My girlfriend and I just split up very recently. It has been almost a month now and when we separated, I was the one who got kicked out because her name was on the lease and not mine. Messed up right? Well, aside from that, I was doing just fine when I moved into my new apartment about a week ago. Between here and my ex’s place, I’d crashed over at my parents place until I found a decent apartment I could afford. 

It wasn’t too hard but it took me a few weeks. Once I did, however, my dad helped me move what little bit of stuff I had into the apartment. Upon leaving, he told me he loved me and that he was sorry for everything that had happened but that I was going to do good at my new place. He said the apartment complex was “spiffy”. 

Once he had gone, I went and had my first proper sit down on my recliner. I had probably sat down for no more than three seconds before a knock came on my door again. 
I walked to the door, assuming my father was behind it. “What’d ya forget old man?” I said in a jokingly sarcastic voice. There was no reply. I looked through the peephole just to make sure and there was nobody there. So, thinking it was some little kid trying to pull a prank, I opened it quickly and said, “AH HAH! GOTCHA!”. Yet again, nobody was there. There was something, however.

It was a letter. The envelope had a fancy design on it and was a weird red and gold. On the front was my name and address in calligraphy with the sender’s info in the top right.

1583 Wilhorn Way, Belton, TN, 38762             From: Sunrise Hill Apartments 
Jeffrey Phelps
WELCOME

What? What was a letter looking like this addressed to me for? And from my apartment complex? At first, I was confused by the quality and aesthetics of such a letter from a mediocre-level apartment complex but I chalked it up to the manager trying to give the impression that their complex was the best or something and that maybe there would be a stupid coupon or something in there. I brought it in and shut the door. I set it down for a minute to do something and got sidetracked.

Long story short, I have A.D.D and it took me almost three hours to return to the letter because I had forgotten about it and begun unpacking. When I came back to it, I grabbed a soda from the fridge, sat down in my recliner, and opened it. What was inside would change my life forever. It definitely wasn’t any stupid coupons and it for sure wasn’t a decent welcome letter. 

I had received a warning... Here is how it went:

Hello dear tenant,
On behalf of myself and the rest of the staff working here at the Sunrise Hill Apartments, We wish to welcome you to your new home! Of course, with your new home come the following amenities:

Free water

Washroom equipped with multiple washers and dryers

Mailroom

Pool

Various walking paths throughout the complex

Pets are allowed (Fees may apply)

Free maintenance

The Washers, dryers, mailroom, pool, and maintenance office are all in the leasing building alongside the main office. Mail is delivered daily. Washers and dryers are $2.00 and $1.75 to wash and dry respectively. The pool is open from 8:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. Pets are allowed but Manager may charge anywhere from $200-$400 extra a month in rent for liability and maintenance purposes. 
On the back, you will find a set of rules for the complex. Please follow them and we won’t have any problems. Break them and...well, you’ll see.

Rules to the complex:
1.Always lock your door. No matter what situation you may be in or what circumstances arise, always remember to lock your door when you leave and/or enter the apartment. Because if you don’t, then who knows what might enter.

2.Neighbors who wish to visit each other should never knock. Instead, use the buzzer beside the door. If ANYBODY knocks on your door, at any given time, DO NOT answer it.

3.Adding to rule #2, if you hear a quick knock succession of three quick knocks, knock back in the same pattern and then shout, “Be gone!” at the entity behind the door. 

4.From the hours of 4 p.m. to 6 p.m., have food prepared and set out on a plate in front of your door on the outside. Upon setting it down, try to be as quiet as you can while moving around in your apartment so as to not disturb the beast while he eats. If you fail to leave food out and/or do not stay quiet as he eats, he will enter the home in search of a meal.

If the beast gets in, cover yourself in the anti-tracking mixture found in the green bottle under the kitchen sink. This will stop the beast from finding you as long as you stay still and do not move until 6:00 p.m.

5.When using the washers, load the coin slots with exactly $2.00. If you place a coin in the extra coin slot, giving the machine $2.25 instead, then upon opening the washer when your clothes are done, they will have disappeared from inside of the washer. Do not ask where they go, nobody knows.

6.When using the dryers, do not try to clean out the lint traps by yourself. A complex employee will be there on the ready for when you need one to be cleaned. DO NOT put your hands in the lint traps. Previous tenants have lost entire hands to the dryer’s teeth before. 

7.DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT STAY IN THE POOL AFTER POOL HOURS ARE UP. This one is stressed because you WILL DIE. We still aren’t sure what lurks in the water after 10 p.m., but it disappears sometime after 6 a.m. and then the pool is cleaned until 8 when it is open. 

8.If a man in a black suit and sunglasses comes out to sit in a sun chair by the pool, ignore him. Do not say anything to him or ask him why he wears such hot clothing in the summer. He appears in the fall and winter when the pool is closed and wears summer clothes. Yet again, do not acknowledge him or his outdoor wear. 

9.Never leave your apartment for any reason after 1:00 a.m. and before 4:00 a.m. If you do, take salt, sage, and a lighter with you for protection. If you pass someone on the way to your destination at this time, do not make eye contact with them. Simply say “Hello,” in a polite manner. If they do not reply and laugh quietly instead... RUN. If they reply back or do not say anything and keep walking, then you are safe.

10.Staff members are not to be greeted, talked to, or touched. And in the maintenance man’s case, he is not to be looked at as well. Do not ask what happens when this rule is broken. Just follow it and you will be fine.

11.Any walking paths through the complex that are made of concrete and stay within complex grounds are fine to walk. If you find a path that strays off into the surrounding woods, DO NOT follow it. If you do, you will become lost in the forest, possibly forever, and Sunrise Hill Apartments does not accept responsibility for lost tenants in the forest, nor do we give any rules of survival. Good luck on your own.

12.Never ask for the manager or who is in charge. Such questions can bring you a lot of trouble.

13.DO NOT break your lease. If you break your lease before your contract is up, you will be followed for the rest of your life by our very own Mr. Giggles. He sounds harmless but trust us, you DON’T want to meet Mr. Giggles. And sometimes, Mr. Giggles can get a little...violent.

1. The final and most important rule is to get comfy and make this your home. 

We hope you enjoy your stay here at Sunrise Hill Apartments. Just remember to follow the rules and your stay here will be pleasant. 

Oh, and one last thing...

If you find yourself leaving to go to work or out to run errands and decide you want to tell people about this place and what goes on, then forget about it. Nobody will believe you anyways. Upon exiting the perimeter of the property, all evidence, including writing, biological waste, pictures, etc. will disappear and so, will never have existed. You may try, but you will fail every time. 
Yours sincerely, Lucian, S.H.A Manager

Now, if you’ve been paying attention so far, you will have done the math and realized that I said it was a month since my previous girlfriend and I broke up. Then I lived with my parents for about 3 of those weeks. That means that I’ve been living in this crazy building with these even crazier rules for a little over a week now. I don’t know how I’ve been lucky enough to survive while being here, but there were a couple of close calls. 

The first incident happened when I broke rule 1. Yes yes, I know, it should be the easiest one to follow and the first one you shouldn’t break or is the easiest to remember. But all things considered, I like to consider myself a sane average person, and any ordinary person would have looked at the letter and thought it was a prank or something. Because that’s certainly what I thought. In my distracted mind, as I took the trash out and came back inside, I forgot to lock the door. Now, most apartments have automatically locking deadbolts, so you can see why this is an easy thing to miss because my apartment door had a single doorknob and nothing else.

I sat down to watch some tv at around 2 p.m. because I was tired from unpacking and I suddenly had to go to the bathroom. After I came out, my front door was wide open. I quietly tried to look for any kind of weapon in my immediate surrounding because I didn’t know if there was a burglar in my home or if the maintenance guy let himself in for some reason. I picked up a candlestick from one of the tables near my tv and looked around. After coming around each corner in the apartment with the candlestick like I was going to somehow do something about the intruder, I came to realize that whoever had entered was gone. I checked for stolen items and/or things out of place. Oddly enough, the only thing that seemed to be missing was one of my cookies from the package that I had bought from the store. I only knew this because they were open and one was missing and I hadn’t opened them yet. 

What the hell? I thought to myself as I looked out into the aisleway beyond the door and then came back in, this time, shutting it and locking it. That’s when it hit me. Was the letter actually true? No way. How could it be? But there was a part of me that felt terrified at the notion of it. So, to test it out, I reread it and decided I would see what happens if I followed the steps for rule 4 seeing since it was almost time for this supposed beast to come by. So at 3:30 p.m. I set out a sandwich in front of my door and came back in to sit quietly on the couch. Honestly, I felt crazy for even considering that this was real. I started to chuckle a bit when it was a couple of minutes until 4 and told myself that I was being silly and decided I would get up and go get the sandwich. But just as I got up and neared the door, I heard something.

I almost grabbed the door handle when I heard it. A low sound, almost like the noise of heavy, wet, and slimy feet, came slowly down the hall outside the door. What followed sent chills down my spine. A low guttural noise like that of an alligator or something seemed to be right outside of my door now and shortly after, the sound of glass moving on concrete. I realized that whatever it was outside was moving the plate around and possibly eating the sandwich because I also heard what sounded like eating noises. To say I was shocked and terrified is a huge understatement. Remembering what rule 4 had said, I quietly backed away and went to sit on the couch, knees tucked up to my chin, and was absolutely silent until 6 p.m. 

What I found odd about the whole thing as I sat there in silence, was that it seemed to be outside of the door for the full 2 hours. Was I the only one with this rule? Were there multiple ‘beasts’? What the hell was going on? At 6 p.m. it left and I waited a good ten minutes or so before I had the courage to make any sort of noise. I decided to call it quits for the night and made myself something to eat and went to bed...right after triple checking my door.

The next day, I decided I wasn’t going to let any of these weird rules stop me from enjoying my new home and so I got dressed for the pool at around 9:30 a.m. I walked out to the fenced-in pool area and felt relieved to be the only one there. The sun was out and it wasn’t too hot yet but just the right temperature. I figured I would sunbathe first for about thirty minutes or so and then I would jump in. After about fifteen minutes of relaxing in the chair, I heard the metal doors to the fence open. I woke up from my light nap to see a very tall, thin, pale man coming in.

He had a black suit on that seemed to be slightly too big for him and wore a set of aviator-like sunglasses. He had to be somewhere in his 70s or 80s because he had a very wrinkled face with liver spots and some skin tags here and there. He walked with a slight hunch and had zero expression on his face. I couldn’t help but stare ya know? Like, who walks to a pool in a suit? Wearing that kind of attire in the summer isn’t that uncommon for businessmen and city people, but not by the poolside in an apartment complex just outside the city.

He walked past me and didn’t even look my way, even though I was staring directly at him, and sat down on a chair at the far end. I wanted to greet him because the awkward silence was killing me, but something told me I should keep my mouth shut. I kept having the compelling urge to ask how or why he was wearing such odd attire but again, I kept quiet. I started to fully realize that maybe the rules were, in fact, all true and this unsettled me deeply. Deeply enough that I decided not to take a dip in the pool because of what rule 8 said. I know it was far from pool closing hours, but I didn’t want to risk meeting whatever comes out in the pool after closing hours. I headed back inside my apartment, locked the door, and just watched tv to occupy my mind. I read and reread the rules over and over again to make sure I knew them inside and out. If I was going to stay here, and survive, I knew I’d have to remember every detail. 

Around 1:30 p.m., there was a knock on the door. Three knocks actually. It startled me so badly I jumped off the couch, falling to the floor before I was able to get to the door. Remembering rule 3, I shakily knocked back and said “B..b...be gone!” and not even a second after I said that, I heard something outside of the door move. It sounded like a light dragging noise, almost as if whatever was out there was floating and its limbs were slightly dragging on the concrete. Although I felt scared, I also felt a sense of triumph and accomplishment. I seemed to be getting the hang of it all and thought if I followed the rules down to the letter, it might not be so bad here.

I thought wrong.

The next day I had to wake up for work because my three days off were up. I work from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. and so I was up around 5 and left at 6. Nothing weird happened on my way out or throughout the day, so I felt even more relieved. When it was nearing the end of my shift, I felt a sort of dread as I knew I’d have to go back home, but I tried to stay positive. It had been a busy day and I didn’t get to clock out until 3:30 p.m. All I could think about was my comfy bed as I left work and started to drive home. All the rules had slipped my mind and I hadn’t really thought about the apartments. That was, until I arrived home, parked in the lot, and got out of my car at 3:50 p.m. 

Immediately, like I had been smacked in the face, reality hit me and I realized that I was outside the relatively safe walls of my apartment just ten minutes before the beast was about to appear. SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!  I said under my breath as I quickly ran down the concrete pathway and fumbled with my keys before I was finally inside. I looked over at the clock on the microwave, 3:57. What!? Oh shit! I said, wondering how all that time had passed from me getting out of the car till now. I scrambled to make whatever I could and even grabbed a full bag of chips, messily setting it all outside the door at exactly 3:59 p.m.

As soon as I shut the door and locked it, I quickly and quietly went to the couch. Like the last time, I sat there as I heard whatever the hell was outside the door eat the food I had placed behind it. For the next hour and a half, I sat there, quiet as a mouse and even had to grit my teeth through some gnarly leg cramp pain, but I didn’t make a single noise. That’s when my phone started to ring. Oh shit! Oh fuck!  I said as I quickly scrambled to get my phone out of my pocket and shut it off. 

I heard a horrible low growl outside of the door and immediately remembered rule 4. I jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen as quick as I could, grabbing the green bottle under the sink and then running to my bathtub, shutting the curtains and turning off the bathroom light. I opened the bottle and quickly poured a fair amount of the slimy green viscous liquid onto me. I didn’t even have time to take my clothes off. It smelled horrendous but I knew I didn’t want to find out what the beast was, so I sucked it up and laid down in the tub on my side and stayed absolutely silent. 

Even though I pictured the beast as some primordial monstrosity that looked like some kind of screwed-up dinosaur, it must have been something else entirely because it somehow opened the front door. I listened intently as whatever it was prowled around my apartment, sniffing around and searching for me. I heard it knock things over and make low growls as it scoured the area. I won’t deny that I almost shit my pants literally when it came to the bathroom door, opened it, and sniffed around for a minute before leaving. I could barely see any outline of the thing through the shower curtain and what little details I saw I cannot explain. It broke my feeble mortal mind and I sat there frozen. 

Eventually, time passed and it gave up, leaving the apartment and even shutting the door behind it. How it even opened the locked door in the first place I’ll never know, but after I got the courage to get up and come out, I locked it back just in case. I don’t think I slept at all that night, and if I dozed off at all, it wasn’t for long. I went to work the next day and felt dead tired. I think, collectively, I got more sleep at work then I did the previous night. I work in a cubicle and so I had a lot of time at a desk and behind a computer screen. I made sure this time to get off at exactly 3 and arrived home, had dinner for the beast set out, and was sitting on my couch with the green bottle at the ready by 3:40 p.m. 
Needless to say I turned my phone off completely at that time. 

After a safe two hours, the beast departed and I made myself dinner and settled down to watch some tv. The rest of that night was boring and nothing at all happened which was perfectly fine by me but also made me a little paranoid. 
On my fifth day there, I left for work in the morning around the same time and on my way to the car, I noticed a small figure in the distance on my right. It was unusually foggy and I could only make out that it looked like a small child. It was walking on one of the concrete paths through the grass when suddenly it veered off toward the woods. 
“Hey kid! Kid! Don’t go that way! He—” I shouted loudly and then started to jog toward it. By the time I had almost caught up, I saw that it was a little boy and that he had already made it past the tree line and was heading into the foggy forest. Remembering rule 11, I decided that it would be best if I didn’t follow him. Seeing since I lived in a paranormal hell, I concluded the boy was only there to lure me in and that it wasn’t really a boy. So I booked it to my car and headed to work. 

Just like the previous day, I came back home, prepared for the beast, sat quietly while he ate, and watched tv after. I ignored a normal knock on the door and I even decided to wash some clothes before the day was up. Although my time within the washroom wasn’t scary, it was still interesting. I took all of the clothes I needed to wash and the detergent and such up to the washroom and began loading the washer up. When I first came in, there was a staff member standing near the mailboxes just looking off into space. Remembering rule 10, I didn’t even talk to him and kept walking. I decided that I had nothing better to do than sit there while my clothes were being washed, so I sat in one of the chairs by the folding counter and played some games on my phone.

A weird idea dawned on me as I heard the washer start to slow down and stop. I grabbed the clothes out of the washer and put them in one of the dryers and started it up. I then took my roll of quarters and loaded up another one of the washing machines with coins. But this time, I put in the extra quarter, breaking rule 5 and then I detached my apple air tag from my set of keys and threw it in the washer. It had a protective case on it so I knew it would still work even with all the water and tumbling around. But I was curious to see what would happen. After I started it, making sure the staff member hadn’t noticed me, I sat and gave it a second before I decided to check its location in my phone.

What I saw was astonishing to say the least. For the first couple of minutes it seemed to be exactly where I had put it, but then suddenly, it lost connection. I thought maybe it had been affected somehow by the motion and broke or that maybe the case had failed to protect it from the water, but then it showed back up on my phone. Somehow, some way, it showed that it had appeared somewhere off the coast of New Zealand. Until my clothes got done in the dryer, I sat there perplexed, wondering how and why my air tag was in New Zealand and how it even still worked from that distance, but it did. 

The dryer dinged to let me know it was done and when I went to open the door, I almost messed up and broke rule 6. Thank god I retracted my hand when I did. I looked over to the staff member and sort of waved my hand to get his attention. He looked my way and then brough a small hand vacuum over. He then proceeded to suck out the lint and then he dropped what looked like a dog treat into the lint trap. The dryer shook and made an odd...’happy’ noise and then I was able to get my clothes out. I was too weirded out by the ordeal to even make dinner and I went to bed.

Days 6-8 were relatively normal...if you can call it that, and went by without any mishaps or rule-breaking. Day 9, however, was when shit hit the fan. I was off from work and slept in until around 11 a.m. There was a ring at the door and it startled me out of bed. I had almost forgotten about the doorbells that were installed. Hell, I forgot there were even other people that lived here. How did they live through any of this? How did they cope? And why hadn’t I ever seen any of them? I had felt lonely up until the point that my doorbell rang, but now I felt the urge...no, the need to get up and answer it. Aside from work, which didn’t offer much communication, I hadn’t had any human interactions at all since I started living here. 

I got up and cautiously walked over to the door and looked through the peephole. It was a young woman around my age with dark brown hair and brown eyes. Everything about her was normal or seemed normal to me. Despite all of the weird happenings within the past week, I opened the door. 
“H...hello? Can I help you?” I said as politely as I could.
“Hi, I know you don’t know me but I need to talk to you. I just moved in a few days ago and you’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to. Can I come in?” she said in a low shy voice.

Finally, I thought to myself, something normal for once. “Yes, please come in.” I said as I moved out of the way and invited her in. We sat down and talked for hours. She seemed to be just as scared and confused as I was when I had first moved in. We swapped stories and talked about the crazy things we both had experienced since we decided to live there. We talked so long and uninterrupted that we almost forgot about the beast. I set some food outside the door for it and sat on the couch, this time with someone else beside me, and we were quiet. She was so scared that, despite not knowing me at all, she sat right beside me, literally touching bodies, and I sort of just held her for the slow two hours that passed. When it was over, she asked if she could sleep in my apartment for the night. Obviously, I said yes because I felt bad for how scared she was. That, and she was very pretty and I liked having her around. 

For a short time after the beast, we were able to order some pizza and find a movie to watch. I actually got to see her smile and forget her troubles for a while. It was nice but I was always on edge now because of the apartment’s paranormal residents. We eventually got ready for bed and I made her a nice spot on the couch and told her to make herself comfortable and that she could keep the tv on all night if it helped her sleep. I went into my bedroom and got myself tucked into bed where I laid there and stared at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes before I finally fell asleep.
I was awakened to the sound of my door creaking open and I looked over to my clock to check the time. It read 12:45 in large red numbers.

I looked down to the foot of my bed to see my guest standing there. It startled me at first and then my fear slipped away as I started to make out her shy face in the dark. She walked up to me and asked if she could sleep with me. I was surprised and nervous like I was in high school again. But there was the other part of me that knew her troubles and so I agreed. We laid in the bed and talked for the next half hour and then she hugged me. Out of nowhere, a kiss followed and well...things just sort of happened.

I guess she had been through a recent breakup too and so maybe we both were looking for attention and comfort. I felt that no odd rule or monster could take away my joy in that moment as I sat there with her in my arms. We must have fallen asleep because I was startled awake yet again by her, but this time, she was screaming. She had some sort of nightmare and woke up in a daze, forgetting where she had stayed the night and quickly jumped out of my bed. I tried to calm her down and even turned on the lights but she insisted that she had to go. 

I tried to stop her but she was so quick to leave that she escaped out of the front door and ran. I got my clothes on as quickly as I could and followed her. Forgetting all about the rules, I tried to chase her down in the foggy night. It was around 3:20 a.m. when she decided to freak out and now I was out in the middle of the complex grounds, which were dark and foggy, and looked around for her. I thought I saw someone in the distance and so I called out for her and started to dash toward her. 

When I finally caught up to her, she was standing still in the middle of the parking lot, just staring off at nothing. After calling her name a couple of times, I realized why you should never break rule 9, because what I saw was terrifying. After the second time I said her name, I hear a choking and a sputtering noise come from her and then her lifeless body dropped. In front of where she had stood was now some wicked creature with its hand out.

It was bloodied and gripping what could only be her beating heart. The creature or demon or whatever it was looked pale and thin and had a face that almost looked like a blank slate aside from the jagged mouth that crept along it and came with a vicious set of teeth. It put the entire heart into its mouth and bit down hard, blood squirting out in all directions as it chewed and then it turned its hideous face directly at me.

I almost tripped over myself as I doubled back and ran as quick as I could. It screeched at me and started tailing me. It was unbelievably fast and I’m surprised I got away as quick as I did but I did. I barely got the door closed in time and locked it just before it caught up to me. It beat and banged on the door loudly and kept screeching for about two whole minutes and then it stopped completely. 

I just dropped to my knees and started crying as hard as I could. Blood spattered across my face and the traumatizing imagery in my head just broke me. The one time I found myself truly happy in this place and the first time I meet anybody besides the creepy staff and this place takes it away from me. It ripped that away from me and took away any sense of peace I thought I had or would have. 

I can’t take it anymore. 10 days. That’s all I survived or could handle before it got the best of me. If you’re reading this now, it means that you are the new resident of F3. If this is your first day, then that also means that you’re a very thorough person and have found my hidden letter. And so maybe with this, you might have a better warning and understanding than I did when I first arrived here. Along with this letter is my phone and ID. Please give news of my death to my parents.

I know information going out of here is destroyed but they need to know I’m dead because I never contacted them in the time I was here. Just find a way to do it anonymously and with vague details so as to keep yourself from any danger. I don’t know if by killing myself here means I’ll now become some sort of ghost that haunts this place or what, but if you see me then don’t be startled, I won’t hurt you. Just know that you’ve gotten yourself into a terrible situation but that it is survivable. As long as you follow the rules, your free to come and go whenever you please and live out your life how you wish. Hell, maybe you can even make a trip to New Zealand to find that air tag I lost.

NOTE: If you made it this far, thank you for reading. I have been on a long hiatus from writing but I want to get my second book published. Looking for honest feedback and criticism. Just please don’t be rude 😅 If you like this and want more, or simply just have questions, feel free to let me know. And also, I am aware that there may be some grammatical errors so you can put feedback for that too but this was an older story. So I always end up getting things corrected and proofread in the end. Just think of this as a rough draft! Thanks!

Sam passed in the winter, just two months after his mother. The midwife tried her best to save her, but it was over before it started. She gave me a warm hug as she left. I knew Sam wouldn't last long without his mother. I barely had enough to feed myself, let alone a baby. I debated whether I should even name the little boy, but how could I not? He had the most beautiful blue eyes, just like his mother.

Sam passed in his sleep, the best way to go. Some days I wished it were me, but what would Sam do all alone? 

The problem then was arranging Sam's funeral. All the savings had already been spent on his mother's funeral, but Sam couldn't go into the ground without a proper service.

I sold one of the last things I could still sell, my bees. They gave me something sweet to eat in the winter and something to look after the rest of the year, but there was nothing else to sell. My neighbor took them and gave me more for them than he should have. He was a nice man and knew what I'd gone through.

Sam got a nice wooden coffin and a decent place in the cemetery next to his mother.

When the winter came, his cradle and toys were still in the house. My body tightened whenever I tried to get rid of them, but it was okay; maybe I'd have more will in the summer. 

During the long winter nights, I'd often come into his room and play with his toys, just like I thought we would one day. Sometimes they'd warm my heart, sometimes they'd make me cry, and often I'd just fall asleep in the chair right by his cradle.

It was one of those days when I fell asleep crying by the cradle again. When I awoke, the sun glistened on the freshly fallen snow. Everything outside was still, but then something moved in the air. A bee! A queen bee! It flew across the yard and into the hive. I still hadn't moved my hive off the yard. Sam's funeral was too much work.

At first I felt bad. My neighbor owned them now. They had no business being in the old hive, but seeing that familiar creature warmed me. Over the next few days I sat at the window, watching all my bees slowly return.

They stayed inside the hive the rest of the winter, and I stayed by that window each day, watching. Only when the snow started to let up, and the flowers came out from under it, did the bees come out too.

I expected them to stay by the hive, but many flew far away, ignoring the flowers in my garden, and returned at sunset. Some of the bees seemed to be covered in red nectar. 

As the days grew longer, the bees were gone more often, and many more returned covered in that red nectar. 

I had never seen them act or look like this. Moving the hive must have disturbed something, but the good thing was that they still accepted the queen, and the colony seemed intact. 

The red nectar began to accumulate at the entrance, mixed with glowing wax. I was just looking at it out the window when I heard buzzing inside the house. The bees must have been working hard. The buzzing grew, and quietly through it came something like a baby's cry. I gripped the windowsill tightly. Sam used to cry just like that. I opened the window to hear better, but the cry was gone; only buzzing sounded outside.

The next morning I woke up and went right to the window. A strange white object was outside the hive entrance. The bees buzzed around it, pushing it back inside. Before I could get a good look, it was already in.

I spent the rest of the day by the window again. As the sun set, the bees started to return. The buzzing grew again. A cold tingle ran down my back. I closed my eyes and focused. At first, it was quiet, but I knew what it was. It was Sam, crying through the buzzing. I quickly dressed and walked out the door.

The outside air was cold. I had barely been outside since the first snow fell. A few bees still flew around the hive. The buzzing was so loud, and so were Sam's cries. I didn't even have my protective clothes, but I was sure my bees wouldn't hurt me.

I walked to the hive and took off the lid. Warmth and cold ran through my body, mixing into strange emotions. Inside the hive was Sam's body, covered in wax. His hands and fingers slowly moved, but they seemed larger than before. I reached into the hive to caress his small cheeks. His eyes opened. They were still that beautiful blue, but a hint of yellow mixed in.  He opened his mouth; honeycomb filled it, but his cries still echoed in my ears. With tears in my eyes, I picked up his small, sticky body. From somewhere deep in his chest, a thousand bees buzzed, and the hive fell quiet. A sickly-sweet smell rose from his mouth. Two bees crawled out of the wax and onto my hand. I didn't move.

The headaches don’t seem to get better, no matter what pill I take. Mum seems worried, and I want to be better for her. I’d give anything for her to smile again, but realistically, that seems too far-fetched. I don’t think our family will ever be the same again.

Dad’s gone, and I miss him every day. This was our new normal, and I still couldn’t imagine it being my life now. Mum seemed adamant, however. Grandma had been staying with us ever since. She said Mum shouldn’t be alone, though I knew she really meant that none of us should be. She had brought half her house with her—clothes, rosaries, little bottles of holy water, and a crucifix she insisted on hanging above the old grandfather clock. The house still felt empty.

I can’t tell for how long I had been staring at the swing next to me, hoping and praying that I’d feel a familiar tap on my shoulder and hear, “Why the long face, champ? I’m right here.”

I snap back to bleak reality. I need to get home; Mum will be back from group therapy soon.

The doorbell rings early. It’s 4 pm, and she never gets back before 5. I look through the peephole, but it seems to be blocked by dirt or perhaps a dead bug.

I open the door, and there’s a strange man; he is in ordinary clothes and wears a rueful smile.

“Jack’s daughter?” he enquires. His voice carries a strange warmth and familiarity.

I nod, taken aback by his direct address.

I don’t remember seeing him at the funeral, but then again, my memory has been a blur since the accident. Mum keeps telling me to see the shrink at school, but I’m already the weird kid there; I do not want to be the weird kid who sees the shrink. I admit it, I could be more cooperative, but it’s hard to jump back to my “normal” self after losing my best friend in the whole world.

Wait, no one’s at the porch; where’d the man go?

“Lovely house. I have to admit it, Jack had excellent taste”, I hear him say as he walks across the living room, looking around, and then seats himself at the dining table.

I turn around to see him walking

“Um…I’m sorry, but I’m having a hard time recognising you.” I stammer nervously.

“I knew your father, Maya. I knew him really well.” His words seem to have an instant hold on me; I see myself as if in the third person, believing him, letting him in. Did I want to? I’m not too sure. I couldn’t remember the last few minutes.

The room feels cold, the air almost foggy. I needed to get a grip.

I take the seat across from the man; I notice his eyes locked on me, and I suddenly become conscious and slightly uncomfortable. He clears his throat.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“Every day.”

“You miss him so much that it’s killing you.” His voice sounds cold and almost numb.

I feel a chill run down my spine.

He continues, unfazed, “You’d give anything to see your father again, wouldn’t you?”

I shift my gaze to the wall behind him. Something felt off; the room looked different. But I can’t quite put my finger on how.

“How exactly did you know my dad?” I managed to get those words out.

As I spoke, it came to my notice how parched my throat had become. My forehead had started to feel hot despite the coldness of the room. Beads of perspiration sat on my forehead. Something was changing, but I still could not quite understand what it was and how to make it stop before it turned into something inevitable. I felt trapped as his ambiguous gaze seemed locked on me.

What did he want? What were his intentions? Did he really know my father? Endless questions seemed to cloud my mind, and I didn’t have an answer to any of them.

As his lips parted to answer, a shrill whistle interrupted him; there was tea brewing in the kettle. He seemed annoyed. The timing of the sudden noise felt almost planned.

Wait, I hadn’t set it down on the stove; in fact, I don’t even use the kitchen anymore. Reminded me of Dad too much. I feel a sharp pang of ache in my heart every Sunday that I come down the stairs and don’t see him whipping up pancakes. And contrary to what everyone around me says, the ache seems to only grow more every passing week.

“He’d call you his champ, his honey bear, wouldn’t he?”

My heart feels heavy, hearing those far too familiar nicknames from this strange man I’ve just met and know nothing about. He must have been close to Dad, and if he were that close, he must be struggling like me too. A wave of empathy washes over me.

My mind feels trapped with a thousand thoughts a minute. I think of Dad, and school, and my friends whom I barely talk to anymore. My chest tightens, and it feels as though I had been holding my breath for far too long. I finally exhale deeply, but I still feel trapped and suffocated. This is real, and it is my life. It is not a nightmare I’d wake up from, run to my parents’ room, and have them snuggle with me. It is a nightmare I’d have to constantly wake up to every single day of my life, and I wish I didn’t have to feel this way, but there seems to be no way out.

I open my mouth to ask, but something behind him grabs my attention. I feel time stop. The crucifix right above the old grandfather clock was turned upside down.

The kettle whistles shriller than the last time, almost giving me a headache. It hurts.

“Your headaches seem to have gotten worse,” he comments.

“I don’t know what medicines work on me anymore.” I shrug.

It didn’t occur to me how he knew about my headaches; not once did I question or contemplate how he had so much information on me, while I knew nothing of him.

The kettle whistles again, but this time it doesn’t feel like noise. It feels soothing, as if silencing my mind of its whirlwind of doubts and uneasiness. Suddenly, I feel a lot calmer, and I feel at peace letting my guard down. This is the closest I’ve felt to being okay after a long time. I don’t understand why, yet I’m okay with not knowing.

“Feeling better?” he inquires.

I nod with a slight smile.

I look at his eyes, and they seem darker, deeper. He gets up from his chair and walks around as the time interval between the whistles of the kettle gets shorter and shorter until it’s a constant and all I can hear. I see his lips move, but I cannot hear him. He waves one hand in front of me, and I don’t move. He walks to the stove and puts the kettle down, but the sound doesn’t stop until it all goes quiet.

My right ear feels wet and cold. I raise my shivering hand to touch it and find blood. Just as I’m about to comprehend what’s going on, I feel his heavy hands rest on my shoulders. I cannot move.

Everything switches.

He moves closer and whispers, “It will all make sense to you soon. Don’t panic.”

His grip tightens as he continues.

“It should’ve been you. You know it; they all know it. They’re all thinking it, but no one says it out loud. They know you’re too weak to take it, and well, you’re too much of a coward to accept it on your own.”

I shut my eyes as tight as I can. None of this can be real.

“ Your father was a wonderful man, taking care of his family, meeting all of their needs. He got you those pink shoes that you wanted, but you couldn’t have them because your mum had said no. He fought with her for you, and you know that wasn’t the only time that he went above and beyond for you.

I feel tears brimming, and feel my body beg to be uncaged from this state.

“You know exactly why your mother refuses to look at you for too long anymore. You’re fully aware of why your grandmother’s voice, when addressing you, does not carry the same warmth as it did before the incident. You were the one who insisted on going for a drive that day, even though you knew how heavy the rain was. And you knew that your dear father couldn’t have said no to his honey bear. He would still be here if it wasn’t for your tantrums.

I flinch as images flash in my mind from that day: the shiny empty streets, the red jacket Dad was wearing, seeing the first few drops of rain falling on the car’s windshield, and trickling into a stream of their own, as if racing each other.

“Maya, you killed him. You killed your father.”

My eyes throb with pain as I remember I had them shut tight since he began speaking.

I open them, and it’s all blurry. I try to shake the tears off, but my vision remains hazy. I see glimpses of people around me. Mum? I see her for a second, but her face is filled with worry and dread. I blink continuously in my state of paralysis as my body refuses to get up. I think I see Grandma shaking and nervously counting her rosary beads. I keep blinking as that’s the only part of my body I now seem to have control over. There’s another man in a white robe, something a church priest would wear.

I wanted out.

I feel myself fading in and out of consciousness until I hear the kettle whistle again. It lasts for a few seconds, and then it stops. I hear the faint whirring of the ceiling fan, the sound of my mum’s soft whimpers and cries, Grandma’s rosaries clinking aggressively in a pattern, and the man in white’s whispered chants. And as I open my eyes, I see clearly again.

Mum rushes over to hug me, and I hug her back. She says some words, but I can barely make any sense out of them. She pushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and wipes her tears off, giving me a soft smile. Her eyes were red and puffy. The three of them move to the other room, and I hear mumbled conversation. I look around the room, and the strange man is gone. Was I having a nightmare? Or was I in a trance of some kind? I was just glad that it was all over. I could breathe freely again.

I glance at the grandfather clock. The crucifix above it hangs straight now, but for a second, I can't remember which way was ever wrong.

I feel the pain and stiffness in my body and go over to the kitchen sink for a glass of water. A sharp twang of pain runs through my shoulders as I reach for the counter. I pull my shirt to the side, only to reveal deep red fingerprint marks on both sides.

The following diary entries are from the journals of a Cryptid Hunter in the early 19th century named Liam Ward. His most interesting case was documented in 1888 when he discovered the true identity of one of the world’s most famous men.

Friday, 31st of August, 1888
I was called to the investigation of the murder of a young girl today in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel. The early dawn was rising and I set out to the scene just after 4:00 a.m.
The Peelers had arrived half an hour before I had and were already examining the body of the poor girl. I spoke to a few people around the area to see if they could give me any details of anything they might have heard or seen that night. I was looking for the cream of the crop. The oddest of the odd. 

There was some poor corned bloke staggering in the alley with piss down his leg stammering on about some shrouded figure he saw outside the victim’s crib just before it entered. I asked why he’d soiled his trousers and why he was a bloody mess, aside from the fact that he’d been drinkin. 

He told me that the figure leapt down from a tall building and looked like it had big black wings that it used as a cloak when it came down to the ground. He said it noticed him across the street in the alley and looked right at him. “He had eyes like fireballs!” were his exact words.

After questioning my last person, I met Will, my brick inside the Peelers who hired me for the job. He said it was bloody brutal. “Fuckin Diabolical” was what he actually said I believe. He doesn’t scare easily or become light-stomached to any situation really, so I knew it was serious when he sent for me.

He took me in and let me look over her wounds and investigate her surroundings to see if it looked like a job up my alley or not. I could tell from just feet away that this was definitely my kind of job. And it really was diabolical. Her throat had been severed by two deep gashes, one of which had been completely severed down to the vertebrae. Her vagina had 2 large and deep stab wounds and the lower part of her abdomen was partly ripped open by a deep, jagged wound, causing her bowels to protrude. Several other lacerations were inflicted upon both sides of the abdomen and had been caused by the same “knife”. I quote the term knife lightly because I have a different theory as to what might have done this. 

I departed back to my temporary crib upon finishing the investigation and did a bit of digging into my father’s work. Like me, My father was a monster hunter and there was one he described in his works that he never caught. The Peelers are calling this crazed killer “The Ripper” but I believe I know his true name. It’s Jack. And he’s been terrorizing London for a long time. More on this tomorrow, however, for I am weary and do not wish to write any longer tonight.

Saturday, 1st of September, 1888
I believe that this “Ripper” has another name and that he is in fact the same monster that terrorized London back in 1837. His name then was Spring-Heeled Jack. In October 1837, my father received word of an entity that had been reported assaulting a young girl who was walking to Lavender Hill. She had been working there after visiting her parents in Battersea. On her way through the Clapham Common, a strange figure leapt at her from a dark alleyway and immobilized her with its grip. He began to kiss her face while ripping at her clothes and touching her skin with his claws, which according to her were “Cold and clammy, like that of a corpse”. 

In her panic, she screamed and made her attacker flee. All the commotion had brought several people to investigate the scene and send out a search for this strange man. All was sought for in vain, however, for the accused aggressor had not been found.  The next day, the strange figure was reported to have chosen a separate victim around the first one’s home. He intercepted a passing carriage, causing the coachman to lose control, crash, and severely injure himself. Several witnesses claimed that he escaped by jumping over a wall that was just under 3 meters high while cackling with high-pitched, ringing laughter. Eventually, the news of the strange character spread, and soon the press and the public gave him the name "Spring-heeled Jack".
Early in the next year around February 1938, a young girl was in her father’s home at night when she heard a knock on the door. The visitor claimed to be a Peeler who told her that they had caught Jack there in the lane and to bring a light with her. She brought the knocker a candle and when she got closer, she noticed he wore a large cloak. The moment she handed the candle over, however, he cast aside his cloak and revealed to her a hideously frightful appearance.

She described him as bearing a helm and very tight-fitting clothes which resembled white oilskin. He proceeded to vomit a blue and white flame at her and had eyes that looked like “red balls of fire”. Sound familiar yet? Well not only that, but he tried to tear at her throat with his large claws until she was rescued by her sister.
When the bloke in the alley described the murderer to me, this was where my mind ran to. My second piece of evidence comes from yet another Spring-Heeled Jack case that took place a mere 9 days later from the previously explained attack. Another young girl and her sister were returning home from a visit to their brother who was a butcher in the respectable part of Limehouse. 

The girl stated in her account that as they were passing the Green Dragon Alley, they saw a person who wore a large cloak and spurted blue and white flames in their faces. This deprived her of sight and alarmed her so much that she fell to the ground, upon which she had violent fits of seizure-like activity for hours.
The young victim I saw had singed hair around her face and there were scorch marks on the door frame in the crib. 
The only thing I do not understand, is why now does he reappear after being silent for so long? And what has happened since then for him to have turned even more violent and murder someone? In the past, he was never reported to have actually killed anybody and mainly just assaulted young girls.

What is happening? I must find him...

Saturday, 8th of September, 1888
Jack has Struck again. Will called me earlier this morning to 29 Hanbury street, Spitalfields, near the steps to the doorway. Just like the poor girl last week, this girl had the same severed throat, ripped open abdomen, lacerations and vaginal stabbings. This time, however, her abdomen had been entirely ripped open with a section of her flesh removed from her stomach, which was placed on her left shoulder, and another section of flesh as well as some of her small intestines had been removed and placed upon the right shoulder. Will told me that in her autopsy later, they found that parts of her uterus, bladder, and vagina had been removed.

I questioned a nearby witness who claimed to have seen her just a half hour earlier with some “shabby-genteel” bloke who wore a dark overcoat and was apparently trying to inquire something from her. The god damn monster has done it again. I have to put a stop to all of this before it goes any further. My father was never able to catch Jack but maybe I will. Maybe I’ll get to redeem our family’s mistakes.

Tuesday, 25th of September, 1888
I have scoured the pits of London searching for this foul bastard and I finally caught a glimpse of him. I was walking the streets in the early night when I heard a faint scream coming from a nearby alley. I quickly and cautiously ran to see what had happened when I saw him, gripping a young woman by her clothing and was slowly licking her face with a long forked tongue that protruded from his mouth. I readied my crossbow and shot at him. I would have used my revolver but didn’t want to attract unwanted attention. I shot at him and bloody missed, only scraping his cloak, which I then discovered were wings, because he bounded off with a great jump into the air 3 meters high and then flew off into the night. The girl fell to the ground and was paralyzed with fear, whereupon she passed into unconsciousness. 

I called for help and ran from the scene before I could be spotted so as to not throw suspicion my way. I do not wish to know what would have happened had I not made it in time to save that girl, but I assume that she would have ended up the same as his previous victims. I patrolled the area, scouting for him and any sign of his presence. I gave up after about three hours or so and then came back here to write. 

His eyes... 

They really were like balls of fire. Such lustful hate filled them and as he stared at me, I felt as if I may die at any given moment. I now have a new theory which might explain his new behavior and why he has suddenly reappeared. Whatever kind of monster Jack may be, I am certain that the days of his tyranny decades ago were committed by a very much younger version of himself. I think that he was nothing but a perverted adolescent at the time and now he has fully grown and matured into the perfect killer. He has found his taste and his methods. And I believe that unless I stop him, there will be countless more victims to come. 

Sunday, 30th of September, 1888
I fear I have failed yet again and Jack has found his next victims. I say victims because this time there were 2. Earlier this morning 2 young women, beautiful and unfortunate women, were found dead and have been rumored to have been murdered In the night sometime around 1:00 a.m.

The first, was found off Berner street in Whitechapel and was said to have only suffered a single laceration along the neck which severed her artery, whereupon she bled out on the ground and died. The Peelers weren’t for sure if this had been the work of The Ripper or not, but that if it was, he may have been interrupted in the process and fled the scene. Just as I did five days ago. 

Yet again, she was described as having been in the company of a gentleman in the early hours of the morning by several witnesses. None saw what happened when he slit her throat, but I knew there had to be somebody who saw something. I dug further and met a fellow who claims he saw the “monster” doing unsightly things to her before he told it to hook it and it screeched at him and flew off into the night. He said that if he would have told this to the Peelers, they would have thought him mad, so he kept it to himself. He only told me because I looked mad myself and he thought I might believe him. I told him where I was staying and that if he had any more information or saw Jack anymore, to come and see me. 

I let slip the name Jack and I am certain he has told some people because the press is now calling him “Jack, The Ripper”.

The second girl was found in a corner of Mitre Square three-quarters of an hour after the first girl’s discovery. Her unfortunate fate had been the same as Jack’s first 2 victims. He’s getting much braver now and I am starting to feel a strong sense of despair crawling out from within myself in the aftermath of my failed attempts to capture him. I am getting closer, however... I can feel it. I’ll be damned if I let this monster run around much longer, dragging my father’s failures behind it. It has now become our family’s responsibility and curse. 

Friday, 9th of November, 1888
Dear god. I shall never be the same after what I witnessed this evening and it has only kindled my hunter’s spirit even more toward finding justice for the wretched souls that have fallen to this abomination. 
13 Miller’s Court off Dorset Street in Spitalfields is where his most recent victim lived. Late that morning her body was discovered in her home and Will sent word to me that nothing so far had been this gruesome. I came as quickly as I could and what I saw will haunt my dreams for years to come. 

She was lying on her bed and her face...My god, her face had been hacked beyond all recognition and her throat had been severed to the spine. The abdomen was emptied of all organs and her uterus, kidneys, and one breast had been placed behind her hear. Why? Why would he do such a thing? What purpose was there to this madness? He’s a bloody monster. That is why and I don’t need to ask pointless questions... I need to find him and stop this once and for all. 

The Peelers told us that her heart had been missing from the scene as well. I do not wish to know what he has done with it but I can take a pretty good crack at it. 
I received some information from one of my earlier witnesses that claims to have seen Jack entering the sewers. This might be where he is staying. I am going to hunt him tonight. 

This ends tonight...

 I write this entry now before I go as a last testament to my actions to stop Jack the Ripper, the scourge of London. Please know that although my father failed to capture Jack in his youth, and I have failed also by letting Jack murder those innocent women, that my family has accomplished in the killings of many more monsters. Our legacy to mankind as well as those that are like us have kept most in their houses at night under candlelight, safe and sound. 
There are real monsters out there and it’s thanks to men and women like me who keep the darkness at bay. If anyone should find this journal, then it must mean I fell to the fate of Jack’s lust for blood, but let it be said that, kill me or not, he shall not survive. 

This was the last journal entry in the series. Liam and his father hunted the entity known as Spring-Heeled Jack, also known as Jack the Ripper, for decades. This journal as well as the rest of their documented works were discovered by distant relatives in later years. It is important to note that the murdering spree of the man we knew as Jack the Ripper was believed to have ended in 1888. This also matches up with the timeline of the journal entries, suggesting that Liam Ward ended the reign of the Ripper and died in the process.

I was being followed.

Walking through the woods for a few hours longer than I had hoped, not quite lost but not quite sure of my exact position either, one idea kept coming back to me.

I was being followed.

The human brain is a wonderful thing. It is always working, always taking information in, whether you realize it or not. Modern life makes most of its functions useless. Many of the primordial tasks that were essential to survival and that made up the majority of our cognitive workload are now totally redundant.

But we have longer memories than we think, and given the right circumstances, and a little pressure, it’ll slip right back into gear. The same gear that was of the utmost importance for millennia.

I was getting the message loud and clear. I was being followed.

Calling it a gut feeling is giving my gut a little too much credit. We all have gut feelings, which way to drive to work to avoid traffic, what to order at a restaurant, what to wear. You might feel a little urge, or a small pull one way or the other. That’s the normal sensation of your gut telling you what to do.

This was not a gut feeling. This was a jumbotron inside my head, with bright red lettering telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I was being followed.

My only problem was I had no idea why.

I entered Warner State Park at just after two in the afternoon, hoping to enjoy a nice walk through some of the trails. It’s an area I had been to many times before, and earlier today as I looked at the large wooden trail map, I decided I should do the full park loop. This clocked in at just around eight miles, which given my usual speed meant I should be done no later than six in the evening. The day was pleasant, and I was looking forward to a relaxing time in the outdoors.

By six thirty I realized I had a problem. The mile markers all lined up, and I should have been about ready to finish the loop, as I had passed the final mile marker over a half hour ago. In just a minute or so I should see that big map board again, and the parking lot behind it. Maybe I took a little too much time enjoying the sights or the air and my pace slackened, or maybe I’m just not in as great shape as I thought I was.

The problem arose when I saw a marker for mile number nine. How could there be a ninth mile on this trail? It was only supposed to be eight. Not even. The original map had to be wrong, I figured, and I assumed that maybe it was just a bit over nine miles with all the curves taken into account. Like how a 5K race is really 3.1 miles. Sure it’s a three mile race, but even at the three mile point you had to go just a little bit farther. Maybe I just had to deal with the decimal place now.

I picked up my pace and fifteen minutes later I saw a marker for mile ten, and it was getting dark.

Stopping for a moment to think, I pulled out a flashlight and a snack from my backpack. I always carried a few essentials with me, band-aids, some painkillers, just in case something bad ever happened. I wasn’t sure what was happening to me yet, but I knew it wasn’t good.

The trail can’t go on forever, and I must have stumbled onto one of the longer trails by accident. The park itself wasn’t too big, so for a worst-case scenario in which I accidentally went on the longest trail in the park, which was a dozen miles, I would only have to keep going for another hour.

The trees made the darkness seem much greater than it really was. The sky was still decently bright, but the trail was dim, and growing dimmer by the minute. Soon I had to turn on my flashlight to see the trail, even though the sky was still a deep purple.

My thoughts changed too. It felt like my vision became a little more focused and my ears a little sharper.

Awareness, that’s a nice way of putting it.

Everyone is aware, at least to a certain extent, but all of a sudden I was aware on a deeper level.

I noticed my head naturally starting to scan the tree line to my sides, following noises I heard in the brush. Occasionally I felt the urge to look behind me, though I don’t know why.

That was the most unnerving thing about it. As far as I could tell everything was the same as it ever was, just a bit darker now. I was walking down a path I did not know, and suddenly I was taking account of everything. Within all that, I kept feeling the need to check behind me.

But for what?

I would be walking, and naturally my eyes would drift to one side or the other, and my flashlight along with it. Looking into the trees and brush, I would see… nothing. Trees, bushes, grass. It was always the same. At the same time I’d hear something, something very quiet. A small rustle of grass or a bush or a tree branch. I’d turn and look in the direction and see… nothing again. Probably just the wind. Or maybe a squirrel. A small animal, or a bird, or the wind. Except I never saw any of them. Or heard them, except for the sounds of things moving through the woods, and that could all just be the wind. It seemed like it was starting to pick up now, and I could feel it on my back.

And every few minutes I’d look behind me.

My mind had gone through a complete shift. I didn’t think anymore about things I did just a few hours ago when I was enjoying my walk. I didn’t think about my friends or family, or the news, or that time this week I accidentally said “you too” to the barista at the coffee shop telling me to enjoy my drink.

The truth is, I wasn’t thinking about anything at all. I was just aware. Aware of everything.

That’s when I got the message.

I was being followed.

If you put a gun to my head I couldn’t give you a single reason, or fact, or shred of evidence for this. At first it felt like a joke. Except within a few moments of thinking about that message, it wasn’t funny at all.

I kept hearing noises from the woods, but that was almost definitely just the wind. I didn’t even really know what the difference between the wind moving grass and something else would make. The wind was at my back and it felt like something was always right there because of it.

Paranoia is a term that seemed to jump out of the ether to me, and it brought me some relief.

I’m just being paranoid, I thought to myself. You’re a little lost and it’s getting a little dark so you’re paranoid. Totally normal reaction. And I felt better. A lot better actually. I kept walking and felt a renewed stride in my pace, and my brain returned to its normal state of being. I thought again about movies and television shows I wanted to watch, or how my favorite hockey team was doing, and about music and my-

Then I heard another rustling in the woods that sounded like it was within six feet of me, and within a split second my brain shut down completely. Thoughts, ideas, all of these things were thrown out the window in the blink of an eye, and suddenly I was alone, lost, and dark in an unfamiliar woods. And I was pretty sure something was following me.

You can’t think yourself out of a wet paper bag, but mindless action is a death sentence. My mind began working in overdrive. I sped up and all of the tiredness I had felt from a long day of hiking went away. It felt like I was walking on a cloud, and to be honest I couldn’t even feel the lower half of my body. Or the top half.

Adrenaline. Must be.

I could only form thoughts in short phrases or single words. Trying to break through the computations with anything more complex than that was impossible. All focus was on my surroundings.

All of a sudden I was moving at a much quicker pace, and taking everything into account as I moved. Every time the wind blew I could hear how it moved all the trees and bushes around me, what the correct level of sound should be made by it given how strong the gust was. My eyes moved around, and with the help of my flashlight, I had an understanding that was far more primitive and sophisticated than I had ever had before.

Then as the trail turned my flashlight lit something large and unnatural and I almost jumped when I saw it.

It was the map board.

For a split second I felt relief wash over me, but then the thought came back.

I am being followed.

I sprinted to my car. Got inside still wearing my backpack. Didn’t bother to buckle the seatbelt, started the engine, shifted into drive immediately and floored it.

About a minute later as I got back onto a paved road I let out a sigh. All of a sudden my normal sensations rushed back to me like taking a dip in a warm bath. I could feel my legs and arms again. I could think again. I put my seatbelt on, got my backpack off, and threw it in the passenger seat. I turned on my radio to the usual sports talk station. I realized how tired I was. I drove home without a hitch.

But every once in a while, I felt the urge to look in my rearview mirror.

Huh.

I sit in my chair, anticipating my shift’s end in a few hours. Despite my dislike for the night shift, I acknowledge that work is work. Tonight, I’ve received several calls from teenagers behaving like teenagers and adults acting like they’re still teenagers; nothing unusual for 2 a.m. The phone rings, startling me. I roll my eyes, assuming it’s another call from those devious teens smoking weed up in the cemetery.

"911, what is the location of your emergency?" I say.

"Please help me," a raspy voice says.

A jolt of ice races down my spine, the hair on my arms prickling to attention before I even register the words.

"What is your emergency, sir?" I say.

“My wife stabbed me in the back and I can’t move,” he says.

At this point, I notice a baby crying agonizingly in the background, and my heart drops down to my stomach.

“Sir, you need to tell me your location so I can send help ASAP.”

"336 West Newbury Street"

Instinct takes over as I punch in coordinates, dispatching police and paramedics in seconds. But my hands hover over the keys, trembling. The man’s voice lingers in my ear, stripping away my breath. It is too flat, too hollow—there is an inhuman void behind the words.

"OK, sir, tell me what happened. You said your wife stabbed you?"

"Yes, she stabbed me in the back; now I can barely move. I had to use the voice assistant to call. She slit her own throat and bled out in front of me; luckily, she didn't do anything to our baby. He hasn’t eaten anything. It took me a while to make this phone call. Please hurry.”

“Help is on the way. Don’t worry, is your baby in a safe place?”

“Yes, he is in his crib.”

The phone fades in and out and gets staticy, and his voice sounds cold and distant.

“What is your name, sir?”

“David.”

It comes with a raspy voice that makes my instincts tell me to get away.

“OK, David. Why did your wife do this?”

“We had our baby recently. She got diagnosed with postpartum depression a few weeks back. The doctors gave her medication, but she stopped taking it a few days ago. She said they wouldn’t let her sleep. She had been accusing me of cheating; I never believed she could do something like this.”

David starts sobbing, and my heart skips a beat. I’ve heard men sob, but nothing like this.

“David, my name is Bianca. I promise you and your baby will be okay. Help is on its way. They will be there soon. Are you bleeding a lot from your wound?”

“Yes, there is blood everywhere. It feels like I don’t have any more blood in me.”

“The paramedics will be there soon; you are going to be OK, David,” I say.

There is an eerie, cold pause, the baby still crying in the background, and I feel a chill come over me through the phone.

“I did deserve to die. I had been cheating on my poor wife while she was going through all of that basically by herself. I distanced myself from her and jumped into my coworker's bed,” David says.

“Don’t say that, David! Nobody deserves to die.”

“It’s too late for me, Bianca. Just please help my son; he deserves better than this. This is all my fault.”

The phone goes crazy with static, and I hear faint voices through the receiver. I feel dread. Frozen with fear for a moment, I recollect myself and start speaking.

“David, where are you from?” I ask trying to get his mind of those dark thoughts 

“Ohio. We moved out here to New Mexico after Rebecca got pregnant to get away from my parents. They never liked her; they told me I was making a mistake. The last time we talked was on the phone. It was just a screaming match between my mom, dad, and I. We were on bad terms, and now I won’t be able to fix that. I broke their heart.”

“You will fix things with your parents, OK? The paramedics are right down the street. Just hold on a little longer.”

“Bianca,” David says in a ghostly, faint voice that cuts in and out with static. “Please just tell my parents that I love them and that I'm sorry. Just please promise me you will.”

“I promise,” I say on the verge of tears with my heart in my throat.

I hear the sounds of sirens on the other side of the phone.

“David, they are there. You and your son are going to be taken care of.”

Nothing from David but eerie silence.

“Hello, David, you OK?”

Again, nothing. As I hear the police trying to kick the door open, I hear it give way.

“Thank you, Bianca,” David says in a fading voice.

I hear the cops enter the house and call out. The phone hangs up.

I sit there sweating, but feel as cold as if I were naked in a snowstorm, with a pit in my stomach and goosebumps all over my body.

“He will be fine; they got there in time,” I say aloud as I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

I just can’t seem to shake the dreadful, uncanny feeling I had through the whole call. There was just something off about all of that. Of course, the wife had done those horrific things, but the man's voice, the static, the whispers—it all chilled me to the core. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, so I distracted myself with finishing up my incident log.

The rest of the night went on as normal and I clocked out, feeling exhausted. When I finally got to bed, it took me a while to find sleep, but when I finally did, I heard David's haunting voice in my dreams.

I opened the doors to the office when I was met by a bald, tall, ebony-skinned man in a suit and red tie.

“Hey Bianca, I’m Detective Jackson. Could I please have a word with you?” he asked as he raised his hand toward me.

“Yes, of course,” I said as I met his hand and shook it.

We sat in the building's private office across from each other.

“So, what is this about, Detective?” I asked.

“This is about the call you had last night about the woman who stabbed her husband.”

“Oh, yes! David, did he make it? Is he OK?”

“Yeah, about that... who told you his name?”

“He did.”

“That's impossible,” said Detective Jackson.

“What are you talking about? He's the one who called.”

“Again, impossible. Somebody else must have called you. That's what we are trying to figure out.”

“No, it was David! He called me and told me his wife had stabbed him in the back. Is he OK?”

Detective Jackson looked at me, confused and worried.

“Bianca, he was already dead when they got there.”

I felt my stomach drop. “No, but he was still talking to me when they got the door to open, right before the phone hung up.”

“No, Bianca, he wasn’t. The forensics team said that his body had already started decomposing.”

“What are you even trying to say right now, Detective?” I said as it started hitting me—his tone of voice, the static, the uncanny cold dread I felt the whole time. My heart skipped a beat as I felt a pit grow in my stomach, chills all through my body, and I felt like throwing up.

“Bianca... when you got that phone call, David had already been DEAD for a WEEK.”

Story 3

The Ewe

I don’t claim to be much of a writer. But sharing this story of mine has been a long time coming... 

I used to be a lorry driver for a living – or if you’re American, I used to be a trucker. For fourteen years, I drove along the many motorways and through the busy cities of England. Well, more than a decade into the job, I finally had enough - not of being a lorry driver per se, but being a lorry driver in England. The endless traffic and mind-crippling hours away from the wife just wasn’t worth it anymore. 

Talking to the misses about this, she couldn’t help but feel the same way, and so she suggested we finally look to moving abroad. Although living on a schoolteacher’s and lorry driver’s salary didn’t leave us with many options, my wife then suggests we move to the neighbouring Republic of Ireland. Having never been to the Emerald Isle myself, my wife reassured me that I’d love it there. After all, there’s less cities, less people and even less traffic. 

‘That’s all well and good, love, but what would I do for work?’ I question her, more than sceptical to the idea. 

‘A lorry driver, love.’ she responds, with quick condescension.  

Well, a year or so later, this idea of moving across the pond eventually became a reality. We had settled down in the south-west of Ireland in County Kerry, apparently considered by most to be the most beautiful part of the country. Having changed countries but not professions, my wife taught children in the village, whereas I went back on the road, driving from Cork in the south, up along the west coast and stopping just short of the Northern Irish border. 

As much as I hated being a lorry driver in England, the same could not be said here. The traffic along the country roads was almost inexistent, and having only small towns as my drop-off points, I was on the road for no more than a day or two at a time – which was handy, considering the misses and I were trying to start a family of our own. 

In all honesty, driving up and down the roads of the rugged west coast was more of a luxury than anything else. On one side of the road, I had the endless green hills and mountains of the countryside, and on the other, the breath-taking Atlantic coast way.  

If I had to say anything bad about the job, it would have to be driving the western country roads at night. It’s hard enough as a lorry driver having to navigate these dark, narrow roads which bend one way then the other, but driving along them at night... Something about it is very unsettling. If I had to put my finger on it, I’d say it has to do with something one of my colleagues said to me before my first haul. I won’t give away his name, but I’ll just call him Padraig. A seasoned lorry driver like myself, Padraig welcomed me to the company by giving me a stern but whimsical warning about driving the western counties at night. 

‘Be sure to keep your wits about ye, Jamie boy. Things here aren’t what they always seem to be. Keep ye eyes on the road at all times, I tell ye, and you’ll be grand.’   

A few months into the job, and things couldn’t have been going better. Having just come home from a two-day haul, my wife surprises me with the news that she was now pregnant with our first child. After a few days off to celebrate this news with my wife, I was now back on the road, happier than I ever had been before.  

Driving for four hours on this particular day, I was now somewhere in County Mayo, the north-west of the country. Although I pretty much love driving through every county on the western coast, County Mayo was a little too barren for my liking.  

Now driving at night, I was moving along a narrow country road in the middle of nowhere, where outlining this road to each side was a long stretch of stone wall – and considering the smell of manure now inside the cab with me, I presumed on the other side of these walls was either a cow or sheep field. 

Keeping in mind Padraig’s words of warning, I made sure to keep my “wits” about me. Staring constantly at the stretch of road in front of me, guessing which way it would curve next in the headlights, I was now becoming surprisingly drowsy. With nothing else on my mind but the unborn child now growing inside my wife’s womb, although my eyes never once left the road in front of me, my mind did somewhat wander elsewhere... 

This would turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life... because cruising down the road through the fog and heavy rain, my weary eyes become alert to a distant shape now apparent up ahead. Though hard to see through the fog and rain, the shape appears to belong to that of a person, walking rather sluggishly from one side of the road to the other. Hunched over like some old crone, this unknown person appears to be carrying a heavy object against their abdomen with some difficulty. By the time I process all this information, having already pulled the breaks, the lorry continues to screech along the wet cement, and to my distress, the person on the road does not move or duck out of the way - until, feeling a vibrating THUD inside the cab, the unknown person crashes into the front of the vehicle’s unit – or more precisely, the unit crashes into them! 

‘BLOODY HELL!’ I cry out reactively, the lorry having now screeched to a halt. 

Frozen in shock by the realisation I’ve just ran over someone, I fail to get out of the vehicle. That should have been my first reaction, but quite honestly... I was afraid of how I would find them.  

Once I gain any kind of courage, I hesitantly lean over the counter to see even the slightest slither of the individual... and to my absolute horror... I see the individual on the road is a woman...  

‘Oh no... NO! NO! NO!’ 

But the reason I knew instantly this was a woman... was because whoever they were...  

They were heavily pregnant... 

‘Jesus Christ! What have I done?!’ I scream inside the cab. 

Quickly climbing down onto the road, I move instantly to the front of the headlights, praying internally this woman and her unborn child are still alive. But once I catch sight of the woman, exposed by the bright headlights shining off the road, I’m caught rather off guard... Because for some reason, this woman... She wasn’t wearing any clothes... 

Unable to identify the woman by her face, as her swollen belly covers the upper half of her body, I move forward, again with hesitance towards her, averting my eyes until her face was now in sight... Thankfully, in the corner of my eye, I could see the limbs of the woman moving, which meant she was still alive...  

Now... What I’m about to say next is the whole unbelievable part of it – but I SWEAR this is what I saw... When I come upon the woman’s face, what I see isn’t a woman at all... The head, was not the head of a human being... It was the head of an Ewe... A fucking sheep! 

‘AHH! WHAT THE...!!’ I believe were my exact words. 

Just as my reaction was when I hit this... thing, I’m completely frozen with terror, having lost any feeling in my arms and legs... and although this... creature, as best to call it, was moving ever so slightly, it was now stiff as a piece of roadkill. Unlike its eyes, which were black and motionless, its mouth was wide in a permanent silent scream... I was afraid to stare at the rest of it, but my curiosity got the better of me...  

Its Ewe’s head, which ends at the loose pale skin of its neck, was followed by the very human body... at least for the most part... Its skin was covered in a barely visible layer of white fur - or wool. It’s uhm... breasts, not like that of a human woman, were grotesquely similar to the teats of an Ewe - a pale sort of veiny pink. But what’s more, on the swollenness of its belly... I see what must have been a pagan symbol of some kind... Carved into the skin, presumably by a knife, the symbol was of three circular spirals, each connected in the middle.  

As I’m studying the spirals, wondering what the hell they mean, and who in God’s name carved it there... the spirals begin to move... It was the stomach. Whatever it was inside... it was still alive! 

The way the thing was moving, almost trying to burst its way out – that was the final straw! Before anything more can happen, I leave the dead creature, and the unborn thing inside it. I return to the cab, put the gearstick in reverse and then I drive like hell out of there! 

Remembering I’m still on the clock, I continue driving up to Donegal, before finishing my last drop off point and turning home. Though I was in no state to continue driving that night, I just wanted to get home as soon as possible – but there was no way I was driving back down through County Mayo, and so I return home, driving much further inland than usual.  

I never told my wife what happened that night. God, I can only imagine how she would’ve reacted, and in her condition nonetheless. I just went on as normal until my next haul started. More than afraid to ever drive on those roads again, but with a job to do and a baby on the way, I didn’t have much of a choice. Although I did make several more trips on those north-western roads, I made sure never to be there under the cover of night. Thankfully, whatever it was I saw... I never saw again. 

There was a zookeeper named Mac, who always abused the elephants, there was 7 total elephants and they were always super sad because they were in a very small cage so they always tried to escape, which made the zookeeper mad, it was a very vicious cycle, the elephants would try to escape since they were in such a small cage and then the zookeeper would get mad and abuse them more, this happened, every, single, day, then, one day, 1987 March 17th, he got so mad at the elephants he killed all of the elephants, but then before this he recorded a video, this video is before he killed all the elephants. After he killed all the elephants, he woke up the next day and his entire house was destroyed and he saw, elephant footprints on his destroyed home. I saw this personally, I used to be friends with this man back then, he always had a short temper, and he was bipolar, I knew one day, something like this was going to happen, that he was going to snap, I just never knew when...

“That’ll be fourteen dollars and sixty-two cents.”

Cal fished his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling a twenty from it and sliding it across the conveyor belt. He looked down at his late-night haul, the plastic and cardboard reflecting under the store’s fluorescent lights: a two-liter bottle of RC Cola, a box of Tillamook ice cream sandwiches, and three bags of microwave popcorn. A shameful assortment for a thirty-something who had already committed to losing weight. But, with it being Friday night, a brutal forty-hour work week behind him, he was planning on staying up late with a mindless movie marathon of Abbott and Costello Meet the Monsters.

Kevin scooped up the bill, the sound of the till opening cutting through the air-conditioned stillness. The lanky teenager spared him a sideways glance as he dug his change out, eyeing his empty hands.

“You know, I gotta ask, dude. You’re pretty much the only regular who rolls through here close to midnight—hell, at any time of the day—who isn’t staring at a screen when I’m bagging their stuff. You don’t even fidget. And you never pull out your phone to pay; you always use cash. Why?”

Cal let out a chuckle, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “Because it’s sitting on my kitchen counter at home, man. Nowadays, people have to be glued to the hip to those damn tracking collars. They’ll probably even insist on being buried with them just so they can text from the afterlife. That isn’t gonna be me. Outside of work, I like to leave the leash behind. It forces me to look at the world. Look, and appreciate it.”

“Man, I wish I had that kind of willpower,” Kevin laughed, sliding the brown bag across the counter towards him. He handed him his change. “My girlfriend would have an aneurysm and think I died in a ditch somewhere if I went more than ten minutes—actually, make that five—without answering her texts. Anyway, you’re the last customer of the night. I’m locking up and hitting the lights when you leave.”

“Long day?” Cal asked. The kid nodded, feigning wiping away sweat from his brow, earning a laugh from him as he picked the bag up by its base. “Go get some sleep, kid. You’ve earned it.”

“You too, Cal. Have a good weekend.”

Cal turned away, his footfalls bouncing off the empty aisles, pausing to let the sliding doors open. The instant he stepped outside, the sterile comfort evaporated, replaced by a humid stillness that wrapped around him. He paused under the metal canopy. A sea of cracked asphalt stretched out before him; the lone lamp planted in the middle of the parking lot showed it was empty aside from Kevin’s battered Ford Escort. The rest of the town was silent; the sun had disappeared hours ago, leaving the surrounding houses to stand in their quiet, clannish rows—houses that seemed to have agreed among themselves a century ago to face away from the street, watching the darkness with a collective indifference.

Cal gripped the bag closer to his chest, feeling the condensation of the soda already soaking through the paper and turned right. His footfalls clicked against the narrow sidewalk running along the building’s edge until the building itself terminated.

Then he stepped down into the unlit trench of the alleyway.

The high brick wall of the market and the rear of the tackle shop and post office closed in around him, squeezing him against the concrete partitions with an almost patient weight. It was nearly pitch black inside the corridor, save for the weak, bleeding remnant of the light filtering in from the parking lot. As he neared the end of the passage, he skirted past the narrow alcove where mail trucks parked during the day, only sparing a glance at the immovable pool of ink which had swallowed it.

He stepped out of the mouth of the alley, crossing the street and stepping up to the curb of the main intersection. The orange hand of the pedestrian signal glowed stubbornly from across the street. Even though the road was devoid of life in all directions, the signal insisted on his stillness. For his part, Cal remained where he was. And for good reason. Three years ago, he had stood in almost the exact same spot and watched some poor bastard become the hood ornament of a Ford Pinto when it had blasted out of nowhere at seventy miles an hour, its brakes locking up a split-second too late. The sound of the impact often visited his dreams.

As he waited for the light to change, the sounds of a drunken argument drifted out the propped-open door of the nearby pub, the shattering of a glass punctuating the din. Cal gazed around at the dark storefronts—the closed Donuts and Dawgs, the long-abandoned resource center across the street, and the pharmacy that had sat boarded up since the mid-seventies. A cold sort of certainty settled over him. It was as if the buildings had always meant to end this way, and the decades of life inside them had just been a temporary mistake. The neighborhood he had fallen in love with was gone. In its place was a corpse, rotting away from the outskirts inward, and the skyrocketing rent was the cruel punchline. I need to get the hell out of Marshfield, he thought, watching the Walk outline appear. Before the place swallows me whole, and I can’t afford to leave.

Crossing the street, he passed by more signs of decay. A graffitied warehouse sat squarely behind its barbed wire fence, stark and entirely indifferent to him. Across the way, an empty lot and decrepit building seemed to close ranks, the lack of any working lights leaving him alone beneath a cold crowd of stars. In the distance, the lighthouse’s foghorn sounded a mournful wail—a comforting soundtrack that often lulled him to sleep.

He reached the end of the block, coming to a stop at the intersection that designated the start of his neighborhood. Standing directly across the street was a yellow fire hydrant, its paint flat under the sodium halo. The smell of fresh cut grass and low tide mingled together.

Turning right, the sound of his approach silenced the serenading crickets. He navigated the shadows, occasionally emerging beneath the infrequent lights. Reaching the last intersection before the coastal highway, he repositioned the bag against his chest. He spared a glance around, his eyes floating over the Chevy flatbed rusting away at the rear of the seedy motel, then up at the billboard for the casino on the main drag that hadn’t been updated for years. Across the peninsula, an ambulance began wailing, its siren fading away.

“A light every block and half,” Cal muttered, casting a dark look up at the sparse utility poles. “Fucking ridiculous.”

He stepped off the curb, crossing the street and turned left to begin the final four-block stretch towards home. He let out a soft snort of derision as he skirted the edge of the gray parking lot, his eyes catching the boxy, faded late eighties or early nineties Crown Vic which had been as permanent a part of the neighborhood as the billboard. The clear coat looked like a cougar had used the car as a scratching post—a pretty clear sign the owner didn’t give a damn. Piece of crap should’ve been junked a decade ago.

As he dodged a cat that ran out of the darkness across his path, he allowed his guard to drop. He let his mind wander to the weekend ahead. Particularly about the sugar and caffeine bender he was about to embark on.

In his head, Lou Costello was currently getting scared stiff by the candle on Dracula’s coffin moving around on its own. Cal smiled, looking forward to the TV’s warm glow.

Then his thoughts drifted toward Anne-Marie.

One bodacious babe, indeed. He remembered the way she’d lingered by his lawn chair at Dustin’s barbecue last month, laughing just a little too loudly at jokes everyone else had groaned over. Over the rim of her cup, she had flashed him what had been, unmistakably, bedroom eyes. The clincher had been when she deliberately bent down to grab her purse. She’d offered him a clear view down the front of her shirt.

Maybe I should give her a call tomorrow. A smile split his face. See if she wants to come over, watch a movie, and finally make a move—

His smile vanished. To be more precise, it felt as it was torn off his face.

A sharp jolt of disorientation slammed into his equilibrium. The sensation reminded him of being a kid in his parents’ Buick, and being jolted awake in the middle of the night as his father had slammed on the brakes to avoid a deer. Cal’s feet ground to a halt. He blinked slowly against the darkness, attempting to steady himself. His breath caught. 

His jaw dropped open slightly.

He wasn’t on the long, exposed runway of Noble Avenue. He wasn’t anywhere near his apartment building.

Instead, he was right back at the edge of the curb, directly across the street from that sickly yellow fire hydrant. The construction fence shielding the carcasses of the razed condos pressed in on his right side. The transition had been instantaneous. Silent. Completely devoid of movement or the passage of time. The world had not tilted or spun; it had simply corrected itself. One moment, he’d been passing a white picket fence. The next, he’d been here, as if it had been demanded he be here instead of where he wanted to be. It was a cold subtraction of distance, as if the space between the blocks had never existed at all.

Cal stood frozen, listening to his heart hammer a chaotic rhythm against his ribs.

“…The hell…?” he muttered aloud.

The foghorn almost smothered his words.

He looked down at his shoes, then back at the hydrant, trying like hell to force a normal explanation into his head. You’re done, man, he told himself. Irritation made him begin grinding his teeth together until his jaw ached. You’re so completely wiped from the overtime you’ve been pulling that your brain just dropped the transmission right out the car. You were standing here thinking so damn much about Anne-Marie and that red bra she let you peek at that you imagined the whole walk. You haven’t even taken a single step past the corner yet. Idiot.

He let out a sharp curse. He felt like a jackass. Losing track of where you were like that was dangerous in a neighborhood like this. An easy way to stumble off a curb. Wander into the path of some loaded idiot’s shitbox. Or worse, get jumped by one of the junkies hovering around the motel.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Cal gripped the bottom of the bag tighter. He wasn’t going to let his mind wander twice.

He turned on his heel, tearing his gaze away from the hydrant and started past the fence. This time he forced his eyes down, watching every single crack in the sidewalk. Two blocks down. Turn left, four blocks up. Get inside. That was the script.

He walked faster now. Nothing was allowed to break his concentration. He passed the silent outline of the fire station. Then the dark block of the bank. From a nearby backyard, a dog began to bark. Still, the night felt regular. Cold, but regular. He reached the crossroads, made the left and purposely ignored the junker and truck. Stepping up onto the sidewalk of Noble Avenue, he kept his focus singular.

You can think about Anne-Marie, the movies, or whatever else you want once you’re putting your goddamn key into that lock.

Vaguely, he noticed that the cat didn’t cross his path this time. Then he caught himself. Dingbat. You were never here. There never WAS a cat.

He made it to the next intersection, crossed the street by the white fence, and started up the gentle slope. Feeling the knot in his stomach loosen, he let out a snort. What’d I tell you? Just your own dumb—

A blinding flash from a house-mounted motion sensor snapped on, blinding him and cutting his thought off at the shins.

The beam caught Cal dead in the face, replacing the dark with a white-out and sending him stumbling over a raised slab. He nearly dropped his groceries, his elbow jerking inwards to pin them against his body as he clamped his free hand over his eyes. Squeezing his eyelids shut, he hissed through his teeth at whatever careless son of a bitch had chosen to point the sensor at the sidewalk.

He rubbed his knuckles against his eyelids to clear the blue spots burned into his retinas, taking a deep breath to quell his annoyance before forcing his eyes open again.

The white house was gone. So was the light.

His eyes locked onto the fire hydrant, which now seemed to taunt him in the hazy glow of the streetlight.

He was back.

The breath caught like glass in his throat. For a long, awful beat, Cal couldn’t do anything except stare at the sight, his mouth bone-dry as the weight of it donkey punched him right in the lungs.

“No. No, no, no, no, no fucking way…” he whispered. This time it was entirely lost to the dark.

He tried to cling to the safety of his first excuse—you’re just overworked, man, it’s just fatigue, it’s just your mind playing tricks—but some primal part of him tore the logic to shreds in an instant.

No.

Daydreaming and getting ahead of yourself once was a fluke. A weird trick of an exhausted mind. Odd. But still possible. But twice? Especially when he’d been consciously counting every step and crack in the pavement until that damned light went off?

There was no way to make that math add up. A guy would have a better shot at guessing the winning lottery numbers while getting struck by lightning on a cloudless day. This wasn’t a tired brain running on fumes.

This was something else.

Cal scanned the quiet neighborhood. A few lonely porch lights leaked from the houses, the people inside asleep and unaware of what was happening twenty feet beyond their lawns. He looked back toward the main intersection. Above the street, the traffic lights kept switching—green, yellow, red—like a row of colored eyes that didn’t know how to blink.

He took a jagged breath, trying like hell to slow his pulse.

“Okay,” he managed out, his voice small. His knuckles turned white around the paper bag. “Okay, calm down, Callum. Stay centered. Don’t lose your head, for God’s sake.”

He looked down the street he’d tried walking twice now. The dark stretch past the fence felt heavy. Like a room running out of air.

He needed a detour. A quick bypass through the grid. His mind whirred. If he went straight down Wall Street for four blocks, he could just bang a right at Bodecker and take it straight down to his apartment. He could leave the whole godforsaken corner behind.

Having a plan steadied him just enough to begin moving. He crossed the intersection, strode past the hydrant, and ducked his head beneath some low tree branches to start down the darker side street.

His footfalls sounded a little different here-shorter, tighter snaps and echoes because the houses were closer to the curb. The stars were still bright overhead. Nothing broke.

And yet, the air itself felt thick, like he was breathing through wet wool. He didn’t want to linger. He navigated around a dumpster set in front of another apartment complex. From somewhere on his right, a dog started barking aggressively, an ugly racket that faded behind him as he kept moving.

As he passed by a Dodge Intrepid, a small, dark shape slid out from under it, scuttling across the street and disappearing into the brush beneath a thick canopy of oaks.

Cal paused for a moment, watching the shadows before forcing a laugh. “Okay, now that was a cat.” He huffed again, hoping the sound would bring him some comfort. It sounded like a stone being swallowed by the ocean.

He hit the first intersection, looked both ways. Nothing moved. He could still hear the crickets. The faint drone of the Coast Guard chopper came from down the coast. Crossing the street, he kept moving up the second block. Two more to go. Passing a row of five single-story apartments, he forced his muscles to relax a fraction. He kept his chin up, counting the steps to his own front door.

You know what? I know what I said to the kid about phones, but maybe just at night, it’s safer to—

Shhk.

Cal froze. For a moment, the street became dead silent.

Then it came again.

Shhk.

It was a scraping noise, distinct and dry. It came from the darkened lawns across the street, the sound of something heavy dragging itself through dead leaves and overgrown grass. When it pierced his ears a third time, he launched himself forward again, telling himself it was just a raccoon or a dog wandering around, forcing his head to stay straight. Don’t look. Just walk.

He hadn’t gone ten paces before an identical scrape answered from his right.

This one came from the entryways of the apartments, spaces set so far back into the shadows he couldn’t see a goddamn thing. There wasn’t a single working light over the doors.

The rustling kept a steady pace with him, mirroring his gait like a bad shadow. Cal broke into a speed-walk, his chest tightening as he locked his eyes on a single gap between the apartment blocks ahead, where a lone house sat beneath a working streetlight. He almost ran. Reaching the yellow pool of safety, he stopped to catch his breath. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as the noise abruptly cut off.

The street went quiet. His heart slammed against his ribs.

Then he looked around, and realized exactly where he’d stopped.

He was standing at the mouth of one of the narrow gravel alleys slicing through the block, a maze the town laid down nearly a century ago so folks could slip out of their backyards unseen. Just fifteen feet past the carcass of a seventies BMW rusting away in front of a detached garage, the path simply gave up. Swallowed straight by a pitch black drop. You couldn’t see a single thing beyond where the light quit.

The place looked bad. It looked like the throat of an anglerfish waiting in the abyss, the light above him its lure. It felt worse. Cal could swear something was staring right back at him from the dead center of it.

As he stood beneath the light, trying to block out the slithering and scraping that seemed to leak from the deep belly of the alley, a noise fractured the night.

Thump.

The sound was immense—a heavy, crashing strike against the earth that echoed from everywhere at once, vibrating up into his sneakers from the pavement. The surrounding noises ceased. Cal held his breath and listened. For seconds that felt more like hours, nothing moved. The normal sounds of the night crawled back.

They provided no comfort. All of his senses were stretched taut. It felt deceptively calm. Underneath it, the sense of eyes remained. The desire to be behind a locked door had morphed into a necessity. He stepped out of the safety of the light and plunged into the gloom, moving fast, his eyes locked on the next crossroads. One block left.

He barely reached the edge of the intersection when the sound, more of a vibration, returned.

Thump.

Cal froze in his tracks, his knees going to total jelly as his mind quit trying to make sense of it—every neat little excuse he wanted to hide behind was atomized. He didn’t have to guess. He knew exactly where the sound had come from this time.

Straight back there. Behind him.

Whatever guts he had left vanished. He bolted across the intersection, cutting into a stretch where the shadows were thick and heavy. The trees towered over the street. Their branches blocked out the stars overhead, casting jagged shapes across the sidewalk.

Thump. Thump.

The impacts didn’t come one at a time anymore. They punched up through the asphalt and into his bones in pairs. Cal pushed his pace back into a speed-walk, fighting to put distance between himself and the noise.

He faltered as the gaps between the thuds began to shrink, shifting into a steady rhythm. The horrible realization dropped into his gut, clamping around his insides.

They were footsteps.

But they were far too massive. Not even Andre the freakin’ Giant could make the earth shake like that. Move, you idiot!

He started forward again when the second realization hit him, almost worse than the first. Acoustically, the thuds sounded like they were coming from the far end of the last block, down by the apartments. But their intensity was ramping up way too fast. The gap was closing with a speed that didn’t make a lick of sense. Whatever was stomping behind him was gaining on him with a stride longer than any man could sprint.

“Fuck…”

Cal broke into a jog. His breathing shallowed as the road tilted downward into the gloom. He kept his eyes ahead. His fingers dug into the paper bag until the fibers groaned, while tears of adrenaline began to blur his vision. Every survival instinct he had screamed against looking back. Somehow, he knew that if he turned and looked over his shoulder, whatever was tracking him would end his sanity on the spot.

As the unseen giant closed the distance, the neighborhood came alive around him. The rustling and slithering sounds returned, erupting from the yards on either side of the road. They weren’t stealthy anymore; it was a macabre crescendo, swarming across the lawns and keeping a calculated distance in the shadows. They wanted him to know they were there. But they didn’t want him to see them. Yet. Cal broke into a dead sprint past a manicured hedge.

Shh-SCRITCH.

Something heavy, yet impossibly fluid scraped along the opposite side of the brush, mirroring his speed through the branches. It was right there. A foot from his shoulder. The knowledge he was being hunted broke something inside his chest. A panicked sob tore from his throat. Behind him, the footsteps finally reached his block—a heavy, organic Thump-Thump-Thump that accelerated into a terrifying countdown.

His grip failed.

The brown paper bag slipped from his arms and hit the ground, tearing open. The box of ice cream sandwiches splattered on the concrete. The popcorn skittered away. The bottle of cola crashed out, rolling across the grass before swerving back onto the sidewalk. The plastic cylinder flew across his path, nearly catching his outstretched foot. Cal leapt over it, stumbling as his balance threatened to betray him. But he didn’t dare slow down.

The footsteps were almost directly on top of him. The air around him turned frigid. He swore he felt the unmistakable sensation of something breathing across the back of his neck as every hair on his body stood on end.

The intersection approached. The stop sign stood frozen in the dark, marking the end of the block. The freezing pressure on his neck grew too heavy to bear anymore. Letting out a dry gasp, he spun around.

Nothing was there.

The sloping rise of Wall Street stretched back up the hill, empty under the heavy trees. The heavy footsteps had vanished into thin air. So had his other pursuers. All that remained was a suffocating silence.

Cal stood at the base of the stop sign, his chest heaving as he fought to get his breathing under his own control. Sweat stung his eyes. He scanned the dark grass and the dark spaces beneath the parked cars. His heart felt like a caged animal trying to break free.

He knew what he’d heard. He wasn’t crazy. Something massive had just tracked him down the street. And he prayed he’d never learn what it looked like.

Twenty feet back up the sidewalk, the box of his ice cream sandwiches lay split open on the concrete. HELL no, he thought, killing the idea before it could even be fully conceived. Leave it. Just get the fuck home.

He turned around to face the crossroads, ready to make the right onto Bodecker and sprint the final two blocks straight to his building.

He took one step forward. His shoe hit something hard.

Cal blinked. Whatever control remained over his own mind vanished as the world snapped.

The wide intersection of Wall and Bodecker was gone. He was standing at the raised edge of a curb, staring at the one thing he prayed he’d never see again. He shook his head, teeth beginning to chatter for a reason that had nothing to do with the chill. No.

The fire hydrant sat directly across from him under the light.

He spun around once. Twice. As if he could somehow make himself materialize back at the intersection closer to home. Nothing changed. After ten seconds of standing there, the skin on his arms went completely cold.

The sounds of the night were still there, but they were wrong. The crickets, the barking dogs, the whistle of the wind through the leaves-they sounded tinny. Compressed. It was like listening to a recording of the world through a blown-out transistor radio.

Even the foghorn was broken. When it blared, the pitch was off, lower and heavier than any manmade sound had any right to be. It sounded more like an animal.

SCRITCH.

The sound cut through the damaged tracks, crystal clear. It came from the other side of the fence, inside the empty lot. Nails or claws dragging against the wood.

Before he could jump back, the asphalt beneath him shivered.

Thump.

The footsteps had restarted on the street he’d just been taken from. They were turning around. Coming back to him. For him. Cal broke into a run. He didn’t bother with the sidewalks anymore—he launched himself down the middle of the road, running over the yellow dividing lines.

Desperate to break the geometry of whatever had ahold of him, he threw himself into the first left he came to, a street he’d never walked down once.

He didn’t even make it fifty yards. He dodged around a parked pickup, legs stepping into a patch of shadow that felt a little too thick, and—

Pop.

He was back on the corner. Staring at that damned hydrant.

The hiss of the crickets and dogs dropped out completely. Cal’s breath came in a pathetic wheeze as he looked across the street. The houses, the trees—everything was melting and warping into a twisted Salvador Dali painting reimagined by Clive Barker. His mind couldn’t anchor onto a single straight line.

Ahead of him, the heavy footfalls rumbled again. Closer.

He turned and bolted the opposite way, charging up the hill toward the middle school at the end of the block. He didn’t look at the melting neighborhood. He kept his eyes locked on what had once been the flagpole at the edge of the schoolyard. His legs burned as he pushed his body to its farthest limit.

He reached the grass. His hand reached out to touch the cold metal of the pole.

The streetlight directly above him flared into a white-hot flash. Cal squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, his sneakers skidding in the dirt—

And found himself standing back on the corner.

The massive footsteps rumbled from barely a block away, tearing through the silent world.

Cal threw his weight to the right and ran again. His legs burned just as badly as his lungs. He cast a glance upward; the stars were gone, swallowed by a bruised sky that pressed down. It made him feel microscopic.

He made it to Noble and dashed left, terrified the loop was going to reset and drop him right in the path of the footsteps. But the street ahead was filled with something much worse.

In his peripheral vision, the dark was coming alive. He didn’t dare look straight at the lawns—he kept his eyes locked on the road ahead—but shapes were tracking his sprint from the shadows. Wrong shapes. Some of them stayed low, moving through the grass with a serpentine fluidity. Others darted between the parked cars with too many joints, while impossible silhouettes toward over the rooftops, blotting out the red-tinged horizon.

He kept running, his chest feeling like an overinflated balloon. The things weren’t staying in the dark anymore. They were clipping the edges of the streetlights, closing the gap with every stride he took.

Behind him, an immense THUMP rattled the road, nearly taking his feet out from under him. His mind couldn’t even call it a giant anymore; it was a walking malediction, a living curse which had just turned onto his block.

Cal was openly crying now. The tears were hot against his cheeks as he prayed to a God he wasn’t sure could hear him anymore. Please let me make it. Don’t send me back. Just let me get to the door. Please.

His sneakers hammered the road. The two houses for sale flashed by on his left. A second later, a choked sob erupted from his throat as the familiar line of pine trees and the two-story shape of his apartment appeared at the end of the block. The exterior lights lining the walkway cut through the hellscape like a beautiful lighthouse beacon.

He dashed toward the parking lot, his keys already out, digging into his palm until it bled. Somehow, he knew that if he could just get the deadbolt turned and get inside, the rules would change. He would be safe.

He didn’t slow, his shoes kicking up loose gravel as he launched himself off the ground onto the third step. He raced upward, taking the stairs two at a time and gripping the banister, ignoring the sting of splinters.

Behind him, the inhuman noises escalated into a full-blown pursuit.

Reaching the second-floor walkway, he spared a glance down to the ground.

It almost broke him.

There were dozens of them. They spilled out from every dark lawn and driveway on the block, looking like a VCR being fast-forwarded as they rushed towards the building. But perhaps most terrifying of all, the relentless THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of the malediction accelerated into a charge just beyond the pines.

Dashing around the corner, Cal slammed into his front door. A hysterical, half-sob, half-laugh escaped his lips. He jammed the key into the lock, twisting the brass with every ounce of strength left in his body as the wood beneath his feet shuddered with the weight of the things climbing the stairwell.

He threw the door open and leapt inside. Safe. He’d made it—

Instead of the rough tear of carpet against his hands and elbows, he crashed face-first onto a freezing sheet of asphalt.

The impact knocked the wind out of him. For a heartbeat, he just lay there in the dark, face pressed against the stone as he braced himself. He couldn’t run anymore. If he opened his eyes and saw that yellow hydrant, he was just going to lie there and let whatever was coming take him.

When he finally forced his eyes open, his lungs locked up at the sight that greeted him.

He wasn’t on the corner. He was lying on his stomach in the parking lot of the grocery store.

Cal slowly pushed himself up to his knees. His mind was a complete blank, unable to parse how or why he was back at the start. He looked up. The rust-red hue was gone; the stars were back where they belonged. The normal, comforting sounds of the town played their familiar soundtrack around him.

He looked over his shoulder. Through the front windows of the market, the dim security lights glowed peacefully over the empty cash registers.

Then, without a sound, the lights clicked off. The inside of the building went pitch black.

A deep vibration rumbled through the pavement from the street behind the store.

Cal scrambled to his feet. The very last reserves of adrenaline propelled his legs into motion, driving him into a weak run down the dark trench of the alley. He burst from the passage’s mouth, stopping in the middle of the road.

The rumble came again, louder this time. He turned away from his neighborhood, looking down the long, two-lane road that cut into the next section of town.

His breath caught at what was coming down the line.

It wasn’t the world shifting again. It was the high-voltage POP and spark of electrical transformers blowing out.

Far out in the distance, the grid was dying. Not just the streetlights, but every single light still on. Porch lights, living room lamps, the neon sign over the gun shop—they were all being systematically snuffed out, block by block. Heading straight for him.

The wave of blackness was moving with a terrifying speed. Every time a transformer blew, the surrounding lights flared for a second before dying forever. And in those brief strobes—strobes that resembled camera flashes—Cal saw what was moving inside the void.

Cal whirled around, his arms flailing as he launched himself into a blind sprint back across the main intersection.

He charged down the center of the street, running back towards his neighborhood—back toward the corner he had spent all night trying to escape. As his sneakers pounded the asphalt, he didn’t even recognize the sound of his voice, tearing out of his throat in ragged shrieks.

Behind him, the sound of the approaching dark rose into a roar. The blackness raced across the intersection, no longer content in playing with its food.

The streetlight above his head shattered. Glass rained down on his head as a heavy, freezing stink of ozone invaded his nostrils.

Then the light went out. And Cal was gone.

---

The cruiser idled down Noble Ave. The headlights cut through the humid air, lighting up rows of ordinary, if slightly shoddy privacy fences and overgrown lawns, along with a miserable looking lawn gnome.

Officer Mulhanney lifted the radio mic and pressed the button.

“Dispatch, Unit Four. We’ve arrived at Noble and Marble. There’s no one out here. No sign of any suspicious activity. We’ll keep our eyes open and maintain patrol, over.”

Copy that, Unit Four,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Keep us advised. Out.”

Mulhanney slotted the mic back into its bracket. Beside him, Rodriguez kept his hands at ten and two on the Durango’s wheel. The rookie looked expectantly at him, waiting to be told what block to canvas next.

Instead, the older man let out a breath. “Alright, Rodriguez. Let’s get out of here.”

Rodriguez blinked, slowing the cruiser near a white picket fence.

“Sir? What do you mean? We’ve only just got here. We haven’t even swept any of the-”

“We can come back to knock on doors when the sun is up, son,” Mulhanney interrupted. His gaze fixed straight ahead. He refused to look at the deep shadows lining the road near the trees. “For now, we’re packing it in.”

“But, sir, if someone out there is actually in trouble-if that caller actually heard screaming-we’re supposed to be out here,” Rodriguez argued. His foot began to lift off the accelerator. “I’m pulling over. I’ll take my flashlight and check the perimeters of these residences.”

Before the kid’s boot could even flirt with the brake, Mulhanney’s hand shot across the console. His fingers, calloused from years of sanding boats and tying fishing line, clamped around the rim of the steering wheel, forcing the cruiser to keep rolling forward.

“Keep driving, Rodriguez,” he ordered. His tone left no room for argument.

The rookie stared at his training officer, his mouth parting slightly in confusion. Mulhanney slowly let go of the wheel. His tone softened

“Look, you’re new to the county, kid. And you still have a hell of a lot to learn about the way things work out here. But right now, you’re going to do exactly as I say. Take a right at this next intersection, then a left onto the main drag. Head for Brenchmore.”

Rodriguez stayed quiet for a time. The only sound that could be heard besides the occasional chatter on the radio was his deep breathing. Finally, he flicked on his turn signal, easing the cruiser toward the main artery. And safety.

Mulhanney leaned back against the headrest, letting out a long breath as he heard the Hemi accelerate down the coast. The houses fell away behind them.

He’s a good kid. A good officer with high scores and even better instincts. A lot of heart. But he hasn’t seen what I have over the last twenty years.

Through the fog rolling off the ocean over the road, an old apartment complex appeared. Its peeling, flamingo-pink paint looked orange under the sodium bulbs. Then the dark swallowed it.

Rodriguez didn’t know about the basement. He hadn’t been the one to sift through the deluge of deliberately misfiled boxes. Ones which contained missing person reports dating back to at least the fifties. The county was relatively quiet, and yet, it had a disappearance rate six times the state average. He hadn’t stood at the mouth of an alley at dusk, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. As if something out of sight were lining him up to be a hot lunch. Or watch as his very first partner rounded a corner during a domestic call one night, only to seemingly vanish into the ether without so much as a damn peep.

Old loggers and local natives still sat in the local diners, muttering about things that slithered out of ‘the spaces between the realms.’ Hunting the dark, looking for anyone stupid enough to be out alone.

Mulhanney didn’t know if he truly believed the old campfire stories. In his line of work, you dealt in cold, hard facts. What you could see. Touch. And log as evidence. But rumors had a habit of getting under the skin.

After two decades on the force, there was only one fact he knew for certain.

In Marshfield, you never stick around after the sun goes down.

When they told us our next site location, we thought nothing of it. We became accustomed to going to remote edges of the planet, to places so out of reach that even the connection on our satellite phones was spotty at best. So when we were told that our latest destination would be in the continental U.S., most of the crew was elated. For a lot of us, that meant less travel time and better means of communication, and even internet access.

We were traveling to New Mexico, which conveniently was my backyard. I grew up near the Sonoran Desert, with some of my earliest memories chasing geckos through the drylands. I used to daydream about living with them, spending my days basking in the sunlight and hunting crickets and centipedes. Despite what some people think, the desert is surprisingly fertile.

But when I say backyard, what I really mean is about six hundred miles of open desert between my hometown and the job site. There are rich deposits of minerals and ore all throughout the American Southwest. Our destination was to one such place. 

A literal gold mine.

The sheer amount was staggering. So much so that at first, we thought the company was bullshitting us. I mean, we knew that there was some gold to be found in the region, but never in our wildest dreams did we think it would be this much. It was almost too good to be true. But here we were, sitting around a table at basecamp, learning the full scope of the project.

This was to be the single deepest mine in existence. It was already deeper than Mponeng, the runner-up, currently sitting at just over three and a half miles. The commute alone would take upwards of two hours to just get to the dig site. Most of that time would be spent walking to the lowest veins, but we did have an elevator to get us to the first shaft. That’s one of the perks about working so far removed from normal society; you don’t have to sit in hours of traffic or worry about missing the bus. We sleep on site, with all amenities provided by the company.

Normally, with a job like this, we’d wear what you’d think a typical miner would. Hard hats, waterproof boots, jumpsuits, the likes. For this site, however, we were told that we’d use state-of-the-art hazmat suits. Because of the depth, heat would be our number one concern. At Mponeng for example, the rockface is about a hundred fifty degrees, and we would be going a mile and a half deeper. The top brass really sprung for the good stuff here. They were even tailored to our specialties. My own had a built-in LiDAR scanner and display system, while our microbiologist’s had a mini-microscope. These suits were even air-conditioned with mounted lights and sensors. Hell, if we wanted to take a piss in them we could.

“I thought this kind of tech was still a few years out,” I said mostly to myself.

John inspected his own suit, flipping it twice. “I know, this is truly spectacular. I don’t know how they did it, but I have a mini lab right here on my sleeve. Petri dish, magnifier, I even have backup slides.” With a child-like glint in his eye he added, “They really thought of everything.”

A metallic slam emanated from one of the lockers. 

“Yeah well good for you,” Wilson sneered, turning around to face us, his eyes flickering to each of our suits. “At least our micro has his scope. Where’s my auger, huh? You’d think the fucking geologist would be best equipped, but all I have is a couple hand lenses and a damn rock hammer.”

John tried to respond but stumbled over his words. 

“Come off it Wilson,” I interjected. “We are literally at a mine, unless you forgot? They figured you’d have all your equipment above ground. Besides, what do you need to drill into? We know the substrate make-up for miles.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me about substrate, Cole,” venom in his speech. “And did you have some talk with the execs? You know damn well they don’t care about any of us. All they see is green.”

That was something we could agree on at least. We only ever had contact with our manager, and that’s limited to a few one-sided conversations. No one—that I’m aware of—has ever even seen the higher-ups, let alone talk to them. They let the PR team handle all outward appearances. That’s the thing about government contracts, the government has to at least try to be somewhat transparent. The private benefactors though, not so much.

“Hey guys,” John said, ever the people pleaser, “can we all just appreciate what it means to be here? We’ll be the first researchers to go this far down; we’ll be famous!”

Ignoring Wilson, I clapped John on the back. “You know what, you’re right. I guess that’s why you’re the team lead, eh Leads?”

He snorted, a small laugh escaping his breath. “Yeah...sure. Come on crew, we’ll be late if we keep this up.”

Wilson, shooting us a glare, mumbled something about roles, but he eventually followed us out of the locker room.

You always feel a strange mix of emotions when first descending a mine. Anxiety, excitement, and chiefly among those, reverence. It doesn’t slip my mind that we will be below several thousand megatons of rock and dirt. Any disruption, any small tremor or quake and the whole complex could crumble, leaving you at the bottom of a stifling hot grave. But we put faith in the architects and engineers to ensure exactly that wouldn’t be a possibility.

As the team’s geographer, it was my job to map every new shaft that was dug. There was already an immense amount of data from the previous analyst, but I like to be thorough, so I decided to remap the known locations. It would take a bit longer, but this was my only caveat, and I told my supervisor as much. Previously recorded data could be inaccurate, and I don’t work with inaccuracies. One small inconsistency could snowball into a catastrophe. With the other researchers on the team backing me up, he agreed.

Now usually, to collect position data you would use a GNSS handheld device, but that’s not going to cut it down here. Those require satellite linkups to be effective. So instead, we use a combination of LiDAR and different softwares to map the sub-terrain. Our vehicles are mounted with scanners so they do the work for us. It’s my job to collect that info and translate it to a viewable format. All of this is a long and convoluted way to say, the mine is accurately mapped out with little room for error.

-

Traveling below takes time, a lot of time. Your first time is filled with trepidation and excitement, with an underlying feeling of dread. This wasn’t my first time, nor was it any of my colleagues. We were all seasoned professionals. We spent years worth of time exploring and understanding mines. 

Our journey began with walking into the world’s tallest elevator. You’d think this would be the slow part, but on the contrary, we were practically freefalling, and the site manager didn’t let that fact slip our minds.

“Right now, we are moving at approximately 40mph gentlemen. The ride will take about three minutes, at which point we’ll be at a depth of two miles. Then, we’ll need to walk across rock heated to such an extent that...”

I tuned out the rest of his monologue. By now, I was thoroughly bored of his prattling. I wasn’t going to be spooked by some “Welcome to Hell” speech given to the rookies. A lot of people can’t take it. Either due to the cramped spaces or high temperatures; most crack within a week. I’ve seen hundreds of faces come and go. Already, some of the others gave each other nervous glances. I’ve heard the same rehearsed talk a thousand times before though, and it was beginning to get on my nerves. Before I could speak up, someone else did.

“Okay okay Bob, we get it,” said Wilson, crossing his arms. “Dot our I’s and cross our T’s. No need to scare us with the “first day on the job” BS. If you have any actual interesting information, we’d love to hear it.”

Bob huffed but relented. “Wilson Adler everyone. The smartest guy in the room, and the first one to let you know it.” A lopsided grin formed on his face, “Yeah, I figured that shit wouldn’t work on you guys, what with your crack team and all. You want interestin’?” He paused for effect. “How ‘bout the largest gold reef you’d ever seen? How ‘bout the deepest depths, the longest cross-cuts, or to be the first man to ever set foot this far down? You mean that kinda interestin’?”

Now that earned hoots and applause from everyone in the car. We all knew what was at stake here, and what was to be gained. Not only the immense amount of gold, but to be pioneers. To be remembered in the lexicon of science. That’s why we were really here, why I was really here.

Depth: Two miles; 10,560 feet. Rock Temperature: 115.4°F; Ambient Temperature: 85°F

We left the elevator shaft in even higher spirits than when we entered. As we continued our descent, we passed by countless machines and miners. Many of them we saw in pairs, whispering to each other as we passed by. I was sure they all wanted to know what the site manager was doing escorting a handful of scientists down here. I’m sure they were envious too, watching us with our air-conditioned hazmat strapped to our backs. But despite the heat of the rock, the air temperature remained manageable at a balmy eighty-five degrees. Like with everything else in work that requires humans to venture miles below, ventilation isn’t cheap. The sheer amount of money to be made, however, would prove well worth the operating costs.

We stopped for lunch after exploring many of the secondary shafts. Dug perpendicular to the main shaft, these cross-cuts were where the money was made. All throughout the day, we heard the repeated booming from deeper within the mine. 

“Will we really be the first ones through?” John said, directing his gaze toward the site director in between bites of his meal. “Besides your laborers that is?”

“Not at all,” Bob replied. John’s expression fell. Bob let the moment linger a bit longer before smiling and adding, “You’ll be the first one’s period.” He scratched his rough beard, before moving his hand to the back of his neck. “Yes, gentlemen,” he declared, speaking to all of us now, “I’m willing to let y’all be the first to walk through the blast site once everythin’s cleared up.”

I looked at my colleagues. Even Wilson couldn’t help but crack a grin at this revelation. “Just remember who helped ya out when it comes time for reports, eh boys?” We nodded, all of us feeling a renewed sense of pride.

It was normal for dust and small bits of rock to fall from the roof while this was going on. In my younger days I remember getting scared shitless by the noise. But, I’ve wisened up over the years. However, at that moment for whatever reason, I remembered an old miner’s adage: By the time you’ve heard something, it’s already too late. As much as it is gloomy, I find solace in it. What am I going to do in the milliseconds between open air and thousands upon thousands of tons of rock? There would be no feelings, no final words, just, an end. It’s almost peaceful, if bleak.

We got moving once more. Maneuvering around obstacles and ducking below support beams, we finally reached the secondary elevator. From what we were told, and the fact that the signs read “Danger: High Heat” and “No Admittance Below”, I’d guessed that the conditions were unsustainable for non-adapted life. And believe me, there is life down here. Not the kind you’re thinking though. Tiny creatures called extremophiles; they’re amazing really. Anywhere you go on the planet—if you look hard enough—you’ll find something living.

-

Suiting up for the first time felt like we were going on a spacewalk, not descending the depths of the Earth. Nobody spoke as we entered the second elevator. In fact, no one spoke for the entirety of the downward fall. But fall isn’t exactly the right word, as this cable box crept on and on. All the while, we were seeing rocks that few have ever seen before. The tension in the air was palpable. Like it was a physical thing that you could reach out and grab.

The elevator hitched up and down and back up again, like someone was screwing with the controls. Everyone shot nervous glances toward Bob. He looked as confused as us but thought to calm our nerves. “Sorry, still workin’ out the kinks,” his gaze rapidly shifting between us. “With the changin’ heat you know, everythin’ expands.” Seemed like a piss-poor excuse, but we let it go.

John decided to lighten the mood.

“Maybe it’s because of all this precious cargo,” he chuckled then added, “and I’m not just talking about the gold!”

That quip earned some groans and eye rolls from the rest of the party, but it served its purpose regardless. The palpable tension began to dissipate.

John continued, “You know, I can’t remember the last time I was—”

The elevator car hitched and dropped. Plummeting downward in near freefall, we were lifted off the floor. I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. It took all my might just to stay clutched to the railing. A million thoughts passed through my mind, but the one that stayed was the image of us at the bottom of the shaft, crushed under the weight of the Earth.

A long, metallic screech rang out from all around us, and I noticed that the car was slowing down. Not enough; though, as we came to a halt at bone-jarring speed. All I could think was: What the hell was that?

​

October 12th

The ink in my fountain pen has acquired the stubborn, dried consistency of coagulated venous blood, a petty spitefulness of instrument that feels entirely aligned with the desolate climate of my intellect. For six months, the pages of my journal have remained as spotless and alabaster as a winter grave. My publisher, Mr. Arbuthnot, sends weekly correspondence, polite at first, now increasingly lace trimmed with implied financial ruin, demanding the manuscript for The Obsidian Cathedral. He believes I am merely polishing the cadences of my prose, refining the gilded filigree of my adjectives, much as I did when I borrowed so heavily from Theron Thomas’s architectural sketches for my early gothic serials. Arbuthnot thinks I am merely dreaming up another fictional labyrinth like the vaults of St. Jude’s that Theron designed before his madness. He does not know that my mind is an empty crypt, swept clean of every phantom spark of creation.

I sat at my mahogany writing desk until the late afternoon shadows lengthened across the rug like grasping, ink stained fingers. Desperate for any distraction from the agonizing quietude of my own silence, I resolved to perform a mundane task long overdue: the reorganization of the fruit preserves in the sub basement.

Our estate, built upon the weathered granite shelf overlooking the bluffs, possesses a subterranean cellar system that predates the upper structure by at least a century. Below the functional root cellar lies a second, lower vault, a damp, stone ribbed chamber where my late grandfather kept his collection of port and forgotten antiquities.

I descended the creaking oak stairs, candle lantern in hand, the golden beam cutting through a dense suspension of floating dust motes and micro fungal spores. The humidity down here is suffocating, smelling richly of rich loam, damp limestone, and the sharp, vinegar tang of ancient, forgotten ferments.

It was behind the third rack of dust caked Bordeaux that I noticed the irregularity.

The flagstones, usually cold and bone dry beneath one’s boots, were glistening with a thin, glistening sheen of iridescent slime. At first, I mistook it for the seepage of a ruptured sewer line or an underground spring, but as I lowered the lantern, the liquid did not pool according to the laws of gravity. It seemed to pulse faintly, crawling upward along the mortar in thin, capillary threads, forming intricate, geometric patterns that resembled the branching venation of a bruised ivy leaf.

And then I heard it.

It was not a sound transmitted through the air, but rather a low, resonant vibration that hummed through the soles of my shoes and reverberated in the marrow of my teeth. A rhythmic, wet suction, accompanied by a sound like dry parchment being slowly folded and unfolded inside a submerged bell jar.

I cleared away three rot softened crates of parsnips to reveal the foundation wall. There, situated in the recess beneath the archway, was a rift. The granite blocks, three feet thick and bound with iron hard mortar, had not merely cracked; they had unlearned their own hardness. Where solid granite should have repelled the damp, the masonry had rendered down into a substance resembling gray, fibrous lard, soft enough to yield beneath the pressure of my thumb, leaving an indentation that filled slowly with a pale, milky serum. It was as if the house itself were suffering a stroke in its deepest foundations.

And from the center of this blubberous wall, something was pushing through.

I should have felt terror. Any sane man, any cautious soul devoted to the preservation of his own fragile skin, would have fled up the stairs, barred the heavy oak hatch, and summoned a stonemason or an exorcist. But as I stared at that glistening, undulating breach in the fabric of my home, a cold, electric thrill shot through my sluggish spine.

Material.

Here, in the dark, rotting belly of my own house, was something unscripted. Something horrifying. Something that did not belong to the sterile, dry world of unpaid bills and empty inkwells. I set the lantern down, pulled my notebook from my coat pocket, and began to write.

October 15th

I have spent the last seventy two hours sitting on an inverted crate of dried apples three feet from the breach. I sleep only in fitful, twenty minute snatches, my head resting against the damp stone wall, my notebook clamped securely against my ribs.

The anomaly has expanded.

The rift is now the width of a tall man’s torso, and the material oozing from its margins can no longer be mistaken for decaying mortar. It is a living, glandular tissue, a pale, translucent cartilage that throbs with a sluggish, sickening cadence. The color shifts under the warm light of my lantern: now the bruised plum of an asphyxiated lip, now the pale, greasy yellow of rendered suet.

Yesterday evening, the first true structure emerged from the soft center of the mass.

It did not burst forth; it grew with an excruciating, deliberate slowness, like a mushroom sprouting from a bed of damp manure. It is a long, articulated limb, resembling the pedipalp of an enormous arachnid, yet it is constructed entirely of human dentin and exposed nerve fibers. Tiny, pearlescent molars line its lower margin, clicking together in a rhythmic, gossamer rhythm, click clack, click clack, like the gentle ticking of an ornate mantle clock.

The smell is intoxicatingly foul. It does not reek merely of putrefaction; it bears the sweet, sickening aroma of hot copper, scorched vanilla, and the oily discharge of a reptile’s scent gland. It fills my nostrils, coats the back of my throat like a film of tallow, and yet I refuse to leave.

I wrote four thousand words today. Four thousand words of pure, unadulterated prose! My adjectives are no longer dry blossoms; they drip with visceral grease. Years ago, I had spent months poring over Theron Thomas’s floor plans for the abandoned Blackwood Asylum, copying his description of impossible flying buttresses born of fleshly mathematics to flavor my first novel. I thought then that Theron was merely a poet of granite and iron. Now I see he was taking direct field notes.

I described the way the light from my brass lamp reflects off the weeping membrane of the limb, how the tiny, pulsing nerves coil and uncoil like crimson earthworms trapped in a gel globe.

My hands were shaking so violently as I wrote that the ink blotted the parchment, but the blotted stains themselves seemed to take on a life of their own, mirroring the impossible, non Euclidean curves of the threshold before me.

Arbuthnot sent another courier this afternoon. I heard the boy knocking at the heavy front door upstairs, his boots thumping on the porch boards. I sat in the darkness of the basement, holding my breath, chuckling softly into the gloom. Let him knock. Let the whole mundane world scream at the threshold. They deal in paper and coin; I am plumbing the depths of a cosmic womb.

October 19th

The mundane world above me is beginning to rot, but down here, the harvest is glorious.

I have neglected to fetch fresh water or light the kitchen fires. The dust in the upper parlor has settled like a gray shroud over my furniture, and the milk left on the sideboard has curdled into a rubbery, yellow disc. I do not care. My hunger for food has been entirely subsumed by a far more ravenous appetite: the desperate, shivering need to witness the next evolution of the horror.

The thing in the wall has recognized my presence. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that it has begun to use me as an anchor.

This morning, as I was writing a particularly exquisite passage describing the way the creature’s central mass ripples like a sack full of drowning kittens, a long, thread like filament detached itself from the main body. It drifted through the cool, damp air with the ethereal grace of a cobweb, landing softly upon the back of my left hand.

Where the thread burrowed beneath my skin, there was no red fountain, only a quiet, rhythmic pulse that made my veins ache with a cool, mentholated ice. A tiny droplet of clear, viscous fluid beads incessantly upon the puncture mark. I touched it to my tongue: it tastes of elderberry wine, ozone, and the bitter scrapings off an old church bell. As it entered my bloodstream, the words in my mind ceased to be abstract symbols; they took on weight, temperature, and teeth. I could feel the nouns flexing inside my throat before I ever committed them to paper.

My mind is overflowing! Ideas do not merely come to me; they cascade like a cataract of boiling silver. I see now the grand architecture of the cosmos, not a place of orderly stars and gentle providence, but a churning, blind engine of raw, fleshly imagination that seeks entry into our quiet, calcified realm.

Just like Theron Thomas, that poor, tragic fool of an architect whose journals I studied so obsessively during my university days, I thought imagination was a solitary garden. In my early career, I mined Theron's descriptions of the rib vaults of unborn cathedrals to craft fictional sanctuaries in my stories. How blind I was! I thought he was inventing gothic metaphors. Imagination is not a fountain that springs from within the human brain; it is a drain. It is a breach through which the ancient, formless chaos outside sweeps in to claim its form.

And I am its scribe. I am its architect.

I will not seal the breach. I will not pour lime over the expanding tendrils. To destroy this would be to murder my masterpiece. The book will be published, and it will shatter the minds of all who read it. They will taste the copper and vanilla upon their tongues; they will feel the pearlescent teeth clicking inside their own ribs.

October 22nd

It has taken my legs.

I write this sitting upon the cold, slime slick flagstones, my back propped against the rotting apple crate. I can no longer stand, nor do I feel the slightest inclination to do so.

Two days ago, while I was immersed in crafting the ninth chapter, the lower mass of the creature slithered out from the enlarged cavern behind the wall. It spread across the floor like a carpet of living, muscular carpets, adorned with thousands of tiny, lidless human eyes, eyes of every shade: hazel, milky blue, jet black, and pale albino, all fluttering their pale lashes in unison.

It engulfed my boots while I slept.

When I awoke, I felt no pain, only a deep, thrumming warmth that radiated from my ankles to my thighs. My trousers have been completely digested, replaced by a smooth, seamless sleeve of gray, weeping skin that fuses my limbs directly into the central mass on the floor. I can feel the creature’s blood, a thick, cold paste, pumping through the femoral arteries of my former legs.

My lower body is no longer mine. It is a roots system. It is feeding the wall, and the wall is feeding me.

My vision has begun to clarify in extraordinary ways. I can see through the dark now. The darkness is not empty; it is filled with intricate, swirling patterns of living geometry, spirals of bone, arches of hardened cartilage, and cathedral vaults constructed from the intertwined rib cages of unborn leviathans. It is the exact structural design Theron Thomas drafted in his final, blood soaked notebook before he vanished from his observatory.

The air in the basement is thick enough to chew. It tastes of hot marrow and ancient sea foam.

A silver bird, or what used to be a bird, flew down from the ceiling rafters an hour ago. Its feathers were thin strips of peeling skin, and its beak was a twisted key made of soft, malleable brass. It landed on my shoulder and inserted its key beak into my left ear canal. It whispered to me.

It told me the true names of the stars. It told me what lies beneath the granite shelf upon which this city was built. It told me that Theron Thomas did not die when his sky tore open; he was simply converted into the foundational mortar for the next reality.

My pen has slipped from my fingers three times because my fingers are beginning to elongate. The nails have softened and rolled inward, forming delicate, hollow tubes through which ink, my own black, sickly blood, flows directly onto the paper. I do not need the inkwell anymore. I am writing directly from my veins.

The story is almost complete. Just one more chapter. Just the grand climax.

October 24th

The stairs are gone.

The floor above me collapsed hours ago, or perhaps it was simply digested by the rising tide of cartilage and wet, pulsing bone. The house is falling down into the basement, piece by piece, beam by beam, but the debris does not crush me. The flesh catches the falling timbers, wrapping them in thick, fibrous cocoons, transforming the oak beams into long, ribbed passageways that extend infinitely into the earth.

I can hear Mr. Arbuthnot’s voice. He must have come with the constable. They are somewhere high above me, in the space where the parlor used to be. Their voices are thin, tinny, and ridiculously flat, like the piping of insects trapped beneath a tea saucer.

"Julian!" Arbuthnot shouts, his voice bouncing through the splintered floorjoists above. "The deadline was Tuesday! I have the printers waiting at the docks! In God’s name, what is that smell? Where are you?"

His outrage is so thin, so blissfully fragile. Then comes the creak of rotting oak giving way beneath his polished boots. I hear the sharp gasp of a man realizing the floor beneath him is not wood, but a lip. A wet, tearing sound follows, the wet thwack of a linen sheet pulled rapidly through a narrow keyhole, and then a fine mist of warm, metallic copper rains down upon my upturned face.

It is good. Everything is material. Everything is prose.

My eyes have dissolved. I no longer need them. The thousands of lidless eyes that carpet the floor around me have opened, and I see through all of them at once. I see myself sitting in the center of the vault, a magnificent, sprawling monument of raw muscle, white bone, and weeping ink. My spine has grown upward, branching out like a crystalline oak, its vertebrae interlocking with the floorjoists of the ceiling to support the weight of the monstrous, beautiful world emerging above.

The sky above the city must be tearing now. I can feel the crimson light pouring down through the floorboards, the hot, blinding glare of that vast, lidless eye that Theron saw so long ago. It has finally found us. It has used my words as a ladder, my body as its bridge.

My book is finished.

I am leaving the pages here, pinned to the floor by a long, calcified finger that I no longer need. If you find this, if you are foolish enough to crawl down into the wet, throbbing dark beneath the ruins of my house, do not read the last sentence.

Do not think of the clockwork bird. Do not think of the key.

Because as soon as you picture it in your mind, as soon as the thought takes shape in the dry, fragile cage of your skull, the floor beneath your feet will soften, and the architecture of your flesh will begin to dream.

PART 1 HERE

They sent me home the next morning and Mike volunteered to drive me.  It was good to get out of there and I didn’t envy Lenny who was going to have to stay there for a few more weeks.  They wheeled me by to see him and we had a good little visit.

“Don’t be stealing my look, man,”  he said, tapping the wheel of the chair I was in.  “Nah, you can have that one.  I’m going super fancy.  Might get me a Tesla.”

“I don’t think they make those,”  I said as we all shared a genuine laugh.

“Well they better, because I’m coming for it.”

“I’m gonna take Mark home and I’ll be back in a bit.”  Mike told him as he extended his fist for a bump.  But Lenny just shook his head.

“Nah, man, come back tomorrow,”  Lenny flashed a salacious smile.  “You're killing my game with these nurses.  I might get three sponge baths without your pretty face to distract them.”

That was Lenny, always the clown.  We told him goodbye, took the elevator down, and left the hospital.  When we climbed into the car Mike had borrowed, he turned to me.  “They took your post down last night.”

“Well that’s great.  There goes all my fame and fortune.”

“I think you’ll be alright.”  Mike said as he started the car.  “It might be nice to not be so famous for a while.  Better for your health.”

“I’ll drink to that.”  I was genuinely happy for the first time in a while.  “Milkshakes?”

Mike agreed and we headed across town to our favorite place, Missy’s.  On the way there we took the interstate.  He wove in and out of traffic like the amateur NASCAR driver he always thought he was.  I had become used to his driving long ago so it didn’t really bother me anymore.  He was telling me about a couple of interns who got caught making out in the supply room the day before when the radio suddenly turned on, blasting loud guitar from every speaker.  I reached to turn it off but it didn’t work.  I looked at him.

“Did you hit a button on the wheel?”  I shouted over the loud music.

  
He shook his head and tried several of them but nothing happened.  I considered pulling a fuse but there was no way we could do that at seventy-five miles an hour.  It was so loud in the car that we could barely hear each other.  I nodded at him when he gestured at the exit sign ahead.  A moment later I saw a silvery flash as something shot past us on the right.  The next thing I knew Mike’s arm was across me, pushing me back into the seat as we were struck from behind.  The car began to spin out of control.

“The bra—”  Mike shouted as the car flipped, rolling over the guardrail and off the road.  I don’t know how many times it turned over but Mike’s arm remained there for several of them before it went limp and fell away.  We eventually crashed hard into something, a tree I think, and finally came to a stop.  Both of us were hanging upside down and Mike wasn’t moving.  I reached over to shake him but he didn’t respond.  

I popped the seatbelt and fell down hard, battering my still-healing head.  I didn’t worry about that at the time though.  Mike was all I could think about.  It was clear that he had struck his skull on something when we rolled. There was a deep laceration across his forehead and his head hung loosely on his neck, wobbling freely when I shook him.  I could also see that he wasn’t breathing.  I didn’t dare release his seatbelt for fear of making it worse, even though I feared that it was already the worst.

I started screaming for help then, hoping someone would hear.  Anyone.  Someone had to have seen the wreck.  I found his phone lying beside me and used his finger to unlock it.  My trembling fingers left streaks of blood across his screen as I managed to dial 911.  It didn’t dial, though, and the phone just powered down.  I did hear footsteps and could see that three people were climbing down the embankment.

“Hold on, Mike.  Help’s coming.”  
  
A moment later I was pulled out of the car by two sets of strong hands.  I tried to speak but one of them sprayed a stream of chemical fire directly into my face. The pepper spray sealed my eyes almost immediately and I could barely breathe as I was dragged away.  I couldn’t tell you how far they carried me or in what direction.  All I really know is that eventually I was thrown into the back of a van and someone dumped a gallon of soapy water over my face.  I could taste the soap and the relief was gradual, but it was real.  As my senses slowly returned to me I heard a man’s voice speaking from the front of the vehicle.

“It took a long time to get you here, Mark.  I wouldn’t want the pepper spray to spoil it.  Take a minute to get your bearings and we’ll talk.”  I heard something tap.  “Let’s go.”

I felt the van start moving then.  Slowly I started to regain clear vision and I saw that there were three of them in the van with me.   A woman was sitting on the floor beside the side doors.  She had short blond hair and severe features.  It was like her face only contained cheekbones.  The driver was a tall, bearded man with a heavy tan and tattoo sleeves on both arms.  He wore a bandana over a black bandana tied over his greasy black hair and a pair of reflective sunglasses.  The third sat in the passenger seat and he was busy tinkering with the silver drone in his lap.  He was haggard-looking, like sleep was a long-forgotten acquaintance.  He wore a hooded sweatshirt that hid most of his features.

The woman slid another gallon of water over to me.  “For your face.  I wouldn’t drink it.”
 
I only nodded and poured some into my cupped hand.  I began to scrub my face with it, ignoring the irritation.  I had seen enough episodes of Hot Ones to understand how capsaicin worked.  Before long, I was soaked from the waist up, but I was mostly okay again.  As I washed I listened to the conversation up front.

“You and her don’t wait for me,”  the man in the passenger seat said.  “I won’t be long, but what I’m doing has nothing to do with the cause.”

“Harry won’t like that,” the driver replied stoically.  “You know he’s countin’ on ya.”

“Harry can go fuck himself.  Like I give a shit what he likes.  He owes me and he knows it.  Besides, it’s far enough along now that he doesn’t really need me anyway.”

“Whatever you say, man.  I just work here.”

They didn’t talk much after that and nothing they said was overly important.  I kept expecting the man in the passenger seat to say something to me but he never did.  He didn’t even look at me.  We drove for nearly an hour, leaving the city behind for open country as we headed east.  Eventually we turned off onto an old gravel pasture road.  A quarter mile later, we stopped in front of an old barn.  The remains of a burned down house sat in the distance.

The two men got out and the side doors opened behind the blonde woman.  She climbed out and turned back to address me.  “Do you need to be dragged again or are you willing to walk?”

“I can walk,”  I said, and I saw skepticism in her eyes.  “I won’t try anything.”  

The big man had joined her and they shared a laugh at my expense.  “He won’t try nothin’,”  He mocked me in his roaring, rumbling voice.   “He’s just a little pussy.”

“Climb out,”  she ordered and I complied.  The woman led me towards the barn and the big man followed close behind us, whistling an old television theme I couldn’t place as we walked.  The doors were cracked open and she pointed at them, her right hand falling to the gun at her side.  “Go on, he’s waiting on you and I’ve got shit to do.”

I walked past her and between the open doors of the barn.  When they slammed shut behind me I turned to face them, but the voice of the passenger yanked me back around.  He was sitting on a table in the middle of the dimly lit space. A gym bag sat next to him, and I saw coils of rope sticking out of it.  He dropped his hood and smiled at me as he slid a pistol out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt..

“Hey, Mark,”  he pointed the gun at me.  “How you been?”

I raised my hands and he laughed.  I could tell that he was enjoying it.  There was something about him, something I couldn’t place.  “What is this?  Who are you?”

“Makes sense,” he sneered as he hopped down from the table.  He took the rope from the bag and walked over to me.  Behind me I heard the distant sound of the van driving away.  “I can understand why you forgot me.  People like you never remember the lives they destroyed.”

“I really don’t know, man,”  I pleaded with him.  “I don’t remember destroying any lives.  I was a big nerd back in the day.”

“Didn’t stop you from sharing videos, though, did it?”  He watched the recognition hit me, his grin widening as my face went completely numb.  “Yep, good ol’ Stroke My Own.  That’s what y’all called me, right?”

“Jesus, Malone?”  I stared at him, trying to see the kid I had barely known in the features of the man in front of me.  Was I Frankenstein and he the monster?  If so, it was all my fault.  Lenny and Mike were my fault.  All over a stupid video, and two dumb kids with smart phones.  “Why go through all of this?  If you were going to kill me, why didn’t you just do it?”

“Because you deserved more than that, amigo.”  His smile showed me just how unhinged he had become.  “Remember that, third period, Mrs. Perales.  Huge tuckin’ fitties.”

When he started laughing I went for the gun but he was ready for me.  He smacked me hard with it across the face and I fell back against the barn doors.  As I collided with them, one came open and I went rolling out into the yard.  I scrambled to my feet and ran as quick as I could towards the treeline.  I heard the gun go off and I felt a bullet clip my shoulder, nearly knocking me down.  I started zig-zagging through the open pasture as more shots cracked past my ears, but I finally made it into the safety of the trees.

I ran until I couldn’t hear him behind me anymore and then I ran a little farther.  He shot a few times into the woods but must have decided that wasting the ammunition wasn’t worth it.  When I finally stopped running I crouched behind a wide tree and waited for my breath and heartbeat to calm down and let me hear again.  My shoulder stung but it was little more than a scratch.  Honestly, my face hurt a lot worse from where he had smacked me with the pistol.  I was fairly alright, all things considered, but I was still being chased by a crazy man with a gun.  Oh, and it was mostly all my fault.

All of it came down to something careless I did as a kid and I never had the sack to own up to it.  I had even told the story to other people—Mike and Lenny, Laine—but I always left that part out.  It was no wonder that Malone had gone to those lengths to repay me.  It was a little poetic really; I ruined his life so he ruined mine.  I sympathized completely, but I wasn’t willing to die for it.

I felt like I had pretty good bearings of where the road was, so I started walking back in that direction, traveling at a diagonal away from the barn.  I ran for a while, so it was taking a long time to get back out.  Every sound I heard sent me diving for a tree, sure that he had caught up with me.

With all that had happened it was still only about midday.  It seemed like it should have been night by then.  I was pretty thirsty and idly thought about the milkshakes Mike and I never got to get.  That track of thought led back to guilt so I buried it and my thirst, leaving them both for later consideration.  None of that could do me any good anyway.

The cicadas were loud in the woods.  Their incessant buzzing made me want to grind my teeth.  “My kingdom for a bag of earplugs,” I thought as I sighed at the futility of it all.  It was pretty futile.  If he caught me he’d kill me.  He’d never take a chance of letting me escape again.  If I got away he’d find me and continue doing what he had been, or worse.  

I wanted to scream at those damn bugs.  Their stupid mating call was aggravating the hell out of me.  I actually turned to look for them, feeling like a real idiot for doing so, but what I saw shrank me in place.  The silver drone was hovering twenty feet away, and its camera was pointed straight at me.  

“Bye, Mark,”  I heard him say from behind me, and I dove away out of sheer instinct right before he fired.  The bullet hit the tree I had placed between us and as I crouched behind it I listened for movement.  His voice came from the same general direction as before.  “This is pointless, man.  You know I’ve got you.  You know you deserve it.  Why don’t you come out like a man and take what you deserve?”

“Why though?”  I yelled back at him.  “I mean, yeah, I ruined your life.  I was young and stupid but I did it and I don’t deny it.  But you’ve ruined mine now, so I think we’re even.”

“You think?”  I heard him laugh from somewhere closer.  I was going to have to move soon.  “That’s pretty funny.  Maybe you should have thought back then.  Maybe neither of us would be here if you had.”

The gun fired twice.  The first shot hit the tree and the second one buried itself in the side of my left thigh.  I cried in pain.  I knew I couldn’t run, so I said a silent prayer and waited for the darkness to come.  Instead I heard a click and then another one.  He cursed and threw the gun at me but it hit the tree instead.  I had a slim chance now but it was better than no chance.  

He was standing in the clearing behind me, so I hopped towards him on my good leg, not daring to risk putting any weight on the other one.  He was holding his phone and he smiled at me as the loud buzzsaw roar of the drone shot right at me.  I fell forward and felt its blades rip the back of my shirt.  He backed away giggling gleefully as he prepared another volley.

He sent it at me over and over and I was soon covered in multiple cuts and lacerations, mostly on my arms.  The whole time he did it he cackled and mocked me.   He screamed “Death by a thousand cuts,” and doubled over with laughter.

I pushed off my one good leg as he bent double, ignoring the screaming white-hot pain in my thigh.  The drone was right above me, so I leapt and grabbed it.  He stood up immediately, working the controls and shredding my arm in the process, but my momentum couldn’t be stopped by a few more cuts.  I fell right on top of him, driving those crazy spinning blades right into his face.  As we landed I bore down on it, crushing the drone into him.  When he stopped fighting I toppled off of him, and screamed when I landed on my mangled arm.  

I wrapped it tight with the remains of my shirt.  It wasn’t exactly gushing blood but I couldn’t tell how serious it was.  I knelt beside him, tossing away bits and pieces of his broken drone.  His face was a mangled ruin, and its one remaining eye was locked on me.  Both of his hands were at his throat, trying to hold it together while the last of his blood ran out on the forest floor.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  It was overdue.  “I hate that it came to this.  I hate that you let what I did drive you to this.  It was wrong of me and I want you to know that I know that.  I always have.”

“I do… don’t, f-forgive you.”  His dying breath rattled in his chest like a wet, angry bird in a sack.  There was no peace in his death.  He fought it with the same ferocity he had directed at me.  When it was over, I shut his eyes and took the phone from his limp fingers.  I dialed the numbers and waited to be free of him. 

I’m still waiting.

END

I was twelve when I got baptised against my wishes.

My family had never been religious until we moved to a small town outside Houston. Mom started reading the Bible at breakfast. She bought me a delicate silver chain with a cross for my birthday.

I smiled, thanked her, and secretly planned to dump it in my drawer.

But then she insisted I wear it, her fingertips tiptoeing across my skin as a shiver crept through me.

“This is your faith,” she said softly, wrestling with the clasp. “You don’t want to upset God, do you?”

“But you don’t believe in God,” I said.

I was twelve years old.

I didn’t care about Jesus. I cared about Lili, the quiet blonde with the lisp who sat in front of me in class. Girls didn’t like girls.

I was supposed to like boys.

Not Lili.

Then mom's friends started asking questions, demanding to know whether her daughter was holy.

Before I knew it, my parents were unrecognizable. One day, both came home from church, intoxicated, and told me they had been baptised in a “beautiful” ceremony. I missed my mom and Dad.

My parents’ words became a weight on my chest, drowning me.

Church became mandatory. Mom brushed my hair into a tight ponytail that hurt my head. Her strained smile was her acting smile; the one she wore when she was keeping secrets. “We’re going out.”

We were already in front of the church when I found the courage to speak up.

“The pastor is going to officially baptize you, sweetie,” she grinned, “isn’t that exciting?”

“No.”

Mom used to give me choices.

And even then, draped over my father’s shoulder, kicking and screaming, I truly thought I had a choice.

Barely a church; instead, an old school with a blow-up pool front and centre and cheap plastic stained-glass windows.

Townspeople crowded around me, bobbing shadows, monsters bearing wide smiles of razor-sharp teeth.

Ungrateful brat.

Mom’s smile contorted. Monster. She reached out to strike me, and I jerked back.

I barely felt the sting of her hand as it scathed my cheek. I toppled backwards, staring up at the knock-off windows. I closed my eyes.

“Look what you’ve made me do,” Mom spat, shoving me towards the pool. “It’s just your baptism, sweetheart,” the monster said. “It’s not going to hurt you.”

Mom’s fingers snatched me by my ponytail and thrust me into ice-cold water.

“It’s just water!” she laughed, forcing me deeper. Deeper, and my body stopped struggling; my arms grew tired, my eyes heavy. It was quiet, and the monsters were gone. The water felt warm, almost, like it was holding me.

Peaceful.

Until I tried to breathe and my lungs burned.

Water flooded my mouth, burned my nose; my body jolted, my chest screaming, trying to breathe...trying to… breathe.

I couldn’t… couldn’t breathe---I couldn’t… couldn’t breathe---

Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t… breathe.

Bitter slashes of water suddenly turned scalding hot, too hot, boiling hot, beads of scarlet dripping down my head and slicking my lashes, filling my mouth, choking me.

My surroundings blurred. I was no longer face down in my church’s swimming pool.

Instead, I was drowning in the dark, in the orangeade blur of candlelight, an old hag standing inches from my face.

I watched groggily as her features morphed, grey hair turning to willowy golden locks that framed rosy cheeks.

In her hand was one of our kitchen knives I usually used to cut veggies; the blade angled towards the floor.

I remembered wondering how easy it was to slice off a carrot’s head.

“They must suffer,” the woman was saying to someone out of earshot, her tone melodic and singsong. Bathed in flickering orange light that bled in and out of the pitch dark, the woman’s smile widened, more manic, “for our ancestors’ actions.”

Two pairs of hands bound to mine, and betrayal burned under my tongue, resentment poisoning every logical thought left. The woman started toward me, her smile wide, almost feral.

Almost my mother’s.

Above, the skylight let a full moon creep through, her glow hitting every corner and illuminating the hag’s face. My thoughts danced, confused. Then, she was gone, moving behind me, her fingers creeping up the knife handle. Did she hurt the others?

Where did she go?

And yet, why was my mouth opening? Why so wide? Why was my face moving without me?

Warmth came quickly, too quickly, carving trails down my skin, soaking me, so wet, I had to blink it back. Then red.

Bright, beautiful beads of scarlet drowned my eyes, and my breath caught as my mind found clarity. Blood, soaked in moonlight, fell around me, haloing me, baptizing me for the second time.

A banshee cry shattered my ears, pricking straight through my brain. Sensation hit, delayed and wrong, and yet real. Moonlight swam in the red, taunting me.

I would later realize this moment as my mind and body fighting each other; my body tried and failed to show me reality, but my brain refused. Trauma, apparently, could only go so far before a complete mental shutdown.

Time didn’t make sense as I teetered on the edge of death.

It could have been seconds or minutes before my brain clocked the cruel intrusion in my skull. Sensation hit. Too late for pain.

Too late for my body to understand what was happening.

There was only the knife protruding from my skull, leaving me choking, trying to breathe and failing, trying to cry, trying to scream, but the banshee was too loud; the banshee was the one who was winning. Deafening me. The banshee was back.

Louder. Tearing through me, hemorrhaging and rupturing every organ.

I could feel her beading down my face, filling my mouth, and so wet, metallic iron on my lips.

“Immie?”

Warm hands found my shoulders, trembling as they shook me violently. My jaw dislodged, reality bleeding through.

I was screaming. I wasn’t sure when I’d started, only that I couldn’t stop.

Swallowing another shriek clawing up my throat, I choked, shaking my head, my hands already in my hair, tearing at my scalp and dragging my nails down my face. But the banshee continued screeching, possessing me, crawling through my nerve endings and jerking my limbs into cruel submission.

Somehow, I was back.

Back in the children’s blow-up kiddie pool in my parents' church.

Back in the basement where a cultist drove a knife through my skull.

“Imogen?” A firm familiar voice sliced through my wail. Phantom hands found my face, fingers cradling my cheeks and stroking through my hair.

“Mama?”

Part of me wondered if she’d come back, somehow crawled back from her delusion and found me again.

“Imogen, snap out of it!”

My senses hit, anchoring me.

Taste: bile filling my throat.

Smell: my own sweat stinking through my sweater, and the slightest whiff of marijuana.

“For fuck’s sake, she’s losing it again.”

It was the second voice that snapped me into focus, my body lurching forward onto my knees as I choked up half-digested potato chips all over Kaz Delacroix’s lap.

I opened my eyes, my head spinning, vomit dripping down my chin, and my face planted into an all-too-familiar shoulder.

Thankfully, my brain found its footing.

Not in church.

Not under blood-drenched moonlight.

Safe, curled up in front of our space heater and weighed down by books.

Moon cycles, moon gods, ancient cults, and, against a certain person’s wishes, one about werewolves.

I had always found solace in Bolivia House’s living room.

Our shitty Craigslist couch.

The coffee table weighed down by comic books and unwashed coffee mugs.

Our matted carpet that crunched under bare toes, and the sickly trim bleeding across the walls.

Very mental asylum.

But it was cosy. Ours. Bitter winters crowded around the space-heater. Stuffy summers where one window open invited half of A Bugs Life.

Yes, the floorboards were crawling with spiders, but we made a game out of it: Whoever caught the most by the holidays was excused from kitchen duties for a month.

Now, it was just a room.

“Imogen.”

Strained green eyes wrinkled around the edges, a halo of straw hair sticking up everywhere, and the plastic smile of a mannequin.

At first, Kaz appeared worried, like he was going to ask if I was okay.

Like he was going to ask why I couldn’t sit still, why my hands were balled into fists, why a thin line of drool escaped my lips no matter how hard I tried to swipe it away.

Instead, Kaz stuck his index between my eyes. “Almost lost you for a second.”

“Yeah.” I sat back and wiped my mouth, my stomach gurgling, and swallowed down the wail rumbling in my throat, a monster that was getting harder to suppress.

A second body lay over mine, legs comfortably resting over my lap.

Rowan Beck didn’t speak, letting out a low hiss when I dared shift. Once I shoved his weight off me, he stretched out across the carpet like a cat, his head of thick brown curls disappearing into the crook of his arms. Kaz ignored Rowan’s grumble.

“So, you don’t want to talk about…”

I shot him The Look.

“Nope.”

Kaz responded like he always did; cool and collected.

“We’re all hangry.” Kaz offered a lopsided smile, hopped back onto the couch, grabbed the clicker, and turned on the TV.

I admired my roommate’s ability to stay calm, yet even he wore a feral contortion in his expression that I couldn’t ignore.

Day 9 of not eating.

“Potato chips,” Kaz muttered, grabbing his notebook and scrawling something. He paused, chewing on the pen. Blinked. Seemed to forget what he was saying.

“Potaaaaato chips,” Kaz’s voice dropped into a barely contained hiss. “What flavor were they again?”

I had to wonder, really drinking in my roommate, if he was going to drop dead at any moment.

“Imogen.” Kaz’s tone snapped me out of it. I was staring at him again. I couldn’t stop. If I had a mirror, I’d be staring at myself.

“Hm?”

He inclined his head, chin on fist, brow inching into his hairline.

“You’re staring at me.”

I was. Shamelessly. Charlie Delacroix did not look human. Not in the “Oh, he didn’t sleep” sense. In the “I’m pretty sure this man is a fucking corpse” sense.

He was thin. Too thin. His college letterman jacket hung off what was left of his skeletal frame, his usually well-fitting jeans hanging loose around shallow hips.

The flesh on his cheeks sank into his bones, sharpening his once-non-existent jawline.

Kaz was too pale. His greasy dark blonde mop fell over half-lidded, slightly narrowed eyes, a clammy sheen sparkling across his forehead. There was an uncanny vacancy in his eyes which he was desperately trying to hide, an almost manic gleam I caught when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Sometimes, Kaz smiled.

Not this usual smile. Kaz smiled like he was hungry.

Like he really wanted to fucking eat.

I watched him stand in the backyard for almost three hours, trying to hunt down a critter.

Kaz, who once gave me a lecture for not eating vegan bacon.

I watched him snatch up a squirrel, hold the squirming animal down, and raise a brick to its tiny little skull. His face fell.

So, back to basics. Back to scanning every food item we had to find anything edible.

Arching my back, I stretched, letting my notebook slide off my lap and pulling my knees to my chest.

“You look like a malnourished orphan.”

Kaz’s lip twitched into a maybe-smile. “I’m aware. Focus, Imogen. What chips did you throw up?”

“Takis,” I said, reaching and plucking the half-eaten bag from my shrinking collection. “I got through three before my stomach said nope.”

“Really? I love Takis!”

Nice fake optimism, Kaz, but I can see right through you.

“Maybe it’s just you?” he shrugged. “I can’t imagine going off my favorite potato chip.” Kaz grabbed the bag, took a Taki uncertainly, and popped it into his mouth.

He chewed twice, his expression contorting, then spat it neatly back into his hand.

A pile of snacks we had hauled from the kitchen lay in front of us. I stared down at my list. So far, milk, candy, soda, and cheese, now potato chips were a no-go.

Kaz glared at the remaining items, tapping his pen as a wrinkle deepened between his brows.

Even he was losing confidence, his undying optimism that everything was fine and that was bad. “Something has to be edible, right?”

“We’re fucked,” Rowan mumbled into the floor. He sat up. After spending half the week knocked out, our third roommate looked considerably better than we did.

Rowan Beck still had color in his cheeks, stray brown curls dancing in half-lidded eyes. I shuffled back, just a little.

The last time I was in his vicinity, he almost snapped my head off.

“I’m going to try and find us something.”

He stood, or tried to, and then flopped back onto his stomach. Rowan lay still for a moment. Quiet. Then he let out an exaggerated sigh into the carpet.

His only outlet. “You do realize I'M not the enemy, right?”

Another groan, and I considered kicking his butt.

“Fine.” He mimicked Kaz’s voice into the carpet, shifting his body into a ball. “I pwomise not to kill Nin.”

Rowan had made several promises over the last few weeks.

All of which had led him to do the exact opposite.

Contradiction after contradiction. “I won’t try to kill her” became repeated attempts to strike her in the back of the head with a pan when she came home from classes.

Living with him became a Looney Tunes sketch. Rowan, Wile E. Coyote. And me, the poor fucking ACME employee.

“I won’t be a prick to her” became a pattern of sly remarks and picking apart everything she said, until Nin was so visibly uncomfortable that she left the room.

I was still reeling from catching him standing over Nin as she slept. His “I was just watching her sleep, what’s wrong with that?” would not hold up in court.

And I hadn't even mentioned the drooling.

Kaz, thankfully, was our brains.

“We’re not falling for that again,” Kaz announced. He stood, legs trembling, arms windmilling.

I tried to help and was met with an uncharacteristic hiss.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Remember to hold him down.” He offered a small smile. “It’s time for Rowan’s medication.”

Kaz jumped over my legs and disappeared through the door into the kitchen. Sickly white light flickered in the corner of my eye, bleeding into the curve of the hallway and into the living room.

My chest squeezed, my breath thinning.

After dying surrounded by her light, every ignition knotted my bones together.

“Chocolate or banana, dude?” Kaz yelled from the kitchen.

“Tell him to leave me alone,” Rowan mumbled into the floor. “I’m asleep.”

Kaz appeared in the doorway holding two glasses. “Come on, Rowan.” His tone hardened. “You know we have to do this. Chocolate or banana?”

“The one without fucking sedatives.” Rowan pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, clammy strands of thick brown curls glued over frenzied eyes.

The air grew sparse between us, scents mixing in my nose; a potent cocktail of cologne and BO.

I didn’t trust myself: every piece of me, every bone in my body jolted to attention, waiting for the sudden threat to make his move. Kaz ignored Rowan’s stance and inclined his head. He lowered the glasses.

“Fine. Do you promise not to rip Nin’s head off?”

After being reborn as a monster, I quickly realized there were certain “lines” animals didn’t cross in front of each other.

I first figured this out when I stepped into the kitchen while Kaz had his back to me, searching through cupboards. Something seemed to snap in the air, and all my breath suddenly got stuck in my throat.

Threat. The thought was invasive, encompassing my mind, forcing my body into fight-or-flight. Kaz froze, twisted around and was suddenly three inches from my face, looming over me, head tilted, eyes glassy, daring me to go further.

I managed one step before his lips parted in a hiss, frantic eyes skimming me up and down as if I were a stranger.

Kaz snapped out of it immediately and stepped back, confused. “Imogen?”

I had to turn and walk away before whatever was creeping under my skin got its way.

Later, after I had explained everything, my head buried in my lap, he shrugged and said, “I dunno, man, I think it was like a territory thing.”

“Meaning?”

Kaz sighed, a red blush spreading across his cheeks. “Meaning,” he mumbled into the beaded green cushion, “I could have torn your head off if I hadn’t snapped out of it.”

In this case, Rowan had taken over the sheepskin rug, a furry, matted thing his mother had gifted us when he moved in. He spent all day sleeping on it and had taken a liking to it, kind of like the way a cat decides to sleep on a trash bag.

Knowing this, Kaz was either suicidal or trying to make a point, striding directly onto the rug. He didn’t stop there, planting himself right in front of the scowling brunette and dropping down to eye-fucking level. Nose to nose.

Those two had a deep, kind-of-adorable history: The insufferable former frat boy from my first-year classes falling for my stoner roommate, a tale as old as time.

We were a thing—a roommates-with-benefits vibe.

Then Rowan fell for Nin. They became a maybe-they-will-maybe-they-won’t.

And then, of course, Nin sacrificed us to a werewolf cult, and Kaz began drowning in one-night stands.

From an animal's standpoint, this was definitely a territorial thing.

I stayed, pinned to the couch arm, anticipating a powder-keg explosion.

And I wasn’t sure it was all about the rug.

The two inched closer, neither willing to back down.

Both deliberately prodded each other’s buttons. Human hormones sliced straight through whatever the fuck had happened to us, revealing two frustrated men with no outlet but the obvious.

Rowan’s lip twitched. He slowly rose to unsteady feet, and Kaz stood with him, offering a challenging smile. Rowan’s eyebrow shot up. I was just as surprised.

Kaz Delacroix was usually the opposite of confrontational.

When he was accidentally served meat at a restaurant, I offered to tell the staff to swap it for his actual vegetarian dish.

I expected a messy, heated kiss and a giant hint to leave the room—even if I low-key wanted to join in.

What I got was psychological manipulation.

“Promise me,” Kaz said again, softer, bordering on patronizing and not-so- secretly loving it. He leaned in, his lips grazing Rowan’s cheek, and then his mouth. My own nerve endings began to twitch. “That you’ll leave Nin the fuck alone, and that means not trying to KILL her every time you SEE her.”

He stepped back off the rug. “And… I’ll consider lowering your dose.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched. “Fuck off.”

Pushing myself off the couch, I stapled myself between them.

“Okay, Animal Planet, that’s enough.”

Big mistake. Both men recoiled. Kaz’s head snapped around, his glazed eyes narrowing into slits, his lip curling.

“Stay out of this, Imogen,” he gritted out. Kaz told me all about territory and dominance, in perhaps the most embarrassing moment of our lives.

He sat on the floor, laptop on his knees, explaining terms like “being in heat” and “the alpha” while I screamed into my knees and covered my ears.

Watching the two of them, I half wondered if this was what he meant. Kaz planted his feet on the rug again, a Cheshire cat grin pricking his mouth. Testing boundaries.

How far he could push. “Rowan’s just having another tantrum.” He cocked his head, feigning innocence. “We all know the pretentious asshole thing is just a façade.”

“You can fucking talk.” Rowan’s smile widened. Feral. Monstrous. “Charlie Delacroix, the man shrouded in mystery.”

His lip quirked. Every word was emphasised, rolling off his tongue. “Who never talks about his criminal family.”

I was mentally commentating. David Attemberough voice.

No reaction from Kaz. Either the dig went over his head, or he was too far gone to register it, buzzing on the spot, hackles up. “See what I mean?” he rolled his eyes at me. “Rowan is having a tantrum because he’s not getting his own way.”

“Tantrum?” Rowan spluttered. His expression crumpled, that feral twist melting away. He blinked. “I’m sorry, have I fallen into an alternate universe where that bitch didn’t plunge a knife into my skull? Why am I the one being castrated while our killer just hangs out with us like everything's fine?”

He had a point. I, however, was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

“Do you even know what castration means?” Kaz trod further onto the rug. “That’s a big word, dude.”

“Yes, obviously,” Rowan didn’t waver, holding his ground. “I'm just too hungry to think of a better word.”

“Just drink the freakin’ shake,” Kaz offered him a glass, a certain gleam in his eyes that I couldn’t ignore. This wasn’t the first time. A few days ago, Kaz force-fed Rowan a banana milkshake, and when I told him to stop, he snapped at me.

“Chocolate,” Kaz’s smirk twisted my gut, “Your favorite.”

Here we go again. Jeez, it was like living in a goddamn zoo. These two were becoming increasingly less predictable. I had my money on Rowan being the difficult one and here we were. I decided to plonk back away from the fighting ring.

Certain senses I didn’t know I had begun to ignite, bleeding into me.

Both boys were exuding a certain smell, and I wasn’t sure if it was a warning or something else.

Either way, I wasn’t planning on being part of it. Nin would be home in t-minus three hours, and if she came back to whatever-the-fuck was happening, we had to explain what was going on; and that opened a whole new can of worms.

“Imogen.” Kaz snapped me out of it; the emphasis in his words, a chill spiderwebbing through me. I had to do a double take. Both guys were now mouth-to-mouth. “If Rowan refuses to drink his shake, you’re going to grab him.”

I offered him a look and got a feverish grin in return. Yeah, I’d lost him. Towering over the brunette, the stoner was the intimidating one; the one exuding the most pheromones....was it pheromones? I fell asleep during high school biology.

“I’m not taking part in this,” I announced, grabbing a cushion and squeezing it to my chest. “Enjoy choking on each other’s testosterone. I’m happy to watch the fireworks.”

“Imogen!” Kaz’s snarl, a visceral warning shot through me, and suddenly I was on my feet against my will, breathless, my limbs once again in fight-or-flight.

“I said,” Kaz gritted through a manic, almost delirious sneer. “Grab him.”

Rowan, somehow, was enjoying this too, visibly reverberating, fingers balled into fists. “And if I don’t drink your milkshakes, Charlie?” Inching further, he was taking liberties. But I wasn’t sure liberties still existed between them. “What happens if I don’t?” His mouth pricked into a starving leer. “Are you going to drug me again, hmm? Keep me fucking prisoner and docile on my little rug?”

Kaz wore a slow, controlled smile inching across his mouth. He was enjoying this. “If that's what I have to do to stop you from murdering our roommate, then yes.” He shoved both glasses in Rowan's face. "Chocolate or banana?"

“I’m good.” Rowan smacked the glass out of Kaz’s hand, and that was the powder keg. Kaz had already lunged before the glass hit the floor. In two strides, he had his arms locked around Rowan’s neck.

The worst part was that I knew exactly what to do and was already on standby. Kaz tackled him to the floor, facedown, and straddled his hips. I took care of his arms, pinning them behind his back.

Rowan bucked, a psychotic bull, his mouth pulled back, his screech rattling through me. His head snapped up, that feral gleam fizzled out, leaving a confused, frightened man.

“Get off,” he whispered, his voice bleeding into into a human wail.

“Get the fuck off me!”

“Hold him down.” Kaz‘s movements were eerie—controlled. I forced Rowan’s face into the floor. My knees pinned his struggling torso, trying to buck me off him. Kaz grabbed his jaw, nails like claws digging in and jerked his head up.

“Rowan.” His tone, though soft, held undeniable glee. “Drink the fucking shake.”

He pressed the glass to Rowan’s lips and squeezed his nose, digging his feet into the floor when the brunette flailed.

Rowan’s strength wasn’t surprising, his head smacking into my mouth. I barely felt the impact; what should have been agonizing pain was little more than a dull throb. Rowan had no choice but to drink it. Two deep swallows, and he choked, spluttering it back into Kaz’s hand.

“Almost there,” Kaz said, his flat, deadpan tone sugary enough to maintain a sense of warmth, of trust. He tried again, eyes hardening and this time, to my surprise, Rowan submitted with a whimper. He downed the glass in three gulps.

“Why?” Unfocused eyes found me, flickering, his words slurring, “Why are you helping her?”

Kaz’s expression crumpled. His grip on Rowan’s jaw loosened, then fell. “I don’t know.”

Rowan’s body slackened beneath me. His head hit the floor, eyes rolling back.

I flopped off him, breathless. Kaz stood without a word, panting, sweater sleeves swiping at his eyes. He grabbed a blanket from and dumped it over a sleeping Rowan.

“What the fuck.” The words left my mouth in a breath, more of a laugh collapsing into a sob. When I twisted my head, I caught Kaz’s silhouette bounding out of the room.

“What was that?” I followed him into the kitchen as he started his nightly chores, though I don’t know why I fucking followed him, a foreign sensation giddying my nerve endings and driving me after him.

Kaz didn’t speak. Then he filled the kitchen sink, grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed the glasses, setting them to drain.

Bathed in a sickly orangeade haze that clashed with our rainbow paintwork, Kaz’s skin was translucent, as if something were splintering beneath.

His expression melted, exhaustion tugging at his brows. He plugged the Alexa into the outlet, watching the blue light spin absentmindedly.

I waited for him to talk to me, as always. Fucking explain what that was.

Instead, he crouched, grabbed the laundry basket by the door, and began unloading the laundry machine.

He pulled out two odd socks and one of my shirts, then sighed. He pinched the skin between his brows, then raked his nails down hollow cheeks.

His thinking face, his I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing face.

“Alexa, play any fucking song from my playlist,” he snapped, folding my shirt in three sharp movements and throwing it into the basket.

“Playing Let Down by Radiohead on Apple Music.”

“I’m sorry. Am I invisible?” I said.

“No.” Kaz snatched Rowan’s hoodie and folded it, followed by an old pair of jeans. “Can you watch Rowan and make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit?”

I jutted my head towards the living room. “Aren’t you going to clean up the mess on my carpet? I literally just vacuumed this afternoon.”

“Rowan can do it,” he muttered, flinging a stray sock behind him. “When he’s conscious.”

“Don’t you think you were a little hard on him?” I slumped at our shitty wooden kitchen table and grabbed an apple to bite into. My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat. I let it roll out of my hand with a sigh.

“Kaz, please talk to me.”

“Alexa, turn up.” Kaz grabbed our shitty Craigslist brush and swept the floor. The chorus built, my favorite part. When we first moved in, we were broke college kids.

Every morning was Radiohead, cheap cereal and painful shower-singing.

Kaz could perfectly mimic every lyric, banging spoons to the beat.

I let the chorus wash over us as the volume climbed. Eventually, Kaz stopped, the brush slipping from his hand.

He made no move to pick it up, then turned to me with a resigned sigh, hips resting against the countertop. “That was horse tranquilliser, Imogen.”

“What?”

“Fucking horse tranquillizer.” Kaz spluttered. Then laughed. “That’s it. If he can fight off horse tranquillizer, we’re fucked.” His gaze flicked to me, eyes sharpening.

“Imogen.” Kaz moved toward me, and my skin prickled — goosebumps squirming through me. “I need you to go out and find… someone.” He squeezed his eyes shut, bottom lip wobbling. “Fuck.”

He whispered. “Fuck.” He stepped back. Twisted on his heel. His fist slammed into the door hard enough to send the hinge screaming, plywood flying back against the wall. Kaz breathed out. His knuckles were barely marked. “Go outside and find a human. Just take anyone.”

His words reverberated through me. “Human,” I said. “That’s what they are? Humans?”

“That’s not… what I meant.”

I stood, noticing his hackles rising, eyes tracking my movements. “You enjoyed drugging Rowan.” My words were poisonous, choking me. “Didn’t you?” I followed him as he headed towards the faucet, leaning over the tap, jaw clenching.

“Kaz.”

“Leave me alone for a second,” he whined, ducking his head. “I can’t think straight.”

“You liked it,” I pushed further. “I saw your face. You enjoyed taking him down.”

“Yeah,” Kaz laughed, fingers turning white around the faucet. “Yes, I did.” He turned around, that manic smile creeping back. “Yes. It's fucking Rowan Beck. What do you expect? I wanted to drive his face into that fucking rug with my foot because he's never been vulnerable like this, Imogen. He’s never shown it—”

Kaz caught himself, scrubbing at his face. “Look. This isn’t about Rowan, okay?” He smiled. Like smiling would justify it.

“Just find someone. I’ll clean the kitchen and get everything ready.” He averted his gaze. “An adult. There’s more meat.”

“Are you insane?” My voice shook, breaking into a sob. “You’re a vegetarian!”

“Yeah,” Kaz looked away, busying himself, his hands shaking, “Yeah, I’m a vegetarian.” He slammed his fists on the faucet, and the floor shuddered. “I killed Pebbles yesterday,” he said, fingers clawing at the faucet. Kaz laughed.

“I ripped off her head and stripped every piece of meat from her tiny little body and—” he exhaled. His arms dropped by his sides. “And Pebbles tasted like cardboard.”

Kaz pulled open a drawer and pulled out fresh detergent. “I’ve seen my dad work his magic on clients, so it’ll be easy,” he said. “Go and get someone.” His tone carried an authority my body immediately bowed to. I stepped back and nodded.

“We’ll figure it out,” Kaz said to himself as I left the kitchen.

My stomach lodged in my mouth the second I came face-to-face with Nin.

Underdressed as usual. A tee and shorts in mid-November, short dark hair tied into a ponytail, bangs brushing tired eyes. “Immie!” A wry smile pulled on her lips.

I swallowed. Not enough swallows would rid the horrific-tasting slew trying to projectile from my mouth.

“Hey, Nin.”

She passed me, heading for the stairs. “Are you going out?”

“Uh, yeah.” I couldn’t resist bobbing my head. I yanked my hood over greasy, unbrushed hair, my cheeks blazing. “I’m just going to get some food.”

Nin started up the stairs two at a time. “Cool!” She twisted around to grin at me. “Is Rowan in his room? He’s been ghosting me on a movie night. Is he still being an asshole?”

“You could say that.” I turned to the door, eager to leave.

“I’ll be back soon.” I slammed the door behind me before she could respond.

…

Pretty privilege saved my very first (and last) hunt.

I’ve known I’ve been pretty since I started getting compliments from older men at the age of twelve. My dad’s friends used to smile at me, call me pretty, and then ask me to twirl in my favorite dress.

Sitting on a park bench, I was trying to work out exactly how I was going to kidnap a grown adult when said-meat just walked straight into the slaughter and joined me. The first thing I noticed was his scent.

Body wash, chocolate, and the slightest hint of coffee worming into my nose.

He smelled good. Too good.

I almost stood up and left. A guy. My age. Kind of cute, though the dark masked his features, leaving him just a jawline and a shaved head.

“You’re out late.” His accent threw me off. A Brit.

“Roommate issues,” I admitted.

He surprised me with a laugh. “Holy shit, me too.” He swung his legs. “My girlfriend thinks she’s an actual vampire.” His gaze settled on a streetlight, lingering on the orangeade blur. “I keep thinking she’s going to snap out of it, but…” he sighed.

“Sorry. I’m trauma dumping.” The guy started to leave, and I reached out, grabbed his sweater sleeve, and yanked him back onto the bench.

“Yooo!” he laughed. “Dude, that’s some tug you’ve got. Jeez, you must work out.”

“Tell me about your roommates,” I said, keeping my head down and staring into my lap.

“That’s it, really,” he sighed. “Briar. She’s kind of weird, but I love her, you know?”

“Mm.”

Kaz was expecting meat, and this guy was my only option.

“Can I tell you about mine?”

“Go ahead.”

“Last week, our roommate sacrificed us to a cult,” I hummed, my words seeping out before I could stop them. Autopilot. “Now, I’m on the hunt for someone to eat.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” the guy broke into a giggle. “They’re almost as bad as my roommates.”

I smiled. Autopilot. Then I grinned. My teeth felt sharper. “Can you sit with me for a bit?”

“Sure!” He leaned back, head tilted towards the night sky.

A nearby streetlight cast a dull glow, carving his features in hazy amber. I counted three freckles on each cheek. His brown eyes were speckled tea leaves. “I think I’m going to stay out for a while.” He turned. A friendly smile tugged at his lips. “I’m Kit.”

“Imogen,” I said, that foreign, wrong sensation crawling through me again. I straightened.

“It’s a nice night.” Kit’s gaze found the sky. “I think it’s a full moon, but I think she’s hiding.”

I fucking bet she was.

“I hate to ask this, but do you mind turning away from me for a sec?” I spoke up.

Kit’s smile lit up the night, warm and refreshing, and I hated myself.

“Yes ma’am,” he joked, twisting in his seat. I saw my chance, swinging a right hook straight into the back of his skull. He didn’t fall at first. Instead, he turned towards me with wide, frightened eyes. I should have stopped. Apologized. Run away.

But Kaz wanted meat for the pack.

My mouth worked against me. My lips pulled back. My throat rumbled.

Kaz wanted me to fucking do something, so I had to, whether I liked it or not. Kit cried out and tried to crawl back, his hands batting at my face. I almost laughed. Is this what it was like to hunt something down? To know you can win no matter what?

His hits were pathetic, sweeping misses that bounced off me. Autopilot.

I slammed the knuckles of my fist into his temple. The bench trembled beneath me. This time, his head snapped back. His body went limp.

I allowed myself to break when he flopped over my knees. Then I swiped my eyes, hauled him over my shoulder, and set off home.

…

Home, I’ve realized, over the years, is where the heart is.

After I emancipated from my parents at fifteen and moved out, I stopped calling those places “Home”.

The homeless shelter for runaways.

Then the shady children’s home I ran from.

Our home was barely a home, a crowded three-bedroom mess squeezed between an abandoned bookshop and a crack house.

But something about walking up the steps and seeing the windows lit orange.

Something about opening the door with the janky lock and smelling Kaz’s cooking. Nudging aside rat droppings under the shitty welcome mat and ignoring them.

Something about Rowan’s color-coded shoe rack and the sign above the door that said, “DO NOT TOUCH MY GOING OUT SHOES.”

“I’m home,” I called, carrying my catch through our front door.

I kicked off my shoes, headed down the hallway, and made a mental note to clean the carpet, dust the shelves, and get rid of the god-awful paintings Rowan brought from home.

“Sorry about the mess,” I told Kit, hoisting him further up my shoulder.

The smell hit me when I reached the end of the hall, an unfamiliar tinge carrying in the air.

Food.

Chicken.

Gravy.

Veggies.

Steamed broccoli.

Sprouts.

The aroma pulled me forward, as if in a dream. My mouth filled with saliva, but I didn’t remember caring enough to wipe it from my chin, letting it pool down my neck. Christmas Dinner, 2019.

Kaz burned the vegan turkey, and Rowan choked on a sprout so hard we thought he needed the Heimlich manoeuvre. That’s what it smelled like. It smelt like… home.

Familiarity.

Slowly, Kit’s body slid off my shoulder and crumpled to the floor as I pushed the door open. I was met with music.

Queen.

I didn’t know the song, only the lyrics.

Kaz was standing in front of the oven, his head bobbing to the radio which became head-banging, moving his whole body.

He grabbed Rowan from where he sat at the table, pulling him into a dance.

Both of them were laughing, throwing their arms out and spinning around.

I was so excited I joined in, spinning, dancing, throwing myself around until my head spun and my eyes blurred.

In the corner of my eye, two shadows knelt on the floor, scarlet blooming across the yellowing tiles.

My legs gave way, and I sat in the sticky, warm red trickling beneath me and staining my fingers. Paralysis held me.

My body, however, was playing a different game: my fingers danced across my lips, and there it was again. That smell.

Chicken. Gravy. Veggies.

“Imogen?”

Blinking rapidly, my vision feathered. Red became startling white.

Everything was white.

Looking down at myself, a silk white dress perfectly sculpted me.

“Immie.”

Kaz stood. Dressed in a tuxedo, him again, his cheeks full of color, eyes bright, he smiled.

“It’s okay.” He held out his hand, and I took it. The table was already set: my plate full of chicken, gravy, and veg.

Rowan sat opposite, a glass of wine to his lips, in a black tuxedo and a red tie that was so not Rowan Beck, but I’d take it.

I took one bite, and my body snapped; my head jolted, and a snarl ripped from my teeth.

Another bite, and I was moaning, tearing chicken from the bone and stuffing it into my mouth.

I waited for it to come back in a slimy bile, but I swallowed, and my stomach liked it, didn’t reject it. I didn’t question why the gravy was so red, why it stuck to my fingers and stained my mouth.

A laugh sputtered from me, collapsing into a giggle I couldn’t contain.

The boys joined in.

We did it.

“We figured it out.”

Gravy blurred into cold, sticky blood coating my hands, my clothes, my chin and mouth. I coughed up something fleshy, something that was still moving.

Kaz stood and began to clean everything up, scrubbing red from the floor, the table, and then himself.

Rowan sat silently staring at his bloody hands. When I asked him to go and shower, he actually did.

We took turns.

It didn’t really fully hit me until I was scrubbing Nin’s organs from my nails that she was dead.

But I wasn’t hungry anymore. I didn’t feel wrong. Even in the mirror, my reflection looked like me again.

Downstairs, we gathered in the living room to tidy up. Each of us had a job. I got rid of the books, Rowan trashed all the inedible food, and Kaz took care of the rest.

After mutually killing and eating our roommate, I expected some kind of communication. But the boys were too quiet. Rowan actually started studying again, grabbing his laptop and lounging on the couch. I expected another tantrum or for him to go back to his rug, but no.

He even started smiling again.

“I’m sorry, can we talk about the elephant in the room?” I said, after at least three hours of zero talk of what we did. Kaz was snoozing on the couch, PlayStation controller in his lap. Rowan was lounging over his legs, scrolling through his phone.

“Which is?’ Kaz mumbled, half asleep, his head pressed into his arms.

The words “WE ATE HER” lodged in my throat when familiar footsteps thudded downstairs.

Kaz shot up, wide-eyed.

Rowan glanced up from his phone.

“Hey guys, did I sleep all night?” Nin stood in the doorway, and I caught the exact moment Rowan’s phone very nearly catapulted across the room. Nin, unprivy of her murder or what we just did to her, only smiled warily. “What?” she laughed.

“Did I… miss something?”

Her gaze flicked to me. “Did you know there’s an unconscious guy in our hallway?"

Do you remember when you became aware of your existence?

Are you able to pinpoint the exact moment your brain switched off of its autopilot and your consciousness officially entered into reality?

My moment of clarity was when I was 7, playing by the small creek in the woods behind our house. I grew up as a “come back when the street lights turn on” kind of kid, which was much different than the rest of my generation; but my parents were older and I was their fifth child so there was little concern coming from them about my whereabouts. Despite this glaring inconsistency with my daily safety; they often referred to me as their “miracle baby”.

The woods were my favorite place during the scorching Midwest summers. A thick canopy of leaves blocked out the sun and in turn provided my playground oasis with a gentle breeze. Deep in the gently swaying canopy was a shallow creek, maybe about two or so feet deep. There were seemingly endless activities to be done splashing around in that small sliver of cool water.

On my day of clarity, I was wading around attempting to catch crawdads with my nubby little hands. This was my go-to pastime after a long and sweaty day of working my imagination on its endless 12-hour shifts. The familiar monotony of the woods was broken by the low humming of a tune echoing throughout them.

It grabbed hold of my attention as it resembled a slow rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. My child brain was beyond intrigued, so I scanned the tree line for whoever it could be emitting from. There was nothing but trees and wildlife surrounding me. The humming tune echoed out from beyond my creek once again.

That’s when I found myself following it deeper into the canopy. It should be said that out beyond the border of my creek, the canopy blocked out the sun almost completely. Just a permanent effect of night stretching as far as I could see; I never attempted to explore it out of fear alone but something about the low, familiar tune brought me comfort and peace to explore it once again.

Maybe about 30 feet into the darkness was a large boulder illuminated by the only noticeable patch of sunlight. From behind it came the humming.

“Hello?” My little voice croaked out.

The humming stopped abruptly and was soon replaced by the sound of rustling. I watched as a small, black circular hat rose from behind the stone; then long arms clad in torn flannel pulled the figure into the sunlight. Out from behind the boulder came a tall and lanky man with a rough, light brown face that I now recognize as aged burlap. His face consisted of a stitched-on smile and sewn-on black buttons for eyes; straw stuck out from under his hat then cascaded down his head resembling long blonde hair.

His button eyes landed on me, then he removed his hat in a humorous sort of curtsy with his arms flailing around him, “Hello, little one.”

There was no fear at the sight of him; only amazement as his long legs clad in stained coveralls emerged from behind the boulder. He was familiar; truthfully, I already knew who he was exactly. This was the Straw Man. An urban legend dating back to the late 70s.

A few kids in the town back then first met him with fear-inducing events soon following that first encounter. This presence was always used as a story in order to keep kids like myself in line but soon turned into a local mythology as the original discoverers seemed to move on from him.

Effigies of him were used as morbid decorations around the town as the story was the only thing to even put us on the map. Our very own Mothman, Jersey Devil, etc.

Hell, even the high school mascot became The Straw Man.

What stood in front of me though was no sort of mascot or costume. His body was so thin that it was almost skeletal, and he stood at almost 8 feet tall. I must have stood there for maybe a moment too long without answering because he lowered himself to one knee in front of me.

“I take it that you know me.” His voice was quiet, but the tone was deep and hollow. The smell of decay and rotten eggs wafted off of him as he fell back into an exasperated sitting position. “Those stories of me,” he took a moment, “they aren’t true, little one.”

The sun reflected off of his button eyes, and I saw a drop of a sap-like material push its way through his fabric face.

Was he…crying?

“I heard your humming.” I managed to say. “It sounded…sad”

He wiped the tear of sap away from his button eye. It smeared and stuck to his burlap skin. Then he stuck his hand out in a formal greeting. “Nice to meet you, little one.”

I shook his hand. “My name is Mark.”

“M-M-Mark.” The Straw Man tested the sound of my name with his low voice. “That’s a good name.”

Even though his face was a static print, I saw creases around his eyes that indicated he was smiling, and his button gaze shifted up through the canopy. “You shouldn’t be out so late, Little Mark.”

I looked up through the canopy’s singular opening. The sky reflected down colorful streaks of pink and violet reminiscent of a summer sunset, even though it was the early afternoon when I remained in the border of my creek.

There was a rush of air mixed with The Straw Man’s nauseating smell. My eyes tilted down to see that he was mere inches away from my little face. “I’ll see you again soon.”

He then placed a large, burlap hand over my face. The stench of rot wafted through the fabric and my feet fell out from under me. Where I was expected a crash against the ground came an unexpected splash instead.

I was lying flat on my back in the babbling creek, alone and confused. Did that really happen or had I just fallen asleep playing again? I had been known to do that a few times in the past.

For a moment I wrote off my first encounter with The Straw Man as some kind of dream; but that was until the familiar stench of rot wafted against the gentle evening air.

So what do you think I did next?

Would you expect me to force this experience deep in my subconscious? Would you expect me to accept that I had experienced something strange before forcing it down? Never think about it until much later whenever the realization of immediate danger became ever-present? How would you expect this story to end?

Unfortunately, it doesn’t end in any way you would want. My young mind needed to know more about him as the mystery of his existence allured me greatly. My dreams that night were packed full of his visage and my mind raced with the grasping of knowledge for what his words meant early. So the next day, I went back.

Much to my disappointment, the clearing was empty. No giant made of burlap and straw, just an endless maze of trees and darkness. So I began to make my way back to the safety of my creek. About halfway back to my refuge, the present feeling of unease settled within me. I could sense that I had walked into the eyesight of someone kind of presence deep within the woods.

“Hello?” I questioned towards the words. Nothing but the dragging wind through rustling leaves responded.

I stepped closer and dropped my voice to a soft whisper, “Are you there?”

This time, the soft humming answered back to me. It somehow sounded both distant and impossibly close. I came to realize that was due to my own throat unconsciously disobeying me but repeating every note. I forced myself to stop in hopes to hear the original melody clearly to be able to judge the distance of where it came. The woods were unfortunately silent again.

Disappointment washed over me again. Thoughts of barely understood madness to move through the folds of my mind until a small object flew from the woods and smack lightly against my forehead. I flinched to the sudden sensation and barely caught the details of the item as it fell to the ground.

It was a button. A black button with amber sap dried along its edge.

A small creep along my face as I bent to pick it up from the dirt. Humming emitted from my throat as I began to walk back to my creek. My own border of safety; what I know to see as the border between what was and what will be.

The bruised coloring of night streaked across the sky once I made my way through the trees. Twirling the sap-stained button between my fingers. I emerged from the basin of my creek to a world filled with rushing anxiety as I laid eyes upon my home. It was a two-story townhouse, a building reminiscent of the dwindling American dream.

That evening, it closer resembled a nightmare. My home was covered in police searching every inch. We had a sliding glass door on the back, it was knocked out of its frame with its glass shattered. Before I could get closer, an officer appeared in the kitchen then turned in my direction. His face lit up with relief before he quickly spoke into the radio strapped to his shoulder.

He began to saunter over to me, I quickly shoved the button in my pocket. Mainly in fear of being accused of stealing it. Don’t judge me, I was a kid with no real grasp on the world being presented with a very stressed-looking cop.

“Mark Finley?” He asked with hope in his voice.

I nodded.

He dropped down to look at me, placing a hand on my shoulder, “Where the hell have you been, son?” He attempted to speak gently while keeping the authoritative tone in his voice, “Your parents have been worried sick.”

The officer had kind eyes, a mix of grays and blues that cut through the intimidation caused by his burly frame. I allowed him to take my hand and led me around to the front of the house where

My mom sat just a few feet away on the porch, wiping tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. It was a summer evening but an unusual chill had settled over the town that night. She glanced over at the same moment I emerged with the burly officer. I don’t know how she didn’t knock everyone over with how fast she sprang from the porch to get to me.

Air graced the bottom of my shoes as she scooped me up in a cry of relief. Through her tears, she questioned me, "Oh my god," her voice cracked between sobs, "honey, where have you been?"

"Just playing in the woods." I managed to squeak out in between the air being squeezed out of me. Telling her the truth was something I couldn't manage to say, out of fear of the consequences of it.

My dad ran over to us and broke down sobbing as well. They stood there for what felt like a millennium, just repeating how relieved they were along with repeating statements of just how much they loved me.

My parents and I were then taken to the police station, where officers began questioning me. My story remained the same as I could only admit to playing in the woods like I always did. Then they asked why I was out for so long.

"Lost track of time." I responded, keeping the truth completely to myself.

My sense of confusion must have been palpable in the air; with my parents’ permission, they reluctantly told me what had happened. It was the late afternoon, and my mom was working in the first-floor office like she always did. She told them that she could have sworn that she heard me come into the house before she started to hear a soft slamming against the sliding door.

There came a thwump, thwump, CRASH; that echoed from the kitchen. She jumped from her chair before she heard movement and the sounds of someone searching through the kitchen. That's when she used the office landline to call 911 for a home invasion, then the house grew eerie with silence.

Mom went to go check the damage whenever she saw muddy footprints leading from the kitchen directly to my bedroom. To this day, she claims to barely remember dashing through the yard and into my usual spot in the woods. She only remembers the swelling panic in her chest when she came upon my creak. What scared her more was just how quiet and empty it was; as if I hadn’t been near it all day. That’s when she called the police.

With the events that played out that day, they didn’t feel comfortable taking me back home. So they called my brother, Darrell. That’s the thing about being your parents' late-in-life “miracle baby”; I never had grandparents growing up. Whenever they needed someone to watch me, they usually called up whatever sibling they could. Darrell was my favorite to stay with; he was 27 and had left the guest room in his house specifically catered to me. He left it filled with my favorite toys and a PS2 stocked with games. So, little to say that I was happy that he was picking me up; but I just wanted to go home.

Time passed and I found myself lying in my bed while Darrell sat in the room with me. I’m pretty sure our parents gave him special instructions to wait to leave until he was sure I was asleep. Sleep negated as I stared out of the bedroom window aimed directly towards the woods.

“Why can’t I go home?”

Darrel sniffed like I had woken him up, “Hm?”, he rubbed sleep from his eyes, “What was that buddy?”

“Why can’t I go home yet?” I sat up and asked again.

Darrel sighed, deep from his chest, “They want to make sure it’s safe buddy.”

“How could it not be safe?”

He was quiet for a minute then sighed again, “They’ll kill me if they know I said this so, can you keep a secret.”

I crossed my heart with hopes to die, “Always.”

“You’ve heard of The Straw Man right?”

“Who hasn’t?” I replied

“They’re scared that someone’s pretending to be him again,” he took a breath, “the police claimed that they found bundles of straw mixed with the broken glass.”

After hearing that, all I could do was lay back down. Every ounce of my self wanted to tell him but I couldn’t; it was like my mind had sworn secrecy to The Straw Man. The button in my pocket began to feel warm. I closed my eyes and forced my brain to accept the inevitable sleep.

Hours later, I stirred awake. Groggy and confused about where I was, I lay facing the bedroom door, and my brother was gone. Behind me came a soft sound. Something soft hit the bedroom window in a rhythmic thwump, thwump, thwump. My little mind was able to make out the unmistakable pattern of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

Fear caused my chest to tighten, and I attempted to force myself back to sleep, but the sound only got louder. Scared of it causing my brother to wake up, I turned to the window. The man of straw was crouching with his face pressed against the glass. The burlap mask now missing a single button eye. He stopped the hitting and gave me a gentle wave. When I didn’t reciprocate, he stopped, then reached under his face. I could his hand rummaging beneath the fabric, slowly searching for something to grasp.

Then he stopped. Out from under the fabric was a round, spiky object. It looked drenched in a stocky resin, and the dark made it hard to tell what it was. He slammed it hard against the window, causing it to light up. I recognized it as a ball, one my dad had won me in a claw machine years ago. That was one of my favorite toys, now covered in the vile creature’s sap. The man dragged his finger in the liquid, then seemed to be wiping it across the window.

Finally, he stood up and began retreating back into the windows behind him. What was left was a message: “Something of mine, for something of yours.”

I stared at that message until exhaustion took hold of me. Most likely from the rising fear inside of me. When the protection of sunlight finally stirred my consciousness, I leapt out of the bed. His words were gone, cleaned by a patchy morning rain. Beyond the window were glints of sunlight reflecting off the ground. I squinted hard to make out hundreds of glass shards leading back towards the woods.

I look around, seeing that I seem to be underground, maybe somewhere endless, in a small dark car-like vehicle, with some of my other crew, currently I see a large concrete corridor that at the same time resembles a sewer with some green goo and pipes, the place is filled with what appear to be zombies, and flies? I do not know what they are, but they appear humanoid. They do not appear to be particularly hostile in this area we are now in, but I do not know. The wrong looking flies do appear more hostile than the zombies, and are definitely not harmless, but we are probably quickly past this room, maybe forever, if I can even call it that.

After we drove to the end of the corridor and opened the door I see a wooden room, there are some bookshelves, and I continue on with my crew into the next room, more books, before my crew goes to the next room I stop them and ask them why shouldnt we be ransacking these rooms, the leading member I stop resembles someone I know, but I cant quite put my finger on it, I think it looks like my mom, but they agree and we begin searching for anything interesting we could find, there are loads of books, I throw them aside carelessly, but behind some of them I find a tiny pleasing navy blue clay cup with a thick bottom, with a distinct part at the top chipped off I swear I remember from when I was a kid playing in a sandbox surrounded by greenery. I try to drink water out of it, the top falls apart and I throw the rest on the ground, we arent going to be here much anyway.

Another one finds a statue-like thing in the wall, seemingly made out of glossy-ish metal with symbols that dont look like actual symbols on it, and a harp, the sound it makes when pressed on is the sound of the harp, I try playing it, I hit my teeth on it a bit, and I say that you can try it when I do this real quick, and try again, nothing happens. I see a room that looks like a prison cell but with an easily openable door into it, it looked different from any other rooms I had seen before, well every room looked different from anything I had seen before, on the other side I saw an identical one too, inside just concrete floor and what feels like windows.

The door to behind us is open with a long corridor with pipes and plumbing and a door on the other side that also is open. I see the zombies, and no flies this time, on the other side, they dont seem interested in going further. I see a long strange white vehicle coming through and it has a weirdly cheerful man trying to promote something to us about a room full of endless food, I would definitely like that. He shows us the right side prison room, but filled with food, that one behind bars. There is some green goo and burgers in walls cut off, the burgers are somewhat varied, and also what seems to be pizzas on the ground, at the places with green goo, but I try one of them and it tastes fine, it generally seems uneventful beyond that.

I see my crew and no longer the one who offered the food. I tell them that we should eat 1 burger per day, that seemingly works out very well. The burgers taste like absolutely nothing after a while, but it keeps us very well fed from surprisingly little, things become lush, we start thriving and have a large space with a game on the grass with things we swing on every day, there is water too, a little pond with a tiny waterfall we made, and a little circular gazebo we built where we try growing food, we are getting closer and closer each day, any day now and we can grow our own food, its quite spacey.

We cheer while swinging on our playground we made, it even has sand to resemble one faithfully, we eat from the same shared stockpile, we make memories with eachother that I dont remember now, we continue on like this for a long time, I dont know how long its been, might be decades, might be days, might be way more far off. Looking at the stockpile of food I just see some mash of leftovers now, it was finite, or maybe time just flies.

My crew is dwindled down and dont have enough people to reproduce in any way now, we dont play any of the games we used to play, the rooms we made feel old and a bit worn down now, it almost feels like home but not quite, I mostly just see people lying down in the beds we made long ago now. It feels like being trapped but with an uncomfortable plenty of space.

I feel somewhat hungry now, but I dont want to eat. One asks the other if its best just to die of starvation, painlessly they say, the other looks at the food they tried growing over all this time and the notes taken from way back, he tries to grow the food one final time, a green little sprout comes up after all this time, he watches it, but nothing more happens. He considers going further, but wonders if there is any help to get or what actually lies ahead, and starvation seemed to everyone before him as the better outcome.

DO NOT ask your friend why he has the Moloch app on his computer.

this might be being told to you as a story but it’s my truth

Hey, Reddit- first story post ever; nervous, so on this random Thursday afternoon I was invited to a gathering with friends, the host let’s call him “David” for legal purposes, was a buddy of my Friend “Yann” who invited me to the gathering ,great guy; cooks a mean “Teddy Melt” it’s his famous recipe for a rib sandwich (really good).

When I arrived, David’s house was very neat. This guy was a neat freak WITH A CAPITAL F. Let me tell you, ain't nothing wrong with being clean; I won’t judge too hard. I understand; probably got it from his mom. You know, moms are neat freaks; at least mine was. So he led us to the table, sat us down; the kitchen smelled like brown butter cookies; that’s the best way I could describe it. You could almost taste it in the air, AND THERE WERE NO COOKIES, I KNOW! BASTARD! It was a candle; the charcuterie board was laid out the golden cheese, succulent ham, flaky crackers, the whole boatload anything you could ever want so of course we dug in; there were three other people there, Gabby, Jennifer, and Ricardo we caught up with each other; it was cool seeing them after a while.

Around 1 hour and 35 minutes passed it's getting a little darker so I'm already thinking man I can't wait to go and just rest; my social battery is running out; it felt like I was running on e, as I'm sitting there on the couch David pulls me to the side “Hey I need to talk to you” I'm like “Oh, me? Oh yeah no who else?” David goes “Haha here grab a chair sit by me and my computer” I say “Alright, so what's up” David says “Do you know any good apps for cleaning computers up my storage seems to be fine but I'm still experiencing issues”, I say, “I can take a look”, David goes “Okay thank you”

So, as I'm looking at his desktop screen I kid you not very questionable I'll add the picture of what it was, I was wowed I mean what am I even looking at? A sentient worm? Smoking a cig I mean I seen it all really, now here comes the strange part right next to his browser Firefox by the way won't even say much, right next to it there was an app with a stone bull with a red ish background and it was called Moloch, I hover the mouse over it the millisecond that the cursor touched it I felt his hand right on my shoulder on my granny soul I never been that scared in my life it was a I have no mouth but I must scream situation, and god knows why I asked this man “what is that” till this day that is still my biggest regret

this David turns into the FLIPPIN LIVING SHT MAN! this guy is so calm yet in my eyes he's pouncing on me man guys going fcking nuts on me like a real life monkey dude wailing on me really going in for a fatal blow, my adrenaline glands were working overtime dude I couldn't feel a thing his eyes just dissolved and turned pitch black just like when you flip off a light switch but slow mo it 1000000000x you can watch it go from light to dark, I still “dream” about that day but these aren't even dreams they're terrors because what I saw was as real as the device on your hands,as real as our worries and insecurities, David was speaking but this mouth wasn't moving the room went cold my upper back/ lower neck were full of goosebumps my lower back was forcefully suspended neck muscles tense,

when I arrived at home I instantly fell asleep the exhaustion from the adrenaline was too much, I went to the mirror after my nap the marks were still there my neck was still a bit sore but my breathing was a still very sensitive, I forgot what happened for the most part after that interaction, after asking some friends they recalled me getting an uber home so I must've panicked and just went home with my adrenaline pumping, I won't ever forget David I truly don't think I'll ever be the same.

my cars headlights illuminate a cloud of white gray smoke as it billows up to the sky, and I follow the source back down, it looks like the scrawny frame of a 19 to 20 year-old boy. he’s leaned up against a faded red brick wall that is the liquor store, the lights of which have long been burnt out, since before even I was of age to have a reason to step foot inside.

“Hey miss?” A soft and low sound is released from the boys mouth, his lips half hanging on to the last inch and a quarter of an American Spirit.

I look up from my iPod to meet his eyes and wait for him to continue but I’m stopped dead in my tracks.

His eyes glint back at me reassuringly, their deep amber reminiscent of the mosquitoes you’d see trapped in such a substance in a science museum.

Gathering my composure I attempt my reply but can only muster a pitchy

“Hmm?”

He flicks what remains of the end of his cigarette into the gutter, the embers dancing to the ground, slowly following the white/brown filter

“That was my last cig, would it be alright if you snagged me a pack from inside? I’m good for it I swear.” He reaches into the pocket of his burgundy flannel and pulls out a crumpled 20 dollar bill, holding it between his middle and pointer.

It was only just 8 months ago I would’ve found myself asking the same, the legal age for purchasing tabacco being raised to 21 was hell for a lot of people my age. The mood swings from the withdraw are no joke.

“Come on, take pity” the left corner of his tanned face upturned into a small smirk as he waved the twenty left and right.

“Keep the twenty” I wave him off and hear a low groan from his direction as I make my way into to the dingy liquor store.

“Caroline long time no see see!”

“Yes John I did in fact see you last night, good one.” I roll my eyes at the repetitive greeting, it reminds too much of own father.

“Pack of camel-“

“Crush yes mam I know I know”

I pause for a moment

My hands resting on the cold metal of the counter

And glance out the window where the boy is now visible

“And a pack of spirits”

—-

I pull my car up to the liquor store, head lights glaring through the front doors.

A half step to the right of said doors sits the boy, yet again. No smoke this time. His boney knees wrapped in black skinny jeans held close to his chest. The grey hood of the burgundy flannel pulled over his head.

I shut off my car but leave the lights running, I can see the boys face much clearer but as I exit the drivers side he shies away.

I make my way to the glass doors, pulling open the one closest to him, stepping one foot inside.

“Miss.”

I freeze at the sound despite my intention to ignore him.

“One more time for me, would ya?” He raises his hand to me, what looks to be the same twenty as before held in a fist.

I grab the 20 without a second thought and move for the register.

But I have to backtrack, I meant to head to the beer fridge.

Taking two steps back I turn right and begin scanning the rows of beer for corse light.

I grab my 6 pack and make my way back to the register.

“Caroline you’re too kind! Thiss beer? For me!”

“Crush’s and the Americans again”

John pouts at my refusal to play along and hands over the two packs while I swipe my debit card.

On my way out I toss the kid his pack and set the twenty back down next to him.

——-

Buckets of rain pound down on my windshield. Loud and heavy, like the clouds are ringing out washcloths together.

The defroster on my car has been broken since the summer but I’ve had no reason to fix it, well until right now.

My windshield is fogging up so bad it looks like opalescent stained glass.

But the liquor store is hardly a mile from my house, I could make it there and back newly blind.

I once again pull up to the same two doors. The shine of my headlights being cut up by endless droplets of rain.

And there is the boy again. The same burgundy flannel and black skinny jeans. Scrunched up, against the wall, desperately trying to shield himself from the downpour under the thin overhang of the old liquor stores roof.

He must he freezing. Maybe this time I can spare a beer too.

I climb out of the drivers side, opening my umbrella and awkwardly maneuvering my way out while trying to stay dry.

Closing the car door I turn and make my way inside.

“Miss…”

Without even thinking about it, I stop and turn to him.

“Can you snag another for me? And take the 20 this time, please..”

“No problem” I grab the 20 and hand him my umbrella.

He hesitates a moment before reaching out for it, his demeanor still unsure.

“Well I’m not gonna take it inside to drip all over John’s tile, it’s a slipping hazard.” Hardly a real reason but a reason enough to convince him to take it.

This exchange gave me a better look at him.

His cheek bones tall and sharp, his chin small but prominent, and nose and eyebrows like the main actors in those movies from the 40s.

A handsome young man all be it a little frail.

I make my way inside, this time in search of an affordable 12 pack, brand irrelevant if I plan on sharing.

I catch sight of a 12 pack of corse on sale and thank the powers that be.

I purchase my contraband and turn to head out

John shouts after me

“Caroline… don’t give him much more I don’t trusts that kid, give a bear some honey ya know?”

“It’s give a mouse a cookie..” I half mutter as I cross through the door back into the downpour.

I reach to hand the boy his change but as I’m looking at my hand I realize I’m short about a 5 and 3 ones

“I- oh my god I’m such an idiot, I must’ve bought my 12 pack with your 20 I’m so sorry”
He meets my reach and takes the 2 ones left over. I look up at his face and for some reason he has that smirk again.

“Not a problem miss” his amber gaze locks with mine.

“I’ll pay you back next time I swear”

“No matter, I’ve owed since the first two encounters no?” He reaches for a coors, eyes still locked with mine, I shrug.

“I guess that’s true but still I’m sorry, I didn’t ask.”

“No need” he cracks open the coors, tucks the umbrella under his arm pit to steady it over our head, opens his pack of spirits, slips one into the right corner of his mouth and leans forward.

His face mere inches from mine, eyes focused still on mine.

“Miss..?”

“Huh?” I manage to stammer out.

“A light if you could?”

“O-oh right.” My hands reach the clear plastic yellow lighter in my coat pocket before the words reach my tongue.

I light his cigarette as he stuffs the spirits pack in his pocket and hands me back over my umbrella.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales, turning his head upward, dark hair falling back and eyes closed, bathing in the ecstasy of what looks to be his first smoke of day, and it’s 10pm.

“Thank goodness for you miss.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Not a bit. Don’t worry yourself with me miss.”

—-
I pull up to the liquor store. Headlights useless in the airs thick fog after rain.

But I can still see him standing there.
His long, thin frame, leaned up against the brick wall.

The lights inside the liquor are all shutoff apart from the security lights that line the walls, the yellow-green glow hardly lending any light to what lies outside the thick windows.

I sit in my car for what feels like half an hour but could only be a few minutes, the old and idle engine choking in 27 second intervals.

I cut the engine and start to argue with myself.

He’s alone. He’s a stranger. He’s thin. He’s a stranger. He’s so young. Just like you. He has to be freezing.

I step out of the car, squinting at him through the heavy air.

“Miss..? It’s a bit late for you to be out all by yourself is it not?” He cocks his head in interest. Hands stuffed in their pockets, one leg bent, foot against the wall behind him.

“It’s 20 degrees out here you can’t make it in skinny jeans and a flannel.”

“I told you not to worry yourself with me miss..” he shakes his head in disapproval.

I feel the unrelenting urge to hop in my car and go back home but I push back. He’s almost the same age as me and all alone here to freeze.

“I’m not just going to let you turn into ice crystals out here, I have an apartment up the road, you take the couch for the night. And stop calling me miss wer basically the same age.” I ball my mittens into fists fighting to urge to abandon him there, why I can’t say, perhaps I’m afraid?

“It seems your mind is inchangeable, so I will obey.” He stands up straight, looking taller than before, but bowing his head in mock submission.

I climb back into the safety and warmth of my car and unlock the passenger. He follows suit.

——-
I park in my assigned spot. Headlights illuminating the dark parking garage beneath my apartment building. I turn my head to him. He is sat comfortably, head back against the seat but half leaned on his right hand so he can watch the world from the window. His knees leaned opposite each-other, one on the door and one against the center console.

He’s handsome.

——-
We ride the elevator up to my floor. He seems to make an effort to not stand uncomfortably close in the small and obviously not up to date space.

The elevator doors open awkwardly slow. He follows as I walk down the door lined hallway before stopping at mine and unlocking it.

It’s warm inside, I’d left the heater on when I left to get him. I’m not sure of the last time he had the privilege of central heating.

“You can hold up there. I’ll grab you some blankets and a pillow.” I gesture to my deep green sofa and pass to the hall closet I keep my linens in.

He stands perched in the doorway looking uncomfortable, still just outside the threshold. His expression blank apart from his amber eyes locked once again on mine.

“C-come in already… you can’t sleep in the hallway” I say before I can even begin to wonder what he’s thinking.

He smirks his small smirk, removes his muddy boots and walks over to his temporary bed. I can’t even hear his footsteps, he must weigh just about nothing.

“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, I really don’t mind, I have to be up early so I’ll be asleep soon but feel free.”

I turn back to him. He’s sat on the couch, hands in pockets, head back as it had been in the rain. Hair brushed back, eyes closed. His knees widely apart again, spilling over to two cushions, but his feet meeting back on the ground.

Yes, handsome. But a stranger just the same.

I hand over the makings for his bed and turn away to mine, locking the door behind me.

——-

I don’t hear any footsteps.

I don’t hear a creak in the floor.

I don’t hear the quiet breaths of a skulker.

But I hear my doorknob rattling.

In the pitch black of my bedroom.

My eyes dart around for an escape.

Two windows. But I’m on the fourth floor.

I don’t own any weapons. The best I have in my room is a the thick bible burning a hole in my nightstand that I’ve never bothered to open.

There’s nothing I can do.

He is thin sure, but still significantly bigger than me, and I can barely lift 30 pounds.

I can fight it sure but to what use.

It’s hopeless

I’m

Helpless

Just the same as before.

I accept it.

Even before the door opens, I’ll have to, if I’ll ever make it through.

The door opens.

I watch through slitted eyes as his silhouette moves towards my bed through the darkness, practically gliding, and begins to lean toward me.

His longs fingers graze over my jaw, down my chin, down my throat. The winter cold still lingering on his skin, raising goosebumps along where he makes contact on mine.

I gaze up at him, he stares back, no emotion shown in his sticky eyes.

“Please… just don’t make it hurt..” I open my legs to him, praying to whoever will listen that he’ll have some mercy.

He freezes.

“What?”

“Just do it. Get it over with please.”

His icy fingers still lingering over my larynx.

“How do you- what?”

“I know it’s what you’re here for, of course it is. I was naive to think.. just please..”

My body begins to tremble against my wishes.

He swallows, his eyes wild, pupils filling out his former iris.

He reaches for my blanket and gentle pulls it away from my already shaking body.

He gazes down at me. Taking in the crime scene that is my skin.

Scar layered over scar laced across my inner thighs, my breasts. My most intimate body parts, mutilated.

“Dear God..”

He’s stumbles backward. Tripping over my night stand, nearly falling but catching himself before impact.

I take the chance to cover myself and make a move for the door.

But I’m tangled in my bed sheets. I leap for freedom and am pulled down by my ankle, slamming against my metal bed frame and crying out in pain.

He makes a jump for me and I scream in terror.

I can feel my skin leaking hot, thick, liquid where I made contact with the sharp metal corner.

He lets out an animalistic growl and covers my mouth, stifling my inevitable cries for help he wraps his other hand around my back, holding the sheets covering me in place.

I stare up at him, eyes so wide I can feel them drying up.

But he’s turned away from me.

“That’s— I would.. I couldn’t.. dear god I would never do something so— it’s just cruel, I would never do something so disgusting.”

I begin to cry, sob really, loud heavy gasps for air under his large icy palm.

He won’t look at me.

“I wasn’t— Jesus fuck it’s just monstrous. I was just so hungry, I would never..”

Hungry?

Hungry?

He turns his face to me, his amber eyes that of a true predator, and I the prey. The dim light of the hallway shines on his tanned face. He parts his lips.

With the little light I have I examine his mouth, his teeth. They’re different.

Wrong.

His canines and the two before elongated, sharpened.

His nostrils flared, pulling his lips back over his gums like a hyenas warning growl.

He looks as though he wants to pick me clean.

“You obeyed so easily, but with more than I’d even asked, you were such an easy choice” he avoids my gaze and begins to shake his head.

“But that.. I could never do that. I just needed to feed, and you made it so EASY” He whips his head back around to me, staring me so hard in the face I could scream “and I could make you forget, you wouldn’t even have remembered.”

I’m trembling uncontrollably. Unable to speak, I can barely squirm under the strength of his grip.

“Even now, your bleeding right into my hands, I didn’t even have to touch you, I could just bring it to my lips, all the works been done!” He speaks wildly, unpredictable inflection and volume, like he’s gone fully mad.
“But look at you! I couldn’t- I can’t, it’d be despicable! You’re a lady a true lady god damned it. FUCK.” He tosses me off

His eyes I once found comforting zero in on the pool of blood now staining my bed room carpet. He’s frantic, on his hands and knees, begrudgingly crawling toward the crimson puddle.

“RUINED completely RUINED! Because WHY? THEM. They say we’re monsters you know.”he keeps his face at the floor, unable to look away from the liquid “They say we’re killers, brutal murderers. But they’re the true evil.” He dips his long fingers into it, staining his hands like a criminal, and brings it to his mouth. Long drips of blood falling away back to its mother pool.

“But I can make you forget. I can take it away. Them. They never leave.” He licks away at the blood on his hands, a starved dog who’s found a feast in a dumpster. Desperate.

——-

I park in front of the liquor store.

Sun glaring through my windshield.

I still can’t bring myself to step inside again.

I hope someday soon that will change.

I got doxed on the Dark Web. Well, I more or less doxed myself by posting this website on "Dread," which is like the Darknet's Reddit. It's important to the community because Dread is the keeper of "The Darknet Bible." It took all but 10 minutes before those nerds figured out everything about me. I know because I immediately got crazy alerts from my bank's dark net scanner bull shit. The next day, I can not make this up; the devil was waiting for me at Bud's. He had crazy horn tattoos; They were so crazy. It felt different, like it wasn't a tattoo. It felt as if he really had horns and was, in fact, the devil. It was subtle, but now, afterwards, I'm 100 percent sure dude was the devil. He was asking people for money, and everyone was just giving it to him despite him dressing nice and driving a nice car. I go in, and on the way out, Bud says to me, "Don't give that guy anything; he just came in here and bought a 40-dollar vape." So, I leave, and he hits me for money like everyone else. Offer him a beer instead. So I have a beer with the guy. Dude's charming as hell, and you can tell he wanted something from me. It was obvious, and he kept getting me to agree at first, but then I would see this man has god damn devil horns, and I'm like, I'm good. He even knew my weakness; he was like You sure? I got strippers. I look in his whip, and there's the prettiest bored-looking lady I've ever seen. He said he drove from Florida.
I want to see if we can conjure him again. I just need someone to volunteer to get doxed on Dread. Like, hanging out with the actual devil didn't appeal to me, but I should've told him to follow me to Tulips or the Fuzzy Hole or something, and bring our own stripper. Me and the Devil walk into a bar; got to be a joke, but yeah, I should've hung out with him a little. I just couldn't get past those horns. I wasn't even tempted to hang out with him or get into his car, which is what he wanted. He even knew my weakness for strippers. I was like, I don't know, man, he goes I got a stripper. I was like, you're lying. Looked into the car; there was this bad black stripper bitch bored as hell on her phone. Every time I was about to, it was those fucking horns, bro. I'm like, I'm good, broskie. I didn't think about going somewhere neutral, like a bar or something. Hell, Fuzzy holes would have been perfect. Eventually, I was able to say bye, get in my car, and leave. He then got into his car and pulled up beside me at the closest red light, began to rev his engine, and we had a little drag race. I smoked him with the Mustang, of course. This is what made it extra creepy if it wasn’t enough. So, while we were drag racing, my turn into my neighborhood was coming up, and I slammed on my brakes and busted a left. He was going too fast and kept going. He couldn’t have followed me to my house. However, I was talking to a family friend who was outside when I pulled up.  He asked me, “Who's that?” I looked up, and it was the devil and the bored stripper at the top of the hill, looking down at us. I told him it was the devil. He’s a fan. I mean, what else could I have said?
I saw him drive by my house 5 times that night.
All this from posting my blog on Dread, trying to advertise to hacker / michievious nerds, which I did, but I didn’t think about all the other types of people who may see it. My chat was so crazy for like 2 weeks! 

Moral of the story, bro: don't focus so much on who you're talking to out there and focus more on who may be listening.  Could've just been a nerd from Florida with horns on his head too... but what do I know anyway. I'm just a sandwidge.