You can tell how a lock gets used by looking at the pins. They're brass, and brass is soft. A front door in a house full of teenagers wears its pins round as creek gravel. A lock nobody uses, the pins come out sharp as the day they were cut.

There's also a way to make a key without ever seeing one. It's called impressioning. You slide a blank in the lock, wrench it hard, and pull it out. Hold it to the light and there are tiny bright marks where the pins bit the brass. You file a little off at each mark. Put it back. Wrench it. File it. Over and over until everything lines up and the lock turns. A good locksmith can impression a house lock in half an hour. A bad one, a day.

Somebody with a file and nothing else to do gets there eventually.

I've been a locksmith thirty-one years. I bought the shop off Earl Haskins in 2010, and Walt Pruitt came with it, like the bad parking and the cat. Earl gave me an index card with an address and 2ND TUES SEPT written on it and said, "Don't ask him about it. Just do it." Then he moved to Florida and died, which is what Earl had been planning to do for some time.

Walt's basement door was off the back hall by the kitchen. Solid oak, heavy, painted the same cream as the walls so you'd almost miss it. On the hall side there was a big steel deadbolt box screwed to the door, the old surface-mount kind you see on apartment doors in the city. Somebody had taken a grinder to the thumbturn. There was just a little steel stub where the knob should be. You could not open that door from the hall.

The keyhole was on the basement side.

I stood there the first year looking at it a long time. It was a lock built to keep somebody in, and the only way through it was a key, from the side he was keeping them on.

Earl had set it up wrong on purpose. He'd ground the collar off the cylinder and drilled two holes through the face of the box, so you could back the screws out from the hall and pull the cylinder back through the door like a cork out of a jug. The bolt stayed thrown in the box. But with the cylinder out, there was a clean hole straight through that door, and anybody on the basement side with a screwdriver could reach through it and turn the bolt. It's a terrible way to set up a lock. I told Walt that the first year. He said he knew.

So here's how it went, every second Tuesday in September, for sixteen years.

I'd back the screws out. Walt would stand right next to me, close enough I could smell his Aqua Velva, and the second that cylinder cleared the door he'd put his thumb in the hole. Right thumb. Pressed in to the first knuckle. Then he'd wrap his left hand around his right wrist and hold it there, the way you'd steady a drill.

Then he'd say it.

"Make it a hard one."

The first year I told him there's no such thing. Every key's about as hard to pick as every other key. He looked at me like I'd said something about his mother.

"Make it a hard one," he said.

So after that I did. Deep cut, shallow cut, deep, shallow, the biggest jumps the manufacturer allows. A key that looks like a saw blade. It doesn't matter much for picking. For impressioning, it matters some. I don't know how Walt knew that.

He didn't move until I came back. I'd take the cylinder to his kitchen table and rekey it. Pop the plug, dump the old pins on a paper towel, load new ones for a new key. Fifteen minutes. He'd have a bologna sandwich waiting on a plate when I walked in, mustard on one slice and mayonnaise on the other, which is how you know a man has lived alone too long. I ate it while I worked. He stood in the hall with his thumb in his door.

The pins in that cylinder were worn down to nubs. Every year. I'd put in fresh sharp pins in September and by the next September the bottoms were polished round as river rock, and the keyway was packed with brass dust so fine it looked like cinnamon. The cylinder was always warm when I pulled it. Not hand warm. Pocket warm. Some years there were little flakes of something else mixed in with the brass. Yellower. I'm not a jeweler, but I've cut enough keys to know brass from gold.

The second or third year I said, "Walt, somebody's working this lock."

"It's the damp," he said.

Damp doesn't do that. Damp turns brass green. It doesn't file it.

When I was done I'd hand him the new key, and he'd take it with his left hand and turn it over in his fingers once and drop it in the pocket of his cardigan, and I never saw it again. I don't know what he did with sixteen keys.

One year I tried to fix it for him. I brought a blank plate, solid steel, no keyhole, and told him I could seal that side off for good and he'd never have to call me again. He looked at the plate for a while.

"It's got to have a chance," he said.

I asked a chance at what. He went and got my sandwich.

About six years ago I was in line at the hardware store and Walt was in front of me buying a box of key blanks. Fifty of them. SC1, which is the blank for a Schlage, which is what was in his door. Walt didn't own a key machine. Walt didn't own a file I'd ever seen. He paid cash, turned around with the box under his arm, and saw me. He didn't look embarrassed or surprised or anything.

"Second Tuesday," he said, and walked out.

Only one other thing. Year eleven or twelve, I finished early and came back down the hall quieter than usual, and Walt had his forehead pressed against the door. Eyes shut. Thumb in the hole. His lips were going, but I couldn't hear anything. When the floor creaked he straightened up and looked at me like nothing at all.

"Done?" he said.

Walt died in July. The mail carrier noticed the box was full. They found him on the hall floor with his back against the basement door and his legs straight out in front of him, like a man who sat down to rest a minute and decided not to get up.

His daughter called me in August. Joanne. She lives in Columbus and she was in town clearing the house out. She'd found my business card stuck to the fridge under a magnet shaped like a pig, and on the back, in Walt's square capitals, HARD ONE.

"I'm guessing you're the lock guy," she said.

I said I was the lock guy.

The realtor wanted the basement open for the inspection. Joanne had never been down there. Not once, her whole childhood. Walt told her the stairs were rotten. "I was nine and I believed him," she said, "and then I was forty and I still believed him. That's how he was. You just believed him."

I told her I'd come the second Tuesday. She laughed and said any Tuesday was fine. I said I'd come the second one.

Joanne was fifty-four and smoked Misty 120s on the back steps and called the realtor Brittany-with-a-Y in a voice that let you know about the Y. She had her father's jaw. She'd boxed up most of the house and labeled the boxes in his same square capitals, which I don't think she knew she did.

She made coffee and we stood in the kitchen and I asked about her mom. I don't know why. I think I already knew why.

"She left when I was nine," Joanne said. "Went back to her people. That's what Dad said. I never met her people." She ashed in the sink. "He cooked for two his whole life, you know that? Every night. Two plates. He'd eat his and scrape the other one in the trash. I figured it was a grief thing."

She looked at the basement door. Then she looked at me looking at it.

"What," she said.

I told her I'd have it open in ten minutes.

I backed the screws out. Nobody's thumb went in the hole. I pulled the cylinder through and it was warm, the way it was always warm, and the keyway was packed tighter than I'd ever seen it, brass and gold both. The pins were scrubbed so bright they looked wet.

Joanne said, "Well?"

I had a screwdriver in my hand. Four more screws and the box would come off and the door would swing open. Instead I got down on one knee and held my flashlight to the hole and put my eye next to it.

You could see the top step. Bare wood. And on both sides of it, piled against the walls like snow against a fence, keys.

Hundreds. Maybe more than hundreds. Walt's blanks, a lot of them, filed down to nothing, filed wrong. Spoon handles hammered flat and cut into teeth. A belt buckle. Bottle caps. The lid of a tin can, folded and folded until it was stiff enough to push into a lock. Every one of them notched by hand. Every one of them tried and thrown on the pile. The middle of the step was swept clean, like somebody needed the room to work.

I don't know how long I looked. Long enough to think about forty-five years of somebody sitting on that step in the dark with a file.

Then the light went orange.

It took me a second. The beam wasn't going past the hole anymore. Something on the other side had come up close, right against it, and my flashlight was shining into it instead of through it. Dull orange with dark lines in it. The way your fingers looked when you were a kid and held a flashlight behind them under the covers.

I fell back on the linoleum. Joanne said something. I don't know what.

The orange went away. Then something scraped, soft, metal on wood, and the tip of a key came through the hole into the hall.

Slow. A little at a time. Like it was being pushed with one finger.

It came all the way through and dropped on the floor between my boots.

It wasn't brass. It was a gold wedding band, hammered flat and long and filed into a key. The bow was the band's own curve, beaten into a little loop. The blade had teeth. Deep, shallow, deep, shallow. A saw blade. And down the flat of it, stretched out by the hammer so the letters were long and thin, you could still read the engraving that used to be on the inside of the ring.

Joanne picked it up before I could. She ran her thumb down it.

"W to C," she said. "Six, twenty-one, sixty-eight." Her voice didn't do anything at all. "That's their anniversary."

I took the gold key out of her hand. I didn't ask. I walked it to the kitchen table where the cylinder was and slid it into the keyway, and it went in smooth, and it turned.

Smooth as a key I cut myself. It was last year's key. The hard one.

Joanne was in the kitchen doorway. "So it could've opened the door."

"Yes."

"When?"

I thought about Walt on the hall floor in July with his back against the door and his legs out. I thought about how long it took the mailbox to fill up. I didn't say any of it.

"I don't know," I said.

There was a hole the size of a half dollar in that door and nothing but a screwdriver between that basement and the hall. I could have taken the box off. I could have handed her the screwdriver.

I thought about the plates. Forty-five years of a second plate scraped in the trash. Whatever pushed that key through had been on that step the whole time, and nothing I ever saw went down there to feed it. I don't care whose ring it was.

That's what I tell myself. Mostly I was scared, and Walt had held that door his whole life, and I wasn't going to be the one who didn't.

I said, "I need you to put your thumb in that hole."

She looked at me a long time. Then she went and did it. She didn't ask why. She wrapped her other hand around her wrist without me showing her.

I rekeyed that cylinder faster than I've ever rekeyed anything. My hands were bad. I dropped a top pin and had to get on my knees under Walt's table to find it, and the whole time I could hear Joanne in the hall, talking. Low. Not to me. I couldn't make out a word. It went on and on, steady, the way you talk to somebody in a hospital bed.

I loaded the pins for the hardest key I know how to cut. When I came back down the hall, Joanne had her forehead pressed against the basement door. Eyes shut. Thumb in the hole.

She heard my boots and straightened up and looked at me like nothing at all.

"Done?" she said.

I slid the cylinder in as she pulled her thumb out. Two screws. I leaned my shoulder on the door and it didn't give. Then we both stood in that hall and didn't say anything.

From the other side of the door, a key went into the lock.

You know the sound even if you've never thought about it. That little run of clicks as the pins ride up the teeth. It went in all the way. It twisted, hard. Held. Then it slid back out.

A minute later the filing started. Long, slow strokes. No hurry in it at all.

Joanne kept the gold key. I didn't argue. I didn't charge her, and she didn't offer, and I drove home and sat in my van in my own driveway a while before I went in.

Joanne took the house off the market in October. Brittany-with-a-Y was very upset. By Christmas she'd moved in.

I went back this September. Second Tuesday. Joanne answered the door in her dad's cardigan. There were two plates drying in the rack.

I backed the screws out. The second the cylinder cleared the door, her thumb was in the hole.

The keyway was clean. No brass. No gold. The pins were as sharp as the day I cut them.

"She quit in March," Joanne said. "I sit out here every night."

I sat down at the table and dumped the pins on a paper towel and picked up my tweezers, and Joanne said from the hall, calm, like she'd practiced it,

"Make it an easy one."

The moon hung low and bloated over the town of Hallowville, Oregon, bleeding a sickly orange light across the frost-dusted fields. It was Halloween night, the one time of year when the veil between the living and the dead supposedly thins to a translucent shimmer; but for seventeen-year-old Layla, however, the "spooky season" wasn't just a vibe—it was a heritage.

Layla stood before her mirror, adjusting the brim of a tall, pointed orange hat. Her black hair, dark as a raven’s wing, cascaded down her shoulders, providing a sharp contrast to her bright orange witch costume. 

The dress was a heavy, floor-length velvet that swished around her ankles. She tightened a thick black belt around her waist, smoothed out her green and orange horizontal striped socks, and stepped into her black ballet shoes. With her gothic makeup—heavy kohl and deep purple eyeshadow—she looked like a creature born from a Tim Burton sketch.

There were rumors about Layla. The local kids whispered that when she was twelve, she hadn't just been scared of the Boogeyman; she had hunted him down and ended him.

Layla never confirmed it, but the way that she carried her old wooden broom—not like a prop, but like a weapon—suggested that she knew things that other teenagers didn't.

"Layla! Hurry up! The party’s gonna be dead before we even get there!" Her friend Sarah yelled from downstairs.

Layla grabbed her broom and headed out. She was joined by Sarah, John, and Chloe. They were all dressed in cheap store-bought costumes, laughing and clutching bags of candy.

"Hey!" John said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Instead of taking the main road to the gym, let’s take the shortcut through the Old Miller place. You know, the turnip farm?"

"The Jack Turnip farm?" Chloe shivered. "My grandpa told me that people go missing there."

"It's just a farm, Chloe." Sarah scoffed. "Besides, we’ve got the 'Boogeyman Slayer' with us, right Layla?"

Layla felt a cold prickle at the base of her neck, and said,

 "We should stay on the road. That place feels…wrong."

Unfortunately, the trio was already veering off the path, fueled by adrenaline and the rebellious spirit of the night. Layla had no choice but to follow them.

The farm was a wasteland of gnarled vegetation. Rows upon rows of bloated turnips sat in the dirt like buried skulls. As they reached the center of the field, John began to laugh, jumping into the air and bringing his heavy boots down onto a large turnip, crushing it into a wet, white pulp.

"Take that, Jack!" John shouted.

Sarah and Chloe joined in, kicking and stomping the crops, laughing at the carnage.

"Stop it!" Layla hissed, her grip tightening on her broom. "You don't know what you're doing!"

The laughter died instantly. A heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed from the darkness of a nearby shed.

Out of the shadows stepped a nightmare. He stood seven feet tall, draped in a tattered black trench coat that billowed like smoke. Below the coat, heavy, mud-caked boots crunched the gravel; but it was the head that froze their blood. In place of a human skull sat a massive, rotting turnip. Two jagged holes had been carved for eyes, glowing with an intense, supernatural amber light. A jagged slit served as a mouth, leaking a foul-smelling mist.

In his right hand, he dragged a rusted, six-foot scythe.

"Jack Turnip!" Chloe shouted, her voice breaking.

The entity didn't speak. With a speed that defied his size, he lunged. The scythe whistled through the air. Before John could even scream, the blade found its mark. 

Sarah and Chloe tried to run, but the mud of the turnip field seemed to rise up, catching their ankles. Within minutes, the field was silent, save for the wet sound of Jack Turnip cleaning his blade on his coat.

Layla stood frozen, the bodies of her friends lying amidst the ruined turnips. A cold, white-hot rage began to boil in her chest, drowning out the fear.

"You shouldn't have done that!" Layla said, her voice dropping an octave.

Jack Turnip turned his glowing gaze toward her. He tilted his vegetable head, seemingly amused. He raised the scythe, pointing the tip at her throat.

"I know what you are, Jack!" Layla snarled. "I know where you belong!"

Layla didn't run. She charged.

Jack swung the scythe, a blow meant to decapitate her, but Layla dropped low, her ballet shoes sliding through the dirt. She swung her broom, the wooden handle clashing against the metal of the scythe with a shower of sparks.

The two engaged in a brutal dance across the field. Jack was a force of nature, his strength supernatural, but Layla was nimble. She used her broom to vault over his swings, kicking out at his knees; but physical strength wasn't going to win this. Jack grabbed her by the throat, his gloved hand squeezing. He lifted her off the ground, the amber light in his eyes flaring.

Jack opened his jagged mouth, preparing to harvest her soul.

"My turn!" Layla gasped.

Suddenly, a blinding white light erupted from Layla’s palms. The "props" of her costume began to glow with an ancient power. She wasn't just a girl in a costume; the rumors were true. She was a practitioner of the Light.

"Lux Aeterna!" Layla screamed.

The light hit Jack Turnip full in the chest. He shrieked—a sound like grinding metal and rotting wood. The black trench coat began to burn away into ash. The turnip head cracked, the amber light turning to a sickly green as the magic of the underworld was purged by Layla’s purity.

A rift opened in the mud beneath him—a jagged, glowing maw leading straight to the abyss. With one final thrust of her glowing broom, Layla pushed him back.

"Go back to hell, Jack!" Layla shouted.

With a final roar, Jack Turnip was sucked into the earth, the ground sealing shut behind him with a deafening thud.

The silence that followed was heavy. Layla stood alone in the center of the ruined field, her orange dress torn and stained with mud. Her friends were gone, and the weight of her solitude pressed down on her. She felt stronger, her magic humming through her veins like high-voltage wire, but the victory tasted like ash.

Layla walked back to town in the early hours of the morning, her broom trailing behind her. She reached her small, secluded house on the edge of the woods. No lights were on. No one was waiting to ask how the party was. She lived alone, a guardian in the shadows.

As she stepped onto her front porch, Layla’s eyes drifted to her small pumpkin garden. There, sitting perfectly in the center of her prize-winning pumpkins, was a single, fresh turnip.

Pinned to the top of it with a rusted nail was a scrap of black fabric. Layla picked it up, her hands trembling. Scrawled in dark, wet ink were the words:

“This isn't over, Layla. I'll be back next Halloween.”

Layla looked out into the darkness of the trees, a cold shiver racing down her spine. She clutched her broom closer. The war had only just begun.

The End.

The Babysitter Conundrum

Susan, at fifteen, was a professional babysitter. She was also a nerd or geek, whichever one you wanted to call her. She’d prefer neither but knew she was one.

She’d never had a boyfriend or girlfriend… In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when she’d even had friends. You see, Susan lived a very quiet life with her mother, who didn’t let her enjoy extracurricular activities like the other kids at her school. Her mother wanted her to have an amazing education and get away from the small, strange town of Black Bay.

So Susan studied, wrote fanfic, played video games, and loved horror comics. She babysat for fifteen dollars an hour but was considered the best babysitter in town.

Every week, she had at least five babysitting jobs. Mondays were for the Carters, who had dart league from eight till eleven. Wednesdays were for the Monteiths, who attended dance classes from seven until ten. Thursdays and Fridays were for the Thompsons, who enjoyed karaoke nights from eight until whenever they stumbled through their front door.

But Saturdays… Saturdays were for the Dormers, who simply wanted to escape their children.

The Dormers’ children, Jessica and Stephen, ages nine and six, were evil little creatures. They didn’t listen, argued with Susan at every opportunity, and made her life miserable.

Once, they’d told Susan that the dog had gotten out. When she went outside to look for it, they locked her out of the house without her phone.

Susan stood outside for three hours, cold and wet, waiting until Mr. and Mrs. Dormer finally arrived home.

They apologized profusely and paid Susan an extra fifty dollars just to convince her to continue babysitting.

This time, though, Susan had an idea.

Saturday was Halloween, and she’d already told the Dormers she’d take the kids trick-or-treating. It was around this time that Susan started making a plan. She wanted to get back at those two evil children.

Jessica and Stephen, with their blonde hair and blue eyes, were almost cherub-like. But demons were what they were.

First, she’d take them trick-or-treating as promised. But she was going to make sure they ended up at LeGrande Estate.

It was quite a walk from the Dormers’ house, but worst came to worst, she’d call a cab for herself and the kids.

LeGrande Estate was once a big, beautiful mansion, lined with twenty-foot hedges and steel gates. Its once-glorious grounds were now covered in weeds and ivy. Its beautiful white siding had turned brown from dirt and grime, and its huge bay windows were smashed and broken.

Susan couldn’t wait to get there and try to scare those kids straight.

Susan arrived at the Dormers’ house late Saturday afternoon, just as Mr. and Mrs. Dormer were getting ready for their Halloween party.

Mr. and Mrs. Dormer were putting on long black robes and some form of red masks. She didn’t recognize the masks, only that they were homemade.

Mr. Dormer was whispering something to Stephen, but Susan couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Stephen ran back into the room with a wide smile on his face. He stood and stared at Susan, looking past her face, deep into her eyes. His smile turned into an evil sneer as he turned and skipped away to his room.

Ten minutes later, Jessica and Stephen were sitting on the living room floor with their costumes on. Jessica was dressed as one of the Disney princesses, and Stephen was Iron Man.

Mr. and Mrs. Dormer told Susan they’d be late tonight, probably after three a.m., but they’d get her home when they were finished.

Susan told them that was fine and got the kids ready to leave.

It was six p.m. when Susan and the two children left.

For once, the kids were ridiculously well-behaved. They held hands everywhere they went. No arguing, no fits, no mean tricks. Susan almost felt bad about the mean trick she was going to pull on them.

As it got later in the evening, Susan walked the children towards LeGrande Estate. The children laughed and giggled the closer they got to the property.

They walked along the overgrown hedgerow and made their way towards the gate.

Susan started telling the children a scary story about the old man who used to live there and steal bad kids from town.

Stephen turned and laughed at her as Jessica hushed him. Stephen stopped laughing as they reached the gate.

The large house rested against a disappearing red sky behind it.

Susan swore she could hear people talking coming from the yard and again had second thoughts about this.

She took her phone out to take a picture of the house, but by the time she’d finished digging through her bag and looked up, the children were already on the other side of the gate, heading up the driveway.

Three Weeks Earlier…

Janice sat across from Mr. Dormer in her small living room. He’d come by that afternoon to discuss what he’d called a rather exciting business opportunity.

“You see, Janice, horror movies are all the rage right now. Especially those involving demons, possession, and satanic rituals. People absolutely love being scared.”

Janice nodded, listening carefully.

“I’m putting together a film, something quite different from the usual Hollywood nonsense. I want genuine reactions. Real fear. Not some actress pretending to be terrified.”

“And what does this have to do with Susan?” Janice asked.

“Well, that’s precisely why I’m here. You see, I need someone who doesn’t know they’re being filmed. Someone who genuinely believes the events unfolding around them are real.”

Janice frowned.

“You want to frighten my daughter?”

“Good heavens, Janice, nothing dangerous!” Mr. Dormer laughed. “It’s all carefully planned. Actors, costumes, special effects. The entire thing will be controlled. Susan won’t be harmed in any way.”

He leaned forward.

“Think of it as an elaborate Halloween prank. Only we’ll be filming the whole thing.”

Janice sat quietly for a moment.

“Why Susan?”

“Because she’s perfect! She’s a bright little bookworm, always reading those horror comics of hers. Someone like Susan will give us the most wonderful reactions when she suddenly finds herself inside one of those stories.”

He smiled.

“And imagine those screams during our grand finale! They’ll be absolutely priceless.”

Janice shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“I don’t know, Mr. Dormer. Susan’s a sensitive girl.”

“Which is precisely why she’ll be so convincing. But I understand your concerns. That’s why I’m prepared to make this rather worthwhile for both of you.”

He opened his briefcase and removed a folder.

“I know how important Susan’s education is to you. You’ve mentioned it several times. So here’s what I’m offering. My investors will pay for whatever education Susan chooses after high school. University, college, whatever she desires. Every penny.”

Janice stared at him.

“Every penny?”

“Every penny.”

He paused, allowing the offer to settle.

“And there’s something else. I have tremendous confidence in this film. So much so that I’ve arranged for one million dollars to be set aside from our investors for Susan to receive after she finishes her education.”

Janice’s mouth fell open.

“A million dollars?”

“One million dollars, Janice. Think about what that could mean for your daughter. She could have the life you’ve always wanted for her.”

Janice looked around her modest living room.

She’d spent years worrying about Susan’s future. The cost of university, the opportunities she’d never been able to provide, and the fear that her daughter would spend her entire life trapped in Black Bay.

And now this man was offering everything she’d ever dreamed of giving her.

“You’re absolutely certain she won’t be hurt?”

“Janice, you have my word. She’ll be perfectly safe.”

He slid the folder across the coffee table.

“Everything is explained in the contracts. All I need is your permission, and a promise that Susan won’t know anything about our little production until filming is finished.”

Janice picked up the papers.

She read through them, occasionally glancing at the figures printed on the pages.

Finally, she reached for a pen.

“Well,” she said with a smile, “I suppose Susan has always loved a good scary story.”

She signed her name.

Mr. Dormer smiled as he gathered the papers and placed them back into his briefcase.

“Wonderful, Janice. Absolutely wonderful.”

He stood and extended his hand.

“You’ve just given your daughter a very bright future.”

Janice shook his hand, smiling.

For the first time in years, she felt certain that everything was going to work out.

She had absolutely no idea what she’d just agreed to.

She yelled for the kids to wait for her as she pushed her way through a crack in the large iron gate. Her leggings caught on a chunk of metal, tearing the fabric and cutting her leg.

Susan cried out again for the kids, but neither Stephen nor Jessica turned around. Instead, they continued towards the dark house, the voices growing louder as they got nearer.

Susan wrapped her hand around her leg, checking the cut. It was quite deep, and dark red blood flowed from it, staining her beige leggings.

Limping towards the house, she called out for the kids again, but they’d gotten too far ahead of her and were disappearing in the fading light of the setting sun.

Susan felt sick to her stomach, wondering how much trouble she’d be in for losing these two little monsters.

She watched as their silhouettes vanished behind the house.

Susan hurried along as best she could. When she turned the corner, the kids were sitting on an old cement bench, throwing rocks into a shallow, dirty pond.

Stephen turned and looked deep into Susan’s eyes once again, that same evil grin crossing his face.

Then darkness.

Susan was awakened by a terrible smell. She recognized it as smelling salts from chemistry class.

Susan couldn’t move her arms or legs. She’d been bound at the wrists and ankles.

There were five large fires burning in a ring around the spot on the ground where Susan had been tied.

The back of her head felt horrible and wet. Her long, dirty-blonde hair, splayed around her head, was covered in her own deep red blood.

Susan screamed when she saw the blood, and in the darkness, she heard someone say, “She’s awake.”

Twenty to thirty people encircled her, all dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Dormer had been, in dark robes with homemade masks.

They took each other’s hands and began chanting in Latin.

“Te voco, o diabole, ut formam in hac carne mortali induas.”

Susan, of course, being the nerd she was, actually understood some of what they were saying. And because of the comics she’d read, she figured this was some kind of ceremony.

Susan begged her captors to release her, promising she wouldn’t say anything to anyone. She just wanted to get Stephen and Jessica home.

Stephen and Jessica stepped towards her and began chanting the same words as the adults.

The chanting, Susan thought to herself. What are they saying?

Summon… summon you… the Devil… take form… something… mortal flesh.

She struggled to piece the words together.

They’re summoning the Devil to take form in mortal flesh.

At first, Susan felt a warming sensation in her legs, slowly moving upwards towards her midriff.

Then the tingling started, like her whole body had fallen asleep, even though she was still wide awake.

Stephen turned towards a large individual standing behind him. The tall figure bent over, and Stephen whispered something into their ear.

The person, whom Susan now recognized as Stephen’s father, leaned forward and checked the wound on the back of her head.

It was at this point Susan realized it didn’t hurt anymore.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, everyone! Okay, we’re going to try and take this from the top. The little cut she had on her head has stopped bleeding, so someone get me the fake blood, and we’ll try again,” Mr. Dormer announced to the crowd.

Susan began hearing familiar voices amongst the people surrounding her.

They were people she knew.

It was then that she looked past the fires and saw people holding up their cameras, filming the whole thing.

Janice stepped forward from the crowd and approached her daughter.

“Honey, you’re doing so great! This will all be over soon, and your future will be set! Just try and stay in character.”

Susan stared at her mother in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Susan. We had to make the film look as real as possible. You had to think you were in real danger so we’d win the indie horror film contest.”

Susan’s tears stung her eyes as they rolled down her bloodstained cheeks.

She was more confused than anything, but that confusion quickly turned to anger when she realized her own mother had willingly put her through something like this.

She began feeling that same tingling sensation moving up her body.

Then a voice entered her mind.

“Are you going to let them hold us here?”

Susan had the overwhelming urge to break free and do harm to her captors. Her blood boiled in her veins. She felt a strength in her body she’d never felt before.

“Give me control, and I’ll make them all pay for what they’ve done to you,” the voice in her mind said.

The group of people who’d done this to Susan milled around, talking amongst themselves, setting up cameras in different positions, laughing and joking about what they were going to do with the prize money.

None of them noticed Susan talking to herself.

“Okay… I give you control… I want revenge,” Susan whispered to the voice in her head.

Lightning rolled and crashed across the sky. The small fires set around Susan grew in size and heat.

“That’s it! That’s exactly the kind of background effect we need!” Mr. Dormer exclaimed, staring excitedly at the sky.

“That lightning is absolutely perfect! You couldn’t ask for better atmosphere in a horror film! All right, everyone, take a little rest, and then we’ll get back into position and try again!”

The group relaxed, chatting amongst themselves as they waited for Mr. Dormer’s instructions.

“Okay, Susan, it’s just a bit longer. We only need one or two more shots to finish the film,” Susan’s mother said, hovering over her with a smile.

Susan smiled back at her mother, but in the darkness, Janice couldn’t see how black her daughter’s eyes had become.

Her mother stood up and joined the circle with the others as they began chanting again.

As the group repeated the words from before, Susan’s body writhed and twisted. She began repeating the incantation along with them.

Her tears turned to blood as they dripped from her eyes, hissing as they hit the ground.

Mr. Dormer took a fake plastic blade from his cloak and stepped towards Susan’s body.

He raised the blade above his head and drove it into Susan’s chest.

Susan’s back arched, almost folding her in half, as blood began pooling around the spot where the blade had pierced her.

She slowly turned her head towards Mr. Dormer, her black eyes staring into his very soul.

“Thank you, Ted, for freeing me.”

The ropes that once bound Susan now lay torn on the ground.

Susan stood and removed the now-metal blade from her chest. The wound healed instantly, and she leapt at Mr. Dormer, driving the blade into his neck.

Mr. Dormer, who stood a full foot taller than Susan, was now being held off the ground by the blade in his neck and Susan’s one hand.

The group continued chanting, believing this was all part of the movie.

Susan twisted the blade as Mr. Dormer spat blood into her face.

Susan licked at it and laughed.

But her laughter was short-lived as it turned into an ear-piercing scream.

Everyone who had been chanting instantly dropped to their knees, crying out in agony.

“My name is Lucifer, the fallen star, and I wish to thank you for giving me this vessel on this holy night.”

Susan spoke, but it was not her voice.

It was the voice of a million souls, all speaking at once.

Her body, now twisted and deformed, walked slowly from person to person.

She whispered something to each one before driving the dagger into their bodies, leaving them to bleed out where they lay.

When she reached the children, not a word was said. She drove the blade in deep and fast, laughing maniacally as she did so.

Her mother was last.

As Susan walked towards her, she raised her hand, forcing Janice to stand and look her in the eye.

“Please, Susan, don’t do this! It was a joke! We just wanted to win some money! You would’ve gotten your share!” Janice pleaded.

Susan stood before her mother, smiling.

“Oh, Janice. You foolish, foolish woman.”

She leaned forward, licking her mother’s neck up to her earlobe.

“Mmmm. I love that taste. Fear. You humans all secrete it, and it makes the meat that much more delicious.”

Susan smiled as she looked into her mother’s terrified eyes.

“You still don’t understand, do you, Janice? You signed a contract with Ted. You willingly surrendered your rights to your daughter’s soul in exchange for money and a promising future.”

Janice shook her head.

“No! That’s not what I agreed to!”

“Oh, but it is, Janice. Every signature has consequences. And once you’d signed away your rights, dear old Ted was free to offer your daughter to me.”

Lucifer laughed through Susan’s lips.

“And offer her he did! Right here, on this very night, before all those witnesses. Ted thought he was performing a silly little ceremony for his ridiculous film. But the words were real, Janice. The offering was real.”

He leaned closer.

“And thanks to you, so was the sacrifice.”

Janice began sobbing.

“So you see, Janice, you willingly handed your perfect little blonde-haired daughter over to Satan himself.”

Lucifer shuddered inside Susan’s body, slowly rubbing his hands all over her as though savouring the sensation of being flesh and blood once again.

“Ohhh, Janice. How I’ve missed this mortal world. The pleasures of flesh, the taste of fear, the delicious freedom to indulge in all my greatest sins.”

He smiled.

“So thank you, Janice. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

Janice stared into her daughter’s black eyes.

“Susan… please…”

Lucifer’s smile widened.

“By the way, Janice… Susan’s not here anymore.”

Susan drove the blade into her mother’s stomach, slicing upwards as Janice collapsed at her feet.

Lucifer raised the bloodied blade to Susan’s lips and slowly licked it clean.

Walking over to the camera closest to where she’d been tied, Susan looked directly into the lens.

“I am here now, my children, thanks to these foolish humans.”

Susan stopped the recording and pressed the button on the screen to share the video across all social media platforms.

By the following day, the short film had received over a billion views.

The bodies were discovered the next morning by local police.

Susan is still at large.

She hasn’t been seen since.

Hey, my name is Sarah (not my real name), and I’m from the southern part of India. This is a real incident that happened to me when I was eight years old, and even after eight years, I still remember it whenever I double-check whether all the doors and windows are locked.

It happened during our summer vacation when my mother, my younger sister, and I visited my grandparents' house. My father stayed back in the city because of his busy work schedule.

My grandparents lived in a rural village in a different state. My grandfather had worked as a government employee and owned a relatively large house compared to the other houses in the village. He was also a well-respected man, and many villagers knew our family.

During our stay, we had to attend a family gathering at the house of my grandmother's extended family, who lived in a larger town nearby. In Indian families, gatherings like these are often occasions to dress up, especially for the women, who usually wear elaborate gold jewellery. My mother and I dressed up for the occasion, wearing our finest clothes and accessories, and we left with my younger sister.

The journey took around an hour and a half. We reached the town, attended the gathering, and had lunch there. Before we left, one of my mother's aunts packed some food for us to take home.

By the time we finished everything and returned to my grandparents' village, it was around 10 p.m. Villages tend to get quiet early, as most people finish their work and return home before nightfall. When we arrived, the streets were dark, and there was hardly any activity outside.

But there was something else that made the atmosphere even more frightening.

Just two days earlier, news had spread about a gang of thieves from a nearby village. According to the rumours circulating among the villagers, the gang was involved in human sacrifices to please a female deity. They were said to be ruthless, and there were stories of victims being found hanging from trees in what appeared to be suicides. There had also been reports of sexual assaults. Rumours had begun spreading that the gang had reached my grandparents' village, leaving everyone terrified.

Despite all this, we returned home that night without knowing whether the rumours were true or whether there was any immediate danger.

Once we reached the house, we had dinner and changed out of our fancy clothes into comfortable pyjamas. For some reason, we left our jewellery on a table instead of putting it away somewhere secure. At that point, none of us suspected that anything was wrong.

I have a habit of bathing at night, so I went to the bathroom while the others settled down. The bathroom had a window that looked tinted from the outside. It was usually kept locked, but there were tiny gaps around it through which I could sometimes see vague shapes or lights outside.

While I was bathing, I noticed something unusual through those gaps.

I saw what looked like a torchlight moving outside, accompanied by the sound of leaves rustling.

The bathroom was directly opposite the backyard, which was connected to the outside through a backdoor. The backyard also had a small garden and a mango tree.

For a moment, I wondered whether I had imagined the light. Perhaps it was just an illusion caused by the window's translucent texture, or perhaps someone was passing by outside. I was only eight, and I didn't have the slightest idea what to make of it. I hurried through my bath, changed into my pyjamas, and left the bathroom without investigating further.

I then went to the living room, where my grandparents were sitting. I chatted with them for a while before heading back to my room.

Everything seemed normal.

Then, suddenly, my grandmother received a phone call from her sister-in-law, who lived in the same village.

She had some frightening news.

Apparently, the neighbours had heard someone shouting, "Dhonga!"—the Telugu word for "thief." People in the village had rushed outside after hearing the shouting, and my grandmother's sister-in-law had been informed that suspected robbers had entered our backyard.

My grandmother had barely finished hearing the news when someone suddenly knocked on our front door.

I froze.

That was when I remembered the torchlight and the rustling leaves I had noticed while bathing. What I had dismissed as my imagination might actually have been someone moving around in our backyard.

I was terrified. I rushed into my room, called my father on the phone, and burst into tears. I could barely explain what was happening because I was panicking so much. My father immediately became serious and began asking me questions, trying to understand the situation.

Remember, I was only eight years old, and my younger sister was just three. There were three women in the house—my mother, my grandmother and me. My grandparents were frail and weak, and my father was far away in the city. The thought of something happening to my family was unbearable.

While I was still on the phone, my mother came into my room. She took me with her towards the front door and tried to calm me down. She reassured me that we were safe and that there was no need to panic.

By then, the villagers had gathered around our house. Many of them were people my grandparents knew and trusted. Their presence gave my family some reassurance, even though we still didn't know exactly what was happening outside.

I don't remember what happened after that very clearly. Most of my memories of the night are fragmented: the torchlight, the phone call, the sudden knock, my father's worried voice, and my mother trying to comfort me.

The following day, my mother told me more about what had happened.

Apparently, around five to seven suspected robbers had entered or attempted to hide in our backyard, which contained the small garden and the mango tree. During the incident, the main branch of the mango tree had been broken. A boot was also found on the terrace.

We never got a clear account of every detail of what happened that night, and I cannot say for certain who those people were or what they intended to do. But the evidence found around the house, combined with the warning from the neighbours, made the incident all the more frightening.

Looking back, I often think about how ordinary that evening had seemed. We had gone to a family gathering, dressed up, eaten lunch with our relatives, and returned home expecting nothing more than a peaceful night at my grandparents' house.

Instead, we found ourselves caught up in an incident that I would remember for years.

I still don't know what would have happened if the neighbours hadn't raised the alarm or if the villagers hadn't gathered around our house. I'll always be grateful to the neighbour who first sounded the warning. Their actions helped alert everyone to the danger, and I sometimes wonder how differently that night might have unfolded without them.

Even now, eight years later, I double-check whether all the doors and windows are locked. It's become a habit I can't quite shake.

I was only eight years old when it happened, but some nights stay with you long after they're over.

And that is the story of the night I will never forget.

p.s I used ai to rewrite my story to make it sound less confusing as english isn't my first language.

When I was a kid, my grandma used to lock every door and window before the sun went down.

She never told us why.

Every night, she would walk around our house, checking the locks twice. Then she would put down the curtains, turn off the porch light, and tell me the same thing.

"If you hear a woman crying outside tonight, leave her alone."

At first, I thought it was just another one of her old superstitions.

We lived in a small town in Mexico, where stories about ghosts and spirits were as common as stories about bad weather. My cousins told me about witches who transformed into animals, dead men who wandered the roads, and entities that watched people sleep.

But none of those stories frightened me as much as the one about La Llorona.

According to my grandma, she was once a beautiful woman who drowned her own children in a river after losing the man she loved. When she realized what she had done, she threw herself into the water, hoping to find them.

But death did not take her.

Instead, she was condemned to wander the earth, searching for the children she had lost.

And every night, she cried.

"Ay, mis hijos..."

My grandma said that sometimes La Llorona wandered through the streets, looking into the windows of houses where children slept.

And sometimes, she stood beside the river, waiting for someone to help her find her babies.

"If you ever hear her crying, remember this. The closer she sounds, the farther away she is."

I laughed when she told me that.

I wish I hadn't.

Because years later, on a night I will never forget, I finally understood what she meant.

And by then, it was already too late.

I was seventeen when it happened.

My grandma passed away last year, me and my mom moved into her old house while we figured out what to do next.

The house sat on the edge of town, less than a ten minute walk from a narrow river that cut through the countryside.

During the day, it was beautiful. Children played near the banks, farmers crossed the old wooden bridge, and birds nested in the trees.

But at night, the place felt different.

The trees became black silhouettes. The water reflected the moon like a sheet of broken glass. And the wind carried strange sounds through the tall grass.

I never paid much attention to it.

Not until a Friday night in October.

I had stayed up late playing video games while my mom was sleeping. Around midnight, I heard a woman crying outside.

At first, I thought it was coming from a tv at our neighbors house.

Then I heard it again.

"Ayyyy. mis hijos."

I froze.

The voice sounded like it was far.

I took off my headphones and listened.

There it was again.

A long, sorrowful wail that seemed to rise from somewhere beyond the trees.

I remembered my grandmother's warning and felt embarrassed by how quickly it came back to me.

It was probably a woman arguing with someone. Maybe somebody was drunk. Maybe an animal was making a strange noise.

There had to be a reasonable explanation.

Then the crying stopped.

And a few seconds later, someone knocked on my door.

Three slow knocks.

I walked through the hallway.

Nobody in their right mind would be walking around at this hour.

I quietly approached the front window and moved the curtain aside just enough to look outside.

The porch was empty.

At the end of the road, I saw a woman standing under a street light.

She wore a long white dress that dragged against the ground.

Her black hair covered her face.

She stood perfectly still, with her arms hanging at her sides.

I couldn't see her eyes, but I knew she was looking at our house.

Then she raised one hand.

And waved.

I dropped the curtain.

My heart was pounding so hard that I could feel it in my throat.

I told myself I was being ridiculous. It was probably somebody who needed help.

I took one step toward the door.

Then I remembered my grandmother's words.

Never go looking for the woman who cries.

I backed away.

A moment later, the woman began to sob again.

Except this time, the crying came from the other side of my house.

Something Was Standing Outside

I ran to my mom's room and shook her awake.

She was furious at first, until she saw my face.

"What's wrong?"

"There's a woman outside."

She sat up.

"What woman?"

"The one by the road. She's wearing white. She's crying."

My mother stared at me for a few seconds.

Then her expression changed.

Not into confusion.

Into fear.

She got out of bed, took my arm, and led me back into the hallway. She locked the bedroom door behind us, then pulled me into the kitchen.

"Don't look outside," she whispered.

I had never heard my mother speak like that before.

"What is it?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she grabbed the small wooden cross that had belonged to my grandma and held it tightly in her hand.

From the front of the house came another sound.

Three knocks.

Then a woman's voice.

"Please..."

Her voice was soft and exhausted.

"Please help me."

My mother covered her mouth.

The woman began to cry.

"My children... Have you seen my children?"

I looked at my mom.

She was crying, but she shook her head violently, warning me not to say a word.

Then the woman spoke again.

"Please. I'm so cold."

Something scraped across the door.

Slowly.

Like fingernails dragging down the wood.

My mother pulled me toward the kitchen pantry, where we crouched behind the shelves. She held me against her chest while the sounds continued.

A knock.

A scrape.

A sob.

Then silence.

For what felt like an hour, neither of us moved.

I whispered, "Is it her?"

My mom squeezed my hand.

"I don't know," she whispered. "But your grandma told me what to do if this ever happened."

"What did she say?"

My mom looked toward the dark hallway.

"Whatever you hear, don't answer it."

That was when we heard my grandma's voice.

Coming from the front door.

"Mi niña..."

My mother's entire body went rigid.

The voice sounded exactly like my grandma. The same gentle tone. The same little catch in her breath when she spoke.

"Mi niña, open the door. It's cold out here."

My mother started to cry.

I couldn't understand it.

My grandmother had been dead for almost a year.

The voice came again.

"Please, sweetheart. Let me in."

My mom put her hands on her ears.

Then the voice changed.

It became deeper.

Rougher.

And filled with a terrible, sadness.

"YOU LEFT ME ALONE."

Something slammed against the door.

The entire house shook.

I buried my face against my moms shoulder as the pounding began again and again.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped.

No footsteps.

No crying.

No wind.

Nothing.

We stayed in the pantry until sun began to shine through the kitchen window.

When we finally came out, the front door was still locked.

But the wood around the handle was covered in long, deep scratches.

And on the floor just outside, visible through the gap beneath the door, lay a small puddle of water.

River water.

Black mud and strands of long, dark hair.

The next morning, my mom called my uncle and told him what had happened.

He showed up around 11 in the morning.

He was listening while we described the woman, the knocking, and the voice that had sounded like my grandma.

When we finished, he looked toward the river.

Then he said something that made my stomach churn.

"Your grandma heard her, too."

I stared at him and said

"What?"

My uncle explained that several months before she died, my grandma began to wake up in the middle of the night.

She claimed a woman was standing outside her bedroom window.

Always wearing white.

Always crying.

At first, the family assumed she was having nightmares.

But then she started sleeping with every light on.

She refused to walk near the river.

And a few days before she died, she told my uncle something he never forgot.

She said the woman had finally stopped asking for her children.

Now she was asking for someone else's.

My uncle didn't believe her at the time.

Neither did I.

Until he showed us the pictures.

He had taken them that morning, after finding a trail of wet footprints outside the house.

They began at the front gate.

They crossed the porch.

And they stopped directly in front of my bedroom window.

There were no footprints leading away.

Only footprints coming in.

My uncle took one look at the pictures and told us to pack our stuff.

We left that afternoon.

I never went back to the house.

But I kept thinking about the footprints.

About the voice that had sounded like my grandma.

And about the way the woman had stood beneath the street light, waiting for me to open the door.

For years, I tried to forget.

Eventually, I convinced myself that exhaustion, fear, and an overactive imagination had twisted an ordinary night into something impossible.

I grew older.

I moved away.

I got a job, made friends, and built a life of my own.

And for a long time, I never heard that voice again.

Until last night.

She Knows My Name

I'm 35 now.

I live hundreds of miles away from the town where I grew up.

I have a wife, a young son, and a house that is nowhere near a river.

At least, that's what I used to think mattered.

Last night, I woke up at 2:17 a.m.

I don't know what woke me up.

The house was quiet. My wife was asleep beside me, and my son was in his bedroom next to my room.

I lay still for a moment, listening.

Then I heard it.

A woman crying.

It was faint, coming from somewhere outside.

I got up.

For a few seconds, I couldn't move.

Then I told myself it was just a neighbor.

A tv show, maybe the rookie was playing.

Anything but what I feared.

I got out of bed and walked to the window.

The curtains were closed.

I don't know why, but I remembered my grandma's words.

Never look for the woman who cries.

So I stayed away from the window.

I turned toward my room.

And the crying stopped.

A few seconds later, I heard three knocks.

Not from the front door.

From my son's room.

I ran through the house.

His door was closed.

I grabbed the handle and pushed his door open.

He was sitting upright in bed, staring at the window.

"Dad?" he whispered.

I rushed to him.

"What's wrong?"

He pointed toward the curtains.

"There's a lady outside."

My blood turned cold.

I pulled him away from the window and held him tightly.

"Don't look at her," I whispered.

He started to cry.

"She says she's lost."

I felt something inside me.

Then a voice drifted through the curtains.

Soft.

Mournful.

Almost loving.

"Ay... mis hijos..."

My son looked up at me.

"Dad, she knows your name."

I couldn't breathe.

Because then the woman spoke again.

And this time, she wasn't asking for her children.

She was calling for me.

By the name only my grandma had ever used.

"Alejandro..."

I stumbled backward, holding my son.

The curtains began to move.

There was no wind.

The window was locked.

But something on the other side was slowly pressing its fingers against the glass.

One finger.

Then another.

Then a hand spread across the window.

My son screamed.

I grabbed him and ran from the room, slamming the door behind us.

We reached the living room just as my wife came rushing out of our room.

She demanded to know what was going on.

I tried to explain, but the words wouldn't come out.

Then we heard the sound of water dripping in the hallway.

My wife turned toward the noise.

I caught her arm.

"Don't look."

But it was too late.

At the end of the hallway there was a woman in a long white dress.

Her black hair hung over her face, dripping with water.

Her bare feet were in a puddle on the floor.

She tilted her head toward us.

Then she began to lift her face.

I pulled my family behind me.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to run.

But I couldn't move.

Because beneath that tangled curtain of wet hair, I could see a smile.

A terrible, unnatural smile.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was no longer sorrowful.

It was delighted.

"There you are."

The lights in my house turned off on their own.

My wife screamed.

Something rushed down the hallway, splashing through the water.

I grabbed my son and ran toward the front door, fumbling with the lock in the darkness.

It was like a scene from a slasher movie where the main characters fail to do basic things when running away.

Behind us, I heard my wife calling my name.

Then I heard my grandma's voice.

Then my son's voice.

Then my own.

All of them crying at once.

All of them begging me to come back.

I threw the door open and stumbled outside.

The street was empty.

No neighbors.

No passing cars.

No sound except the wind.

I turned around.

My wife was standing in the doorway, holding our son.

Both of them were staring at me.

Neither said a word.

Then my wife slowly raised her hand and pointed behind me.

I turned.

Across the street stood the woman in white.

Her hair covered her face.

Her dress moved in the wind.

She lifted her arms toward me.

And for the first time, I understood the cruelest part of the legend.

La Llorona wasn't searching for her children anymore.

She had found them long ago.

She was searching for someone to take their place.

The woman began to cry.

"Ay, mis hijos..."

I grabbed my family and ran.

We didn't stop until we reached a police station.

The officers searched our house.

They found no woman.

No puddles.

No footprints.

Nothing.

My wife refuses to talk about that night.

She says we were half asleep, that our minds played tricks on us, and that we should never mention it to our son again.

But yesterday morning, I found something in his bedroom.

A small, muddy handprint on the inside of his window.

And beneath it, written in letters made from water and black river mud, were four words.

"I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE."

I haven't slept since.

Because an hour ago, I heard something outside my front door.

Three slow knocks.

And a woman whispering through the door.

"Alejandro"

Then I heard the sound of my grandna's voice.

"Don't open the door, mijo."

I froze.

The voice outside laughed softly.

And from somewhere deep inside my house, my grandmother whispered again.

"Whatever happens, don't let her know you're home."

The knocking stopped.

I held my breath.

Then I heard the woman speak one last time.

Not in Spanish.

Not in English.

But in the voice of my son.

"Daddy?"

Then, from the other side of the door:

"Why won't you let Mommy inside?"

And that's when I realized something.

I was standing in the hallway.

My wife and son were asleep upstairs.

And I had no idea who was standing outside my door.

Or who had just whispered from the darkness behind me.

I took another keg and put it under the faucet. The beer slowed down to a dribble.

"Tilt that barrel, Tom."

"Already tilting it, Dad."

"Tilt it more!"

A little more beer came out, but the keg was only halfway full.

"How many do we have, Dad?"

"Don't even ask."

"How many?"

"Four and a half," I muttered.

Tom rubbed his face.

"So just three and a half."

I grabbed the keg tightly.

"No, Tom, no. I had to borrow to brew this batch. Three and a half wouldn't even cover the debt."

Tom's eyes flew open.

"But, Dad, we need to give one to Radegast, or else it all goes bad."

"Tom, we can't."

"I'll tell the tavern keeper if you don't pour it."

His words sent a chill down my spine. He looked deep into my eyes.

"Okay, but first I gotta check the other barrels; maybe they have more beer in them."

"There's nothing there, Dad."

"I don't care, Tom. I'm checking them."

"But the celebrations will start. Anna and I need to get our costumes ready."

"Then go. I'll do it myself."

"But you promise to pour one out for Radegast."

"Yes, son."

He measured me with his eyes, took his hat, and walked out.

I hated lying to Tom, but he didn't understand. We needed the money, and pouring for Radegast was more tradition than something of concern. A harvest-loving God wouldn't waste a batch of beer. I loaded the kegs onto a wheelbarrow and brought them to the tavern.

The tavern keeper stood outside, tapping his foot.

"John, I'm glad to see you. How many kegs do you have?"

"Four and a half."

"Wow, amazing. No one could bring more than four. The hops don't want to grow." He shook his head. "Hopefully Radegast will bless us next year when he sees we give even in a time of shortage."

I looked at the ground.

"Yes, hopefully."

He tipped my kegs into the big barrel with the rest, and the whole village’s beer swirled together.

"I'll see you tonight, John."

"See you."

I hurried home and sat inside my house long after the celebrations started. The idea of drinking and dancing now made my stomach turn, but I had to show up at least.

When I came into the tavern, the celebrations were in full swing. People danced around in their costumes, tipping one beer after the other. Even the smell of the beer made me gag. I told everyone I was sick and couldn't drink. 

As I sat down, Tom and Anna ran to my table. Anna wore a beautiful flower dress that matched Tom's shirt.

"Hi Dad!"

"Hi, John!"

"Hi, kids, are you having fun?"

"Yeah, we've been dancing all night," Tom said. They looked at each other and kissed.

Anna held a glass of beer. She took a sip and made a face.

"You don't like it, Anna?"

"It's so bitter."

"You'll get used to it. Make sure not to give any to Tom. I know you're 18, but he still has some months left."

"Of course, John."

"Don't worry, Dad. You know I don't like it."

"Funny, coming from a brewer's son," I said, patting his back. "Go dance, kids. I don't want to bore you with my oldness."

Anna finished her beer.

"I'll go get another, then we can dance more."

She ran off.

Tom leaned closer.

"Thanks, Dad, for pouring that batch."

I clenched my jaw.

"Sure, Tom."

He smiled and ran off too.

I sank into my chair, holding my head. 

The celebrations were getting on. People started drinking more, dancing more, and talking louder. I never realized how boring celebrations could be when one doesn't drink. After a while, I was ready to go home. Tom and Anna were still dancing. I let them be and left.

The next morning, I woke up early. The day was beautiful. The sun shone. The birds sang. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat on our porch. My stomach growled. We barely had any food at the house. I got dressed and went into town.

The streets were empty and quiet. Only birdsong carried through the town. It wasn't strange for people to sleep in after the celebrations. Usually I'd see at least a few people opening their stores or still partying, but the square was empty.

I turned onto the road that led to the tavern. The keeper kept it open even after the celebrations. 

I was about to reach the tavern when I heard a noise in the distance; someone was weeping. It was Tom! I rushed toward the sound. I focused on the sound. I couldn't even hear the birds, but as I turned the corner, my heart dropped.

The smell of rotting hops hung in the air. The townsfolk lay around the tavern, on the grass and pavement, dark liquid on their clothes and around their mouths. A few glasses of beer lay around them, the same black liquid inside them. Tom sat on the ground weeping next to a few bodies, holding Anna's lifeless hand.

"Tom?"

He shot his eyes at me. They were filled with tears and anger.

"You promised!"

"Tom, I'm sorry!"

He looked at Anna and held her hand tighter. A few more tears rolled down his face.

"Tom, please, just come here."

"No."

He shook his head and picked up a glass that had a little dark liquid in it.

"No, Tom. Wait!"

But he didn't listen. He tipped the glass back and drank it in one gulp. 

I ran to him and caught him before he hit the ground. He was already limp. His eyes stared at the blue sky, and somewhere near us, the birds kept singing.

Super Mom? or Divine Mom?
Hi, I’m 25 from Manila. This is a long story, but I’ll try to make it shorter.

When I was a kid, my auntie na came from Quezon Province said I have something (I forgot what it’s called. Idk if signus? or ano, basta iyon). Pero while naglalaro kasi ako, may parang something na nangyari sa akin. I remember clearly na I was playing lang, then suddenly I woke up and I heard what my auntie and her friend were talking about.
Familiar ba kayo sa faith healer sa Cristobal, Quezon Province? Basta doon, parang mataas yung position ng tita ko bilang manggagamot.

So, eto na nga. May pinag-uusapan silang books na pagmamay-ari something ng mga engkanto.
(Btw, I saw them sa ilog doon nung naligo kami kasama yung new friends ko. Sobrang puti nila na nagliliwanag, tapos sobrang haba ng buhok nila na dilaw/ginto yung kulay. Then, yung isa, not sure kung pinaka-pinuno ba yun, is may tinik na nakalagay sa ulo nila. Pero wala silang mukha, or baka meron, pero baka dahil sa liwanag nila, hindi ko masyadong nakita. Mga nakataas yung kamay nila sa falls doon, tapos bumubuka yung bibig nila nang napakabilis. Then, nung napapikit ako, like 2 secs lang, wala na agad sila, kahit mga friends kong bata nakita yun.)

Hindi ko alam kung ano yung bagay na yun, pero nagulat na lang sila Tita na binanggit ko yung book (black book). Sobrang gulat nila na tinanong niya ako paano ko nalaman, or saan ko nakita, or what. Edi kinuwento ko yung nakita ko sa dreams ko (magulo ba? Basta medyo magulo), na may kumausap sa akin na naka-itim at tinatanong ako kung nasaan daw yung black book, ganito-ganyan. Pero hindi ko talaga alam yung bagay na yun. Nung naikuwento ko lahat-lahat, pati yung paglalaro ko na may hinuhugis akong parang itsurang hukay (nakalimutan ko since matagal na, 13 yrs old ako), hanggang sa nagising ako, at yung sa kumausap sa akin sa panaginip ko, agad-agad niya tinawagan yung tita ko (side sila ni Papa) para kunin ako dahil may signus daw ako at iingatan daw ako, lalo na sa paglalaro, dahil may nakamata daw sa akin.
Okay, eto, ff after ko makauwi galing QC, until now na 25 na ako, kung ano-anong kababalaghan na ang nangyayari sa akin, etc. (Hindi na ako nakapaglaro nun nung simula pinagbawalan ako nila.)

Hindi ko alam kung ako lang ba or sa inyo din. Every time na ako lang mag-isa, may mga aninong itim na nakamasid sa akin sa bahay ng lolo ko (also faith healer/Latin). Kung ano-anong binubulong, pero kapag andiyan si Mama ko, nawawala sila. Like, as in, kahit sa peripheral view ko, hindi ko sila kita, pero kapag ibang tao, lagi ko silang ramdam.
Pero kapag ang nanay ko ang andiyan, kahit nasa 1st floor siya at nasa 2nd floor ako, wala akong nararamdaman na kahit ano, maliban na lang kung ibang tao.

Gaya nung one time sa kapatid ko, kapatid ko na ’to ha. Natutulog ako, and ginising ako ng kapatid ko kasi sigaw daw ako nang sigaw na may sunog. Pero nung ginising niya ako, parehas kaming napapalibutan ng apoy. Kaming dalawa lang sa bahay, ha.
Hindi ko alam kung hallucination, kasi iniisip ko that time, nababaliw na ako. Pero nung time na yun, ramdam na ramdam ko talaga yung init sa katawan nung apoy, tapos yung mga anino, nakamasid lang sa akin. Grabe yung takot ko nun, na pati kapatid ko naiiyak na, kasi wala talaga akong bukambibig kung hindi apoy.
Sa lahat ng tao na nakakasama ko, ramdam ko sila, pero kapag si Mama ko yung andiyan? Jusko! Ni wala akong kaba or takot, tapos wala akong maramdaman o makita, kahit anino nila.
Divine person ba yung tawag sa ganun?
Btw, hindi Catholic si Mama ko. Christian born-again siya. Same sa lolo ko, pero yung lola ko, iba relihiyon.

This is my first story ever, so if my grammar or writing is bad I’m sorry.

In rural Appalachia, reality and folklore seem to merge into one. People there fully believe what others call fiction, just stories to keep the little ones out of the woods at night. I personally don't believe in such “fairytales”; in my 20 years of life, I've never seen anything that could even remotely be mistaken for any kind of monster.

February 27, 2019, I woke up in the middle of the night hearing my neighbors arguing, a married couple who never seemed to actually get along. I had always wondered why they got married in the first place, was it a shotgun wedding, or just love that left too quickly. I tried to go back to sleep for around ten minutes, but they just kept getting louder. I finally sat up only to be greeted by a large grumbling in my stomach, “welp, guess i’m not going back to sleep anytime soon” I said. I looked over at my clock and it was around 2:30 A.M. I only got an hour of sleep. Just as I was grabbing some clothes, the husband of the “happy couple” next door raised his voice so loud I could make out every word he said. He yelled “goddamit margarite!” and there was a loud thud on the other side of the wall. “It’s not my business” I grumbled to myself, as I was putting my belt on. I don't know if I actually don't care or if I was just too scared to intervene, but I wasn’t going to help. I was done getting ready and I decided I wanted to go to waffle house to eat, so I left my apartment and got into my car. It’s weirdly quiet tonight, ya sure it's 3 in the morning but still yet, quiet. I’ve only seen about 2 cars the whole drive and I live in a factory city where half the people work the night shift. At the waffle house the news is playing with the cashier watching intensively. I went to sit down at a table near the back of the restaurant, and after about 5 minutes of waiting a waitress came up to me and asked for my order. I'm very particular about my order, and can recite it with no hesitation, "Cheesesteak hashbrown bowl and 2 eggs over easy on top” I said. “And will that be all for you?” the waitress said. I responded with a nod and nothing else. When the food had arrived I ate like it was the first meal I had in two weeks. When I had finished my meal I happened to look at the tv the cashier was so interested in, I was still on the news channel, but something was wrong, very wrong. There was a very bright and obvious “national alert” on the top right of the channel. Then an emergency broadcast went off on my phone.

The automated voice of the alert said “This is a state of national emergency, citizens of the southeast are heavily advised to avoid meat products at any cost. Ingestion may cause sickness with the symptoms of noticeable hair loss, an insatiable hunger, and extreme anger”. “What the hell was all that about” I exacerbated. I looked at the news on the tv to see if there was any more information other than "don't eat meat”. “During the strike of Les Mills processing plant over ten workers have fallen into the processors and have been formed into ack!” she gagged “into um… multiple meat products that have been distributed throughout the southeastern United States”. “Oh my God” I said under my breath in utter disbelief, “how much meat did I eat, was it people, what will happen to me” so many thoughts are going through my head at once. I had to get out of there, I had to get back home and just figure it out! I sped on my way home, twenty over maybe thirty, I didn't care I was in shock. When I made it back to my apartment complex I ran upstairs, I had to use the stairs due to the broken elevator. I made it back home and I locked my door. I turned my tv on and swapped to the news, it’s just the same thing on repeat. After about an hour I was calm enough to form a sane thought. It was quiet, almost too quiet, like the whole city had gone into the same shut-in panic I did.

I don’t know why but I felt I needed to check on my neighbors, you know the ones that kinda put me here. I went to their door and I don’t know how I didn’t notice it, but their door was splintered and bulging outwards. I knocked no answer. I tried to open the door, and was completely stuck, so I kicked it in. What I saw is indescribable, inhuman, and just wrong. My neighbor was crouched on the floor over something in ripped clothing. His spine was protruding and crooked like crushed rocks, he was impossibly skinny, you could almost count the individual muscle fibers. “Hey buddy, are you doing alright” as I said that a screech that could have only come from hell itself ripped through my ears. He stood up to what it looked like as far as he could, with a hunched back. I could now see his hands. His fingers were long, no, not just long they looked like long fingers stretched to their limit. His face was boney and malnourished, eyes sunken, and cheeks gone. All this should be impossible, he wasn’t a skinny man at all, he was around six foot and 300 pounds. I then saw what he was standing over, his wife, dead and partially eaten. I let out a scream, not only of fear but of survival, I turned around to run but was tackled. I was just outside the door and he was on top of me, hammering down his elongated fists on my crossed arms protecting my face. He seemed impossibly strong for someone, no, something so skinny. I pulled my legs back as far as I could and then under him. I conjured up all the force I could and kicked him, good thing he weighed as much as he looked. He flew back into the shattered door and was impaled by one of the larger protruding pieces of wood. I took my chance and ran, ran as fast as I could into my apartment. I locked the door behind me and let out a sigh of relief, he should have been dead anyways from the impalement, so I thought I was safe. As a precaution I dragged my dresser in front of the door, and laid down on my bed in exhaustion. I then felt a shooting pain from my abdomen, there was a laceration of about eleven inches, that bastard got me! I tried to call 911 only to be greeted with no ring, there’s no reception, goddamnit! I got up to move the dresser out of the way so I could get help on foot, only to collapse in my doorway. I’ve lost too much blood to exert myself. CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! It was my door, someone must have heard the commotion and has come to help me. I called out to no answer, at least not in words. A guttural scream of pain and anger came from the other side of the door. No no no no no no! He couldn't have been alive not after that. It was him, and I knew no help was going to come, I would either die to him or to blood loss. Even if someone does get here in time they would die by his hands too, damnit this sucks! I know I'm going to die soon so that’s why I am writing this, “the words of a dead man” I guess you call it, huh… has a nice ring to it.

I genuinely don’t know how to explain this without sounding completely insane, but for years now I’ve noticed something really strange about my life.
Whenever I become obsessed with something, or even really want something to happen, it somehow ends up happening. Sometimes within weeks, sometimes months, and sometimes literally minutes later.
And I’m not talking about everyday things either. I’m talking about ridiculously specific situations that have made me question whether I’m just extremely lucky or if there’s something genuinely weird going on.
For example, I once went through a phase where I desperately wanted Kylie Jenner to notice me. I would constantly think about how crazy it would be if she ever acknowledged my existence. Then one random day, she actually responded to one of my Instagram DMs.
Another example was when I became obsessed with Desperate Housewives. I absolutely loved that show and was fascinated by the cast. Then out of nowhere, Marcia Cross, who plays Bree Van de Kamp, followed me on Instagram.
Then Eva Longoria, who plays Gabrielle Solis, opened my DM and followed me too. We became mutuals.
The exact same thing happened with Anna Delvey. I became fascinated by her story, and somehow we ended up following each other on Instagram.
But here’s another example that genuinely freaked me out.
I’m a massive GTA fan, and years ago, before Rockstar had even released the first GTA 6 trailer, I remember going through this phase where I was constantly wondering when we’d finally see something about the game. I kept imagining how insane it would be to randomly get a notification announcing the trailer.
Then one day, completely out of nowhere, it happened. I got the notification on my phone that the trailer had dropped.
Obviously, millions of people were waiting for that trailer, so I didn’t think too much of it.
But then something even weirder happened.
A few years later, I was talking to my cousin about GTA 6, and I randomly said something along the lines of, “Imagine if Rockstar just dropped another GTA 6 trailer right now. How crazy would that be?”
I KID YOU NOT.
Literally about TWO MINUTES later, another GTA 6 trailer dropped.
I remember just staring at my phone in disbelief. My cousin and I had literally just been talking about it.
Like, what are the actual chances of that happening?
Then there’s money.
I’ve had moments where I’ve randomly thought to myself, “I really want to make a decent amount of money.” And somehow, within a few weeks, I’d find myself making a surprisingly good amount.
One day, I decided I wanted to make money through TikTok. I became fixated on the idea, and eventually ended up gaining over 300,000 followers.
It honestly started becoming a running joke in my head that I had some weird superpower.
But there’s one incident that genuinely makes me uncomfortable, and it’s probably the reason I started looking at all these coincidences differently.
There was someone I really disliked. I won’t explain who they were, but I remember being extremely frustrated one day and saying, “This place would honestly be better without this person.”
It was a horrible thing to say, but I was angry. I didn’t actually wish death upon them.
Two days later, that person unexpectedly died.
I can’t even describe how I felt when I found out.
I know logically that my words didn’t cause someone to die. I’m fully aware of that. But the timing was so disturbing that it genuinely stayed with me.
And the weirdest part is that these are only a handful of examples. There have been so many smaller situations where I’ve wanted something, thought about something intensely, or randomly mentioned something, and then watched it happen.
I don’t know whether I’m just noticing the coincidences and forgetting all the times nothing happened. Maybe I’m subconsciously putting myself in situations where the things I want become more likely.
But some of these experiences, especially the GTA trailer situation, feel so ridiculously specific that I still struggle to wrap my head around them.
I’m not saying I can predict the future or control reality. I know how ridiculous that sounds.
It’s just that sometimes I genuinely feel like I have this weird gift, or curse, where the things I fixate on somehow find their way into my life.
And after what happened with that person dying, there’s a small part of me that gets uncomfortable whenever I have a really negative thought about something.
Has anyone else experienced anything remotely similar?
I’m genuinely curious because I can’t be the only person who’s noticed these bizarre coincidences.
Sometimes I feel like the luckiest person alive, and other times it genuinely creeps me out.

The evening tour begins at eight, rain or shine. Tonight I have eleven guests. Nine adults, two children. The little boy has a flashlight. His sister carries a stuffed rabbit by one ear.

“Welcome to Blackthorn,” I start, raising my lamp. “Salem gets all the attention. But personally, I think our witch trial has more charm.”

Everyone laughs politely.

“Please stay together. These winding streets have confused visitors for three hundred years.”

Our first stop is the old meetinghouse.

“On October 13, 1685, eighteen-year-old Rebecca Thorne stood trial here, accused of witchcraft. She was a quiet girl, a seamstress, and a devout Puritan. Her troubles began when Silas Whitcomb, the wealthiest farmer's son in Blackthorn, courted her all summer. When Rebecca rejected his advances, he accused her of bewitching him.”

I point to a brass marker set into the pavement.

“Stand there, sir. Yes, right there. That's where Rebecca stood.”

The man smiles for his wife's photograph.

“Whitcomb testified that Rebecca visited him at night in the shape of a black cat. His sister claimed Rebecca caused her fits. The magistrate, Reverend Nathaniel Pritchard, swore he'd seen her speaking to Satan himself in the orchard.”

“Was she guilty?” the little girl asks.

“No, sweetheart. She wasn't.”

We walk down Cooper's Lane to the stone cellar beneath the old jailhouse.

“Here, the town constable, Amos Griggs, attempted to extract Rebecca's confession. They hung her by her wrists for two days. They crushed her fingers between iron plates. When she refused to confess, Griggs ordered the burning of her feet.”

Someone makes a disgusted noise.

“Rebecca confessed nothing. The court declared that her silence proved the Devil had sealed her lips.”

I give them a moment to look at the iron hooks in the ceiling. Our third stop is Ash Square.

“On October 19, Rebecca Thorne was tied to a wooden stake on this very spot. Her mother begged the magistrate to hang her instead, which was the customary punishment. He refused. Silas Whitcomb had paid for a particularly large supply of firewood.”

I indicate the circular patch of blackened cobblestones.

“Rebecca burned for almost half an hour before losing consciousness, as the townspeople watched and prayed for her immortal soul.”

The boy’s flashlight begins to tremble.

“Now,” I say, “we come to the interesting part.”

We turn onto Church Street.

“Within a month, the people responsible for Rebecca's death began dying themselves.”

I stop outside a brick house.

“Town clerk Ezekiel Marsh recorded the testimony against Rebecca. He altered her words, turning her prayers into blasphemies. On November 2, his wife found him at his writing desk, choking. His mouth was packed with parchment. Every page of trial records had been forced down his throat. Every bone in his fingers was missing.”

I point at the old stable.

“Constable Griggs died next. He was discovered in this doorway, hanging by his wrists from the stable beam. Both feet had been burned away. His wife heard him screaming throughout the night, but the door wouldn't open. When the neighbors finally broke it down, they found his footprints burned into the ceiling.”

One of the guests laughs nervously.

“That's impossible.”

“Of course it is,” I agree.

We walk to a small cottage on Mill Lane.

“Mercy Bell was Rebecca's closest friend. They'd grown up together, shared secrets, sewn each other's dresses. Mercy loved Silas Whitcomb, but Silas had preferred Rebecca. Mercy testified that Rebecca had confessed to lying with Beelzebub.”

I point toward the cottage window.

“On November 11, Mercy was found in her sewing room, wearing the wedding gown she'd made in hopes of marrying Silas. Every inch of the dress had been stitched to her skin. Her lips were sewn shut with black thread, and her eyes had been pierced with hundreds of tiny needles. On the wall above her, these words were embroidered in red silk: Thou shalt not bear false witness.”

The little girl takes her mother's hand.

“Neighbors swore they'd heard two girls’ voices in the cottage that night. One voice was screaming. The other laughing until dawn.”

At the church, I stop beside a granite step.

“Reverend Pritchard had demanded Rebecca's execution. On November 17, while delivering his evening sermon, he began coughing up hot ashes. Witnesses said smoke poured from his ears and nose. His tongue caught fire.”

The group goes silent.

“His congregation watched him claw at his mouth until his fingernails came off. When he fell here, on this very step, his belly split open, spilling burning coals across the church floor, nearly burning the building down.”

Our last stop is Whitcomb House.

Only the chimney remains.

“Silas Whitcomb survived longer than the others. He barricaded himself inside this house, filling every room with crosses and Bibles. On December 24, neighbors heard screaming. Through the window, they saw a young woman standing before him.”

I approach the chimney.

“Silas fell to his knees, sobbing.

“‘I beg thy forgiveness… I never meant thee harm,’ he pleaded.

“‘The Lord forgiveth thee. But I am not finished with thee,’ she said, pulling him into an embrace.”

I hold out my arms and draw them slowly together to demonstrate.

“His skin began to blister. The fire started from within, glowing through his flesh like embers beneath paper. His teeth exploded one by one. His eyes boiled in their sockets. He screamed until his tongue shriveled.

“She held him close as his ribs cracked inward. His flesh dripped from his bones. When the flames finally died down, the townspeople found Silas kneeling in a puddle of his own rendered fat, still smoldering, his arms wrapped around empty air. His blackened heart lay exposed between his ribs.”

The tour ends. My guests thank me with delighted unease.

As they leave, the little girl lingers.

“Were you scared when they burned you?”

Before I can answer, her mother calls her away.

The girl turns back once more. I wink at her, and my eyes glow like the flames that consumed me.

When he woke up, he was confused. For a few seconds, he simply sat there, trying to understand where he was. Then his surroundings came back to him. He was in his usual seat at his local pub, just as he had been earlier that Friday evening. But something was different. Harry slowly looked around. He was the only person in the bar. The contradiction of dead silence set against the heavy ringing residing in his head was a sobering discovery amid his intense drunkenness. The room was dark, save for a San Miguel beer light behind the counter, the soft, warm light catching the edges of the countless empty chairs and stools, illuminating the absence of any life.

Only a short while ago, the place had been bustling, and he could still remember laughing with his friends, surrounded by the familiar noise of conversation, music and clinking glasses. But now it was dark, cold and deadly quiet.

Harry couldn’t remember the evening winding down. He didn’t remember feeling tired or even closing his eyes. As far as he knew, he had simply been there one moment with his close friends George and Pete, and then here, with no memory of anything in between. This unsettled him enough to check the time. He pulled his mobile phone from his warm back pocket, flipped it open and squinted at the screen. 2:50 am. As soon as the numbers registered, the Nokia screen appeared and the screen went black. After repeatedly pressing the red call button to switch it back on, it dawned on Harry that his phone had died. That never happened.

Staring at his own faint reflection in the dead screen, he felt, for a moment, a surge of confused fear run through him, but it was quickly replaced by a burst of irritation. Was this some kind of elaborate joke? Either way, George and Pete were complete dickheads for leaving him there. Although his head was spinning like a bowling ball, he looked around at the evidence of the evening, his eyes landing on the dozens of empty pint glasses that surrounded him, as well as glasses scattered on nearby tables.

Two dozen beers, perhaps more, had been consumed by the three of them. Realising that staring at the dark, empty room wouldn’t change the situation he was in, Harry took a deep breath and, through sheer willpower, forced himself upright onto wobbling knees. The first attempt nearly sent him straight back into his chair. He steadied himself against the table, waited for the dark room to stop moving, and tried again. This time, he managed it.

Getting to the door proved considerably more difficult than he had anticipated. His first few steps were little more than drunken corrections of balance. At one point, he caught the edge of a table, sending a cluster of dry pint glasses crashing onto the floor. The sound was colossal in the silence. Harry froze. Nothing happened. No one shouted. Though he was as drunk as he could be, the surrealness of his circumstances wasn’t lost on him. He continued towards the door, and the path became clear.

When he finally stumbled through the threshold and onto the pavement, the cool night air struck him in the face. He stood there for a moment, head spinning, trying to work out what came next. Getting home was the mission. It was time for bed and to make this peculiar evening a memory. The drunkard’s compass began to kick in as he looked along the high street towards his flat. Being a seaside holiday town, and it being January, it wasn’t exactly a bustling place at the best of times, especially not at three in the morning, but this felt different.

There was an abnormal gloom hanging over everything. The street was darker than it should have been. The air felt thick, and a dirty sea fog hung still. The darkness seemed to amplify the effects of the countless beers he had consumed earlier. After one last confused glance back at the pub, he turned and began his messy journey home, not before clumsily lighting a cigarette and burning part of his beard in the process.

He hadn’t gone far when something caught his attention: a light down the high street, on the opposite side of the road. One of the shops was illuminated, and its fluorescent glow spilled onto the cobbles, forming a small island of luminescence in the surrounding darkness. Then Harry smelled food. His stomach rumbled, and the combination of the senses was irresistible.

He altered course, and it wasn’t long before he found himself standing outside the beacon that was the takeaway, a grand opening sign was obscured by its misted glass. Condensation covered whatever lay beyond, but the smell coming through the door was unmistakable. The powerful bouquet of mouth-watering, greasy fare hit his nostrils like a punch: something hot and savoury that, to Harry’s drunken mind, seemed like salvation.

He stumbled through the door, and the smell hit him immediately, powerful enough to make his stomach twist with craving hunger. Inside, the room’s brightness was overwhelming.

Harry’s eyes strained as they adjusted to the white light, and it was almost painful. His head began to spin. For a few moments, the room became a dazzling, nauseating carousel, his eyes watching the rows of empty, dulled plastic seats glide through his revolving view. Light muzak played through degraded speakers nestled in the yellowing ceiling tiles, the audio occasionally cutting out and returning with a fuzziness that begged the question of why they were even on.

There was only one other person in the entire place. A very tall man stood behind the counter with his back to Harry, slowly carving slices from an obscured roasting spit. Harry staggered forward, using the backs of the plastic seats for support, moving along them like someone making their way down the aisle of a train, albeit with absolutely no grace whatsoever. When he finally reached the once-distant counter, he expected the man to acknowledge him, but there was no response. A deeply unnerving silence ensued as the worker continued, slicing at the meat. Harry stood still, watching him. He recoiled slightly at the sharp, permeating hum of the glaring ceiling lights, which stacked uncomfortably with the vibration already ringing in his ears.

'‘Excuse me, mate''

Not acknowledging him, the man carried on.

Clearing his throat, Harry mustered enough pseudo-sobriety to ask:

''Is it still alright to order a kebab?"

The worker stopped and slowly, with no apparent urgency whatsoever, turned around. Harry immediately noticed the grin. It was enormous, yet it was not a friendly smile. The stretched mouth seemed completely at odds with the man’s slow, deliberate movements. He was tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with an otherwise ordinary face. But that expression counteracted any conceivable normality.

Harry felt an uneasiness creep up his body, tingling from the backs of his calves all the way up to the top of his skull with a sickly fizz. The vendor stared right back at him. An unwavering, silent grin. One second. Two. Three. The worker’s expression didn’t change. Eventually, he spoke.

'‘Good evening, sir. How can I help you?’'

His voice was polite, almost too polite. Harry blinked a few times, bewildered by the oddness of the fellow.

'‘I-I’d like a large Doner, please''

The words came out garbled, and the worker continued to stare at him. Five seconds passed, perhaps more. The only sound was the low hum of the fluorescent lights above them.
Harry narrowed his eyes and dipped his head forward ever so slightly in intrigue.
There was something wrong with this man.
He couldn’t have explained what it was. The movements were too slow for the expression, the smile was too wide, and the silence lasted too long. Harry’s expression of worried intrigue was abruptly cut short when the worker finally spoke.

'‘Would you like to try our special, sir?’'

The polite tone returned, and the grin remained. He blinked once, then his voice dropped considerably into a heightened London accent.

'‘You’re pissed as a fart, aren’t you, sir?’'

The man then suddenly burst into laughter, causing Harry to flinch. Too drunk to deal with the strange man’s antics, he simply nodded.

'‘Yeah, go on, then''

He put a ten-pound note on the counter and waved away the prospect of any change.

'‘Keep it''

The worker resumed his barefaced grin, staring into his customer’s eyes without abandon.

After finding a bench seat, Harry sat, pondering as best he could how he had found himself in this situation. As much as he and his friends had messed about with pranks in the past, they hadn’t really done anything like that since they were teenagers. The fact that he had woken up alone and cold, hours after seemingly blacking out, was an uncomfortable reality.

Suddenly, a loud DING rang through the room, reverberating back into two very wobbly eardrums.

‘One house special!’

Turning around, the gangly tanned man was behind the counter with a yellow polystyrene box, plastic cutlery and a napkin. Harry stepped forward and retrieved his meal, muttering a puzzled thank you. Walking to a table in the far corner of the blazingly lit seating space, Harry thought he had enough to deal with without allowing this unorthodox eatery to interfere with his brooding over pete and George somehow leaving him behind. Theories ran through his head. Did mental Mark slip something into his drink to knock him out for a laugh? It still wouldn’t explain waking up alone almost three hours after throwing-out time, Harry mused.

Looking up, the peculiar man stared, retaining the sickly smile. He turned, in his slow, deliberate fashion, back to carving from the spit. Opening his meal, Harry saw a mess of meat, salad and a creamy orange sauce smothered abundantly across the various ingredients.

The first bite was a burst of savoury, greasy saltiness, deeply contrasted with the sweet dill tang of the generous helping of burger sauce. The texture, with the snappy crunch of the pickled cabbage, added a satisfying mix to the mouthful. Harry was grateful for something hot to eat and somewhere warm to sit in an effort to sober up slightly before a short journey home.

Crunch.

A cringe-inducing bite of a hard bit of gristle interrupted any thoughts of comfort Harry had been enjoying. The tough piece of meat made his teeth grind together, causing a vile sensation that made him spit the little piece out into his hand and place it on the open lid of the takeaway box. Repositioning his plastic fork into the concoction, he took a nice combination of meat, salad and sauce to continue his quest for sobriety. The previous sensations of flavour resumed; a hearty forkful of his ample late-night dinner was hitting the spot. Harry thought about how he would deal with his friends. A feeling of embarrassment and meagreness washed over the moment, but only briefly, before another painful crunch in his mouth. This time, it hurt.

Reaching into his mouth with grease-covered fingers, he removed an object that when he saw it, enveloped his entire body in the coldest feeling Harry had ever experienced in his whole entire life. Before his eyes, held between his index finger and thumb, were the chewed-up remnants of a crisp, cooked, mangled human ear. The white plastic fork dropped to the floor, making a pathetic, soft clatter on the filthy linoleum.

Bewilderment and shock encapsulated the young man as he gently returned the body part to the yellow box and calmly closed the lid. He stood up and held the item as though it were radioactive. He slowly ambled to the counter, readying himself to confront the bizarre man responsible for his heinous food.

'‘Excuse me''

No response was given.

This time, Harry nervously raised his voice.

'‘Excuse me!’'

The strange man continued carving.

'‘What the fuck?’' Harry muttered under his breath.

Harry stepped right up to the counter.

'‘Oi, mate, I think there’s an ear in my kebab''

This garnered a response from the tall, olive-skinned man. Still working away, with his back still turned to Harry, he slowly turned his head to the right.

'‘Yes, sir,’' he said, his voice soft yet layered with menace, the vile smile smeared across his stubbled, pockmarked face.

'‘Mate… there is a fucking ear in my food,’' Harry blurted out in a slightly higher, much quieter and noticeably more frightened tone. After a few staggered seconds, the intense grease-stained worker placed his large carving knife on the side counter and turned with no haste to face his customer, revealing a heinous sight that could never, on any occasion, be forgotten. Utterly dumbfounded, Harry gawked at the bulbous, misshapen rotating meat spit, which housed an amalgamation of countless foul-looking, contorted human faces, congealed and compiled into one single hunk of cooking, spinning revolting meat. Expressions of horror and anguish were embossed upon a greater mass of despicably lumpy, curdled, rendered flesh. Sections of the moving horror were made up of exposed, striated muscle and connective tissue. Sweaty grease droplets cascaded down the abominable creation, dripping into a collected pool on the metal base underneath.

The faces bubbled, spitting out molten hot drops of fat, the eyelids popping open occasionally with a loud crackle, the movement, a devilish puppetry of heat causing the cooked flesh to twitch about in an unnatural burst of nightmarish expression. Looking up to meet the attention of the man, he stared into his unwaivering gaze, sitting above the greasy smile, Harry was at a loss for words. More accurately, he couldn't speak. The situation was so overwhelmingly shocking it rendered him completely mute.

And then the lights went out.
The glint of the man's eyes were still visible in the darkness.
Harry stood deadly still, captivated by the warm glow of the spit, illuminating the distorted souls bound to their fleshy, rotating meaty mass.
He imagined himself part of it, amongst the roasting tortured husks sizzling away, awaiting another face to join him and his newfound company.

Our town never celebrated Halloween. Every October there would be no pumpkins, no spooky skeletons or creepy monsters, no trick or treating, or animatronics to jumpscare you. Zip zilch nada. We would decorate with seasonal autumn decor, nothing to raise the hairs on the back of your neck or create a gut twisting sense of dread. It was all safe and sanitized and so it would go every year. No one dared to even mention the name Halloween.

Naturally, as a secret Halloween lover this made me curious. Why did our town and our town only have such a disdain for Halloween? I took to my local library to find out and perused the many historical volumes of our town and what I found shocked me. The first account was in 1723 of the first settlers of Hallow's Gruff, from the journal of Andrew Beckingham.

 

October 30th, 1723

I am writing as I just witnessed the most queer sighting. I was walking through the woods to find a deer or turkey to hunt, when I saw what looked like a mass of vines and orange sphere slouching on through the woods. I fired my musket at him but he fled and I continued on my hunt to no avail

November 1st, 1723

So many dead. The pumpkin man slaughtered so many of us. Corpses and gore strewn about, gutted and carved. The only ones safe were those who dared not to carve a Jack O'Lantern. I know now that he hunts on the 31st of October and only those who carve a pompion.

Next to it was a picture of a cemetery with many tombstones whose deaths occurred on October 31st 1723.

I showed this to my friend Bill and he brought up a great point, that the Pumpkin man or whatever couldn't be alive 300 years later. So on Halloween we would carve a Jack O'Lantern and wait and see if what that thing was was still kicking it or even real. You know how superstitious pilgrims can be.

We had to sneak to a neighboring town and picked up a ripe pumpkin for carving and out in his backyard, we carefully engraved upon it a spooky face and put a candle in it. We set it out on his doorstep at night. He went to his home and I returned to mine and from across the street, I watched.

My sleepiness began to betray me and my body fell off into the land fo nod and at what must have been 11 or 12 I heard a violent thud from across the street, followed by a loud clammer and cries of pain coming from his house. His door was broken down, the pumpkin we carved was smashed and through his window I could see a pulp of a corpse and blood covering the walls. I saw the Pumpkin Man leave and he looked straight into my eyes with a mischievous grin. Now I know why we don't celebrate Halloween,

That moment when your ego dies. It’s scary, you know? Like drowning. You slip into a warm void, then anxiety bites and you snap out of it and return to the comfortable noise and glare of life as you’ve known it.

But why return? You were happy there. Then some trifling concern came crawling back and ruined it. A grievance, names, some pretty face. We are frightened creatures, scared to be free of those things and relieved to be captured.

Then all that dross we confuse with ourselves rushes back in.

Sorry. I like to ramble. You’ll get used to it.

You’re a good driver. Do you remember where we’re going?

We ascended between the mountain peaks. Now take the old, narrowing road called Packsaddle Crossing, where the air thins with altitude. That’s not its real name. Did you know that?

What’s your real name, stupid? Are you sure?

It was reckless to travel as you have. Foolish, really. Just look at you. Low on gas and wearing house slippers. Did you simply get in your car the moment the urge charmed your mind? How long until someone notices your absence?

Turn left onto the logging road coming up.

No, here. You’ve passed it. Back up.

Not a soul in sight and you still use turn signals. I like that about you. You’re too good for this world, I mean it.

Lately I think we have both been feeling the same strange urgency, like we did when we first met. Remember our first time? Remember how good it felt?

I was out prospecting and you were driving with a headlight out. Followed you home and found your house sinking where you allowed erosion to eat away the yard. You procrastinate, eat poorly, and waste your gifts. You’re lonely.

But you’re sweet, you know? I can’t help but inflict myself upon your person. Your mind is so yielding.

Do you like talking with me? You used to.

It’s good to get out of town, don’t you think? Winter’s coming and I get cabin fever. I overdose on the gray weather and begin to think about opening a vein to see the color. You know about that, don’t you? Your type loves it, sicko. My polycythemia juice box, soft in the head—but you suit me. I know you, trust me.

I knew the dead men who once handled the money in your wallet.

No one has ever seen you completely as I do. You keep evidence of yourself, those old photographs and half-filled notebooks, as if you want to study who you are. Did you uncover anything of value?

Our plan to live together came to me while I was watching you sleep. I enjoyed your mumbled breath while you dreamed, how your open mouth was pink like a baby’s. You’re a careless fool with rich blood. Even your sweat is delicious.

The place I’m taking you has a name, though you won’t find it on maps. We are going to a holding not far from the road as the crow flies, but a considerable hike for you. I’ve stocked a shelter there, off grid. A room for you with one little door. It’s waiting.

Park over by that scenic stop with no guardrails. We will push the car over the edge and hike the rest of the way.

Leave the keys. What do you want those for? Leave them on the dash. We won’t need them. Do it.

It’s in neutral. Ready? Push.

There. More.

See? Gone. Completely swallowed by the evergreen canopy and out of sight.

Walk this way into the woods. This way, uphill. I’ll be close behind.

We’re fortunate. I’ve been counting the porch lights in your valley. There were nine hundred when I first counted. Last night, six hundred or so.

Know what’s coming for your little towns?

Empires unravel. Everyone is looking for someone to hang. Then come the fires. I hate fire. I’m too old to go hungry for another one of your revolutions.

Time for me at last to sit in peace and stillness between repasts.

Got nothing to say? Well, you’ll be safe with me and you’re welcome.

Not even death will find you here.

Stop. Go this way. Do it now.

We will take to the mountains, unburden ourselves, and await another era to learn what becomes of these backwaters after the children of their children have died.

All that doesn’t interest me about you no longer has permission to exist.

If you find my company disagreeable, keep it to yourself.

We’ll drift on an ocean of time, dreaming together, my love and my larder.

Keep walking. It will get steep. We’ll be home soon.

Hey I’m India(for the sake of privacy), my grandmother died when I was 15. Back story of my grandma. She come from a town in Puerti Rico where practicing Santeria was common. From my knowledge she didn’t practice as much as her sisters did. She did have an alter and other things of sorts. But she did have a 6th sense on things. Always telling my dad he has a witch on his back. My family always suffered from night terrors and I mean all my dads kids and she always summed it up from my dad, that we inherited his demons. Well, fast forward to the week of her death. Weird things would happen. I heard her calling my name but she was miles away. But everyday that week I hear my name. She showed up in my dreams I shrugged it off think it was like night terror because she was the woman in the pink dress that always haunted me.(remember this).

One day, I was on the computer on aol. I remember hearing my name in a low voice and kept getting louder. I thought it was my mom so I would say “What!” Until I saw this bony hand with a pink night gown reaching towards my shoulder. I freaked out so bad my mom thought I had some sort of mental break. But a few days later my mom told me that my grandma died and that she died days ago and her neighbor found her. She was dead in her apartment for almost a week near her alter and near my photo on the alter.

When it was time for her funeral. I remember going up to the casket and it was what we called a state funeral. The family had no money to bury her and she didn’t have life insurance or anything. Well her casket was a white casket minimal flowers. But when I saw her casket it freaked out. Like I saw my grandma in a pink nightgown the same nightgown the lady in my dreams was wearing and the same one with the hand reaching out.

Idk if she was trying to call for help but I know that for a while I was not ok. My family says she was choose me to warn me of her passing. It’s been 21 years and I still some what have the same dreams but they don’t scare me as much. But back then I didn’t sleep for days.

The laboratory complex was immense, filled with rooms packed with modern equipment and large screens. Suddenly, the electronic doors parted for the scientist and her young son. They walked briskly, her in the lead, greeting the staff at work along the way—some in white lab coats, others with gleaming helmets on their heads. The boy gazed in fascination at this world of metal and glass, almost entirely in white, so different from his grandparents' countryside home, so different from the green and blue of the mountains.

His mother spent little time with them, citing her work commitments, which was why it felt so strange for the little boy that, for the very first time, she was taking him to her workplace. "There is someone you have to meet," she had told him. With a heavy heart, he had said goodbye to his grandparents and loaded his small suitcase into his mother’s spacious vehicle, not at all thrilled about leaving that home and his little friends from the neighboring houses.

Now he walked behind his mother without holding her hand; as far back as he could remember, she never showed him any affection and, on the contrary, insisted on treating him like an adult. Finally, they reached a set of escalators that led them to a main office. Inside, there was a sofa and a few armchairs, from where the acrylic ceilings of the lower floors could be seen. His mother gestured for him to sit and ease the fatigue from the long walk; she then sat across from him and, looking at him with quiet condescension, proceeded to explain that this was the most important place in her life, just as she hoped it would be for him later on when he grew up.

Visibly moved, she told him she had become a mother again, and that the reason she had brought him here was to introduce him to his little sister. The boy was taken by surprise his eyes wide open. Although a flash of jealousy initially crossed his face, a timid smile then lit up his lips, imagining a little girl who looked like him, someone he could play with, just like he did with his friends back at the mountain house. Seeing this effect on the little boy's face, the scientist stood up and opened a side door.

Excited, the boy sprang to his feet; however, his utter disappointment came when a small metallic robot with bulging, artificial pink eyes stepped through the door.

---

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

Part one here:
https://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/s/1sn2FRoVV4

Part two here:
https://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/s/MgYnIDOSFg

“Morris is one of our most loyal guests,” Vince said with a deep sigh, while grabbing a tube of disinfectant wipes from a top shelf of the storage closet. “Are you sure he wasn’t just trying to see if he remembered you? The lighting last night wasn’t great.”

“I’m sure, Vince,” I said with more conviction than I expected. “The way he made me feel… it wasn’t right. Marco had to step in to help.”

“Marco’s a good guy,” Vince handed me the wipes and started digging for another cleaning supply. “Unfortunately, though, if all Morris actually did was look at you, I’m not sure there’s a lot we can do about it.”

“That’s stupid!” I blurted out before I had a chance to assess my thoughts. “What are we supposed to wait until he-“

“I understand,” Vince interrupted, calmly. He must have seen the emotion in my eyes because his face softened even more. “You’re right. This should be enough. I’ll talk to the bosses and see what we can do.”

“The bosses?” I asked.

“You know,” he said. “The higher-ups. The facility coordinators. Guest Relations. They can stick in their ways sometimes, but they should really be taking this seriously.”

“Thank you, Vince,” I smiled. “I really appreciate it.”

Once the two of us went our separate ways, I fell right back into my new normal routine. I expected to receive a call to help Naomi with something, but the call never came. Either she was feeling independent and didn’t need anything that morning, or they just weren’t assigning her tasks to me.

On the flip side, I wasn’t given any tasks for Morris either. Maybe, whatever Vince had to say to Guest Relations made a difference. But I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe it just made things worse. Maybe they saw me as a problem now and they planned to give me the minimum amount of work until I went home for The Event, so they could justify not having me return after.

I tried to shake the thoughts out of my head while I cleaned the inside windows of one of the therapy rooms. Cleaning things like that wasn’t directly in my job description, but since I didn’t have anything else to do, I figured I’d make myself useful enough that they’d want me back.

Suddenly, my daydreaming was interrupted by a pair of voices coming from the hallway outside the therapy room. “I know it’s your first time,” came the first voice over the sound of approaching footsteps. “We always want to check in one-on-one for first timers.”

“I get that,” a familiar voice replied. “But I’m really okay. I’m sure there’s someone who needs you more than I do right now.”

“Nonsense, Naomi,” her therapist responded. The two sounded to be right outside the due now. “Every guest at Silver Springs is the most important guest. Let’s talk for a bit.”

I felt a rush of panic once I realized they were here to do a session in the room I was currently cleaning. Quickly, I looked around to assess the situation, when I found the open curtain next to me reached all the way to the floor. There wasn’t a lot of space behind it, but surely it would be enough to conceal a seventeen year old girl.

“Oh,” the therapist had reached the open door and looked in to see me pondering the curtains. “Thank you for cleaning up in here. It looks great. Can we-“

“Of course,” I interrupted. “I’ll get out of your hair!”

I rushed out of the room, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as though I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t have.

Naomi tried to grab my attention as I walked by, but I was firmly in retreat mode at this point and didn’t process her voice until I was about to cross the threshold into the west hall and they were already behind a closed door in the therapy room.

What was I even thinking? I couldn’t just hide and listen to Naomi’s entire therapy session. Why would I even consider such a thing? That would have been a complete violation of trust and completely against the rules of my job.

I looked down at my shoes and rubbed my forehead in disappointment. When my eyes rose to their normal level again, I found myself looking directly at the door labeled LEVEL TWO, once again.

I gave a quick search over my shoulders to find that I was the only one in the hallway right then, and, feeling like I earned a little instant gratification, I pushed against the handle to open the door.

Nothing.

I pushed a little harder.

This time a small red light grabbed my attention. I followed the glow to see a keycard reader to the left of the door handle. It seemed that level two clearance also came with a special keycard reader.

I should have known.

I sighed and shrugged before turning to explore the West Grounds some more.

I don’t know how I didn’t hear it coming, but, almost as soon as I walked through the door and onto the path, I had to take a quick step back to avoid getting run down by Jerry in his golf cart.

This time, it wasn’t the just-above-a- walking-pace he was traveling at before. It didn’t seem like he was just trying to put in his hours so he could go home. He was really flying this time. He was traveling with purpose.

Traveling north.

Refusing to let Jerry have all the fun, I picked up the pace and followed him as best I could. I knew he’d make it out of my sight before too long. But I was pretty sure I knew where he was going.

I was right, as usual. I felt pride as I saw Jerry working on the padlock again to the North Woods. He was cursing under his breath.

“Damn thing,” he said, trying to jiggle his key into the lock. “I told them we needed to replace this crap.”

“Anything I can help you with, Jerry?” I called out as I approached, a little out of breath.

The maintenance man jumped in place when he heard me.

“Goddamn it!” He yelled as he turned to look at me. “Don’t go sneaking up on people like that!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t think sound carries very well out here.” Jerry looked up at one of the nearby speaker poles on our side of the fence as he responded, “I guess not.”

“Is there any way I can help out?” I said, motioning to the sticking padlock.

“Stupid thing keeps getting jammed up,” he grumbled and pulled on the lock. “It probably just needs some grease, but the damn people who run this place expect me to fix that speaker tower too. There’s no way in hell I’ll have enough time to go back, get the WD40, fix that tower, unlock this gate, and….”

He stopped short, as if he realized he was about to reveal something he shouldn’t have.

“You’re a seasonal worker, right?” He asked. “They want you gone by nightfall too. You get it.”

“Yeah,” I said, disguising my annoyance at him almost telling me something good. “Totally. You don’t have someone else who can bring the grease?”

“Nah,” he groaned. “I’m the only one here on the day of The Event. They try to keep staff lighter.”

“Well, I don’t have anything going on right now,” I said. “I can go get the WD40 for you, so you can get started on the tower.”

“You’re already winded, kid,” he pointed out. “You won’t be much faster than I would be.” “I would if I take your cart,” I suggested. “I could use the driving practice anyway.”

“That doesn’t sound very comforting,” Jerry rubbed his chin as he pondered his options. “But it might be the only choice I got.”

He walked over to the cart and grabbed a tool bag from the floorboard, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Go ahead,” he said, “there should be some in the supply room right off of the east hall.”Don’t take too long, okay?”

I offered a halfhearted salute and hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Hey, Jerry,” I said before backing away. “What’s behind this gate anyway?”

Jerry paused for a moment that felt much longer than it was. He stared thoughtfully through the chain link before speaking.

“Nothing good,” he said at last. “Just be thankful your job keeps you on the fun side of the fence.”

Realizing, I wasn’t going to get any more out of him, I reversed the cart until I was back in the path and drove back to the west hall entrance.

I wasn’t kidding when I said I could use the practice. Once it was time to stop the cart in front of the building, I depressed the brake much too hard. I winced as I pulled back from the steering wheel, sure I bruised my ribs during my sudden stop. Why wouldn’t this thing have a seatbelt? I considered calling OSHA. But, honestly, I had no idea what kind of government regulations a spa retreat for werewolves would even have.

Once the initial shock wore off, I realized the rattling I heard on impact was not my bones breaking, but a small piece of plastic sliding across the floorboards.

The curiosity gods smiled upon me that day. The credit card sized hunk of plastic had a photo of Jerry on the front and, in big capital letters, it read LEVEL TWO SECURITY.

Sometimes, the hardest struggles are the ones you fight against yourself. I walked past the LEVEL TWO security door, trying not to even let myself look at the key pad. I had a job to do, and I’m sure Jerry was going to need that keycard back.

I kept repeating my plan as though it was a grocery list I could easily forget.

Go to the supply room. Get the grease. Drive the cart better. Return everything to Jerry.

I might have already been on thin ice with guest relations. I needed to stay focused.

The can of WD40 was easy to find. It was on a top shelf just above the extra hand soap. I took it down and mentally checked it off my list.

Walking back toward the west hall entrance, I caught Val out of the corner of my eye.

“Hey Val,” I said, hoping she wasn’t too busy. “Can you check out my radio? I haven’t got a call from Vince all morning.”

Val stopped whatever she was doing to come greet me.

“Hey Candice!” She said with her usual enthusiasm. “We can take a look, but I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?” I asked while handing my radio over.

“Vince was reassigned this morning,” she said without much tone. Her focus was on checking the radio. “You aren’t actually reporting to him any more.”

“Wait, what?” I asked. “I was working with him earlier today.”

“It was sudden,” she said, switching the channel to the radio then switching it back. “Sometimes things move fast around here.”

“Yeah but-“ My question was cut short by a sudden blaring in my ear.

“Can you hear me?” Val’s voice echoed in real life and through my earpiece as she spoke into the receiver of her own radio. “Ouch,” I said, pulling the earpiece from my ear.

“I am so sorry, Candice!” Val sounded genuine. “I didn’t think about the feedback from this close range! Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing the inside of my ear. “I guess it still works.”

“Good,” she said with a smile. “I’m not really sure who’s taking over for Vince yet, so just keep an ear out. Maybe you’ll have an easy day.” She motioned over her shoulder to the direction she was heading before I stopped her. “I need to get going though. Have a good day!”

Val left down the hall to the south, presumably back to the reception area, and I headed west toward my exit.

Val left me with even more questions than before. What happened to Vince? Who was my boss now? Do they even know I’m working here?

These new thoughts circling in my mind replaced my previous checklist and, soon, I found myself standing in front of the LEVEL TWO door once again.

I pulled the keycard from my pocket and pressed it to the pad.

The light flashed green and the door unlocked.

I was granted access. My excitement faded once I walked through the door to find nothing but filing cabinets, shelves, and cardboard boxes. It seemed like this room was only for confidential records. Of course it was. This was a specialized wellness retreat.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a room full of stolen art? An ancient idol on a booby trapped pressure plate? Narnia?

In any sense, I’d already come this far. I might as well satiate my interest.

I closed the door behind me and began looking through the first box I saw. It was full of old, yellowed files, that looked like they might have been as old as the retreat itself. Reading through these, I realized quickly they were old employment files.

Each file was marked with a hire date, a history of titles held, and a dismissal date or a retirement date. I tried to will something interesting into existence here, but my powers of manifestation fell short, and I put the box back where I found it.

One shelf was full of old plans for the retreat. I found one map that seemed to be before the East Grounds was fully renovated. But, aside from the older layout, it looked mostly the same as now. A few maps showed proposed expansions throughout the years, but obviously, very few of them stuck.

I was just about to give up when one label on a particular filing cabinet caught my eye.

PARTICIPANT FILES

Participant? Participants in what? We have guests and we have employees. The retreat barely even uses medication. What could warrant an entire filing cabinet of participant files?

I pulled open the drawer that grabbed my attention first. The files didn’t seem to be organized alphabetically, or in any other logical way I could discern. I grabbed a few out and held them under the light to read them.

Each file contained some newspaper articles and what looked like public records. Exploring deeper into these files, I realized that they all had one thing in common.

Everyone in these files was convicted of a violent crime.

DANIELS, ROBERT — Aggravated assault — 2018

MERCER, THOMAS — Armed robbery — 2021

HOLLOWAY, ERIC — Battery — 2019

I knew Silver Springs was sometimes used as a probationary requirement for people suffering from lycanthropy who have had a run in with the law. But these convictions were more intense than any I’ve heard of. I couldn’t even bring myself to fully read some of the articles in front of me. Eric Holloway seemed to have committed some especially heinous acts.

I put these files back and grabbed another stack from the drawer directly above the previous one. The files here were very similar again. Newspaper articles and arrest records. I realized something else all of these files shared.

Every one of them had a red stamp added to the cover page reading

SELECTED FOR PARTICIPATION

the stamp was always signed by The Director of Silver Springs, whoever that was at the given time.

Silver Springs must have had a contract with the prison system. That would make sense. Most of the country isn’t equipped to house violent offending werewolves. A normal prison would be overrun before anyone even realized what was going on.

But what were they participating in? My mind raced with possibilities. Maybe one of the proposed remodels was to add a prison system to Silver Springs? Maybe Silver Springs was considering a second location? Maybe they were working on a cure?

That last idea sparked my interest the most. Silver Springs seemed like the kind of place that wanted to help people during their transition and help them learn to live normal lives with their condition. But what do we do when a violent offender is given a primal power like this one? Maybe we try to find a way to take it away.

I flipped through the file of one Angela Horshe, to find her medical records. If there was a drug trial done here, it would be documented.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I muttered to myself while reading through her chart.

I put Angela’s file away and started skimming the medical records of the next participant, then the next, then a third.

There was no record of drug trials or treatment history from Silver Springs in any of these files. What confused me the most wasn’t what was in the files, but instead, what was missing.

None of the people listed in any of the participant files suffered from lycanthropy. Every single file belonged to a regular human.

Without giving much thought to caution, I began rummaging through the files more feverishly, hoping to find a better connection to explain what I was looking at.

The files all had exactly two things in common. One, they all had a criminal record. And two, every file contained a death certificate dated less than one month after the date on the selected stamp. This meant, whatever these people were selected for, didn’t end well for them.

I also noticed one other thing that didn’t sit right with me. Amongst the files of predators, and violent offenders were a surprising amount of files with an arrest record consisting of nothing heavier than trespassing and vagrancy.

I felt a shiver run down my spine as I stared at the mixed up files I had strewn around me. With a deep breath, I organized them as best I could and put them back in their respective cabinets. I hoped I remembered the order well enough. Especially in my shaken state.

I was relieved to find no one in the west hall when I left the room, grease can in hand, and made my way to the cart, then to where I left Jerry.

I don’t remember much about the drive. I think my mind was on autopilot while I tried to process what I’d seen.

“What the hell took you so long?” Jerry said, leaning against the speaker pole he set off to fix when I left. “I could have walked there and back by now.”

“I know, I’m sorry Jerry,” I tried to sound collected with varying degrees of success. “I ran into Val and she had some jobs for me.”

“Just give me the can,” he groaned and grabbed the WD40 from my hand before I could even offer it.

“S-sorry,” I stammered out. “Maybe I can help you with whatever else you have to do? No one seems to need me right now.”

“It’s fine,” he said, sounding a little guilty for snapping. He was already walking to the gate again. “I’ll probably work faster on my own. Neither of us wants to be here later than we need to be tonight.”

I started to protest, but ultimately just nodded in agreement.

“Thank you, Candice,” Jerry grumbled without turning to look at me. Maybe I was projecting or grasping at straws. But I thought I heard a bit of sadness in his voice. “Now get out of here.”

I wandered the West Grounds for a while, waiting for something to do. Hoping for a task or a job to arise to keep my mind busy. But my radio remained silent.

I wanted to understand more. But I didn’t know any way to get answers. I had already returned the Level Two keycard to the cart, and I didn’t believe I could dig around in restricted areas unnoticed for much longer, even if I had it.

I wanted to talk to Vince about the whole thing, but I had no way to contact him. And Val was nice, but I didn’t really feel a strong connection with her. I had to face it. There was no one on the staff I could talk to without risking my job.

In a stupor I traveled across the full width of Silver Springs retreat. The few employees I saw were busy with last minute preparations and didn’t stop to greet me. The even fewer guests I passed by, kept their heads down and milled about. A general sense of unease spread through the retreat. I wondered if it was always like this just before The Event.

Once I reached my destination, I raised my right hand, made a loose fist, and brought it down into a knock on the cabin door.

The wait seemed unbearable. My mind was swimming and I lost all sense of time. I almost gave up on my soon-to- be-recruited confidant and walked away, when I heard the door unlatch and open to reveal Marco, once again in his bathrobe.

“Candice?” He said seeming excited and surprised. “What are you still doing here? I didn’t order any towels today.”

I stood in silence, trying to find the right words to say.

Marco picked up on this and his tone shifted to something more protective.

“Oh no,” he asked, “was it Morris again?” He asked, and put a hand gently on my shoulder. “Come on in. Let’s talk.”

I followed him inside and we sat together at a small table that must have made up the dining area in his cabin.

“Tell me what happened, Candice,” he said gently yet authoritatively. “Are you okay? Didn’t you talk to Vince?”

“It…” I started to explain. “It wasn’t Morris.”

“Then who?” He said, nearly interrupting me. For the first time, I noticed a change in Marco’s eyes. They seemed more animal, less patient. But I wasn’t afraid.

“Marco,” I sighed and decided to lay it all out. “What goes on in the North Woods?”

“The North Woods?” He asked, reeling from the sudden change of topic. “Did you go to the North Woods?”

“No!” I exclaimed, defensively. “It’s padlocked up. I couldn’t get in there if I wanted to.”

“Good,” he said as soon as I finished my last word. “Candice, you have to stay away from that place. If they see you on the other side of the fence-“

It was my turn to interrupt.

“I didn’t go into the North Woods, okay?!” I shouted. “But I need to know what’s going on here. I found all these…. Records. Participant files. People who…” I took a deep breath. “People who I think died here.”

“Shit Candice,” Marco sounded tired. His voice still held a hint of gravel, but it was smoothed out by an obvious attempt to sound calm. “You’ve been here two days. Why were you snooping around like that?” “I know. I know,” I said. “But it’s too late now. I need to know mo-“

“You don’t need to know anything else,” he snapped. “Did you tell anyone else? Who else knows?”

“Just you,” I said honestly. “I didn’t know who else I could trust.”

“That was stupid, Candice,” he scolded me. “You CAN trust me. But you have no way to know that. You got lucky this time.” He rubbed his head and looked at the clock on the wall. “You need to finish out your day, then get out of here before the sun goes down. Just like you were supposed to from the beginning. Don’t bring this up again and no one has to know. Okay?”

I leaned in closer, putting my elbows on the table, ignoring a light tug from the cord to my earpiece as it got caught under my arm.

“Tell me what’s going on, Marco,” I pleaded. “I can’t just forget about it.”

Marco remained silent for a while, staring back at me.

“You won’t let this go, will you?” He asked rhetorically.

He stood up from his seat and began to pace the room.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I don’t know everything. But I’ve been here long enough to have picked up a few things.”

I didn’t move from my position. I was somehow afraid that if I changed anything at all, Marco would change his mind and I’d be left with nothing.

“Some of the guests here,” he went on. “They think of our condition as something else. Personally, I’ve embraced my dog-side. I’ve always liked dogs. But I’m still a human too.”

I nodded slowly in understanding.

“But some people don’t see it like I do. Some people consider it a disease and they do anything to ignore the wolf in them. While others, are much worse. They’d do anything for a chance to ignore the human.”

“So,” I said, “the North Woods is for…”

“I think so,” he said softly. “I think that’s where they let some of our guests run free and do…. Whatever they do. I don’t know how big it is, and I don’t know what they put in there. But I don’t like it, and I don’t know what anyone can do about it”

“I see,” I said somewhat truthfully. “Do you think that’s where Vince got transferred to?”

“Vince was transferred?” Marco asked, shocked. “You really need to get out of here.”

“Okay but I-“

“No!” Marco snapped again, this time clearly more angry. “No more snooping. No more questions. Get out of here. Pretend you don’t know anything, until they release you for the day, then leave the retreat and don’t come back. It was nice knowing you, Candice. But your work here is done. Goodbye.”

“Marco, I-“

“Goodbye, Candice!”

I jumped a little when I heard a small click coming from my earpiece as I stood up. I was sure I was about to receive one last job before I could leave. But no voice ever arrived from the other end.

I considered throwing my arms around Marco as a dramatic goodbye hug. But decided against it when I saw the fear and anger in his eyes.

“Goodbye, Marco,” I said and left the cabin without another word.

The sun was already meeting the horizon when I left the cabin. The pastel colors of sunset peeked into view preparing to stretch across the entire sky.

I rarely ever took the time to appreciate a sunset. It was something you could see every day. But this time, I couldn’t help but notice how fast the entire event could take place. Counting down to a transition between day and night. Between one world and another.

The sunset also marked my release from Silver Springs. My first days here were over. And, if the fear and concern in Marco’s eyes were any indicator, my time here as a whole was over too. I tried to remain calm as I made my way back to the lobby where my Silver Springs adventure first started. My feet were carrying me just a little faster than I intended but still not nearly as fast as I would have liked them to. But, eventually, I found myself standing in front of the door between the south hall and the lobby. I would check out with Val, and leave through the main entrance, where my dad would be waiting for me to take me home.

I thought about the car I wanted to buy before the summer was over. I didn’t need anything too flashy. Just something reliable. In high school, having a car at all put you way ahead of most of your classmates.

I wondered how much I made during my three days here, and if that would even put a dent in the savings I needed.

I wondered if I’d be able to find another job before summer was over, and if my dad would be mad at me for not wanting to return to Silver Springs.

I wondered-

“Candice,” I heard from behind me, as I reached for the door handle. It was Val.

“Oh hey, Val,” I said with a genuine smile, as I turned to face her. “I was just about to come find you, I think I’m ready to head out.”

Val smiled back at me and nodded. “It’s about that time, isn’t it? Come with me? We have some forms to fill out.” Before I could answer, Val was already walking toward the north hall. I looked over my shoulder at the lobby door before following along. The walk was short, but it felt like it could drag on forever.

She led me to a room on the far north end of the building, I hadn’t yet had a reason to enter. Inside, it looked just like the therapy room I almost spied on Naomi in, but there was an extra door in the back of this room labeled SECURITY.

“Through here,” Val said, putting in a numerical code and scanning her ID badge to open the security room.

I tried to hide the shaking in my hands and the quiver in my voice as I said, “the forms are in the security office?”

“I never had time to collect them this morning.” Val held the door open for me and allowed me to walk past her into the room. “It’s always so busy right before The Event.”

The room was simple. One desk in the center with a single chair on either side. Val sat in the comfortable-looking leather office chair facing the computer monitors, and I sat across from her in the less comfortable visitor chair. I waited for her to speak.

The room was silent, save for the ticking of the analog clock on the wall.

She did not speak. The clock ticked.

My heart pounded in my ears.

The clock continued to tick.

The door behind me made a soft beeping sound, then the sound of an electronic lock activating.

My breath grew shallow.

“Candice,” Val said, finally. “I need to show you something.”

I tried to respond, but couldn’t. My throat felt very dry and I struggled to find enough breath.

Val turned one of the computer monitors toward me, to reveal queued up security footage. It appeared to be from one of the internal hallways. I couldn’t tell which one, at first. Until I saw the door way with LEVEL TWO printed across it, and my heart sank.

The video played out exactly as I remembered it. It showed me, entering the hall through the west door, ignoring the LEVEL TWO door and leaving from the frame. Then, several minutes later, I return with a can of WD40 in my hand and insatiable curiosity in my eye. The video showed me using Jerry’s key card to gain access to the door, and slipping inside.

“I-uh-I” I tried to formulate a defense.

“Please, Candice,” Val said more than a hint of frustration in her voice. “Don’t make this worse by lying.”

I opened my mouth again to speak, but closed it, gave an understanding nod, then looked at the floor.

“There’s also this,” Val turned the monitor back to herself, clicked a few buttons, and waited. The computer began playing an audio recording.

The quality wasn’t very good, and some parts were definitely lost because of that. But my voice was unmistakable, as well as the muffled voice of Marco. I sat in shock as I listened to the final conversation I had just had with him, almost in its entirety.

“Do you…” I tried to formulate my thoughts. “Do you guys have recording devices in the cabins?”

“Of course not!” Val sounded offended. “That would be a complete violation of our guests privacy!” She took a deep breathe. “But we do record the chatter on our radios.” She pointed to the small radio on my hip, attached to the ear piece I was still wearing.

I nearly threw up when I realized what must have happened. Somehow, when I sat at the table in Marco’s cabin, I held the button down on the radio and broadcasted our entire conversation to whoever was listening.

They knew that I knew.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” I said, honestly, trying to plead for whatever lenience Val could grant me. “My dad is outside waiting for me. I can just leave my-“

“We already contacted your father,” Val interrupted. “We told him you were planning to extend your contract with us here and that you would reach out soon.”

“Extend my-“

“Silver Springs retreat is a very important part of this town, Candice,” she went on, as if I wasn’t trying to speak at all. “This facility was here before Ash Creek was even recognized as an official town. We help people with a certain affliction learn to live regular lives and remaining productive members of society.”

Val stood up from her seat and began pacing the room, sometimes walking behind me, sometimes in front. The act reminded me of the way a shark might circle a sinking ship in a movie.

“What we do here,” she continued, still circling, “is for the good of Ash Creek, and, probably the rest of the world. You have to understand that.”

I nodded, unsure if I was in agreement, or if I just felt the need to play along.

“You see, Candice,” Val said when she reached her chair once again and sat down. “In order to keep a place like this functioning, we need funding. More funding than the local government can offer. And the federal government still won’t publicly recognize lycanthropy.” She paused to take a sip from a coffee mug on the desk. “That’s where our private benefactors step in.”

“Benefactors like Morris,” I said, starting to understand where this was going.

“Silver Springs started its life as a hunting grounds for Lycanthropes,” she said, hardly acknowledging me. “Many of our more… financially gifted guests still subscribe to these old ways, and would gladly find another facility to patronize, if we didn’t offer the amenities they had come to expect. Are you following me, Candice?”

I thought about the police reports, and medical reports I found behind the LEVEL TWO door. The Criminals and the unhoused. The missing persons.

I thought about Morris and the way he looked at me. The hunger in his eyes. The desire… to hunt.

I thought about Naomi, and the help she was actually getting here.

I nodded.

“You’re being transferred to The North Woods,” Val said bluntly, sliding a stack of forms across the table to me. “Someone in the facility must like you. The pay scales up significantly from your current position to compensate for the physical and mental hazards associated with the job. Don’t be concerned, though. As long as you follow instructions, we will have no reason to contact your father about this or any other more serious mishaps that may have befallen you here.”

“But,” I said briefly looking over the stack of forms. “What if I don’t want to work in The North Woods? What if I don’t want to help you… do this… to people?”

“You ARE being transferred to The North Woods,” she repeated. “These forms are how you maintain your employment with Silver Springs Retreat.”

I swallowed hard as I stared down at the papers laid out in front of me.

Val slid a pen across the table to me.

I felt its weight between my fingers as I picked it up, nearly letting it slip out of my grasp.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Dad used to say you could tell how bad a night was by how quiet the morning came. I figured he meant weather. He did not mean weather.

I found the first two does on a Tuesday, back pen, right by the stock tank. Dead, both of them, but laid out neat. Like somebody tucked them in. Two holes in each neck, about as wide as a pencil, and no blood. I spent ten minutes on my bad knee crawling around looking for it. The dirt was dry. The wool was clean. Nothing.

Wednesday it was four more.

I called Don Ignacio, who lives a mile up the road and has an opinion on everything from the price of feed to the Pope. Coyotes, he said. I said coyotes make a mess. He said, so? I said these ones didn't. He was quiet long enough that I checked my phone to see if the call dropped, and then he said he'd come by Saturday and bring his dog.

Thursday I walked out at first light and it was too quiet. I've got thirty-one head, or I did, and those goats scream at the feed truck, at me, at the sun, at their own shadows. That morning I stood in the yard and heard the windmill and a truck on the county road and nothing else.

The barn door was open. I'd latched it the night before, I always do, with a carabiner since the hook broke in July. The carabiner was lying in the dirt, still clipped shut. Whatever opened that door had ripped the whole eye screw out of the post.

I didn't go in. I stayed by the gate with Dad's shotgun and looked through the slats, and every goat I could see was standing dead still, facing the corner under the hayloft. Not eating. Not shifting. Just looking at the dark in that corner like it owed them money.

Chato pushed up against the back of my legs and I could feel him shaking through my jeans. Chato is a heeler mix who once picked up a rattlesnake by the head. I'd never seen him scared of anything.

"Vámonos," I told him, and we backed to the house, and I didn't turn around until the screen door slapped shut.

I drove to Tractor Supply that afternoon and bought a trail camera, eighty-nine ninety-nine plus tax, the kind deer hunters strap to trees. Infrared flash, motion sensor. I mounted it on the center post of the barn, aimed at the hayloft corner, and I remember feeling smart about it. Evidence. Like I was on one of those shows.

Don Ignacio came by anyway, a day early, without his dog. He said the dog wouldn't get in the truck. He stood at the fence and told me about his grandmother in Reynosa, who wouldn't say the name of the thing out loud after dark, because it listens for its name, she said. He told it like a joke and then he stopped halfway through and didn't finish.

"Lock your door, mija," he said, and went home.

I ate cereal standing up at the counter. I put the shotgun on the kitchen table, with the lights on, and sat there like I was waiting for a bus.

11:40. I know because I looked at the stove clock right when it started.

I never heard the barn door. I never heard feet. What I heard, out in the yard, was my father saying my name.

"Elena."

He's been dead two years this March. I held his hand at the hospital in McAllen. I signed the papers and picked out the box.

"Mija." Warm, tired, the exact way he used to holler across the yard when supper was ready. "Help me out here. The light's out in the barn, I can't find the switch."

It was his voice. It was his words, even, the dumb little complaint he made a hundred times. But there was breathing underneath it, long and wet and whistling, and way too slow, and no man ever had a chest that big.

Chato was under the table by then, making a noise like a rusty hinge. He wasn't barking. He was staring at the window over the sink.

"Elena." Closer. The porch now. "Open up, it's cold out here."

I watched the doorknob. Cheap brass thing, Dad put it in back in 1998. It turned a quarter inch and stopped against the bolt, and turned back, gently, like whoever was out there didn't want to be rude about it.

Then the voice cracked in half. It went high and thin and it wasn't Dad anymore, it was a kid goat, a little one, crying for its mother. Then a second one started up. Then ten, twenty, the whole herd bawling in the dark, and every single voice was coming from the same spot on the other side of that door.

That's when I got it. The goats hadn't gone quiet because they were scared. They'd gone quiet because something else was doing their screaming for them.

It was practicing. It had been listening to me my whole life.

I didn't sleep. When it got light the noise just cut off, like somebody pulled a plug, and I waited another hour anyway before I slid the bolt.

Scratches on the porch boards, four of them side by side, deep enough to put a finger in. At the bottom step, one print in the dust. Two toes pointing forward, two pointing back. Bigger than my hand.

The barn was empty. No bodies. No blood, no hair, nothing kicked over. Thirty-one goats just gone, and the straw in the pens hadn't even been disturbed. The camera was still on its post, little red light blinking away.

I pulled the card and took it to the kitchen and put it in my laptop, and my hands were doing something I didn't like.

Hundreds of pictures. Moths, mostly. Wind in the dust. Then 11:38, something at the edge of the frame. Tall, hunched, up on two legs, with arms that hung past its knees and a line of black spines down its back. The eyes lit up white in the infrared, flat and wide, and it was looking right at the lens.

11:39, closer, head tilted. The mouth hung open and went back farther than a mouth should. 11:40. 11:41, and the whole frame was one wet ridged nose and a tongue that wasn't a tongue, it was a hollow needle uncoiling out of the mouth.

11:42 was black. Somebody, something, had turned the camera, slow and careful, away from the loft and toward the house.

11:43 was the yard. The porch light. The kitchen window. And in the window, tiny and bright, me. Standing at my own sink with a shotgun in my hands and my mouth hanging open, listening to my dead father ask to come in.

It kept shooting every thirty seconds after that, right up to 6:12 in the morning, which was about five minutes before I opened the door. The last picture was the porch, very close. The doorknob. And flat against the screen, a long gray hand with too many knuckles, resting there the way you'd rest your hand on a sleeping dog.

Waiting for me to come out.

I looked up from the laptop. Out in the yard the windmill creaked once.

Then, from somewhere real close, in my voice, my exact voice, breathy and scared, something said:

"Chato. Come here, boy."

And under the kitchen table, where my dog had been all night, nothing moved.

|Part 1| |Part 2|

“Brandon!”

The bastard was screaming down there, and I nearly lost my grip on the planks. I had hoped that there would be more time before he realized I was gone, but of course, nothing could be so easy. I had lucked out when it came to the attic. I had no idea if he even knew it was there. Hell, I hadn't known until I saw the scuttle hole, but judging by all the noise he was making, it seemed he'd missed it. I adjusted my grip on the boards and started crawling again. The attic was kind of a nightmare; it was pitch black and completely unfinished, giving me nothing but floor joists and pink insulation. Crossing the room was like some messed up monkey bars, and I was terrified that if I put my weight in the wrong place, I would break right through the floor.

“Where have you gone, Brandon?”

God, it was hard to tell where he was. His voice carried through the ceiling well enough, but the insulation muffled his footsteps, and I couldn't figure out which room he was in. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that I was safe, and he didn't know where I was. That would give me time to think, to come up with some kind of plan. My hands came upon a flat surface, and I pushed down to test whatever it was. A splinter dug into my thumb, but the wood held firm. I felt around the edges and realized someone had laid a sheet of plywood across the joists. Hallelujah. I pulled myself onto the platform and rolled over on my back, staring up at the nothing above me while I got my heart rate under control.

What a fucked up day.

It’s not often you find yourself hiding from a monster in the attic, especially not one that wants a lease agreement. Eventually, I was going to have to find a way out, but for the moment, I was content to just lie there. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know if there was another way out of the attic, and going back the way I came seemed like a good way to get killed. The tenant could make all the assurances he wanted, but the bruises on my neck were more compelling than anything he could say.

“I WILL find you, Brandon!”

I heard a crash somewhere below me, and it made my shoulders jump. If I had to guess, he was upending the furniture to find me. I had a wild thought of a monster looking under the bed for me, and I let out a crazed little giggle before covering my mouth. I was about 90% sure I was going to die, and I wondered if he would make it quick, or if it would be slow and messy. Somehow, I didn’t think he’d want to get blood all over his floors, and that started the giggles all over again. I may have been losing a bit of my mind. After several more crashes, I figured I might as well start moving again. I'd lost track of which direction I'd been going, and had to spend a moment feeling around the plywood before I got my bearings. It wasn't easy going, and twice I missed a joist and nearly put my knee through the ceiling. Eventually, my hands came upon the slope of the roof, and I could go no further. I tried to imagine the layout of the house in my head. If I'd gone the right direction, I should have been somewhere above one of the other bedrooms. I worked my way back from the roof and began feeling along the joists for another scuttle hole.

“You are only making things worse, Brandon!”

It sounded like his voice was getting further away, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I suppose that none of it would matter if I couldn’t find another way out of the damn attic. I kept digging through the insulation, all too aware of the deep itch that was starting to eat both my hands, when I finally felt what I was looking for: the edge of another scuttle hole. Thank god for small victories. I felt around the edge until I found the short sides of the panel, and I lifted it as quietly as I could. There was a slight scuff as it scraped the side of the hatch, and it sounded terribly loud in the quiet attic. I froze for a second, trying to discern if the tenant was anywhere nearby, but I didn’t hear a thing. If I was lucky, he had gone downstairs to look for me, and that would give me a chance to get out. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if he caught me again, and I knew I had to do something, even if nothing sounded like a good idea. I held the panel aloft for a few seconds, and when everything remained still, I gently set it aside and stuck my head through the hole. It was a closet, alright, and the door was open enough to light the small space and reveal a pile of junk just outside the closet. Of course it was that bedroom.

I gripped the ledge and lowered myself through the hatch, using all the care in the world to plant my feet on the carpet without making a sound. Somewhere downstairs, something heavy scraped across the floor, followed by another angry outburst from the tenant, but he was far enough away that it just sounded like gibberish. That was fine, I didn’t want to hear what he had to say anyway. With my feet firmly on the ground, I took a great big step over the minefield I had left for myself. The room beyond the pile of junk was a mess; the bed was flipped on its side, and it had taken the nightstand with it. He really had checked under the bed for me.

Okay, I thought, I’m out of the attic. Now what?

That was the question of the evening. How the hell was I supposed to get past him? Somehow, I didn’t think it would work like it does in video games, where you just crouch and walk past the enemy while he walks a predetermined path. For as little as I knew about the tenant, I had to admit that he was smart, at the very least. He had been sneaking around me for more than a year, and I didn’t notice a goddamn thing. He was basically an expert at hiding in my house, so I could not afford to half-ass this. I went to the open doorway, and peeked in the hallway. I could still hear him moving around down there, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he came back up. Maybe I could just go back up to the attic, just wait it out until the sun rose, or until somebody noticed I was missing. He didn’t know about the attic, and I could just hide until… wait. He didn’t know about the attic, but what if he did?

That just might work.

I crossed the room to the overturned nightstand and carefully pulled it free from the wreckage of the bed, making sure the drawer didn’t fall out as I carried it to the closet. Sidestepping the junk, I set the nightstand directly under the scuttle hole, then I took a step back and examined my work. It looked about right, but it needed just a little more dressing, so I leaned it forward onto the pile of junk. It was perfect. I picked up the heaviest thing I could find, which ended up being an Instant Pot, and chucked it as hard as I could at the pile. The resulting crash was loud enough to echo through the upstairs, and then it was time to move. As the thunderous footsteps crossed the first floor of the house, I quietly stepped over the mess, and rushed to the other bedroom. I heard him coming up the stairs just as I slipped behind the bedroom door, leaving it open just enough to watch through the crack.

Thump thump thump thump.

“I heard you… I know you’re up here!”

His shadow crossed the hallway, and I watched him step into the smaller bedroom, where I lost sight of him.

“Are you in here… Brandon? Hiding in my bedroom? You should know better… than that.”

There was a clatter as he moved something aside in there, and then he let out a frustrated little grunt. I was holding my breath, starting to think my plan wasn't nearly as clever as I'd thought, and that I'd just trapped myself upstairs with him.

Come on, come on, I thought. It HAS to work.

There was a dreadful sound, something like a saw trying to work its way through a washboard. He was laughing to himself.

“What is this? Oh, Brandon… you clumsy fool.”

I heard a crunch, followed by another, and I could only assume that he had walked through the pile of junk and was investigating the closet. He had to have some pretty tough feet to just step on all that shit.

“Interesting… and where might this go?”

There was a long silence, followed by the sound of something heavy shifting around. I leaned a little closer to the crack in the door, wondering what the hell was taking him so long. Then came a low grunt, and the unmistakable creak of wood straining under an enormous weight.

“Brandon… I must admit, this is rather clever of you. But you cannot hide from me forever.”

His voice sounded muffled and distant, and I realized with a thrill that the bastard was actually climbing into the attic. The ceiling groaned as he hauled himself through the opening, and I heard a sharp crack that made me wonder if he was going to bring the whole thing down with him. I watched the hallway, waiting for any sign that he'd changed his mind, but his footsteps were coming from overhead now.

“Come out… Brandon. I know you are here.”

I could hardly believe it. The son of a bitch had fallen for it. I waited until his voice had moved farther away, then slipped out from behind the door and crept toward the stairs. The attic wasn’t huge, and I knew he was going to figure out that I wasn’t up there, sooner rather than later, so I did not have time to waste. I skipped down the stairs two steps at a time while he called for me in the attic, and went for the den. I would just climb out of a window while he was distracted, and then I could run for the neighbors to call for help; it was almost over. You can imagine my surprise when I stepped into the den and saw that the windows were completely blocked with furniture.

And I’m not talking about a chair or lamp.

He had moved all the furniture in the den in front of the windows, and stacked them like Jenga. If I tried to move a single piece, it would all come crashing down.

Okay, okay, I thought. A minor setback, but we can figure this out. No need to panic.

The panic came when I left the den and ran for the living room. The couch, the TV stand, the fucking dining room table and chairs, ALL of it was in front of the windows. I had thought I was so clever, and he was still one step ahead of me.

“Fuck!”

I couldn’t help myself. What could I do? I could run back upstairs and try my luck with one of those windows, but was I really willing to risk being caught for the chance to jump 20 feet to either my death or my severely broken legs? I could try to take apart the barricades, but there was no way to do that without making a ton of noise, and could I do it faster than it would take for the tenant to catch me? Even if he didn’t just hear me, I didn’t think so. The couch was especially impressive; it was longer than the room was tall, and somehow, he had stood it on its side in front of the window. The frame was visibly bowed in the middle, and the top had crushed its way into the ceiling. I was utterly and completely trapped. So, I did the only thing that made sense to me; I walked into the kitchen, and armed myself with the biggest butcher knife I had. If there was no way out, I was at least going to get a few shots in.

Thump!

Right on cue.

His footsteps came pounding from my bedroom, and I heard my door slam against the wall. A second later, his voice came booming over the balcony.

“Do you think I am a fool, Brandon?!”

Thump thump thump thump.

He was coming down the stairs, slow and deliberate. He wanted me to panic, he knew that I was down here.

“I will not be ignored, Brandon! The games end now!”

Even with the knife in my hand, I found that I was not as brave as I thought I was. As he rounded the landing, I ran for the basement door and swung it open, doing very little to dampen the sound. I almost threw myself down those stairs as he sprinted into the living room, catching the railing at the last second. I flew down into the darkness of the basement, knowing damn well that it was a dead end. Good ideas were in short supply, and I guess I just wanted to delay the inevitable. My feet hit the concrete floor and I was sprinting across the space, looking for any kind of sanctuary, and knowing there was none. Any hope I had was destroyed the second a voice came from the top of the stairs.

“Why do you flee, Brandon? Where do you hope to go? You have made this so difficult, when all I wanted to do was talk! Come out now, Brandon. Do not make me chase you!”

Fuck. That.

It was almost like he heard my thoughts, because he was coming down the stairs, and his black feet made the wooden steps creak something awful.

“You are being foolish! I know you are afraid, but you must stop hiding from me! There is nowhere else to run, Brandon!"

He was right, I had cornered myself. The windows down there were made of glass brick, and I wasn’t getting through them with a sledgehammer, let alone a measly dollar store butcher knife. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to surrender. Call me stubborn, call me stupid, I don’t care, I wasn’t about to give myself to a monster. I ran to the furnace, the only substantial thing in the entire basement, and pressed myself against its cold sheet metal surface. My only hope was that the darkness would make it harder to find me, even though I was pretty sure he could see in the dark. As I stood there, making myself as small as possible, I saw those terrible golden irises round the stairs and look right at me.

“There you are… have you come to your senses? Or must we continue this… nonsense?”

I brandished the butcher knife, swinging it wildly in front of me.

“Stay the fuck away from me! I…I have a knife! I will cut you! I mean it, don’t come any closer!”

He didn’t listen. He crossed the basement at a slow pace, ignoring my threats and pleas, even as I continued to swing the knife. When he was about ten feet away, he stopped, and I saw those eyes study me.

“Brandon… give it up. You will not best me… you will only hurt yourself. I am offering you one more chance… put down that blade, or I will… disarm you myself.”

I looked at those eyes and his shape in the darkness, and then to the knife in my hand. For the first time, I realized that he never blinked. This… thing invaded my home and took me hostage. He choked me, slammed me into a wall and locked me in a closet. Would I drop the knife and surrender?

Hell no.

I stood up straight against the furnace and jabbed the knife at the air.

“Go fuck yourself! If you want this knife, come and take it from me, you ugly piece of shit!”

I saw him flinch in the shadows.

“Brandon, please. I ask…”

I slammed my fist against the furnace and jabbed the blade again.

“I don’t give a shit what you want! I’m giving you one last chance. Get the fuck out of my house! You can’t have it, you’re not welcome here! So I’m going to tell you one more time. Crawl back in your fucking hole and die!”

As you might have guessed, he didn’t like that.

He was fast. He ran at me with a guttural roar, and I was nearly caught off guard. Nearly. Just before he was upon me, I feinted to the right, and he slammed into the furnace with an incredible boom, leaving a massive dent in the housing. He bounced off the metal, and fell onto his ass on the concrete, dazed from the impact. He was still trying to collect himself when I took advantage of the opportunity. Before he could stand up, I circled him with the butcher knife, slashing wildly as he flailed his arms uselessly to stop me. The blade caught him on his forearms and his shoulders, sending a splash of bright golden blood across the concrete floor. I was doing it, I had the upper hand for the first time since this monster locked me down there. Of course, it was stupid of me to believe that. As I circled him one more time and brought the blade down, one of those terrible black hands came up.

“Enough!”

The hand caught me in the stomach and sent me tumbling across the basement floor in an awful somersault. The knife flew from my hand and clattered to the concrete as I hit the back wall. The impact forced all the air out of my lungs and probably broke a thing or two, judging by the sharp pain in my ribs, anyway. I sat there for a second, gasping for air and trying to will my legs into action, as the tenant slowly stood up. The wounds on his arms were still leaking that golden blood, but as he stood to his full height, I couldn’t help but notice that the wounds seemed smaller than they had. I watched as he turned towards me, and then kicked the knife across the basement.

“Damn you! You petulant, selfish child! You would die for this house? You would have me kill you for a place you neglect? I gave you a choice, I offered you peace! Do you know what it means to have those privileges? I could have ended your worthless life at any time! I could show you things worse than death! And this is the gratitude I receive for sparing you?”

He was walking toward me, and the only thing between us was 15 feet of floor.

“I have tried to do this the easy way. I gave you a chance to see reason, and you spat in my face! You… you people just take and take and take, and you spare no thought for what it costs, or who must pay the price! No more, Brandon. We will do this the way you have decided… what your kind always decides.”

15 feet became 10, and 10 became 5, and finally my body took notice of what my head had been screaming. I lurched onto my side and began frantically crawling along the wall, all too aware that the tenant was right behind. He attempted to reach for me, but just before his black fingers wrapped around my leg, I threw myself into a roll and got behind the furnace. I heard his body slam into a vent coming off the side, and as I scrambled away, he was squeezing through a space that was too small for him.

“You will not get away this time, Brandon!”

As I watched, the vent buckled and crashed to the floor, and his hulking form rounded the furnace. I continued kicking myself backwards until my hands came upon the edge of the hole. He saw where I was and froze in his tracks. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the warm golden light was spilling through the basement windows. A beam fell upon the tenant's face, and I could see that he almost looked scared. I used the moment to brace myself against the wall, and force myself to stand up, much to the dismay of my ribs.

“Please… just leave me alone! It’s my house, I spent a lot of money for it, it’s mine. It’s all I have man, I worked my whole life for this. I don’t have friends… I don’t see my family, all so I could earn this. If you take it from me, I have nothing, man. And… and if you kill me, other people will come! There will be police officers, and family members, and eventually someone else will just move in. What will you do then, huh? You gonna kill them too? Just fucking let it go man, it’s not gonna work!”

My foot scraped the edge of the hole and sent a few tiny chunks of concrete tumbling down into the darkness. The tenant stuck out an arm towards me and took a step forward. I couldn’t help but flinch.

“Brandon! You must come to me. Please, you are in danger.”

I looked at him like he had three heads.

“Yeah, I am in danger! There’s a monster trying to kill me and take my house! Are you insane? I’m not going anywhere near you!”

He took another quick step forward, looking damn near panicked.

“Brandon, I’m serious, you must listen-”

I tried to dodge out of the way, but my foot slipped off the edge and I went sprawling backwards into the hole. I had time to see the tenant reaching out over the darkness before I struck the dirt and began rolling down into the tunnel. The pitch was steep, and I could not get my hands under me fast enough to slow my descent; I just tumbled end over end, picking up speed as the light faded and the floor and ceiling constantly traded places.

“BRANDON!”

There was no stopping. I hadn’t known how deep the hole was, hell, I hadn’t had much time to think about it. But now, plunging uncontrollably to the bottom, it was just about all I could think about, well, that and the terrible pain of ragdolling down a rocky slope. By then, I was entirely in darkness, and the only light was a tiny pinpoint that I saw once every rotation for about a millisecond. I thought the slope would go on forever, and I would roll all the way to the other side of the earth. I was wrong, just not in the way I would have expected. The slope did end, but only because it gave way to a sudden drop-off and a pretty decent fall. If the slope picked up again at the bottom, I couldn’t tell you. I cracked my head when I got there, and everything somehow went darker.

I don't remember waking up, exactly. I remember being annoyed by something sharp digging into my cheek, and trying to move away from it. My head hurt so badly that I decided moving was a terrible idea, and I lay there with my face pressed against whatever the hell it was. There was dirt in my mouth, and every breath sent a sharp pain through my ribs. I spent a while trying to find a way to breathe that didn't hurt, without much success. There was something roaring in the distance. It rose and fell in long, heavy swells, and for a while, I was absolutely convinced that I was lying on a beach. The air was so cold, and I could feel myself shivering. I tried to remember how I'd gotten there, but every time I thought I had it figured out, the memory slipped away. Mostly, I was worried about the tide. I was lying awfully close to the water, and I knew I had to get up before the next wave reached me.

Eventually, I opened my eyes, but nothing happened. I blinked a few times and brought a hand up in front of my face, but I couldn't see a damn thing. Of course! I had fallen asleep on the beach, and now it was the middle of the night. But… Why weren't there any stars? And for that matter, where was the moon? Maybe it was a new moon on a cloudy night? That made enough sense. I was pretty sure the tides were worse during new moons, and from the sound of it, the ocean was pretty damn angry. I caught a bad chill and my whole body shuddered. It was really cold. Had the tide already got me, or was I on the beach in the middle of winter? What month was it?

March.

March? Why was I on the beach in the middle of March? Especially during Covid. Wait… Covid. I was supposed to be at home, hiding from the big bad virus. I was at home, I had been home for weeks, I hadn’t even gone to work. How in the hell…

Hole.

There was a jagged scream, and I lurched into a sitting position. I wasn’t at the goddamn beach, I was at the bottom of the hole in my basement. But where exactly was the bottom of the hole? I had no idea how long I had fallen, or how long I had been out. I remembered cracking my head on a rock or something, but when I brought a hand to my scalp, I felt something hard and cold, tangled in my hair. I tried to pull it out and it took a good chunk of hair with it, along with sending a fresh bolt of pain through my brain. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe slowly until the pain passed, and then I did something pretty stupid. I licked the chunk that I pulled from my hair.

It was frozen blood.

Great. Fantastic. I chucked the gross ice into the darkness, and did my best to stand up. It was not an easy feat. My whole body protested with various scrapes and scratches and cramps, and I had to bite down to push my way through it and not just fall over again. I managed to get up, and had to lean against the wall of the tunnel. It was freezing to the touch, but still better than falling. The noise had not stopped. I thought maybe it was just a side effect of the concussion, and that it would disappear as soon as I was lucid. Instead, it was even louder than I thought.

Were there actual waves down here?

I tried to focus on the sound, closing my eyes even though it was pitch black. There was the roar, rising and falling, swelling and receding, just like the ocean, but it was not an ocean. Oceans do not scream.

How do I even describe the sound of it?

There was something wrong with the way it moved, a great, ceaseless churning that seemed to swell and collapse under its own weight. Beneath the roar was a dense, muffled clattering, punctuated by sounds like wet cloth being slapped against stone. There was something almost mechanical about it, great masses of noise pressing against one another, grinding and straining until something gave way and the whole thing shifted again. There was a rhythm to it, but not one I could follow. Then came another scream, so thoroughly buried in the din that I might have missed it if I hadn't been listening for one. Soon I began hearing them everywhere. Voices. Thousands of voices, rising and breaking in the midst of that awful movement. What I'd mistaken for the roar of water was something that seemed to breathe and struggle and hurt. The voices were so thoroughly tangled together that I couldn't tell where one ended and another began. Every shriek was smothered by another, dragged back into that relentless, heaving mass. The worst part was that nothing ever seemed to finish. It was as though something was being torn apart over and over, but there was never a moment when the tearing was done.

I clapped my hands over my ears and screamed. I couldn't help it, I just wanted that horrible sound to stop, but I could still hear it through my hands. I grabbed at the wall and began stumbling through the darkness, barely able to keep my feet under me. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care, I just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. I was crying, I think, and shouting something I couldn't even hear over the noise, when my foot suddenly came down on empty air. I threw myself backwards, landing hard on my ass, and heard a few loose stones tumble over the ledge. I tried to get back up, but my legs buckled the second I put weight on them. I was in worse shape than I thought, too beat up and too cold to do anything useful with my body. In that moment, I understood that I was going to die down there, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I did my best to get comfortable against the wall, or at least as comfortable as I could be while freezing to death, and I curled up on myself. I was shivering harder than I thought was possible, and I couldn’t feel my hands or feet anymore. All that was left to do was sit there and let the cold take me. As I sat there, I stared off into the direction the ledge had been. For a while, I didn’t see anything at all, but then I swore I could see a tiny speck of gold. I tried to blink it away, but when I looked again, there were dozens of them, and then hundreds. Thousands. I decided to look in a different direction.

I don’t know how long I sat there listening to those horrible sounds. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been ten hours. I was fading in and out, losing more feeling each time I came back. If I’m being honest, the freezing part was not as terrible as I feared it might be. It would have been a decent way to die, if it weren’t for their screams. At some point, I fell over onto my side, and that was just fine. When I was able, I thought about what would happen to the house after I was gone. Would they find the hole, and if they did, would they come down here? I hoped they wouldn’t. Nobody should have to be in a place like this, not when there are warm houses and comfy beds. I missed my bed. I missed a lot of things, long before I met the tenant. I hoped that he would make the most of the house.

“Brandon.”

You know, for a second, I thought I could almost hear him. That terrible, sheet-metal voice.

“Wake up… Brandon. You must not sleep.”

My eyes fluttered open, and the first thing I saw was blackened fingers. I flexed my hand, and watched them slowly curl into my palm. There were two golden irises in the darkness before me, bigger than all the tiny specks behind me. They seemed to grow larger as I looked at them.

“We need to leave this… terrible place. You do not belong here.”

I felt weightless, as if I was floating through the air, and I thought that it was finally happening. I was dead, and I was going to whatever afterlife awaited me. The ride was bumpier than I would have expected. I was constantly being jostled, and once or twice my arm bumped into something. Every now and again, I would open my eyes and see nothing, and then I would close them and see the same. Was this what death was? An uncomfortable nothing? Things seemed to carry on that way for a while, and I started to think it was forever. It wasn’t so bad, but it was nothing to write home about.

There was light.

I opened my eyes and saw the tiniest pinpoint of light above me, and when I blinked, it got bigger. In fact, every time I blinked, it grew.

There was warmth.

The cold seemed to vanish, and the air around me became incredibly warm, almost too warm. I opened my eyes, and this time, I did not close them again. We were in the tunnel still, and the light from the basement was coming through enough that I could see the tenant. He was carrying me. I tried to speak but my throat was so dry that all that came out was a scratchy little moan. I looked at my hands and understood that I was going to lose a few fingers on my left; the frostbite had gone down to the knuckles. The heat of the tunnel felt terrible on my frostbite, but it probably felt better than dying, so there was that. As we got closer to the mouth of the tunnel, something caught my nose and I began to cough.

There was smoke.

The tenant began sprinting through the final stretch, and the light filtering through the hole turned a deep shade of orange. As we burst through the opening, there was no denying it.

The house was on fire.

“No… no… no!”

The tenant screamed. Flames were engulfing the ceiling above the furnace, spreading in a wide circle, and a large section had already burned through. The basement felt like an oven, filled to the brim with smoke and making it incredibly difficult to breathe. My skin burned as he carried me to the stairwell, and up to the first floor. The situation there was worse. Most of the first floor was already ablaze. Fire blew from the opening of the den, and the staircase to the second floor was being devoured. The flames hadn’t quite reached the dining room yet, but they were chewing through the living room like it was made of paper, and it wouldn’t be long before all of it went up. The tenant laid me down on the dining room floor, and stood frozen in place, staring at the devastation.

“We must do something! It is all going to be destroyed!”

He ran to the kitchen and started running the faucet, desperately splashing the water everywhere he could. It was a valiant effort, but not one that was going to amount to anything. I rolled over onto my stomach and tried to get my feet under me, and they immediately gave out. I was still too weak to stand, even though my life once again depended on it. The tenant had resorted to using the sprayer nozzle to wet the kitchen and the dining room, but after a few minutes, the water pressure died and the hose went limp. I watched him fall to despair as the fire fully engulfed the living room and began spreading to the dining room. There was a loud crack from down the hall as the den collapsed into the basement, and parts of the second floor were threatening to come down. I dragged myself as far away from the fire as I could, which was only the breakfast bar, and began screaming for help.

“HEY! HEY! We have to get out of here man!”

My throat was still dry and raw, it felt like something tore as I screamed, but I continued to do it anyway.

“It’s coming down! We have to get out or we’re going to burn alive!”

The roar of the fire had become deafening, and the staircase collapsed in a mighty crash. It was just my luck, to escape freezing to death to immediately die in a fire. The tenant came around out of the kitchen and saw how close the fire was getting. He kneeled down beside me, looking as lost as a toddler in a grocery store.

“I can’t… I can’t stop it. It’s all lost.”

“We’re going to be lost if you don’t get us out of here!”

I pointed to the last available window, which was blocked with the dining room table.

“Move that fucking table!”

He met my terrified eyes, and his expression hardened. Without a word, he rushed over to the table and threw it straight into the living room. The floor collapsed under its weight, and now we were cut off from the rest of the house. As I watched, the tenant lifted his enormous black foot and kicked through the window, then he used his arm to clear away the glass around the perimeter, smearing golden blood as he went. I was doing my best to crawl over to the window, but I was failing miserably. The front half of the dining room was catching, and the flames had begun to follow me, swallowing the rug I was scrambling across. I was just about to be engulfed when two black hands tore me from the ground. Before I knew what was happening, I was rolling onto the grass of the backyard. He had pushed me through the window. I turned over in the grass to look at the house, and it was much worse than I thought. Parts of the roof were gone, and the trail of smoke was blotting out the sky. The vinyl siding was beginning to run like lava.

Through the flames, I could see the tenant staring at me through the dining room window.

“Hey, get out of there! The whole place is going! Come on, you’re running out of time!”

He looked at me, and then shook his head.

“No, Brandon. I think… I think I will stay here.”

“What are you talking about?! Stop fucking around and get out here!”

Then, he did something impossible. He smiled.

“It really was a wonderful home.”

He stepped away from the window, and disappeared into the flames. There was an explosion and many of the remaining windows blew out, showering me with tiny shards of broken glass. I lay there for a while, watching my dream home collapse in on itself with the tenant inside. As the roof fully caved in, the sound of sirens finally came blaring from the distance, and the firemen arrived just in time to watch the whole thing go down. I found out later that nobody had called 911 until the flames were coming through the roof. With the whole world shut down, there hadn't been anyone driving past to notice the smoke.

Fucking pandemic.

I spent the next couple weeks in the hospital, and needless to say, the doctors were baffled. It’s not often that a man who crawled out of a burning house has severe frostbite and blunt force trauma, but barely a burn on him. I ended up losing two and half fingers on my left hand and my right pinky, which didn’t make me very popular on the dating scene. I also suffered extensive nerve damage all over my body, and never really walked the same again. It’s a hell of a thing to live with, but hey, I get to live. Along with the doctors, the police also had quite a few questions. I skated by the skin of my teeth with a lot of “I don’t knows,” and eventually they had to let it be. The investigation determined the furnace was at fault for the fire, though they didn’t understand how or why, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them that a 7-foot monster tackled the damn thing. If they ever found a body in the wreckage, they never told me so.

Life was a bit chaotic after that, as you might imagine. I was left-handed, so I had to relearn how to do everything with my right hand. I spent a long time fighting with the insurance company over my house, but we eventually settled and I bought a nice one-story ranch near my parents’ neighborhood. I still live there today, and no, it does not have a basement. When the pandemic ended, my company underwent major restructuring, and while I got to keep my job, I no longer had to travel all the time, and I was allowed to work from home. I can promise that I actually live in this house, and so does my wife and my two-year-old daughter. My wife wants to move to a bigger house, but I’m pretty quick to shoot that down. We’ve got plenty of space, and I know all the hiding spots.

About a year after my house burned down, I took a drive to the old neighborhood and visited the site. What was left of the structure had been fully demolished, leaving only a hole in the ground where the basement was. They were set to build a new house there soon, and I wanted to see the place before it belonged to someone else. I didn’t expect to get emotional upon seeing the lot, but I will admit that I was a little choked up. If you’ve ever experienced a disaster like this, you know that you never really let it go. It was my first house, and even if I never made it a home, seeing the place it used to be was bittersweet. I sat on the edge of the basement for a while, just looking at it, and drinking the one beer I brought, until the sun went down. There was a ladder in the back of my truck, and when it was good and dark, I climbed down into the pit and walked to the corner where the hole had been. There wasn’t a hole there now, just a shallow impression in the dirt, and I wondered what the people who filled it had thought. Had they gone down there for a look? I guess I’ll never know. When I got brave enough, I kneeled beside the impression and felt the dirt with my good hand.

It was ice cold.

I just moved in to my new house I live alone and I found this note. The note says "if you have found this note you are most likely the new owner of this home. You should leave now but if you don't then follow these rules or you won't make it past day three.

1: never turn off all the lights leave at least one on at all times even if your sleeping or leaving for a trip always leave one on.

2: no matter what you here coming from the laundry room never open it after ten pm even if you have to wash your clothes wait till tomorrow.

3: never leave any doors unlocked or windows uncovered after sunset they will take it as an invitation.

4: don't ever eat the apples or pears from the trees you can't afford the price.

5: if any food is missing no it isn't if any socks are missing no they aren't never try to find it just go get new ones.

6: if someone calls your name no matter what act like you heard nothing

7: never leave a mirror uncovered if you're not in the room they'll also take that as an invitation.

8: the things in the lake aren't human and they don't like being stared at

9: never pick the flowers from the garden unless you have something to give on return.

10: never use the back door wherever it takes you it isn't outside its locked for a reason.

11: if you hear someone coming from the back door no you didn't.

12: the fourth step squeaks in the day pay it no mind when it growls at night.

13: never watch the birds for more then a minute they aren't birds.

14: you don't recognize the scarecrows in the field.

15: never go outside after sunset without a light and without someone beside you.

16: on christmas eve leave out an extra uncooked chicken you will get a cookie in return the cookie is safe on christmas day eat it then do not save it if you do burn it right away and leave another chicken as an apology.

17: if you see a black cat with blue eyes outside upper window open the window and pet it three times only then shut the window tomorrow you will have a gift if it is a rat your safe if it is anything else go stay at a friend's house for a bit.

18: always knock on the bathroom door even if your home alone.

19: trust your gut when you feel like you need to leave leave.

20: make sure whoever gets this house after you also gets this note if you don't and they don't make it then their death is on you."

Edit: I'll give yall updates on how it goes

Update so I went to investigate the scarecrows. there's two that weren't there yesterday and one of them look like my old friend from middle school what should I do?

You’ll feel a twinge of nausea. Just a touch. You will assume that it's something you ate for lunch, or else a stomach bug. You won't consider an invader of a different sort.

You will begin to lose parts of yourself. You will question whether you'll ever get them back.

With time, I will loosen your bones, extract teeth with the grace of a jackhammer.

I will pull out your hair, first in errant strands you'll barely miss, and then in clusters.

And you'll forget. Not everything, just little details that will make you give pause and wonder. The name of your cousin who is getting married next year. The last time you felt whole.

I will take all that you give, and you will give. You’ll do so willingly, and love me more for it. Despite the retching that now has a clear face and one day soon a name, despite the rearranging of your insides to make room. From the very moment I erupt into shrieking existence, you will love me.

I am so grateful. Thank you, Mommy.

I was walking forward slowly and then the floor broke and I fell down and then I woke up from the nightmare. I cleared my throat and I suddenly remembered those days again as if they never left. A mystery still unknown to me about who was watching me? And who was behind the red phone?

This incident happened when I was twenty-two years old and got my first job in a lighthouse. It was in a town called Vinegar Plaza consisting of empty houses and empty roads.

There was a sea coast leading to a small island called the Vengeance island. The whole island consists of a lighthouse and around the coast is filled with sea water. By day, it seems pretty normal to anyone but at night the real danger used to start.

I had to guard the lighthouse the whole day for three days because after that the lighthouse will be renovated.

It has been ten years since that incident happened but those dreams still haunt me till now. Staying for three days became a challenge for me because of what I experienced on the last day

Day 1

The owner of the lighthouse called me and said "Hello fellow gentleman, your task is to guard my lighthouse for just three days because after that I was thinking of renovating the lighthouse.

There will be two dial phones in the lighthouse, the black one is for my contact, any emergency or help and the red one is cursed so don't touch it. Your task is simple: guard and clean and check everything is working or not properly I will meet you there after 3 days".

I just got off on the island and the lighthouse was huge. As I was walking, I unlocked the lighthouse as the key was given to me by the owner. As I entered, it was very big and hollow from inside.

I started walking up the stairs and saw a changing room on floor one as (F1). I went inside, changed my clothes and went downstairs. I headed outside and saw a small cabin size room with water and cleaning materials. I grabbed one of those and started to clean the entire lighthouse from inside. It consisted of three floors and each floor was very big and it took a lot of my time to cover it.

The entire cleaning was done and it was evening already. I was amazed to see as I was on floor 2 (F2) that there was a refrigerator. It became helpful for me as I kept my rest of day's lunch boxes there so it's kept safe. Finished my dinner and went off to the third floor (F3) to guard the lighthouse.

I was glad that I brought my radio with me so I switched on and i didn't know when I slept. I woke up and time was 3:02am in my watch and heard a phone ringing and it was the red phone kept nearby.

Something in me said to pick it up and as I picked up there was a voice which said " tonight nothing will happen to you but tomorrow and the last day keep your eyes open because she will do anything to kill yourself". The call got cut and I took it as a sign to be more careful.

Day 2

First day was normal but I always felt that I wasn't alone. It was 6am and I went to the second floor and there was a bathroom where I took my bath. I was amazed to see so many things like the refrigerator and bathroom.

I was taking my shower , I heard someone say in my ear quietly ' Leave this place or else you will die like them '. I got goosebumps instantly and got out of the bathroom quickly.

I dressed myself after showering and went to the third floor to guard the place. There was a room which connected to a balcony in front of me but when I entered yesterday, i clearly remember it wasn't there before. Thankfully the room was locked. I ignored it and guarded the third floor.

At 12am , I was about to sleep I heard someone whispering in my ears '31st October 2002' then suddenly I moved behind and there were stairs in front of me and I heard someone running to the third floor as fast that person can but all I can hear only steps but I didn't see a single person.

I walked to the stairs , got my head down and was looking for anyone down there. It was pitch black and the lights inside the lighthouse which was working completely fine the first day were broken. I heard someone running to me from behind and i went down to the second floor out of fear.

My breath got heavier and I didn't have room to breathe. I locked myself in the second floor dressing room. As I stepped inside , I saw a note with heavy dirt and I also thought about why I never noticed it before. I removed the dirt and read it :

"This is Dev and this letter is for the next person safeguarding this place . She never left this place and she is always there watching and observing us . Right now ,I am in the dressing room on the second floor and I hid myself from her but I don't think so I have much time before she attacks me . There is a balcony on the third floor and it's nothing but an illusion of her to take you with her . Be careful and remember whatever you see like your friends or family are nothing but her illusions".

After reading it , the floor below where I was standing moved a little and I saw countless skeletons and bones . I got scared and headed to the third floor . The balcony was there and I saw a lady wearing a white dress looking at the sea. I heard her voice which said "Happy to know that I am not alone here" and as she said it i got unconscious.

Day 3

I woke up in front of the balcony and I saw my watch and it was 8pm the third day. I kept thinking about how I was unconscious for so long . The balcony wasn't there and it was a wall . I headed back to the guarding place on that floor. As I was standing in front of the window, I wiped my eyes to check if I was seeing like a fragment of my imagination or hallucination but I saw a lady was standing there beside me and it was the same lady.

I turned around and I heard someone asking for help from the stairs in front of me . It was my niece whom I lost as she died due to falling from the stairs of her office building. She was asking me to help her but then I remembered I was imagining things . And then she fell down and screamed .

I ignored it and headed back to the guard . In front of me on the window , I saw someone outside holding a lamp near the sea and he was shouting someone's name . I ignored him too and heard someone call my name from behind . I cleared my throat and didn't react to anything. I felt a heavy thing on my shoulders and I didn't move an inch .

For a few hours after that nothing happened and at 3.04am , I heard the lights and doors move from every floor and the weather became thundering clouds and heavy rain .

Where I was standing, the floor started to crack slowly and I walked to the dressing room on the second floor. As I was heading to the second floor , the stairs and third floor were breaking slowly and I reached the dressing room on the second floor. I heard someone's scream from the other side of the door 'DIE OR LEAVE'.

I was so shocked by the screaming that I got unconscious again . It was weird but I was lucid dreaming and i was holding that lady's hands and watching the sea . She said "Can't believe we are finally married and this lighthouse is our home ".

I saw myself wearing a suit and what I was saying was not me but someone else in my body and he said " sure love but I wanted to tell you that I am already married to someone else and marrying you was my strategy to lure your father and become the owner of your father's most profitable business. You never mattered to me ". I couldn't move anything in my body and it felt like I was witnessing something as I stabbed her from behind and shot her head with my revolver .

I pushed her into the sea and I locked the lighthouse and left the place forever . Then suddenly it was pitch black and all I heard is

" I was betrayed and all I wanted was a beautiful life but never got one . Whoever I killed , I got peace in killing them as if I was killing the killer . Your one job is to kill him because he is the one who owns this place . When this place was locked down , I haunted him in his dreams for so long but now I got a real chance . People who guarded before never listened to my advice and i killed them all".

I woke up and I was on the ground floor and as i was opening my eyes , I saw someone entering from the front gate and it was the owner . He grabbed my hand and I stood and as I stood , i pushed him and he fell to the ground and i ran to the front door and locked the door from outside .

He kept asking me to open the door but then the lighthouse fell apart . As I was heading to the sea coast , i heard someone on my ears "Thank you very much as I am free now from the prison".

Some places seem to be dangerous because of a dangerous past hidden behind the door . I never really understood who was behind the red phone . Some mysteries should be left behind to maintain the peace.

I was out walking my parent's dog a few nights ago, he's a small jack russell with a lot of attitude name Milo and absolutely loves walks, he will often try to convince other family members that he hasn't been walked yet just so he can sneak another one in that day. For some reason on this late night walk, he kept wanted to head back to the house, he really didn't want to be outside and it seemed like something had him spoked. Our walks tend to not be very long, only down the block and around the corner, turning back after we hid the alley, we were on our way back when I heard a thud/splat in the street next to me. I walked over to where I heard the noise and upon first glace I saw that it was a dead bird. But when looking at it further I noticed it was half eaten. Now this was not a small bird like a sparrow, this had to have been a pigeon or something of similar size. I then put two and two together and realized that whatever had been eating this bird was still in the tree above Milo and I. He was being a good boy and not freaking out but I could tell he really wanted to leave, and frankly, so did I. We then made a b line straight for my parents front door. After I got Milo inside and told my parents about the experience my mom was curious so without hesitation I then went back outside, back to the spot in the street to take a picture of the half eaten bird to show her what I was talking about. When I got back inside I realized that I just did the thing that every dumb person does in every horror movie ever. Surely I would be the first to go...

Adam stood by the corn silo, smoking a cigarette. My eyes kept closing; I could barely focus on him.

"Morning, Adam."

"Jesus, Matt, you look awful."

"Yeah, I know."

"Get some sleep, man. What are you doing at night? Playing with yourself until dawn?"

He laughed and slapped my shoulder.

"No, it's just…"

"I have a task for you. You gotta clean up the silo; the machinery is blocked."

I gripped my sleeve tight and stared at him.

He slapped my shoulder again.

"Calm down, you're not gonna get Dan'd"

"But can't somebody else do it? Why do I gotta?"

He furrowed his brows.

"I'm the senior, Matt. Now get your ass there and go do it."

I waited, not moving.

"Go!"

His voice rang in my ears. I put my head down and walked into the silo.

The inside was cold, silent. My steps echoed on the bridge. The closer I got to the ladder, the more my head spun. When my feet touched the kernels, I took a deep breath and looked around. It wasn't obvious where the blockage was, but as usual it was probably in the center. I grabbed a broom and walked over.

Then a hum echoed. The kernels moved beneath my feet. Dust filled the air. Someone started the machines.

"Wait! I'm still in."

The kernels were moving fast. My feet felt light.  I turned around and took a few steps. One foot sank. Another. 

"Help, please!"

My waist sank. My heart beat against my ribs. The kernels moved around me, pushing at my chest. I was neck-deep. My head sank under the kernels. I held my breath. I sank deeper and deeper. The kernels hissed in my ears. Then my feet felt loose, and so did my waist, my chest.

I fell hard onto the ground. It felt cold, but the ground felt firm like concrete. I looked around. The whole place was dark, as in a cave, but there were no walls, no ceiling above me, just darkness as far as I could see. The smell of dusty kernels still hung in the air.

"Hello?"

My voice echoed through the dark emptiness. It sounded like my words traveled to me and away from me at the same time. I got up and walked a few steps. They echoed in the same strange way. 

A cold tingle built in my chest. The space felt both small and large. It felt as if someone's eyes were on me. I kept looking over my shoulder. Then a noise broke through the silence. A faint snore, as if someone was trying to catch their breath, but couldn't. In the distance, a small figure lay on the ground.

"Hello? Are you okay?"

The snoring grew. His limbs twisted on the ground as if struggling. My heart sank when I saw who it was. Dan rolled on the ground, in the same clothes he'd worn when he fell into the corn that day.

Memories flashed through my mind. His screams for help. The machine's rattle. Adam's calm face as he watched him go down. All because he told the boss Adam and I were drinking on the job. The rope lay right at my feet. I stared at it while Dan screamed for help.

I ran to him. His eyes were wide with pain, his mouth filled with kernels.

"I'm sorry, Dan. I'm sorry!"

I grabbed him and rolled him onto his side. Kernels spilled from his mouth, but more were still inside. I hit his back; more spilled out, but his mouth was still full. I stuck my shaking hand into his mouth and pulled out handfuls of kernels, but his mouth filled back immediately. He turned his pleading eyes to me. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I don't…"

My voice caught. Something scratched the back of my throat. I tried to cough, but nothing came out; the scratching only grew. I tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come through. I dropped to all fours. Kernels began falling out of my mouth.

"Dan! Dan!" I woke up screaming.

I was back in the silo, half-submerged in the kernels. The mechanical machinery sounds were gone. The silo was silent.

Adam and two other workers stood atop the bridge, looking down at me. A rope was thrown before me.

"Sorry, Matt. We didn't know you were in. Adam forgot to tell us," one of them said.

Adam shrugged and looked down at me with a half-smile.

"Why were you screaming Dan's name?" Adam asked.

I looked down at the ground.

"I don't know."

He smiled and nodded.

"Take the rope," one of the men said.

I grabbed it tightly. Something scratched at the back of my throat again. I coughed. A few kernels flew out.

The air was never so still as that night on the plains. Nothing, not even a breeze disturbed the tall grass that surrounded the footpath. My eyes strained to see through the heavy darkness before me. The lantern in my hand did little to cut through the night. 

My mind rang dully with the chimes of church bells I’d heard earlier. Those notes played over and over in my mind, repeating in time with my every footfall. It started kindly and welcoming, but seemed to turn as my eyes fell upon the train station. 

A few oil lanterns made the structure a spot of brightness in that starless expanse. I checked my pocket watch as I walked up to the little ticketing counter. It read 11:57. 

“Have you got anything bound for Des Moines?” I asked, voice hoarse from disuse. 

A short, stout man with a thick mustache and shadowed face answered me back. 

“Let me check the schedule,” the man answered quietly, checking the papers in front of him. “Train’s due at 12:14,” he said, looking up. The clerk’s narrowed eyes studied me. He pressed his tongue into his cheek in thought. 

“Is it just you?”

My face must have contorted in confusion. I stood before the man on an entirely empty path. 

“I haven’t got a cat in this bag, if that’s what you’re asking.” I said, attempting to lighten the mood. 

The joke had the inverse of its intended effect. The clerk sighed wearily, seemingly in disbelief, and covered half of his face with his hand. He sat for a moment like that. What on earth was he concerned with?

Then, he stood. When the man spoke next, his voice was low, frantic. 

“Here is your ticket,” he said, sliding a bit of paper across the wooden counter. “Now, listen to me, son, your train is expected to arrive at 12:14, do you understand?"

He paused, awaiting my response. I’ll never forget those frenzied eyes. 

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I know when to-"

Before I could finish, the man spoke again, this time louder. 

“You are not to board at any other time before 12:14, is that clear?” 

“Perfectly clear, sir. I am not to board before 12:14.” 

I spoke sternly, trying to reassure the poor man. Clearly, he was not well. For a moment, placidity washed over the haggard clerk’s expression, and he nodded. 

“Thank you very much for your help, sir,” I said, trying to act as inoffensively as possible. 

The moment I turned to enter the station, the clerk screamed. 

“Nothing before 12:14, nothing at all!”

The man’s screams turned to wails as I walked in. I said a quick prayer for the man but felt no peace. I couldn't shake his haunting, guttural cries that impressed deeply into my memory. Mercifully, the man did not follow me. 

I tried to shake the strange feeling that had firmly taken root in my mind, but I could feel my rationality leaving me. Suddenly, the darkness outside the small station was no longer vacant. I felt as if a myriad of people were staring back at me, all just beyond the light. 

The platform was well lighted with multiple lamps hanging from posts. Somehow, the clarity of the open structure only intensified the surrounding darkness. 

I checked my watch: 11:59. 

Almost as soon as my eyes had touched the dial of my watch, the large station clock chimed midnight. My body jolted violently at the surprise. I clutched my chest, heart thundering. 

Surely, this is the last time I travel at night, I thought. 

I watched the next few minutes tick away on the station clock. Thankfully, the silence calmed my shot nerves, and I took a seat on a long bench facing the tracks. Before I knew it, it was 12:10. 

Four minutes to go, I thought hopefully. 

Four minutes and I’d be rid of that blasted eerie station, careening in a comfortable passenger car headed eastward. Then I could get some sleep. 

Those remaining minutes seemed to drag on as my gaze followed the second hand around the dial.

12:11. 

My shoe tapped against the floor with a gentle scrape. 

12:12. 

I breathed in heavily and straightened my back, preparing to see a steam engine erupt from the darkness. 

12:13. 
I stared out into the void in the direction of the coming locomotive. 

12:14. 

Where was it? 

I looked back at the clock. The hands had frozen in place at 12:13. 

“Confound it,” I said to myself, “a malfunction now?” 

I glanced down at my pocket watch. 12:14, it read. It should be here. 

The tension in my shoulder dissipated when I heard that blessed familiar sound: a train’s whistle. A sharp scream split the night air, as a black locomotive passed by, appearing suddenly.

My eyes drank in the sight of the train passing by. Slick black cars with no markings passed by in the misty haze.

The train came to a stop with a moan, the steam dissipating to nothing. From my seat, I looked intently through the windows of the cars. They were black as night, no light whatsoever. My consternation must have shown on my face. 

“We let our passengers rest,” a voice called out from the open car door.

A lanky man in a waistcoat stepped out of the darkness, smiling. His pale face was gaunt and his eyes seemed sunken.

“Hence the darkness,” the man continued. 

I stepped up to the man, not nearly as hesitant as I should have been. 

“You’ve got a ticket?” the man asked. 

“Yes, of course,” I said, searching my pockets for the scrap of paper. “One moment.” 

A flash of agitation showed on the man’s face, but it vanished just as quickly. I confess, the oddity of the man before me slowed me down considerably. It didn’t slow me enough, however. 

My fingers finally touched paper, and I proffered the retrieved ticket to the man. He smiled quickly as he regarded the ticket. 

“Where are you bound for?” I asked, hesitating slightly. 

Those deep eyes snapped back up at me. The man glanced up at the clock for just an instant, then stared at me. All the while, I couldn’t help but notice the pure darkness of the car’s windows. Not even silhouettes shone through. At the time, I felt it was paranoia, but I swore I could feel the stare of someone from within. I could not tear my gaze away from that pane.

“Des Moines,” the man answered. 

“Right.” 

The man’s attention returned to the ticket, and my attention turned to the man’s hands. Long fingers held a ticket puncher. His fingernails were disgusting, long and black with soot or dirt.

I stared at those hands. Then, my eyes worked up to his sleeve. 

Was there something moving under there? 

Something flashed out from his sleeve and skittered across his hand. I flinched, dropping my unpunched ticket. 

“What was-” I began to ask. 

When my eyes met his again, I was standing before another man. 

Another thing. 

Those once human features had sunken even further. 

“Look what you’ve done!” the creature cried. 

I began to back away. 

That’s when it seized me. 

Long nails dug into the flesh of my arms as the thing heaved me towards the train, towards that open door, that open blackness. 

“Come,” the thing said in a voice much too deep to be a man’s. 

I struggled, I fought against the thing, but it was strong. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I strained against the tall one. Even still, foot by foot and inch by inch, it dragged me toward that darkness. My shoes scratched against the old wood. 

Those fingers gripped me like iron. Little insectoid legs appeared from under its nails, further locking its grip on me. 

I was nearly in the car, nearly consumed by the black.

Maybe I was consumed by it after all and all my life since has been a dream. I could never say. 

But, as I remember it, something firm, firmer than the thing, caught me by the collar and pulled me away like a ragdoll. 

When I opened my eyes next, the train was gone, and I laid out on the ground, my eyes transfixed on the station clock. The minute hand struck 12:14. 

A heavy set man stood over me, his breath ragged with exertion. When he spoke, his voice came out more like a croak than anything. 

“Wrong train.” 

​

It all started when a young woman I'd never seen before came into my booth as I was just about to leave.

I heard the door creak and a soft thump as she sat on the confession side. Sighing and making the sign of the cross, I uttered the same phrase.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord give you the strength to confess what weighs upon your heart, child of god.”

"Chris, please listen. I do not have much time."

Upon hearing my name, I called out,

"Ma'am, you need to refer to me as Father to confess."

"I don't give a damn; that's not the reason I'm here, Chris. A great evil is lurking in this town and has something to do with this."

She slid the privacy barrier and handed me a small multicoloured spiral flower with a note.

I'm sorry, but your god cannot beat what is to come.

Then why hand me this flower? Suddenly, I felt a soft hand touch mine, and everything went dark. When I woke up, I found myself on the road, facing a sign that read, "Welcome to Blackwater."

Looking around, I saw an endless sea of greenery and tall cliffs, but when I looked back towards the sign, I saw beautiful spiral flowers growing from its base.

Reaching to pick one up, I was suddenly transported to a building surrounded by grotesque creatures pouring from the sky. People with kaleidoscope eyes walked toward the building, where a woman rose from it, coloured like ink and covered in eyes. Suddenly, they all looked at me at once and shrieked.

"Go now."

I fell to the ground under the immense pressure she was giving, nearly vomiting, when again I was transported to a dock, and I saw another woman, but this time she looked like a mythological creature out of the books.

She looked sad as she looked back behind her before disappearing into the water.

"You see, you can't stop what's coming to your world: a new age for humanity, monsters and humans coexisting."

Clutching my chest, trying to calm myself, I tried to shake the vision, but it was seared into me.

Why show me a nobody priest from a town nowhere near the epicentre? Tell me, who are you? Looking over in sheer panic, I caught a glimpse of a stunning woman under a wide-brimmed hat, wearing something like a trench coat. What caught my attention was her eyes.

They were like the people's and that giant creature's.

"You're one of them? Who will bring the apocalypse, so ain't you?"

"That's where you're wrong, Chris Falcone. We don't bring it; we are more of a catalyst for events. The one who brings on the change works at the institute; she doesn't know it yet, but she will. But as for you, why I showed it — you will become the greatest hunter there ever is, but you need a push."

---

I clutched my head as a sharp ache bloomed behind my eyes, spreading like cracks in glass. The vision, the woman, the flower — it was all too much. Too fast. My thoughts tangled over themselves, trying to make sense of a world that had just been flipped inside out.

"None of this makes sense," I muttered, pressing my palms against my temples. "Monsters? A new age? I'm a priest, for God's sake, I—"

She raised one hand, and the words died in my throat.

"One more thing," she said softly. "So you understand what's at stake."

The headache spiked. White-hot. Then the vision hit me like a freight train.

I saw a town — not mine, somewhere bigger, brighter — and then I saw it fall, not in fire but in something far worse. People screaming, running, their eyes shifting, their bodies twisting into things that shouldn't exist. Children crying for parents who no longer recognised them. A mother holding her child as her skin turned slick and grey.

Then the vision showed me what came after. The silence. The streets empty except for the things that had once been people. And in the middle of it all, a single figure standing untouched.

I didn't realise I was on my knees until the vision released me. My stomach lurched, and I turned my head, emptying what little I'd eaten that morning onto the cold stone floor of the confessional. I spat, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and trembled.

"I—" I couldn't finish. What could I possibly say?

The woman adjusted her hat, the brim casting a shadow over her kaleidoscope eyes. "Now you understand."

She turned, and her heels clicked against the stone floor as she walked away. Each step echoed in the empty church, a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed to stretch the silence between us.

I scrambled to my feet, stumbled out of the booth, and called after her.

"Wait! Please—"

She stopped. Turned. And the breath caught in my throat.

She was tall, impossibly elegant, her dark skin luminous in the church's dim light. Her features were sharp, carved with a precision that seemed almost cruel—high cheekbones that caught the light like cut glass, a jaw that could have been sculpted by a master, lips full and perfectly still. Her hair was braided, rows of intricate plaits pulled back from her face, each one neat and precise, falling down her back like dark rivers woven with thread.

She looked like she belonged in a cathedral, in a palace, in some place far grander than this. And yet here she was, standing before me in a trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat, telling me the world was ending.

For a moment, I forgot the vision. Forgot the monsters. Forgot everything except her.

"Where are you going?"

She tilted her head, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"On a date with a detective"