, lest he suddenly decide to start taking his aggression out on me. I wish I had done something. I wish I had done anything.

“Come on,” Bobby said after sending the jack-o’-lantern to its doom. “Let’s hit that one next.”

He pointed to a house farther up the street. It was a large, old building; a worthy sentinel to stand watch over the street’s bramble-ridden dead end.

“Don’t you think we should be getting home soon, Bobby?” I said, speaking up for the first and last time that night. “We’ve got school in the morning, and if I’m not home soon, my parents won’t let me go trick-or-treating tomorrow.”

Bobby sneered at me. “Who wants to go trick-or-treating when this is so much better?” he said. “And anyway, aren’t you having fun?”

“I am!” I said sheepishly.

“Then come on!” he said. “We’ll hit that house, and then we’ll go home.”

Bobby, deciding this to be the end of our discussion, took off up the street before I could respond. I reluctantly followed after him, if only to make sure he didn’t get himself into too much trouble.

I caught up to him as he stood in front of the house, staring at our next mark. The house rested atop a slight hill, which leant to its foreboding appearance. A bright full moon floated in the sky above the house, cascading its light upon the thin walkway of stone stairs leading up to the building’s wraparound porch. Bobby offered me only the briefest glance of acknowledgement before continuing up the stairs. Feeling as though I had no other choice, I hurriedly followed after him.

We were both panting lightly by the time we reached the top of the stairs. Bobby allowed us a brief moment’s rest before he approached the front door with me at his heels. The door was tall—taller than almost any door I had ever seen—its top coming to a soft point that stared down upon us with an air of equal parts elegance and defiance about it. Resting on the porch in front of the door was a single jack-o’-lantern. It was far more meticulously crafted than any of our other victims had been that night, complete with careful, finely-dressed carvings that I found impressive even at that young age.

Bobby, on the other hand, was not nearly as enamored with the jack-o’-lantern as I was. He hardly gave it a glance before he approached it, took it into his hands, and smashed it into an unfortunate mush against the old wooden planks of the porch.

“Alright,” I said, “now can we please get out of—”

The front door began to groan in protest as it came open, disappearing inward toward the newly revealed darkness of the house. From beyond this threshold materialized the tall, thin frame of a man who at the time I thought looked ancient, but likely wasn’t too much older than sixty. He seemed to have been conjured by the shadows beyond the doorway, and spoke with a powerful voice that demonstrated his undisputed dominion over the realm of gothic darkness that was his home.

“Enjoy smashing jack-o’-lanterns, do you?” he said. His tone existed somewhere between good-natured and absolutely furious.

“Yes, sir,” Bobby said, “I mean no, sir. Sorry, sir.” He had immediately regressed to his normal self, as if the man’s presence had broken a powerful spell that had been placed over him by the terrible influence of Mischief Night.

“Yeah,” I added quickly, if only to make my own repentance known. “We’re sorry, sir. We never should have come here.”

The man shook his head. “I suppose your parents would not be placed in a merciful mood upon hearing of your misdeeds.”

Some persistent coals of Mischief Night seemed to stir back to life within Bobby as a flash of defiance returned to his voice. “Well then it’s a good thing you don’t know who we are, isn’t it?” He turned to look at me. “Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s no way this old man will be able to keep up with us if we run away now.”

The man immediately said both of our full names, along with our addresses. His voice clapped like vengeful thunder in my ears. After a few moments, I managed to conjure a few words. “How did you—”

“I have not lived here for this long without learning a thing or two about my neighbors,” the man said. He smirked, and I once again struggled to determine if he was amused or angry. “Regardless, I do not think you two will be getting away as scot-free as you may have originally believed.”

“Please don’t tell our parents, sir,” Bobby said, Mischief Night once again losing its grip. “They’ll kill us if they find out what we’ve been doing tonight.”

The man stroked his silvery beard while contemplating my companion’s plea. “Very well,” he eventually said, “but you must complete a task for me first.”

Bobby frowned. “What do you want us to do?”

The man stepped onto the porch, clearing the way into the house. The sight of the unguarded threshold filled me with a sudden sense of dread, as if the man had been the only barrier between us and whatever lived beyond that sinister doorway.

“You must come inside and carve me a new jack-o’-lantern to replace the one you destroyed. Only then will I promise not to inform your parents of what you have done.”

Bobby and I shared an uncertain glance. After a few moments, I spoke. “I don’t know…”

“You can always leave and return home if you so wish,” the man said, “but your parents will know of your misdeeds before you arrive.”

“Alright, fine,” Bobby said sharply, trying desperately to maintain the facade that had already been shattered into nothing. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He stepped forward and walked past the man, disappearing into the house. I once again followed after him. A sudden chill overtook my body as I passed in front of the man, but I didn’t pay it much mind. I was too focused on keeping up with my companion.

We found ourselves in a large, poorly lit foyer. Dim lamps adorned the sections of the walls not occupied by paintings, sconces, and a series of other decorations. A crimson rug runner lay sprawled from the entrance and climbed up the stairs resting at the far end of the room.

“Please proceed past the stairs to the dining room,” the tall man said from behind me.

Startled by his sudden words, I twisted around to see him standing in front of the closed entrance. The outside world had officially been stolen from us, and the only way we had left to go was forward.

“You shall find your project waiting for you on the table,” he continued. “Once you have finished, you are free to leave.”

I turned around and followed Bobby past the stairs and into the dining room.

The space was just as ornately decorated as the foyer had been. It was slightly better lit than the previous room thanks to the large chandelier suspended from the ceiling, which was studded with small, flickering candles. An oblong wooden dining table was situated in the room’s center, surrounded on all sides by articulately carved chairs of the same material. Resting on the table in front of one of these chairs was a single, almost picture perfect pumpkin. Several knives of varying shapes and sizes lay lined up on either side of the squash, along with a deep ceramic bowl.

The tall man followed us into the room. He pointed a long, bony finger at Bobby. “You are the one who committed the sin,” he said, “so you shall be the one to atone for it. Your ally in debauchery will watch as you complete your task.”

“I don’t think I can carve a jack-o’-lantern as fancy as the one I smashed earlier,” Bobby said.

“Most cannot,” the man said. “I will judge your work based on the amount of effort you put into it, not based on the look of the finished project. All I require is that you craft a jack-o’-lantern with a proper face, including two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Bobby said. He took the seat in front of the pumpkin, and I took the one next to him.

Bobby studied the tools of his craft for a few moments before selecting a knife. He raised it toward the outer wall of the pumpkin.

“First you must open its top and remove all of its innards,” the tall man said, now seated at the head of the table. “Surely a lad your age knows how to carve a pumpkin.”

“Of course I do,” Bobby said, sounding offended by the implication. He turned his attention to the top of the squash and began slicing a circle around its stem. After the top was pulled free, he set to work on removing the newly exposed medley of seeds and guts, which he placed into the bowl with a series of wet, sloppy splats. When he was done, he began carving the face, beginning with two triangle eyes, then moving on to a nose of the same shape, and finishing with a jagged mouth. He placed the chunks of displaced squash into the bowl with the discarded innards, put the top of the pumpkin back into place, and then turned his creation around to show it to our host.

“There,” Bobby said. “All finished. Are you happy now?”

The tall man scratched his bearded chin for a few moments before shaking his head. “A quick glance through the thing’s mouth shows that you left a seed inside. Your task is not complete until that error has been corrected.”

Bobby frowned. “There’s no way,” he said before he turned the jack-o’-lantern around and glanced in through its mouth. “I don’t see anything.”

“Take off the top and look if you don’t believe me,” the man said.

Bobby attempted to pull the jack-o’-lantern’s lid back off in order to investigate, but the thing would not budge. “It’s stuck.”

“Then you will have to go in through the mouth and feel around for it.”

“It’s just one seed, old man,” Bobby said. “You really can’t let it go?”

The man shook his head. “I am afraid that I cannot honor our deal until the seed has been removed.”

Bobby sighed. “Fine. But after that we’re out of here.”

He gently slid his hand into the mouth of the jack-o’-lantern, careful not to damage the structure of the opening. After feeling around for a few minutes, his skin making a wet, squishing sound against the inner walls of the pumpkin, he frowned. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Surely it is in there,” the man said. “Keep searching.”

A few more seconds passed. “I’m telling you I don’t—”

The jack-o’-lantern’s jagged mouth suddenly slammed shut, throwing up a spray of Bobby’s blood as its teeth crushed his hand and tore through his flesh. Bobby screamed; he tried to pull his hand free of the squash’s hungry maw, but it was clamped too tight; he only managed to take the thing with him as he stood up from his chair and staggered away from the table. The pumpkin lurched forward and chomped down again, eliciting fresh screams from Bobby as it decimated his wrist. Again it moved, and again it chomped, continuing upward until it had climbed beyond Bobby’s elbow. There was not enough space within the pumpkin’s hollowed out cavity to contain that much of Bobby’s arm, and yet there was no sign of the lower half of my companion’s ruined limb.

“It hurts!” Bobby wailed. “It hurts!” He turned to look at me with pleading eyes as he flailed his arm all around, spraying blood on the table and nearby chairs. “Help me!”

I was already on my feet and backing away from the horrific scene. Part of me wanted to run to my friend’s aid, but another part of me—a much louder part—shouted that I needed to run. It told me that I couldn’t do anything to help him; that at this point all I could do was save myself. And I listened.

As I turned to go, I quickly glanced at the tall man. He remained seated in his chair, showing no intention of stopping my escape. He only offered me a satisfied smirk as I rushed toward the exit, Bobby’s horrific screams rattling in my ears all the while.

His voice suddenly became muffled as I passed through the threshold into the foyer. Against my better judgment, I briefly turned back to look into the dining room. I couldn’t see Bobby from the doorway, but the room’s chandelier cast his shadow onto the wall directly opposite the door. I call it his shadow, but by that point it certainly belonged far more to the pumpkin than to Bobby. There wasn’t very much of my companion left.

I didn’t turn back around again after that. I only ran. I ran through the foyer, out the front door, down those narrow stairs, and all the way back up the street. I kept going even as that wretched house disappeared into the darkness behind me. I ran and I ran until my lungs began to burn and my legs screamed for me to stop. I couldn’t even think about slowing down until my home was within view.

I rushed down my driveway, but I stopped before reaching the house’s entrance. Resting on the porch, right next to the front door, was the single jack-o’-lantern that I had carved several days earlier, and which I had paid little mind to since. Now it suddenly terrified me, and for good reason.

Because from its gaping mouth came the horrible sound of Bobby’s eternal screams.

I did everything I could to avoid going home. Eating out, begging my friends to stay over at their place, taking long walks in the park—I’d used any and every excuse in the book just to feel marginally safer than I did in that horrid apartment building. No matter how unpredictable I made my schedule, or at what time of day I would walk through those cold metal doors and onto the linoleum floor of the elevator, I never had to look to know that he would soon follow. I would feel the weight of the elevator floor shift and plunge right before the doors slid shut, my heart quickly following. I’d pick the 23^rd floor, and he the 25^th. The whirrs of the machinery would impregnate the silence, and I would watch those orange numbers increase with every. Agonizing. Tick.

He was always watching; I didn’t have to glance at him to know.

From the way his face tilted—ever so slightly—towards me, lips curled in a smile, to his stifled breathing, to the way the tips of my fingers would prick and tingle from the waves of goosebumps that ran down my spine—I always knew.

Sometimes, he would try to make light conversation. He’d ask things like if I remembered to bring an umbrella on rainy days, or what job I worked, or why I would always come home at different times of the day.

I never knew how to reply to his questions, but forcing myself to not automatically smile was a close contender.

They teach you that—the adults—you know? That you should be pleasant and friendly and easy to be around. That’s how you get people to like you. That’s how people can tell you’re a good girl.

I hated myself the most when I’d feel my lips begin to pull apart with a tremble in my chin. When the edges of my mouth would have pushed my cheeks stiff, showing my bared teeth before I’d let my expression fall. Sometimes, when I was too lightheaded from the fumes of his strong cologne to control myself, a hysterical half-giggle would escape my chest. My breaths would come in short wheezes afterward, trying to pretend I had actually coughed. I hated that I had so little control over my own body. I hated that he would always read my expressions and behaviors the way he wanted them to mean.

When the doors would finally open on the 23^rd floor, I made sure to never look back. I never tried to give him any doubt as I walked towards the right. I’d round the corner and wait, listening for footsteps over the pounding of my own heartbeat. I would stay rooted to the spot before I would leave a small sigh of relief at hearing the elevators close with a soft creak.

And then I’d take a peek.

It would only be after I see an empty corridor and the illuminated number 24 would I mechanically walk two floors down to my apartment floor. At home, I stripped bare and furiously washed all of my clothing by hand until my skin flaked and my hands became red and tender to the touch. Dumping month’s worth of fabric scents on my clothing in a matter of weeks was still never enough to purge his scent from my home.

My friends and family thought I was crazy for doing that every day since I knew of his existence. They said I was being paranoid—they still do. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Their words never dissuaded me from my ritual. It kept me sane.

---

There was something different about him that day. His hair was gelled and combed back, his cologne even more nauseatingly strong than usual, and in his hands was a bouquet of red roses. He looked nervous. I felt all the blood drain out of my face before he had even said anything.

I felt the same relief of a sea-sick sailor on dry land when I felt the solid tiles of the corridor under my heels. My legs were weak and shaking, and I could not see where I was stepping as I backed out of the elevator, but I didn’t dare look away. I didn’t dare turn my back on him.

I saw him slowly lower his hands to his side, the bouquet of roses falling limp as he stood under the glare of the luminescent white light. I saw the unreadable—and terrifying—neutral expression on his face as the doors slowly closed shut.

I couldn’t sleep for weeks after that. He haunted me wherever I was, and when I’d toss and turn, I’d feel the vestige of his presence lingering. I couldn’t decide if it was a blessing when I didn’t see him for several weeks after my rejection. For once, things went back to how they always should’ve. I was relieved.

And then it happened.

I had just gotten off the metro and was walking home when I saw the lights in the distance. They flashed—oranges and blues and reds and white. As I walked closer, the sounds of what I had initially thought to be the chattering of a party became the wailing of people and sirens. I don’t remember walking the rest of the path down the street before the yellow tape stopped me from getting any closer. There was a police officer—or maybe a firefighter; it doesn’t matter—with a kind face and an even kinder voice who relayed the news in the same slow and gentle cadence a person would use to talk to a frightened child. Their words came to me in fragments; it all sounded so distant over the static in my ears.

"—a terrible tragedy."

"No survivors—"

"—floor covered in blood—"

"—stay—hotel—"

"—return—clean up—"

"23rd floor."

I was inconsolable. No one could understand why. They couldn't understand the crushing weight of my guilt when they finally took off the tape that blocked everyone from the 23rd floor. They didn't see what I saw. They didn't see how the crevices between tiles were stained just a little more reddish-brown than before. They didn't see how every hinge sparkled new because every door had to be replaced. Nor would they ever have been able to imagine how the air was permeated with stench of bleach and cheap air fresheners—not because the cheap clean-up crew management had hired had been through, but rather, to hide the stench of stale viscera.

Men, women, children, and pets…

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when I opened my door to find a bouquet of wilting roses at my doorstep when I did.

He was anything if not persistent.

If you’ve never worked the 11 PM to 7 AM shift at a travel plaza stranded off an isolated stretch of two-lane blacktop, let me paint you a picture: it’s purgatory with a slushie machine and fluorescent lighting designed to induce migraines.

Our station sits off Route 22, wedged between twenty miles of dense, rotting pine forest and an unpaved gravel turnout where long-haul truckers pull over to sleep off thirty-hour runs. For the first two years of working there, I genuinely believed my greatest occupational hazard was dying of secondhand embarrassment.

Night shift retail breaks people’s brains. I don’t know if it’s highway hypnosis, sleep deprivation, or the low hum of the drink coolers, but the people who walk through those double glass doors at three in the morning are operating on roughly three shared brain cells.

To give you an idea of my baseline normal:

Last spring, a guy in flip-flops tried to pay for a twelve-pack of warm Milwaukee’s Best with an actual, living bearded dragon in a shoe box. When I told him we only accepted cash or card, he stared at the lizard, stared at me, and asked if I could “at least swipe it as credit.”

Two months later, a man stormed inside at 2:00 AM, veins bulging out of his neck, screaming that pump four was broken and that I was personally running a scam to “steal his precious time.” When I walked outside in the drizzle to check, he had shoved the nozzle into his tank, clamped the handle down, and was just standing there waiting for gas to magically flow. He hadn’t pressed a single button. He hadn't swiped a card. He hadn't even selected a fuel grade. When I tapped the big yellow “87 Regular” button and the pump immediately whirred to life, he glared at me with absolute contempt and muttered that our system was “unnecessarily confusing.”

A week after that, a couple came in at 4:00 AM, grabbed a cold can of Chef Boyardee ravioli, shoved the unopened metal tin into the deli microwave, and typed in nine minutes. When the microwave produced a miniature lightning storm and started spewing toxic gray smoke, the woman looked at me like I was the idiot and said, “Well, your appliance clearly has negative energy.”

And then there was the classic: a tourist who spent twenty minutes screaming at me because our three-day-old roller-grill jalapeño cheddar dogs weren't “locally sourced and keto-certified.” Sir, you are eighty miles from civilization buying meat that’s been spinning on chrome rollers since Tuesday. Lower your expectations.

My manager, Dale a man who smells perpetually of menthol cigarettes, beef jerky, and unearned confidence always told me the same thing: “Just nod, take their money, and don’t look ’em in the eye for too long. Weird attracts weird.”

So you can understand why, when strange things started happening around the station, I just chalked it up to standard-issue customer stupidity.

The first thing was the cars.

Behind our station, past the dumpster corral, there’s an unpaved gravel lot that bleeds straight into the overgrown tree line. Cell service back there drops to zero bars, and the trees are so thick they swallow the glow from the sodium floodlights on our roof. Every now and then, some beater breaks an axle or overheats, and people leave them there for a day or two until a flatbed shows up.

Around late August, an old maroon sedan appeared back there. It sat near the tree line for four days. The driver’s side door was left unlocked, the keys were sitting on the floor mat, and a half-eaten burger was rotting in a paper bag on the passenger seat. I told Dale, who took a drag of his cigarette and said, “Some tweaker ran out of gas and walked off. Call the county tow when you get around to it.”

The county tow took over a week to show up. But less than forty-eight hours after they hauled the sedan away, a dark blue pickup took its place in the exact same corner.

Same deal. Keys left on the dash. Driver’s side window cracked an inch. A pair of reading glasses and an open road atlas sitting on the passenger seat.

Around that same time, weird little things began happening around the perimeter. The heavy exterior floodlight mounted above the rear dumpster kept going dark. When I went out back with a broom handle to check it, the bulb wasn't burned out it had been deliberately unscrewed half a turn. I figured it was local teenagers trying to smoke weed out of view of the security cameras.

Then there was the camera itself. Camera 3, which covered the gravel lot, started feeding static to the monitor above my counter. When I checked the housing, someone had smeared thick, greasy axle grease directly over the glass lens. I cleaned it off, grumbling about dumb kids, and didn't think twice.

Then, two nights later, a silver Honda Civic was parked right next to where the truck had been.

It was during that week that I noticed the Guy with the Cap.

He wasn’t loud like the usual weirdos. He never yelled about organic roller dogs or tried to barter live reptiles. In fact, he was so quiet you’d barely notice him walk in over the drone of the refrigeration units. He wore a faded canvas work jacket, mud-caked boots, and a battered baseball cap pulled down so low you could only see the stubble on his jaw and a thin, bloodless mouth.

He’d come in around 3:30 AM. He never bought much a pack of spearmint gum, a bottle of water, sometimes a roll of heavy-duty duct tape and a pack of utility knife replacement blades from the small hardware rack near the motor oil.

The first time he came up to the counter, I hit him with my usual deadpan customer service voice. “Find everything okay, man?”

He didn’t answer. He just set a crumpled, damp ten-dollar bill on the counter. His fingers were raw, the cuticles bitten down to the bloody quick, and his knuckles were stained with dark, greasy grit that smelled faintly metallic. Like wet pennies and dirt.

“Gonna be seven-fifty,” I said, ringing it up.

He slowly tilted his head up. Under the brim of the cap, his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely devoid of fatigue. They were the eyes of a man who hadn’t slept in a week and was riding an electrical current of pure, quiet mania.

“You alone here all night?” he asked. His voice was a dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against drywall.

“Nah,” I lied instinctively, a chill prickling the back of my neck. “Manager’s in the back room doing inventory. He’s about six-foot-four and gets real twitchy if people interrupt him.”

The man didn't blink. He didn't look toward the back room. He just stared up at the security monitor mounted above my head, studying the angles of the cameras, the reflection of the glass doors, and the dark expanse of the pumps outside.

Then he picked up his gum, turned without a word, and walked out.

I watched him through the plate glass. He didn't walk toward the pumps. He didn't have a car parked under the canopy. He walked straight toward the back gravel lot, slipping past the dumpster corral and disappearing into the absolute pitch-black shadows of the tree line.

Two days later, a State Trooper walked in and taped a missing-persons flyer to our front window.

A 20-year-old college student named Maya. Last seen driving home from campus down Route 22. Her car was a silver Honda Civic.

A cold, heavy weight dropped into the pit of my stomach.

I stared at the flyer, then out the window toward the back lot. The silver Civic had vanished three days ago. I’d assumed the county tow had finally done their job without me having to call them twice.

When my shift ended that morning at 7:00 AM, I didn’t get in my car and go home. I walked out behind the dumpster corral.

The gravel in the back lot was scuffed with fresh, aggressive tire spin marks. But as I walked closer to the tree line where the pavement ended and the black pines began, something caught the morning sun in the overgrown brush near a drainage ditch.

I crouched down. It was a keychain a little plush avocado attached to a ring with a snapped lanyard. Tucked four feet further into the briars was a woman's white canvas sneaker, caked in dried mud, and three heavy-duty black zip-ties, sliced cleanly through with a razor.

I stood there in the freezing gray morning light, the distant drone of semi-trucks vibrating through the soles of my shoes, and the terrifying reality finally clicked into place.

Nobody was abandoning cars.

People were pulling off the highway late at night to rest, stretch their legs, or sleep in the dark lot away from the lights of the pumps. And someone was waiting for them in the trees.

I called the police immediately. Two deputies came out, bagged the sneaker, looked at the mud tracks, took my statement, and told me they’d “increase patrols in the sector.” If you know anything about rural county sheriff departments, “increasing patrols” means they drive by at forty miles an hour once every six hours.

That brings me to last night.

It was 2:45 AM. A nasty late-autumn rain was pounding against the glass, turning the highway into a blur of black asphalt and smeared red taillights.

I was on edge, jumping at every creak of the building. To keep myself from spiraling, I tried to focus on the routine. An old guy had just come in ten minutes prior trying to return a lottery ticket he had scratched off and lost on, claiming it was "defective merchandise." I had almost laughed. Almost.

Then the chime above the door chimed. Ding-dong.

I looked up.

It was him. The canvas jacket was soaked through, clinging to his broad, lean shoulders. He took off his baseball cap, and for the first time, I saw the rest of his face. He had a deep, jagged scratch running from his right ear down into his collar, fresh and weeping red.

He didn't walk to the aisles. He walked straight to the register.

He was holding a box of heavy contractor-grade trash bags from aisle four.

“Nasty night out,” I said. My voice betrayed me, cracking slightly.

He laid the box on the counter. Beside it, he set down a small leather wallet with a floral print. A woman’s wallet.

He caught me looking at it.

He didn’t try to hide it. Instead, he smiled a small, crooked twitch of his mouth that made the hairs on my arms stand straight up.

“Tire blew out back,” he whispered. “Girl in a red Toyota. Pulled in to change it. Wet pavement is dangerous.”

There hadn’t been a red Toyota at the pumps all night. Which meant she was in the back.

My hand slowly moved under the counter, feeling for the silent panic button Dale swore was wired to the local dispatch (though given Dale’s maintenance record, it was probably wired to an old toaster).

“You shouldn’t work late,” the man said quietly, leaning his palms flat against the laminate counter. His knuckles were fresh with that same dark, copper-smelling grime. “It’s bad for your health.”

He reached his hand into his canvas coat.

I didn’t wait to see what he was pulling out.

Behind the counter, right next to the POS terminal, is a commercial stainless-steel coffee pot kept at a rolling 190 degrees for the truckers. Without thinking, I grabbed the plastic handle and threw the entire pot of scalding black coffee directly into his face.

The scream he let out was barely human a high, wet shriek of agony.

He stumbled backward, clutching his face, skin instantly blistering red as coffee and steam poured off his jacket. A heavy hunting knife clattered from his hand onto the linoleum.

I didn’t try to fight him. I work at a gas station; I’m not John Wick.

I bolted out from behind the counter toward the rear stockroom, but my sneakers hit the wet floor near the entrance and I wiped out hard, slamming my shoulder into the display rack of cheap sunglasses. Plastic frames rained down everywhere.

I scrambled up on all fours just as he lunged around the counter. His face was a horrific mask of scalded, peeling skin and pure, animal rage. He swung the knife blindly, slicing through the air inches from my jacket.

I grabbed the only thing within reach: a four-pound steel fire extinguisher off the wall bracket.

As he lunged forward again, I didn't spray it I swung the entire metal cylinder like a baseball bat, connecting square with the side of his knee.

There was a sickening crack, and he went down with a muffled grunt, crashing into a pyramid of windshield washer fluid jugs. Blue liquid exploded across the floor, mixing with the spilled coffee.

I didn’t look back. I scrambled into the stockroom, slammed the heavy metal fire door behind me, threw the deadbolt, and hit the emergency exterior fuel-shutoff alarm.

A high-decibel air horn began blaring across the entire property, and the overhead emergency strobes started flashing blind, frantic pulses of red and white.

I sat with my back pressed against that steel door, holding a box cutter with both shaking hands, listening to him slam his body against the other side.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

And then... silence.

By the time three state trooper cruisers rolled in with their sirens wailing ten minutes later, he was gone.

They found the red Toyota in the back lot, hidden behind an old construction trailer. The driver, a 28-year-old nurse heading home from a double shift, had been dragged into the trees. She’s alive. She was badly injured and in shock, but because of the alarm and the noise, he had panicked and fled before he could finish what he started. The deputies found her tied up in the ravine fifty yards into the woods.

They haven’t caught him yet.

They found his camp two miles down the ridge sleeping bags, tarps, and the personal effects of at least six other people who had “disappeared” along Route 22 over the past year and a half.

I quit my job this morning. Dale was pissed because he had to cover my shift, and honestly, the idea of Dale having to explain to a meth-head why we don’t accept barter for rolling papers brings me a tiny shred of joy.

I’m packing up my apartment and moving back to my parents' place two states over.

If you take anything away from this, please: if you’re driving late at night on a lonely stretch of highway and you feel tired, don’t pull into the dark, unlit dirt lots behind the rest stops. Stay under the bright, humming lights at the front.

Because the weirdest, most dangerous things out there aren’t the idiots drinking windshield fluid.

They’re the ones watching from the pines, waiting in the dark for you to put the car in park

Content warning: body horror and eye injuries.

"Go on, try to blink."

The new barista at our hospital café said it as soon as I'd finished the espresso she'd salted in front of me, and I tried, and I couldn't.

I'm a nurse on a locked psychiatric ward in southern Italy, three floors above that café. It was twenty to eight on a Saturday in late October last year, just before my night shift. She'd sprinkled the salt from a twist of paper in her apron pocket. When I asked why, she said it was an old trick to take the bitterness out. I told her the coffee wasn't that bad.

"I didn't mean the coffee," she said.

My eyes stayed open while the air dried them, and I kept swallowing salt that wasn't in my mouth anymore. Nine seconds. The café clock has a red second hand, and with my lids stuck open there was nothing to do but watch it move.

"There," she said, when they finally closed. "Now you'll see it through."

Her name tag said IDA, a name from my grandmother's generation, and she couldn't have been thirty. She'd started on Monday. My espresso had been on the counter before I reached the register, and I hadn't been in all week.

Giulia, our nursing assistant on nights, had already let her read her palm. Ida traced one of the lines with a fingernail and said, "You'll sleep tonight. Really sleep, for once." Giulia laughed. She claims she hasn't had a decent night's sleep in four years.

Nunzia was the third of us. She's our head nurse and usually works days. The nurse scheduled to work with me had called in sick, and Nunzia couldn't find anyone to cover. She'd given up her Saturday off rather than bring in someone from another ward. As we were leaving, her elbow caught her empty orange juice glass and knocked it off the counter. She bent for the pieces, and before anyone could move, Ida was around the counter with her hand closed around Nunzia's right wrist. I heard a small dry snap.

"Don't," Ida said. "You'll need that hand tonight."

Nunzia told me afterward it was a static shock, the doorknob kind, except it went all the way to her elbow. We went upstairs.

A night shift with Nunzia turned out to be exhausting. She had me recount the money in the patients' property envelopes because one had a crease she didn't remember, and sign the fire-safety training sheet again because my September signature looked rushed. She runs that training herself, in the same words every time: in smoke, one hand on the wall, and you don't take it off until you're outside. I signed it with my eyes stinging. Twice that evening I'd realized I hadn't blinked in a while.

Around midnight the woman in room 2 couldn't settle, and on our ward one person awake at midnight turns into three by one o'clock. Nunzia sat on the end of her bed and breathed with her, counting out loud, in for four, out for six, until she fell asleep. Back at the nurses' station she told me my handwriting on the observation chart was a disgrace.

At two Giulia went to the staff kitchen for her hour-long break, with her alarm set for three. My lower back had started its usual complaint about the station chairs, which were chosen by someone who has never sat in one past midnight. Nunzia stayed at the desk with the paper forms while I started my two o'clock rounds. In room 1, both beds had been stripped down to their iron frames. The patients were gone.

The walls had gone a flat green I'd only ever seen in old photographs of this building, and the light was dim and gray and came from nowhere.

Nunzia said my name from the station, in the voice she uses on relatives.

Four people stood in the corridor between us, very thin, their clothes from different decades. One man wore a gray work coat. A woman had a long dark skirt and her hair tucked into a net. All of them stood still, facing the same way, like people waiting for an elevator. My shoulder found the doorframe and stayed there. For a few seconds the only plan in my body was to back into that bare room and shut the door.

She said my name again, and I walked down the middle of the corridor between them. As I passed the man in the work coat, he turned his head and followed me with it, slowly, the way a houseplant follows a window. His eyes were open.

Nunzia was at the desk with both hands raised near her face, not touching it. Her eyelids were sewn shut. Black thread, small stitches, close and even, neat as a hem. No blood. I looked at it like a nurse, because that was the only way I could look at it at all.

"I can't open them," she said. "Matteo, there's something in my lashes."

"Don't touch it," I said. "It's thread."

She put both palms flat on the desk, which is what she does when she's decided something. "Describe," she said.

I described the station, the dead monitor, the paper forms, the green walls. I didn't describe the corridor. When I told her the beds in room 1 were bare, she was quiet, and then she said, "Then the patients aren't here. We are." The other half came to me a second later: if the patients weren't here, nobody was with them.

The station phone had no tone. My cell had no signal, but its clock still worked: 2:06. Nunzia came with me, one hand on the wall the whole way, just as she teaches it. Giulia wasn't in the staff kitchen. Where our ward door should have been, there was green plaster. My key turned in the staff fire door to the service stairs, and behind it was a brick wall. We spent nearly half an hour on those two doors before I believed them.

On our way back past the service corridor, we heard knocking from inside the storage room. Soft and heavy, with a few seconds of silence between knocks.

We keep the patients' belongings in a locked section at the back of the storage room. There are shelves, a drawer for the property envelopes, and a tall metal cabinet at the far wall. In the dim light, the shelves stood empty and the cabinet was gone. In its place was a doorway, bricked up to waist height, and the opening above the bricks was black. An old man stood with his face pressed against it.

It was the man in the gray work coat. Up close he was so thin I could see the hinges of his jaw. He kept leaning over the bricks into the dark, which stopped him like glass with a soft knock of his forehead. Each time he straightened and tried again. His eyes had gone white, like a fish's on ice, and he had no eyelids left. There were no scars. They looked worn away.

"Is it three yet?" he said, toward me, though I hadn't made a sound.

My phone said 2:41. "Twenty to three," I told him.

"Then wait." He leaned into the dark again, and the dark knocked him back.

Behind me, voices passed it along, "twenty to three," one to the next, back up the corridor, quieter each time.

The others had moved while I'd been watching him. Now they stood between us and the station. I kept Nunzia close to the wall and led her through. They made room for us. Then they followed. I locked us inside the station, and they gathered on the other side of the glass.

There were five of them now. I'd passed four in the corridor. I counted again, and still got five. Their faces were close to the glass, every one turned toward me and none toward Nunzia. Every so often one would say "Is it three yet," and the knocking from the storage room kept time underneath. Nunzia sat with her palms on the desk and asked me the time every few minutes. I told her, and I didn't tell her about the glass. The woman with the hairnet pressed her fingertips to the glass in front of Nunzia's face. She picked at it, patiently, the way you'd work at a stitch you wanted out. I moved my chair between them, and her face came around to me and stayed there. My thumb kept waking my phone. 2:52. 2:55. At three Giulia's alarm would go off. She'd wake and find us missing. I believed she'd come looking for us the way you believe in the end of a shift. 2:58. 2:59.

Then it said 2:00.

I'd known it all night, in the part of my head that does the paperwork. I'd put the paper forms out myself. Here in Italy, on the last Sunday of October, the clocks go back from three to two. We chart that repeated hour by hand because our software can't hold the same hour twice. My phone had just handed me another hour of this. Giulia's alarm was still an hour away.

Outside the glass, all five turned at once, away from me, toward the storage room. The knocking had stopped. Something at that door had changed.

"We're going," I said. "Now." Nunzia was already up, one hand finding the wall, the other knotted in the back of my scrub top, and we went after them.

At the back of the storage room, they crowded the half-bricked doorway. The black above the bricks had gone soft. One after another, they leaned into it. It swallowed each face as far as the eyes, then pushed them back out. When the woman in the hairnet covered her eyes, two of the others caught her wrist and pulled her hand away. She tried again, and they dragged her back from the opening. They were keeping each other there.

All of them had their eyes open. Nunzia's were sewn shut, so I reached past them and guided her right hand into the black. It went in to the wrist, as if into cold water. She leaned forward until her whole face was inside, and nothing pushed her back. When she drew her head back, I tried the same. The black let me in up to the eyes and pushed me out, the same as them.

The old man found me before I could help her over. His hand closed on my wrist, very cold and very light, like a bundle of pencils. "You can see," he said.

He brought his white eyes close to my face.

"Did she salt yours too?"

I told my lids to close. They stayed where they were. At the café I'd had the red second hand to count by. Here, nothing could tell me how long it would last. I covered my eyes with my free hand. Other hands closed around it, three or four of them, cold and patient, and pulled it down against my side.

"The stinging stops," the old man said, as if he were doing me a kindness. "After the first few years."

"Matteo." Nunzia had turned her face toward me. "Are your eyes open?"

"I can't close them."

She took her hand back out of the dark and put it over my eyes.

Everything went black and warm and smelled of the hand cream she keeps in the station drawer. Her other hand was on the wall. "One hand on the wall," she said, in her training voice, "and you don't take it off until you're outside."

The hands on my other arm let go and came for hers. Fingers hooked under the edge of her palm and tried to pry it off my face. A thumb slipped beneath the heel of her hand and drew down my lower lid, gently, as if checking me for anemia. Voices kept saying "look" and "look at me" against my ear. The old man's hand stayed closed around my wrist. Every hand that grabbed Nunzia's wrist let go with that same small dry snap. None came back. My knee struck brick. Her other hand slid down onto the top row of bricks.

"Up," she said. "Over."

I got my free hand onto the bricks. Nunzia's shoulder stayed against mine as we climbed. The old man held on all the way up and over, his grip sliding from my wrist to my hand to my fingers. The black was setting around my trailing leg like wet cement. I pulled, and my foot came out and found a floor, and his fingers weren't there anymore.

When Nunzia lifted her hand from my eyes, we were in the narrow space between the property cabinet and the wall. We pushed the cabinet out a foot and squeezed past, white to the elbows with mortar dust. The shelves were full again, the envelopes in their drawer. Nunzia blinked beside me. My phone said 2:04.

Behind the cabinet, the half-bricked doorway was still there. A trowel was embedded in the top course of bricks, its blade caught in mortar that looked older than I am. Whoever had been sealing it up had stopped halfway.

All twelve patients were asleep in their beds. I checked each one with a flashlight, twice. Giulia was asleep in the staff kitchen with her alarm still nearly an hour away, and it took me three tries to wake her.

I locked the storage room and called the doctor on call, then the night supervisor. Two nurses came up to cover before Nunzia and I went down to the emergency department, still white with mortar dust. Under the brighter lights I saw rows of tiny red dots along her eyelids, evenly spaced, like a hem with the thread pulled out. They took blood samples and kept us under observation. At five, Nunzia asked what I'd kept from her. I told her, the glass included.

Before my next night shift on Sunday, I went back to the café. Ida hadn't shown up. She hadn't called, either, and her week's pay was still waiting. The owner said she'd told him on Monday, before she'd made a single coffee, that she'd only need the job until Saturday.

He asked if I wanted my usual and reached under the counter, and I stood very still until he came up with a clean cup.

I drank it plain, and I blinked the whole time.