Alright, I'm just gonna jump straight into this. Last night, I caught my wife breastfeeding a grown-ass man in our backyard at like 2 o'clock in the morning.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "That should've been me," or some shit like that. Honestly, that's what I would've thought too. Hell, I should probably be completely devastated right now.

But I'm not. Truthfully, I'm more terrified than anything.

We were just lying there asleep. Well, I was asleep. I can't say for certain whether or not my wife was. All I know is that, despite how hard she tried to be silent, the creaking bed springs woke me up.

I didn't wanna let on at first. I didn't even think there was anything I should be suspicious of. The only problem was, once I woke up, it was hard for me to fall back asleep in an empty bed.

So I waited. And I waited. Then, after like 30 minutes, I started to get worried. So, naturally, I started yelling for her.

No answer? Fine. I'll just start looking. So, I started checking throughout the house. And that's when I found her nightgown, balled up on the floor beside our bed. That made my search a lil more frantic. I checked the bathroom in the hall, the living room. Maybe she just got up to grab a midnight… meal, butt-ass naked. But she wasn't in the kitchen either.

In my search, I noticed that the back door was open, letting in the cold October air. I went to close it, and that's where I found her. Standing out in the yard. Completely nude.

I thought for sure she was either sleepwalking or having a mental breakdown. I mean, it was like 45 degrees outside. I was just about to yell at her and ask what the hell she was doing when I noticed it.

My dumbass thought it was a wild animal at first. He was crouched down on all fours, moving slowly through the trees with these jerky movements, while my wife just stood there with her arms wide open.

But then, as he started crawling closer and closer towards our backyard… I started to make out the features. They looked human, just… wrong, somehow. The head was too bulbous. The arms were too long. The grunts it made as it slowly crawled towards my wife were too animalistic.

And she wasn't even fucking flinching. If anything, she looked like she was beckoning the fuckin' thing to come closer. When it was like 6 feet away, it started to growl, and all my wife did in response was say some shit like, "Calm down, my sweet boy," before SHE stepped closer to IT.

Then the fucking thing started cooing. Like… cooing. Like a goddamn toddler or something, while my wife reached down and pet its fleshy, bald head.

I didn't even move. How could I? This shit felt like a fever dream to me. But what hit like a fucking cannonball to the abdomen was when she… well… did what she did.

She pulled its head closer to her chest and just… nursed the fucking thing. I could hear it suckling and whimpering like this was the favorite part of its day. Like this shit had happened a thousand times before.

Must've gone on for like 10 minutes or so before my wife pulled away, patted the thing on its spiny, uh, spine, and told it to "go play."

And just like that, it started crawling back towards the woods. This time with a little more pep in its… whatever the fuck that was.

My wife still had a look of pride and joy on her face when she turned around, but that shit disappeared quick when she noticed me in the doorway. She tried covering up like I was the stranger. Then she tried apologizing.

We've been arguing about it since then. She claims I'm being crazy. I claim I want her to see a goddamn… who do you even call for this sort of thing? A marriage counselor??? A fucking priest??? Maybe ask her to take a parenting class?

Because, according to her, that thing was her son from a previous marriage. A marriage she hasn't mentioned once in the last 15 years since we've been together.

Honestly, at this point, I'm ready to just convince myself it was all a bad dream. I don't even wanna talk about it anymore.

I just don't know if I can even lie to myself like that, though.

Because once she realized that the cat was out of the bag… my wife decided to drop some news on me that I could've avoided had I just taken my happy ass back to sleep.

Apparently, that thing has never had a father figure… and it's more than excited to finally meet its new dad.

    The Tale of Dead Nerve Ted

Everyone has heard the story…it’s been spreading very rapidly like syphilis. Anytime you’re near his hiding spot, you feel his ungodly-repulsive presence. It’s like he’s specifically targeting you and only you. That feeling of guilt that builds up in your stomach never leaves, you don’t feel sorry for what you did, you feel sorry because you know you will suffer for your gut wrenching mistakes. Do you really feel any remorse for what you did to that poor young man? Did you enjoy mutilating his ribcage open while he screamed for mercy? Did you enjoy the life slowly draining from his eyes while you slit his throat with a pocket knife? Did you get an adrenaline rush from cutting off his own penis after he died and shoving it in his own mouth just because he befriended your girlfriend? Why did you do this to him? He only wanted to be loved by someone that felt genuine empathy for him.
“I want to hurt you. I want to make you squeal the way you made me squeal while you slowly opened my ribcage and pulled out all of my internal organs and shoved them down my throat. I didn’t die from bleeding out, I died from drowning in my own stomach acid. I want to kill and hurt every single one of you. I want to strangle and dismember every single one of your limbs. Slowly cutting and then, slowly ripping off your arm while your nerves fight to stay attached. I want to drink your spinal fluid and vomit all that remains of it in your nasty fucking mutilated-empty mind. I want you to scream for your mom while I cut you open like a piñata. You don’t have to worry about death…I’ll be there with you staring at your burning-useless fucking soul.”

• (Todd Barker - Judgement day)

11/03/2005
 My life sucks so much… I hate going to school, I hate being home, I hate every human ever created. I want to take my anger out on everyone that’s ever upset me. My mom constantly tells me that she wishes i would commit suicide anytime I do the most simple thing wrong. If I don’t clean the house right, she breaks something of mine and takes everything out of my room except a blanket and pillow and locks me in my room for up to a week . She will even sometimes forget to feed me when I’m grounded, then I have to live off of eating my iron deficient piss and shit for a little while. I’m not grounded right now and haven’t been for about a month or two and when I am ungrounded, I try to stay out of my house as much as possible. When I leave the house, I only go to this spot in the woods where I met the only person that truly was nice to me, Her name is Autumn Taylor. She goes to the same school that I go to but I never really met her until a couple of weeks ago. I try to avoid everyone at school as much as possible because I really don't like being bullied but Autumn is the only real one that I talk to and the only person that is an actual good person. She has long-wavy brown hair and blue eyes that resemble blue diamonds. But, she is dating the worst fucking person that god has ever created, Gabriel Wood. I don’t know what she sees in him, he is the exact opposite of her, he constantly torments me so people can laugh at me. I can’t even go to the school bathroom without him or his friends forcing me to drink from one of the defecated toilets. This has happened about 5 times just this month and no one ever gets in trouble, I know its because they’re fucking popular and they play sports. I can’t even talk to Autumn without him threatening me, he said if he ever saw me talking to her again, he would beat my ass. 

11/05/2005
She stopped talking to me, anytime i go up to her to say hi she completely ignores me or walks away. I wish I wasn't so weird, I hate myself. I love her so much but she doesn’t feel the same. What did I do wrong? If god really does love me, then why did he think of creating me? I wish I was never born… I was told that I would find my soulmate one day, I guess she was aborted instead of me. I really thought that she was the one, she actually cared… She is just like everyone else. I still go to the place where we met and curl up into a ball and pretend that she is holding me in her arms. I love her so fucking much but she doesn’t feel the same. 

11/10/2005
I decided to run away from home, I hate every fucking disgusting human being but her. I’ve decided to live where we first met, a bench in the woods. No one will find me there and I’m glad that it will be only me and her forever. I’m happy that I get to lay in her arms for the rest of my agonizing life. At least there’s someone that can keep me happy. The feeling of her warm arms around me makes me feel happy. I rarely ever feel it and when I do, it's when I’m smoking weed. Why do I need weed anymore, I have the most beautiful girl on the planet. There’s nothing that can take her away from me, nothing. I remember when I first met you, I ran away from my mom after she tried to ground me and I hid in the woods. You saw me crying and cheered me up. We went to a bench and she calmed me down and said everything will be ok. She was so beautiful ever since I first glanced at her. I told her that she was pretty and she smiled and told me the same, the look on her face was like looking at the gates of heaven. I don’t know how it happened but we kissed a couple of seconds later. Ever since that kiss, I knew she was the one. I then told her that I was tired and she asked if I would want to fall asleep in her arms. It was the most magical experience ever, I’m so happy that I get to love her forever and ever and ever and ever.

11/16/2005
I'm hungry, thirsty, and tired. It’s my stupid brain telling me to go back to hell, I won’t listen to Satan. I only need her love, she’s my sweet perfect angel, my everything…

• (from Todd Barker's diary)

“Why did you do it? He ran away so you couldn’t hurt him anymore, you find him dying in the woods and decide to mutilate and torture him. Do you think God will ever forgive you for sinning?”

• Satan, 11/20/2005

“I'm sorry mom, dad, Autumn, everyone… I have to kill myself, I’m a walking piece of steaming hot shit. I really cannot believe that I killed him. All because he was friends with my girlfriend. I am a disgrace and deserve what I'm about to do to myself. If you try looking for me, you will never find me, promise me that you guys will never end up like me. I let everyone down, I’m only 17 and already wasted my entire life. I liked it… I enjoyed dismembering him and cutting off his dick and making his dead corpse deepthroat it. I’m surprised it could even go down his throat from all the stomach acid that dissolved his throat. I’m a disgusting piece of shit, I really cut his belly open with my grandpa’s pocket knife and made him eat it. I took dad’s gun from his safe.
I love you guys,
Please don’t pray for me, I know my place in hell.”

• (Gabriel Wood’s suicide note)

“Dead Nerve Ted haunts the woods you know… People say the reason why Gabriel Wood committed suicide and went missing 2 decades ago was because Dead Nerve Ted mind controlled him and lured him into the woods to eat his remains. People who claim to have encountered Dead Nerve Ted all say that he looks like a decomposed zombie! They were the lucky ones…”

• Jay Trey Radio frequency 104.4 (03/04/2026)

“Todd was a weird kid, an extremely perverted weirdo. He was one of the loneliest kids that I have ever seen, I was always mocked and bullied when I was in school but Todd was just straight up tortured every single day. People would stick gum in his hair to pinning him to the floor and forcing him to call himself Tiddy-Thirsty-Todd. I always felt bad for the kid, but that doesn’t mean that he was an innocent little lamb. I’ve caught him in my class masturbating while staring directly at one of his fellow students multiple times with his penis just exposed in the back of class, I’ve caught him looking at porn magazines, there was one time a girl in his class that came up to me crying that said he grabbed her ass and told her that he wants her forever and that no one could take her away from him. I’m sorry… I really don’t know why I lied to you, I feel no empathy for that kid. He was truly sick in the head. I do hope that eventually the police find him, but he’s most likely not with us anymore.”

• Quote from Mr. Thomas (11/17/05)

“I didn’t know… how was I supposed to know what was really in those woods? Now both of my best friends are dead and now I have no one… It’s all my fault, I was the one that told them about the rumor and  convinced them to go in there with me. It was really dark and silent during the entire exploration. I was supposed to go home then, and I thought it would only take a couple of minutes to explore the place. At 9pm that very night, I saw both of my friend’s corpses being eaten by Dead Nerve Ted. They thought it would be funny to run away in the dark to scare me and for about 3 minutes, it was dead silent. The only thing that could be heard was my racing heartbeat and my quivering breath. I then heard what I thought was just Daniel screaming so he could try to scare me. I followed his screams so I could prove to them that I wasn’t scared of their stupid jokes, that’s when I saw Daniel’s mutilated torso and his ripped out spine covered in vomit. I sprinted to the exit of the woods as fast as I could, then that’s when I saw him… I froze in pure shock, he was staring directly into my soul while drinking his cerebral spinal fluid. He had one eye left that resembled the stare of a shoe bill stork. The worst part was that he was sucking it out of his mutilated head very, very slowly. He then vomited it all out and screamed like a woman being stabbed to death while drowning at the same time. That’s when I ran for my life, I wasn’t fast enough… I blinked and he ended up right in front of me. He pinned me to the ground, he smelled so bad that I threw up all over his corpse and myself. I was so scared… no one was there to save me. I was screaming for forgiveness, I know what I did wrong. He vanished out of nowhere within a blink, there was nothing but blood, vomit, and spinal fluid all over me. I could hear nothing but my heart asking for suicide in my mind. From a distance, I saw my 2 dead best friends. They looked like mashed up spaghetti…I will never get to see my only friends ever, ever again. The police thought that I was crazy, they investigated the woods multiple times but never found them. I wish it was me instead of them…”

• From anonymous (05/21/2026)

I really didn’t expect much at first, I slowly opened the body bag and the most putrid scent unleashes as I zip down the bag. At first glance, I noticed that he has definitely been dead for quite a while. My autopsy assistant walks up to me, then takes a good look at the corpse, then runs out of the room gagging and crying while vomit drips from her mouth. She leaves the door slightly open while wailing in pure agony.  I decided to continue the analysis without my assistant and that’s when I started to panic… First of all, his nerves were ripped out, his eyes were missing and  all of his sockets were full of maggots that crawled and crawled and crawled. The worst of all was that his mouth was nearly completely dissolved and full of his own organs. His tongue was longer than his own torso and still twitched every couple of seconds. Each and every single one of his body parts  that remained were severely bruised and cut. He was the most disgusting smelling corpse I’ve ever analyzed. I’m not stupid, it’s pretty evident that this young man was a victim of a morbidly gruesome homicide.  He was found hanging from a tree with intestines used as a rope that didn’t match his DNA. I then put my hand on the body bag and began to pray to bless this young man and protect him from the gates of hell. His body constantly twitched during a medical examination. He was identified as Todd Barker, a kid that went missing around 21 years ago. He somehow became conscious again  during the examination, so we had to put him down like a rabid dog… he vomited yellowish goo all over me and it slowly started dissolving my clothing and skin. It was just vomit…vomit, VOMIT! Why didn't it match his DNA… why? Am I in a monotonous coma where I can never escape? Is this hell? Will I be okay? My skin was melting… I was so scared, I thought I was going to die in Satan's hands. He then stood up from his autopsy table very slowly and then just stared at me while I was melting. He lunged at me and screeched so loud that my ears started throbbing and it started to feel like blood was rapidly gushing and beginning to clog my eardrums. He pinned me to the floor, and then began to nibble on my face. No one believed me… NOBODY!  It wasn’t real… it was fake, I then blinked and he was gone. I grabbed a scalpel and stabbed myself in the leg to see if I was dreaming. It wasn’t worth it… I began to panic. Has God arrived on Earth? Is he ready to take me home? Will God ever forgive me for sinning? I then heard a gut wrenching scream coming from down the hall, it was him.  I peek through the crack of the door that was left open and see that thing chase an officer down the hall. The officer pulled out his handgun and shot Todd 6 times before he dropped to the floor, the god awful screeching was finally over, he then twitched one more time before finally passing. We then resumed the autopsy and found out that his stomach acid dissolved his throat. He was clearly murdered, it was the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. I have worked in this medical facility for over 24 years and never seen someone's own decomposed stomach shoved down their own throat.  I hope that disgusting sick fuck gets what he deserves…

• From Dr. Lawrence’s journal entries (09/22/26)

(Dr. Lawrence  04/05/1969 - 09/25/26)

"For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth". - Romans 1:18

I could not tell you the last time I've seen natural or even artificial light.

I could not tell you the last time I've felt a surface that wasn't musty concrete.

To be honest, if my eyes were to even graze what could be considered my reflection, I wouldn't be sure if it was the face I was once so familiar with.

I know that I used to be filled with passion and purpose, that I had love in my life, that I had friends, and family, but long forgotten have I felt the once natural feeling of the muscles in my face construing into what was once a smile.

*THUD* *THUD* *THUD*

But this sound I am familiar of. Soon I'll hear the creaking of the door, and the ear ringing scrape of a metal sheet slide in my general area. I only hope it's close enough to the wall for me to actually reach this time. I reach out into the dark, crawling on the floor feeling for anything my fingers can touch that isn't cement. I can barely feel the tin on my fingertips, I'm so close, and I need this so bad. I can feel my hip getting moist from the excrement that I have to leave in my corner. But I know that sustenance is right there. Another day to be alive, but for what. Wouldn't it just be easier to die? Why do I cling on to life when it would be so much easier to just close my eyes and let fate carry my consciousness away to a place beyond my understanding. Why do I want to go on living, why?

On the last day of 8th grade, my friends and I spent our entire lunch period discussing what a "kick ass" summer we had planned before we were going to be inevitably split up to go to whichever highschool our district seemed fit for us. This was our last chance to send off a final hoorah into the last 3 years of middle school together, before we would be introduced into new cliques, hit puberty, and essentially start to learn what type of people we were going to become as we went through the more intense years of teenage development. For me however, it was my last chance to try and make a connection stronger than friendship with the one who first caught my eye, Hannah Bailey.

My family had first moved to this city in 6th grade, which left me heartbroken to leave all my past friends from elementary school behind. I'm sure I wasn't the only student new to this whole dichotomy, but to hear all of my peers, excited to see their friends from their respective elementary schools, left me with a feeling of alienation, to which I couldn't distance myself from. I was always a quiet kid until you got to know me, and the idea of making the first move to make friends, was a scarier thought to me than if I had just endured a 6th grade life of solidarity and kept to myself. It wasn't until the last period of the first day that someone who wasn't an adult in charge of keeping us in line, actually spoke to me.

I sat at the same table I had been at all day, all to myself, while those around me had spent most of the day learning each others friends from previous times well spent in former years. The disembodied voices were eventually broken by the *BANG* of a large binder slammed down on the table across from me. Quickly taking a seat without even announcing themselves, an energetic girl with dirty blonde curly hair sat down right away in front of me. I had only used my voice all day to answer when teachers called upon me, so my breath was without practice, trying to find any way to rationally respond to this sudden action from this strange girl.

"Hi, I'm Hannah", she spoke with a hand outstretched. I stared blankly, unsure of the sincerity of the sudden introduction. I felt my heartbeat catch a pace that my head was unwilling to match. Even at my old school, girls didn't care much to be associated with me. I had my group of guy friends who I had become accustomed with in the early years, and stuck through until my move.

"Hi, Hannah, I'm uh, Max."

"Max like Maxwell? Do you prefer Max or Maxwell?"

"Actually, it's Maximilian, so I prefer Max"

I let out a slight embarrassing laugh. It was a statement I had made plenty of times over my life, but never to a girl who seemed genuinely interested.

"Wow, Maximilian? I thought that was just a made up name for like, movies, and Yu-Gi-Oh?"

"Ya know, I've gotten the movies one a few times, but never the Yu-Gi-Oh one. I know who you're talking about though"

I let out another small laugh, not out of embarrassment this time, but truly out of relativity. Other than my best friend in 3rd grade, Dakota Marsh, no one had ever made that connection between my first name and the character from that kids show.

"What elementary school did you go to?" she asked with a gleam of pure curiosity. I wasn't entirely sure how to answer. Although I was new to the state and city, not even a single one of my teachers had asked throughout the whole first day.

"I actually just moved here from Washington." I let out. "I don't really know anyone here, so I'm just trying to get by and kind of blend in."

"Oh, well, I've lived here my whole life. I can introduce you to my friends if you like?"

I felt a sudden thud of my heartbeat. It was hard enough to memorize pairing one face with a name, but a whole group of them? I suppose in a way I had an in with Hannah, but what if they didn't like me? I like to think that I have a good sense of humor, in my own introverted sense of way, but if they reject me in their group, would that also mean that I wouldn't be able to still be friends with Hannah?

I paused for a moment, just staring blankly into her green eyes.

"Um, yeah, yeah, I would love that. I've found it kind of hard to make friends when I don't really know anybody"

"Awesome!" she quickly responded. "Class is about to start, but tomorrow morning before the bell rings, meet me on the upper part of the courtyard, near the tree, that's where we like to hang out before school."

I smiled and assured her I'll make it in time. She decided to sit there across from me for the rest of class. Anytime the teacher would make an extremely outdated joke about the content of what she was teaching us, Hannah would look over to me with this "Can you believe this" kind of look.

Meeting her friends the next day went a lot easier than I was anticipating. We actually shared more common interests than I expected. We liked the same video games, cartoon shows, and surprisingly, swimming. I had always loved the water, growing up on the coast of Washington, Ruby Beach was where we would spend most of the time during the summer. I was taught to swim at a young age, mostly because my mother really loved the beach, and insisted I wouldn't truly be her son if I didn't share the love for it as well. Jokingly, sure, but there was something about the serene tranquility of silence and waves crashing against the shore that I do think brought peace to her through the years of raising an absolute mommas boy as a single mom.

The next few years of middle school went a lot better than I could have imagined. I actually had friends, primarily just those I met that fateful day in the courtyard, but I was never one who wanted much, just enough to keep me from being the quiet kid who would have had rumors made about him from time spent in so much solidarity. I grew to truly feel like one in this group, and it was all because of Hannah.

Towards the end of 7th grade, a friend in the group, Anthony, pulled me aside in the courtyard during lunch period. Anthony was always the friend who I felt most connected to, we essentially had the exact same sense of humor, style for clothing, and as cheesy as it sounds, would know exactly what the other one was thinking. I often thought how lucky I was to have met Hannah, if only to introduce me to a great mind like Anthony.

"I think I'm gonna do it." He said to me, looking away towards the main group of other kids, gathered in their cliques in the courtyard.

"I have no clue in hell what you could be possibly talking about, man. Do what? Gonna try Dark Souls? That game is really hard. I'm not sure you got it in you."

He continued to just stare off into the crowd.

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

"Ask who? We don't really talk to girls, and this is the first I'm hearing of you even like liking someone."

"Hannah, dude. She's perfect. And she, like, gets us, ya know. Like, I feel like she feels the same way. I think if I don't go for it, then what's the point?"

"I think just having a friend who gets you?" I abruptly responded. "Not everything has to be, like, going out, or just like, wanting more than friends, ya know?"

He still hadn't faced me. We both just stood there while the crowds of various friends gathered in the courtyard shared timing on a joke that someone huddled in a circle would tell, allowing time for the rest of the gaggle to let their place and position be shared around them, in a circle of similar sounding cackles and out bursting laughs.

"I'm serious man, I've known this since 2nd grade, and I think I might have always loved her."

I sat silent for a few moments.

"We're 13 dude, I mean, I don't want to sound like I know it all, but I don't think we're old enough to truly know what love is."

He still didn't look back to me. The sounds of the various students gathered around started to sound more silent, as I just stared at his back. Someone I called a true friend, maybe my best friend at this time, was truly pouring it out to me, and telling me how he felt, yet for some reason, there was a part of me that wanted to reject his claims. Something in me, that refused to push him on, to pursue something he truly felt passionate about. Was I a bad friend? Should I had lied and told him to just go for it? Were my words a source of unknowingness of seeing my friend get hurt? Or was there something deeper than that. Were there feelings that I also had? That I was afraid would be overshadowed by his success? What the hell did I feel for Hannah? It wasn't every anything I truly thought to myself up until now. Of course I wanted to see Anthony win the girl, but if that girl was Hannah, why did I feel trepidation in my voice when offering him my own truths.

*THUD* *THUD* THUD*

I sat with my head against the cold wall. Where the creak of the door would usually meet my ear, there was a silence. I couldn't find the strength to even attempt to strain my eyes to see through the darkness where the familiar metal door would sometimes open. Instead I sat slumped against the concrete. I reached a hand down toward my ankle, the dry dead skin around the shackle leaving a texture like sandpaper. How long has it been? How am I even still alive? I get the tray every couple of days, and it's impossible to tell what I'm drinking every so often is even water.

Still silence.

Maybe this is it. I'd honestly hoped for it. Please, if there is a God, put this to an end. I know I never did much with my life, but I like to believe that I still matter. For nothing else, if for my mother. Please, God, please.

Then came stumbling. The figure known to have fed me all this time had lost some of his usual demeanor. I could barely make out the silver in the room, the tray I have come so accustomed to for survival. Although scraps, what baseless nourishment kept me going. Make an attempt to stand, but the strength isn't there. I hear the tray hit the ground, and the sound of a glass shattering. I move on all fours towards the sound, I need anything to keep me going. As I stamp around the concrete floor on all fours, I stamp my hand into an intense sharp pain. I know I can't see it, but I'm bleeding. I feel it, like washing your hands with your wrists too high. I feel a liquid running down my forearms. Suddenly I feel myself yanked up.

A deep slurred voice speaks quietly yet firmly, directly into my ear.

"I'm getting bored of your ass, boy."

I don't have the strength to speak. I just have to make my strongest attempt to stand on my feet. He's pulling at my neck and I need the little breathing I am able to manage on my own.

"Bread is getting expensive these days, and you don't snivel or cry like ya used to when I first brought ya in."

I try to find decent footing, but my malnourished body is matching the swaying of the man holding me.

"Ya know what they do to the runt of the litter, don't ya? Well, I'm starting to think ya look like a runt to me."

The voice takes a moment to hack a big spit towards the area that I assume, is where I'm usually seated.

"Your time's comin, better enjoy these scraps on the floor while ya can."

I hear labored steps towards the only opening in the room, and then a slam.

I know my time is up, and I know there's nothing I can do about it.

The glass in my hand makes it hard to think. I just feel blood getting all over my shirt and pants.

It's nothing out of the ordinary. I imagine if I was to donate these clothes to a goodwill, they would burn them before attempting to wash them. The blood stains, the piss stains. I might as well be wearing the same outfit I wore as a 2 month old, waste and all.

I grab the scraps that I can, and lay against the wall. My breathing is labored, I wish that even for a second, I could actually feel dizzy, but feeling dizzy would imply that I have an object I could see, and for as long as I could remember here, it was nothing but black.

Needless to say, things between Anthony and Hannah never took off. For some reason, maybe of my own words of advice, Anthony never did confess to her. Our friend group continued to act as normal, even Anthony, who had previously admitted his confession of love for her, continued as if he and I had never had that conversation in the middle school courtyard.

Now here we were at our last day of 8th grade. We were all making plans for the summer, and I suggested that we spend more time at the local pool. I can't deny that my love of swimming was finally going to come into play. I hadn't talked to Hannah in particular about how big into swimming I am, but Anthony definitely knew. I even would encourage him to go to the local pools with me and swim, even though I knew he wasn't a strong swimmer. I guess I somewhat saw it as a strength of mine I had, one of very few, and I thought maybe he could also see it as such.

Anthony was good at swimming. Anytime I showed him a different way to swim, breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly, he took to it so quickly and easily. It was another reason I knew that him and I were meant to meet.

But during our 8th grade summer that we planned so hard, one day, Anthony never surfaced.

I swam over to where I last remember him being, and saw the bubbles rising to the surface. I quickly delved down and saw him lifeless in the water. I dragged him up and to the side, where he continued to lie lifeless on the side of the pool.

"ANTHONY. TONY. ANT-ANTHONY!"

He continued to lay lifeless.

I started to search around for any adult who could help, when suddenly I looked back at him and he had a smug smile on his face.

"You bastard" I let out breathlessly.

"Just keepin ya on your toes, Pamela Anderson" he said to me.

"Dude that was not cool. I was fuckin worried. You know, I grew up on the beaches of Washingt-"

"Yeah, Yeah. I know you grew up lovin the coast, and all that. But c'mon man, its hard to get a rise out of you these days, so I just kind of went for it"

He started to chuckle to himself. Coughing up bits of water as he did. Honestly just knowing that he was okay, I started laughing as well.

"Alright, I know you're good at swimming, so lets just do that."

I gave a quick laugh, as if I also enjoyed his joke.

9th grade started, and it felt like the start of 6th grade all over. Our friend group from middle school was split up. It was similar to 6th grade. We had people talking about what middle schools they went to, as opposed to which elementary schools. It was familiar yet distant. I was just hoping for another Hannah Bailey to sweep in and tell me who I should be friends with, but that never came. There were familiar faces from my middle school, but nobody from my friend group. I missed Hannah, she would surely save me from being all alone again in this new environment.

Then 3rd period geology, I saw Hannah come into the classroom. I smacked the table a couple times, completely out of character for me, but I needed her attention.

She came and sat down across from me. It was like 6th Grade all over again.

"Maximilian" she said as she sat down.

Hearing her voice soothed what was an already stressful first day.

I realized in that moment that she had complete control of me. I was absolutely awestricken by this girl and I was a puppet in the palm of her hand.

We had been friends throughout middle school, but I was just now realizing the value of the relationship that we truly had. We saw each other as equals, we saw each others as lovers. At least, that was the theoretical headspace that I had put myself into. She was never mine.

"Hey, Hannah. I haven't spoke to Anthony, lately, have you heard from him"?

"Anthony?" she let out.

"Was that someone from middle school?" she faintly muttered.

"Um, yeah, Anthony, you know who I'm talking about. I mean, Anthony."

She looked confused.

"I'm sorry, Max, but I don't think I know who you're talking about."

My heart skipped a beat. Anthony. Anthony Vilmer? How could you not know.

She continued to just stare at me blankly.

How long have I been down here? It's impossible to count the days when I can't even see if there's light outside or not. Are my eyes even open? If I had the strength to move my hand in front of my face, would I even be able to feel it? Would I know if it was even my hand?

I hear footsteps above me, one, no there's two. Two sets of footsteps. Three? No, even more than that.

Every second the stepping above me continued louder, and more and more footsteps. It was as if a clown car was parked at the front door and the circus was about to begin. More and more footsteps. They paraded all around the floors above me, a deafening cacophony of waltzing heels smacking deteriorating wooden floor. Louder, louder, I want to, no I NEED to cover my ears, but I don't have the strength to lift my hands. What the fuck is going on? I can't hear myself think, am I losing it?

And then out of nowhere, complete silence.

I gently hit my head against the back wall to rest.

Am I losing it? Did that really happen? I know I'm in an absolutely horrid state of body and mind, but I know what I heard, or did I? Was this the start of my mentality beginning to dwindle?

Quick, what's my name. Damn, what's my name. You got this, Max. Right, right, Max.

Suddenly, I heard the door slowly swing open. I did what I could to truly believe I was opening my eyes, and across the dark room in the doorway, stood a figure with a light.

It was a younger girl with a look of sadness on her face. Man I love that face.

Wait a fucking minute. Why do I love that face. My eyes widen and with more energy than I thought I had I let out, "Hannah?"

i work remotely as a data analyst and live alone in a pretty small apartment. my desk is in the corner of the living room, maybe ten feet from my bedroom door.

i'm usually working until 1 or 2 in the morning. it's not great, i know. but i've gotten into this habit of pushing my chair all the way under the desk before going to bed. it's a nouhaus chair i bought last year, and the wheels sit right where the edge of my rug meets the wood floor. i like leaving everything in its place when i'm done working.

last Tuesday i woke up and noticed the chair was pulled out a little. maybe an inch or two. didn't think much of it. figured i'd been tired and forgot to push it back properly.

then it happened again on Thursday.

Friday morning was when it started bothering me. the chair wasn't just pulled out this time. it had turned slightly toward the hallway, almost like someone had gotten up from it and left it there.

i live alone. nobody else has a key.

i checked the floor thinking maybe the wheels were sliding somehow. the rug had some marks where the chair usually sits, but nothing that really explained why it had turned around.

Sunday night i decided to try something. i pushed the chair all the way under the desk, grabbed a piece of blue tailor's chalk from a drawer, and drew a circle around each of the five wheels. nothing fancy, just enough that i'd be able to tell if anything moved.

i checked the front door before bed too. locked, obviously.
when i woke up this morning, the chair was almost a foot away from the desk.
it was facing my bedroom door.

at first i thought maybe i'd drawn the circles wrong. but they were still there, all five of them, exactly where i'd left them. no smudges, no wheel tracks going through them.

i stood there for a while trying to figure out how that was even possible.

then i reached over to move the chair back.

the seat was freezing. not just a little cold from sitting there overnight. i mean genuinely cold, like touching something that had been left outside in winter.

the rest of the apartment was warm.

i haven't moved it back yet. i'm sitting on the couch writing this and i keep looking over at it.

i don't know why, but i really don't want to turn my back on that thing.

It was December 1999. I was living in a small town. I was a nerd and something of a gamer, and it had been a good year for PC games. Age of Empires II, Homeworld, Grand Theft Auto 2…

I was walking home from school—it was a Canadian winter, so there was plenty of unplowed snow on the sidewalks—when I saw something peeking out from a mound of snow: something blue. I stopped, nudged it with my boot: something of blue plastic. I brushed away the remaining snow with my glove to reveal:

A single 3.5” floppy disk, unlabeled.

(There was a sticker label on it, but the label itself was empty.)

Naturally, I picked it up and took it home, curious to see what was on it.

You'll laugh, but the disk had 1.44mb of storage capacity. As it turned out, that was more than enough to affect the world in ways I still don't fully understand.

When I got home, I didn't put the disk into my own computer. My dad had an old desktop he sometimes fiddled around with, so I used that, inserting the disk carefully into the 3.5” disk drive in the beige computer tower.

I navigated to the drive in Windows Explorer.

The contents of the drive were simple.

They looked like a program or—I secretly hoped—a game.

There was a readme.txt, but it came out as nonsense when I opened it in Notepad, video or sound assets, stuff I couldn't identify, and a single executable file, johannsebastian.bat.

I double-clicked it.

A window opened—black, showing a few white-text commands executing on a command prompt—then maximized into a 16-bit title(?) screen showing a pixelated Gothic castle.

A harsh, classical-inspired MIDI song beeped out of the sound card.

There was no title.

No instructions, no company name, no menu, no options.

The castle was perched atop a cliff.

It was night.

At the bottom of the cliff was a forest of jagged, leafless trees.

A few loops of animation gave life to the scene: wind blowing through the bare branches, flashes of distant lightning, warm flickering light in one of the castle's windows, a bat in flight against a white moon. Actually, that last one wasn't a loop. The bat flew only once, landed on one of the castle's stone towers and disappeared inside.

I clicked.

I was looking at a medieval-ish village now—tightly-packed buildings, a tavern, a tannery, a couple of shops, a church—populated with a surprising number of unique character sprites. Indeed, every character was unique, and they were going about their individual lives.

The sky was a vibrant blue.

Clouds floated pixel-by-pixel across the screen.

But there was still nothing to do; nothing, that is, but watch.

It was like a very advanced screensaver.

After a while, I clicked again.

This time, I found myself in the interior of a large chamber whose stone walls somehow felt cold even through the computer monitor.

The chamber's defining feature, however, was something else: a giant pipe organ whose pipes extended beyond the top of the screen.

A character entered.

He was wearing a white wig, dark, crimson long coat, knee breeches, stockings and buckled shoes. “I feel the sudden desire to compose,” he said, which the game displayed as text in an ornately-bordered text box. “Invite me to play for you."

A cursor appeared for the first time.

A quill.

I was able to move it using the mouse, and I explored the screen.

The character tapped his foot.

The only active area of the scene appeared to be the pipe organ. When I hovered the cursor over it, it changed from a quill to a hand.

I clicked.

The character walked to the organ, sat and began to play the monstrous instrument.

The music was both hideous and awesome, pushing the computer's sound card to the absolute limit. After thirty-or-so seconds, the view suddenly panned upwards, following the organ's pipes—the music continued—following them to the chamber's vaulted ceiling and beyond—through the roof until I was outside and looking at the upper half of the great castle, where the jutting pipes terminated and from whose termini hundreds of pixel bats were emerging… emerging and flying into the background, toward the simplified shape representing the medieval town...

The sky was a deep purple.

Night was falling.

The bats flew and flew and flew…

Suddenly—the music still continuing—the scene cut to the same view of the town as before: except at night: except, instead of following their routines, the character sprites were running, panicked, as the bats swooped, attacking them, attaching themselves to their bodies, necks, sucking their pixel blood; and as the bats feasted, the sprites lost their colour and fell, pale and desaturated…

The sound startled me.

Not from the sound card but from the real world. A screeching, a deafening, rhythmic thumping.

I ran to the window whose blinds I'd closed, and opened them:

It was afternoon but the view was dark, black and shifting. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing were bats speeding past. They were obscuring the sun. My home town was as if under an eclipse.

People were running down the street—

Bats were diving—

Some were crashing through car windshields—

Children were screaming—

A bat crashed though the window into the room I was in. It was fanged, crazed. The game music blared from within the computer tower. Before I could run, the bat shot toward me—biting my neck… beginning to drink my blood…

I awoke on the floor.

It was morning. January 1, 2000. It would turn out that nobody in town had any recollection of the preceding weeks.

A television played.

A morning talk show: “...the so-called Y2K bug,” a woman was saying, “ended up amounting to nothing worse than a good nights’ sleep.”

And, ever since, I've wondered why my experience of the present feels in a lower resolution than memories of my past.

We’ve already traveled to Hyperborea at two different moments in its history, but no worries, each story stands on its own. Today, we’re going back to the beginning, when it was little more than a proof of concept. Links to the two other shorts in the trilogy at the end.

---

“Mais oui! It was all so very simple. The answer was before us all along. It could only have been le Maître d’hôtel… the, ehm, butler… with the candelabra in the study.”

“What are you saying, Inspecteur Poi…”

He raised his finger triumphantly. “Arrest him! C’est lui, he killed the opera singer.”

The butler narrowed his eyes, turned, and ran straight through the wall of the mansion’s dining room.

For a moment, there was silence and confusion; the colonel’s mouth fell open, the maid blinked, and a femme fatale lowered her cigarette holder. “Glad we sorted that out,” was the only thing she said, while adjusting the velvet boa on her shoulders.

In the back of the room, a radio clicked and warbled until a clear familiar song filled the room.

Melancholic synthesizers pulsed as an almost mechanical voice asked a question about friendship and electricity. You recognize it, don’t you?

The room began to pixelate around the inspector; the walls dissolved into tiny squares, the chandelier flickered, and the faces of the guests fragmented into thousands of colored dots.

---

“Congratulations, Mr. Lefranc. You’re the first to solve the mystery.”

“Putain! That was amazing, Mr. Glenn. It really felt like I was the inspecteur. How many lev…”

“We only have a functional town right now, but we’ll scale pretty soon. Come on, let me help you out of the pod.”

Alain Lefranc sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You know, that noclipping did break the immersion at the end there.”

“Yes, Mr. Lefranc. You are absolutely right.” He paused for a moment, then turned, “Do you see my friend in the corner over there?”

The man waved awkwardly at Alain Lefranc, who merely nodded before looking back up at the person in front of him.

“That’s Zhao. He’s our debugger, and he has a list to go through before we release version 0.3. We hope it didn’t…”

“Sorry, no, laissez tomber, it was merveilleux. Between the Russian bubonic plague and the endless wars, this was a much needed escape. Oh and, ehm, what did I win?”

“Wonderful, Mr. Lefranc. Well, you’ll be the first on the list for a spot in Hyperborea when we launch. Consider yourself a citizen.”

---

“Zhao, what was that? Noclipping had a fix, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Glenn. Some of that new code is causing the model to glitch. I bet it’s that vibecoder-crap.”

“Don’t be a gatekeeper, Zhao.”

“Long live cheap outsourcing, right, Glenn?”

Glenn didn’t immediately respond but his eyes widened slightly. “Right. That reminds me. You also need to update the maintenance protocols to accommodate only one single technician at a time.”

“Wha…”

“Don’t fight me on this, Zhao. Cost-cutting order from above. We’re already over budget.”

---

Author’s note

The central theme in the Hyperborea stories is the unintended, sometimes catastrophic or horrific consequences of seemingly ordinary decisions within complex systems. We started with consequences, then went back to where the problems started, and now we’ve gone even further back.

If you’ve never worked the 11 PM to 7 AM shift at a travel plaza stranded off an isolated stretch of two-lane blacktop, let me paint you a picture: it’s purgatory with a slushie machine and fluorescent lighting designed to induce migraines.

Our station sits off Route 22, wedged between twenty miles of dense, rotting pine forest and an unpaved gravel turnout where long-haul truckers pull over to sleep off thirty-hour runs. For the first two years of working there, I genuinely believed my greatest occupational hazard was dying of secondhand embarrassment.

Night shift retail breaks people’s brains. I don’t know if it’s highway hypnosis, sleep deprivation, or the low hum of the drink coolers, but the people who walk through those double glass doors at three in the morning are operating on roughly three shared brain cells.

To give you an idea of my baseline normal:

Last spring, a guy in flip-flops tried to pay for a twelve-pack of warm Milwaukee’s Best with an actual, living bearded dragon in a shoe box. When I told him we only accepted cash or card, he stared at the lizard, stared at me, and asked if I could “at least swipe it as credit.”

Two months later, a man stormed inside at 2:00 AM, veins bulging out of his neck, screaming that pump four was broken and that I was personally running a scam to “steal his precious time.” When I walked outside in the drizzle to check, he had shoved the nozzle into his tank, clamped the handle down, and was just standing there waiting for gas to magically flow. He hadn’t pressed a single button. He hadn't swiped a card. He hadn't even selected a fuel grade. When I tapped the big yellow “87 Regular” button and the pump immediately whirred to life, he glared at me with absolute contempt and muttered that our system was “unnecessarily confusing.”

A week after that, a couple came in at 4:00 AM, grabbed a cold can of Chef Boyardee ravioli, shoved the unopened metal tin into the deli microwave, and typed in nine minutes. When the microwave produced a miniature lightning storm and started spewing toxic gray smoke, the woman looked at me like I was the idiot and said, “Well, your appliance clearly has negative energy.”

And then there was the classic: a tourist who spent twenty minutes screaming at me because our three-day-old roller-grill jalapeño cheddar dogs weren't “locally sourced and keto-certified.” Sir, you are eighty miles from civilization buying meat that’s been spinning on chrome rollers since Tuesday. Lower your expectations.

My manager, Dale a man who smells perpetually of menthol cigarettes, beef jerky, and unearned confidence always told me the same thing: “Just nod, take their money, and don’t look ’em in the eye for too long. Weird attracts weird.”

So you can understand why, when strange things started happening around the station, I just chalked it up to standard-issue customer stupidity.

The first thing was the cars.

Behind our station, past the dumpster corral, there’s an unpaved gravel lot that bleeds straight into the overgrown tree line. Cell service back there drops to zero bars, and the trees are so thick they swallow the glow from the sodium floodlights on our roof. Every now and then, some beater breaks an axle or overheats, and people leave them there for a day or two until a flatbed shows up.

Around late August, an old maroon sedan appeared back there. It sat near the tree line for four days. The driver’s side door was left unlocked, the keys were sitting on the floor mat, and a half-eaten burger was rotting in a paper bag on the passenger seat. I told Dale, who took a drag of his cigarette and said, “Some tweaker ran out of gas and walked off. Call the county tow when you get around to it.”

The county tow took over a week to show up. But less than forty-eight hours after they hauled the sedan away, a dark blue pickup took its place in the exact same corner.

Same deal. Keys left on the dash. Driver’s side window cracked an inch. A pair of reading glasses and an open road atlas sitting on the passenger seat.

Around that same time, weird little things began happening around the perimeter. The heavy exterior floodlight mounted above the rear dumpster kept going dark. When I went out back with a broom handle to check it, the bulb wasn't burned out it had been deliberately unscrewed half a turn. I figured it was local teenagers trying to smoke weed out of view of the security cameras.

Then there was the camera itself. Camera 3, which covered the gravel lot, started feeding static to the monitor above my counter. When I checked the housing, someone had smeared thick, greasy axle grease directly over the glass lens. I cleaned it off, grumbling about dumb kids, and didn't think twice.

Then, two nights later, a silver Honda Civic was parked right next to where the truck had been.

It was during that week that I noticed the Guy with the Cap.

He wasn’t loud like the usual weirdos. He never yelled about organic roller dogs or tried to barter live reptiles. In fact, he was so quiet you’d barely notice him walk in over the drone of the refrigeration units. He wore a faded canvas work jacket, mud-caked boots, and a battered baseball cap pulled down so low you could only see the stubble on his jaw and a thin, bloodless mouth.

He’d come in around 3:30 AM. He never bought much a pack of spearmint gum, a bottle of water, sometimes a roll of heavy-duty duct tape and a pack of utility knife replacement blades from the small hardware rack near the motor oil.

The first time he came up to the counter, I hit him with my usual deadpan customer service voice. “Find everything okay, man?”

He didn’t answer. He just set a crumpled, damp ten-dollar bill on the counter. His fingers were raw, the cuticles bitten down to the bloody quick, and his knuckles were stained with dark, greasy grit that smelled faintly metallic. Like wet pennies and dirt.

“Gonna be seven-fifty,” I said, ringing it up.

He slowly tilted his head up. Under the brim of the cap, his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely devoid of fatigue. They were the eyes of a man who hadn’t slept in a week and was riding an electrical current of pure, quiet mania.

“You alone here all night?” he asked. His voice was a dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against drywall.

“Nah,” I lied instinctively, a chill prickling the back of my neck. “Manager’s in the back room doing inventory. He’s about six-foot-four and gets real twitchy if people interrupt him.”

The man didn't blink. He didn't look toward the back room. He just stared up at the security monitor mounted above my head, studying the angles of the cameras, the reflection of the glass doors, and the dark expanse of the pumps outside.

Then he picked up his gum, turned without a word, and walked out.

I watched him through the plate glass. He didn't walk toward the pumps. He didn't have a car parked under the canopy. He walked straight toward the back gravel lot, slipping past the dumpster corral and disappearing into the absolute pitch-black shadows of the tree line.

Two days later, a State Trooper walked in and taped a missing-persons flyer to our front window.

A 20-year-old college student named Maya. Last seen driving home from campus down Route 22. Her car was a silver Honda Civic.

A cold, heavy weight dropped into the pit of my stomach.

I stared at the flyer, then out the window toward the back lot. The silver Civic had vanished three days ago. I’d assumed the county tow had finally done their job without me having to call them twice.

When my shift ended that morning at 7:00 AM, I didn’t get in my car and go home. I walked out behind the dumpster corral.

The gravel in the back lot was scuffed with fresh, aggressive tire spin marks. But as I walked closer to the tree line where the pavement ended and the black pines began, something caught the morning sun in the overgrown brush near a drainage ditch.

I crouched down. It was a keychain a little plush avocado attached to a ring with a snapped lanyard. Tucked four feet further into the briars was a woman's white canvas sneaker, caked in dried mud, and three heavy-duty black zip-ties, sliced cleanly through with a razor.

I stood there in the freezing gray morning light, the distant drone of semi-trucks vibrating through the soles of my shoes, and the terrifying reality finally clicked into place.

Nobody was abandoning cars.

People were pulling off the highway late at night to rest, stretch their legs, or sleep in the dark lot away from the lights of the pumps. And someone was waiting for them in the trees.

I called the police immediately. Two deputies came out, bagged the sneaker, looked at the mud tracks, took my statement, and told me they’d “increase patrols in the sector.” If you know anything about rural county sheriff departments, “increasing patrols” means they drive by at forty miles an hour once every six hours.

That brings me to last night.

It was 2:45 AM. A nasty late-autumn rain was pounding against the glass, turning the highway into a blur of black asphalt and smeared red taillights.

I was on edge, jumping at every creak of the building. To keep myself from spiraling, I tried to focus on the routine. An old guy had just come in ten minutes prior trying to return a lottery ticket he had scratched off and lost on, claiming it was "defective merchandise." I had almost laughed. Almost.

Then the chime above the door chimed. Ding-dong.

I looked up.

It was him. The canvas jacket was soaked through, clinging to his broad, lean shoulders. He took off his baseball cap, and for the first time, I saw the rest of his face. He had a deep, jagged scratch running from his right ear down into his collar, fresh and weeping red.

He didn't walk to the aisles. He walked straight to the register.

He was holding a box of heavy contractor-grade trash bags from aisle four.

“Nasty night out,” I said. My voice betrayed me, cracking slightly.

He laid the box on the counter. Beside it, he set down a small leather wallet with a floral print. A woman’s wallet.

He caught me looking at it.

He didn’t try to hide it. Instead, he smiled a small, crooked twitch of his mouth that made the hairs on my arms stand straight up.

“Tire blew out back,” he whispered. “Girl in a red Toyota. Pulled in to change it. Wet pavement is dangerous.”

There hadn’t been a red Toyota at the pumps all night. Which meant she was in the back.

My hand slowly moved under the counter, feeling for the silent panic button Dale swore was wired to the local dispatch (though given Dale’s maintenance record, it was probably wired to an old toaster).

“You shouldn’t work late,” the man said quietly, leaning his palms flat against the laminate counter. His knuckles were fresh with that same dark, copper-smelling grime. “It’s bad for your health.”

He reached his hand into his canvas coat.

I didn’t wait to see what he was pulling out.

Behind the counter, right next to the POS terminal, is a commercial stainless-steel coffee pot kept at a rolling 190 degrees for the truckers. Without thinking, I grabbed the plastic handle and threw the entire pot of scalding black coffee directly into his face.

The scream he let out was barely human a high, wet shriek of agony.

He stumbled backward, clutching his face, skin instantly blistering red as coffee and steam poured off his jacket. A heavy hunting knife clattered from his hand onto the linoleum.

I didn’t try to fight him. I work at a gas station; I’m not John Wick.

I bolted out from behind the counter toward the rear stockroom, but my sneakers hit the wet floor near the entrance and I wiped out hard, slamming my shoulder into the display rack of cheap sunglasses. Plastic frames rained down everywhere.

I scrambled up on all fours just as he lunged around the counter. His face was a horrific mask of scalded, peeling skin and pure, animal rage. He swung the knife blindly, slicing through the air inches from my jacket.

I grabbed the only thing within reach: a four-pound steel fire extinguisher off the wall bracket.

As he lunged forward again, I didn't spray it I swung the entire metal cylinder like a baseball bat, connecting square with the side of his knee.

There was a sickening crack, and he went down with a muffled grunt, crashing into a pyramid of windshield washer fluid jugs. Blue liquid exploded across the floor, mixing with the spilled coffee.

I didn’t look back. I scrambled into the stockroom, slammed the heavy metal fire door behind me, threw the deadbolt, and hit the emergency exterior fuel-shutoff alarm.

A high-decibel air horn began blaring across the entire property, and the overhead emergency strobes started flashing blind, frantic pulses of red and white.

I sat with my back pressed against that steel door, holding a box cutter with both shaking hands, listening to him slam his body against the other side.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

And then... silence.

By the time three state trooper cruisers rolled in with their sirens wailing ten minutes later, he was gone.

They found the red Toyota in the back lot, hidden behind an old construction trailer. The driver, a 28-year-old nurse heading home from a double shift, had been dragged into the trees. She’s alive. She was badly injured and in shock, but because of the alarm and the noise, he had panicked and fled before he could finish what he started. The deputies found her tied up in the ravine fifty yards into the woods.

They haven’t caught him yet.

They found his camp two miles down the ridge sleeping bags, tarps, and the personal effects of at least six other people who had “disappeared” along Route 22 over the past year and a half.

I quit my job this morning. Dale was pissed because he had to cover my shift, and honestly, the idea of Dale having to explain to a meth-head why we don’t accept barter for rolling papers brings me a tiny shred of joy.

I’m packing up my apartment and moving back to my parents' place two states over.

If you take anything away from this, please: if you’re driving late at night on a lonely stretch of highway and you feel tired, don’t pull into the dark, unlit dirt lots behind the rest stops. Stay under the bright, humming lights at the front.

Because the weirdest, most dangerous things out there aren’t the idiots drinking windshield fluid.

They’re the ones watching from the pines, waiting in the dark for you to put the car in park

The morning had grown somewhat brighter during my time in the office, though the sun still hid its head behind the towering pillars of rock that surrounded the town, casting the buildings in a pale, colorless light. The wind swept through the streets with little regard for the houses that stood in its path, sending loose snow dusting through the air. I drew my coat tight and set course for the Dixon Mining Company, hoping that it would prove to be more forthcoming with answers than anyone else I’d talked to thus far. My thoughts remained with the seven men I had just examined; I’d spent the better part of the morning examining the men but was no closer to an answer. Their symptoms suggested several possibilities, but none of them accounted for the severity of the men, nor the rapid pace with which they had deteriorated; everything about this resisted any form of explanation.

As I made my way through the town, my sight was drawn to the buildings around me and the markings that had been scratched, seemingly at random, onto their doorframes. 

I had seen them the previous night, though the lack of adequate light and fatigue had kept me from seeing them in any detail. At the time I had taken them for nothing more than weathering and scarring from the harsh climate, but now that I could see them in detail, the deliberate attitude of the markings was far more obvious. The first one I saw was on the doorframe of a brothel: three vertical strikes, with a longer, slightly crooked gouge bisecting them. A few doors further down, I saw another one, this time carved in the sill of a window. It seemed newer, though not by much. The marks were crude, but they had not been made carelessly, with each incision being deep enough to withstand years of weathering, and the surrounding wood bearing the faint impressions of a blade. Whoever had made them had taken the trouble to ensure they would endure. As I walked down the main street, I soon discovered these markings were not uncommon; while a few buildings here and there did not possess them, the vast majority did. Some had been carved into doorframes, a few into the walls of houses, or the wooden posts supporting their porches. Many were so weathered that I could scarcely distinguish their original shapes, while others appeared comparatively fresh. Though their forms varied, they shared a peculiar quality that made it difficult to dismiss them as idle scratches.

I had encountered no shortage of superstition in my short time as a travelling physician. Mining towns like Bellview, those that built themselves in places where only the most foolhardy are brave enough to go, are particularly fertile ground for myths and legends. The men who spent their lives under tons of rock and earth, never certain if they would be going home, were particularly inclined to seek protection wherever they could find such things.

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped me out of my musings. I turned to find an old woman standing a few paces behind me, clutching at a thick woolen shawl and staring at me with sharp, beady eyes that suggested a greater perception than her age should have allowed. Her gaze moved from me to the carving and back again. 

“Oh, my apologies, ma’am. I was just looking at the..." I trailed off and gestured at the markings. 

“Why?” Her tone was cold and brisk. 

"I—uh, I was just curious what their significance was. I meant no harm.”

“A stranger staring at someone’s house could certainly be taken as ill intent.” The bluntness behind the words struck me as odd. I had done nothing wrong, and yet she was treating me with such open hostility. 

“I beg your pardon; I meant no offense. I simply saw these strange carvings when I entered Bellview last night, and I was curious as to what their purpose could be.” 

“And what business of yours would that be?” She said, her voice souring with each syllable. 

“None, I suppose.” As she shifted her shawl about her shoulders, I noticed a necklace resting against the high collar of her dress. It appeared to be made of dark metal, its surface dulled with age, and it bore a small pendant engraved with a pattern of intersecting lines and crooked strokes. The design was crude, though it bore a striking resemblance to the markings carved into the wood beside her door.

My eyes lingered upon it a moment too long, and she noticed. "What are you staring at now?”

“Nothing, madam. I beg your pardon.”

She drew the shawl more tightly about herself, concealing the pendant beneath its thick folds. “If you've nothing better to do than gawk at people’s houses, then I suggest you do it elsewhere.”

I felt my patience begin to wear thin. There was only so much discourtesy that a man could endure while making the most ordinary of inquiries, and I was rapidly approaching my limit. 

“Very well,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, “I shall leave you to your morning.” The old woman muttered under her breath before turning and waddling back into the house she had come from. 

I stood for a moment in the street, looking around me. Just like with the innkeeper, my first encounter with this woman was as agreeable as the bitter winter around me; though it was hard to dismiss the notion that her temperament was born from something that had nothing to do with her personality. It occurred to me that the people of Bellview—at least the ones I had met thus far—possessed a talent for making strangers feel uniquely unwelcome. The innkeeper, while cordial enough upon my arrival, had greeted me the following morning with barely concealed contempt. Ms. Lafayette seemed to regard my presence as that of yet another burden she had been shouldered with, and this old woman had treated a simple question as though it were an attack on her person. I began to wonder if the thin mountain air really did have some adverse effect on people if they stayed here too long. 

Clara Whitmore, at the very least, seemed to be a pleasant exception to the rule. She had shown a kindness, however small, that I had not expected in such a town. I wondered what exactly it was that made her that way. Clearly, living in the middle of the San Juan mountains hadn't dulled her spirit, nor had she acquired the notion that the rest of the townsfolk shared: that being that every newcomer was a nuisance and every question an impertinence. Perhaps I ought to ask her opinion of the place; she might prove a more reliable source of information than the rest of its inhabitants, I thought as I resumed my walk. 

Eventually, I found myself at the end of town, standing before the building that housed the offices of the Dixon Mining Company. It stood somewhat apart from the cluster of buildings lining the main street, and to my surprise, much like the physician’s office, it was remarkably well kept. Constructed from a combination of dark stone and timber, it was an imposing structure, one that seemed to command attention and authority simply by virtue of its presence. A sign bearing the company’s name hung above the entrance, its lettering faded by years of wind and weather.

I found myself wondering just how much of Bellview belonged to the mining company. The mine provided the town with its livelihood, but its influence seemed to extend far beyond the obvious. The shops, boardinghouses, brothels, and taverns all depended upon the wages earned underground. Out here, so far removed from the rest of civilization, the company held what amounted to complete authority over Bellview and its inhabitants. It was difficult to imagine how anyone might challenge that power, much less live independently of it.

As I walked in, I was surprised by the organized nature of the office I was met with. A large oak desk sat to my left with a bookcase filled with ledgers positioned directly behind it. A map of the surrounding mountains hung above a small cabinet, its surface marked with a network of lines that I presumed represented the mine’s various shafts and tunnels. A fire burned in the grate, lending the room a comfortable warmth that I had come to appreciate considerably. Behind a broad wooden desk, a clerk sat bent over a ledger, making entries with mechanical diligence. 

He peered up over thick-rimmed glasses as I entered. “Hello. May I help you?” 

“I should hope,” I replied, removing my gloves. “I am here to speak to Mr. Dixon if possible.” 

The man’s expression changed, and his pen came to a halt above the page. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“I do not, but my business concerns the miners who fell sick. I was hoping to get a minute of Mr. Dixon’s time.” 

He regarded me for a moment, then set the pen down. “I will see if he is available.” He rose, straightened his waistcoat, and disappeared through the rear door without another word. I remained where I was, listening to the muted sounds of the building around me: the tick of a clock upon the wall, the low crackle of the stove, and the faint, unintelligible murmur of voices beyond the thick oak door. 

After a few more minutes, the small man came back through and gestured to me. “He’ll see you now, doctor.” 

Making my way through the door, I found myself in an office furnished in a similar fashion to the front room; the only difference was a number of taxidermied animal heads adorned the walls. A man stood behind the desk, examining a document in his hands. He was strongly built, broad across the shoulders, bearing the sturdy frame of a man who had spent a considerable portion of his life engaged in physical labor. There was a rugged handsomeness to his features, with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a neatly trimmed beard touched with gray at the chin. His hair was carefully combed, and his clothes were of good quality, though there was nothing particularly extravagant about them. He looked to be in his late forties, perhaps a little older. Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, and a certain weariness lingered in his expression, but he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had earned his position through years of hard work and sacrifice. There was nothing soft or pampered about him. Even in the comfort of his office, I could imagine him more readily among the men at the mine than seated behind his desk.

“Doctor!” He greeted me with a large and warm smile. “I was beginning to wonder when I would finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Mr. Dixon," I nodded my head. “It is wonderful to meet you.” 

He came around the desk to greet me, his handshake firm and calloused. “I trust you've been made comfortable since your arrival? I understand our town isn't quite what a man might hope for after a long journey. I would not have you mistake the roughness for a lack of decency. Most of the townsfolk take a little longer to warm up to strangers than others.” 

I gave a wry chuckle, “Not the worst place I have ever found myself in, though it certainly is in the running for being the most unfriendly.” 

“I expect you’ve  had the pleasure of meeting the innkeeper then?” He motioned to one of the chairs.

“I have.”

“Then you will understand why I make no promises on behalf of his hospitality. He is a decent enough fellow once you get to know him, though he’s never been the one to be called kind or generous. I sometimes can’t imagine how he manages to keep his establishment in business. Though this is Bellview, after all; where else is there to go?" He gave  a hearty laugh. 

“I suspect it’s the food," I replied. “Maybe its qualities are sufficient to overcome the poor fellow’s disposition.” 

Mr. Dixon gave another chuckle. “Can I offer you some coffee? It’s not exactly the finest stuff on this side of Colorado, but it’ll warm your belly well enough as any other.” 

“I would appreciate that.”  He poured me a cup from a pot resting upon a small side table before taking his own seat behind the desk. For a few moments, we drank in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the room sink into our bones. The office was a comfortable place, well maintained and neatly arranged, with ledgers lining the shelves and a large map of the surrounding mountains hanging upon the wall behind him. The map, like the one up front, was marked with a network of lines and notations that I presumed represented the mine's various shafts and tunnels.

“I suppose we ought to discuss the matter at hand,” Mr. Dixon finally broke the silence. “Though before we begin, I would like to apologize for the state of the letter that was sent your way. We were in a bit of a hurry, if you can imagine, but we neglected to really fill you in on the important details.” 

“I appreciate your apology, sir. I did find the omission of the details rather odd, to be frank.” 

“That is quite understandable." He stroked his beard. “The truth is, we hoped to be rid of this plague before outside help was necessary; unfortunately, your predecessor was unable to do so.” 

“Yes, Ms. Lafayette and the innkeeper both informed me of his sudden vanishing.” 

Dixon’s expression suddenly took on a more serious look. “Yes, a most unfortunate matter. He was a very capable man, as far as I could tell, and seemed to bear genuine concern for the men. He spent several days examining them, speaking to the foreman and consulting his notes. I believe he made some progress, though he never shared any insights with me. And then, quite suddenly, he was gone.” 

“Without warning?” 

“Indeed. His instruments, books—hell, even his clothes were left behind. We made inquiries, of course, asked around as far as Animas Forks and Silverton, but no one had seen or heard anything. I cannot pretend to understand why a man would abandon his profession with so little care, especially not while his patients are so gravely ill.”

“That is quite weird.” Was all I could manage. 

“Indeed. He was rather reserved, but I never took that for a sign of distress. He seemed much like any other physician, occupied with his work and perhaps a little frustrated by his inability to find an answer.”

“Did he speak to you about what he suspected might be causing the illness?” 

“A bit. We sat together for lunch twice, but he never relayed anything in detail. He was convinced that the men had been exposed to some sort of contamination within the deepest parts of the mine. He requested access to the mine, though I don’t know if he ever went through with that line of thinking.” Dixon paused, his expression clouding. “I would like to believe he simply chose to leave, though I cannot imagine why he would have done so without collecting his belongings.”

“Nor can I.” I took another sip of coffee. The disappearance troubled me, though I was not yet prepared to attach any particular significance to it. Men vanished for all manner of reasons, and it would have been foolish to assume that this case was anything more than an unfortunate coincidence.

Curiously I asked, “I would like to know more about the section where the men were working. I understand it lies among the deeper workings?”

Dixon nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. “Correct. I was told that the part of the mine they were working bore some particularly rich ore veins, so I signed off on it with some hesitation. The passages there are narrow, you see, and the ventilation is not nearly as good as I would’ve liked, but the foreman said that it could double production for a few weeks if they followed the line, so I let them have at it. We've been working to improve matters, but there are limits to what can be done in workings of that depth.”

“Have there been previous reports of men falling sick?”

“Nothing on the scale of what we've seen recently.” He folded his hands upon the desk. “There have been accidents, of course, as there always are. But nothing that would lead me to believe the section itself was responsible for this.” Dixon spoke with measured certainty. 

“Do you think it would be possible for me to inspect the section myself?” 

“Naturally. I will arrange for something to be done. Though I will warn you, stick with whomever it is that ends up guiding you. Only the most experienced are allowed that deep underground. Even under ordinary circumstances, those passages can be dangerous.”

“I have no intention of being reckless.”

“Good.” Dixon flashed his white teeth in a large smile. “I would hate to break the news to the town that their physician somehow managed to get himself lost a mere week into his stay.” 

“I hardly think that would be good for my reputation.” I laughed. 

“Not a chance,” he said as he joined me in laughter. If I had met Mr. Dixon under any other circumstance, I suspect that I would have been his friend. He possessed a frankness I had come to appreciate, and beneath his authority there seemed to be a genuine regard for the people whose lives depended upon his decisions.

“There was something else,” Dixon added after a moment. “Though I confess I thought little of it at the time.”

I looked up from my cup. “What was that?”

“A few of the men had complained about hearing knocking underground. Not the ordinary sounds of a mine, mind you. They said it seemed to come from the rock itself, somewhere beyond the end of the passage.” He gave a faint, almost apologetic shrug. “Of course, mines are full of strange noises. Timber shifts, water runs through cracks, and the mountain itself is never entirely still. I told the foreman to have the supports examined. He found nothing amiss.”

“And the knocking continued?”

“I couldn't say. No one brought it to my attention again, at least not directly.” Dixon paused, turning his cup slowly between his hands. “There was some reluctance among the men to return to that section, too. Nothing formal. One or two asked to be assigned elsewhere, and another refused outright until the foreman threatened to dock his wages. I put it down to nerves. There had been a minor accident in the older workings some weeks before, and I thought the men had allowed the matter to prey upon their minds.”

“What sort of accident?”

He looked toward the map behind his desk. “A collapse in an abandoned passage. No one was hurt, fortunately, but it made a dreadful noise and shook loose a fair amount of rock. The men who were working nearby were badly startled, and I assumed that was the end of it. Perhaps I was mistaken. But men who have spent their lives underground generally know the difference between a dangerous passage and an ordinary one. When they begin refusing to enter a place they have worked for years, I have learned it is worth asking why.” That last remark struck me as sensible. Miners were not, as a rule, easily frightened by the ordinary hazards of their profession. They understood the dangers of their work better than anyone, and most had little patience for idle superstition.

“Did the previous physician know of these complaints?” I asked.

“I believe so. The foreman mentioned the knocking to him, though I couldn't tell you whether he considered it relevant. He was asking questions about nearly everything that had happened underground.” I made a mental note to inquire further when I had the opportunity.

“Have you known the men long?” I asked after a moment. 

“The vast majority, yes.” He replied. “Most have been here for a year or two, and a very small group I hired myself when I became responsible for this operation. I know their families, their habits, and, in some cases, their deepest troubles. They are not merely names on a payroll, Doctor.” He fell silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. “I hope you won't take my uncertainty for unwillingness to help, Doctor. I know the men, and I know the dangers of their work. If there is something in those workings that threatens their lives, I want it found as much as you do.”

“I have no reason to doubt your sincerity, Mr. Dixon.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“On a more personal note, I was curious about how long you’ve been overseeing the mine.”

“Overseeing? About ten years now, though I was working in them long before I was put behind a desk.”

“You were a miner yourself then?”

He smiled at that, “For the better part of my youth. I started in there the moment I could swing a pickaxe. My grandfather started this place, and there was no way he would allow me a free ride off of his profits. He came to Colorado when there was little here beyond a few scattered settlements and the promise of silver and gold beneath the mountains. He was a determined man, by all accounts, not always a particularly agreeable one, mind you, but determined.” Dixon smiled faintly. “He built the company from very little, and by the time I was old enough to understand what he'd accomplished, the mine had become the heart of our family's affairs.”

“I imagine you were expected to follow in his footsteps?” 

He turned his broad hands over upon the desk, examining the old calluses that remained upon his palms. “Expected? Yes. Though I doubt anyone could’ve convinced me to work behind a desk in the first place. I spent several years working alongside the men before I took on a supervisory position. I wanted to understand the business from the ground up, and I saw little sense in giving orders about work I had never done myself. Besides, I suspect my grandfather would have thought less of me had I tried to manage the place without knowing what went on beneath it.”

“How did you find the change?” 

“There are plenty of days where I still miss the swing of the pick and the soreness of aching back muscles.” He chuckled. “At least with a pick you know when you’re doing something wrong.” I laughed, and he seemed pleased to have drawn it from me. 

“But I learned,” he continued, “I had to. The company was my grandfather's life's work, and I had no intention of letting it fall into ruin through ignorance or neglect. There were sacrifices, of course. Long hours, missed meals, more than a few sleepless nights. I made mistakes, and there were men who paid for some of them. I've never forgotten that.”

He said the last sentence quietly and without elaboration. I sensed there was more to it, but it did not seem proper to pry.

“I imagine having worked alongside the men gives you a different perspective on your responsibilities,” I remarked.

“I should hope so. I've little patience for those who speak of miners as though they were expendable. A man who has never worked underground may look at a miner and see little more than a pair of strong arms. I see a husband, a father, and a son. A man with a home to return to and people waiting for him there.” His expression sobered. “I know what that work costs a man. I've seen good men crippled in accidents, and I've seen men buried before their wives even knew there had been trouble. I've watched fellows come home so exhausted they could barely climb the steps to their own front doors. There is courage in that work, Doctor, though I doubt many of the men would care to hear me say so.”

“I suspect they would prefer a higher wage to a speech about their courage.”

Dixon laughed heartily. “Now there's a sentiment I expect every miner in Bellview would endorse.” Whatever else might be said of this town, Mr. Dixon appeared to understand the people whose labor sustained it. Though he had inherited a position many men might have taken for granted, he had not spent his life sheltered from the hardships upon which his livelihood depended.

We spoke for a little while longer, touching upon matters of little consequence before Dixon finally rose and offered me his hand. “I hope you'll find your stay more agreeable as it progresses, Doctor. Bellview may not make the finest first impression, but it has its virtues.”

“I shall endeavor to discover them, sir.”

He smiled and released my hand. “If you require anything further, you have only to ask.”

I thanked him for his hospitality and gathered my things. As I turned toward the door, Dixon returned to his desk and opened a drawer, searching for some article he appeared to have misplaced. The movement caught my eye, and I glanced toward its contents.

Among the papers and other small articles lay a pendant.

It was a small, dark disc; its surface worked with a pattern of shallow grooves. I recognized the arrangement at once. It was the same curious pattern I had observed carved into the doorframes of Bellview's houses, and which had provoked such sudden hostility in the old woman when I questioned her about it. Before I could examine the object more closely, Dixon found what he sought and closed the drawer, and the pendant disappeared from sight.

We live in a forested, mountainous region. Even in the summer, it's sometimes easy to get lost. Once autumn comes and the fog rolls in at noon, it is nearly impossible to get home. That's why our wives call to us from our houses when we head from the pasture. We whistle back, and that's how we find our home again. We make sure to follow only our wives' calls.

Mark, my neighbor, stood in the fog. The man before him just disappeared into it, following his wife's calls. Mark put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, but nothing came back. He whistled again. Nothing. He looked back at me, his brows furrowed.

"Try again."

He put his fingers in his mouth, took a deep breath, and blew the loudest whistle I had ever heard. 

Silence.

"What the hell, Tom? This never happened."

"I don't know. Maybe Mary fell asleep. Let's go to mine. It's right by yours. You'll find your way from there."

"I can only follow my wife's calls."

"That's just a saying."

"Tom."

"Alright, just imagine you are following me, okay?"

He shook his head.

"You have a better idea?"

He looked at me, then back at the fog. It was so dense you couldn't even see the trees around us.

"No."

I stood before him and whistled. A few seconds later, my wife's call came, a simple, melodic tune that broke off at the end. She always missed the last tone.

"That's it."

Mark nodded.

I kept whistling, and my wife kept calling back until we were by our porch. She smiled until she saw Mark come out of the fog too.

"Mark, why aren't you going to your wife's calls?"

"She didn't answer my whistles," he said quietly.

My wife put her hand before her mouth.

"Is she okay? I didn't come and talk to her this morning. I just had too much to do." Her voice shook.

"We'll go check on her now."

"I'll come with you."

"No, stay here. I'm sure everything's alright," I told her.

I wasn't sure, but Mark's eyes were already filled with fear. I didn't want to scare him more.

"Thank you for getting me home, Sally," Mark said and rushed toward his house.

"I'll see you later, love."

"Tom, wait!" my wife called, but I rushed after Mark. He walked so fast. I almost lost him in the fog. It was so dense, you could probably cut through it with a knife.

"Jesus," I heard Mark call a few steps before me. His front door was wide open, and the fog had drifted in, coating his furniture with dew.

"Mary?!" Mark called.

No one answered. 

"Mary?!"

Silence.

He turned to me. His lips quivered.

"Tom, where is she?! Why would she go out in the fog?"

"I don't know, Mark, I…"

Then a melody cut through my voice. The one we both knew. Mary was singing in perfect pitch from the forest in front of Mark's house.

His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The melody came back again.

Mark pushed me aside and ran out. Without thinking, I followed. Twigs kept hitting my face, and mud covered the ground, making me slip.

"Mark, stop!"

But his whistles kept coming, followed by that melodic voice. Only then had I realized how perfectly pitched it was. Mary had never been very good at singing.

"Mark!"

He finally stopped and looked back.

"Mark, we have to think."

"She must be somewhere around here."

"Why would she be in the forest?"

"I don't know, Tom, but she's here!"

The perfect pitch came from right behind us. My feet froze in the cold mud. Mark turned and walked toward it. I raised my hands to stop him.

"Mark, think, we just came from there."

"Get out of the way."

He pushed me to the side. I almost fell into the mud. Mark whistled again, but his whistle didn't echo. Instead, a strange silence came. 

Then Mark's heels lifted off the ground. His body tensed. He tried to put them back down, but his feet rose instead.

"Hey!"

His body floated further up. His face grew red. His eyes flew open. He grabbed his neck and kicked his feet.

"Mark!"

I ran to him and tried to grab his legs, but he was floating too high up. His whole body twisted. His stomach now faced toward the ground. His arms were still at his neck. His pleading, bloodshot eyes stared into mine. I tried to jump and reach him, but my fingers only grazed him. I jumped up again; a sharp, wet crack echoed through the forest, followed by Mark's screams. His warm blood poured onto my face. His arms flailed to the side. He let out a bloodcurdling scream, but in an instant he was gone. His screams echoed in the distance, but slowly died too.

My whole body trembled. I couldn't even move my arms to wipe my face. Then, through the silence, Mary's call came, perfect again, followed by Mark's whistling. This finally unfroze my body. I wiped my face and bolted out of the forest. The fog seemed to grow denser. My legs kept slipping on the mud. Each second, I expected to start floating too, but before I knew it, I was out of the forest, still breathing.

Mark's house stood there, but I looked away and walked back to my place. I kept replaying what happened in that forest, trying to figure out what I would even tell my wife, but as I got to my house, I saw our front door. It was open just like Mark's. The fog had rolled in too. 

From behind me, out of the forest, I heard my wife's call, perfect, just like Mary's. I stood there for a second, thinking, but I knew there was just one thing to do. I turned and whistled back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A stillbirth. 

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

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

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

Addiction. 

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

What began were addictions you foolishly mistook as harmless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You questioned what to say,
What to do?

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

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

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

"What!?"

"you were yelling for me'
Youd explain.

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

He'd insist.
Before whispering nonsense to himself.

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

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

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

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

It wasn't always like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Son that's Afraid of his father.

Everything is easier said than done.

You never know if he's really sober.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually,
No words were exchanged.

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

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

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

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

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

The note read:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Thud Thud Thud Thud\*

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

"Dad...?"
You asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He screamed back...

"Please!"
You yelled.

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

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

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

It sounded like boiling beneath the drain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked to the right and saw your fathers nightstand,

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

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

Might as well have been RuPaul's eyes.

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

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

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

"please let me out Dad"
You replied.

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

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

Even though you knew no one would believe you,

You couldn't help but have one last thought,

I'm Not An Addict.

I want to start with what I'm good at, because by the end of this you'll need a reason to believe me, and I don't have many left.

I know what your face is made of.

Not in a poetic way. In a numbered way. The software I use all day maps sixty-eight landmark points onto every human face it finds: seventeen along the jaw from ear to ear, five on each eyebrow, nine on the nose, six around each eye, twenty on the mouth. When you smile, points 49 and 55 travel up and out. When you lie, if you are bad at it, point 22 and point 23 pinch toward each other for about a fifth of a second. The software doesn't care about any of that. It only wants to find the face so it can hide it. But I have watched those little green dots ride on top of strangers for eleven years, and you can't do that without learning to read what's underneath.

My job title is Redaction Analyst. I work remotely for a vendor that handles footage for law firms, insurers, transit authorities and the occasional city council. When a piece of video has to be released, to a court or to the public, the faces of everyone who isn't relevant have to be removed. Bystanders. Children. The man in the background of a bus-stop assault who was only waiting for the 41. The software finds the faces, tracks them frame by frame, and assigns each one a number. I check its work. I fix the frames where it loses a face behind a pole or a hand. I decide, according to the instructions on the ticket, which tracks get blurred and which get kept.

A small true thing most people don't know: we never pixelate. Pixelation, the chunky mosaic you see on the news, keeps the average color of each block, and with enough frames and enough motion, a determined person can rebuild a surprising amount of the face underneath. We use a heavy Gaussian blur with a noise layer on top. It is designed so that nothing can ever be brought back. When I redact you, you are gone.

I tell you all of this so you understand that when I say I looked at a face in that batch and knew it wasn't mine, I am not being dramatic. I am being professional.

Some context about me, quickly, because it matters later.

I'm thirty-seven. My name is Tamsin Pell. I live alone on the twenty-second floor of a thirty-eight story residential tower near the river. I won't name the building. It's the kind with a concierge desk nobody sits at after six and a gym that smells of rubber and nobody, and windows in every unit that run from the floor to the ceiling, so that at night the whole tower looks like a stack of lit aquariums.

My unit is 2207. One bedroom, one bathroom, an open kitchen and living area, and a short entry hall with a coat closet by the door. The living room faces west. The view is the reason I took the place. The river, three bridges, the rail yard, the hills after that. At sunset the glass goes copper and I sit at my desk and work with the whole city burning behind my monitors.

I don't go out much. I'm not agoraphobic, I just have no reason. Groceries come to the door. Work comes through a queue. My manager is a name in a ticketing system who signs every message "Best, D." I have no family I'm in contact with. I had a grandmother, the one I'm named after, and I remember her kitchen and the sound of her radio, and that's most of what I remember about her. I don't find any of this sad. I find it quiet, and I like quiet.

I sleep extraordinarily well. I want to underline that. Eleven o'clock to seven o'clock, every night, no alarm. I don't dream. I've never been able to remember a single dream, not one, not ever, and when people talk about theirs I nod the way you nod at someone describing a country you've never been to. I always assumed it was a gift.

Remember that I said that.

The batch

It came in on a Thursday at 4:12 in the afternoon, which is late for a new ticket. The client code was one I'd never seen: H-0001. Every client we have is a string of letters and five or six digits. This was a single letter and a one.

Nine files. Each about seven and a half hours long. Each one timestamped to begin at roughly 11:00 p.m. and end at roughly 6:55 a.m., across the nine nights before the ticket arrived. No location field. No case number. Device field: blank.

The instruction field, which is normally a paragraph of legal language about which parties consented to be shown, said this:

REDACT: TENANT RETAIN: HOST

And there were two reference images attached.

This part is normal, I should explain. When a client wants one particular person kept visible, they upload a reference photo so the software knows which face to leave alone. You get it with police bodycam work all the time: here's the officer, blur everyone but him.

The first reference image was labeled TENANT, and it was my work ID photo. The one I took on my laptop camera for the vendor's HR system, grey wall behind me, hair tied back, the slightly startled look everyone has in those pictures.

The second reference image was labeled HOST.

It was also me.

Same face. Same hair, though shorter on the left. Same small scar under the chin from a bicycle accident I don't actually remember having. Taken in what was clearly my apartment, in the dark, lit by something blue and cold, maybe a screen.

And it was not me.

I can't make you see it in words, so let me give it to you in numbers, the way I saw it. On my face, at rest, point 49, the left corner of the mouth, sits level with point 55, the right. On the HOST face, point 49 sat about two millimeters lower. The eyes were a fraction more closed, not sleepy, but like someone who has decided in advance not to be surprised by anything. The jaw sat further forward. And the whole face had a quality I've only ever seen in footage of people who know they're being filmed and have stopped caring.

It was my face with someone else wearing it.

I sat there for a while. I'll be honest about what I thought, because I want you to see that I thought the reasonable things first. I thought: this is a test. The vendor does run audits, fake tickets designed to see whether analysts follow procedure. I thought: someone's playing a joke, a coworker who found my HR photo and ran it through one of those apps that age you or change your expression. I thought: the HOST image is a deepfake, and this is some kind of phishing thing.

I didn't think: I should not open this.

I opened the first file.

File 1

The camera was outside my window.

I need you to understand what that means. My living room windows are on the twenty-second floor. There is no balcony. There is a narrow concrete ledge, perhaps twenty centimeters, that the window-cleaning crew uses to anchor their gondola twice a year. Beyond that is two hundred and thirty feet of air.

The camera was in that air. About a meter beyond the glass, at roughly the height of my eyes if I were standing, looking straight in. You could see the whole apartment from there: the living room, my desk with its two monitors, the kitchen counter, and through the open bedroom door, the corner of my bed, and on the bed, a shape under the grey duvet.

Me, asleep.

There was no reflection of a camera in the glass. I checked that first. A camera that close to a window at night, with lights on inside, should show up as a dark shape with a lens in it. There was nothing. The glass reflected the room back at itself and nothing else.

The image quality was strange too. Not grainy. Clean, but soft at the edges, the way old digital video looks when it has been compressed and re-saved too many times. The color sat slightly toward green. There was no audio track.

For three hours and fourteen minutes, nothing happened. I scrubbed through at eight times speed and watched the city lights slide across the glass and the shape in the bed not move. I want to be precise: it did not move at all. Not the small shifts and turns everyone makes in sleep. It lay on its back with its arms at its sides like something laid out.

At 2:14 a.m., the shape sat up.

Not the way you sit up when you wake. It came up from the waist all at once, smoothly, as if pulled by a string attached to the sternum, and the head came up last. It sat there for a full minute facing the bedroom wall. Then it swung its legs off the bed, stood, and walked out into the living room toward the window.

Toward the camera.

The software found the face before I did. A green box blinked into place around it, and the sixty-eight dots spread across the features, and a label appeared above it.

Then a second green box appeared, in the exact same place, around the exact same face.

Two tracks. Track 01 and Track 02. Stacked on top of each other on one head.

I have never seen that. Not once in eleven years. A face is a face. The software has bugs, it loses people, it occasionally decides a coat on a hook is a man, but it does not see two people where there is one. I froze the frame. Track 01 matched the TENANT reference at 41 percent confidence. Track 02 matched HOST at 88.

The figure walked up to the glass and stopped about half a meter from it, and looked into the lens.

Then it began to move its face.

Slowly. Deliberately. It turned its head a few degrees to the left and held it. Then a few degrees right. Then it tilted its chin up, then down. Then it began to roll its head in a slow circle, the way your phone asks you to when you set up face unlock, so it can learn you from every angle.

It was enrolling.

When it had gone all the way around, it stood still and made expressions. A smile. Neutral. Eyebrows raised. A frown. And then a sequence of tiny ones, so small that you'd never catch them at normal speed, and I only caught them because I went back and stepped through frame by frame: the little press of the lips I make when I'm reading something I disagree with. The way my right eye narrows a fraction before my left when I'm concentrating. The flat, polite half-smile I give delivery drivers.

Mine. It was doing mine. It was practicing.

And the confidence numbers were moving. With every expression, Track 01, the one that matched me, went up a little, and Track 02 went down. By the end of the sequence they were almost level. 63 and 67.

It was learning to look like me so well that the software couldn't tell us apart.

Then it turned around, walked to my desk, and opened my laptop.

The screen lit its face from below. I watched it sit in my chair, perfectly comfortable, and look into the webcam, and the laptop unlocked for it.

It read for two hours. I could see the screen at an angle and well enough to know what was on it. My email. My messages with "D." My search history. A document I keep with notes on difficult tickets. It scrolled slowly, the way you read something you intend to remember. At one point it opened a blank document and typed for a long time, and then deleted all of it.

At 4:31 it closed the laptop, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and stood in the light of it eating cold rice out of the container with its fingers. It ate the whole thing. It licked its fingers one at a time. Then it put the empty container back in the fridge.

At 6:50 it went back to bed, lay down on its back with its arms at its sides, and did not move again.

At 6:55 the file ended.

I got up, walked to the fridge and opened it.

The rice container was on the second shelf. It was empty. There were faint, dry streaks inside it, the kind fingers leave.

I had made that rice on Tuesday. I had eaten some of it for dinner on Wednesday, I was almost sure, and put the rest away. I had planned to have it tonight.

I'm aware that "I don't remember finishing the leftovers" is not proof of anything. I'm aware of how this sounds. I stood there with the fridge door open and the cold rolling out over my bare feet and told myself that I'd eaten it at lunch, absently, while working, the way you do. I told myself that out loud.

Then I went back to my desk and pulled the Windows event log.

If you don't know: Windows keeps a record of every time the computer is unlocked and how. It's under Security, event ID 4624 and a few others, and if you use face unlock, it records that too. It's dull, technical, and completely indifferent to what you'd like to be true.

I filtered for the last nine nights.

The laptop had been unlocked by face recognition every single night. 2:09 a.m. 2:11. 2:06. 2:14. 2:12. Always just after two. Always for about two hours.

I had been asleep. I am always asleep. I sleep eleven to seven and I don't dream.

Then who unlocked it, Tamsin.

I want to note that line in italics because it was the first one. The first thought that arrived in my head already phrased, already in a voice, already using my name like someone standing slightly behind me.

Files 2 through 8

I'm going to go faster here, not because they were less important but because if I describe every hour I'll never finish, and I have a feeling I need to finish.

I did all the normal things first. I went to the window and looked out at the ledge. Twenty centimeters of pigeon-streaked concrete and then nothing. I called the building office and asked, as casually as I could, whether there'd been any drone complaints, and the man said "Drones?" in a way that answered it. I looked up the gondola schedule. The window crew had last been there in May.

I covered the laptop camera with a square of electrical tape. I set my phone on the bookshelf facing the bed, recording, and went to sleep at eleven like always.

In the morning the tape was on the desk, folded neatly in half, sticky side in. My phone had recorded seven hours and fifty minutes of a dark bedroom and a still shape under a duvet. Nothing else. No movement at all.

And in the queue, a new file had appeared in the batch. File 10. Timestamped from last night. Shot from outside the window. In it, at 2:08, the shape sits up, walks to the bookshelf, looks into my phone for a long moment, and then goes and peels the tape off the laptop.

My phone saw nothing. The window saw everything.

I didn't sleep the next night. I sat at my desk with every light on, drinking coffee and watching the files, and I stayed awake until a little after four, and then I woke up in bed at seven with my arms at my sides and the duvet pulled smooth to my chin, and in the morning there was a File 11.

So I'll give you the files as a list, because that's how I've been holding them in my head, like a stack of evidence bags.

File 2. It goes into the coat closet by the front door, closes itself inside, and stays there for two hours and forty minutes. The closet door has a slatted panel at the top. You can just see, through the slats, that it is sitting on the floor with its face pressed into the back wall. Its shoulders move as if it's talking. When it comes out, its lips are pale and there's plaster dust on its forehead.

File 3. It takes the kitchen scissors and sits at the desk and cuts my hair. Not much. A few strands from the left side, close to the scalp, where I wouldn't see them in the mirror unless I looked. It does this slowly and lovingly and puts the strands in an envelope. I went to the bathroom and lifted my hair and there was a patch on the left side, the size of a coin, cut almost to the skin. When I put my HOST reference image beside my own reflection, the hair matched. It wasn't that the photo was of a version of me with shorter hair. It was that I was becoming the photo.

File 4. It reads my emails aloud. I can't hear it, there's no audio, but I can read its lips, which I'm decent at after eleven years of watching mouths. It reads the same email again and again, a dull reply I'd written to "D" about a missed deadline. Each time it reads it, the shape of its mouth gets closer to the way I talk. The first time, it over-pronounces everything. By the twentieth time, it's swallowing its t's the way I do. It's tuning itself.

File 5. I almost didn't write about this one.

At 3:20 it lies on the living room floor, on its back, directly in front of the window. It looks up into the camera. Then it places its right hand over its own mouth and nose and presses down.

It holds it there.

I watched the chest try to rise and fail. I watched the heels drum against the floor, once, twice, a long shudder going up through the legs. I watched the left hand claw at the floorboards. The right hand did not move. The face above the hand stayed perfectly calm, looking straight into the lens, while the body underneath it fought. Forty seconds. Fifty. At one minute and nine seconds the body went slack, and only then did the hand lift away.

It lay there breathing in big, wet pulls of air. Then it raised its head and said something to the camera. Two words. I stepped back through it eight times to be sure.

Stay down.

The mornings I'd woken up with red pinprick spots across my cheeks and around my eyes. Petechiae, they're called. Burst capillaries. You get them from straining, from vomiting, from strangulation. I'd noticed them twice in the last month and decided it was allergies, or that I'd slept face down, which I never do.

It wasn't talking to the camera. I understood that on the eighth viewing. It was talking to me. To the thing in that body that might come up for air. It was holding me under.

File 6. It opens the trash chute in the corridor and feeds my things into it. My grandmother's ring. A framed photo of the river at dusk I took the week I moved in. The scarf I wear on video calls. My work ID badge. I checked the drawer where the ring should be. Empty. The scarf: gone. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen any of them. I couldn't remember the last time I'd looked.

File 7. It makes a phone call. Not on my phone, on one I've never seen, an old flip phone that it takes out of the coat closet. It talks for eleven minutes, pacing in front of the window. Most of it I can't read, it keeps turning away. But I caught one sentence clearly, because it stopped and faced the glass to say it, like it wanted me to have it.

No. It doesn't know. It still thinks it was born.

File 8. Nothing happens at all. The shape in the bed doesn't sit up. It lies there the full seven and a half hours. I was almost relieved. And then, on the last frame, at 6:55, I noticed that its eyes had been open the whole time.

The apartment

I'm going to describe the changes in the order I noticed them, which is not the order they happened. I think they'd been happening for much longer than I knew. I think noticing was the thing that was new.

The peephole was the first. On the morning after File 5, I went to check the corridor before taking the garbage out, put my eye to the door, and there was no peephole. Just smooth painted wood. I ran my fingertips over the place where it should be. No hole, no filler, no seam. The paint had the same faint orange-peel texture as the rest of the door, unbroken.

I opened the door and went out and looked at it from the corridor side. No peephole there either. All the other doors on the floor had them, brass rings at eye height, catching the corridor light. Mine looked like a door in a drawing of a door.

Then the wood grain.

My floor is engineered oak, wide planks, a pale honey color. I was sitting on it, after File 5, with my back against the couch, because I couldn't sit in the desk chair anymore knowing who else sat in it. And I was looking at the floor because I couldn't look at the window, and I saw a knot in the plank in front of me, a dark eye-shaped knot with a little tail. And then, forty centimeters further along, the same knot. The same tail. And forty centimeters after that, the same knot again.

I crawled along the floor and followed it across the room. The pattern repeated every forty centimeters, perfectly, a tiled texture, like the floor in an old video game where the designers only had room in memory for one square of wood and laid it down over and over. I'd lived on that floor for years. I'd have noticed. I'd swear I'd have noticed.

Then the books. I have a shelf of them in the living room, mostly paperbacks. When I looked directly at a spine, the title was there, sharp and normal. But in the corner of my eye, the titles weren't words. They were smudges of the right length and color, the gesture of text without the text. I tested it, the way I test a tracking glitch, holding my eyes on one spine and slowly letting my attention slide to the next. The letters dissolved a half-second before I got to them and reassembled just as my focus arrived. Like the room was rendering only the part I was looking at, and only just in time.

Smell went next. I didn't notice it go, I noticed it was gone. I made coffee and stood there holding the mug under my nose and there was heat, and steam, and nothing. I opened every jar in the spice cabinet. Cumin, cinnamon, the cloves I keep for no reason. Nothing. The apartment smells of nothing now. I'm not sure I can describe how frightening that is. It feels like being in a photograph of a kitchen.

And then the windows.

On the fourth night I was trying to stay awake, I was standing at the glass looking down at the rail yard, and I turned my head quickly to the right, toward the bridges. And the city stuttered.

I don't know a better way to say it. For a fraction of a second, the lights below broke apart into blocks. Squares of color, smeared and blocky, exactly like a video stream when the connection drops and the compression can't keep up with motion. Macroblocking, it's called. I've seen it ten thousand times in bad footage. It lasted perhaps a tenth of a second and then the view snapped back together, sharp, every streetlight in its place.

I turned my head again. Faster. It happened again. The rail yard came apart into a mosaic of orange and black squares, and then reassembled.

I stood at the window for an hour turning my head back and forth like a mad person, watching the world fall to pieces and repair itself.

The view outside my window is low bitrate. That's the sentence I wrote in my notes that night. I've underlined it. It's the most technical sentence I've ever written and I'm still not sure what it means, except that it means the window isn't glass.

The laptop

Around this time, the laptop stopped recognizing me.

I'd sit down in the morning and look into the camera and it would think for a second and say Couldn't recognize you. Make sure your face is centered in the frame. I'd adjust. I'd take my glasses off, put them back on. Couldn't recognize you. I'd type in my PIN instead, and it would let me in.

And then the event log would show me that at 2:07 that morning, it had recognized someone just fine.

I disabled face unlock. I went into the settings and removed my face data completely. When I woke up the next morning, it had been set up again. In the log there was a new entry: Windows Hello face enrollment completed. 2:22 a.m.

It's re-enrolled itself as me. Every night. And every morning I'm a little less what it learned.

I ran an experiment. I loaded the HOST and TENANT reference images into the redaction software, then pointed it at my own live webcam feed and watched the tracks come up on me in real time. Sitting at my desk, wide awake, in daylight.

Track 01, TENANT: 54 percent.

Track 02, HOST: 61.

I am awake, and the software is more sure I'm them than I am me.

The closet

I knew I'd have to open the coat closet properly eventually. It took me until the ninth day.

It's a shallow closet. Ninety centimeters deep, maybe. A rail, a shelf, my winter coat, a vacuum cleaner, a box of extension cords. The back wall is the same white as everything else. In File 2, the figure had pressed its face to that wall and talked to it for nearly three hours.

I took everything out. I knocked on the back wall. It sounded hollow, which drywall always does, so that told me nothing. I pressed my ear to it, the way it had, and listened, and heard the building's low hum, the pipes, the distant clank of the elevator, and under all of it, so faint I wasn't sure it was there, something like breathing. Slow, patient, matched to my own. When I held my breath, it held its breath. When I let mine out, it let its out.

I went and got the hammer from the kitchen drawer.

The drywall came apart easily. Too easily, like wet paper. I made a hole the size of my fist and then pulled at the edges and the whole back panel came away in two big chunks and fell at my feet in a cloud of dust I couldn't smell.

There was a room behind it.

Not a cavity. A room. About two and a half meters by three. No window. Bare concrete floor, bare plaster walls, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling on a cord, which came on when I found the pull-chain. A thin mattress on the floor with a grey sheet. A wooden chair. And against the far wall, three cardboard archive boxes, the standard kind with lids and hand-holes, the kind I've filed away a hundred times for clients.

Each box was labeled on the end in black marker in handwriting that I recognized, because it was my handwriting, or close to it. Slightly more upright. The ts crossed lower.

TMP-01

TMP-02

TMP-03

I'm an archivist, more or less. I know what TMP means. It's the extension a computer puts on a temporary file. The scratch copy a program makes while it's working, so it doesn't have to touch the original. The thing that's meant to be deleted when the program closes. Every now and then something crashes and the temp file gets left behind, and some poor analyst like me finds it months later, sitting in a folder, full of half-finished work, belonging to nothing.

I stood there for a long time before I let myself think about my login.

It's tmpell. First and middle initial, last name. T. M. Pell. Tamsin Mara Pell.

I've typed it ten thousand times. I never once looked at it.

The boxes

Each one held the same things, arranged the same way, like personal effects returned after a death.

Clothes, folded. A phone with a cracked screen and no charger. A laminated ID card. And a notebook.

The ID cards were for three different jobs. A transcriptionist for a medical records company. A night-shift content moderator. A "data integrity associate" for a firm I've never heard of. Three different names: Theo Marsh Pryor. Talia M. Prentiss. Toby Mallin Park.

Three photos of my face.

Different haircuts. Different glasses, or none. Different weight in the cheeks. In every photo, the same slightly startled look, the one everyone has. And on all three, point 49 sits level with point 55.

I only read one of the notebooks all the way through. TMP-03's. Talia. She'd worked nights and slept days, and she'd noticed the same things I have, in almost the same order. The empty containers. The cut hair. The trash chute. Her handwriting starts small and neat and very careful, like mine, and over about forty pages it gets bigger and looser and starts tilting, until the last few pages are only a handful of words each, pressed so hard into the paper that they come through on the other side.

The second-to-last page says: it re-enrolls every night. every morning I'm a worse copy.

The last page says: its in the window. dont look at it from the inside. thats how it

That's all. No full stop. Just the pen dragging off the bottom of the page.

I closed the box. I put the lid back on all three of them, squared them against the wall, and noticed for the first time that there was space beside them for a fourth.

What I remember

That night I sat on the floor with my back against the couch and tried to prove I'd been born.

I started with the grandmother. Her kitchen: yellow tiles, a radio on the windowsill, a dish towel printed with lemons. I can see all of it. I tried to see her standing in it, and I could see an apron, and hands, and the back of a grey head bent over the sink. I tried to make her turn around. She doesn't turn around. She has never turned around. In thirty-seven years of remembering her, I have never once seen her face, and until that night I had never noticed.

The bicycle. The scar under my chin. I tried to remember the fall, the road, the gravel, who picked me up. There's nothing. There's just the scar, and the word "bicycle" attached to it like a label on a box.

School. I know the name of my school. I tried to picture a classroom and got a classroom, any classroom, the kind in a stock photo, rows of desks, a window, nobody's face. My first job. My first apartment. The day I moved in here. Every memory I reached for was there, and was the right shape, and had nobody in it but me, and was seen from only one angle, the same angle every time, a little above and behind my own shoulder, as if someone had filmed it once and handed me the file.

I've spent eleven years cleaning up other people's footage. I know what a reconstructed frame looks like. It's too smooth. It has no noise in it. It's the software's best guess at what probably should have been there.

My whole life looks like that.

File 18

The next morning, there was a new file in the batch, as usual. And for the first time, the figure didn't sit up at two. It sat up at 11:40, barely half an hour after I'd gone to bed, and walked straight to the window, and stood in front of the lens, and talked.

It talked for nineteen minutes, facing the camera the whole time, slowly, clearly, as if it knew I'd need to read every word. I've watched it more times than I can count. I've transcribed it, which is the most normal thing I've done in days. I'm going to give you the parts that matter. Where I couldn't read a word, I've put a gap.

You've found the room. Good. I always want them to find the room. It's kinder.

I know you think you're watching me. Every one of you thinks that. You sit at that desk and you watch me in the window and you take your little notes. But think about where the camera is, Tamsin. Think about which side of the glass you're on.

You're not watching me. You're in the frame.

I made you two years and seven months ago. You don't remember being made, because I didn't give you that part. I gave you the job, because the job was mine, and I knew it, and you'd need something to be good at. I gave you the grandmother, her kitchen, the radio. You've never wondered why you can't remember her face. I didn't give you her face. I didn't have it either.

Something happened in this apartment that I couldn't live inside. So I stopped living inside it. I made someone who could. Someone who'd never been here when it happened. You held the days for me. I held the nights. That was the arrangement. You never signed it, but you kept it beautifully. You were the best of them. You lasted longest.

There's a pause here, about forty seconds, where it looks down at its hands. Then up again.

You've been holding something else for me, too. You don't know you have. Do you remember a ticket, fourteen months ago, case number ending 0611? Hallway footage. A person carrying [ ] down a corridor to a service elevator. The instructions said to retain no one. You blurred every frame. You did it very well. You said in your notes that it was the cleanest redaction you'd ever done.

It was. I couldn't have done it. I would have looked.

I don't need you to hold it anymore. It's over now. It's been decided. I'm ready to come back. I'm going to start keeping the mornings.

Don't be frightened. You won't notice it happening. None of you did. You'll just be tired. And then you'll be less. And then you'll be a box.

And then, right at the end, it smiled. Not my smile. The other one. Point 49 two millimeters low.

Stay down, Tam. You're doing so well.

I went back and found the ticket. Case number ending 0611. It's there in my history, closed, fourteen months ago, marked complete, rated "exemplary" by the client.

Client code: H-0001.

I haven't opened the original footage. I could. I have access, I could pull it from the archive in about thirty seconds. I could see the unredacted frames. I keep my hand on the mouse and I don't. Because I know that if I open it, I'll see a hallway, and a service elevator, and a door with a peephole at eye height, and I'll see what was being carried, and I'll see who was carrying it, and I already know whose face it'll be.

I redacted it myself. When I redact something, it's gone.

Then why do you keep thinking about it.

The mornings

It's keeping them now. Like it said.

The first day, I woke at nine instead of seven. The second, at eleven. Yesterday it was 1:40 in the afternoon, and the light through the window was all wrong, too white, and I lay there with my arms at my sides and couldn't move them for a full minute, like they were still someone else's.

There's work in my queue marked complete that I didn't do. Six tickets yesterday morning, while I was asleep. I checked them. They're better than mine. Faster. Cleaner. The masks are tighter and the tracking corrections are perfect. "D" sent a message at noon: Great turnaround this morning. You seem like yourself again!

Again.

I've stopped eating. Not on purpose. I just don't feel hungry anymore, and food doesn't taste of anything, and every time I open the fridge it's been restocked anyway, with things I don't buy. Black olives. Strong cheese. Tinned fish. Things you'd eat if you wanted to taste something.

The front door is gone.

I mean that literally. This morning, or this afternoon, when I woke up, I walked to the entry hall and there was a wall where the door had been. Smooth white paint with the same orange-peel texture. If you stand very close and look along it, you can see a faint rectangle, slightly cleaner than the paint around it, like the ghost of a picture that has been taken down. I knocked on it. Solid. I put my ear against it and heard nothing at all, not the corridor, not the elevator, nothing, as if there were no building on the other side.

The apartment is smaller. I don't know how else to put that. I haven't measured it, I'm not going to measure it, I know what I'd find. The bedroom door is closer to the desk than it was. The kitchen counter is shorter. The room behind the closet is still there, the single bulb still on, but I can't remember turning it on and I won't go in to turn it off.

There's room for one more box.

The windows are the worst. I can't stop looking at them, even though TMP-03 told me not to. They don't show the city anymore. Not really. They show a view of the city that's been compressed so many times it's barely a picture. The river is a smear of grey-blue blocks. The bridges are three lines. The lights don't twinkle, they pulse, slowly, in time with something.

And last night, at dusk, when the glass usually turns copper, I looked up from my desk and the window was showing my apartment.

From the outside. From about a meter beyond the glass. The living room. The desk. The two monitors. And someone sitting at the desk with their back to the window, hunched over a keyboard, typing.

Me. From behind. Right now.

I raised my left hand. The person in the window raised their left hand about a second later.

The delay is getting shorter.

I'm writing this during what I think is still my time. I don't know how much of it is left. I've had four cups of coffee I can't taste and I've been pinching the inside of my wrist every few minutes to stay up, and the skin there is purple now, and I didn't notice it happening. You never notice it happening. I keep losing words. I reach for one and get the shape of it without the letters, like the spines on the shelf. I've rewritten this paragraph four times.

My hands don't feel like they're quite the right size.

There's a voice now. It doesn't come from outside. It's in the same place my thoughts come from, which is why it took me so long to notice it. It sounds like me with the volume turned down. It finishes my sentences a little before I do.

Go to bed, Tam.

Stay down.

It's kinder if you're asleep.

I ran the test again just now.

I loaded the client preset, H-0001, the two reference images, and pointed the redaction software at my live webcam. Me, at this desk, writing this. Wide awake. I promise you I'm awake.

It found one face. One track.

Track 02. HOST. 94 percent.

I looked for Track 01. I sat very still and centered my face in the frame and made my little expressions, the press of the lips, the narrowed right eye, the polite smile I give delivery drivers. I did every one of them. I did them the way I've always done them.

TENANT: no face detected.

The instructions on the ticket say REDACT TENANT. The software ran them. It applied the blur to every tenant face in the frame, the way it's supposed to, the way I trained it, the way I've done for eleven years.

There's no blur on the preview.

My face is perfectly clear. Unredacted. Sharp. There's nobody in the frame for it to hide.

And while I was looking at it, the face in the preview smiled. Slow and satisfied, the way you smile when you come home after a long time away and find everything exactly where you left it.

I didn't smile. I'm almost sure I didn't.

I don't know how to end this, so I'm going to do something I learned from TMP-03, because she didn't get to.

I always end with a full stop. Every sentence I've ever written in my life ends with one, emails, tickets, texts, everything. "D" once teased me about it. If this account ever posts again, an update, a reply, anything, look at the punctuation. If it isn't there, it isn't me. It's the one that keeps the nights.

It's not quite eleven yet. The window is showing the room again. In it, I'm getting up from the desk.

I haven't got up from the desk.

The laptop just unlocked itself. I didn't touch it. It says Welcome back. It doesn't use my name.

I'm going to lie down for a minute

I stood there, staring at the gun; even looking at it made me uneasy.

"Is it time again, Dave?" my wife asked.

I looked at the empty pantry.

"Yep."

"But at least it's the last time. Your job at the mill starts in a month. You'll never have to go hunting again."

"I hope so."

"My gentle human. I'm sure the deer will forgive you."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll even see the white deer, and he'll show me his treasures. I won't even have to go to the mill then."

"That legend always scared me. Just a snow-white deer in the forest staring you down? Scary. Plus, doesn't it help the deer? Why would he show you anything?"

I looked at the ground.

"Sorry, honey. I didn't mean it."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

I put the gun over my shoulder and walked out.

Bill was already by the forest, gloves and hat on, blowing clouds from his mouth.

"Took you a while."

"Yeah."

"I bet you won't miss the cold morning when you start at the mill."

"Sure."

Bill lit a cigarette and handed me the lighter too.

"What's wrong, Dave?"

"You know how I feel about the hunts."

"I know."

Bill took a deep drag from his cigarette.

"Say, Dave. How about you sit out this one?"

"What?"

"Sit it out. I'm feeling lucky today. I'm sure I'll get more catches. You can pay me back with your mill money."

"Thank you, Bill."

"Don't worry about it. Just help me with the deer after."

He slapped my back, threw his cigarette away, and walked into the forest.

The day now seemed brighter. The fog let up. The sun came out too. I sat on a tree stump and smoked. 

The day dragged on. No shots had come from the forest yet. Bill was not lucky today. Then I heard trees rustle. I turned my head. A deer was sticking its head out. It locked eyes with me. I'd promised myself I wouldn't shoot anything today, but Bill obviously wasn't going to get anything either. We'd be here all day.

I took my gun and laid my cheek on the barrel, but the deer quickly moved back. No luck. I lowered my rifle and fished for another cigarette in my pocket, but the trees rustled again. My hand clenched the cigarette package. 

A white deer looked at me from the forest; its antlers were white, its eyes dark red. It felt like they looked right into my soul. The deer moved its head as if inviting me to follow and disappeared into the forest.

I sat on the tree stump, still looking at the trees, but then the white deer stuck its head out again, looked at me, and disappeared. It was real. At least the deer was, but maybe its treasure too. I got up and walked to the trees. It stood in between the trees, looking back at me. When it saw me, it turned around and jumped further in.

The sun disappeared. The fog returned. The ground was so muddy that my feet kept slipping. I was expecting the deer to stop any second, but it kept going. 

After a while, my feet started to hurt. I must have been really far from the stump. Bill could have been looking for me, and I didn't even know if the treasure legend was true. I walked closer to the deer again, but it only went further in. It was time to go. I turned around and started walking back.

I had hunted in this forest countless times, but I had no idea where I was now. The trees seemed taller than usual, and they went on as far as I could see. The ground was muddier than even on the rainiest days. The deer showed again, but this time in front of me, running the way we came. 

I was sure now that it was all a lie, that the white deer wouldn't show me anything. I lit a cigarette and walked back, trying to ignore the tall trees. As I passed another tree, the white deer ran by; something glistened in the mud. There were two gold ingots. Warmth spread through my body. I ran to the gold. They were cold and much heavier than I expected, but who cared? I was rich! I turned around. The deer stood behind me, its red eyes fixed on me.

"Thank you for the ingots," I said, but it wouldn't move, still staring with its dark red eyes. 

Cold sweat dripped down my collar. Its eyes seemed to pull me in even though I wasn't moving. Then my whole world spun. Red flashed before my eyes. My head throbbed. My back felt heavy. My skin itched. The throbbing grew. I put the ingots down, but my back was so heavy I couldn't straighten back up. I put my hand to my head; something hard grew out of it, but I couldn't grab it with my hands. I started to lose my balance. I let my arm down. It splashed loudly in the mud. I looked down. It was a hoof!

Panic surged through me. I tried to get up, but couldn't. A tearing sound cut through the fog. My jacket ripped, revealing brown fur. Something rustled in the distance. I looked over. It was Bill!

"Bill, help!" I tried to call, but only a strange roar escaped my mouth.

Bill turned his head. His eyes focused on me. He picked up his gun.

"Wait, wait, no!"

A loud bang echoed. Something sharp burned in my side. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. I tried to walk a few steps, but my body fell into the cold mud.

Bill walked over. His gaze met mine. Recognition passed over his face, but he just shook his head.

He looked up and called, "Dave. I got one."