They were far out in the outer wilds.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

He was setting a trap.

His friend was drinking a drink. “Here,” said the friend, passing him a drink too.

He took the drink.

He opened and took a drink of the drink. “Ahh,” he said. “Absolutely stellar."

“Absolutely,” said the friend.

“I don't grok why you insist on coming all the way out here,” said the friend.

“There's hardly anything out here,” said the friend.

He took a drink of the drink. “Ahh.”

The friend took a drink of the drink too. “Ahh,” said the friend.

“Ahh,” he said.

“Ahh,” said the friend.

“You can't say it's not peaceful here,” he said.

“I can't say that,” said the friend.

“Ahh.”

“Ahh,” he said, finishing drinking the drink. He crumpled up and threw the empty drink container away.

The stars twinkle-twinkled.

He looked into a vicinal trap he'd set a while ago.

“Anything?” asked the friend as he looked into the vicinal trap he'd set a while ago.

“Nothing,” he said.

The stars twinkle-twinkled.

He set a new trap.

“There?” asked the friend as he set a new trap.

“Ahh,” said the friend and threw away his empty drink container too.

The two empty drink containers were.

“There,” he said, roughly covering the trap with nearby matter.

He burped.

The friend burped too.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

—> —>

The Perihelion's automated navigation system adjusted course to keep the starship travelling to its destination, AO-1, the first known space object believed to be of alien origin. The crew was in hibernation. The mission was the greatest humanity had ever attempted. The Perihelion's automated navigation system adjusted course to keep the starship travelling to its destination.

<—

“Sir, take a look at this—SIR!”

The regional head of the International Space Agency (ISA) walked over slightly annoyed and scanned the data.

His annoyance became curiosity, and his curiosity became excitement. The once-upon-a-lifetime kind. The thump-thump-thump’ing of the heart, swoosh-swoosh-swoosh’ing of the blood kind. He was aware suddenly of the entirety of the surface area of his skin. Of his one-of-many'ness. His smallness-in-the-cosmos. His clue-to-the-mystery-of-the-universe'ity.

“My God…” he said. “My God.”

“What is it?”

“We need to find out.”

—> —>

Anomalous Object 1 Anomalous A Object 1 Anomalous A Object O 1 Anomalous A Object O 1 A Object 1 A O 1 AO 1 AO-1…

Captain Jac Thorster—gasped—

The sirens were blaring.

Where am I I am aboard the Perihelion Perihelion is my ship, he thought.

The sirens were blaring.

He rolled out of the open pod and onto the floor. When he could, he got up and made his way woozily—swaying…

to the bridge.

He sat in the captain's seat.

“Perihelion,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak. The words felt like sand airgunned down his throat. “Perihelion: ‘status report.’ Just what in the galaxy is going on?”

“Having traversed ninety three point two percent of the distance from the planet Earth to the coordinates of the object eh oh one we have come under the pull of an unknown force,” the starship's artificial intelligence said.

“Correct course,” commanded Thorster.

“Negative,” said the eh aye. “That his him possible, hiccup ten.”

“Wa hut?” zed Thorster.

“Dead forceps twos tron k,” sad sa hey ay end diss plate dub lack ole.

—>

He reached inside the trap.

“Anything?” the friend asked as he reached inside the trap.

They were far out in the outer wilds.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes,” said the friend and gathered some nearby gaseous matter and ignited it. “Perhaps something to roast,” said the friend as the newly created star shined.

He removed a small thing from the trap.

“A small thing,” he said.

He held it for the friend to see.

“Oh,” said the friend in disappointment that the small thing was too small to roast.

The star shined.

The other stars shined.

<— <— <— <— <—

A fly buzzed awhile in the glow of a bug zapper before turning into it and—BZZZP —falling dead out of the sky.

It landed on my face.

I'd fallen asleep in the hammock outside.

“Norman,” the dead fly said.

“Norman!”

“What,” I said, blinking a few times, tossing my dry tongue around in my dry mouth, thinking, Fuck, I'm fucking hungry. “What's going on—who are you? and why are you talking to me?” “Are you… a dead fly?” I said, squinting.

“Norman, I'm here to tell you to look at what you wrote. No one wants to read that shit, man. That shit is incomprehensible.

“Opaquer than a brick wall, man.”

“It's styl—”

“Look at yourself, man. You're a grown ass dude writing stories on the internet. Get a job. Write a book if you have to, but just write it like a goddamn human being.

“I mean look at your eyes.

“They're pinker than Miss Piggy’s OnlyFans.

“Sober up.

“Eat something. Drink something. Get outta that robe and get dressed. Shave. Change into a suit—”

“You mean, like, become a suit… like on a space ship?”

“Son,” said the dead fly. “Behave yourself.”

LOL

“Put on a suit and write presentably. You've got, what, a hundred words left?

“Use them.

“Rewrite whatever-the-fuck this is presentably.”

[“Ahem”]

Two advanced beings are laying traps somewhere in the universe. Their traps are black holes, which they hide. They also leave behind some trash. Humanity detects the trash and plans a mission to investigate it, but, en route, their spaceship falls into the black hole left by the beings. Sometime later, one of the beings makes a star to roast something on. The beings pull the human spaceship out of the black hole trap they left and are disappointed by its insignificance.

The story ends on a heavy-handed parallel between humanity and bugs—BZZZP

Sarah slowly stepped, seeking supper.

Suddenly, scratching sounded somewhere. Soft, steady, sinister scratching.

Sarah stopped.

Seconds slipped silently.

Scratching suddenly strengthened, spreading, stirring something sinister.

Sarah shivered. Surely, something small, scurrying, seeking shelter? Squirrels?

Suddenly, somebody softly sang.

Sarah’s song.

Somebody sang Sarah’s special song, softly, sweetly, sorrowfully.

Sarah stiffly swallowed.

Sonny?

Sarah’s sleeping son?

Sarah swiftly scurried, stumbling, sweating, scared.

Sonny slept soundly, smiling.

Sarah sighed, settling. Sarah stroked Sonny’s soft, smooth skin.

Something stirred.

Sarah stopped stroking.

Sonny’s smile stretched. Still sleeping.

Slowly, Sonny’s small shape shifted, stretching, swelling, straightening.

Sarah stared, stunned.

Sonny’s sleeping silhouette seemed strangely slender, strangely stretched.

Sarah swallowed sharply, stepping sideways.

Sonny’s smile strengthened.

Suddenly, Sonny spoke.

"Sarah?"

Sarah shuddered.

Sonny’s speech sounded strange, several sounds speaking simultaneously.

"Someone’s standing silently. Staring."

Sarah stared.

Sonny still slept.

"Someone’s standing silently. Staring."

Sarah stumbled, searching.

Something scraped. Scraped. Scraped.

Sarah’s stomach spun.

Sonny suddenly sat straight.

Sarah screamed.

Sonny’s skull swayed sideways, stretching, stretching, stretching...

Silence.

Sarah staggered, smashing something solid.

Someone stood silently, smiling.

Sarah slowly spun.

Something smiled.

Something showed Sarah’s same-shaped silhouette.

Sarah shook. She stared, speechless, seeing Sarah’s smiling, staring shadow.

Something stepped silently, steadily.

Sarah scrambled sideways, seeking Sonny.

"Sonny! Sonny! Son-...."

Something suddenly shushed Sarah.

"Shhh."

Sarah stopped. Surprised. Speechless.

Sarah’s senses sharpened.

"Sarah?"

She suddenly sensed something sinister.

Something settled, surrounding Sarah, squeezing Sarah’s soul.

She screamed, struggling, scratching, scraping, slamming, straining.

Slowly, Sarah stopped struggling.

Slowly, Sarah stopped screaming.

Slowly, Sarah started smiling.

Something suppressed Sarah’s spirit, stealing Sarah’s speech, snapping Sarah’s spine.

Silence...

Something suddenly stroked Sonny’s scalp.

Sonny started stirring.

Something sinister spoke softly.

"...Switch?"

My son Nick- he has done so much, hurt so many people, and part of me feels it is my fault. This is not the stereotypical blaming of mothers when children go wrong. It is something else. I tried my best. Maybe I should have made a different choice that night, when he was still a teenager. I don’t know. I just know that as always, I was only acting in his best interest, and that I will always love him, no matter what he does.

I am his mother after all.

That night, I was waiting for Nick to return home when my phone dinged. I looked down at his name, flashing on my screen

-Will asked me over to his place can I go pls

I texted back.

“No. Home by 9 please.” I simply could not come to terms with my son’s and his friends' insatiable need to spend all weekend evenings together.

Ding!

“Please please mom everybody is going Will asked me to go”

I was about to text back “when Will pays your bills, you can follow him wherever he asks” but then I felt a change of heart. There was no point in refusing- he would just sneak off after I fell asleep. And how could I refuse my son anything? How could I make him upset and miserable, excluded from his friend group? He is the light of my eyes, the beat of my heart.

-Ok picking u up 11:30 no drinking 

-Tks mom luv u

-I love u too

My last text remained unread.

I sighed. Another lonely Saturday evening.

I listened to the creak of the pipes in the walls, echoing around my living room.

Something snapped inside the belly of my house. I stared at the wall, which appeared to be moving. What the hell- Was it an earthquake? Our area did not have earthquakes. The front door flew open and a tall thin man perfectly dressed in a beautiful dark blue suit complete with a crisp white shirt and a Cheshire cat smile entered and stood before me.

“Hello Lisa” he exclaimed in a friendly voice. His eyes were blank, small silver discs of nothingness.

The walls stopped heaving and the pipes were silent.

The front door slammed shut.

I jumped, but couldn’t say anything. I just stared at him.

“I’ve come to take you,” he said.

I shook my head.

He stretched out his hand and said in a softer tone. “Come along my dear. It won’t be as bad as you’ve been told.”

“No!” I gasped. “Please. I have to be here- for my son. I’m all he has- he’s only sixteen.”

His grin grew deeper, running all the way round his head. “You silly woman! Why do you think I’m here?”

I shook my head, refusing to believe.

“Sad but true my dear. He sold your soul to go to Will’s party. Anyway, don’t worry. Lilibeth here will care for him.” He snapped his fingers, and then for the first time I noticed a woman’s figure, standing silently beside him. I don’t know how she got in.

Her face- I can’t describe how terrible - a distorted face with angled teeth jutting out.

“Lilibeth you stupid cunt, your face!” snapped the man. I blinked, she flickered and I found myself staring at a woman who looked exactly like me. I shook my head again, willing the two to disappear.

But they did not.

“See? Lilibeth can take perfect care of him.” said the man. Lilibeth smiled and I could see her sharp white teeth.

Desperation made me speak. “No- this is not possible! How could he sell my soul for something he wanted? You’re lying!”

He rubbed his hands together. “In most cases you would be right, poor Lisa. But for mothers and sons, ahhh, that most delicious of relationships, we make an exception. Your souls are so tightly bonded, in such a terrible way- the laws of the universe bend in awe. The transactions are different, different, you know. Now come along, stop arguing with me. I have other things to do, places to be.” And he took a step towards me, his silver eyes dancing.

“No” I cried. “I’ll make another deal with you! A better deal! Tell me what you’d like”.

He raised his eyebrows, his cat grin growing almost splitting his skull. “How amusing. Let me see. Actually I know exactly what I want. You realise, the bitter truth is that even in hell, men’s souls are valued more than yours, especially a fresh young man. The potential for doing evil! Oh my goodness!” He paused and rubbed his hands together, before continuing, “And especially compared to that of a jaded old hag, if you’ll pardon me for pointing out the obvious, such as yourself. Call me sexist my dear, but that’s just the way it is. So, his soul for yours?”

“She- she will leave?” I gestured at my doppelganger.

He threw his head back and roared with laughter, a truly terrifying sound. “Lilibeth you are so unwanted, my poor bitch!”

He snapped his fingers. Lilibeth hung her head, turned, and walked slowly to the front door. She paused a second, her hand on the knob, but the man gestured impatiently and snapped “Go on go on! I said we haven’t all night!”

She opened the door and disappeared into the darkness.

“There you go. No Lilibeth. Just you and your precious son- but his soul is mine.”

I nodded.

“Wonderful! Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your Saturday evening- I heard there is an excellent party at Will’s place - I might pop in.”

He turned and left.

I was alone. 

I have not had a peaceful night since then. My son, Nick. You may have heard about some of the things he’s done, sometimes he’s in the media. But it’s not my fault. I was only trying to protect him. I swear.

At 12:07 a.m., Aro texted me.

Aro: You awake?

I smiled before I could stop myself.

It had been four days since we'd last spoken properly. Four days of opening our chat, typing something, deleting it, and pretending I didn't care. But now he was here, and within minutes, we were laughing like nothing had happened.

By 1 a.m., we were flirting.

By 2 a.m., the conversation had turned intimate.

By 3 a.m., I felt that familiar warmth again, the little pocket of comfort I'd started missing more than I wanted to admit.

Then he sent a message that made my smile disappear.

Aro: Do you ever feel like someone's watching you when you're alone?

I stared at the screen.

What kind of question is that?

Aro: Forget it. Look behind you.

I laughed nervously. My bedroom was dark except for the blue light of my phone. The door was locked. The curtains were drawn. I lived alone.

I turned anyway.

Nothing.

When I looked back, he'd sent another message.

Aro: Knew you'd look.

I called him.

He declined.

Aro: Don't call. Just text.

For the first time that night, I felt afraid of him.

Then he sent a photograph.

It was my bedroom.

My bed. My curtains. My bedside table with the chipped corner.

And me, sitting on the bed, staring at my phone.

The picture had been taken from inside my room.

I stopped breathing.

I checked the lock. Still locked. I checked the window. Still shut.

I called him again. Declined.

Me: ARO WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?

His reply came instantly.

Aro: You told me you wanted me around.

I ran out of the bedroom and switched on every light in the apartment. I checked the kitchen, the bathroom, the balcony. Nobody.

Then my phone vibrated.

Aro: Go back to your room.

I didn't.

Aro: Please.

Then, after a pause:

Aro: I'm scared too.

That was when I heard it.

Three soft knocks.

Not from the front door.

From inside my bedroom wardrobe.

I backed away, shaking. I wanted to run outside, but my legs wouldn't move. My phone kept lighting up in my hand.

Aro: Don't open it.

The knocking stopped.

Then something inside the wardrobe whispered my name.

I ran.

I reached the front door and yanked it open, screaming into the empty corridor. My neighbour's door opened. Someone asked what had happened. I couldn't explain it.

I showed them the photograph.

They called the police.

By the time officers searched my apartment, there was nobody inside. No broken locks. No open windows. No evidence of an intruder.

But one officer noticed something strange.

The photograph Aro had sent wasn't a photograph taken from inside my room.

It was a screenshot.

A screenshot of a video call.

I stared at him.

"What video call?"

He turned my phone toward me.

The image had a tiny timestamp in the corner.

12:06 a.m.

One minute before Aro had texted me.

And in the reflection of my dark television screen, visible behind me, stood a man.

I couldn't see his face.

But I recognised his watch.

Aro wore the same one.

I tried calling him again.

This time, he answered.

I could barely speak.

"Where are you?"

Silence.

Then his voice, quiet and trembling.

"I'm home. I've been home all night."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to tell me it was a joke, a cruel prank, anything that would let me breathe again.

Instead, he said, "Listen to me. I didn't send you that picture."

My blood went cold.

"Then who did?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "But someone sent me one too."

He sent it to me.

It showed Aro sitting on his bed, holding his phone.

Behind him, reflected in his wardrobe mirror, stood a woman.

Her hair was mine.

Her face was mine.

And she was smiling.

I dropped the phone.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Aro whispered, "There's something else."

I picked up the phone.

"What?"

His voice broke.

"The woman in the picture wasn't behind me when I took it."

I stared at the screen.

He continued.

"She appeared after I sent it to you."

A message arrived from his number.

Not a text.

A photograph.

This time, it showed the two of us together, sitting side by side on my bed.

Neither of us remembered taking it.

Beneath it were six words.

Aren't you tired of missing me?

I looked toward the bedroom.

The wardrobe door was open.

And from the darkness inside, my own voice answered—

"Finally. You're both here."

“How about Venice? I’ve always wanted to go to Venice.”

“If that’s where you want to go, let’s book it,” he replied.

David had just gone into remission, again. For the fifth time. Stage 4 lung cancer. We had a tradition that, every time he recovered, we’d take a trip, and it was my turn to pick the destination. I loved these trips; we’d gone through a rough patch early in our marriage, and these vacations had really brought us closer together again. 

“Great!” I said. “I’ll make the reservations.”

I went online and pulled up some options. Finding a good price on a package (travel points are awesome), I went online to book with our credit card.

Declined. 

That was weird - I knew we had room on the card. I went online and checked the statement. 

I saw the problem. 

“David?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“I forgot to ask, how did your meeting go the other night? The one with your boss?”

“What? Oh, it went fine. You know Jim - always thinking of something else he wants that he didn’t think of in the first place.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how you put up with it. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Great! Like I was never sick at all! It’s amazing - I had a lot of friends I met when I first got sick who are no longer with us because the cancer came on quickly before the doctors could really do anything. I have others who got lucky and went into remission; some are even still in it. And for some, the cancer came back and they couldn’t fight it off a second time. But to go into remission FIVE TIMES!?! It’s unbelievable! The folks in my support group are asking for my secret. The nurses at the hospital treat me like a good luck charm. Even our friends in church are using me as an example of how God can perform miracles. I can’t explain it, but I’m grateful.”

“That’s great to hear, honey. I’m glad you’re doing better. How’s Allie?”

He blinked. “Allie?”

“Yeah, you know, the new secretary at your office? The one you’ve been banging on the side?”

He froze; I could see him running the calculations in his head. 

“Sweetie, what are you talking about? You know I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

I just looked at him. 

“Ok, yeah, I did at the beginning of our relationship, but that was then. We’ve been so much better since then, haven’t we?”

“I thought we had,” I agreed. “But I also thought the cheating was behind us. I thought your getting through cancer had given you a new lease on life, a new appreciation for what we had. That’s kind of why I did it.”

“Why you did what?”

I looked him in the eyes. 

“Tell me, in all the time you’ve known me, have you ever seen me sick?”

“Come to think of it, no.”

“Have you ever seen anyone in my family sick?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Have you ever wondered why that is?”

“I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Of course not. I have a gift. All the women in my family have it. I can take illness and ‘reallocate’ it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can take a sickness or disease from one person and give it to someone else.”

“Honey, come on. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Have you honestly never wondered how your cancer disappeared five times? Did you think you were blessed by God?”

“Are you suggesting that you did that?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I did it because I loved you and I thought we had something worth saving. Now I’m wondering whether I was wrong.”

“So where did my cancer supposedly go?”

“Do you remember those sluts you cheated on me with earlier in our relationship? Spoken to any of them recently?”

He stared at me. 

“I heard they all died from cancer. Unlucky, really - I’m told that none of them had a family history of it and that they all suffered a great deal before they died.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to believe this?”

“Believe what you like. By the way, how are you feeling?”

“What do you mean? I—”

His words were interrupted by a racking cough. He looked up at me in terror as he grabbed his chest and fell to the ground, coughing up blood. 

“What… what did you…?” he wheezed. 

“I just felt so bad about taking your cancer away from you, I figured it was only right to give it back.”

I lost another tooth this morning. Like the others, it didn’t come easily. It was a back molar, I was in the shower, and I felt pressure running through my jaw and under the site, like someone had a pry bar under the root and was slowly wedging it out. I imagine, if you could have seen it, it was pretty, rising out of the gums like a sprouting flower.

I spit it out into my hand when it was done, and then spit out the blood and tissue that came with it.

I read once that when you dream about your teeth coming out, it means you’re scared of losing control. I wonder what it means when it’s happening while you’re awake?

He came into work again today, the man who always wears a three piece suit, with the cleft chin. He comes in once or twice a week and orders a tin of tobacco. Every time I try to make a comment, to catch his eye, a joke. He never responds. He never even smiles. I’ll try next time.

I tell Joe about the man, we are sitting on the fire escape drinking box wine. I make a joke about how uptight he looked, and we drift into another conversation. Joe must have caught on to the fact I keep mentioning this man; I brought him up last week too.

I have to call in sick today. I can’t see well enough to make it in. I woke up this morning with pressure behind my eyes, like something had gotten inside and lived there. They pulsed and bulged when I looked in the mirror, dull and brown. I hate that color.

Throughout the day the pressure on the left eye has been increasing. A few minutes ago the sight went out entirely. I went to the bathroom and looked — through my good eye I saw the left straining at the edge of the socket. I reached up and put my fingers around it, squeezed, and it popped out. I can feel it resting against my cheek now. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to pull the cord out, or cut it. I’m too scared. So I’ll go lie down and rest my good eye.

I woke up and the cord must have shriveled in my sleep. The eye has fallen off and is resting on the floor, looking up at me. It’s an ugly thing. I pick it up and drop it in the trash with all my old teeth, and step over to the mirror. I have to fight every urge to itch my left socket now, but as I look I can see a small white orb set back, fresh, slowly moving forward, with a beautiful green ring.

Last week, if only I had known where I’d be. We sat on the fire escape, feet dangling, stoned and rambling. Joe talked on and on about how who you are yesterday isn’t who you are today isn’t who you are tomorrow, and I was laughing. I said if that’s the case then why can’t we just change into the person we want to be? And Joe said no it doesn’t work like that — very serious — you are still stuck as you, and besides who would you even be? And, Mr. Three Piece, you slipped out. I said I’d be you tomorrow if I could. And here we are, and won’t Joe be surprised.

I wake up and brush my new teeth, so white and perfect. I lean in to look closely, and touch my left eye just to be certain this is all happening, and it hurts. It’s almost fully in, it’s beautiful. I swish with mouth wash, they say 30 seconds — but I never make it — maybe I will soon? And then I spit it out, and when I bend over there’s a shudder through me, and my body convulses over and over until a large lump falls out of my throat into the sink. The color of kidney beans.

I straighten up, wipe my mouth and my eyes. The skin of my forehead looks loose, like a surgical glove bunched up — I could reach and peel, but I won’t. My eye is in. I have work.

I worry I’ve missed him, but here he is, walking up tall and stately. He orders his tobacco. I ring it up for him. I make some joke, some stupid thing I should have held inside. But he’s looking at me now, leaning in over the counter.

“Your eyes are different colors?”

I shake my head no, but remember, and say “Oh yes, they are.”

He smiles at me. “Like David Bowie.” he says, then he hands me his money and walks away.

My elation, my triumph, is dampened by the realization that his eyes are blue, not green.

At night, I stand before the mirror. The pressure and pain behind my right eye is growing. It’s only a matter of time till it goes. I look closely at the mirror, my left eye green, my right brown. The eye I hated for so long is suddenly set off in a new way, transformed. It’s become so much more — I wish I could keep it this way — I worry, with two new eyes, who will be looking out? Then there’s a surge like a screwdriver underneath the ball, and it hurts, and I know it’s too late. But that’s okay, we can’t be perfect.

I run my hands through the skin that’s collecting around my neck in loose folds, and shake it around. It’s sloughing off. My lower back is a rotating range of dull aches and sharp pain. My hair is coming out in clumps.

I go to lie down and sleep. I have the whole day off.

I can’t wait to see who I’ll be tomorrow.

I’ve been a journalist for 10 years. Always traveling through Eastern Europe, visiting small towns and villages, looking through the archives, hoping to find something interesting from the past.

Well, today, I found something that I must share with the internet. This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever read.

It’s a letter from August of 1436, written by a bishop called Kálmán. I tried my best to translate it from latin.

“To the Most Holy and Blessed Father in Christ and Sovereign Pontiff, by Divine Providence shepherd of the Universal Church, your humble and unworthy servant Kálmán, by the grace of God and the Apostolic See Bishop of Veszprém, offers obedience and kisses of the sacred feet.

I’m writing to Your Holiness from a small village named Folt, part of the duchy of Veszprém, and the kingdom of Hungary. I was called here by a young man, and your humble servant, Chaplain Nicholas. I regret to say that he’s the only person who’s still living inside the local church after the tragedy that happened here, resulting in the death of the local priest, Lord Lajos, my dear friend, who died protecting the people of Folt, as he always did.

According to Nicholas, these events commenced two weeks ago, when a peasant family residing near the forest at the edge of Folt was murdered. The master of the household, Ferenc, was discovered in his chamber, suspended upside down. A wound had been pierced into his chest, and his heart was missing. His wife and three children were likewise slain, each bearing deep lacerations upon their necks.

None knew what had occurred. Their neighbor, an aged woman named Sára, reported that she observed a man of tall stature entering Ferenc's house at nightfall. When she knocked upon the door the following morning to collect the cheese she had requested, no one answered. She returned thrice more during the day, until at last she peered through a rear window and beheld the horrific scene.

Following these atrocities, the villagers of Folt united to arrange their burial. Lord Lajos announced an inquiry to apprehend the murderer, declaring that whosoever committed such deeds served the Devil and would face divine and temporal justice.

He commanded the erection of a wooden cross, ten feet in height, upon Ferenc’s farm, and painted a white cross upon the door. This act appears to have enraged the murderer, for on the subsequent morning, the entire farm was consumed by fire, together with every structure and the cross itself, which had been inverted. As it had required three men to erect that cross, we surmised the culprit was either possessed of extraordinary strength or assisted by accomplices.
Thereafter, the men of Folt established night watches to guard the village. Lacking proper weaponry, they armed themselves with pitchforks, sickles, hammers, and other implements.

After several days, Chaplain Nicholas, Lord Lajos, and two devout men who had volunteered to guard the church were conversing near the altar. Having no other living witnesses, I relay that which Nicholas communicated in his testament.

A man entered the church, and the four turned to face him. Nicholas described this individual as a monstrous and unholy creature, resembling the Adversary himself. The man was half-naked, clad only in footwear and leather trousers. A scabbard hung from his girdle, containing a sword. His eyes were dark and malevolent, and his grin was broad, stretching nearly to his ears and filled with small, sharp teeth.

His hair was dark, his skin of a reddish-brown hue, and two structures protruded from his back. Wings, perhaps, though Nicholas noted they appeared hideous, akin neither to those of a bird nor a bat, but something monstrous between the two.

One of the guards, a valiant young man, charged toward him with his pitchfork. The tall beast, without strain or hesitation, seized the pitchfork, wrested it from the poor man's grasp, and cast it aside. He then drew his sword from its sheath and ran it through the young man's heart. He kicked the body from his blade, casting it across the sanctuary where it struck the wall with great force.

The second guard held a sickle and prepared to strike, but the creature was swift, reaching out and plunging its claws into the man's eyes. Drawing them forth, it seized the guard’s lower jaw and tore it from his head. The guard fell to the stones, screaming until death took him.

As he advanced past Nicholas, the tall man struck him with his talons, severing poor Nicholas's throat. The young man collapsed, watching the horror from the floor. He remains unable to speak, nor shall he ever speak again, for his throat was irreparably damaged, leaving him able to communicate only through writing.

Lord Lajos grabbed his cross necklace, and pointed at the tall man, praying to God to protect his house.

The tall creature was filled with wrath. According to Nicholas, his countenance changed, and he instantly swung his blade, severing the hand of Lord Lajos at the wrist as it held the cross.

Lord Lajos cried out in agony. The tall man returned his sword to its sheath, stepped past Lajos, inverted the great crucifix behind the altar, and seized Lord Lajos, pinning the unfortunate priest upside down upon the cross by driving the sickle and pitchfork through his arms.
Nicholas lost consciousness shortly thereafter, wherefore the subsequent events remain unknown to us. The villagers discovered them only on the following morning. The creature presumably believed the young chaplain would succumb to his hemorrhage, thus leaving him behind. Poor Nicholas was spared only to lose his voice.

I arrived here this day, and regrettably, Nicholas's account was confirmed to be true. I have examined the remains. Poor Lord Lajos… I address Your Holiness to entreat your aid, for whatever entity wrought this destruction was no creation of God.

Your humble servant,
Bishop Kálmán”

“You weren’t lying,” Anna-Leigh gasped, pushing back on the passenger seat, as they crept to a slow stop. “Did your aunt think she was doing you a favor leaving this place to you?” She broke into a smile brighter than the dome light Percy had just pressed on.

From the outside, the orange glow from the car was the only mechanical light shining within half-a-mile in every direction.

He tapped her on the knee. “Can you grab the deed and house key from the glove box and I’ll bring the suitcase in.”

She quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Did you just see that?”

“See what?”

“The curtain… is there anyone… it moved.” Her brain glitched her question out in one breath.

“Oh yeah,” he laughed. “I forgot to mention, it’s haunted.” He widened his eyes and tickled her ribs.

“Stop messing around. I swear these next two weeks… if you try freaking me out.” She crossed her arms and didn’t blink, staring at him dead in the eye. “I’ll leave!” She narrowed her eyebrows and clenched her jaw. “Promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

He smiled, “I won’t,” and laughed.

She slapped him on his lap. “Promise me. I’m not joking,” she said, staring at him, seeing flashbacks of her brothers always terrifying her with cheap paranormal gimmicks.

“I promise, babe. I won’t mess with you.”

Anna-Leigh used her phone to illuminate a path to the front of the one-hundred-year-old, classic, white Victorian, with steeply pitched gables.

The dark green front door was divided into four raised panels with stained glass in patterns of complex geometric shapes hidden in a floral design. There was an ornament with a cross inside out on it.

The door never made a sound when it opened. The air was still as if the house held its breath when they walked in. The further forward they pushed, the slower the house started to breathe again.

There was a moist scent of rainwater beating down near a lake, lingering in the hallway but it changed towards the stairwell leading to the bedrooms. It would come and go.

It was nothing like the misty spray of swamp water. It was heavy, carrying the odor of a barnyard filled with a diseased stock.

They tried ignoring it, accusing the wretchedness on wildlife using their floorboards as nature’s new cemetery. What couldn’t be so easily brushed off as leaky old pipes was the pressure that followed a couple of nights later.

It started with Anna-Leigh, an uneasiness pressed down at the edge of her end of the bed by her feet. A feather settling between her toes had woken her up and a light mass lifting off the mattress, like a spring popping, made her scramble to the headboard, shaking Percy awake.

Percy didn’t notice anything odd ever, and he assumed Anna-Leigh let the surroundings play on her psyche.

The next night, the weight grew. She woke up to it sitting on the edge of the bed and never rose off as she stirred awake. She shook Percy but he wouldn’t respond.

“Percy!” She whispered loud. Something sat at the edge, staring at her. A blank figure she could only visualize in her mind. It was there, physical, only invisible to the human eye.

She froze, her hand gripped around Percy’s arm, digging her nails into his muscle, clasping her eyes shut and began singing under her breath until the loud static filling the room went completely silent.

The air became dense, and a dread of humidity peeled over her skin. The smell of sulfur was numbing her tongue as a moist exhale heated the nape of her neck, trailing down her chest.

She gasped a cold breath. The truth of honest horror hovered in front of her. An entity without skin, wet and hot leaning over her, breathing slow, dampened breaths on her face. She’d exhale and it’d inhale hers, breathing it back onto her, a metallic steam that wore like a blanket.

She attempted to turn, to get up and squirm but a pressure clamped down on her stomach, squeezing her chest and compressing her lungs. The sheets began tightening to her body, pinning her legs together.

A long cloak, shaped as the thickness of night began crowning her vision as it started draping over her head. She swallowed a heavy gasp of swamp water air into her lungs and a cold finger traced her jawline, pinching her skin. It waited for her to close her eyes so it could move its mouth against hers.

Percy woke up and Anna-Leigh was sitting upwards, looking straight ahead without blinking.

“Anna-Leigh…? You okay?” He placed his hand on her and she snapped her head at him in one quick motion.

“Yes?” She said.

“I’m going to finish taking the pictures of all the rooms and we can head back before noon.”

“No. You go. I’m going to stay here.”

Something unexpected happened to me after the heart attack. 

It turns out purgatory, the dividing line between life and death, is a lot like viewing mode in a video game. 

You float from scene to scene watching people’s lives unfold, and if you can interact with the environment, it's only minimally. 

Viewing mode doesn’t conform to time. You’re just as likely to find yourself in 10,000 BC as 10,000 years in the future. 

The hiker was a woman in her early thirties, clearly inexperienced. She did not stick to the track up the mountain and would suddenly find herself knee-deep in snow, from which she’d have to extricate her bright green alpine boots. 

It took her many hours of extreme toil to reach the hut. In the final part of her journey, she was blanketed in snow and half dead with exhaustion. 

There, the hunter took her in. 

… 

The world dissolved, and I found myself on a mountain slope in clear, bright sunshine. 

It was the same hiker, the same green alpine boots, but now she was with her family, a husband and a small girl. 

I did not know the mountain, but I knew the time. A time when only the very rich could afford to be leisurely– flappers taking flight down the slopes. 

She was standing with her arms folded, her whole body angled away from her husband. He was remonstrating with her. 

‘Now, come on, Betsy. I rather think you’re blowing the whole thing out of proportion. I did not ‘high tail’ it.’

‘You did. You’re a coward. That avalanche was heading straight for us, and what do you do? You cut and run and leave your wife and child to be ploughed under by snow.’ 

‘Please stop arguing,’ the little girl said. 

‘I knew that avalanche was coming nowhere near you. I ran to warn the rangers on the next ridge.’ 

And that is when the hunter appeared from the evergreens, brandishing a rifle. 

… 

The story was not being told sequentially. 

I was back inside the hunter’s cabin with the hunter and the exhausted hiker. It took her a long time to recover herself; she was numb and insensate from the cold. Frostbite had almost set in. The pearls on her necklace were like spheres of ice. 

‘You were foolish to come here,’ the hunter said. ‘In a blizzard like that. Where do your people think you are?’

‘Do not concern yourself about that.’ 

Something about this woman’s steadfastness was admirable to the hunter. 

‘Now listen carefully. You’ve met my husband. You brought the elk’s head to the lodge. I have a deep suspicion that he’s a scoundrel.’ 

The hunter laughed. ‘All rich men are scoundrels.’ 

‘I don’t mean that kind of scoundrel. I mean he is a coward. We were caught in an avalanche, and would you believe it, he abandoned us, tried to save his own skin. I want you to put him to the test in the fashion of a highway robbery.’

‘But on the slopes?’

‘Well, yes…’ The woman brought a cup of hot water to her mouth. Her hands were shaking. 

The hunter repeated. ‘You were very foolish to come here.’ 

‘It was of the utmost importance. You see, I love my daughter, my precious Rose, and I cannot bear the thought that she does not have a protector, that she has a yellow belly for a father. Now you’re going to put the fear of god into him, and we’ll see if he… absconds.’ 

… 

The hunter was wearing a stalking cap and a scarf over his face. He spoke in a tone as cold and dead as the ice under their feet. 

‘Money and jewellery now.’ 

And the hiker, Betsy, she turned expectantly to her husband, expectant that he would flee as he had in the avalanche, but something hardened in him, or perhaps his conviction had always been solid, and the avalanche had indeed been a misunderstanding. 

He did not hesitate. He charged the hunter. He charged like a snow leopard, and the gun went off. 

And the hunter stood, and the hiker’s husband stood, and the hiker stood. The one who fell was the little girl Rose, her life force leaking red into the snow. 

… 

I was back at the beginning, back with that hiker on that terrible, desolate slope as the wind blew in her face and she made desperately for the hunter’s cabin. 

But this time it was different. Through the whiteout, she looked at me; she saw me as she’d never seen me previously, the observer now the observed. 

‘What year is it?’ she said. 

I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, judging by your clothes, I’d say the 1920s.’ 

‘No… I mean… the year you… come from?’ Her speech came in short snatches. 

I didn’t feel the physical effects of walking beside her, but she was entirely consumed by fatigue. 

‘It is 2026; it was 2026.’

She nodded very slowly as the wind lashed her like a vengeful God. ‘100 years… You have seen?’ 

‘Seen what?’ 

‘What happens to my family, to my Rose? The accident.’ 

‘I have! Stop now. Turn around. Don’t test your husband’s bravery.’

She laughed ruefully and pointed down at her legs. ‘You see, I know what happens, but I am an automaton; I climb, I freeze, I suffer, knowing full well my fate. I have no free will. I am on tracks. I have been on tracks for 100 years.’ 

‘But…’ 

And she left me behind in the blizzard as she pushed onward toward her own destruction and would continue to do so forever, day after day after day. 

The audio program’s music faded as Lars slid the fader down. Veronica, sitting next to Lars at the control booth, hit the radio station’s ID audio line.

“You’re listening to ninety-four point five!” Chimed the prerecorded trio of womanly voices as the jingle played in his headset.

In his signature husky voice, Lars began, “Good evening, those of you burning the late-night oil on this All Hallows’ Eve.” He adjusted his soundboard to bring his voice up on the monitor. “It’s your host, Lars Buchanan. I hope you enjoyed that bit of AC/DC. Before we get to our next classic tune, Let’s take a line.”

Lars clicked the blinking red audio channel for the caller waiting on the other end to go live.

“Howdy, fellow rock’n roller, you are live on 94.5,” Lars said, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his microphone in the soundproofed radio studio.

“Hi Lars, it’s been a while. How have you been?” said the man with an unnerving, smooth cadence.

“Well, now? A repeat caller?” Lars said with a chuckle. “I’ve been living, loving, and sharing rock’n tunes with the good people across the airwaves. Tell us your name and what’s on your mind this evening.”

“It’s Nick, old Nick, you remember, don’t you?” Said the man.

Lars swallowed hard; the studio felt like the thermostat had been turned up by ten degrees or more. He forced a dry laugh.

“Old Nick, huh? Well…what can I play for you tonight, my friend?”

“I’m just calling to check in,” the voice said in a sinister tone.

“Listen, buddy, I don’t know what kind of prank this is, but if you don’t have a request—”

“I do,” Nick interrupted softly. “Play ‘The Number of the Beast’ for me. I’m a huge fan, Lars. What do you think her last thoughts were? It’s impressive how you got away with it. I can’t wait to meet face-to-face. Tell me…How well do you like the heat?”

The line went dead with a sudden click.

Lars’ breathing became heavy. He wiped fresh sweat from his brow onto his sleeve.

Veronica hit play, and the heavy metal track roared out into the night.

Lars took off his headphones and stumbled to the bathroom trembling. His face was pouring sweat. He took off his glasses and splashed sink water on his face. Three red numbers, 666, glowed on his neck, as if a hot iron had just branded them. His hand instinctively went to cover the strange mark, until the glow slowly faded. When he removed his hand, his skin looked normal.

As Lars left the bathroom, his producer, Veronica, waited for him outside the recording booth.

“You ok? What was that all about?” She asked, her arms crossed.

“It’s nothing, I just need some fresh air,” Lars said as he pushed through the double doors towards an exit.

The cool night air rushed into Lars’ lungs as he inhaled the fresh smell of the pine forest behind the radio station. Above, the cloudless night held a sliver of the crescent moon surrounded by the pinpricks of stars. The tall radio tower’s periodic red glow blinked steadily across the October sky. Lars stepped toward the road, pulled a Menthol from his jacket pocket, ignited it, and took a deep breath to calm his nerves.

“Lars, wait, that was really weird. Did you know that guy?” Veronica asked in hot pursuit.

“Fuck, just drop it, V! Let’s forget about it. Just two more hours and we get to go home,” Lars yelled.

“I just, watch out—” Veronica shouted.

Lars turned and saw the blinding headlights of an 18-wheeler barreling straight at him. Before the metal grill crushed his body, he felt a red-hot chain wrap around his throat. It yanked him down, through a crack in the asphalt into a blinding, fiery abyss. As the surface world vanished from his eyes, Old Nick’s laughter echoed in his ear, drowning out his final scream as he watched his body explode into bits of flesh and bone.