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Context: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/127avok/there_was_a_strange_message_in_my_fortune_cookie/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

So I decided to go. I realized that the more time I spent thinking about it, the closer I'd get to talking myself out of it. And that couldn’t happen. Somehow this felt important. Important that I figure it out.

I drove over to the neighborhood and parked on the street opposite the house, in the exact same spot I had as last time. It didn’t take long for the unease to set in, and I tried not to look over at it, even though the burnt wood was always there, creeping into the corner of my vision. Thankfully the street wasn’t as empty as last time. There were a few cars parked in some driveways and even a couple of kids kicking a ball around on one of the lawns.

It took a while for me to settle my nerves, to make a firm commitment to stay there and wait. I'd gotten there an hour early. I suppose it was a way of giving myself an out, a chance to bail at the very last moment.

A few minutes later, I got a call from my sister, asking if I’d be able to drive her somewhere later that week. I agree, and almost in passing mention that I’m about to meet up with dad, as if that could possibly be something that she’d go on and ignore. As far as I was concerned, she didn't talk to him either.

The moment I tell her this, the line goes silent, and I begin to think that she’s hung up on me. But then I look at the screen and the call’s still going.

“Hello?” I ask. “Sarah you there?”

“What do you mean dad’s coming to meet you?” she asked.

I sighed. “Look. It’s a long story. I called him up yesterday and we decided to meet up. He said he’s living close by and that he’ll make the drive over-“

“Close by?” she interrupted, sounding confused. “What are you talking about? Dad moved to Australia. He’s been there for years.”

Now I was the one rendered silent.

“What? How do you know that?” I asked.

She goes on to tell me how she started talking to him again a few years back, a way to reconcile things after the "incident."

I really didn't like the way she'd said it.

“What?" I shook my head. "What incident?"

She goes into another bout of silence, and then after a while says “The house. The fire. You really don’t remember?”

I told her no, I don’t and all of a sudden I start to feel really dizzy. I check the time and it’s twenty minutes before my “dad” is supposed to show up and I feel a pit growing in my stomach. I start to look around and I end up focusing in on the two kids playing in the yard. At first I wasn’t sure why it was so unsettling, but after a while I realized that it was in their movements. Too emotionless, too mechanical. Almost like they were trying to pretend to be natural. They were literally just standing in place, kicking the ball in a straight line back-and-forth, no talking, no laughing, just blank stares.

I suppose the sight of them had put me into a trance or something because when I looked back at the clock, it was 3:01 PM. I checked my phone. The line had been cut and it looked like Sarah had tried calling me back a few times afterwards.

My heart began to beat really fast, and I looked around but there was nobody else that had arrived. I took this as a blessing and started my car and prepared to get the fuck out of dodge when I caught movement coming from the corner of my eye.

Somebody had opened up the front door of the house from the inside. For a moment I sat stunned. I didn’t want to look. I knew that I shouldn’t. But of course I couldn’t stop myself.

Standing in the darkness of the doorway was something tall, something pale and naked. It had skinny limbs and a box-like torso, but its head was too high up to see, blocked out by the doorframe. It stood there for a long time while I tried to find it in me to move. You need to leave, I kept repeating in my head. You need to get the fuck away. Yet I couldn’t. I was basically paralyzed in place.

Eventually the person, or whatever it was, moved. It hunched its head while its shoulders stayed in place and the moment that I saw its hanging, grinning jaw, the mouth filled with long, black teeth, I snapped out of it and put my car into drive and sped away.

After getting home later that day, I considered my options. Of course I could just do nothing, forget it all. Never go back to that house, or hell, even that town, never bring it up to anybody, just cut all ties with the situation as a whole.

But somehow that felt like the wrong move. Just a subtle inkling that if I were to try and ignore it, things would become even worse, that something would go out of its way to pursue me.

I needed to deal with it. But in order to do that, I first needed to understand what the hell this was. I’ve always had this suspicion that there were certain things that my mind had been repressing all these years, and that call with my sister had all but confirmed it.

It made sense. The lapses in memory, the estranged relationship with my dad. I’d never bothered thinking about it before because life had served as a good enough distraction. And maybe that’s exactly what I’d wanted, what I’d been hoping for.

But now it was obvious that the past wasn’t willing to let me go.

I called my sister again and asked for dad’s number. His real number.

As soon as he picked up the phone, I noticed the differences in his voice compared to whoever the hell I’d been talking to earlier. But the fucked up part was that they still sounded somewhat similar, as if the fake had made a concerted effort to study and emulate not only my dad’s voice but his way of speaking.

And he’d almost nailed it. If I hadn't been able to compare it to the real thing within a short amount of time, it probably wouldn't have even registered.

We started off by exchanging awkward pleasantries, but I was eager to get to the bottom of things, to find out the truth behind this “incident.” I’m sure I had forced myself to push it away for good reason, but once again, this had become something that needed to be dealt with.

Once I brought it up, my dad went silent. After a while he sighed.

“You really don’t remember?”

I assured him that no, I did not.

After hesitating for a few moments, he went ahead and laid it all out based on what he knew himself and what he had been told by the police after the fact.

It happened when I was fourteen, one year before starting high school. Dad was working late at his office so I’d been home alone at the time. (Sarah was out on a week-long school camping trip or something). Just as he’s getting ready to leave, he gets a phone call. From the police. The house across from ours had burned down and when the firefighters had gone in to rescue anybody trapped inside, they had found me, and can you guess where?

In the basement, completely passed out and minutes away from being fully engulfed in the flames. There was nobody else in the house. Just me.

Of course dad rushed straight to the hospital and when I came around several hours later, both him and the police were grilling me, asking why I’d gone into the house to begin with.

According to him, my responses had been mostly incoherent, but from what little they could decipher, I’d gone in because I needed to "get to the portal in the basement."

As soon as he said this, my blood ran cold. I listened on.

Apparently, the cops were suspicious of me. Suspect number one, even though there was little supporting evidence of my involvement besides the fact that I was the only one in the house. Eventually they dropped it, boiled it down to some freak accident. The young couple that owned the house were never found and when they asked my dad and the other neighbors where they might be, nobody had a clue. In fact, once they thought about it, they realized that none of them had exchanged more than a few words with these people in any given interaction and nobody knew what they did for a living. A few of them had even said that they’d only ever seen them leave their house late at night and return early the next morning.

The next thing he told me was the part that really freaked me the fuck out.

While I was still in the hospital, the firefighter that had first found me approached my dad and said that he knew for a fact that I couldn’t have been the one that burned the place down. My dad asked him how he could be so sure, and this is what the guy told him:

When he'd seen me in the basement, I wasn't actually alone.

I'd been passed out, and that part was true. But standing at the end of the room were other people. Maybe a dozen of them, all clustered together into a tight crowd. But they weren’t right.

They were too tall, too pale. Their faces too long, their grinning mouths too wide. The most upsetting part was that they were all naked and standing perfectly still within the roaring flames. For a moment, Jake thought that they might have been lifelike statues. He hoped that they were.

He called out to them. “Are you alright?”

They didn’t respond or move at all, so he felt safe enough to walk forward and grab me. But the moment he did, he could see all of their expressions change in unison, the smiles suddenly replaced by looks of sheer malice.

“He said it was the first and only time he’d ever seen pure evil in front of him,” my dad explained. “It was in their eyes. A complete lack of soul.”

Jake then lifted me up and started to carry me away as the smoke began to get suffocating. He thought he saw one of them step forward and that’s when he lost his shit and bolted.

“I’m not sure I believe it,” my dad continued. “But… I don’t know what he’d gain from lying. I really don’t.”

He went on to explain how for the next few days following the incident, I had been borderline catatonic. Wouldn’t speak, would barely eat. The only person that Jake had told that story to was my dad, and even throughout the entire ordeal, he kept it to himself. Because who would believe it?

Right before they began to seriously consider seeking out professional help, I snapped out of it. Just like that. No memory of the incident, but strangely enough I had asked to be sent to live with my Uncle all the way over in a different town. I didn’t tell anybody why, but I had seemed dead set on it.

I never talked to my dad after that. But in all fairness, he hadn’t tried reaching out to me either.

I wasn’t sure what to say or think so I told him goodbye and hung up.

Tall. Pale. Long, hanging grins. The people in the basement remember you.

The more I thought about it, the more I could begin to remember it. The voice luring me in. The stinging heat of the fire. The faces. The strange dancing. The chants.

That purple void in the corner.

I shook my head. Fuck this, I thought. Whatever the hell this was, I wasn’t about to be dragged back into it. I called the police and made an anonymous tip. I told them that I had good reason to suspect that there were a group of people running a meth lab in the basement of a burnt down house a few towns over. I told them that I had good reason to believe that they were armed and violent, to send more than a few cars, maybe even the SWAT.

Then I gave them the address.

And that marked the last of my involvement with this mess. I won’t let them drag me back into it. I won’t bite, no matter what they do. I won’t look at the children playing out in the field below my balcony, the children that were never there before. I won’t answer the calls from unknown numbers. I won’t open the fortune cookies that keep coming for me in the mail.

I won’t let them win.

I have nothing to report to the police, and if my suspicions prove accurate, then confronting him will only make things worse. The only realistic option at this point seems to be a panic attack, so I want to see if anyone else has gone through something similar before I resort to that approach.

The first signs were (relatively) mild. Darren (boyfriend) always seemed to sniff Jordan (son) every time he got near. It didn’t appear to be sexual; he looked more like he was taking in the aroma of wine before sipping. I don’t know if that’s worse than a gasp and a deep shudder. Confronting Darren seemed like the most uncomfortable suggestion imaginable, so I let it go.

I’ve been far more uncomfortable since.

Two days later, we had soup. Jordan always pours more than he eats, so I thought nothing of it when he pushed back his half-empty bowl. I took it as an act of service when Darren said, “don’t worry, I’ll clean the table.” I didn’t realize how much of a relief it was to share housework until I only had to do half of it.

So I gathered the remnants of the dishes and brought them into the kitchen. Clearly, Darren didn’t expect to see me as he poured Jordan’s portion down the front of his shirt.

I pretended that I didn’t see him, and he pretended not to see me slink away.

Last week was the first time I caught Darren with the book. He asked if he could read Jordan a story before bed. It felt odd, because I hardly read to him anymore, but I wanted to believe it would be a chance for positive bonding time. A chill settled over me when Darren closed the door after going into Jordan’s room. Again, it wasn’t overtly inappropriate, but it made me extremely uncomfortable. Most of us actually just roll through unsettling behavior, because we’re hardwired not to rock the boat. Nine times out of ten, I would have swallowed my discomfort – but that tenth time is when my child’s wellbeing is on the line. I hesitated for a few seconds, then opened the door.

I could tell that Darren was irritated by my disruption. He quickly put a small, black book in his pocket. “Never mind, Champ,” he smiled at Jordan. “It’s getting late. I’ll tell you about it some other time.” He got up and walked past me without making eye contact. When we went to bed an hour later, we chatted as normal and pretended the incident never happened.

Things got very strange two days ago. I walked into Jordan’s room to say good night, and was surprised to find the door again shut. Jordan likes to sleep with it open. My stomach turned over as I went inside, knowing who I would see there. Darren was standing over Jordan, offering him a cup.

The look on Jordan’s face told me that he didn’t like what was going on. I approached to get between them and hug my son as Darren withdrew the cup. But he wasn’t quick enough to take one other item off the nightstand before I saw it.

It was a syringe half-filled with blood.

I wrapped my arms around Jordan as Darren grabbed the syringe and left the room. When I went back into the hallway, I discovered that he had gone home.

I didn’t see him most of the next day. I didn’t reach out to him.

Then he called me. I hesitated, but picked up on the fourth ring. “I’d like to come over tonight, stay by your side, and talk about it in the morning,” he offered by way of greeting.

I opened my mouth to say ‘no,’ but a voice in the back of my head told me that it would be worse if I upset him. I convinced myself that Jordan would be better off if I knew where Darren was all night.

He came over, and true to his word, stayed away from Jordan and just curled up next to me in bed. It almost felt normal again. I almost convinced myself that I had been overreacting.

Almost.

I told myself that I could stay up all night, that I would know exactly where Darren was as long as he had his arm wrapped around me. Losing one night’s sleep was an easy price to pay. I felt awake and alert.

I looked down to see that Darren’s arm was gone. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep. I was out of bed and on my feet before making the conscious decision to move. Darting as quickly as I could to Jordan’s room without making a noise, I paused with my fingertips on the knob, tense about what I might find inside, wanting and not wanting to open it all at once.

I turned and pushed it open.

I sighed with relief when I saw Jordan by himself on his bed.

My breath stopped when I noticed Darren asleep on the floor. He was curled up by the nightlight.

I took three silent steps toward them, pausing as I decided what to do next.

I didn’t want to wake Jordan, and really wanted to keep Darren undisturbed.

Suddenly, an object on the floor by the light caught my eye.

It was that little black book he’d been hiding from me earlier.

I hadn’t realized just how much my hands were shaking until I lifted it. I read the first page.

It was all gibberish. I took Mandarin and Arabic in college, and I can sound out most Russian words. This language didn’t look like any of that. Flipping through, I could see that the entire thing was written this way – hundreds of pages containing thousands of words. The symbols repeated often enough so that it was clear this was some sort of internally consistent code that made sense to Darren. Fingers trembling in the dim nightlight, I silently prayed that Darren wouldn’t wake up as I turned to the final pages. I had to see if any part of it was readable, but couldn’t risk leaving the room in search of better lighting while Darren stayed behind with Jordan.

The last page was different. It looked like a series of interconnecting lines that seemed vaguely familiar. I flipped it upside down.

And then I understood.

The numbers “1913” were written at the meeting of two lines.

That’s my house number.

I was looking at a crude map. Our home was in the center of it.

I flipped the book around again and looked at the cover. It had no title; instead, it was embossed with a symbol that I don’t know the meaning of, but have seen before. It looks like this.

I picked up Jordan (fortunately he sleeps like a log) and hefted him over Darren, who I left sleeping on the floor. I brought Jordan into my room, closed my bedroom door (it doesn’t lock) and put him into bed with me. I’m writing this now.

If Darren is capable of aggression (I don’t know if he is), then confronting him is the last thing I want to do. I don’t have any family or close friends in town; I know we could stay in a motel, but then what? We’ll eventually have to come back and face Darren.

Is this all in my head? Has anyone faced something like this before, or does someone recognize this behavior? Am I overreacting? Any (immediate) advice would be appreciated.

---

FB.

BD

W

E

My name is Rory and I run an animal shelter in Southern England. From the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep (and sometimes even after I fall asleep) I’m tending to my residents. My associates don’t call me Dr Dooalot for nothing, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I specialise in and have the facilities for animals of the exotic variety. You won’t find domesticated cats and dogs at my shelter, which is on the grounds of my home in the countryside. Well, that’s not entirely the truth because I have a pet Jack Russell, Jackie O (sorry not sorry). But other than Jackie O you’ll only find creatures such as reptiles and arachnids, some bird and aquatic species, and a few mammals.

They tend to fall under three categories: They are illegal to keep in the UK, the previous owners didn’t have the necessary licences to keep them, or the previous owners couldn’t adequately care for them.

Among my current residents I have various spiders, a copperhead, two meerkats, a lemur, and a fennec fox! I keep them during the transition period. They mostly end up in zoos around the country, but sometimes they are released back into their natural habitats and that brings me so much joy. In some cases the animals will spend the rest of their lives with me, and so I make it as comfortable as possible for them.

Before I get to the point I’ll just get on my soapbox for a moment. Please think long and hard before you choose to keep an exotic pet. The vast majority of owners don’t have the education or facilities to keep these creatures and that breaks my heart.

Okay, I’m done. Let me tell you about Bertie.

Bertie is a beautiful blue-and-yellow macaw who came to my shelter two months ago. I have an amazing indoor/outdoor aviary on my grounds which is suitable for a range of bird species. The only other bird I had at the time was a sun conure, otherwise known as a sun parakeet.

Bertie’s story was he’d been with a single lady owner for the past two years, but she tragically died while he was in her care. She was a reclusive person and her death was only discovered due to her neighbours complaining about loud noises and a vile smell. Her body was in the stages of decomposition when the authorities intervened. Nasty stuff. It’s said that Bertie, who had been enclosed in a 5x3x2 ft cage, was crying for help when the authorities arrived.

When I acquired Bertie he was malnourished, the poor little guy (well, not so little standing at around 2 ft). I introduced him to my sun conure and observed them for several hours. I assumed that neither of them had much, if any interaction with other birds so I was concerned they might not get along. When all looked fine I made myself scarce, returning to find them sharing the fruit and veg bowl harmoniously. That was a relief.

Jackie O is well behaved around the animals despite Jack Russells having a tendency to be feisty and vocal. She’s a diamond and I trust she would never attack or make a meal out of my exotic guests. One odd thing I noticed was she seemed to have a fascination with Bertie. It’s something I’d not witnessed before to that extent. She’s a curious dog by nature, but she’d sit outside the aviary and just stare at Bertie for hours. I wondered if it was his striking colourful feathers that she was drawn to. But then one morning as I looked out of my kitchen window that overlooks the grounds, she appeared to be howling at the aviary.

I went outside and quietly walked to the aviary to listen. I heard it as clear as day.

“Jackie O, Jackie O.”

Bertie was talking to my dog! He’d not said a word since I’d had him, at least not to me. He must have heard me talking to her. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. Jackie O ‘talked’ back by making a series of low howls and quiet barks. It was so cute!

“Are you making friends, girl?” I said as I approached them. She turned back to look at me briefly, then continued to stare up at Bertie.

“You’ve been hiding that voice, Bertie,” I said as I reached the aviary. “Clever boy!”

“Jackie O, Jackie O,” he continued.

“Yes, this is Jackie O and I’m Rory. Can you say Rory? Roar-ree.”

Bertie looked at me curiously, turning his head from side to side.

“Jackie O, Jackie O.”

I laughed to myself, then Jackie O started to whine a little.

“What’s the matter girl?” I asked, bending down to pat her. She put her paw on my knee and continued to whine as Bertie kept repeating her name. But as I paid more attention it sounded like there was more to it.

“Jackie O no, Jackie O no.”

The next morning Jackie O didn’t get out of her bed. She laid on her side and gently whined. It was so out of character for her that I didn’t hesitate. I picked her up and drove straight to the vet.

“I’m terribly sorry sir… brain tumour… small chance of survival…”

The cost and risk didn’t matter, I’d have gone bankrupt if it meant she’d be cured. So she stayed with the vet and I drove home alone, praying for a miracle. I was devastated. On top of that I was freaking out about Bertie. Was it what I feared - a premonition about something bad happening to my dog - or was I being paranoid?

I quietly observed Bertie as I sat outside the aviary. He looked at me curiously as I cried silently, then he climbed onto the frame of the cage. He pushed his beak through and I gave him a little smile, gently scratching his head.

He didn’t speak again until a few days later. I was cleaning inside the aviary and spent a little time socialising with the birds. They were tame enough and happy to be handled. Bertie perched on my arm and lowered his head to my hand, then gently nipped my finger with his beak. It didn’t hurt at all and came across as playful more than anything.

“Bite, bite,” he said. It made me laugh.

“Yes, that’s right Bertie. Bite. But don’t bite me too hard will you?”

He nipped me a few more times repeating “bite, bite,” over and over until I put him back on a branch.

“You’re a funny boy,” I said as I left him to it. But that night something happened that when I remembered the earlier encounter with Bertie, it sent a shiver down my spine.

I was watching TV and felt something tickle my foot as I sat on the sofa, followed by a painful sting. When I recoiled and looked down I saw a large spider disappear under the sofa. It was a Chilean rose tarantula, one of which I happened to have in one of my vivariums. The two small puncture wounds on the top of my foot were sore and red around the edges.

Fortunately these bites are only dangerous to humans who have an allergic reaction to them, so I was fine. I caught the little bugger and put it back in its tank. It wasn’t until I began cleaning the wounds that I heard Bertie warning of a bite.

From that moment I was a little cautious when around Bertie. My good girl Jackie O and the bite could have been coincidences but it was worrying. I kept our interactions brief in fear he’d start talking again, and I didn’t want to hear anything else that spooked me.

The good news was that Jackie O had survived the operation. Whether it put 3 years or 3 months on her life expectancy it was a blessing. She spent her recovery time with my parents as they could care for her around the clock. I visited whenever I could for cuddles.

Some days passed. By that point my sun conure had found a forever home, a bird sanctuary up north took her in. It was a relief because I did worry about Bertie’s strange behaviour affecting her. As I was tending to the grounds I could hear Bertie squawking about something. It sounded like he was calling my name!

“Rory, Rory…”

I smiled to myself and went to investigate. He’d not said my name yet despite me trying to teach it to him.

“Bertie, did you say my name?” I asked as I approached the aviary.

“Rory, Rory,” he repeated, his wings flapping.

“I’m here Bertie! What’s up?”

“Shut your mouth, shut your mouth,” he started to repeat.

My jaw dropped but I couldn’t help but chuckle a little. “Bertie, that’s rude! Surely you didn't call me over here just to tell me to shut up?”

“Nora, shut your mouth, help, shut your mouth, bye bye, Nora…”

“Are you saying Nora?” I asked.

“Nora, help, run, run…”

He was severely agitated so I stepped inside and gently stroked his back to calm him down. The reality is I could have done with someone to calm me down too. It left me a little shaken up.

Later that day as I was eating lunch I kept thinking about the troubling incident. He was definitely saying Nora, and I wondered why that name sounded familiar. I looked through my files and found the documents I’d received when I took Bertie on.

‘Bertie’, blue-and-gold macaw.

Estimated age: 19 years

Known ownership history:

Jonathan and Lori Swift, Weymouth

Sonia Jones, Bangor

Rohan Singh, Ealing

Nora Craig, Ipswich

As soon as I saw that name I remembered. He’d been with a single lady owner for two years, Nora Craig. She’d been found dead in her flat and Bertie had been calling for help when her body was discovered. I thought poor Bertie must have been having PTSD over the horrid experience.

Something that was also worrying was the amount of previous owners he’d had, and those were just the known ones. I did a little research, as much as Google would allow. I’m no detective! But I was curious if there was any information about the others.

I typed in jonathan lori swift weymouth and nothing significant came up. I tried the same thing with sonia jones bangor and rohan singh ealing. There were far too many results as expected.

I went back and tried jonathan lori swift weymouth parrot. After browsing several pages I found something promising. It was a local classified ad dated January 2011.

Home wanted for tame, intelligent parrot.

Bertie is a majestic blue gold macaw that my husband John and I shared our home with for three years. My husband recently passed due to a tragic accident and I no longer feel I can offer Bertie the care and attention he needs. Bertie is very sociable and requires mental stimulation for his well-being. Ideally you will have experience with this species. Please contact me at [REDACTED] if you can offer Bertie a good home. Lori Swift, Weymouth.

My heart broke for that woman and I hoped she was doing well these days.

I tried the same search with the other names. Nothing of note came up for Sonia Jones but a search for rohan singh ealing parrot yielded something interesting. It was an article on an online publication I wasn’t familiar with.

Mystery of missing traveller continues.

Do you remember the story of missing London man Rohan Singh? No? You’re not alone!

In 2018, paramedic Rohan Singh took a two month sabbatical to travel solo around Nepal and China. His family said it had been a dream of his since childhood. Rohan’s only dependent was an exotic parrot which he left in the care of his brother for the duration of his travels.

Rohan never returned home. His mother was the last person to have contact with him a week before he was due to...

These mystery cases always leave me feeling unsettled. Regardless of what happened to that man, poor Bertie’s history wasn’t looking good. He needed a forever home. Macaws can live to around 50 years and that’s a lot of potential future owners. I decided I wouldn’t let that happen; his forever home would be with me and Jackie O when she was well enough to return.

I purchased a large cage and had it installed in my living area. Moving him into the house made me feel better, and it seemed to ease Bertie too. His cage was his safe haven, but I opened the cage door every morning so he had free reign of the house while I was up and around. I also took him outside and let him fly free. My heart was in my throat the first time, I had no idea if he’d come back or fly away! But he came back after flying a lap around the grounds, landing on my hand when he returned.

Things were good for a week or so.

I woke up at ridiculous o’clock. It was just past 1am and that was unusual for me. My days are pretty active and I tend to sleep like a log once my head hits the pillow.

“Rory,” I heard a familiar voice say. I jumped out of my skin! I saw the outline of Bertie at the end of my bed. I must have left his cage open.

“You scared me Bertie,” I laughed, switching on the bedside lamp. He started walking up my bed until he was by my side.

“I love you too but you can’t sleep here. What if I roll over and squish you?”

He cocked his head at me as his pupils dilated, then he gripped my wrist with a claw. I yelled out in pain before something terrifying happened.

I saw things…

A tractor on its side on a country road, a smoking car mangled around a tree…

A hospital room, a bedridden woman smiles as a child hands her a drawing of a colourful bird…

An arm protruding from a pile of rocks is buried as more rocks fall from a steep cliff…

Then I was in a cage.

I’m looking through the silver bars. A middle-aged woman walks into the room wearing a dressing gown, drying her hair with a towel.

“Nora,” I say. “Nora, run!”

She turns and smiles at me. “That’s right Bertie, mummy just went for a run. Clever boy!”

“Run, Nora!”

She laughs. “I’ll run again tomorrow! I’m relaxing now Bertie.”

There’s a knock at the door. The woman leaves the room.

“Get out!” she shouts.

Then a man’s voice. “You fucking bitch!”

The woman runs into the room and picks up a fire poker. A man runs in behind her and forces it from her hands. He’s dressed in dark clothing wearing gloves and a hat.

“Let me go!” she screams. He pushes her to the floor, his hands around her neck.

“Nora, run, help!” I yell over and over.

“Shut your mouth!” the man roars at me. “Shut your fucking mouth bird!”

Before long the woman’s body is still. The man approaches the cage.

“Bye bye birdy,” he sneers. He opens the cage and reaches inside. I lash out with a claw.

“Keep the fucking noise down!” someone yells, then there are bangs on the wall. The man runs from the room.

The woman never gets up. I cry her name and cry for help. Over time her body becomes bloated and discoloured…

Then I was in familiar surroundings. What I call my jungle room, where I keep my creepy crawlies. It’s warm and humid, the perfect environment for them. But I’m in danger, I can feel it. Something is pressed against my head.

There’s an explosion of sound…

When I was back in my room I was screaming out loud.

It took me a moment to come to my senses, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. Bertie was looking up at me. A small trickle of blood ran down my wrist and my face was damp with sweat.

There came a loud noise from the back of my home, then the mammals in my care started to become vocal. I ran to the window and looked outside. Several security lights had come on. The shadow of a tall figure was stretched across the grounds, moving towards the house.

I heard a smash from downstairs.

I turned to Bertie, my eyes wide and my hands shaking. He stood on my bed looking at me, his wings outstretched.

“Rory, run!”

I froze to the spot for longer than I should have in that situation, only snapping out of it by Bertie’s continued cry. He flew at me and I ran out of the bedroom, stopping on my landing to listen. There was someone snooping around my house.

“Oh my God,” I whispered to myself like a mantra. It sounded like they were in the kitchen at that moment. Bertie landed on the bannister, looking down the stairs. He started nodding his head, then looked at me.

“What,” I whispered. “You want me to go downstairs?”

He kept nodding his head at me.

“Are you crazy?”

He jumped down and glided to the bottom of the staircase.

“Bertie!” I said as quietly as possible, but he just cocked his head and walked out of sight.

I stayed close to the wall and slowly walked down the stairs, taking deep breaths. When I got to the bottom I could see my backdoor was open. Bertie hopped out and I listened out for the intruder before tiptoeing after him. It was cold. I was barefoot and only wearing a t-shirt and boxers!

Bertie was walking towards the jungle room, which is within a small independent building on my grounds. When he got to the door he stopped and turned to look at me, then he opened his wings. I had a flashback to what I’d seen earlier, to what he’d shown me.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, looking over my shoulder. He squawked at me and I put a finger to my lips. “Okay, fine!”

I opened the door and Bertie hopped in. I followed him after making sure the coast was clear. It’s like stepping into the Amazon, hence my nickname for it. It’s filled with various plantlife and wall to wall vivariums containing all kinds of creatures, but mostly reptiles and spiders. The lighting is low, and it’s kept at a constant temperature of 25°C with moderate humidity. I took a moment to appreciate the warmth.

Bertie flew up and perched on a plant. There was only one way in and out of the jungle room.

“What now,” I said. “We just wait it out here?”

I heard a click from behind me and my stomach dropped.

“Raise your hands and turn around,” came a voice. “Slowly.”

My heart began to palpitate as I followed the instruction. My hands shook above my head as I met the eyes of a strange man standing before me. He was pointing a gun.

“You must be the animal man,” he said. “Don’t mind me, I’m just here to take some off your hands.”

“Wha… What?” I said.

“Some of these critters fetch a fair price to the right buyer, did you know that?”

I shook my head. “Please sir, don’t take the animals. They’re very special, they need proper care. They’re not supposed to be pets.”

He started to laugh. “Boo-hoo! Do you think I give a fuck about that?”

“I have money,” I said. “And some belongings that might be worth something. You’re welcome to them. Please, just leave the animals.”

“Oh yeah?” he said. “And where might I find these things?”

“I’ll get them for you,” I said, lowering my hands.

“Uh-uh!” he snapped. “No way, get on your knees.”

“What?”

“Get on your fucking knees!”

I started to panic as I fell to my knees. The man pressed the gun against my head.

“Oh God,” I said, my whole body shaking. “Please don’t do this.”

“Where's the money?”

“There’s some in my wallet,” I stuttered. “By the front door. And upstairs in my bedroom closet, in a box on the top shelf.”

“Money laundering, huh?” he laughed. “Great, thanks. I’ll have a look once these furballs are in my van.”

He cocked the gun and I closed my eyes.

“Don’t do this,” I pleaded.

There came an explosion of sound and my ears rang. When I opened my eyes Bertie was clawing at the man’s hand as he tried to shake him off. Without thinking I leapt forward and knocked him down, the gun going off again. I heard something smash on the other side of the jungle room.

Bertie flew somewhere behind us as I tried to hold the man down, but that was silly. I’ve never had to defend myself and I was pinned within seconds.

“Dumb fucking bird!” he snarled, pointing the gun across the room.

“No!” I screamed, grabbing his arm with both hands. I pushed it to the floor with all I had and the gun slid away from us. I was disoriented as his fist met the side of my face, then his hands were around my neck.

“All over some fucking animals?” he spat. His face was screwed up into a hateful expression as I tried to free myself from his grip. He applied pressure and couldn’t breathe, my windpipe felt like it was being crushed.

From the corner of my eye I saw Bertie’s bright blue and yellow feathers getting closer, and I quietly appreciated his attempts at playing the hero.

Tears streamed down my face as my eyes fell on Bertie. But he wasn’t alone. Just in front of him was another small creature, one that Bertie was nudging towards us with his beak.

It was the inland taipan.

Why anyone would think it's a good idea to keep a deadly snake as a pet is beyond me, but in the moment I thanked that stupid person who attempted such a thing.

As soon as the man noticed the snake he freaked out, but I’m not sure if he realised just how dangerous it was. His eyes widened as he let me go and threw his arms out, but the snake was quick. It took a jab at the soft flesh of his neck, and then one on his hand for good measure.

I brought my body into the foetal position as it slithered past me, not wanting to risk a bite myself. Then it disappeared into the plants somewhere.

Bertie brushed against me as I caught my breath. Looking across the room I could see the snake’s tank had shattered. What are the chances the bullet hit the one tank containing a creature capable of certain death?

As I picked up Bertie and stood up on wobbly legs the man was in the stages of a total body shut down. He was convulsing and vomiting when I left the jungle room, a real nasty way to go. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Poor Bertie has had a rough go of it in life, but I hope we can be the forever home he deserves. Don’t get me wrong; I’m terrified about what he might say or do next, but I guess a heart-stopping warning is better than none at all.

dd

DB

What do you want for dinner?

I rolled my eyes as I pushed the button on the side of my phone, hearing the familiar ‘click’ as the screen locked.

‘Why do you even ask?’, I sighed, turning onto our lane after a long day at work. I knew damn well he already planned what we’d have for dinner; cheeseburgers.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love a burger as much as the next guy. But seven months. It’s been seven months of burgers for lunch and dinner (and I’ll even hear him banging around the kitchen for another fixing in the middle of the night).

Plus, he’s changed. Part of what made me fall in love with him was our shared passion for cooking; his seasonings were all from scratch, meticulously thought out and perfected. His eyes would light up, gorgeous blue and radiant when he’d excitedly discuss how he wanted to garden together, grow our own basil and jalapeños. My chili won awards, thanks to his tips. Grocery shopping was no longer a chore, but something to look forward to. Ever since he started cooking the burgers, the light in his eyes seems… dim, if that makes sense? The muscles in his face contort to make the appearance of happiness, but his eyes became void of emotion, like he’s looking past me.

I won’t always eat the burgers. In fact, I usually don’t anymore, but it took me a while to work out my own food schedule as to not hurt his feelings. It doesn’t matter what my response is, whether I say “no thanks”, suggest a restaurant or some pasta, he’ll always cook an additional burger intended for me. I’m not sure if it was the forcing down burgers for three months straight, gaining twenty-three pounds, or when the additional breakfast burger was introduced that made me put my foot down, but I did and that was that.

Except my burgers became HIS burgers. He had a strange routine of eating his burger in the other room before bringing mine, decked out with the works on a platter and with a huge smile he’d say, “Iiiiit’s burger time, baby!”.

“I’m all set babe.” I shuffled past him, feeling a sense of guilt creep in; I couldn’t help it. He looked so cute in his apron, the platter laid out before me like I was his burger queen.

“You don’t want it?” He asked, still smiling that wide grin.

“No thanks, I really can’t eat any more burgers, at least for a while. I’m sorry though, it looks incredible!”

“Oh. Well, ok then, sit down and enjoy your show!” Though his eyes seemed vacant, his smile somehow brightened even further as he retreated back into the kitchen.

I sat down and scrolled through Tubi for a few minutes when I heard it; a sizzling. A loud buzz that I almost mistook for a cicada before I realized it was the sound of meat cooking on the grill.

‘Is he cooking another fuckin’ burger?!’ I stood up in disbelief. How was he still hungry, is he deficient in something? There’s no way this is healthy and it isn’t the first time I’ve been worried for him; he’d been to the doctor after I scheduled an appointment and begged, yet all the tests came back inconclusive and everything had been normal. There had to have been some kind of misteak.

This has gone well beyond respecting what he likes, and I love him. If any harm were to come to him, I’d never forgive myself for not stepping in. I got up, heading towards the deep fried smell and sounds of scraping to discuss getting a second opinion.

I swung the saddle door open and started to step into the kitchen, slipping on something and landing sideways onto our black and white checkerboard floor. My hand slid through a thick layer of grease as I tried to steady myself up.

“What is all this shit?”

”IIIIIIIT’S BURGER TIME, BABY!”

The thick, guttural Tom Waits-esque voice startled me so much I jumped. I looked at what was once my husband and gasped; his previously tan and calloused hands were now blotchy with dark brown and black, almost charred in some places. My gaze moved up his beefy arm, oozing grease and making a sloshy wet sound as he raised a spatula and pointed it at me.

”ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR BURGER?” It spat out, grinning a smile of chopped onions ringed with tomato lips. His cheese shirt dripped to the floor, his lettuce pants glistened with water. ”YOU GOTTA TRY THIS ONE, BABE.”

He winked at me with one pickle eye and his bun hat tipped to the side, a sesame seed falling off in the process. He turned to the griddle where a skinned human hand lay sizzling.

I scrambled up and into our bedroom, locking the door behind me. He didn’t chase me. He’s still down there cooking burgers, singing some song by Blaze Foley.

So much is going through my mind right now.., was that HIS hand on the griddle?! I thought about calling the police, but even if they believed me, they’ll probably try to do some whacky experiments on him. Or maybe even both of us. Who should I call? Where should I go? Please, if anyone is reading this, how can I help my cheeseburger husband?

I just started work a few weeks ago as a custodian in Denver International Airport. Even before starting work, I had heard the legends and strange stories about the place. Caverns under the airport for the government to use during doomsday, secret Illuminati references in the airport murals, and the terrifying horse statue outside the airport that fell on and killed its sculptor. To be honest, I didn't think much of all these stories. I thought it was just like any other airport. I know better now.

Last night I was working on mopping up all the muck on the concourse B train platform, glad that this was my last task for the day before getting to head home. Looking at the clean platform with exhausted pride, I took my cleaning cart and rolled it towards the custodial closet, opening it with my key. Not wanting to get yelled at on Monday, I checked all of the cleaning supplies on the cart and made sure the mop was fully dry. I smiled, happy with my work, and turned around to catch one of the airport trains to the terminal.

That was when I first noticed that I was alone on the platform. It was the evening, but usually at this time on a Friday there was a lot of hustle and bustle as people flew back into Denver from work trips, or flew out for vacations. I didn't think too much of it though, and just assumed I was lucky to hit a lull. I leaned against the wall next to the side of the platform for trains heading back to the terminal, and started imagining what I'd buy from King Soopers for dinner.

The train arrived with a hiss and the doors opened. I hopped into one of the cars, noting that it too was entirely empty. The whole train was as a matter of fact. The doors shut with a hiss, and I heard the train start moving. I sat and closed my eyes to have a few minutes of peace before I had to deal with the crowd in the terminal and the shuttle back to Arvada.

When the train hissed to a stop again, I opened my eyes to find that we were not at the terminal, but at a train platform I had never seen before. I looked outside as the doors opened, and saw a sign labeled "Maintenance". I assumed I had boarded a train that was being taken out of service by mistake. I sighed and I got off the train, hoping to find a back way to the terminal

A man in a jumpsuit came out of a door on the platform and froze as he saw me. "You're not supposed to be here," he said softly.

I nodded and smiled sheepishly "Yeah - I work in custodial," I flashed him my employee badge. "I was trying to get to the terminal and hopped on this train by mistake. Can you help me out?"

He nodded. "Sure, it happens all the time when we take trains down for maintenance. Just through that door and follow the line on the floor and you'll end up in the terminal," he smiled. "And don't worry, I won't mention it to anyone, we all get turned around at some point."

I thanked him and went through the door. On the other side there was a corridor that had red, green, and yellow lines on the floor, all branching out from the door. On the ceiling was a sign with what color you should take to reach each destination. After reading the sign, I took the red line for the terminal and followed it around a corner.

As I walked the empty hallways, I started to feel uneasy. The corridors were spotless, but none of my co-workers had ever talked about cleaning down here. I tried to calm my fears by reminding myself that I was new and still didn't know the entire airport, but no matter how much I tried to comfort myself I just couldn't shake the creeping feeling.

At the end of the red line I found a door, but it was labeled "Maintenance Office" not "Terminal". I looked up at another sign, and realized I had misread. The terminal was at the end of the green line, not the red one. I groaned. Not really wanting to walk back the entire way I had come, I decided to hell with it, I'd just see if anyone in the office could help.

I knocked, but no one answered, so I opened the door.

The room seemed to be set up like some kind of control room, with monitors and computers everywhere. On some of the monitors I saw video feeds from the various train platforms, and on others diagrams that looked like blueprints of some kind.

As I kept looking, I gulped. On one of the monitors was a still photo of me from the train platform along with my personnel file.

This should have scared me, but before I could think about it too much, I became preoccupied with what I found on the last monitor's video feed. The feed showed a large room with a green line leading from the door up to a strange looking chair suspended from the ceiling, with what appeared to be a giant covered manhole underneath it. Two men in jumpsuits were on each side of the door, while a man in a suit stood next to the chair.

My blood ran cold as I realized that if I had followed the instructions correctly, I would have ended up in that room.

I should have ran, but instead I just froze in fear, my heart pounding in my chest. I was roused when I saw the door on the screen open, and a man with a roller bag entered the door. He seemed confused about where he was, but before he could react one of the men by the door shoved a taser into his side.

The traveler collapsed to the floor, and they carried him to the chair, strapping him into restraints as he tried to struggle. One of them opened the manhole, and an unnatural purple glow radiated out from the opening. I could see the captive man's eyes fill with terror as he looked down. The man in a suit pressed some buttons on the wall, and the suspension cables above the chair began to lower it into the hole.

I stared, entranced and horrified. I could see the empty chair coming back up from the manhole when the maintenance worker I met on the train platform came into the large room. He looked angry, and began shouting at the others. After a few moments, everyone except the suited man ran out of the room, and I knew I had to get out of there.

I stepped out the door and back into the corridors. I could hear footfalls and muffled voices echoing down the halls. I didn't have much time, and I had no idea where I was or how to get out. I figured my best bet was to follow the yellow line and hope that wherever it would take me would be somewhere I could hide.

I ran as quickly as I could down the hallway following the yellow line. I felt my lungs burning, but I kept up my pace. I could hear the footfalls and voices growing louder behind me. I didn't know what my fate would be if they caught me, but I knew it involved whatever was under that manhole.

The yellow path ended at a door labeled "Machine Room - No Exit". I turned the handle, only to find it locked. I rammed my body into it, and it shook some, but didn't open. The footfalls were louder now, I guessed only just around the corner. I kicked the door in desperation, and it burst open into a hallway near one of the bathrooms in the Terminal.

I ran out into the terminal, and did my best to blend in with the evening travelers. I hazarded a glance behind me, and saw three of the men in jumpsuits looking around the terminal.

I tried to stay inconspicuous and waited until I was out one of the exits before I ran towards the bus stop, and joined the line to get on it.

As I sat down on the bus, a traveler with a roller bag bumped into me and sat down next to me. He smiled at me. "Sorry about that, “ he said, “I'm just so grateful to be out of the airport, it felt like I’d be there forever."

I glanced out the bus window and found one of my pursuers staring at me as the bus drove away. I smiled at the man sitting next to me. "Me too."

It was left at his doorstep three weeks ago, in what might’ve been the sketchiest package delivery I’ve ever seen. 

I imagine that the pair of lanky, neckbeard-sporting gentlemen nearly fractured their spines in the process of unloading the thing from their van. Ignoring the dolly, they opted to instead distribute its weight amongst themselves. They each clung to a side of the massive box and awkwardly shuffled across my neighbor's yard. 

By the way their knees buckled with each step, I picked the mystery item for a refrigerator.  Then again, I’d never known refrigerators to arrive encased in bright pink wrapping paper.

Before I continue, it’s important to note that my neighbor, Chance Wilkins, is mentally handicapped. He hadn’t always been that way, though. His mother, Sally, who owns the house, had shared a bit of information with me regarding his accident. 

 Years earlier, he had been run off the road by an absent-minded semi driver. He careened into a concrete toll booth at seventy miles per hour, crushing him within an inch of his life. Since the accident, Chance has undergone a dozen surgeries. Everything from reconstructive procedures to an emergency craniectomy as the result of a traumatic brain injury. Though he was able to understand everything that was said to him, he could no longer speak for himself.  He would carry a dry erase board with him wherever he went. That way, he could easily and effectively communicate with anybody that he needed to. 

Recently, his mother's health had taken a turn for the worse. Alzheimer's disease. It was decided that she would be relocated to a nursing home, and that Chance would try his hand at living independently. For the past few months now, that has been the case. 

Living alone didn’t become an issue until about a week after Sally’s departure. I’d witnessed many of Chance's tantrums, but never to the extent that they ultimately got to. My bedroom window is no more than ten feet from his house, so I practically lived there with him. And I could hear fucking everything. Night after night, I’d be awoken by shrill screams, shattering glass, and slamming doors. 

Thanks to the anonymity that Reddit offers, I can admit that I’m no angel, and that I wanted to knock on his door and politely ask him to cut the shit. I’ve got a full-time job that requires me to wake up no later than five in the morning and I cannot stand being deprived of my sleep.

However, I was warned by neighbors not to engage him when he gets that way, as it could lead to further issues. And as you can imagine, filing a noise complaint on a handicapped person is never a good look. The truth is, I don’t know what prompted Chance to act out. All that I know is that his tantrums seemed to temporarily cease upon the package's arrival. I’ve never been one to argue with a good thing, but I was damn curious about whatever the hell was in that box. 

A few days later, as I was pulling into my driveway after work, I caught him just before he retreated indoors. My curiosity got the better of me. I cranked down the window of my shitty Ford Focus, and called out to him. 

“Mr. Wilkins, the man of the hour!” I shouted.

“How are you doing today, man?”

He turned to face me.  He was positively beaming. In all my years on Lloyd Street, and all my years of knowing Chance, I had never seen him smile so sincerely. 

I smiled back at him.

“That's what I like to see! What's got you so happy, Chance?”

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a marker. 

He scrawled away on his dry erase board for a while before turning it in my direction.

                               I have been missing something for a very long time.

I didn’t know what he meant by this, nor did I have opportunity to inquire further. Without falter in his smile, he waved to me, spun on his heels, and walked inside. 

I laughed to myself, as this interaction had turned out to be the most pleasant one I’d ever had with him. After all, a happy Chance leads to bountiful rest.

I slept soundly for the next week or sountil the music began. 

I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating. My AC is broken. It’s on a timer and only spits out hot air most of the time. Annoyed, I reached over and opened my window. 

I only noticed it as I was about to drift off again. From the direction of the Wilkins home, It sounded like somebody was playing a piano. 

I looked at the clock. 

2:58

Wonderful. 

Chance had decided that three in the morning was the ideal time to get musical.  I turned red. I was so aggravated that I bolted upright and leapt from the bed to grab my shoes. 

As I put my jacket on, I noticed something that I hadn’t before. The Wilkins’ living room light was on. 

I walked to the window and peered out, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever the hell he was getting up to in there. Through it, I could see the piano. My window is so close to their home that I could see the keys bouncing up and down on their own. Sally had mentioned owning a piano that reads sheet music, so I ruled any poltergeist activity out of the equation. Chance would have to answer for this himself. 

Suddenly, he entered the living room. I noticed his dog walking sheepishly beside him. Its eyes were transfixed on a couch which faced my opposite. Much like my recent interaction with Chance, he looked cheery. He was smiling, even doing his best to dance to the music. 

I sighed audibly, I’m sure. 

Who would I be to interfere with such joy? Especially to a man who has been denied so much of it. I reassessed. 

And then Chance did something that made me freeze. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a marker.

He walked to his dresser, retrieved his dry erase board, and he began writing.

I ducked faster than I knew I could move.

Had I been spotted?

I had that roller coaster feeling in my stomach. The feeling a person gets when they’re caught in a lie. 

I slowly inched my way back up the wall and peered out the window once more. Chance’s dry erase board had turned to face me.

          I love you

A strange feeling came over me.

Fortunately, Chance's gaze seemed to focus not on me, but on the couch. 

There was somebody in that house with him. I returned my attention to the dog, who hadn’t moved a muscle. Her tail was tucked between her legs, and though she kept her head down, she refused to take her eyes off of the couch for a second. Certainly this person was unfamiliar?

I looked to the driveway, which remained empty. I had been home all weekend and failed to notice anybody other than Chance enter the house. 

I took my shoes and jacket off and got back into bed.

As I stared at my ceiling, I thought about how none of this would be so strange if Chance wasn’t such a hermit. I had never seen him socialize with anybody outside of his immediate family. Regardless, he looked happy. 

That night, I drifted asleep to the sound of Chance's laughter, which at the time, reaffirmed that I had made the right decision.

I was awoken again. This time by a crashing noise.

I looked at the clock.

It was four in the morning. 

I heard the noise again, louder this time. 

An odd, mechanical whirr droned from within.

Chance began yelling unintelligibly. 

A chill shot down my spine.

What the fuck is going on?

A definite scraping noise slowly moved from one end of the Wilkins house to another. 

I looked out of the window.  Not a single light was on in the Wilkins home. 

Thud…Thud… Thud… 

I tried to collect myself.

Suddenly, the piano began to play itself again. And through the pitch-black darkness,  I could make out the silhouette of a thin, very tall lady in Chance's living room. 

She stood perfectly still before the piano.

Though I was in no danger, I could hear my own heartbeat pulsating through my temples.

 I couldn’t look away. 

And then she moved.

She made a break for the doorway, taking giant bounding steps. She moved as if she had no articulation below the knees. Like a circus clown on stilts. Despite this, she made ground fast, as evident by the pounding of her footsteps, which tore from the living room to the upstairs. 

Chance yelled in protest. I’d heard that tone before. It's the same one he'd use when his mother would drag him out of the house for Church, or cook him something that he didn't like.

A few minutes later, I heard footsteps again. 

The pair had walked back downstairs. They both made their way to the couch and sat down.

For thirty minutes I just watched as they sat there in the dark, with the same song playing over and over and over again.

After work that day, I saw Chance alone on his porch smoking a cigarette.  

I got straight to business and pulled into his driveway. I thought long and hard about how to approach the situation, and figured it best to calmly talk it out. 

Despite my preparations, I ended up spacing on where to begin, so I just went for it.

“Hey, Chance. Long night?” I asked

He made no attempt for the dry erase board.

 He just sat there looking defeated.

“Listen, I’m not angry with you.”

Chance looked up at me, his eyes softened.

His lip began to twitch.

“It’s just that I’ve got a job. I need to wake up early and it's quite difficult to fall asleep while you're hosting a mosh pit in the dead of night.” 

“Can we make a compromise? Let's say no piano parties after …  eleven?”

That got his attention.  He reached for his marker and began to write.

11:00 PM is a perfectly reasonable time to ask for some peace and quiet. 

I hoped to god that he would agree to my terms. 

Suddenly, Chance stopped writing. He paused for a second and looked up at me. 

He erased his message and started over. 

It only took him a few seconds.

He turned his dry erase board around so that I could read it.

                                                        Just take it, please.

I was taken aback.

I don’t know what sort of response I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that one. 

“You want me to have your piano?” I asked

Chance nodded quickly, giving me a sort of half-smile.

I laughed.  “Chance, I can’t take that from you.” 

He made a face and raised his hands as if to say “Why not?”

“Well … I’ve got nowhere to put the thing. And I don’t want to take anything from you! I just came here to talk.” I said.

He began scrawling again.

                                               Then sell it. I just want it gone.

He was putting me in an awkward position. I truly wanted nothing to do with his gift, as it seemed like a white elephant. However, I was starting to believe that the going rate for a self-playing piano may be worth my time. 

I paused, thinking it over for a moment. 

It seemed like a win-win. If I got the piano out of that house, I might be able to avoid any repeats of the previous night. Plus, some extra money in the bank always feels nice, right? 

“It uh.. might take me a few days to get some people around. I can’t move the thing by myself.”

Chance looked almost offended. Quickly, he began writing. 

His message was clear.

It’s got wheels. I'm stronger than I look.

The look he gave me was screaming “You’re a dick.”

And with that, we headed inside.

The place was an absolute sty. Sally’s gray wallpaper hung from the wall, shredded to bits. 

The once spotless hardwood floor was coated in hundreds of black splotches, which I wasn’t eager to dodge with the piano.  There were various sized holes punched through the walls, floors, even the ceiling. 

“I like what you’ve done to the place.” I said.

Chance rubbed the back of his neck. He looked embarrassed.

We each grabbed an end of the piano. 

“You sure you want to get rid of this, Chance? It looks pretty expensive.”

I reached down and pressed on a random key.

Just when I did, it sounded as if somebody started a car in the other room. 

I jumped. Chance flinched.

“What the fuck was that, Chance?”

He shook his head back and forth rapidly.

I heard the same whirring as I did the previous night. 

I got louder

“Chance, answer me please. What the hell is going on?”

Something began to move in the other room. Slowly, I heard it inch its way to the door. 

Thud

The door flexed slightly inwards, but did not open. 

I turned to face the direction of the noise. Ignoring my manners, I slowly began to walk towards it. I can’t explain the terror that I felt as I neared whatever was on the other side of that door. Just as I reached for the knob, Chance grabbed me by the arm. 

I looked at him.

A single tear streamed down his face. 

He tugged on my arm twice. 

I stared back at him. He looked like he’d seen war.

 He tugged on my arm again. 

I couldn’t tell if he was warning me or pleading.

A slow scratching noise crept from the top of the doorframe to the bottom, chilling me to my core. 

I agreed. I let him direct me back to the piano. Both of our hands shook as we guided it from his property to mine. 

We exchanged goodbyes in the driveway. 

I was about to finish the job myself. But just before I could push it inside, I noticed something. One of the piano's wheels was coated in the same black substance that covered the Wilkins’ floor. 

I decided to spray it with a hose, as I didn’t want to get any closer than I had to.

It was only then that I realized what the substance was.

It was oil.

The rest of the week went smoothly. There was little noise from the Wilkins house, and I was sleeping just fine. It seemed that taking the piano off of Chance's hands worked out better than I expected it to.

I worked overtime last night. I didn't get home until nine, and I was absolutely dead. 

After a shower, I decided to start off my weekend with a glass of whiskey.

For kicks, I loaded some of the Wilkins sheet music into the piano. 

I listened to various songs for about an hour before I came across one that was far more worn than the others.I figured that probably meant that this specific song was a favorite in the Wilkins household. I was correct.

The song was called Lament. It was the same one playing in Chance's living room the previous week. Right about that time, the whiskey had made its way to my bladder. I slightly turned the music up so that it could follow me to the restroom. I had a little more than I should have, as walking in a straight line had become troublesome. 

Something in my peripheral vision caught my attention. Through my bathroom window, I could make out the shape of a lady in Chance's living room. Though she appeared to be staring back at me, I could not make out her face in the darkness. She swayed back and forth at the hips slowly. 

As I finished up, I walked to my lightswitch and flipped it off, but I did not leave. I just stood in the bathroom, shrouded in darkness. 

What is with this bitch?

I got a sickening feeling as she slowly tilted her body backwards and slammed her face through the glass. I could now hear the noises she was emitting. Every motion she made was matched by a wet, hydraulic screeching. 

I stood still as she advanced. Taking long strides, she clumsily made her way across Chance’s yard and into mine. As she approached my house I was able to make out her face.

Only then did I make the connection. The thing standing in my yard was no person. It was a mannequin. An inanimate object.

Despite that, it seemed to be searching for something, for no movement it made was without purpose. 

I backed into my hallway. I didn’t know what to do. 

Is there a correct person to call in a situation like this? 

I reached into my pocket to grab my phone, but it wasn’t there. I must’ve left it on the piano.

The thing's head slowly buzzed in a semicircle until its eyes were fixed on me. I doubted that it could see me through the darkness, yet it seemed to stare right through me. Just then, it lunged at me, breaking into a sprint. I slammed the bathroom door and held it shut as the mannequin came crashing through my window.  I heard it writhing about on the floor before clambering to its feet. It began to beat the door down.

Between strikes, it’d push against the door. I could hear the wood beginning to splinter.

And then it spoke.

“ Treat me like a lady!”

It sounded like it spoke through a synthesizer. 

“Turn up the music! Treat me like a lady!”

Everything about the way that it spoke was wrong. When people talk,  we do so with infliction. 

This thing had no infliction. No tone. No soul.

I began to panic as it pushed harder against the door. I could hear its mechanical parts spinning rapidly each time it applied force. It began to pound again. The door wasn’t going to hold much longer.

As I wondered if I should give up and make a break for the front door, I noticed that the mannequin had stopped applying pressure. Unwilling to risk it, I did not let go. 

I could hear it moving on the other side, lowering itself to the ground. I stood still.

My heart sank when it slid something under the door. I ignored it, not letting my focus stray from keeping the door shut. I sat there with a death grip on the door for what seemed like hours, but the mannequin made no further attempts on the door. 

I could hear it rise to its feet, and leave through the window.

I was hyperventilating. With my head in my hands, I shifted my focus to the floor.

There before me, was Chance’s dry erase board, bearing only two words.

                                                            Please don’t

I tell yall, Ohio has gone to the fucking dogs, every building is either closed or condemned, we got a heroin epidemic and now bitches are trying to summon ghost in what few houses are left. One day an old booty call I used to keep in my contacts dipped into town and you know I had to try getting back with her, finally I had something to do in Ohio other than drink. I would move away but I got no way to get a good job with a bachelors in business management and three years’ experience working at a grocery store.

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked, so Reese cup comes over to my house (her real name was Laura I think.) and the first thing I noticed are the weird tattoos this woman’s got on her body, tattoos never bothered me, she was still hot as ever. We got into small talk, and I ask her how she’s been, she tells me she joined a circle of witches and made a pagan coven If I can meet one God damn woman from my past who isn’t doing drugs that’d be great.

Anyway, she tells me we can smash tonight but it’s a full moon and She needs my help to summon a demon or some shit, I was cringing and rolling my eyes, but I was also down bad, I tell her yes and she pulls a spirit board out from her backpack. The symbols on the board match the tattoos she’s got on her body, she tells me to wait five minutes for midnight before beginning in the meantime I tried kissing her and getting fresh but she told me to wait, at this point I was getting a bit annoyed.

Finally, 12:00 rolls around, she lights the candle and turns off all the lights, we put our hands on the board and she begins to chant something with breathy whispers. The wind outside began to stir, and the temperature dropped, finally the lights came back on even though no one hit the switch which can only mean one thing.

I got to yell at my landlord about proper building maintenance.

Reese cup escorts herself to the to the bathroom not saying a word to me, “Hey you all right?!” there was the sound of shattering glass and I ran begrudgingly to the bathroom only to see my mirror broken and this bitch passed out on the floor, bloody. Of course, this shit has to happen three days before inspection. Her body twitches and then she rises up like a marionette, she lifts off her feet and the lands back on them, her nails were longer, teeth razor sharp and cold dead eyes to match wispy hair.

I ran to the kitchen because under the sink is where I kept my piece. I reached into the lower cabinet and grabbed the revolver with six rounds fresh in the chamber. When that thing came after me from around the corner, I rose up my weapon and BLAM! She took one to the head and survived. Not going to lie yall I pissed myself seeing that. I hit her on the head again and it didn’t do much to phase her, then I put one through her chest then one for each shoulder.

I was down to one bullet, and I got a crazy Idea, while she was down, I put one bullet in the mirror of the spirit board breaking it in half, and when it did, I heard a screaming then a thud. I went into the kitchen to see her dead on the floor. Cops don’t come around here enough for me to worry about getting caught. But if I don’t clean this blood my ass is landlord grass.

The moral of the story, if you invite a one night stand over and she starts talking about ghost and shit. Then she is for the streets for real.

I’m from a very small town. One that any minor event gets gossiped to death about. It felt like everyone lived in glass houses at times. If I skipped school the entire neighborhood would know before my last class ended. I wanted to move out of this town as soon as possible. After what happened, I got stuck here for a little while longer.

At the edge of town was a bus stop I’d never seen used by anyone. When a man started to appear waiting at night, rumors started within the day. I ignored such a minor event, but my best friend Duncan refused to drop it. After three days Duncan showed up at my place at dusk. That wasn’t unusual. We often walked down to the corner store for before-bed snacks. My mother called me down and I grabbed some change on reflex. I greeted him and told my mother we would be back shortly.

Duncan talked about the day on the walk. For some reason, he kept going by the store and towards his house.

“Dude, what’s up?” I asked him, my head nodding to the small plaza.

“You left your bike at my place yesterday. Let’s go get it and see the bus stop.” He said with no room for disagreements.

I still spoke up after a long groan. I knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to see that random guy that showed up at night. From what I’ve heard the dude was crazy and the kids at school called him a really stupid name.

“We’re not going to see the stupid Bologna Man. Like, who even calls themselves that?” I said with another groan.

“It’ll be cool. I want to record it and put it on my channel. I’ll hit a ton of subs for sure!” Duncan said, eyes bright.

He'd recently gotten into making videos about cryptids and urban legends. Our local legend was a guy standing at a bus stop dressed in clothing from the wrong time period. I doubted this would get him any kind of views. If I refused to go, Duncan would go on his own. That was dangerous. I didn’t want him to get into trouble. For his safety, I relented. Duncan wasn’t overly bright. I didn’t really like him at times, but I really lack choices when it came to friends. Looking back on it now, I wished I let him go alone. It wouldn’t have changed what happened to him.

I sent my mother a text saying I was going to hang out at Duncan’s place for a bit. It was a weekend, so she wasn’t worried. I then turned off my phone because it was low battery-wise. I only charged it when I went to bed at night. If I kept it on, it would have died before we reached the bus stop.

We took our bikes to ride down to the edge of town. It wasn’t very far. The streetlights guided us to our destination, and it felt like the warm late spring breeze on our backs pushed us forward. The ride was nice despite what we were heading off to do.

Duncan got to the bus stop first. It was just a bench on the side of the road with a faded sign. A trail led off into the forest which I’d never taken, and I didn’t know where it led. A man sat in the dark. A streetlight on the other side of the road is the only source of light. He didn’t look over toward us. Duncan jumped off his bike, letting it fall to the side. I treated mine better and leaned it on the kickstand. I stopped behind Duncan hoping he got the shots he wanted so we could leave.

“Hey! Bologna Man!” Duncan said in an abrasive tone making me flinch.

The man slowly turned his head towards us. We made eye contact, and I felt my heart skip a few beats. He was the strangest person I’ve ever seen. He wore a very large-brimmed black hat. The brim was a perfect circle around his head. Wavy light grey hair spilled out from under the hat. He wore a dark wool coat even though it was pretty warm out. When Duncan called out again, the man stood to address us. He moved his coat aside to place a hand in a vest pocket. His pinstripe pants were well-pressed and matched his waistcoat. I realized he looked much like a wealthy man in the westerns my father liked forcing us to watch on Sundays. Aside from his outdated outfit, his eyes freaked me out. They looked far too light as if he was wearing light silver contacts.

“Now, what are you two boys doing out so late at night?” The stranger asked in a cool voice.

He had a hint of a Southern drawl. I half expected him to pull out a pocket watch to check the time and tell us to ‘hurry along now.’ Instead, he just gave a smile that didn’t appear as comforting as he thought.

“We wanted to see the new weirdo that rolled into town. You know you dress like a dork, right?” Duncan mocked.

I raised my eyebrow at him. A dork? Why was I friends with this guy? He had his phone out to record the entire interaction. I doubted he would get any good footage due to the low light. The man narrowed his eyes at the both of us. He didn’t move other than that, but he suddenly felt extremely threatening.

“I think your mothers should review how they raised the pair of you.” He commented in a low voice.

“And I think your mother should be locked up for giving you such a dumb name. I mean, Bologna? What’s that all about?” Duncan pushed.

“Hey, dude this isn't right. We should go.” I said but lacked any confidence in my statement.

I reached to take a hold of my friend’s arm, but he shrugged me off. The man’s face twitched for a second. I really thought he was going to pull out a weapon. Instead, he let out a long sigh to relax. With an over-exaggerated shrug, he slightly turned away from us.

“I have never had such a thing. Might have been nice to be in the company of a mother. But no such luck on my end. That silly little nickname is something you humans have given me. I do wish it lost favor. However, it doesn’t matter. It's just a name.” He said clearly trying to stay calm.

This guy was crazy. The outfit should have been a dead giveaway. I wanted to leave but a small part of myself actually wanted Duncan to get the video he wanted. I could see the comments this conversation would get. The idea of the online mockery got the better of me for a second.

“Do you think he’s one of those people who pretends to be a vampire or something like that?” I half whispered to Duncan.

We both let out a few giggles at the idea. We loved watching those cringy videos of people who thought they were wolves in a human body. Duncan was pretty mean-spirited toward the idea. I honestly thought they could believe whatever made them happy, but wished they acted a bit more normal over the idea. Then again. How normal can you act if you think you’re a wolf?

I looked up to catch the stranger’s gaze and any kind of humor quickly died. His silver eyes flashed, and I swear they glowed for a second. I shook my head thinking I was just seeing things. Fear spiked through my body, and I was way done with all of this. We had our fun and we bothered a poor guy that wasn’t entirely with it.

I pulled on Duncan’s arm wanting to leave. He pulled back not at all ready to be done.

“You kids should head home before the train arrives.” The stranger said and it almost sounded like a threat.

“Train? I think your head is full of bologna. This is a bus stop. A dead bus stop. Nothing comes here. You’ll be waiting all night for nothing.” Duncan said with a smirk on his face.

I tugged at his arm again. Stress pooling in my stomach. He refused to stop or leave. To him, things were just getting good.

“I think you’ll get hungry staying up all night for a bus that isn’t going to show up. I brought you a snack, but it might be cannibalism.”

I watched in horror as Duncan pulled out a Ziplock bag from his pocket with two slices of warm lunch meat. This was taking it too far. And he took it even further. With grace I didn’t know he had, he pulled the slices from the bag and tossed them like a frisbee with one hand. He recorded the round slices flying and landing on the brim of the man’s hat.

He didn’t even move. His expression never changed from the narrowed eyed unimpressed look. I couldn’t help but let out a single snicker at the entire thing. Shame and guilt flooded my stomach. Laughing was just a response to an uncomfortable situation.

“You did bring me a nice late-night snack. I thank both of you.” The man said in an oddly kind voice.

He reached up and took the lunch meat between two fingers and lifted his head slightly. He never broke eye contact with us as his mouth suddenly looked far too wide as the meat slid right between his teeth. He didn’t even chew it as he swallowed down the slices. The scene made my skin crawl. Duncan finally looked a bit nervous. And that was the last expression he ever made.

The man slightly raised his right hand and pointed a finger at my friend. He then pointed downwards on the ground. A terrible sound along with a strong breeze followed. It happened so fast that I didn’t even realize Duncan was no longer standing in front of me.

My eyes slowly went to the ground to something I couldn’t understand for a long while. The entire street was soundless besides a single cricket chirping. A scream started in my throat that never came.

I stared at what had been my best friend. A stupid friend that didn’t deserve this. His body was pressed into the ground completely flat. I wasn’t able to fully process what happened when the man raised a single finger again.

He lowered it and I fell to the ground, my left arm in agony. I screamed at the sudden pain. Rolling off to the side, I screamed again when my left arm just simply wasn’t there. Frantic I looked trying to figure out what the hell happened. My shoulder throbbing with pain and so damn hot. A smell came that nearly made me sick when I finally understood what happened.

The man took a few careful steps towards me making me skitter backward holding my empty shoulder. Somehow, he was able to force gravity to push down into a certain spot crushing things as flat as pancakes. But the flesh also got cooked as well as crushed. I sat breathing so hard I thought I might die. My arm pressed into the ground and the same color as the lunch meat Duncan had thrown at the man.

I suddenly realized where this monster got his stupid nickname. He got down low and sat on his heels. A wide smile on his face as he looked over at me. His teeth were sharp and inhuman.

With two fingers he picked up what had been my arm off the ground. With a few mocking wiggles, he let out a small laugh at my expression.

“I don’t really mind my nickname. After all, we are all just the same. All just meat. Don’t you agree?”

Without breaking eye contact, he leaned back his head and lifted the flat cook hunk of flesh over his ever-expanding mouth. Without chewing, he let the entire thing slide between his smiling teeth. A sound started that I didn’t realize was myself screaming.

Suddenly a blinding white light covered the area. Another loud sound came, and it took me a few seconds to adjust to the light. My mind didn’t want to believe anything I was seeing. The train this man claimed to be arriving on stopped in front of the bus stop. An old-fashioned steam engine sat in the road as if this was normal.

“Right on time. I think I’ll share my snack with my friends on the train. Don’t worry, I won’t let them touch you. I think you learned a valuable lesson tonight.” The man spoke as he stood up.

After he finished talking, the doors started to open on the carriages of the train. I did not stick around to see what got off that train. Adrenaline fueled my escape. I ran until I simply could not run anymore. Aside from the pain, my missing arm wasn’t that much of a problem. The wound had been burned shut, so I didn’t lose any blood. I was lucky I only lost an arm that night.

I was found and sent to the hospital. No one could explain what happened to my arm or why Duncan disappeared. There was simply not a single trace of him besides his bike at the old bus stop. I refused to tell anyone what really happened because who would ever believe me? For a town that talked about everyone's business, they all let this odd event drop. The entire town was too scared to talk about what might have happened to two dumb kids that one fateful night.

I wanted to forget as well. But recently I’ve been hearing whispers of that man going around again. I wonder if people gave him such a non-threatening name, or if he picked one that made it easier for people to approach and mock him.

I decided to tell what happened on the off chance someone hears a silly rumor of a Bologna Man coming to town. I know it’s tempting to not take him seriously with a name like this. But please, promise me one thing. Stay away from him. No matter what happens, it’s not worth investigating such a simple rumor. I just hope this story reaches the right people and that man goes hungry.

My name is Karl Wetherson, I’m an EMT in Oklahoma and last month I bought my first house in an auction. I am planning on remodeling, so I started inspecting all the rooms. The house is not in great shape, but it wasn’t until I got to the basement that made me question what truly happened in this house and its previous owner.

As I was cleaning some of the rubble, I discovered a cell phone under a piece of wood.
Nudged between the iPhone and its case there was a note with a password. I charged the iPhone, put in the password, and was able to inspect it. I was hoping to find the owner’s information so I could return it but instead, I found a voice recording that was never sent out. It’s clear this person wanted his story to come out, that’s why I’m sharing this today.

VOICE MEMO RECORDING:
If you hear this message, please be safe and know true evil exists. My name is Gabriel Sandoval I became a father of a little boy two months ago and it has been a dream come true until today. I have been wanting to become a father my entire life but now I’m terrified. Not of how I’m going to raise my baby or what world he will grow up in… I’m terrified because of what I discovered. I live in a rural town in Oklahoma that’s all snowed in, so I have nowhere else to go. I’ve locked myself up in my basement and I’ve called 911 but in case they don’t make it in time, you should know the truth.

I was born in Miami but raised in Argentina until I was 12…. Growing up in Buenos Aires in the ’80s and early ’90s was incredible. I was raised in a struggling middle-class family, so we didn’t get to splurge much but we were lucky to belong to a social country club located in the town of La Reja which is a forty-five-minute drive from Buenos Aires. Like most families who were members, we spent weekends, winter breaks, and summers making lifelong memories there. It was a very special place with a tight-knit community.

Our country club wasn’t fancy at all, it was built in the mid-1930s by hard-working families who had immigrated from Europe. We had some amenities but by the mid 80’s they were in desperate need of renovations, but we didn’t care, we always had a blast.

The Country Club had about 200 active families…. So, there were about 30 kids my age but only Fede and Mati were part of my inner circle. All the kids would meet up after dinner and pull all-nighters. We'd play dumb games, jump into the pool after hours, flirt with girls, hide to smoke some cigs, and tell each other spooky tales.

Parents didn’t care because we were all together and I guess it gave them some alone time as well. Besides, the country club had armed guards at each entrance so nothing could happen to us. On top of that, it was different times, people drove without seatbelts, they never locked their house doors, and everyone was very carefree.

That was until the winter break of 1992 came and changed my life forever.
One foggy night after dinner, Mati, Fede, and I met at our usual spot near the pool.

Fede excitedly said, “My uncle and his friends are doing a séance at his house.

There were about 5 adults who were into the occult world and would practice certain rituals from time to time. Our parents always gossiped at the pool about them, but everyone chalked it off as childish and hokey. Being 12 and curious, we weren’t going to miss the chance to experience it, so we went to Fede’s uncle’s house on the other side of the country club.

We spotted a broken blind on one of the windows, so we hid under the bush. They had candles forming a circle in the living room. In the center of the circle was a semi-naked woman laying on her knees. This was Judith. The other four adults were wearing white robes and walking around her, hitting her forehead with some herbs as they chanted in a different language. Suddenly, Judith choked. Her body started shaking… She heaved twice and then puked what looked like blood, but no one moved.

Silence filled the room.

We freaked out and tried to remain quiet, but a beam of light blinded us. It scared the shit out of us. We turned to the side and found -- Jose, the night-shift security guard pointing his flashlight at us. We had been caught. He motioned us to get out of there…

As we walked back defeated, Mati asked Jose, “Do you know what they’re doing in there?”

Jose looked at him deadpan and said, “Protecting her soul from Aña.”

We were more intrigued now. I jumped and said, “What the hell is Aña?”

Jose was originally from Paraguay, not Argentina. He turned to me and responded with a very serious tone. “In my culture, in the Guarani culture, Aña is evil… A demon of sorts.”

Chills ran down the back of our necks…. Mati, Fede, and I were scared shitless.
We reached Jose’s booth, and he offered us some mate (a herbal hot drink).

Fede asked him “Did something happen to Judith? Is that why they’re doing a seance?”

Jose sat down as he said, “Is not a seance… it’s a cleansing. Don’t know the details but I heard she somehow ended up at the abandoned lot a mile down”. He looked straight into our eyes. “Do you know what I’m talking about?” He asked.

We looked at each other terrified and shook our heads. He smiled, took a deep breath and we leaned closer, intrigued… Jose sucked the life out of his mate. I still remember the sound the metal straw made as he stared at us.

He opened his mouth which showcased some missing teeth and said…“There used to be an insane asylum there. About three years ago, a woman who believed she worked for the devil was brought in after she raped and brutally killed a priest. A year later she burned the whole place down and everyone inside the asylum died.”

We were shocked. “Why, why did she burn it down?” I asked.

Jose poured more water into his mate, then lit a cigarette and said,

“Apparently, she got pregnant by the priest and social workers took her baby away since she was mentally unstable. She didn’t like that, so she burned the asylum down. About twenty people died that night.”

Jose finished his mate and cleared his throat, then said, “The craziest part is they tried to build a new house on that lot last year, but the workers mysteriously died. They never built anything there again. It’s been empty since. Some say that’s why we hear screams in the area at night”.

We were now shaken to our core. No one said a word for what seemed like an eternity.

Then, Mati started laughing out of fear and quipped, “It’s all bullshit. We should go check it out.”

Jose grabbed his arm tightly and said “Are you stupid. Aña lives there”.

Mati wasn’t having it, “That’s a lot of crap, nothing’s gonna happen.” He rebutted.

Fede and I looked at each other and shook our heads. “Mati is just being stupid, no one is going anywhere… besides it’s almost 2 am and we have a match tomorrow morning”.

Mati smiled and adamantly said, “You guys are such pussies. It’s just an abandoned lot, that’s all there is”.

Jose stood up and wanted to close the door to his booth. “Guys, I have to prep for the morning shift change at 5 am.”

Mati put his hand on the door and said… “Drive us there at the end of your shift”.

Jose was irritated now… “Have you lost your mind? He angrily said. “I’m not taking you anywhere, besides you can’t leave the country club, you know that.”

But Mati pulled out his wallet, stuck some money on the glass window, and said, “Tomorrow night, you take us there. I’ll pay you.”

Jose motion us to leave him alone. “I’m off tomorrow… go to bed already, you’re starting to piss me off.” He exclaimed.

Mati opened his door… “Pick us up at midnight tomorrow or I’ll tell my dad you tried to touch me, and you’ll get fired.”

Jose shut his door as he cursed at him in Guarani.

Mati knew he had him. He smiled feeling triumphant, but we looked at him and told him straight up… “We’re not fucking going there.”

He put his arms around us and whispered… “I’m going to tell Vanessa, Andrea, and Natalia to join us… It’ll be fun, maybe you fuckers will get some action once and for all”.

We all went our separate ways and as I started walking through the fog toward my house...
The wind picked up and it felt as if someone was screaming in the distance. I tried to ignore it, but the sound got louder and closer to me. I was afraid to look back so I ran towards my house as fast as I could.

The next day we lost our soccer match… Our coach was not happy with us. We played like shit. I could not get what Jose said out of my head. The idea of this demented woman raping and killing a priest was too much for me. Fede, Mati, and I ended up going to the clubhouse to grab something to eat. That’s when we encountered Judith with a different group of friends. They were playing a game of Burako. As we got closer, we noticed Judith was crying. We couldn’t hear what she said but her friends were comforting her.

While having lunch we saw Vanessa, Natalia, and other girls riding their bicycles nearby.
Mati waved at them… they waved back, and he turned to us and said, “I talked to Vanessa earlier, they’re meeting us at midnight.

Fede and I looked at each other truly worried now.

I said, “I’m not leaving the country club at night, no way”.

Fede joined me and told Mati “It’s a dumb idea, Mati. There’s nothing there for us…. Besides, Jose won’t show up at midnight on his day off. We’re not going”.

Mati wasn’t having it, he was stubborn. He smiled and whispered “You two are so stupid. This is just an excuse so we can have fun with the girls. Don’t leave me hanging. I’ll see you later by the entrance.” He got up and left.

I went back home and saw my mom and asked her about Judith. I made the excuse that I saw her crying to see if she knew something.

That’s when she told me... “Judith is pregnant with her first child. She’s probably going through a lot. It’s normal. I cried many times before I had you and your brothers. You have nothing to worry about, she’s going to be fine”.

I didn’t know what to think anymore. I was 12 and knew nothing about pregnant women. Honestly, I was exhausted so I took a long nap… By the time I woke up, it was eleven at night.

I couldn’t believe I slept that much. I took a shower and went straight to the park but to my surprise, Fede, Mati, and the girls were not there. I walked to the entrance and saw Ramon, another night-shift security guard.

“Ramon, have you seen Fede or Mati around?” I asked.

He devoured a dulce de leche alfajor, then responded. “They went to Vanessa’s house to grab some flashlights, but Mati said if I saw you to tell you to wait here.”

I checked my watch, and it was 11:45 now. I was going to go to Vanessa’s, but I felt this was a great opportunity to see how much Ramon knew.

“You live around here, right?” I asked and Ramon nodded. “I was wondering if you heard the story about the evil woman that burned down the insane asylum?”

Ramon raised his eyes and begrudgingly said. “Why do you ask?”

I got closer and pressed him. “I’m wondering if the story is true?”

He sat down and lifted the gate for a Falcon that was coming in. Then, he turned to me and said, “The devil’s lullaby”. “Everyone in town knows about it”.

I got curious. “What’s the devil’s lullaby? Is that what they call it?”

Ramon finished the alfajor and said, “The Paraguayans call it Aña. We call it, the devil’s lullaby.”

Ramon walked around kicking some rocks on the ground and whispered. “Some people say if you go to the abandoned lot, you can hear a woman singing a very weird lullaby. They believe if you hear her lullaby you’ll become possessed”.

I was terrified. I couldn’t find the words... “Have you ever heard it?” I asked.

Ramon chuckled, then responded with confidence, “Of course, not, it’s all made up. Urban legend type of shit.”

I laughed nervously at myself for being so naïve, but my mind was going at 100 miles per hour.

“But she did burn down the asylum, right?” I asked.

Ramon lit a cigarette and looked me in the eyes. “Who knows what really happened, kid? I think someone did it on purpose to collect the insurance and she was the easiest target.”

At that moment, Mati, Fede, and Vanessa came by with some flashlights.

Mati punched my arm and said, “You finally decided to show up! Are you ready?”

“No,” I said. Then, I glanced at Fede hoping for backup. “Are we really doing this?” I asked.

Fede smiled at Vanessa and then looked at me. “Could be fun.”

“I gotta do the rounds, Kids… don’t do anything stupid,” Ramon said as he walked away.

I turned to Vanessa and asked her. “Did they tell you the whole story?”

She nodded then said, “It sounds too fucked up to be real. I want to see if we find anything.
The other girls were too scared.”

At that moment, a pick-up flashed its lights outside the entrance. We turned and saw Jose.
We all ran to his truck… We jumped on the back, and he took off. We didn’t exchange a word.

La Reja was a rural town. A lot of families on the poverty line lived here. It had dirt roads, rundown houses, and abandoned broken-down vehicles. The road was foggy and dimly lit.
The trip was quick, but I remember the wind hitting our faces as we got closer. It made a very particular sound. It felt like someone was whistling or crying.

I looked at Mati, Fede, and Vanessa and it was clear we were all scared, but no one said a word.
Finally, the pick-up stopped. Jose hit the outside of his door with his hand, signaling us to get off.

We jumped out of the pick-up, and he turned to us. “This is as far as I go. The lot is in the corner.”

Mati started walking towards it without saying a word. I looked at Jose and asked, “You’re going to wait for us, right?”

Jose took a deep breath, then said, “I’m going to buy some beers, I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry, I’ll take you all back. Just be careful.”

At that moment, Mati turned to us and screamed… “What the hell are you guys doing, let’s go.”

Vanessa, Fede, and I turned our flashlights on and started walking through the dimly lit dirt road…
There were no houses in the vicinity, just overgrown bushes, and wired fences for an entire block. We could hear our own footsteps as we walked toward the lot. It was clear no one had been here for a long time.

A half-built brick house was standing in the middle of the lot. It was hard to even walk since the shrubbery and dead plants were up to our shoulders.

Vanessa turned to Fede and said, “We should’ve brought a knife.”

Mati reached a door and opened it. I was terrified but walked in right behind him.
Vanessa and Fede came in right after. The wooden floor creaked with every step we took. Beams of light from our flashlights reflected on what would’ve been a living room.
The walls were naked. Paint rolls and cans of paint remained strewn on the ground.

Fede noticed something in the corner, so he rushed over. He kneeled and pointed his flashlight at the wooden floor -- “Jesus, guys, look.” He exclaimed a bit perturbed.

We all walked that way and noticed human fingernails stuck to the wooden floor.

Vanessa cringed, disgusted by the sight. “What the fuck, are those real human fingernails?” she asked.

Mati motioned us to follow him. He walked towards what appeared to be a hallway.
As we pointed our flashlights toward the hallway, we heard a man cry nearby.

We gasped and I whispered, “What the fuck? There’s no one around for a whole block.”

Vanessa chimed in. “Maybe, maybe we should leave.”

Mati turned around and looked at us… “It’s in your head. There’s nothing here.”

We took a few steps and a gush of wind hit our faces. Fede pointed his flashlight inside the empty kitchen… There was no door. The house was never finished. “What’s over there?” He asked.

We took a quick look and noticed a burnt structure in the back. Mati said, “Maybe what’s left of the asylum? Let’s check it out.”

Vanessa and Fede looked at each other. Fede said, “There’s a room at the end of the hallway here, we’ll check that out.”

I knew Fede liked Vanessa so wasn’t going to be a third wheel. I said, “Mati, I’ll go with you” and so we went.

As we walked to the burnt structure the wind picked up…. The plants were hitting our faces.
We finally reached the structure. We quickly noticed there was a door in the floor.

“This must be the basement,” I said.

Mati didn’t hesitate, he opened the door, and you could hear people laughing inside.
Mati and I looked at each other, confused. I was petrified.

Mati asked, “Is anybody there?” The wind grew louder, and Mati fell into the basement.
A loud bone-cracking sound echoed as he hit the ground. My eyes widen in terror.
I turn around to see if someone had pushed him when a shadow pushed me down as well…
I luckily grabbed onto the edge of the door, my legs dangling in the air.
I looked up but no one was there.

I screamed “Mati? Mati? Are you okay?” Mati coughed and cringed in pain.

I was able to pull myself out and roll to the side. My heart was beating like crazy.
I quickly poked my head inside the basement and saw Mati on the ground staring at me.

He whispered in pain “Help me! I’m hurt.”

I stretched my arm… “C’mon, Mati, grab my arm!”

Mati was able to get up. “C’mon, pull me up!” Mati exclaimed…

A scream was heard coming from the house. Fede and Vanessa came running out of the house.

Vanessa was screaming “We have to get out of here! We have to leave now!”

I looked at Fede and screamed… “Help me! Help me get Mati out”.

Fede grabbed Mati’s other arm and we pulled him out. Mati was bleeding from his eyelid and covered with dirt and God knows what else. He looked at us, terrified. The burnt door suddenly shut close. We were shaking…. We looked at each other and started running towards the street. I noticed Vanessa had a cassette player with her.

She looked at me “I’ll explain later” she said.

We finally made it to the street, but Jose was not there.

Mati shook his head… “Let’s fucking go, I’m not staying here.”

We were too scared, so we started running on the desolate street back to where we came from. Jose finally tracked us a few blocks down the road. We got inside his truck.

He looked at us with a preoccupied look. “What the hell happened?” He asked. “I went to the house; you guys weren’t there.” We all looked at each other, terrified.

Fede chimed in… “We didn’t want to wait there. Please, take us back.”

We rode in silence. I kept looking at Vanessa who had the cassette player and a few cassettes with her. She looked at me and a tear ran down her face but didn’t say a word. Mati was shaken as if he had seen evil.

We finally got back to the country club; we scurried back in… we were safe.

We looked at each other, and I asked, “Is everyone, okay?” Everyone nodded. “Let’s talk tomorrow then.” We all ran back to our houses.

At 10 AM the next morning I was awakened by a bloodcurdling scream from my mom. I opened my eyes and jumped out of bed in a jolt. I rushed to the living room where I found her in tears. She was in a frantic state. My dad was looking grim too.

I got close to my mom and gave her a big hug, I whispered, “Ma, what’s going on? Why are you crying?”

She caressed my face and said… Judith is dead.

My brain wasn’t ready for that. The news felt like being crushed by a ton of bricks.

“What, when did it happen?” I asked.

She wiped her tears and said, “I don’t know, last night I think, but she’s dead now and her unborn baby is dead as well”. That shook me to my core.

“Why don’t you go find your friends and play for a while,” my dad said. I was numb but nodded and got out of my house soon after.

The country club was in a frenzy... A lot of people were out in a clear state of shock.
Everyone was gossiping about Judith.

I found Vanessa and Fede by the bicycle rack. “Did you hear?” I asked them. They both nodded.
“Do you know how she died?”

Fede looked around… “Apparently, she drowned in her tub late last night. My uncle was hysterical this morning. He believes Aña killed her. My parents told me not to listen to him, but after what we experienced last night, I believe him.”

I was taken aback by this... “That’s crazy. Have you seen Mati?“ I asked. Fede shook his head.

Vanessa got closer to me and whispered. “I have the cassette player in the game room, do you guys want to check it out?”

We all went into the game room…. Once inside, we went to the second floor where the ping pong table was. No one ever came here. In the middle of the room, there was the silver cassette player and three cassettes on the floor. I was scared but also weirdly curious.

“Where the hell did you find it?” I asked.

Vanessa sat down and said, ”Inside a closet. That room was going to be a nursery. I think the cassette player and recordings belonged to the construction workers who died. I played a little bit at the house. You have to listen to this.”

“Is that what made you scream last night?” I asked. She nodded with fear in her eyes.

We all sat down as Mati came running upstairs... “I’ve been looking all over for you guys,” He said.

I looked at him, he seemed frazzled. “Are you okay?” I asked. “I guess you heard about Judith.”

Mati tried to compose himself… He couldn’t sit down.

Fede chimed in. “She drowned but we think Aña might’ve been responsible.“

Mati finally sat down, looked at us with teary eyes, and said with a shaky voice. “Judith didn’t drown, I heard Susy talking with the police. Judith stabbed herself. She opened her stomach up. She was trying to remove her unborn baby before she fell into her tub.”

Vanessa puked. I was shaken. Fede came to help her. They went to the bathroom to clean her up.

I stared at Mati and asked. “Do you think Judith did something to upset Aña?”

Mati seemed concerned and said. “Maybe she was trying to steal her baby, who knows?”

Fede and Vanessa came back, they both seemed frazzled now. Vanessa wipes the floor as Fede paced around the room. “Why did we go there? He asked. “Shit, shit… What if she comes for us?” He was truly worried, truth is, we all were.

I tried to calm him down. Mati stared at Vanessa and pointed at the cassette player.

“I found it in the closet of the house,” Vanessa said then she pressed play.

That's when we heard construction workers scream for their lives. Their bones were cracking. In the background, a woman was chanting in a different language… (This was the Devil’s lullaby).

That’s when I stopped the tape. I looked at my friends and said, “We shouldn’t listen to this anymore. Ramon said whoever listened to the devil’s lullaby will become possessed by it.”

We were spooked. At that moment I heard my dad screaming my name downstairs.

He yelled, “Gabriel, it’s time to go.” I said goodbye to everyone and left.

That Sunday was the end of our winter break, so we all went back to Buenos Aires.
During the week I couldn’t focus on school. I stopped eating and became more reclusive.
I was truly scared something was going to happen to me. My parents realized something was up, but I couldn’t tell them the truth, so I lied and said it was hard to adjust.

On Wednesday we went to Judith’s funeral and saw Fede since his family was also close to Judith’s. He told me he had horrible nightmares and had gotten hives because of the stress.

The next day, I went to the public library to see if there was information about the insane asylum and after some research, I found a newspaper with an entire article on the woman we called Aña. Everything Jose had told us was true. She had gotten pregnant and burned down the insane asylum once they took her baby away. I found out the woman we called Aña turned out to be an orphan and there were no records on where she was born or her real identity, but she called herself Leonor.

What left me tormented for decades was when I saw the picture of the heinous murder she committed against the priest. What Jose forgot to mention was that she decapitated the priest, sewn the head of a goat to his neck, then nailed him to the cross.

That weekend we didn’t go to our country club. I made an excuse I didn’t feel well so we stayed in. I didn’t call Fede, Mati, or Vanessa but weirdly enough my mom told me on Sunday she had gotten calls from their parents saying they didn’t go to the country club either.
My mom thought we all had caught some strange stomach bug.

On Monday morning the newspaper had a frightening story about a security guard in the town of La reja who was in jail after he killed his family. It was Jose. The scariest part was the article mentioned he had killed his wife and newborn daughter by smashing his truck into the half-built house on that empty lot. When they asked him why he did it, apparently, he said the devil made him do it. The last thing he remembered was putting on a cassette her wife gave her from the back seat. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I was distraught. I was a mess.

Once I composed myself, I called Vanessa and asked her if she had all the cassettes or if it was possible, she might’ve dropped one in Jose’s car that night. She wasn’t sure but told me she left the cassettes and cassette player hidden in the game room. We made a pact to burn them the following weekend.

That same week my parents told me we were going to be moving to the U.S. in two months. It was a huge life-changing event for us. We would be leaving everything we had behind, but the truth was we were struggling financially for a long time and my dad had gotten a great job in New York, so we had to take a chance at a new life. Still, it was a hard pill to swallow.

I loved Argentina but weirdly enough, at that moment, I wanted to be as far away from the country club as possible and New York sounded like the perfect place. I never went back to my country club and although I saw Mati, Fede, and Vanessa at a farewell party they threw for me, we never talked about Aña, the cassettes, or anything regarding that incident ever again.

As I grew older, I became more religious and when I turned eighteen, I wanted to be as close to God as possible, so I moved to Italy. I lived on the outskirts of Vatican City for three years. While I was there, I befriended a Cardinal who was very high in rank at the Vatican.

One night after dinner and some wine, I felt compelled to tell him the story of Aña.
I wanted to see what he thought of it. As soon as I mentioned her name his face turned pale.

He said, “I am very aware of the case.” He drank more wine and whispered, “The Vatican sent a special priest to Argentina to investigate the case and they recognized the woman in question as a fallen angel. The Vatican believes she was sent to earth to bring back Satan, that’s why she raped the priest.”

He finished his drink, got closer, and said, “We have been searching for her daughter since, she holds the power to make the prophecy a reality.”

I was shaken. I didn’t know how to move on. He grabbed my hand and with a worried look on his face said, “The case in Argentina is the most credible and terrifying case I’ve ever come across and you and your friends are very lucky to be alive, if you had listened to her ritual, what some call the devil’s lullaby, you would’ve been in grave danger.

I had many sleepless nights after that encounter. I never saw the cardinal after that.
He probably felt he had said too much. Six months later, I moved back to the states where I finally became a pastor. I thought I was going to be a doctor, but I kept wanting to be closer to God. I worked in churches all over the country…

One night while living in Florida I heard the devastating news that my old friend Mati and his wife had died in a horrible house fire. I always wondered if it was related to Aña but was afraid to reach out to Fede or Vanessa. I tried not to think about it, but it seemed the memories were haunting me.

A year later, my parents passed away from old age, so I decided to make a change in my life.
A friend told me there was a small church in Oklahoma that needed a pastor, so I took a chance. I moved here three years ago and within six months met my wife and got married soon after.

We were trying to have a baby for the longest time, but it wasn’t working. We were devastated. I always wanted kids and had waited till late in life and so did my wife. She would cry at night and that would break my heart. I kept asking God why he couldn’t bless us with a kid after I had given everything up for him. I thought he would listen to my pleas.

Another year passed and I stopped asking for it. That’s when the miracle occurred, and my wife finally became pregnant. We were ecstatic. We were both in our forties and this was a true blessing from the Lord. In January, my baby boy was born. We named him Ezequiel based on the bible.

About a week ago I came home from Church late at night, my wife didn’t hear me come in, but I saw her trying to put Ezequiel to bed, so I went straight to the bedroom to freshen up, didn’t want to interrupt. As I was putting my clothes away, I checked the monitor and saw her rocking him from side to side. I sat on my bed and heard what sounded like a whisper… I glanced at the monitor and saw my wife singing a lullaby to my baby. I smiled at first but soon after I froze.

I had heard that lullaby before. Memories came rushing back…It was the same lullaby we briefly heard on the cassette when I was a kid. I was terrified. I rushed to the baby’s room and interrupted her. She looked at me weirdly…

I took the baby from her hands and said, “Honey, let me put Ezequiel to sleep. Get some rest.”

Ezequiel was crying now, and my wife was not happy, but I didn’t give her a choice. I started rocking and praying under my breath until my wife left the room.

The next morning as we were having breakfast I asked, “Where in the world did you learn that lullaby?”

She said, “My mom would sing it before I went to bed.”

I was confused so I pressed, “Do you know what language the lullaby is in because it doesn’t sound like English.”

She told me, “I have no clue, I learned it over time.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” I said. “Please don’t sing it to Ezequiel anymore. See, while I was at the Vatican someone told me that lullaby was actually a ritual to the devil.”

She laughed and then said. “You’re crazy. We all grew up in the church, we would never sing—".

I cut her off and begged her. “Please, don’t fight me on this.” She nodded and obliged. “Of course, honey.”

The truth was I didn’t really know her family well. We had a private wedding in Oklahoma and only her mom and grandma came to our ceremony. They had told me they belonged to the cathedral of Holy Moss in Massachusetts which is the biggest church there. I was confused now. How could someone who goes to church sing the devil’s lullaby to her child?

That day I went to church and prayed for my baby’s safety. Later I looked up my wife’s family online. I didn’t see any red flags, but I was still concerned so I called a friend of mine who is a detective. I asked him If he could find information on my wife’s family, to see if they really attended the Holy Moss and any additional background information he could find.

A week went by… my wife and I weren’t on good terms. She didn’t understand why I was acting so weird around her. A huge storm had walloped the city for days and we were all snowed in. I went to shower and took the baby monitor with me because Ezequiel had been sick lately so wanted to be sure he had no trouble sleeping.

Mid-shower I took a gander at the monitor and realized my wife was in his room holding a candle and staring at Ezequiel… She started rocking back and forth by herself chanting the same lullaby again. I let the shower run so she wouldn’t notice I was done. I was going to run into the room and put a stop to it but that’s when I realized I had a missed message on my cellphone from my detective friend. He had sent it to me hours earlier, but I hadn’t seen it.

The text message said: Your wife’s family is from Massachusetts but not from Boston. They are originally from Salem. As far as I could find, they didn’t belong to any church. In fact, as weird as it may sound, it appears they were part of a Satanic cult. Which made me curious, so I dug a little deeper.

I found your wife’s records from the Massachusetts school board but couldn’t find her birth certificate… The reason is, she was not born in Massachusetts. She was adopted. Your wife was born in Argentina. Her biological mother was placed in an insane asylum after committing a heinous crime against a priest.

I used to think my mother was insane. The way she planted flowers wherever she wanted, instead of neatly in beds like my friend’s moms. The way she hung dried herbs in the kitchen and piled books around the house. It seemed like she always did the opposite of every other adult I knew.

​

The thing that probably got to me the most was her radical acceptance of every living thing.

“Oh, leave the wasp nest be, they eat the caterpillars!”

​

“Why would I bother the spiders in the bathroom? Do you see any other bugs?”

​

“Oh, leave poor Mr. Benson be. His bark is worse than his bite if you don’t cross him.”

​

I tried to understand my mom, but it was hard. She talked about balance and ecosystems, but my friends didn’t have cobwebs in their bathrooms, worry about getting stung in the yard, or chart a wide berth around mean old Mr. Benson.

​

Still, I tried. I left the wasps and spiders alone. I dutifully brought over the pies to Mr. Benson that my mom baked for him. He never opened the door, but he’d always leave the empty pie tin back on our porch within a day or two.

​

Then one night I walked home alone from my friend’s house. It wasn’t far, but there was a stretch of still, dark woods along the way that always made the hair on my neck rise.

​

Tonight was no different. Worse, in fact. The distance between the street lights seemed to stretch further and further. The feeling of being watched was intense. I knew mom was waiting for me on our porch, likely with a book and a mug of chamomile, but our house was still out of sight around the bend. With painfully few street lights to light the way.

​

My gut screamed at me to run, but I kept my pace. We had cougars around here, breaking into a run was a sure way for a kid like me to end up as dinner. Still, I picked my pace up and scanned the trees as I went.

​

Up ahead of me, the bushes rustled. I froze, feeling my heartbeat through my whole body. I was so focused on the woods ahead of me that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a guttural moan sounded from behind me.

​

I whipped around and time slowed to a crawl as my brain tried to compute what had staggered out of the woods and stood in the light of the closest streetlamp. It was a deer, at least, I think it was supposed to be. Standing on its hind legs, looking off into the distance, it heaved huge plumes of smoke into the chilly autumn air. Ribbons of flesh hung from its antlers and I wondered how I hadn’t smelled its stench sooner. I took an uncertain step backward and the creature's head snapped toward me.

​

I loved horror movies, but I always thought the characters were stupid. Always making the wrong moves, stepping on the twig or sneezing, going the wrong way. Not me, I'd think smugly. All of that smugness died as I saw the unnatural way the creature jerked toward me with sickening speed. I turned to run, and tripped and fell. Hyperventilating, I tried to crawl away, but I was shaking so hard my arms wouldn’t work properly. I didn’t know what else to do, so I curled into a ball, shaking as I heard its hooves drag closer. I lay there thinking about my mom. Hoping this creature wouldn’t find her next. Then I heard the bushes rustle again.

​

I felt rather than saw something large burst out of the trees and fly over me, pinning the creature to the ground with a vicious growl. Legs weak, I crab-walked away from them, unable to look away. This creature was hairy, massive and from the squealing sounds that the deer-creature was making, very hungry.

​

I crawled backward to the last streetlight before the bend in the road and stopped, still unable to stand. The hairy creature stood on its hind legs, like the deer had and turned toward me. I was too exhausted to try to run as it approached. This creature, however, began to change as it walked toward me. By the time it reached me, it had shrunk down to normal person-size and taken the shape of Mr. Benson.

​

He scanned the forest and then offered me a hand up, which I took. We both pretended not to see the wet stain on my pants. He cleared his throat.

​

“It’s late. You should head home.”

​

I nodded and turned to leave.

​

“Hey kid.”

​

I turned back to him.

​

“Tell your mom thanks for the pies.”

​

I nodded dumbly and broke into a run for home. I held it together pretty well too, until I saw my mom waiting on the porch. Then the sobs ripped through me as I threw myself into her arms. She quickly whisked me inside and within minutes I sat wrapped in a blanket with my own mug of chamomile. I gave her a halting account of my ordeal and finished gravely, “Mom, I think Mr. Benson is some kind of monster.”

​

She smiled and brushed the hair out of my eyes.

​

“Of course he is, sweetheart.”

​

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “You knew?”

​

“Well yes, do you see any other monsters around here?”

​

I used to think my mom was insane. Now I know she’s a genius.

​

x.

It caught my eye the moment I got behind the desk. The pamphlet was lightly wedged between a potted plant and a filing cabinet, no doubt having slipped someone’s hand and mind as papers were being shuffled around the nursing home. The pamphlet must’ve been casually dropped recently, yet it looked ancient. Its paper was yellowing and worn and the pages were ever so gently sticking together. Even its font, regal and as far from modern as one might go, seemed to come from a different time.

FLY WITH MORANA AIR TO PLACES YOU HAVE SEEN BUT FORGOTTEN!

Most of the adverts that would make their way through the nursing home would have large lettering to complement our clientele’s eyesight. The titles of the Morana Air flier were just as big as any other, yet the actual text of the ad was so miniscule even my healthy eyes couldn’t read it.

FLOAT! — the first page commanded. Beneath the title there was a scrawl of ant-sized literature and beneath the text there was a picture of an old bearded man. He was inside of a dark empty airplane and had a look of utter shock stamped on his face. He was floating.

GO FAR AWAY! — the next page ordered, accompanied with a photograph of a massive black airplane flying over a majestic cover of clouds. The photograph was composed like any other airline advert, but there was something wrong with that plane. Its wings were far too short to accommodate its long, raised hull. The plane didn’t look like it should be capable of flight.

TOUCH LOVED ONES! — the third page read. Beneath the title sat an image I could not decipher. I do not know whether it was a photograph or a drawing or some sort of collage. The image was dark, and within that darkness there were hands and wild faces caught in the midst of some religious rapture.

There were no images on the back of the flier. The space had been completely taken up by Morana Air’s supposed motto:

NEVER WEEP ALONE — FLY MORANA AIR!

I was new in the nursing home. It was my first shift without supervision. The flier seemed odd, sure, but there were plenty of other odd things in the Wolf Pines Assisted Living Facility for me to contend with. When I found the flier I simply tucked it away into one of the filing cabinets and pushed its queer offers far from my mind.

The holiday season was busy. Families would come to visit their relatives and the residents themselves would travel out of the facility to celebrate their Christmases. The paperwork associated with the visits, along with the occasional lonely resident who tried sneaking out with the crowds kept me occupied, yet a couple days after the new year I found myself thinking about Morana Air once more.

It was a stormy January night. I had done a couple night shifts before and learned to enjoy the calmness that they provided. By the time I clocked in, visitation hours were long over and no one ever called the nursing home past sundown. I grabbed myself a book and prepared to enjoy an evening of rainy solitude.

It didn’t occur to me for a while, and it certainly didn’t occur to me then, but that night was the first Friday of the month.

A couple minutes before midnight an orderly came in with a resident. Apparently, Mr. so-and-so had a taxi picking him up to take him to the airport. When I asked the resident where he was flying to, he stared back on in silence. When I asked the orderly, he simply shrugged.

No matter how hard I tried, the old man was impenetrable to my attempts at conversation. He would occasionally grunt to show that he had heard my questions, but he wouldn’t return a single word or look me directly in the eye. When I finally gave up and returned to my book, I found myself rereading the same paragraph over and over, unable to concentrate on the text.

That’s when the thought hit me — Morana Air.

I reached into the cabinet and found the flier exactly where I had left it a couple weeks prior. I grabbed it and took it to the resident, close enough that he could read the massive lettering on the front. The moment I showed the old man the flier, his cloudy eyes grew wide with shock. With a quickness I did not think he was capable of; he snatched the flier from my hands and shoved it in his coat.

The old man’s sudden burst of shock produced even more questions from me. Among other things, I wanted to know why he had snatched the flier away from me. With the first barrage of questions the old man still wouldn’t meet my eyes, yet when it became clear I wasn’t going to leave without answers he finally looked up.

“They don’t like it when you ask questions,” he said, in a voice balancing between a whisper and a wheeze. Then, he shifted his eyes to the floor from which they did not rise.

The old man’s words troubled me. After a couple more futile attempts at talking to him, I made my way back to the desk and called to make sure he was, indeed, meant to get on some midnight taxi. The orderly who had brought him picked up the phone and assured me that Mr. so-and-so’s paperwork was all in order and that his caretakers and family had signed off on the trip. If I wanted more information, the orderly said, I should get it out of the old man myself.

The phone call couldn’t have taken more than a minute or two but it was, to put it lightly, frustrating. The orderly had zero interest in the resident’s mental state and wasn’t the least bit concerned with the old man’s strange behavior. Seeing that sort of attitude from someone who is meant to take care of vulnerable people made me angry and through that anger I lost focus. Again, it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, and I doubt I was distracted enough to not notice the squeaky sliding door open or close — but when the orderly finally hung up on me, I found the old man gone.

The storm outside had picked up to a tropical degree, but in my panic I ran out into the frigid rain. Off by the gates of the nursing home I could see taillights turning off onto the main road.

The man had caught his taxi. His destination was a complete mystery to me and the idea of dropping off a senile man at the airport filled me with disgust, but both his caretakers and his family had signed off on the trip. I tried to content myself with the idea that I was simply doing my job and returned to my book. I tried hard to focus, but I kept reading the same three pages over and over again.

The Wolf Pines Assisted Living Facility had a staff room, but it was sparsely populated. People were always working and, when they had breaks, they would either smoke in front of the gates or, if they had a car, ride back home for lunch. From the few colleagues that I did find a moment to chat with, none were interested in my questions about Morana Air or the strange midnight taxi ride. Apparently, Morana was a charity that offered free senior trips to residents. That’s all my colleagues knew and cared to know.

The food served at the Wolf Pines cafeteria is better suited for the pallet of people half a century older than me, but the tables face a beautiful garden. Whenever I was working day shifts I’d pack a lunch and eat in the cafeteria. My breaks were pretty late, so the tables were mostly empty. Every once in a while though, some of the residents would join me and chat. They were considerably nicer than the employees and I really started to look forward to my lunch breaks.

When I asked the residents about Morana Air, however, they had no answers. A lady of about 90 said that one of her friends went on a Morana Air trip a couple weeks back. When I tried to find out where the trip went or whether her friend had talked about it, her memory was far too faded. She didn’t recall if her friend ever spoke of the trip. She couldn’t recall whether her friend had returned at all.

I had so many questions about Morana Air, yet as the weeks dragged on they lost their urgency. I had worked plenty of night-shifts since that January storm, yet nothing of interest happened. No one entered the building, no one left and the phone only rang once and that was purely because someone misdialed the last digit of a pizza parlor.

It was only three months later, at the start of April that the specter of Morana Air entered my life again. Just at around midnight a familiar orderly entered the lobby. He was accompanying a frail old man with a thinning beard. Rolling next to the resident was an oxygen tank. When I told the orderly that the airport might have an issue with the oxygen tank he simply shrugged.

Mr. so-and-so had a taxi coming for him to take him to the airport. His caretakers and his family had approved of the trip. It wasn’t the orderly’s job, or my job for that matter, to poke around the details.

I tried to talk to the old man but it was of no use. No matter how sweet or curious or direct I was, the man wouldn’t answer my questions or meet my eye. When I had finally given up and sat back down at my desk I could hear the faintest whisper from him.

“They don’t like it when you ask questions,” the old man said, and then took a drag from his oxygen mask.

There wasn’t a thunderstorm outside this time, so, when the taxi arrived; I could see it from my desk. Immediately, I got up and offered to help the resident to the car, but the old man shooed me off and then said something about “Them not liking it when anyone helps.”

The man shambled his way to the taxi, pulled his oxygen tank in and then the car drove off into the darkness. The return of the strange airport fare was a reminder of the Morana Air mystery, but it made me no wiser on the subject. I sat behind that desk all night long trying to make sense of what I had seen. By the time the sun rose I was no wiser on where Morana Air was taking the residents of Wolf Pines, but I had noticed a pattern.

Twice, they had come on the first Friday of the month.

I wasn’t scheduled for the May 5th night shift, but I made some uneven trades with the smokers outside the gates. When the first Friday of the month came again I was back behind that desk. My book stayed shut the whole night.

The orderly wasn’t of much help, but I didn’t expect him to be. The woman, likewise, wasn’t helpful in illuminating the mystery of Morana Air. When I started asking questions about where the taxi was going she averted her eyes and focused on fidgeting with her ring. I had some hope for getting information out of the traveling resident, but that was not the crux of my plan.

I was going to talk to the taxi driver. I was going to find out what happened with our residents when they reached the airport.

Outside, the night was calm and still. As if the driver knew I was waiting, the taxi didn’t come for a long time. When I registered the faintest bit of light in the driveway, however, I was on my feet and ready to ask questions.

When I approached the door the old lady blocked my path. She, much like the other midnight-riders, said that they did not like folks asking questions or going with company. When I demanded the old lady explain who they were she did not provide any answers. Instead, she slipped off her ring and offered it to me as payment.

I wasn’t someone to be bribed. I was looking out for her. All I wanted to do was talk to the taxi driver to make sure the old woman would be safe.

She offered the ring to me in scared whispers, yet when I declined her bribe the old woman’s demeanor completely changed. She turned aggressive. With shouts and swipes of her nails she demanded I let her through the front door to her taxi. The woman was frail and she posed no danger to me, yet her shouts had alerted a trio of orderlies who entered the lobby to investigate.

Her family and caretakers had signed off on the trip, they said. I was in no position to stop her or interview the taxi driver, they said.

By the time I got home I received a mass e-mail from Wolf Pines management. The e-mail did not name me directly, but it concerned the practice of exchanging shifts without notifying management. Exchanging shifts, according to the e-mail, was strictly forbidden and bordered on fraud. Anyone found partaking in this swindling of the company would be punished.

By the time I woke up I had a second e-mail waiting for me in my inbox. The e-mail, once again, came from Wolf Pines management but this time I was its only recipient. I was not just chastised for ‘manipulating one of my coworkers into exchanging shifts’ but also for ‘getting into a yelling match with one of the residents’ and ‘disparaging a charity that worked with the nursing home.’

Apparently, Morana Air graciously offered residents of Wolf Pines free trips to exotic destinations. That was all I needed to know. Any further questions weren’t welcome.

When I made my way to the afternoon shift my spirits were low. Getting chewed out in the two e-mails didn’t feel good, but more importantly I didn’t manage to confront the taxi driver and my chances at being able to do so again seemed nil.

Not long after I settled at my desk though, a familiar cab pulled into the driveway.

The taxi driver was a big burly guy but he spoke in a near whisper. Nervously, he asked me if I knew anything about the residents that leave the nursing home every first Friday of the month. I was beyond relieved to be talking to the man, but my response seemed to have scared him. When I asked where the customers went and whether they spoke about their journey in the car, he simply shook his head.

He said he just dropped them off at the airport, as he was instructed to do by dispatch. That was all he knew. Nothing weird happened on the rides.

I tried asking more questions, but the driver had suddenly become uninterested in talking to me. By the time I even said the words Morana Air he was already out the door.

For a brief moment I thought I could find answers, but then I was plunged back into darkness. The taxi driver’s reaction made me certain that there was something off about the midnight trips. The moment he saw that I also had questions about all the strange airport rides, he backed out. He had questions too, but he knew a lot more than he was letting on.

Halfway through my shift I got another visit. My boss dropped by my desk to repeat the fine points of the two e-mails I had received from management. Her tone was a lot nicer than the text, but within her friendly attitude and empathetic voice there was a clear message:

I wasn’t meant to ask more questions about Morana Air. They were a trusted partner of Wolf Pines and implying that their trips were somehow unsafe was not appropriate under any circumstances. If I was to keep my job, I was to stop asking questions.

Without much of a choice, I told my boss that my curiosity about Morana Air had been satisfied. I knew that I could no longer ask any of my coworkers, but for a couple of days I kept some hope alive for the taxi driver coming back. From the look on his face, I could tell that he knew that something was wrong with the midnight trips.

From the look on his face, I could tell that he felt guilty.

Yet the taxi driver never came back. As the weeks went on Morana Air went from being a mystery that consumed every waking moment of my internal monologue to an eerie curiosity that I would occasionally think about shortly before I fell asleep. I still didn’t know where the elderly residents of Wolf Pines were taken every first Friday of the month, but what I did know was that I couldn’t lose my job.

After the initial mystery of the midnight trips, my life in Wolf Pines attained a calming regularity. There was the occasional escape attempt for me to calmly prevent and every other week I’d get at least one mind-boggling phone call from an overbearing relative, but aside from that work was just as tranquil as it could be. I managed to make a big dent in my reading list with the night shifts and, on the busier day shifts, I always had my lunch breaks to look forward to.

Many of the friendships I had made in the cafeteria were tragically short, but such is the nature of friendships in nursing homes. Throughout the months I said goodbye to a lot of the old folks who would sit with me during lunch, but one stayed a constant — Gabriella.

Gabriella was a stout woman in her early 90s. Aside from the wrinkles on her face and the difficulty she had sitting down or getting up from her chair, you couldn’t tell though. Gabriella’s mind was sharper than most healthy adults I know and her sense of humor had the cut of a professional. She had spent most of her life teaching and had an endless supply of stories from all the corners of the country where she had taught. Whenever I went for lunch she’d be sitting by my usual spot, waiting for me. My chats with Gabriella quickly became the highlight of my work day.

I had mentioned Morana Air to her, once. The cafeteria workers seemed completely uninterested in anything past the lunch queue and there were no other members of staff in the room, yet I still found myself speaking about Morana in a whisper.

I was actually relieved when Gabriella said she had never heard of them. By then, the questions of the midnight rides were starting to slip from my mind. Gabriella not being familiar with Morana Air calmed me. I presumed there still was a taxi arriving at Wolf Pines every first Friday of the month to pick up our residents, yet without being involved myself the concept was abstract enough to forget about.

I had accepted that some mysteries were better left unexplored. I almost forgot about Morana Air all together, but last week I was given a horrid reminder.

It was a day like any other. I got off for my lunch break around three and Gabriella was already sitting at our usual table waiting for me with her tray of easily chewable food. Something about her was different though. That usual sharpness of mind that reflected in her eyes had dulled, or, more accurately, was flickering away. When I sat down she spoke no differently than she usually did, but every couple of sentences her eyes would glaze over and her articulation descended into the realm of a child.

At first, I simply thought that something was wrong with her in a medical sense. It was tragic, yes, but the woman was not too far from being a century old. I thought I was simply watching someone’s years catch up with them, but then, about halfway through my sandwich, Gabriella took out a familiar piece of paper.

FLY WITH MORANA AIR TO PLACES YOU HAVE SEEN BUT FORGOTTEN!

She said a handsome young man in a suit had come to her room last night and told her all about Morana Air. She would go on a trip far, far away and meet everyone she had missed for so long. She would fly high up in the sky and float and laugh and feel young once more. She would fly with Morana Air and, best of all, the trip was completely free.

When she spoke about the trip her voice lost all trace of the Gabriela I knew. Even though she was 90, when Gabriela spoke about Morana Air she took on the voice and look of a barely cognizant child.

I tried asking questions. I tried asking about who the handsome young man was or where she was flying to or why she would trust a mysterious travel company that she had never heard about before. To my questions, Gabriella simply shook her head:

“They don’t like it when you ask questions,” she said.

I had heard those words enough to not have any faith in getting past them. Instead of asking more questions, I asked Gabriella if I could borrow the pamphlet and give it back to her the following day. For a moment her eyes attained that same sharpness I was accustomed to. She gave me the pamphlet and then, with complete lucidity, asked me how my day was going.

I told her I had a meeting with the boss coming up and had to cut our lunch short.

Gabriella said she was looking forward to seeing me the next day.

I never saw her again.

I didn’t lie about the meeting. My boss wasn’t expecting me, but I did meet her. Pamphlet in hand and with fifteen minutes left on my lunch break, I went to her office and repeated my qualms about Morana Air. She was surprised to see me unearth the forbidden topic months after I was told to drop it, but when I showed her the pamphlet, when I told her about the “handsome young man” that came into the rooms of one of the residents last night — my superior’s demeanor changed. Holding the pamphlet by the tips of her fingers as if it was covered with filth, she started to ask questions.

For the first time since I started working at Wolf Pines, I saw my boss become visibly concerned. She spoke slowly, calculating each word. She wanted me to tell her, in detail, about all of the midnight shifts I had worked where residents left for Morana Air flights. She asked about the taxi driver and the woman who tried to give me the ring and then, when I had answered all of her questions and posed some of my own — she fired me.

My termination had nothing to do with Morana Air. I had left the reception desk unattended for over ten minutes. That was unacceptable. When I tried to argue the decision she summoned a familiar orderly that showed me the door.

I’ve checked before — I’ve checked many, many times before — but there’s still no trace of Morana Air online. They have no website, they have no way to book flights and there isn’t a trace of evidence of them ever having any charity programs for senior citizens.

I’ve been warned that if I tried to go to Wolf Pines Assisted Living Facility under any circumstances, the authorities would be contacted and charges would be pressed. The last thing I want to do is end up in cuffs, but as I watch the days count down to the start of the month I can’t help but to wonder what will happen to Gabriella.

I can’t help but wonder where the midnight taxi will take her.

(This is a second version, after many of you had questions that I had neglected to answer in my original post. Well, here are those answers, and a lot more graphic details.

***Trigger Warning for if you have a phobia of worms or vomiting)

Charlie was a pretty strange kid. I mean, not because he was a loner, or because he had absolutely no friends, but because there was something a little off about him. You see, Charlie ate worms, and I don’t mean like the kid who would pluck one out of the ground and slurp it down to gross everyone out for their own amusement. No, Charlie wasn’t like that. Most kids would say they were afraid to even get near him because they might smell the worm guts on his breath.

Charlie always ate lunch by himself. I remember watching him dig into his plastic lunchbox to pull out his thermos and the normal food, you’ll know what I mean by ‘normal’ in a moment, but the one thing that he cherished lay in a plastic bowl. He popped the lid off with a big, hungry smile on his face that was so big it lifted his glasses up his face, he dug through the dirt inside the bowl and found a big, plump and juicy worm that he then slurped into his mouth like it was spaghetti. The worm wriggled for dear life as it was sucked into his disgusting orifice. More than once, this little show made a nearby kid hurl all over the floor.

“Shawn’s gonna puke!” I announced loudly, making sure that the entire cafeteria heard.

“Puke! Puke! Puke! Puke!” the other kids would cheer.

The kid would spew their lunch all over the floor, prompting the grumpy old janitor to throw sawdust on the stinking pile and clean it up with resentment toward the weird little worm kid.

There were rumors going around the school that Charlie had been tested by various doctors at various hospitals. Some kids thought maybe he was psychotic, and the religious kids concluded that he was possessed by worm-eating demons because the Bible made some connection with worms and evil. According to the rumors, the doctors concluded that he had pica, which is a disorder where people crave things they wouldn’t normally want, like rocks, lotion… or even worms. Some friends of mine claimed that their parents knew Charlie’s parents, and their parents had said that Charlie was put on various supplements and vitamins, but he still wanted worms. His cravings were insatiable, to the point of addiction.

The school administrators, as grossed out as they were, could do little to Charlie. My friends said that his parents had been infuriated when the principal had made Charlie eat in a room by himself, saying that they were discriminating against poor Charlie because he had an odd craving for snacks. His parents were threatening to get lawyers involved if they didn’t treat Charlie as an equal to the rest of us. Much to our dismay, we had to watch Charlie, from the corner of our eyes, as he dined on his wormy delicacy with the giggling ecstasy as if it were candy.

I believe the following events happened around Christmas of our fifth grade year. One thing that I remember is that it was snowing and Charlie was dining on less and less worms. I concluded it was due to the frigid weather. My dad had become acquainted with Charlie’s dad through his job earlier that year and they had become friends, and so, they had arranged a ‘playdate’. I argued that I was eleven and kids my age don’t do ‘playdates’. I also reminded him about Charlie’s gross habits, but they just threatened to ground me if I didn’t go

“Oh, come on. He can’t be that bad. So what if he eats worms sometimes? There’s always that kid in class and they are just as normal as you are.”

“But you don’t understand dad! It’s every day! Not just sometimes! The other kids will make fun of me too if they know I hung out with him!”

“His dad and I have talked a lot about it, and Charlie sounds like a lonely kid who just needs a friend. Maybe being friends with you will straighten him out?”

I remember thinking, “God, please, I hope the other kids don’t find out.”

Sure enough, they did somehow. I’m going to assume that my parents told some other kids’ parents that they worked with. Living in a small town really sucks that way.

“Brody is a worm eater too!”

“Hey worm eater, how many worms did ya eat today?”

“If you need something to snack on, ask Charlie!”

“Do you have a hard time brushing the worm guts out of your teeth or do you even bother?”

“I think I see the worm guts stuck between his teeth! Ewwwwww!”

Ya know, typical immature grade school verbal annihilations like that. I would go home and cry, wondering how my parents could be so cruel. I would wonder what I had done to deserve such a punishment. Was this karma for all the times I had made fun of him? All the times I had rooted kids on while they barfed all over the beaten up hardwood floors of the cafeteria after seeing Charlie woof down a few wiggling treats?

The fateful day had come and I agonizingly climbed into the car, trying to mentally prepare myself for the horror of what I might see as we drove to his house. To my surprise, it actually appeared quite normal. The house was a white split level with a driveway that had two parked sedans – pretty much like every other home in the area. Nothing appeared menacing about it on the outside, and it calmed my nerves a bit.

“Charlie’s in the kitchen eating some lunch,” his mom said, pointing to where that was.

“Oh great,” I thought, “I’m gonna have an up-close view of him chowing down on worms.” My stomach rolled and heaved, it took all I had to hold down the acidic vomit trying to force its way out of my esophagus.

I slowly, and I mean as slow as a slug, walked toward the kitchen. To be on the safe side, I paused to look around the corner before I stepped even a foot in. To my surprise, he was eating a salad and a sandwich, with a glass of orange juice. I recall thoughts racing through my head as I was trying to conclude what was really going on. I thought that maybe he was really eating worms for attention after all, maybe it was a desperate cry for some sort of human contact, and maybe he was just a really lonely little weird kid.

“Uh, hi, Charlie,” I said nervously as I approached a chair to sit down. I pulled the chair out with caution, just in case of a sudden movement toward a plastic bowl he might've hidden somewhere for dessert. I said to myself, that if he did, I was going to peace out like a bullet.

He chewed his leafy salad, not looking up at me for several moments, but eventually his eyes moved up to mine.

“Hi,” he said through a crunch.

I paused, thinking of what to even say in such an awkward moment. I finally went for a very 90s thing to say. “Do you have a Super Nintendo?”

He nodded.

“Well, I brought some of my games if you want to play them with me.”

He nodded again as he crunched more salad.

I can’t recall what I said but I tried to make more idle talk with him but he just didn’t respond. He just kept eating his food. I wished my dad hadn’t left because the awkwardness made me want to just flee even more.

Finally, he finished his lunch and pushed himself from the table.

“Let’s go to my room and play some games.”

I felt relief when he finally said something, and it was normal, but now I began to wonder what his room was like. Was it filled from floor to ceiling with his slimy, red snacks? Was the floor maybe covered in dirt, filled with the worms? We went down the hall where I walked into a pretty normal mid-90s boys bedroom – Power Rangers posters on the wall, a fat TV sitting on a tiny table with a Super Nintendo on the floor, action figures scattered in random places, a bunk bed used by just one kid. I noticed too that his room didn’t smell bad or appear all that gross. A feeling of regret came over me that maybe I had been wrong about Charlie all along and that maybe I should apologize at some point.

“Last year, for my birthday, I asked my parents for a bunk bed for me and a friend to have sleepovers. You’re the first to ever hang out with me.”

That made me feel good but also bad for all the times I had mocked him and acted horribly toward him, for all the rude nicknames, and for alienating him with our cruelty.

We had been playing games for probably an hour, when he paused the game to stand up and stretch.

“Let’s go to the basement. I have something cool to show you.”

Intrigued, I followed him. I wonder if this was where his parents had a full blown arcade, one that was free and you could play as much as you wanted? I had these crazy, unrealistic ideas that only a child could have. My God, was I in for a shock.

The basement was dark, except for a few dimly lit halogen lights that hung above three large boxes filled with dirt. They were about four feet wide, eight feet long, and four feet high.

“This is where my beauties grow and live.”

It took me a few moments, but realization kicked in. He was talking about worms, and boy, do you want to talk about a holy shit moment. Every nerve in my body shuttered and I felt ice cold. My gut churned, threatening to release everything I had eaten that day, but somehow, I managed to suppress it.

I tried to stop myself from walking but my legs kept going. I didn’t want to go any further and I’m not sure why I did. Was it pure curiosity? Was it the urge to have some questions answered? Or was I just that stupid? I honestly think it was a little of all those. Curiosity is a very strong force.

The basement smelled of earth and something else that I couldn’t quite place. It reminded me of a time when I had found a dead deer by the side of a road and it had appeared to have been laying there for days, its belly had burst open from the trapped necrotic gasses that needed to escape. This smell was like that but fainter.

I looked over into one of the bins and saw ordinary looking soil.

“These are the beds where my babies grow,” he said as he reached for something underneath it. “And this is what I feed them.”

In his hand was a bucket filled with vegetable scraps. He evenly spread them out across the dirt with gentle care.

“But sometimes, they deserve a snack as well.”

Charlie walked over to a shelf and removed a plastic cooler, the type you would take on a picnic. He popped open the lid, to reveal a stench like the one I had been smelling. This is part of the story that is difficult to write and I had to take a few moments before doing so. Here goes.

From the cooler, he pulled out a partially dismembered cat. Its head and back legs were missing, but the rest was there. It was rigid from rigor mortis and had obviously decomposed partially as well. Charlie laid the animal corpse on another shelf, where he produced a large chopping knife and whacked off one of the legs with a swift strike. I was mortified. I had no idea what he was going to do with it, but I was even more scared that I was about to find out. “Ya know, Brody. You really are the first to come here. I’ve tried and tried the last few months. My parents work with lots of other parents from school and none of them had the backbone to make their kid come over here. Except yours did.”

“I trained them myself, ya know. I bred them specifically for this. When you saw me eating them, I wasn’t eating them for the taste. No. I was eating them so I could understand them. I thought that if I ate them, then I could become like them. I want to control the worms, to have them do as I say!” he began giggling erratically, “You see, Brody. I don’t want to be friends with you or anyone else. In fact, I hate you. You see, I brought you here for something… new.”

I struggled to free myself, but Charlie had bound my arms and legs with so much duct tape that I just couldn’t budge. Screaming proved to be futile as well but I tried like hell to get out of that damned chair. It rocked just slightly as I attempted to free myself, but Charlie, well he just laughed and laughed.

He started walking toward me, but then he paused by the worm bed. He searched under the table and took out a probe connected to a wire that he stuck into the ground. It was connected to some kind of gadget, and when he pressed a button, thousands of worms immediately came to the surface. Charlie scooped up a handful and then continued walking toward me, now with an enormous, eager grin stretching his face.

The duct tape ripped off with a vicious rip. It was then that I realized my mouth had been rigged open by some kind of device. That was when it dawned on me what he was about to do. With that sickening grin on his face, Charlie gleefully shoved the handful of worms into my mouth. I immediately could taste the awful bitter sensation of slimy bitterness and earth. But that wasn’t the worst of it. It was feeling these fucking things wriggle around inside my mouth. I tried to vomit, but nothing happened.

All of that was nothing compared to the next. When they began to move down my throat, that was when it was much easier to gag. But, even as I could feel the burning bile make its way up my esophagus, Charlie stuffed something in my mouth and taped it over, trapping all of it. I began to choke on everything that was stuck in my mouth and throat, but I could still feel the worms making their way down into my now empty stomach.

Oh God. I can hardly even begin to describe the feeling of worms moving around in my belly. I swear that I could even feel them through my skin working around my insides. That was when Charlie clicked a device in his hand. Suddenly, the worms stopped the adventure in my body and… began to eat. This is also a sensation that I cannot describe. The pain was worse than the time I nearly snapped my leg in half in kindergarten, worse than in second grade when I was hit by a baseball that I’d pitched and it’d broken my nose. This was burning deep within my guts that felt like absolute fire. This was not like people describe various illnesses, oh no… this felt like Hell, like Satan himself had come up from the dark pits of torment to wreak havoc on me.

God must’ve had mercy on me at this point because his mother decided to walk into the basement searching for us. “Kids! I’ve been looking for,,,, OH MY GOD!!!!”

Charlie was all over the news for weeks after. They talked about the kid who had murdered countless pets and had been feeding them to his worm farm, then tried to do the same with a classmate. He was even interviewed once and he told the interviewer “He was the first. There were lots more that were on the menu” as he laughed.

His parents were immediately taken into custody, and mine nearly were. His parents were held accountable for neglect because they hadn’t kept a better eye on us. My parents were investigated by Child Protective Services for forcing me to go in the first place. They said they thought they were doing me good by introducing me to the kid of a work friend. Dad said he had planned on coming by later and having a beer with Charlie’s dad. He said he had seen nothing wrong with Charlie's parents but he wishes he had met Charlie beforehand and maybe this whole thing could’ve been avoided. As if what I had told him and complained about wasn’t enough?

For an entire year, I had to live with my grandma a whole state away while the courts investigated my parents. I eventually requested that I stay with my grandma so that I wouldn’t have to be reminded of what Charlie had done, and because I couldn't forgive my parents. The courts obliged and handed my rights over to good ol' grandma. To this day, I still haven’t spoken to my parents.

I had countless surgeries to repair my organs. They had to cut a few feet of intestines, repair my stomach, everything in my throat, and even my nasal passages had been infested with the worms. My life has been difficult at times. I’ve had to have a few surgeries since due to stomach complications, and I have a very strict diet. I also see a therapist every week. My grandma took me to one not long after the incident, who insisted that I forgive my parents as closure. I never saw that quack again. This one though, I like her. She tells me that I have every right to be angry at my parents and everyone involved. I couldn't agree more.

The reason that I decided to write this is because Charlie was recently featured on a popular television series about psychotic family members. His parents starred in it, they’re now gray and wrinkled, and they spoke about how there had been signs of his psychosis but they had chosen to ignore it. They thought it was just a childhood phase. A recent mugshot of Charlie was also shown. He’s now bald and chubby, but the thing that got me was that smile on his face. It looked as if he had been laughing. That smile said he had felt absolutely no guilt for what he had done and that wishes he had been able to feed the rest of me to his children.

I have written here before about my job at Ultima Resort (1,2,3,4,5). It has been an uneventful couple of weeks at the resort, so I haven’t really had much to chronicle, lately. I truthfully prefer it that way. Interesting isn’t generally good thing, around here. When there are no guests for a time, we get a bit of a break. We still need to do the cleaning, gardening and lay out meals, but that is a pleasant rest, compared to when guests are around. Unfortunately, it couldn’t last and recently, the streak was broken.

I was cleaning mildew from the shower grout with a toothbrush. I scrubbed carefully around the faucet and along the edges of the tub, leaving it gleaming white. Despite everything, there was satisfaction in doing a job well and in hard work…

Oh, come on, you don’t believe all that garbage, do you?

I jumped, dropping the toothbrush, which clattered against the bottom of the empty tub. I still wasn’t used to the voice suddenly speaking in mind. It seemed to prefer that, speaking at irregular intervals after long periods of silence. Irritated, I bent to pick up the toothbrush and resumed my scrubbing,

“Of course, I do. You don’t find any value in a task well done?”

The disdainful scoff echoed through my head,

Must be a human thing. I do not find any pleasure in tedium or monotony. In fact, I go to great lengths to avoid it.

“Is that what this place is, then, entertainment?”

Among other things, I could feel the smile. Though sometimes there are unfortunate lulls.

“Well, I will try to be more interesting for you, demon,” I rolled my eyes.

Must you call me that? Demon is such an ugly label, invented by the ignorant.

“What should I call you then? You refuse to give me a name.”

Names have power, my dear.

“Maybe I could give you a fake name, then,” I mused. “How about Buttons? Peanut? Sunshine?”

You seek to aggravate me by naming me like a pet. It will not work.

“Really? Because you seem irritated, Muffin,” I grabbed the toilet brush and started scrubbing. I couldn’t let him distract me from my work. I still needed a room, after all, and he certainly wasn’t going to help with that.

You will treat me with due respect.

“I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m doing,” I flushed the toilet and stood to wash my hands. In the mirror, blood covered my face, dripping down my chin. I ignored it, he has just being a jerk.

You shall address me as Alloces. That seems appropriate.

I snorted,

“Ars Goetica? Really? I’m not calling you that. How about we compromise? I’ll call you Al.”

I took his petulant failure to answer as agreement. I headed out to the hall to retrieve towels from my cart.

I don’t see why you resist me. What about this existence is worth holding onto, exactly? The guilt, the pain, the boredom, the menial labor, the servitude? What is it you press on for?

“As long as I am alive, it could always get better.”

It could also get worse. Why suffer any more than you have to? I could help you, if you let me.

“You need to work on your pitch, honestly. It is pretty obvious you just want my body, so that you can leave this place and do whatever your kind do, out in the world.”

Of course I want that, I never denied it. But that doesn’t mean there can’t be any benefit to you. I am open to negotiation. There really are things I could help you with. We could even leave here together, if you wanted. There is no reason we couldn’t share your body, equally.

“Why are you bothering with this? New people come in all the time. You could get a body, free and clear, no negotiations.”

Perhaps. But do you have any idea how long I have been waiting? How long I might need to wait? There are many thousands of us here, searching for a host. More come all the time. It is a matter of luck who claims a host. If I give up this opportunity, it might be decades before I get another chance. So, you are stuck with me, until we come to terms. Might as well just accept it.

“Well, there is nothing you can offer me that is worth giving you even part of my body, permanently. So, I suppose we are at an impasse.”

I think you just lack imagination. There are many things I could offer. We will work something out, eventually.

“Look…” the sound of the bell in reception interrupted my thought. “We’ll have to continue this later,” I muttered, heading for the stairs. “I need to greet our guests.”

I arrived at the desk to find a young man with sandy hair, carrying a bag. He studied my face as I approached the desk, and his lip curled up in a look I could only interpret as disgust.

“Is your manager here, honey?” he asked.

Confused, I raised an eyebrow,

“I’m sorry, I’m the only one working the desk right now. How can I help you?”

He frowned,

“I suppose if you are the only one here, it will have to do. Fine. I have a reservation. Quinton Pryce. Do you need me to spell that for you?”

I shook my head.

“Now, I have someone joining me tomorrow. Her name is Melanie Tyler. I have very specific instructions for how I want her greeted, when she arrives,” he stared at me expectantly.

I nodded,

“I’ll be happy to help with whatever I can, sir.”

“Then get out a piece of paper, you are going to need to write this down, you won’t remember.”

I sighed, then searched my drawers for a pen and notepad. Holding them up so that he could see I had followed his instructions, I poised the pen above the pad and waited.

“Very good. See, take my advice, if you get better organized, it will enable you to offer your customers superior service. In the future, I shouldn’t even need to ask. Anticipating my needs like this is basically a requirement in your line of work. Make sure you always have that notepad ready, in case I have more to ask of you.”

I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I couldn’t hit the customers, and nodded.

“Of course, sir. I apologize for the inconvenience. Now, what can I do for you?”

“She will be arriving in the morning. She doesn’t know that she is meeting me, it is a surprise. She thinks she is meeting a client named ‘Joel Smith’, who wants to plan an event here. You will not contradict that, do you understand? If you want a tip at the end of this, Mel must not be suspicious at all.”

I nodded slowly; I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

“Just tell her Mr. Smith is waiting for her and send her to my suite. I will handle the rest.”

He must have noticed the uncomfortable look on my face, because he hurriedly explained,

“It is a surprise for our anniversary. I am planning to propose, and I want this weekend to be perfect,” he pulled a box from his pocket and proudly displayed the large diamond ring inside. As I glanced at it, he snapped the box shut, “Don’t tell her about that, obviously.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Write it down,” he rolled his eyes.

I made a show of jotting it down on my pad.

Perhaps you were right, Al purred in my mind. I am missing a golden opportunity with this one.

I wanted to tell him to take his shot, then, but talking to myself in front of other people would only make me look nuts. He seemed to know anyway, though.

Don’t worry. I would never really abandon you. We are partners now.

I grimaced involuntarily at that news.

“You have a problem, sweetie?”

“No, sir. Apologies. Do you have anything you need taken to your room?” my finger hovered over the call button.

“I have a few things in my car, but I don’t want anyone touching them. I will go back for them later.”

“Very well, sir,” I lifted a key from the rack. “Follow me and I will take you to your room. May I carry your bag?”

I reached for the bag, but he yanked it away, covering it protectively with one arm,

“No! I’m fine. Besides, it’s heavy, you couldn’t manage it anyway.”

I nodded and I led him up the stairs to room 308.

“I don’t want to be disturbed. No one is to come into my room,” he instructed, standing at the threshold.

I dutifully pretended to write a note about it.

“Good girl, now you are getting it,” he smiled indulgently, for a moment I was worried he would pat me on the head. “You see how much this improves your ability to do the job? You will thank me, later.”

“Of course, sir,” I smiled through clenched teeth. “Dinner is available until 8pm, or you can call for room service until 11.”

Pryce slammed the door in my face. I sighed and turned back to the stairs, to find Manny just reaching the third floor.

“New guest?”

I nodded.

“I thought Vincent was going to help you with check-ins?”
“He said he would, but he never came. Maybe he didn’t hear the bell,” I shrugged.

“You can hear that bell in every corner of this building and on the lawns. He’s in the woods again, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” I admitted. “I warned him against it, but he won’t listen. He thinks if he can find that diamond, all his problems will be solved, and he will get to leave.”

“That isn’t how this works. It is dangerous out there.”

“I told him that.”

“So, this is just another form of gambling for him, then,” Manny sighed. “It won’t end well.”

“You never know, he could figure things out, before anything happens.”

“He could, but we both know he won’t,” he ran a hand through his greying hair. “Just, be careful around him. See he doesn’t drag you down, too.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Manny was already walking away. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

He’s right, you know, Al piped up. Smart guy, Manny. It’s how he has lasted this long. You should listen to him.

“Ugh, when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” I muttered under my breath.

Alright, if you don’t want my opinion on the new guest, I’ll keep it to myself.

I paused,

“What about the new guest?”

Oh, so you are asking, now?

“Yes, I’m asking.”

Well, he certainly won’t be here for long, Al chuckled. He has already decided what he will trade his life for, and once the trade is made, he will belong to us. If my brethren are clever, they might even get a two for one deal out of this one.

“What does that mean?”

His only response was a low chuckle that set my teeth on edge.

“So, you know why he came here? Why all of us came here?”

Of course. Your kind all stink of your desires, your fears, your regrets. I have often wondered how you don’t notice.

“Must be a human thing. So, why is he here?”

If I told you that, it would ruin all the fun, he smirked. You’ll see soon enough.

“That reminds me,” I continued, walking back to the fourth floor where I had left my cart. “You said something about the bride a while back that I meant to ask about.”

I did?

“You said ‘they don’t want her’. As if it was obvious, she wasn’t going to be possessed. How did you know? She had certainly done worse than many of the people here.”

What do you think this place is? Al chuckled. Do you think we lure and punish the guilty? The wicked?

“Well, it does seem that the people here are often guilty of something.”

Sure, but it is the guilt we want, not the sin. We want a suitable host, nothing more. We cannot take a life unless it is freely given, and people with strong guilt and regret are more likely to be willing to give up their lives, with the right motivation. If we orchestrate things correctly, they want us to take them, by the end. As you will. The bride would never have willingly given herself to us. Why would she? She had no shame, no regret, nothing she was fleeing from. She was, in fact, admirably self-interested. In short, she was a poor candidate.

“But the new guy is a good candidate?”

Oh, absolutely. He reeks of self-loathing and desperation. It won’t take much of a push for him.

I rolled that information around in my mind. Was this useful for me? Well, I did know he couldn’t take my mind without my permission. That was good, it meant I just had to refuse him, and there was nothing he could do. That should be easy, right? I bit my lip. Maybe. I finished storing away my cart and headed down to the dining room. It was time to prepare for dinner service.

I entered the dining room to see Vincent standing over by the wine rack, when he heard me enter, he jumped and spun around.

“Lucy, when did you get here?”

“Just now. What are you doing?”

“Just dusting the wine bottles,” Vincent rubbed the back of his neck.

“Where were you earlier? I thought you were going to come and help me with the new guests?”

“There was another guest? I must have been out in the gardens when they came, sorry.”

“Ok. Well, you want to help me prep for dinner?”

“Sure.”

We probably shouldn’t have bothered, no one showed up for the dinner service. It was 10:30 when the call for room service finally came in. A rare steak, absolutely no vegetables. Quinton Pryce was very emphatic that there should be no plant matter on his plate. I hung up the phone and turned to the chef to request the meal.

“Hey, Vincent?”

“Yeah?” he looked up from the wine rack, where he was organizing bottles. He had been drifting over there all night.

“You want to take this up?” I offered.

“I’m sort of busy here,” he shrugged. “I’m trying to finish organizing these chronologically.”

He lifted a bottle, dusted it off and studied the label in a way that seemed a little performative.

“Alright, I guess I’ll go, then,” I sighed and grabbed the cloche.

As I headed up the stairs, Al piped up,

He is hiding something, you know.

“Gee, I hadn’t figured that out. Thank you for your insight,” I rolled my eyes. “If you are going to talk, you could at least be useful.”

Oh? He perked up at that. How can I be useful to you?

“I could use some advice on getting rid of an irritating roommate,” I muttered.

He laughed,

I could help with that.

“You know I am talking about you, right?” I raised an eyebrow.

Of course I do, his tone was saccharine sweet, putting my teeth on edge. And I will tell you how to get rid of me, if you want.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” I had a feeling I was going to regret asking, but maybe it was some sort of reverse psychology, and he would actually say something I could use.

Help me break the new guest. I will take him, and leave you to your own devices, I felt his grin behind my eyes.

“What?”

It’s very simple. All I want is a host. It doesn’t have to be you. Help me obtain another and you are free to go, without me.

“I’m not going to help you shatter and person’s mind and possess their body.”

You wouldn’t be so quick to say that, if you knew what I knew about why he is here, about his desires, Al laughed.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be as quick, but the answer would still be no.”

Suit yourself. I wasn’t really planning to leave you, anyway, Al chuckled, unbothered. I told you, you are stuck with me.

“Unless I manage to escape.”

True, true, he replied good naturedly. I can’t leave this place, as I am now. But you won’t, either. Not without my help. And I will not be giving that, unless you agree to take me with you.

“Not happening.”

That is what they all say. Give it time. Everyone has a price, and I will find yours, eventually. Why not save us both some time and trouble and at least make a request.

“That would imply I want to save you trouble,” I fell silent as I reached the door for room 308.

I knocked briskly, eager to get this over with and get to bed. As the door opened a crack, the smell of oil paint wafted from the room and Pryce poked his head into the hallway. His eyes landed on me and narrowed.

“You again? Does this hotel not employ anything but females?”

“I’m sorry, sir?” how else do you respond to that?

“Look, I don’t want you to get upset, but I really think I would prefer a man serve me, from now on. I don’t need anyone female coming to my room late at night. It isn’t appropriate.”

I blinked, staring at him silently for a long moment.

“Maybe this is hard for you to understand,” he continued, speaking slowly. “I know you are probably looking for some rich man to marry, to take you away from all of this, but I am not available. My fiancée is the only girl I am interested in.”

“That’s great for you,” I held out the cloche. “I’ll get out of your way, then.”

His nose wrinkled in irritation, but he took the dish and spun to head back into his room. As he did, his door opened a little, exposing a large, partially finished painting of a young woman propped up on an easel in the middle of the room. The pallet and brushes indicated that he was currently working on it. The woman depicted was pale, with long, flowing straw-colored hair and dark brown eyes. Feathered white wings burst from her shoulder blades, but she was fettered, wings and limbs wrapped in chains. Despite this, the expression on her face was… ecstatic; absolute, rapturous joy. As I stared into the shining eyes, that cried tears of blood, the door slammed shut.

I just stood there for a moment. The painting had been good, amazing, even, but it left me feeling disturbed, somehow. A creeping dread clawed at my stomach.

So, are you sure you don’t want play with him, just a little? Al wheedled.

The interruption broke me from my reverie.

“I’m going to bed.”

I turned on my heel and headed off down the hall. It was getting late.

The morning was uneventful. I did my chores, worked on balancing the books, set out breakfast that went uneaten. It was a shame; the cinnamon rolls were pretty good. The only odd thing was that Vincent was being unusually solicitous. He followed me closely around the dining room, asking if there were any jobs he could take on. I assumed it was because he blew me off yesterday.

“So, what do you think the new guy is here for?” he asked, mopping the floor to remove the red brown pawprints in what I chose to believe was mud.

I shrugged,

“Hard to say. He said he is waiting for someone, so I think that when they arrive, things will probably begin.”

“When is that supposed to happen?”

“He said this morning…” I was interrupted by the chime of the bell. “Speak of the devil.”

That elicited a small chuckle from somewhere inside my ears. I wasn’t sure if it was good that I amused a demon or not. I shook it off.

“Are you going to help me check her in, this time?” I asked.

“Look, I am sorry about yesterday. I’m here now,” he put the mop in the dark red water and headed for the lobby. “Let’s go.”

I pushed through the door behind him to see a young woman in a sharp pantsuit at the desk, looking down at a large binder of photos and swatches. She must be the event planner that was expecting to meet ‘Joel Smith’. As we approached, she looked up and I froze mid-step. I knew her. The hair was different, dyed a pale blue and long on the top with a modern undercut, and there were no wings, but the face and eyes were unmistakable. She was the woman from the painting. I stared for a moment, wondering what that meant, before realizing I was being foolish. Pryce had said he was planning to propose, so obviously he had painted it for her, perhaps as a gift. The chains had unsettled me, but who was I to judge? He was an artist, maybe it was symbolic. Vincent cleared his throat from behind the desk, startling me back to reality.

“Welcome to Ultima Resort. Do you have a reservation?” he asked, politely.

I needed to remind him to smile more, it would help to hide the apprehension he was currently displaying.

“Actually, I am here to meet someone on business,” she demonstrated a broad smile for him. “My client, Joel Smith, said I should ask for him at the desk, and you would point me to his room.”

“I don’t think there is anyone here named…” Vincent began.

“Of course, ma’am,” I interrupted quickly. I had forgotten to tell him about the false name. “Mr. Smith is waiting for you up in room 308.”

“Thank you. If I may say, this is a beautiful resort. I am so glad that Mr. Smith decided to plan his event here. Perhaps you would be interested in setting up a partnership?” she drew a gold-embossed card from her purse. “You see, I am an event planner, and I am looking for new venues to book events. I am trying to avoid the usual venues in my town,” she shuddered slightly. “But finding new places and rebuilding those relationships is so difficult.”

“Is there a problem with the local venues?” I knew better than to ask questions, but sometimes I couldn’t help myself.

“Oh, no, they are great. It’s just that I always use the same 4 or 5 venues, and it has gotten too predictable. It is safer to adjust my routine, until I have saved up enough to move.”

“Safer?”

Mel laughed uncomfortably,

“Did I say safer? I just meant that falling into a routine gets boring. Clients want things that are new and fresh, you know? You have to have variety.”

I nodded, letting the matter drop.

“Well, what kind of partnership did you have in mind?”

“I thought perhaps I could leave some of my cards and you could point guests in my direction, and I could, of course, steer my own clients here, for their events.”

“Well, I will have to consult our owners, but I will certainly take some cards,” I replied, knowing that this was never going to happen.

“Thank you,” she beamed. “Now, I should get up to Mr. Smith’s room. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

Mel grabbed her rolling case and her sample book and rushed for the stairs.

“Do you need help with the case?” Vincent asked.

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you!” she paused while he caught up and lifted her case, then they both headed up the stairs.

I returned to the dining room and resumed mopping.

Vincent returned a short time later, looking uneasy.

“You didn’t tell me about the new guest’s face.”

“What?” I looked up from the now gleaming floor.

“His face. It was all wrapped in bandages, and his voice was all raspy. He said he had been burned in a fire.”

“Are you sure you took her to 308?”

“Of course I did, I know how to count,” he looked offended.

“I only ask because that doesn’t sound like the man I took up to 308 yesterday. He was pretty ordinary looking. Definitely no bandages or burns. What did the planner say?”

“She seemed to be expecting it, greeted him as Mr. Smith right away and went into the room.”

“Huh. Well, perhaps it was a disguise.”

“Why would he be wearing a disguise?”

“Pryce said he made an appointment with her as ‘Joel Smith’ so he could draw her here for a surprise marriage proposal. Maybe he didn’t want her to recognize him until they were alone in the room.”

“A marriage proposal?” Vincent raised an eyebrow. “That’s odd. She gave me the impression that she was single.”

“Oh? You weren’t with her for that long, how did that come up?”

“She asked when I got off work and wanted to join me for a drink after her meeting.”

“What did you say?”

“I let her down easy, she isn’t my type, after all. She was nice about it, said that was about her luck with men, lately. She hasn’t been on a date in months because she is too afraid to make a date on any of the apps.”

“Why?”

“Well, apparently, she had a really bad first date a while back and now, no matter which app she uses, she keeps showing up to dates and finding the same guy. He has been using dozens of fake accounts, following her at work, chasing off anyone else she meets. I felt bad for her, she seemed really spooked by the whole thing.”

I stared at Vincent,

“So, you are telling me that she is single, and she has a stalker who uses false identities to lure her into meetings?”

“That’s what she said…” he trailed off as he realized. “We need to get back up there.”

I hesitated for a moment. We weren’t really supposed to interfere in these matters and it never ended well when I tried… but I couldn’t shake the thought of the painting, the chains.

See? I told you he didn’t deserve your pity, Al noted.

“You knew about this?” I asked under my breath.

Of course. I said that he already decided what he would trade his life for. So, we brought her to him.

“You can make her love him?”

Of course not. We don’t change people’s emotions, only enhance what is already there. She loathes him, fears him. We cannot change that.

“So, what happens when he learns that?”

Who knows? That is the fun part, his enthusiasm was clear. What will the two of them do? How will she react? How will he? Whatever happens, it won’t be boring.

“Boring?! Does that matter right now?”

Of course, Al sounded puzzled. What else matters, beyond alleviating the constant, crushing tedium of existence?

“Why am I even talking to you about this?” I shook my head and ran for the stairs, trying to catch up with Vincent.

I took too long, because by the time I reached the third-floor hallway, he was already gone. The hallway was empty and silent, though nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I hesitated for a moment, debating what to do next. I thought perhaps Al would chime in, but he seemed content to just let this play out and enjoy the show. Finally, I reached out and knocked on door 308. There was no response, but I could hear a muffled voice from behind the door. He was ignoring me. Vincent was missing. I pulled out my keys and opened the lock. The door swung open to a completely dark room. All the lights were off and blackout curtains were covering every window. Whoever had been speaking a moment ago had stopped, and eerie silence fell over the room. I took a few hesitant steps forward in the beam of light from the hallway, then, the door slammed shut behind me. I spun around, but couldn’t see anything in the now total darkness. Knowing that Pryce must be by the door, I turned and tried to move away, towards the windows. If I could get one uncovered… my thought was interrupted when my foot caught something and I tumbled to the ground, only a few feet from the nearest window.

As I fell, I felt a sudden breeze and the whistle of something moving through the air, then a crunch as it impacted a wall next to me. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring my sore knees, and ran the final few steps, yanking the curtain open. The burst of sunlight revealed a horrifying scene. The first thing I saw was Quinton Pryce, standing near where I had fallen, pulling on a fire poker that was embedded into the wall. The fact I had tripped was the only reason it wasn’t currently embedded in my head. I looked for what had caused me to fall and saw a single raised step in the center of the room. It was just one step and it led nowhere. It didn’t seem to have any reason to be there, but it was lucky it had been. Vincent hadn’t been so lucky. I spotted him lying on the ground by the door, a large bruise forming on his temple. At least he seemed to be breathing. Finally, my eyes alighted on the event planner. Mel was lying on the bed, bound in fine, silver chains. He had redressed her in a flowing white gown, and she seemed to be wearing a wig, long and blonde, like in the painting. She was gagged, but awake, her eyes wide and frightened. Pryce yanked the poker free and turned to me,

“Why are you here? Why did you have to interrupt?” he screamed. “Everything was perfect! I just had to finish it, and they promised we would be together forever.”

I backed away, deeper into the room, as he advanced on me, swinging the poker.

“You sent the white knight too, didn’t you?” he glanced back at Vincent. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you. Women always ruin everything. Even her! My beautiful angel. Did you see what she did to her hair? How she spoiled herself? Disgusting,” his lip curled. “I warned her not to, but she didn’t listen. Now I’ve fixed it. And when I am finished, she will be perfect, like she was always supposed to be. Like I knew she could be, the moment we met.”

He took another step towards me.

“What are your trying to finish?” I needed to distract him until I could figure out a plan.

“It came to me in a dream, last night,” his eye gleamed manically. “I know how to make her mine, how we can be together, forever.”

As he spoke, he pulled a knife from his waistband, it gleamed in the light from the window.

“When we die here, together, wrapped in shared chains, the blood from our veins mingling, we will be bound together in the afterlife. And she will finally be the perfect angel I need. Kind, sweet, compliant, and by my side forever. We’ll both finally be happy.”

“Melanie doesn’t look very happy,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

“Of course, she doesn’t!” he whirled to face her. “She doesn’t understand. But it isn’t her fault. Society has ruined women. They don’t understand that their true purpose comes from belonging to a man. I tried to show her, to explain to her that she would be fulfilled if she just listened to me, obeyed me, like she was meant to. But she has been corrupted, so she rejects the truth, fears it. Once I have cleansed her, once we are joined by blood, she will finally see my truth. We will both be ecstatic, together.”

Mel struggled against the chains on the bed, but they seemed sturdy, she was barely able to move. Tears streamed freely from her eyes, which were impossibly wide and frightened, seeming to plead with me for help. I wasn’t going to be much use to her. I was nearly backed into a corner and Pryce was now advancing on me again, poker in hand.

“I wouldn’t ordinarily hit a woman,” he seemed almost apologetic about that. “But I can’t let you interrupt.”

I took a few more steps back, now I was pressed against the wall. Nowhere left to go. He raised the poker above his head, but before he could bring it down, a small loop of chain slipped around his neck, and his head jerked backwards. His hands reached for his neck, clawing and groping, but the chain only pulled tighter. I saw a line of blood appear, but the chain continued to tighten. His eyes bulged for a moment, then, with a final, sharp tug, the chain sliced through his neck and his body dropped to the ground, a ragged wound where his head had been. Behind him stood Melanie Tyler, face streaked in blood that dripped down her cheeks like tears. Her eyes were black as ebony. She licked the blood from her lips with a small smile, then raised the head, so that she was looking him in the eyes,

“Is this what you wanted? Are we joined now?” she laughed and dropped the head onto his corpse.

She closed her eyes for a moment, wiping the blood from her face with the hem of her dress. When she turned back to me, it was with brown eyes that twinkled with mirth. Mel grabbed her purse from a table and searched around inside a moment. Finally, she offered me a little stack of cards. When I didn’t reach out for them right away, she explained.

“My business cards, remember?” she placed them in my hand. “Don’t forget to give them out. And don’t worry, I will be sending plenty of business back here. I think this is going to be a very beneficial partnership.”

She gathered the clothing she had arrived in and began to remove the bloody dress. As she did, I heard a groan from the doorway. Vincent stirred and struggled to sit up. I hurried over to him.

“Are you alright?” I knelt.

“What happened?” he asked.

“It was probably a fire poker.”

He gently probed his temple with a finger, wincing.

“My head hurts.”

“I bet,” I helped him to his feet, he leaned heavily on my shoulder.

“What happened to Melanie? She was on the bed, just over there.”

I followed his gaze to the bed, which was now empty, except for a pile of chain, some of which looked warped and melted.

“What a sweet boy, worrying about me, even now,” Melanie purred, now wearing the pantsuit again. “I am better than I have ever been. I am free. Now, I have to go, but you two take care of yourselves. Expect to see some clients of mine shortly.”

With that, she brushed past us and slipped out into the hall.

“Was she…”

I nodded. He shook his head sadly.

“We should probably go back to the kitchen and find you some ice,” I looked at the lump on his head, it was growing by the moment.

Vincent nodded and we headed for the door.

We managed to find ice and painkillers in the kitchen, and I hoped it would be enough, because we weren’t getting to a hospital. As Vincent sat on a stool, icing his head, I slipped into the bathroom. There was something I needed to know.

“Hey, Al, are you there?” I wasn’t sure if he would even be listening. I apparently shouldn’t have worried.

I am always here, my dear, his voice came immediately. What do you need?

“I just had a question,” I had been thinking about this since the moment I opened the curtains in room 308. “Did you save me?”

Whatever do you mean? he smirked.

“I mean that step, the one in the middle of the floor, going nowhere. It shouldn’t have been there. Did you trip me?”

Of course I did. If you died, all my efforts would have been wasted. I am not about to go back in the queue and start all over.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, he had protected me, but it didn’t seem like I should be grateful for that. So, for the time being, I moved on.

“Why did Melanie end up possessed? I thought the target was Pryce?”

He was one target. He may have been willing to do anything to possess her, but she was willing to do anything to stop him, and Tyler made her deal first. Now, he will never hurt another woman, just as she wanted. I could do something similar for you, if you are ready for a deal of your own.

I shook my head,

“No chance.”

We’ll see. The kind of trouble you seem to get yourself into, I suspect there will come a time where you don’t have much choice.

“I am going to back to check on Vincent.”

I turned and left the bathroom.

I guess that is where I will end for today. Nothing too interesting happened after that. Manny took a look at Vincent and said he will be alright; he just needs rest. Hopefully, he knows what he is talking about. Manny, never says much about what he did before he came here, so I suppose he might. We all decided to turn in early, and this seemed like an ideal time to finally write up this entry. I hope we will get another period of quiet, but I am concerned the Mel will keep her promise and send more guests. Either way, I should probably get some sleep while I can.

Until next time,

Lucy.

I work retail in a pretty busy part of town. I'm scheduled almost everyday and often end up working late into the night. I live pretty close to the store; so I've always walked to and from. On this particular night, it was already in the am. The usually crowded sidewalks were now barren. I was alone out here and honestly…it felt pretty creepy. As I continued to walk, I noticed a guy standing to himself. He seemed kinda strange, all fidgety and staring at the ground. He was dressed in all black and had a hood on, so I couldn't see his face. He made me feel uncomfortable, like I should've taken a different path.

Then again, I had been working all day. I wanted to go home and I wasn't gonna let some weirdo worry me. So I switched my attention to my phone and walked right past him. I wished that was the end of our meeting; but it was just beginning. "Hey man, got a smoke", he asked. I didn't smoke, so I shook my head and kept walking. What happened next though, was downright terrifying. As the guy casually started to follow me. Whats worse, was that I finally got a glimpse at his face…or lack thereof. This freak was wearing a Halloween mask in April. It was one of those scary orange pumpkin mask with bloody teeth. In fact, I think our store sold them. 

Knowing his intentions weren't good, I started to walk faster. And of course, he did the same. I considered myself to be a brave guy, and I was getting sick of his game. So I turned around and gave this loser a piece of my mind. "Get out of here before I hurt you…freak!!". Instead of scaring him like I'd hoped; my words seemed to excite the man. "Oooh tough guy, this is gonna be fun", he chuckled. He then pulled an extremely long kitchen knife from his jacket and held it in the air. 

My first and only instinct was to run and not stop. He seemed to enjoy this; as he pursued me while giggling like an excited child. I ran from this freak at full speed, but he didn't have any issues keeping up with me. I had never been in the best of shape; and maybe tonight I was paying for it. Thankfully, I saw an alleyway as I was fleeing. I quickly took a turn and sprinted into the darkness. Figuring he wasn't far behind; I dived behind a dumpster for cover. By this point I was out of breath; but I had to stay quiet. I covered my mouth and prayed for this psycho to go away. Unfortunately for me, I heard footsteps coming in my direction. I poked my head out and saw him dragging his knife down a brick wall. He then let out another twisted giggle before speaking again. 

"A game of hide and seek? Sounds like a blast my little piggie". He then started to playfully prance around like a ballerina. Humming an upbeat tune while searching for me. There was no other word to describe his behavior except for absolute madness. This masked psychopath was having the time of his life chasing after me. Pretty soon he'd approach my hiding spot, it was safe to say that I was terrified. What happened next however, was something neither of us expected. As a seemingly drunk homeless man stumbled onto the scene. He held a bottle of liquor and gave the psycho a ticked off look. "Hey man, this is my territory here! You need to roll on before you get hurt".

Clearly the old man didn't know what kind of person he was dealing with. Seeing the creepy jack-o-lantern mask made him take a step back. "Hey man, are you on something?", the guy asked. Saying nothing, my stalker approached the man with his knife drawn. I then watched in horror as he plunged his blade into the man's stomach. I watched helplessly as he stabbed this innocent old guy over and over. The blood gushed out like a fountain; his groans of pain were something I'd never forget. I should've tried to help the guy; but I was in utter shock. Watching the life slowly leave this person's body was something I didn't want to see.

Proud of his work; the killer began smearing the fresh crimson onto his mask. Afterwards he let out this creepy moan; feeling utter bliss from killing someone. I couldn't watch anymore; I had to get out of here now! I darted from behind the dumpster in an attempt to escape. Unfortunately though, the killer was closer to me than I thought. As he reached out and slashed my back with his already blood soaked knife. I yelled out in pain, but I did not stop moving. One could only imagine what he'd do if I did. On top of my current circumstances; I had already worked an eight hour shift. I was utterly exhausted and didn't know how much longer I could run. Meanwhile my stalker kept pursuing me; like his stamina was infinite.

It was only a matter of time before I ended up his second victim. Thankfully, as if fate wanted me to survive this night. I came upon a police station, the relief I felt was unreal. Naturally I dashed up the steps and entered into this safe haven. Inside officers sat around talking and sipping late night cups of coffee. I looked back with a smile; thinking my worries were over. However, this nightmare wouldn't end just yet. As the killer ran into the station after me; knife drawn and everything. He had to be out of his mind; it's as if the only thing that mattered to him was taking my life. "Hey, that freak's trying to kill me!!", I yelled out. The officers were quick to react and sprung into action. Within seconds tasers were drawn and the pumpkin masked killer was brought to his knees. 

I swear he'd been hit about six times; regardless of this…he kept coming. Now on the ground, he gripped his knife and began crawling towards me. The officers were in shock; meanwhile I was freaking petrified. He crawled and crawled, wanting so desperately to reach me. Thankfully, his body would succumb to all of the electricity flowing through his veins. As he passed out right in front of me; it was finally over. The cops cuffed him up and pulled his mask off. His face was covered in deep scratches and sores. His curly red hair was matted and covered in grease. Everyone could tell this guy was sick; maybe he was on something.

I'd soon be brought to the hospital where I received eight stitches in my back. In the following weeks a lot happened. I was questioned by police, got to pay my respects at the old man's funeral. But things culminated when the trial started. I testified and recounted the entire bloody story. Meanwhile the killer sat with a huge smile as I took the stand. It turned out that he was a nutcase who was extremely obsessed with serial killers. He idolized people that brutally murdered others and wanted to start his own legacy.

Thankfully his bloody dream would never be realized. As he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in an asylum. I'll never forget his final words to me before being taken away in shackles. "Goodbye my little piggie, I'm gonna miss you!!!". I'd never see him again after that. While I was relieved, my life quickly changed. I joined a gym and got into shape; I also started taking self defense classes. I even carried a concealed weapon in case all else failed. I refused to become another statistic. The terror that I felt that night would not define who I am. Next time I was going to be ready, I was going to survive…no matter what.

As I stood sipping a cup of green tea in the middle of the night, sitting on my porch and looking into the swamp beyond my house, sickly lights began to dance and flash in front of my eyes. I remembered my grandmother’s warning about the corpse lights.

“Teddie,” she said to me, sitting on the same porch twenty years earlier, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of wine, “do you see those lights? The ones that stay close to the ground, change colors and disappear or reappear constantly?” My small five-year-old self nodded.

“Yes, Grammie,” I said. “They’re pretty.” She nodded at this, taking another long drag off of her cigarette.

“Yes, they sure are,” she said gravely. “They’re also dangerous. You should never go into those woods at night, but especially when those lights are there. Where I’m from, we call them corpse lights. It means the fae are nearby. They like to hide behind the lights.” I nodded quietly at this. She had told me about the fae, how they sometimes kidnapped children and took them to their underground lairs, never to be seen again. She didn’t tell me what the fae did to those children, or why they wanted children at all. She simply said they were not to be trusted and that I should always avoid areas where they frequented, especially at nighttime.

“There are lots of fae haunting grounds near here,” she said to me. “It has been that way since before the Europeans settled this land centuries ago. The Native Americans used to consider that swamp sacred ground.”

But now I was an adult, and moreover, I was curious. I had looked up the scientific explanations for these lights that appeared and disappeared in flashes all over the forest and swamp, showing up in blue, green, red or white flashes that shimmered and vibrated. Supposedly it had something to do with the decomposition of plant matter and the resulting gasses that appeared. People had been seeing them for thousands of years, calling them by many names.

As I sat there, thinking about Grammie Greylock, who had died just a few years earlier, the old-style TV on the porch changed from some sitcom with too much fake laughter into the nightly news. A pretty young reporter sat at a desk, staring into the camera.

“And we start with some breaking news: the latest victim of the Westland Ripper was found today. Police say a woman in her thirties was found sexually assaulted and tortured to death by her father, who later told police he hadn’t heard from her in a week. This latest murder brings the known number of victims up to twelve. With us, we have Special Agent Ellis of the FBI. What can you tell us about this serial killer and the investigations?” The nondescript agent appeared on the screen, speaking deadpan into the camera.

“Well, unlike most known serial killers, this suspect targets both males and females. He is an equal opportunity killer. And he is extremely organized, planning his crimes in meticulous detail before…” I shut the TV off, rising and stretching out my arms and back. The news was always so depressing, and the latest crime had happened only a twenty minute drive from where I live, which made it even worse. My attention returned to those floating lights behind my house.

I got up out of my chair, chugging the last of my green tea quickly, and went inside to grab a flashlight. Without a second thought, I walked out towards the trail that wound its way through the swamp and deep into the forest.

At first, it was just a beautiful night hike. The stars were bright overhead, as there was no light pollution for miles in any direction. The moon looked nearly full, and my light caught many bats flashing through the trees, hunting bugs and squeaking in their eerie way.

Then I heard something that didn’t sound like any animal I had ever heard. It was a deafening screaming noise, but it wasn’t a fox or a fisher cat. I knew the cries of both of those animals, having heard them frequently living out here in the country. This was a sound like a woman overcome by the deepest grief, like the wail of a mother who just lost her only child.

“Hello?” I called into the darkness. The corpse lights began to drift towards me, floating a few inches off the ground and shimmering with colors. I stopped, an eerie creeping feeling coming over me. I immediately turned around and tried to walk back home as fast as I could.

But within a few feet of walking, the corpse lights started to cover the trail, smaller ones seeming to congeal into larger bubbles of flashing light. I saw flashes within, as if tiny bolts of lightning were flicking across the clouds.

Hesitating, taking a deep breath in, I put my right hand into the corpse light, the white shimmering seeming to lessen for a moment as I touched its surface. And then I could see every vein, artery and capillary in my entire hand.

Shrieking, I pulled it back out, looking down. My skin was back and my hand seemed totally fine. But my heart was still beating fast, and I felt eyes all over me.

“What in the hell was that?” I whispered to myself, regretting ever stepping foot in the woods.

I stared deeper into the corpse lights, and realized the surface looked like it was zooming into itself- as if it were a fractal image. I saw the same sparks of lightning arranged in the same way over and over as it moved faster, the white light on the outside shimmering as it moved towards the center.

And then a naked, sickly-looking woman stepped out of it, breaking my hypnosis instantly. At least, I thought it was a woman, until I looked at her face.

Her face was melting off, like candle wax. It deformed, beads of skin dripping off her nose and chin constantly, but it constantly reformed itself. Her eyes would be covered by the constantly shifting skin and muscle, but then reappear again, shining silver in the moonlight.

The body of the thing was thin and emaciated, looking like a cancer patient in the last days of life. I could see every single rib, and her hip bones stuck out over legs that looked like twigs.

But her hair was somehow the most disturbing part. It was stringy, black, and clotted together with what looked like blood. Drips of black fluid and dozens of writhing maggots constantly fell off the ends of each clump of hair, which was so long it reached nearly to her knees, being the only covering on her diseased-looking body.

Time seemed to slow down, and in a moment, I flashed back to a conversation I had with my grandmother.

***

“Never run from a fae,” she said as we sat on the back porch in the afternoon sunlight. “They will tear you apart. When I was a little girl, my grandmother told me the same thing, and it saved my life. I accidentally stumbled into one as a teenager.” I tried to think of her as a teenager, but my mind failed completely. I had always known her as a sweet, old woman. “And like my grandmother told me, you grab it, hug it as tight as you can, and it will hug you back.” I giggled at this, thinking of hugging a fairy. She smiled down at me.

“It’s not like a real hug, though,” she continued. “It’s like you’re hugging it with your mind, and its mind hugs you back. And it will take you someplace else, and if you keep hugging it long enough, it will be under your power. The fae cannot lie. You can even tell it to come to you if you ever need it, though I don’t recommend it. When it comes, it won’t be under your power any longer- it will be free, and it will be angrier and stronger than ever.”

“Why can’t they lie, Grammie?” I asked, snuggling closer to her on the bench, feeling her warm, comforting presence next to me. She shrugged.

“They worship the truth, live in the truth,” she said. “It’s like their religion. They don’t worship God, but they worship power, life and death and sometimes, evil. All those things spring from the truth- they have existed since the beginning of time. The fae cannot think except through that which has always existed, so it limits them and their minds.”

I shuddered, my small, five-year-old mind trying to comprehend it- and failing. I just hoped I would never run into one.

***

Trembling, a sickly sweet sweat starting to pop out all over my body as my adrenaline soared, I ran forward, arms out. I grabbed the thing across the chest, but part of me knew I was not grabbing it with my physical body at all. It was more like my mind wrapped around its heart. Its mouth widened into an O that took over most of its melting face, its silver eyes widened, and then I was out of my body completely.

We were descending through the ground together. I smelled the grass and leaves as we rushed through them like ghosts, and then we entered the dirt underneath. The corpse lights had expanded to become the entire world around us as we sped faster, forever going straight downwards. It felt as if I were descending through some gas giant, Jupiter or Saturn maybe. Multi-colored, thick gasses swirled all around us, huge lightning bolts sending white light shooting out in all directions, yet making no sound.

The melting face of the woman grinned up at me, lengthening fangs showing underneath the waxy dripping of her skin. I smiled back, even though inside I was terrified, and even thought I might die of a heart attack if this went on too long. I tightened my mind around her, seeing it like a rope twisting around her bony, naked chest, and I saw her grin turn into a grimace. She did the same back at me, and I felt my chest tightening, a suffocating feeling overtaking me. I couldn’t breathe, but the more anxiety and fear I felt, the more I kept tightening my consciousness around her body.

“Stop that,” she said in my mind, speaking telepathically instead of physically, her real mouth now opened into a silent scream. “You’re hurting me. You’re killing me. Release me now.”

“No,” I grunted through the suffocating tightness. “Not until you give up.”

“Release me, or I will drop you down here,” she responded, now yelling in my mind, sending all other thoughts scattering like scared fish in a pond. The corpse lights had begun to clear, and we were in some horrific landscape, deep under the Earth.

All around us, massive leeches crawled, ten feet long. Tortured beings of all kinds tried to run, but their tormentors were too fast. Some had massive holes on their chests and back and faces, clotted gore running out, but they healed again, and new swarms of leeches slithered over and lunged at them in turn.

Out of the ponds and lakes all around us, black water hid eldritch monstrosities underneath. But tentacles flew out anytime anyone ran too close to the water, fanged suckers ripping through the victims’ flesh, dragging them upside down and plunging them into the water. The echoing of the screams and the splashing of the water resounded back and forth across the light brown stones of the caverns, soft light spilling out from the rocks themselves. I saw other fae like the woman standing here and there, some of them sleeping in small nooks dug out in the cave walls, others helping to torment the beings and laughing about it as they did so.

“You… cannot…” I said through gritted teeth. She could not drop me unless I let go first. I felt her will beginning to give.

“I’m dying,” her voice screamed in my mind. “You’re killing me!”

“Then give up,” I whispered, though I also felt close to death. My vision was beginning to turn black, my head bursting with pain.

“I release you,” her voice said, and the pain was gone instantly. I kept hold on her for a few more seconds.

“Do you promise to do what I ask if I let go?” I said.

“Yes!” her voice said in my head, and I released her. Floating, I fell back a few inches, taking in deep, sweet breaths, my vision returning to normal, my heart no longer so tight it felt like a fist was closing over it.

“First, what is your name?” I gasped.

“My name is Lilin,” she said, her face melting faster, her eyes blazing with hatred and fury. Out of nowhere, an idea came to me- a dangerous one, but my instincts told me to go with it.

“OK, Lilin. Mine is Teddie. When I say ‘Come to me now, Lilin’ in the future, you will come.” She nodded, her eyes seeming to smile now, the look of hatred receding from her face.

“Yes, when you say, ‘Come to me now, Lilin,’ I will come.” Her voice sounded so spiteful and full of hate that I flinched slightly when she sent this message out.

“Now bring me back up!” I said, feeling relieved to have survived and not gotten stuck in this underground Hell on Earth. I drew close to her again, wrapping my mind around hers, seeing my mind’s projection of arms wrap around her strange, sickly body, and within moments, we were back in the dark woods. I was standing in my body at the same spot that I had been when I first saw her, hyperventilating as I swayed unsteadily on my feet.

“Get out of these woods,” she whispered in a low, demonic voice, “and the next time I see you, I will kill you.”

I walked out of there, pouring myself a huge glass of whiskey when I got home. But I still didn’t sleep that night. I was afraid of what I would see if I did. My hands were trembling so badly that, when I poured myself the fourth glass of whiskey around dawn, I dropped the entire bottle, seeing it shatter all over the porch.

***

A few weeks passed, and I began to wonder whether I had imagined the entire thing, maybe while sleepwalking or during some strange, isolated seizure event. After all, every day that passed made the encounter seem more and more like a dream.

The night that I saw Lilin again, I had just gotten home from work. I felt exhausted. It was Friday, and I just wanted to lay down and catch up on my sleep. I fell down heavily on the bed, and I was out almost instantly.

My dream was bizarre. I kept seeing that fae woman from the forest, her face dripping off the bones. When all the flesh was gone and puddled on the floor at her feet, she smiled at me, just a skull, and pointed up at the sky.

I looked up and saw a symbol I had never seen before- it looked like a backwards silver-colored seven with a diagonal slash through it, surrounded by a glowing white circle.

“Soon, I will be free,” she said to me, her skull chattering out of sync with the words, yet her voice still coming through loudly and clearly. “That symbol will guarantee it. And I will never stop hunting you until we are even.”

A crash brought me back to waking life. I sat up in my bed, looking at the alarm clock. 11:47 AM.

I heard footsteps crunching on broken glass in the kitchen. A few seconds later, a man with an executioner’s hood over his head walked calmly into my bedroom. On his forehead, he had painted the same symbol I had seen in my dream- the backwards seven with the circle around it. In his hand, he had an old-looking revolver, which he pointed directly at my face.

“Freeze, maggot,” he said, a tone of mirth in his voice.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I asked, now wide awake and frozen in terror.

“Well, the news calls me the Westland Ripper,” he said, giggling an insane, high-pitched laugh. “I guess it is as good a name as any.”

“Get the fuck out of my house,” I said coldly. He pulled the gun back, pistol whipping me across the jaw. I felt something in it give, my mouth filling with the warm taste of blood. I spit out a tooth.

“Why? What are you going to do about it?

“Now you’re going to be a good boy,” he said, his voice now as emotionless as a robot’s. “I’m going to tie you up, unless you want me to shoot your dick off first. Try anything, and that will be the result.” He pointed the gun at my crotch to emphasize his point, and then proceeded to pull out a coil of thick rope from his back pocket.

Though I rarely watched TV, even I had heard about the Westland Ripper. He had injected corrosive acids into the flesh of some of his victims, burned others alive, and the FBI allegedly believed he had killed dozens of people above and beyond his official body count. Not only was he a serial killer, but an extremely sadistic torturer.

I knew if he got me tied up, that would be the end of me. I did the only thing I could think of.

“Come to me now, Lilin!” I screamed, my broken, swelling jaw muffling my words slightly. I spit out small droplets of blood as I yelled. The killer raised his gun to pistol-whip me across the face again, but he never got a chance to bring it down.

The entire room filled with the corpse lights in an instant. Flashes of light shone on the insane, melting face of Lilin as she materialized behind the intruder, grabbing his gun arm and forcing it up higher with her bony, claw-like fingers.

In a flash, her mouth opened wide, and she bit into his armpit. Shaking her head from side to side like a rabid dog, she ripped off a huge chunk of skin and muscle. He was screaming now, blood pouring down his all-black outfit.

As she ate him alive, I got out of bed, sprinting out to my car. The screams of the man followed me, growing more and more desperate. When I reached the threshold of the front door, Lilin’s voice echoed in my mind.

“Where are you going, friend?” she asked in a mirthful voice. “I’m not done with you yet. You can run, but you can’t hide.” I pulled my phone out to call 911 and report the armed intruder, driving out of that town well above the speed limit.

The police only found a mess of gore in my bedroom when they arrived, an eyeball in one corner, a finger under the bed, and so on. Most of the body was just gone.

I never returned to that town. I sold my grandmother’s house that I had inherited, using the money to leave the state entirely. But I don’t think that will keep me safe.

Lilin isn’t gone. Despite moving three hundred miles away, I just looked out the window.

Under the streetlight outside, I saw the silhouette of a naked, emaciated woman with long, black hair.

It started with an itch. An itch along the edge of my right eye. An itch that I scratched and rubbed. An itch that wouldn’t go away. It was like I’d gotten dust in it, or a speck dirt that I’d only been massaging deeper into my eye. Yet, no amount of tears that welled to the surface, or water that I splashed into my face seemed to fix it. It was an itch I tried to bear, thought I could bear, but I was wrong.

‘Do you want me to help?’

My brow furrowed, head twisting while I searched for who’d spoken. I was alone on the sidewalk, walking my daily route along the local park. The air was crisp that morning, a subtle breeze had been whistling in my ear all throughout the walk. I wondered if perhaps it had been the wind, its gentle caress that had whispered a tune into my ear. I felt ridiculous in the moment, the one eye I wasn’t covering with my hand swiveled to check my surroundings. There wasn’t even a tree for someone to have been hiding behind.

I smiled a slight grin, shaking my head as if it would help quell the rising embarrassment. Yet, there was an undeniable appeal to the offer. The constant rubbing and probing had started to morph into a pain, more a prickling annoyance than anything substantial. Yet, I’d long since become annoyed with the inconvenience. Mind drifting to such dramatic thoughts, I weighed the offer. I’d give anything to make the itch go away. Before I raised my hand to poke at the sensitive area once more, I glanced around with embarrassed trepidation. No one was near, yet my face was warm, flush from the unavoidable awkwardness. “Sure,” I said quietly, my voice nearly cracking, “help me out.”

I didn’t know how to explain it, but my eye stopped itching. More than that, the pain dissipated too. It was like it had never happened. I removed my hand from where it had been pressing against the socket, blinking away a moment of blurry half-vision.

I went about my day without giving it another thought, letting the warmth of the sun soothe my concerns until it dissipated back into an oddity of the otherwise mundane morning.

…

The next day, the itch returned. It was not the slow escalation that built over time, not like the morning last. It returned immediately, and without the encouragement of my touch a searing pain came to join it. It was sudden and brutal, like nothing I could have prepared myself for. I winced, sucking a short breath through clenched teeth while the agony felt like a nail had punctured my eye, an invisible hammer pounding the stake deeper through the orb as it burrowed towards my brain. Beneath it all, was the desire to wipe at my eye, to press into it deeper with the flesh of my palm, anything that would lessen the pain and overwhelming urge to scratch at it some more.

My jaw opened with a click, muscles tightening around clenched joints. I started to cry out, the overwhelming pain so profoundly unique, unlike anything I’d known before. A shaky hand rising to my face, I pressed the back of it into my face, wrist twisting as the bones of my knuckles rolled into my eye socket.

For a fraction of a second, the white hot poker that had been stabbed into the edge of my eye lessened. But it only lasted for part of a breath, just long enough for me to think that the worst of it might be done. Oh, how I was wrong.

The torture leaped from the edge of my eye to encompass the whole orb. With a feeling like knives were dragging their edges in sadistic figure eights against the gelatinous flesh. My stomach twisted, and I was sure that I would empty my breakfast onto the floor. All the while, my world was starting to spin, encompassing delirium gripping my mind. I cried out in pain once more, this time wetted by moisture that streamed down my cheeks and poured from my nose. I don’t know when, but I’d entered the fetal position, my free hand wrapping around my knees to pull them closer to my chest – as if that would somehow help me.

As the pain continued to increase, my thoughts became muddier, with every passing second it was becoming harder to form a cohesive thought. I knew my limited options were becoming even scarcer, I knew that soon I would black out from the pain and by then my fate would be sealed. I tried to think of something to try, except only my screams rattled my brain, the only brief respite being when a fresh inhale was needed to produce more of the painfilled noise. I didn’t know who would hear, I lived alone, and the walls leading to the outside world were fairly thick. Even if someone heard me, and happened to call the police; even if they made it to me before I gave myself a hernia - what could they possibly do?

Between a volley of screaming that my tucked head had been directing to my knees, I stopped to suck in a short inhale. When I started again, a new sound pulled at the back of my mind, barely audible over my own voice.

‘Do you want me to help?’

Silence filled my home. Jaw creaking from its fully extended position, vision blurred from the tears that covered both pupils while I hesitated. Did I hear that? I wondered for a fraction of a second. “What?” my voice rasped in a hoarse sound, my throat torn from my abrupt and violent usage of it. The voice was more like a whisper when it had spoken to me, I was unsure if I’d even heard it or if my mind had conjured it in the delirium.

“Would you like my help?”

My head nodded furiously, a new round of tears spilling to the surface. “Yes, yes,” I begged, “please make it stop.”

Same as the last time, the pain melted away as abruptly as it had come on. With shaky limbs, I rose from the floor, my breath still quivering as quiet whimpers escaped my lips. Blinking away the moisture I stared at the floor in a confused amazement, wondering what was going on, or if I’d maybe imagined the whole thing. Besides the constant shivers from the dump of adrenaline and the crust along my cheek I didn’t have any hard evidence, or witnesses to the strange episodes.

Dragging feet across the floor, the adrenaline gave way to such a heavy exhaustion, the urge to collapse on my bed and sleep for a day was an alluring proposition. After what felt like an extremely long minute of lumbering to the bathroom, I made it to the mirror, hoping to find some proof of my pain that I could show someone.

When I looked up at the reflective pane hanging above the sink, I flinched so hard that I nearly fell into the tub behind me. The image was distorted, like an object held so close to my face that part of it had duplicated. In the mirror, half of my face seemed the same as I’d seen it when I brushed my teeth a few hours earlier.

The other half of my face was a sickly green, holes pockmarked my flesh with red and pink beneath. Aside from my pumice stone complexion, gashes dragged deep wounds erratically at different angles across my face, many of the creases formed lips of hardened puss and gangrene. Some of the wounds dug deeper to show the milky white bone beneath. The front of my nose had also fallen off or decayed to a point where all that was left was the twin tunnel leading into my brain. In the ghoulish half of my now haunting visage, my eye popped from its socket. The eye lids long since decayed to leave a permanently wide-eyed expression, the gaps between the yellow stained orb and the socket gave it the appearance of floating inside my face.

My otherwise normal eye widened, panic and confusion crawling up from the depths. Directing my hand to rise to my face, I watched it slowly creep from the bottom of my vision. As it crossed into the half of my face that was closer to a mummified husk, my digits changed. The skin around my hand turned putrid, the digits became gangly, while fingernails curled and fell off. Waving my fingers in front of my face, I watched the bones and sagging skin sway like a tattered curtain. I gawked at the sight with a morbid curiosity for a few seconds before yanking it from view, a sudden urgency brought on by fear of it as atrophying if I held it out for any longer.

Hidden from view, I clenched my hand in a few investigatory squeezes, rubbing into it with deep massaging presses. It felt normal, but I needed to be sure. Eyes drifting down, I caught a glimpse of my exposed forearm. Like my hand, craters of decaying flesh marred the limb, some gaping holes as large as quarters, they patterned the limb like a macabre art piece.

Head snapping to the side, I quickly looked away from my hands and arms. As my vision swept from the normal scene into the altered sight the cabinets and walls transformed. In the edge of my vision, they were aged, wallpaper curling into a soaked yellow, spackles of black mold staining its surface.

What is this? I wondered, still struggling to comprehend what my eyes were showing me, each of them showing a different version of the same image. My neck craned to the side so I could look at the same spot along the wall with my other eye. In an instant, it returned to the plain taupe as soon as it entered the other half of my vision. The cheap replica painting and few family pictures, reformed into something cohesive.

Careful not to glance at the mirror or anything else that might show me my reflection, I rubbed my hand along the forearm that had been spackled with lesions and sores. Underneath my fingers, I felt the dry skin and thin hairs all standing at attention. But no holes, I remarked with a shaky breath. I stepped from the bathroom, with my eyes straight ahead. It’s in your head, it’s not there – I’m fine. The thought brought a measure of comfort, like the knowledge that I’d been imagining everything would leave my physical form intact. That was until I realized that viewing the world through a glass of atrophy and death was still far from normal.

Can I just cover it? The thought was so simple and would be an easy solution to my problem. Suddenly brimming with hopeful vigor, I shut my right eye, the one that had been so abruptly afflicted with the visions of decomposition.

Confusion battered at my mind when my sight remained unaltered. It was odd. I felt the side of my face scrunch, my eyelid closing over the orb, yet my view of the withering wall was unaltered. Cupping my hand to cover the eye, it didn’t block the twisted sight either. Investigating the other eye, I was quick to find that it could still be closed as normal, but all that did was limit my field of view while plunging the remainder of my vision in a gut-wrenching hellscape.

I grunted quietly at the new oddity, unsettled for what came next.

…

For six days, I shut myself out from the world. I hid. I got used to walking corpses handing me pizza, and me handing them money that had long since shriveled and faded into blank notes, yet they always accepted it with a smile. Have you ever witnessed a half-mummified body smile? Witnessed the lesions about his face twist and curl along bloated cheek bones, or the black stained teeth that hung at an angle loosely in his mouth by a stubborn corner. I of course could still see the man through my other eye, the image oscillating between decomposition and the youthful vigor of a young man trying to make a few bucks on the side by dropping off pizzas.

Each day I couldn’t stomach more than a few bites. The concept of eating was difficult when from the corner of my vision I constantly saw rotting food. Food I’d just ordered fresh that was shrunken and shriveled, taken over by carpets of mold black and green. The toppings turned from their vibrant colours of red and green to stomach churning shades of black and grey. Even if I looked to the ceiling to avoid glancing at my food, I was then treated to stained plaster, littered with holes that revealed the deteriorating wood behind it. If I could manage a few bites, it tasted like the pizza I’d known and loved before. But I couldn’t purge the images of the rotten meal from my mind, the thought was always there to shut down any thoughts of a meal.

It wasn’t just the lack of nutrients either, being unable to shut one of my eyes made sleep near impossible. Even with curtains drawn and the lights turned off, the pitch black surrounding was insufficient. Something about my brain knew that my eye was open, and refused to offer anything resembling acceptable sleep. After being awake for three days, I did eventually sleep – it wasn’t for very long. Three hours if I recall correctly, jolting awake immediately after my brain caught up to what it believed was the still open eye. The days after were profoundly lethargic, doing anything felt like it took hours, each moment of it like wading through a muddy bog. As well, the biological need for my brain to shut down every few hours left me nodding off constantly, only to wake a few minutes later.

I felt myself at my limit, my mind stretched to the absolute edge of what it could handle. How many more days can I go before a psychotic break? Until a stroke finally takes me? From my seat at the kitchen table, I glance to the counter, eyeing the arrangement of cleavers and blades with a quiet alluring. Quickly, my head shook. Not yet.

“Would you like my help?”

I jolted up from my chair. Snapping to attention with a sudden surge of energy. The quick movement dizzied my vision, pulling me to the side as I wobbled slightly. After recovering my wavy vision, my neck snapped to both sides for a quick examination of the small room. It was empty. “Hello?”

“Would you like my help?”

It was like the voice was in my head, echoing in both ears, seeming everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, a perfectly balanced timber that betrayed no emotion, neither malicious nor benevolent – it was simply there.

“What are you?”

Pausing for a long bout of silence, the voice held its answer, before finally responding with the same question. “Would you like my help?”

My mouth opened, but I nearly bit my tongue with how quickly my jaw shut. Shaking my head violently, I rubbed my arms vigorously, hoping it would quell the hairs that had risen along each of them. I knew the truth. It doesn’t help. It was the voice that made my vision like this. The piercing pain is also thanks to the voice’s ‘help’. But, I couldn’t deny that the thought of a full night’s sleep, of a meal that I didn’t immediately evacuate afterwards was incredibly appealing.

Had I been more rested, had I not been so exhausted and desperate, I might have possessed the fortitude to turn down the proposition. However, I was not, and I did not. “Yes,” I croaked in a voice that was dried to the limit of what my body could handle. Like the food, water had a similar effect on my brain, taking on the look of liquified sewage, like pond scum with a wisp of foam atop it.

Almost immediately, I felt a pinch behind my eye. It forced a wince from me as I withstood the discomfort, only for it to dissolve a moment later. My vision had returned, in my kitchen I saw my cabinets and stove top, the table I was sitting at and the half-eaten slice of pizza from last night. I lunged for the twisted remains of the meat supreme, wolfing it down in two ambitious bites. Stumbling to the sink, I cupped my hands beneath the open faucet, frantically funneling warm tap water into my stomach.

I felt like a man lost in the desert, stumbling into an oasis after days of exhaustion. Ignoring the protestations of my stomach, I jumped to the fridge where I’d stored the rest of the leftovers. Ripping contents from the shelves, they were scattered onto the table in a chaotic feast that I couldn’t wait to dive into.

That was when I heard a sound. It was quiet like the voice had been, simultaneously all around me and nowhere at the same time. I’d heard it for the briefest of instances, like a word half caught at the end of it being spoken somewhere in the distance. Struggling to place it, the noise sang out again. The quiet screech of metal is what I heard, like a knife being dragged against steel somewhere in the distance, as if it was the faint echoes of someone sharpening a knife. Or a rusted pair of scissors opening.

It screeched once more, this time louder and closer, with the unmistakable click of shears closing. Instantly, the vision in my recovered eye blurred, as if they suddenly needed glasses. Stumbling backwards in surprise, I was mostly amazed to not be feeling any discomfort besides the few squeals of metal I’d heard in my ear. Once more the metal wailed, and this time the vision in my blurred eye shifted. The obfuscated items of green and red dulled, its hues becoming barely legible, closer to grey than their original colours.

My breath skipped, then drew short inhales quickly through my nose. Between my rapidly drawn breaths, my ears picked up the quiet screech once more. I froze, immediately clenching every muscle I could while even my lungs paused.

One second.

Two.

Nothing. Whatever was doing this to me was relishing in the fear that was starting to scratch at my mind.

Then the snip. I flinched at the subtle pinch, and the darkness that immediately fell on the side of my vision. It wasn’t like an eye was closed, where my field of view should have become narrower. There was only darkness. A dribble of moisture trickled down my cheek, not tears but something else. Raising cautious fingers, they poked towards the wetness that continued to flow down to my chin, quickly returning with tips dyed a crimson red.

A part of me was terrified, too terrified to stumble to the mirror and see what the voice had done to me. But the much louder part of my mind demanded sleep, so I curled up into a ball on the floor, grateful I could finally close my eyes. Tomorrow’s problem will be dealt with tomorrow.

…

The next morning I woke with a spasm coursing through my limbs, like I’d been jolted awake by a bolt of lightning. A stabbing pain raced down the back of my neck, creeping into my spine with its barbed wire touch. Along the side of my head was a different pain, this one dull and thumping to the steady beat of my heart. My arms and legs felt sore, with a sensation of pins and needle gripping the one arm that I seemed to have slept on.

My mind wandered while I struggled to my feet, trying to recall the faint lickings of the terrible dream that I’d suffered last night. But as my eyes drifted to the wall, and the black void covering half of my vision became more apparent, I remembered. It wasn’t a dream at all.

Wobbling legs carried me to the bathroom. Both hands gripping the sinks edge, I couldn’t look. Fear scratched at the back of my mind, I knew the truth, I didn’t need a reflection to confirm it. It was only after I felt my knuckles whitening from the pressure for several long seconds that I pushed through the heavy fog, gathering the will to look at the reflective pane across me.

Where there should have been my eye was a crater. With its true depth hidden by the shadow of my skull, I could only imagine how deep the cavern in my face went, the parts I could see were lined with the near black crimson of dried blood. Beneath the hollowed socket were also thin streams of dried blood, forming narrow paths towards my chin like pain filled tears. I raised a trembling hand to my eye, like I’d done before, but this time to see if what I was seeing was in fact real. I watched in the mirror while tremors rocked my extended finger, watched the finger descend into the crater that was the eye socket. As my hand flinched, part of a fingertip rubbed against the moist flesh that lined the inside of my socket. I felt no pain in my face, but the rest of me felt like I’d just been punched in the gut. My stomach immediately flipped and I suddenly had to contend with the urge to empty my stomach into the sink.

My breath was shaky, shuddering air that I tried to control before it got away from me. But I felt myself losing the battle, each breath harder to draw than the last. In, and out. My feeble commands were having little effect, the dread becoming stronger as I knew what would come next. Like a hunter in the night, one second I felt fine, the next second, a dryness at the edge of my remaining eye. It twitched slightly, a tremor in the nerves that could have come from anything. I couldn’t yet tell if it was a lack of moisture in the air or something more.

Then my eye started to sting, and I realized I’d been holding it open for a few seconds straight. Fear demanded it be held ajar, unsure if it was a natural discomfort or the beginnings of the next round of torture.

Only holding it open for a few seconds longer, I eventually blinked. Breath held, while my lungs froze. Still unsure if I conjured the new itch, I tested the feeling in my eye. Is it gone? I wondered when I couldn’t feel anything more than the slight stinging along its edges. Chest finally collapsing, I drew long breaths with shut eyes. With each shuddering breath, I analyzed the sensations that coursed through the nerve endings along my face. I’m fine, I promised myself.

Then the urge to rub at my eye became stronger, forcing twitches all along the side of my face, even down to my jaw. Don’t. Instead I clenched my hands while my mind drifted to something else that might distract me, like the stale air flowing in and out of my nose, the rattle of the furnace creeping through the vents.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was done, the back of my hand pressing into my eye socket and slowly wiping across it. Dry skin from the back of my hand was wetted, the cracks along my skin filled with the moisture my eye had been producing. More tears joined it as I realized with a jolt what I’d done.

“Wait,” I whispered in a shuddered breath.

It didn’t wait. Like a needle, a stabbing pain pierced the side of my eye, feeling like it punctured through to the other side too. A howl of pain escaped my lips, echoing in the acoustics of my narrow bathroom. Legs immediately giving way, I fell to the floor, already half curling into a ball atop the small shag carpet I’d laid by the sink. Palm pressing against the eye, I let my vision go black while stars of white spackled my vision. Short hissing breaths filled the room as I grappled with the return of the violent pain. Even as it felt like the stake plunging through my eye was twisted, as the nerves and sinew wrapped around each other into an unimaginable squeezing – I fought it.

I don’t know where the strength had come from, the sudden urge to resist became everything that I set my mind towards. Grinding my teeth together, my waning strength was being battered, it had been seconds and already my will was on the precipice of collapsing all together.

Then an image fluttered into view. It stole my breath, air freezing as shock gripped my system. My stolen eye was still gone, the right side of my face covered with inky nothingness. The remaining one that had been covered by my hand, abruptly shifted into a sideway view of my floor. I saw my bathroom tiles, chipped and faded; the carpet, patchy and molded; the walls, chipped of its paint, made pale by years of sunlight, and stained from years of neglect. What I saw was not my bathroom, not the bathroom I’d been in when I collapsed to the floor.

Like a sadistic poem, the itching, pain, and macabre vision assaulted me all at once. It was like it knew that my will was brittle, that my desire to resist was hanging onto the edge of the cliff by only my finger tips.

Then something shifted in my mind, a final surge of resistance. A spiteful rebellion gripped my thoughts, a rage that flared up abruptly with the surging of a wildfire as it tore through a forest of dried kindling. I wished to confront the source of my torment, to grip it by the neck and throttle it into submission. As I tapped into this new reservoir of strength, my hands balled into fists. Where the fuck is it? I demanded in my mind. As if I’d summoned it myself, the voice spoke. “Would yo–”

“Fuck you!”

“Would you li–”

“No!” I screamed my throat raw.

“Would you like my help?”

“I would like you to leave me. I’m never going to ask for your help.”

For a few long seconds, the voice didn’t respond. It left me with the unbearable itch that no amount of rubbing could satisfy, the sadistic agony that I was powerless to quell, and the knowledge that my vision had been plunged back into the unescapable hellscape - but at least it was quiet.

Until it wasn’t.

“Would you like my help?!” It suddenly screamed in my ear. I flinched in surprise, it was the first time that the cool dispassion of the voice was broken. “Would you like my help?!” It repeated a fraction of a moment later. “Would you like my help?!” Shouting over and over, the voice didn’t pause to breathe, repeating the words as soon it had finished the furious request. As the vicious battery of the question continued, I tried to fight it, shaking my head violently as if it would loosen the sound and even screaming alongside it to drown out the noise. Nothing worked, the unending noise persisting in my mind.

With each attempt to break my will, the question was starting to sound different. It was changing slightly, with at first minor variance in its tone, and cadence. With each failed attempt, the difference in the request after it became more stark to the point where I was starting to hear different ages, genders, and even accents in the repeating petition.

Cupping both hands over my ears, it did nothing to mute the sound. I screamed to drown out the sound, but the voices were louder. My face grimaced in stalwart resistance. I’m not going to give in, I assured myself. The voice had taken enough, I would give it no more ground.

…

How foolish I was. I know this now.

My jaw was impossibly sore from clenching teeth into a twisted grimace; sweat matted down hair against my forehead, and stained my shirt with the proof of my defiance. My will was brittle, a resigned exhaustion filling every one of my muscles. “Would you like my help?!” A woman yelled, she sounded Asian, eerily close to the woman who worked the counter at the small Chinese market I used to shop at. The requests had changed their tone some time ago, I don’t know how long I’d been curled in the ball before it, and I don’t know how much time has passed since. There was a desperation to her sound, a brief and frantic plea before she was shunted to the side in place of the next voice in the endless queue.

“Would you li-” the next one started.

“Fine,” I whispered in a voice so soft I barely heard it myself. The voice heard me though, halting its request now that I’d finally caved. In the silence I thought I could feel it relishing in my pain, soaking in my surrender and what little fear I could muster for what comes next. And as one second drifted into the next, a part of me started to believe that nothing would happen.

That was when the voices responded. In a booming chorus, ten thousand voices spoke as one, “thank you.” The thundering voices were impossibly loud, simultaneously loud enough to fill a stadium but also bearable as it echoed in my head. They sounded as tired as I felt, and the relief in their tones gave me a measure of calm. I was exhausted, too exhausted to feel anything when the screech of the twin metal blades scratched my mind. Managing to get my feet under me, I rose to stand.

My vision had turned back to normal once more, and I knew it was all but a fact that it would be for the last time. I would have liked to look at a sunset if it was going to be the last thing I saw, but I doubted the cruel voices would allow me that mercy. So I stared at my haggard features in the mirror. The gaping maw that was my right eye no longer bothered me, a grim acceptance finally quelling the shock and revulsion I’d felt before. In three quick cuts, the view of my face went from blurry to grey, and then finally to black. With a relieved breath, my hand wiped the new trickle from what was my last eye.

…

That was a week ago. My friends and family thought I’d lost my mind, that I suffered a mental break and decided to scoop my eyes out with a spoon. At first I was in disbelief, then rage, but after a few days of quiet contemplation I’d made my peace with it.

Who could blame them if they didn’t believe my story; the voices in my head, the unscratchable itch, the unimaginable stabbing pain, the visions of rot and decay that had become everything I saw. Who could blame them if they didn’t believe me when I told them of the rusted scissors in my mind that snipped at my eye before plucking it from my head. I could barely believe it myself, some nights questioning if maybe they were right.

However, I could blame them for having me locked in an institution. In the solitude of my padded room, I was given time to think, to recall the events and search through what I felt. It was in that sterile room, beneath the quiet buzzing of what I could only assume were fluorescent lights, the truth solidified in my mind.

I am not crazy.

I am not delusional.

…

“How did that feel?”

“Good, I guess.”

“That’s good, it’s good to talk about these things.”

“You’re the doctor.”

“That I am. I’m going to leave this with you, use it to record your thoughts or whatever you’d like. It’s yours, you won’t have to share the recordings with anyone unless you want to.”

---

My throat is itching, and no amount of water, tea, lozenges, or even salt water gargled has helped. The men and women in flapping coats say that I’m sick. BUT I’M NOT SICK. I know it like I know that water is wet.

I tried to make them understand, but they wouldn’t listen. Even as the two larger men wrapped thick hands around both my arms and carried me to the far end of my padded cell. Even as I kicked and screamed and fought furiously. Even as the needle slipped into my skin to deliver the fluid that would ‘calm me down’. Even as I begged and pleaded with them to just kill me instead.

My throat is still itching.

…

I record this now, knowing I’m dead. It’s almost impossible to talk, each entry takes most of the day, but I need to record something of myself.

I’ve accepted that with a desperate trusting in whatever comes next. The only hope that I truly cling to in this life is that someone finds this, and that they believe me.

…

I can barely swallow. Water, saliva, even air all struggle to slip down my neck. I hear the quiet murmuring of the nurses and doctors when they check on me, they think I’m doing something to myself.

I try to tell them that it’s back, but they only give me more drugs.

“I don’t understand it,” I heard one of them say.

…

A nurse came by with my medicine. I asked her to kill me. She said the medicine was a muscle relaxant for my throat.

I told her it wouldn’t work.

I made her listen to my choked sobs as she locked the door behind her.

Why won’t they just kill me?

…

I heard a sound. I know I heard this sound. It was like a whisper, gentle as a wisp of smoke, but it was there.

“Would you like me to help?”

I visited my grampa last week. He's an ex marine who got drafted into the Vietnam War in 1965 and fought until the end. He also fought in the Korean War. His father had fought in WW2 and his son (my dad) fought in Afghanistan.

I visited him every few months since I turned 6. I'm now 18 and have been thinking about following in my forefathers footsteps and joining the U.S military. My grandfather knows this and asked me to speak to him before I put in my papers to sign up.

He usually tells me the same story about the war. How he met hist best friends there and how he fell in love with and married a nurse who was also in Vietnam.

The story he tells me about the end of the war is kind of cliché. They were the last regiment held up in Saigon when the Vietkong attacked and over powered the last of the U.S forces. He had this look in his eye like he wasn't saying the full story, he was very skittish, always looking over his shoulder.

Last week when I saw him, he made me leave my phone and apple watch outside of his room. I didn't question it, as it was probably his paranoia. He told me to lock every door and shut every blind in the house. I went along with it. Then I finally sat it his room and he told me the truth.

"It was never really about the communists. Hell, we couldn't have cared less about those bastards. It wasn't them that killed us, the strongest army in the world didn't lose to a bunch of yellow rice farmers. No it wasn't them, wasn't the soviets, wasn't even human."

"Grandpa, what do you mean wasn't even human?" I inquired.

"You see, they told us it was for freedom, and in a way it was but what they really wanted us to fight was what the locals called the quái vật không thể xuyên thủng. I'll never forget my first encounter with these impenetrable beasts. I was hiding with my squad captain in a village, on a bridge waiting for the Vietkong to make a push. Well something did push, it wasn't them.

6 massive lions came out of the tree line, there were bigger than a bear but smaller than an elephant. The front limbs of these animals were 2 times longer than the back.

The captain ordered us to open fire and take out each with a clean shot. As soon and the first round of 5.56 hit the skull of the lion the bloodbath ensued. The screaming of my 500 other comrades were so frightful, these men that survived hell, were now cowering at the sight of these lions."

"What does this have to do with anything Grandad? It's just a bunch of animals."

"No. They weren't just animals. They were monsters from not of this earth. None of them died, me and my captain put hundreds of round of ammo into them but they kept on going. Eventually only me and my captain were left on that bridge.

That's when the lions stood up... like a human. They broke their way through every door of every house in that village looking for us. When they made their way to the bridge, there were able to reach it, and in one swift move they cut it down. As they feasted on my captain I fell into the river and was swept away.

I was found by a U.S general and escorted to a room where he asked about what I'd seen. I told him about the massacre and about the lions. I was then escorted to a green room where they tortured me in an attempt to make me forget the incident.

It worked and I forgot about the lions until they attacked again, and again. I saw them kill hundreds of thousands of people and after each attack I was escorted to a green room and brainwashed to make me forget. But the scream were still in my head, and unlike every other vet I remembered these demons. And in Saigon I didn't even pick up my gun, I just waited in a corner listening to everyone get slaughtered until me and everyone else who hid in a corner got picked up by U.S boats and went back home."

"Grandpa I don't underwhere, why would they hide this, what were those things?"

"You see grandson I stayed in the military to find out more and I only got so little information."

It was getting late so I was grabbing my things to go when my grandpa asked me to go to a pharmacy and get his refill for his heartburn meds. I did so and then said goodbye to him and went home.

Today when I came home from my pharmacy for picking up my adhd meds there was a lawyer at my door. This lawyer informed me that 3 days ago my grandfather had died of cardiac arrest, and he had left me something in his will. It was a scrap book he made.

When I opened the scrapbook it was filled with his handwriting and pictures of bombs and planes and writing. The text reads:

"1965- operation rolling thunder, attempt to kill monsters unsuccessful

1945- different monsters spotted in Nagasaki and Hiroshima, attempts to kill were unsuccessful

1954- castle bravo failed to kill monsters still on the loose."

I feel like the public should know about this which is why I'm posting this here, also to honor my grandpa. R.I.P

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

It feels like it’s already been weeks since Mila was forced to fight to the death. I can’t tell time here anymore. I just sleep when I need to with no sense of time. At first it messed with my head for a while and I think I went a little insane for a moment, but once you realize that you don’t need it because you don’t need a schedule anymore. It can make you a lot more focused on the now. Gunter has been staying with Mila and barely stays in his own room anymore. We don’t know if she got the previous tenants room or she got hers upgraded since she won the battle against Níðhöggr, but Mila’s room is an entire mountain range. Gunter has been cultivating at the base of the mountains and taking care of Mila. He really loved her cherry blossom trees and spider lilies. I stayed with them for a few days and loved it too after a while. Mila chose a cave in the mountains that she said would work best for her recovery.

Mila’s biology works like a snake’s in a tank and can grow as big as her surroundings. Due to her limited space and food supply in her room that she was sealed in, she was small compared to her full potential. Her new demon noh mask was hard to get used to, but I kind of like it now. It looks pretty bad ass with the horns and tusks. The human skin color it chose wouldn’t be my first choice however. Her new dark red exoskeleton definitely makes up for that though. She doesn’t look anything like the Mila we first met, but we love her no matter how she looks. Pushed to her limits she could wrap an entire mountain if she wanted to or be as small as several inches.

Gunter as well has impressed me. For a small 5 foot something man he’s pretty fast and strong. On his own he can track up the 7,000 foot mountains to get to Mila and back in a little under an hour. I’ve gone with him a few times. We’d track normally and talk for a few hours and he’ll either carry me with him, which still takes him a few hours, or just do the rest alone. Jim, Jon, Siete and her many children visit too. We have meetings to discuss the plan while the kids play in Gunter’s forest that he filled with insects and fruit groves. Gunter also spent a few hours building me a cabin with one of his picks. It was actually really good and the furniture that he built is extremely comfortable.

We went over some ideas and shared what all of us can do during our meeting. I feel like an average Joe sitting among superheroes when I heard what just their species alone can do, plus Gunter, Mila and Jim have some unique talents. When they asked what I can do I decided to lighten the mood by doing the removable thumb trick. No one thought it was funny and we waisted almost an hour explaining to Gunter it wasn’t real. He still thinks I can remove my limbs at will, but choose not to. First thing we needed to do was find Baba Yaga. The Host’s hive mind knows of Klaus and has some memories of him, but we have no idea where he is or if he has a room. Baba Yaga might have some insight and Gunter thinks she should be our main priority. I still think there’s more to what he’s willing to tell us.

Gunter says she was never a tenant as far as he knows and knew her way before he lived here. She practices the arts of the witches, enchantresses, sorceresses and necromancers to name a few. She also spends most of her time in her cabin. Her and her cabin are similar to Withorp and the complex as in wherever it is, she is. If her cabin is somehow either inside or trapped in The Pandemonium Complex then maybe we can find it. Gunter knows what her door looks like if they happen to come across it, but Gunter can’t just run around the complex wildly. One he might catch unwanted attention and none of us know how big this place is if we just search everywhere. Siete said she can send her children, but it’ll take an unknown amount of time for them to come back and tell her what every door looks like and who knows if it’ll still be there by the time they get there. She does have another idea though.

Her hive mind is strong when the spiders are many, but even stronger when there’s less. With less it’ll be like she can see through every one of her children at once. She definitely hates the idea, but it may be our only one. We gave them the best days of their lives as best we could. A few days after that meeting Siete showed up at the cabin Gunter built without The Host and with her children riding on her. There looked to be about 500-600 left from her thousands. We didn’t ask or pry what she had to do, so we carried on with our plan. Siete told us she can also connect us to The Host hive if we wanted to so we can all at least instantly communicate with each other. We won’t have visuals like her, but we can hear her thoughts immediately like a walkie talkie. To be honest I think we all agreed out of respect. She killed her own children for our sake, the least we could do is be there for her.

The smallest spiders from her cluster with long thin legs crawled up each of us and as much as we hated it. We had to let them crawl into our ear canal. We all shuddered hard and tried our best to let them do their job. I can’t speak for the others, but imagine a wild tickle in your ear that sounds like wind blowing hard directly in. Suddenly an intense pain in my ear drum started making it ring loud and hard. Once the ringing started to fade I kept hearing a beautiful woman’s voice saying, hello, softly over and over again. I looked over at Siete, who was standing on the dining room table and asked if that was her. She bounced a little while I could hear that voice saying yes happily. Even Jon had to comment how beautiful she sounded. Definitely a mother’s voice if I’ve ever heard one, which made us hate what we had to make her do so much more.

We played around with our new voiceless communication and had to tune it to not hear every thought. Didn’t think that would be a problem until all of us could hear Jon’s intrusive thoughts while he was staring at Jim. Ever seen a hulking big green apeman turn bright red? It is hilarious, but now I have images in my head that I’m afraid will never go away. Since Siete is now also without The Host she needs a new spot. We decided to keep her under Gunter’s cornucopia. We enjoyed our last day of peace, but now we had to start our search. Siete sent out her children and we listened intently to her kids updates of anything out of the ordinary. Gunter and Siete focused to show Siete what door they’re looking for. So far no door, but we heard a couple of interesting sightings.

The Wisps are back at their pranks again, little light fairies that can cast visual illusions that have been tricking tenants into entering unlocked rooms. Gulp, the bottomless traveling portal, ate the zombie horde, thankfully now I won’t get cramped in the elevator again when they were up to 13 zombies. Her was seen consuming that shape shifting lizardman who loved pretending to be politicians, near my room and tried desperately holding on to a door with chains. Girin and Kuba, the giant black bear forest spirit are fighting in the hallway near Gunter’s room because neither would move so the other could pass again. Adrenepae, the wife of Apollo who ate his heart, looks like she finally can control her avatar of fire form now and is roaming the hallways.Tate the warlock is stalking Beta, the techno organic virus, who has a new female host body; weird little creep. What caught our attention the most was the new tenant that entered the lobby.

He was a darker skinned man with long dreads that had metal links. He wore a long green coat with a satchel. The big headphones and reflective sunglasses were also a nice touch. Me, Jim and Jon went to the lobby to see. We are pretty nosy and we might as well kill some time people watching. Us breaking routine and avoiding Winthorp might also cause suspicion. We have people checking in all the time, but this guy was different as the complex was seemingly treating him as a long time tenant. The lobby works like a one way mirror and with new potential tenants it hides us and the current theme of the lobby before they get approved. I’ve only seen it a few times, but when someone new enters, to us they’re surrounded by a clear cube that limits what they can see when they’re inside. While inside they can only see what the complex wants them to see and nothing as far as I know can enter or leave this pocket dimension box.

With this man however there is no box. The complex didn’t feel the need to hide us or his surroundings for some odd reason. He was ignoring it all though as if he’s been here. He even walked right past Agatha & Mrs. Donahue, seemingly two old ladies that are always playing chess in the lobby and try speaking with anyone in a gentle neighborly tone. You must never speak to them however. They are a Lich and a Fae, but not a nice one like Gunter. The longer you talk to them the more they ruin and steal your life. I was lucky enough to have Jim & Jon stop me before I could reply to their hellos, their friendly faces immediately turned to anger when their meal was not taking the bait. The man paid them no mind and walked right past when they tried waving him down. He was speaking to Winthorp who also was paying the man special attention.

He kept referring to him as they and them when speaking. Winthorp also was standing at full attention before the man walked up. I’ve never seen him so eager to greet a potential new tenant. When it came down to signing the leger he did so without saying a word, but when he finished Winthorp said all new tenants must sign. We didn’t understand at first, when suddenly the man held out his arm and pulled up his sleeve. His arm was covered in a mix of branded and ink tattoos of symbols I’ve never seen before. His closed right palm began to glow a color I’ve never seen before and probably was never meant to be seen by human eyes. He opened his palm and a flash bright enough to blind half the lobby engulfed the room. When we looked back after shielding our eyes there was now a woman with him.

She had turquoise colored skin, long black hair, a beautiful purple choli that had modern accessories and a satchel bag that matched the man’s. She also signed the ledger and was greeted with as much enthusiasm the man was getting by Winthorp. I asked Jim and Jon if they knew who or what they were, but they had no idea. I then asked my internal host Siente if she’s seeing this. A familiar ringing began in my ear and I could hear her voice once again. This had her curiosity immediately when the first words I heard are, interesting. Siente has no knowledge of the man, but the woman is theorized to be a djinn and an old one at that. Siente said that physical djinns are extremely rare and are the most powerful kind, but what caught Siente’s attention was that she wasn’t bound.

Djinns are normally adorned with bright jewelry to symbolize that they are bound to the human world and must obey the law of the bound djinns when on the mortal plain. This djinn was somehow free and in full control which can normally only be done if wished to be free by the master. They also usually leave once freed to return to the realm of the untamed elements, like a fish running back to water. Once checked in we saw Winthorp provide them with what looked like a metal jewelry box that the man put in his satchel. They started walking towards the elevator when I decided to introduce myself. The man stopped first and raised his brow behind those shades, but the djinn stood between us and signaled me to halt with her outstretched arm. Or at least that’s what I thought.

I was thrown backwards by an unseen force, but was luckily caught by Jim. Jon stood in front and began to growl hard in anger. Jon’s size began to increase steadily with his rage and the air around us began getting hotter. I saw his gray fur begin to tense with his flex of dominance and I yelled for him to calm down. Jim put me down and rested his hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon began to almost instantly relax. Jim stepped in front and apologized, but the woman held her hand back up as a warning to not approach. The man this time relaxed her by resting his hand on the top of her forearm. She looked surprised and shocked by this. The man walked up to Jim, took off his glasses and moved his headphones to around his neck. He looked Jim up and down like he was inspecting him. The man’s eyes were a bright mix of blue and green.

The man asked what tribe he is from and Jim answered. The 13th Wukong of the Nán Providence, but has been Omega ranked in the Tauá-Miri clan for a few decades now. He then looked over to Jon and asked him. Jon only replied with, nikto, and both Jon and the man averted their gaze when the man apologized. The man then looked towards me and apologized for his girlfriend's defensive behavior. We shook hands and greeted each other properly. The man’s name was Oddo and his girlfriend was Desiree. She still watched me with hard suspicious looks while we talked. The man asked me what I was. I told him I’m just human, he stared for a while. He then looked me up and down like he did with Jim and asked how long I’ve lived here. I was honest and told him it felt like years now, but I have no idea. He then berated me with questions I didn’t really understand like, what’s my faction, who’s my totem, who do I embody and when/where is my birth place. I answered as best I could and was only given looks of suspicion in return.

At the end of my interrogation he simply stated, So you’re…a basic mortal human? I could only reply with an embarrassing, yea. Oddo seemed surprised and turned toward Desiree who gave him an equal amount of confusion. He then bluntly asked how am I even alive or even sane in this place. I just shrugged and replied honestly, no fucking idea. I’ve never heard so much laughter since I’ve been here. Oddo, Desiree, Jim and Jon all teared up from laughter. Oddo dabbed me and pulled me in for a hug while still chuckling. It was so weird to have a normal person interaction in such a long time. I then asked about him. He was Oddo and then proceeded to give me such a long list of either titles, ranks and/or alignments to the point where we stood there for about 10 minutes before he finished. At heart though he was human, for the most part.

He introduced Desiree and told us that they met when she was sealed away in a decanter on a sunken ship that Oddo was excavating years ago and have been together ever since. He confirmed that she was a djinn like Siete said and that she was the last of the Jinn of Origin. One of the most powerful djinns. I only know their kind from the story of Aladdin and asked if that’s the kind they meant. I was given looks of confusion and had to explain the story more. There were some similarities and also that she had to grant him 3 desires into creation for her freedom originally, but only did one. Her freedom. Oddo and Desiree were together for 5 years without him ever making a wish. Instead he got to know her and enjoyed her company. They fell in love 2 years in and when they decided to be together forever he made a choice to make it her choice. He desired for her to be free.

Their lives weren’t easy however. They were hunted by men who knew of Desiree and her power. They’ve been on the run for years and wanted to be with others like themselves. Oddo hates humans and Desiree matched that hatred. I asked, then why are you even giving me the time of day now. He just replied with, you’re…different. I didn’t know if that was an insult or compliment. I told them I didn’t want to hold them up any longer and it was a pleasure to meet them. They began walking away towards the elevator while Jim and Jon collaborated their feelings on the couple. I was just happy to finally meet another human here, even if we’re clearly not cut from the same cloth. Siente began speaking again in my head and told me we need to leave the lobby now. She said not to look, but Winthorp has not taken his eyes off of us and he doesn’t look happy.

I told Jim and Jon that we should go check on Mila so as to not cause suspicion on our leave. They agreed and gave a slight nod to confirm. We began walking away when Winthorp called out to me and asked me to come over. I told him maybe later and that we’re going to check on our friend. I turned to leave only to turn to see Winthorp in front of me. We were somehow sitting in a small room I’ve never seen before. It looked like the old school integration rooms you see in black and white detective movies. This wasn’t good. Winthorp had a serious look and looked directly into my soul with those impossibly bright blue eyes. He then lightened up and asked how I’m liking my stay here so far. I told him it was good and then was asked why I’m keeping secrets then. My blood ran cold and I told him everyone has secrets.

He laughed and said that was a good answer, but then suddenly switched to bad cop. He slammed his hand in front of me and asked why we have been spying then. Sweat began dripping down my face. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. He switched to good cop and rubbed my cheek. He asked in a light tone if I think he’s stupid. I told him no and then he grabbed my face to look into his. He told me he doesn’t read minds, but he has ways of getting information. He then cupped his hand over my ear and I felt an intense pain with a loud white noise. He held the hair on my head so I couldn't move with his opposite hand and opened his other palm before me. The spider Siete put in my ear was standing in his palm. He asked again if I think he’s stupid. I told him no and the spider began floating. Her legs stretched out and one popped off. He made it so I could hear her scream.

I told him to stop and he asked again if I think he’s stupid. I yelled no again and he pulled out another from the spider. She was a child and I could hear her cry and scream in pain. He asked a third time and I switched my answer to hopefully get a better result. I said yes and then he set her on fire. A flame that burned, but didn’t cause fatal harm. A flame of pure pain and torture. Her screams were loud and filled with sadness and confusion. I begged him to stop, but he kept asking that same question over and over until she had no legs left. He then threw the burning legless spider in the corner. Her screams stopped when she had two legs left. I knew she was alive, but just broken in mind now. I told him I just wanted to leave and he grinned.

Honesty, is that so hard? Those words sent shivers down my spine. I told myself I can’t break. He asked what we were doing and I told him that I’m just trying to find a way out. The grin went back to a scowl. He touched his finger tip to mine and my right middle finger he touched began to burn. At first it dried up slowly and turned black. Then white and then began turning to dust from the tip down to the knuckle. He told me he doesn’t like torturing his tenants. He just wants us to live happily and comfortably. Winthorp then asked why I would want to leave. I have nothing out there and he knows that. I replied with a simple, fuck you.

He sighed in annoyance. I suddenly was completely frozen in place and was unmovable. He grabbed my left arm and began twisting. First my wrist snapped, then slowly up my forearm began breaking. After that he pushed my elbow opposite to where it’s supposed to bend and caused a compound fracture. I was then unfrozen and immediately cried out in pain. Winthorp grabbed the back of my neck so I could sit straight up and squeezed lightly. He told me he knows I’m up to something and to just tell him. If I tell him all this will be over, but I’d be putting my friends in danger worse than this. I answered with, you’re insane. He threw my head forward and it bounced off the table in front of me. I held my face with both hands and realized my arms are normal again.

Winthorp then grabbed the back of my head with his open palm gripping the back of my skull. He told me to spill my guts. Before I could say anything I started projectile vomiting hard. At first it was what I ate, then bile, blood and after my organs began coming out of my mouth as if I was still throwing them up. Every organ was ejected out of my mouth and he made sure I could feel it all. Every time I would start passing out from the pain he’d jerk my head and bring me back. My tongue was next to be forced out and then my teeth one by one uprooted themselves to join the rest on the table and floor. My skin began to melt off my flesh with my nose and ears. My skeleton from my neck down also decided to leave. It moved on its own and forced its way out and through my muscle tissue like it was trapped. Lastly he made my eyes pop out to view it all. This was nothing compared to when he made it all do it again in reverse and even slower.

Ever felt your skeleton crawl back into your flesh? I do. He made sure the nerves felt it all and that I wouldn’t lose consciousness for even a moment while my body slowly and painfully repaired itself. Once I was fully repaired he asked again what me and my friends were doing. I told him it was only me. He sat back in front of me and stared long and hard. I was shaking with fear as to what he was planning to do next. He reached out his index finger, placed it in the center of my forehead and pushed hard. When I turned back up I was no longer in the interrogation room. I was in my room. My childhood room. I looked down and saw my pajamas I haven’t worn since I was 6 years old. I felt wet and warm in my bed and began crying loudly. My parents entered my room to console me and told me I must’ve had a nightmare. I tried telling them about The Pandemonium Complex and Winthorp, but was too broken to explain and just babbled on like the crying child I was now.

They told me it was okay and that I could sleep in their room tonight. A few years went by and The Pandemonium Complex was nothing more than just a memory of a bad dream. When I was 9 I came back home from school to see my front door was open. I entered slowly and saw that my house was a wreck. Like a tornado or wild beast came through. I called out to my parents and siblings, but no one answered. I went to the hallway and saw a blood trail leading into each room. I passed my siblings rooms first and only saw blood leading to their closed closets. I was too afraid to open them. I went to my parents room and saw they were torn apart. Looks of horror were frozen on their faces. I heard something behind me coming from my siblings' rooms.

I ran to my parents window. I unlocked it and jumped out leaving my backpack behind. This isn’t right. I ran to the neighbors house and they called the police. I lived with my aunt and uncle after that. Then my grandparents. All met the same fate as my household. I was placed in foster care at 13. I began questioning my memories and what’s happening. None of this seemed right. At 14 I was adopted into an abusive household. My adopted mother only beat and yelled at me. My adopted father was worse and did unspeakable things. I ran away at the age of 16 and was homeless for a year. I then met the love of my life. Tanisha, she was perfect. Kind, loving, empathetic and an all around good person. We were together for 2 years before I met my best friend, Tate.

They helped me get back on track and made my past seem like a bad memory. I was 26 now and was married with 3 loving children. My best friend Tate had a family of his own and we were raising our kids together. Life was perfect. Then one day I came home from work. My front door was open and I knew it was over. I entered my home. My children were torn apart and thrown around my living room like ragdolls. I went into our room and saw that it was torn apart, but Tanisha wasn’t there. I ran out when I heard a familiar noise coming from the living room. I jumped out my window and started running towards Tate’s house. I kept trying to call my wife’s phone nonstop. No answer. When I got to Tate’s house I saw that his door was also open. I ran inside to see the same scene happen to his children.

I ran into Tate’s room and found him and…my wife. She must’ve tried running here when she found our kids, I thought. A small red light caught my attention in the debris. A camera that was recording. I played the tape back to see what happened. My wife was cheating on me with Tate. The camera was filled with different videos from long before today. I started the video from today to my dismay. They were in the middle of it when screams could be heard from the living room. I was so focused on what was going to happen that I didn’t notice the presence behind me. A scream broke the silence before I could see what entered the room and I turned to see Sarah, Tate’s wife screaming with horror at me. I tried calming her down and explain, but she had the police behind her already. I was arrested and was found guilty for murder.

They thought I killed them all because I found out they were cheating and also pinned the past murders on me since whatever kept happening is following me. I was thrown into a dark cold prison to live out my days in a hole. My days consisted of starving, being beaten and cold. I wanted to die. The death sentence was banned since I was a child, so all I could do was wait for death. One day, when I had given up, a few guards entered my room. I won’t say what happened, but it ended with them beating me nonstop until I couldn’t fight back. They didn’t stop beating me and when I was finally getting my wish of death I was sitting in a chair. I was in a small room with a man sitting across from me. A small bellhop wearing a straw boat hat. Winthorp. All my memories came flooding back. Memories of the past and now mixed and formed back into my hellish life.

Winthorp asked me again what we were planning. I looked him dead in the eye and just answered, I will kill you. A grin formed on his face again and he leaned in. How? He asked plain and simply. I knew I said too much again and just went silent. I don’t know how long I was there for. He made me live other hellish lives and tortured me over and over again in ways that would make the devil himself want to die. I never said another word. I could tell he was getting frustrated and was losing his cool. His methods started becoming sloppy and desperate. One of the benefits of being a basic mortal human is that we die very easily, so you could do whatever to us, but in the end they start getting very similar and I learned to get used to it. Once he realized he wasn’t getting anything out of me he threw me back into my room in the complex. I was thrown hard through the air and saw my furniture fly past me before I hit my wall hard. That’s when I just broke and just cried for hours.

I just needed to release. What I didn’t notice was Gunter was on the couch the whole time. He sat silently and just let me break. I think he knew I just needed to let it all out. I don’t know if he knew what I just went through, but he just started getting some fruit ready for me to eat when I’m ready. The small spider crawled out of my sleeve and ran to Siete under Gunter’s cornucopia. I slept for an unknown amount of time, but my body definitely needed it. When I woke up, I ate and Gunter asked me if I wanted to talk. I just asked how long I had been gone. He said Jim, Jon and I left just a few minutes before I was suddenly flying through my room from out of nowhere. He asked more directly as to what happened. I didn’t give him all the details, but now my mind is set. Winthorp and The Pandemonium Complex need to die.

Growing up, the highlight of my summers was the annual Blackberry Festival, which celebrated all things blackberry. There were competitions to see who could consume the most berries in five minutes and prizes for the largest berry (the winning fruit one year was nearly the size of an apple). There were baking competitions, where my grandmother, with her triple-layered cake frosted with lemon-and-blackberry buttercream, brought home a blue ribbon nearly every year. Blackberry ice cream, made with thick Jersey milk, helped the kids stay cool, while the adults sipped blackberry wine.

There was more to the festival than just the blackberries; there were rides and carnival games, livestock competitions and miniature pig races, funhouses and live bluegrass music. But what interested me the most was the sideshow. Every year, barkers would call out, inviting us to see oddities like "Zinga, the 5-legged cow", "Madame Barba, the bearded lady" and "Hoppo, the chain-smoking frog boy." One year, something sinister made its appearance alongside the grotesqueries.

It was the summer before 5th grade. I was walking to the butcher with my grandpa, when I saw a poster nailed to an elm, advertising the appearance of "The Marvelous Jean-Marvot" at next week’s festival. The illustration depicted a smiling magician, with an absurdly long handlebar mustache, dressed in a long purple cloak and matching top hat, sawing a screaming woman in half.

My grandpa chuckled. "I remember seeing him about fifty years ago, when I was a boy about your age. Think they even reused the poster."

"You think it’s the same person?" I asked.

He laughed again, but then a look of horror came over his face as the past came back to him. "I hope it’s not him. God, I hope it’s not. It can’t be. If it were, he’d be around 80. I don’t remember any details about his act, just that something inside his tent scared me more than any of the other acts, scared me more than anything in my life. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you."

My grandpa’s advice only made me more excited to see Jean-Marvot. I began counting down the days till the festival opened. The morning of, I rode my bike down to the fairgrounds with my friends Nick and Petie. We quickly found the red-and-white-striped tent of Jean-Marvot. Outside, a disheveled man, smelling like grain alcohol, sat smoking a cigarette.

"What the fuck do you kids want?" he growled.

"Are you Jean-Marvot?" asked Nick.

"Are you stupid or something, kid? Do I look anything like the man in the poster? I’m just a barker. He does one show a day, at noon. Now get out of here!"

We went back to the tent at 11:30. I remember Petie smiling, proudly holding a small trophy he won at the blackberry eating contest, juice stains all over his shirt. That was the last time I ever saw him smile.

The barker we had met earlier that morning was standing outside, trying to attract an audience. "Come on in, only two quarters," he hollered. "Come see the magical Jean-Marvot. First time in America. He has enchanted princes and monarchs in Europe, and now, you lucky folks have the chance to see him. You won’t be disappointed, I can guarantee it."

We paid the entrance fee and entered the tent, not questioning why such a famed magician would be performing in a small Appalachian town. There were only a few other people inside and we grabbed seats in the first row. There was no proper stage, just a small roped off area with a dirt floor. A plain wooden chair sat in the center, empty.

The crowd slowly grew, and by the time the church bells rang out noon, there were probably a few hundred people in the tent. It wasn’t until 12:15 when Jean-Marvot finally emerged. He looked to be about thirty, clearly not the magician my grandpa saw decades earlier, and was dressed in the same purple cloak and top hat as in the poster.

He took off his hat and bowed deeply. "Welcome, welcome, bienvenue, Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, welcome one and all. You are about to witness the most spectacular display of magic in history! My name is Jean-Marvot, and I am 144 years old."

Petie, and a few other members of the audience laughed. Jean-Marvot glared at him. "You laugh, little fat boy, but I am telling the truth. I have been studying the arcane for well over a century. Now, for the first trick, I am in need of a volunteer from this audience."

He looked at me with his steel-grey eyes. "How about you, monsieur?" He produced a deck of playing cards from one of his pockets and held them out in front of me. "Pick a card, any card, and show it to the audience, but do not show it to me."

I selected a card from the middle of the deck, the Jack of Diamonds, and held it up for the audience to see.

"Now put it back in the deck, and shuffle it," Jean-Marvot said. I did. He reached into the deck and pulled out the Queen of Hearts. "Is this your card?"

I shook my head.

"Of course it is not, for the card is in your right pocket." I reached into my jeans, pulled out the Jack of Diamonds, and held it up to the audience. There was a light round of applause.

"Now for my next trick," the magician said. He took off his purple top hat and showed it to the audience. "Empty, not a thing in here, but wait." He reached inside and pulled out a fluffy white bunny.

There was a smattering of applause, but the audience was clearly growing restless. They had expected more than a few basic tricks.

"Just a false bottom," Petie said.

Jean-Marvot laughed. "If it were just a false bottom, little fat boy, how could I do this?" He reached back into the hat and pulled out another bunny. Then another. And another. He continued this until there were a dozen or so rabbits scurrying about the tent. He bowed, to much greater applause.

He reached back into his hat, and pulled out a clucking white chicken. "How did that get in there?" he asked. From his hat he produced a paintbrush, dripping with blood red paint.

He approached a little girl a few seats away from us in the front row. "Mademoiselle, can you draw a shape on the chicken? Any shape you want." The little girl drew a heart on the chicken’s wing.

"Merci mille fois." He reached back into the hat and pulled out a large cleaver. A grin came across his face. He knelt down, grasping the chicken’s neck with one hand, raised the cleaver, and chopped off the chicken’s head. The headless chicken ran around the tent for several seconds before collapsing. The little girl burst out into tears.

Jean-Marvot laughed. "Why do you cry, little girl? I thought this was a farming town. But I will make things all right, for I am the Marvelous Jean-Marvot." Holding the head of the chicken, he walked over to its body and knelt down, covering it with his cloak. He whispered a few words in some strange language. When he stood up, the chicken was alive, his head reattached. Sure enough, the heart was on its wing.

"He had another chicken hidden in his cloak," Petie said, over the audience’s applause.

Jean-Marvot laughed. "You are a disbeliever, little fat boy. But you will not be for long, for you will soon see the holes in my hands. Come up, and take a seat. Do not worry, I am not going to saw you in half. All you need to do, Peter, is to take a seat right here."

"How do you know my name," Petie asked, sounding nervous.

The magician laughed. "I know lots of things about you, You are 9 years old. Your birthday is July 28th. Your father’s name is Robert, your mother’s name is Catherine, you have an older brother, also named Robert. Now, little fat boy, come and take a seat."

Without saying a word, Petie got up and walked to him, a stiff, robotic walk. He sat down, staring straight ahead, his face expressionless.

I started to worry. Something was wrong. "What did you do to him?" I asked, but Jean-Marvot ignored me. He took off his cloak and draped it over Petie, who didn’t even blink. The magician hissed some words in the strange tongue, not "abracadabra" or anything like that, but sinister-sounding syllables. My heart started pounding. I was sure that when he lifted the cloak, my friend would be dead.

"Now let us see what happened to this little fat boy," Jean-Marvot said. Underneath the cloak, you could detect the outline of my friend, but when he lifted it, I, and most of the audience, gasped. Petie was gone. The chair was still there, but my friend was nowhere in sight.

He put back on his cloak and bowed deeply. "That is all for today, ladies and gentlemen. It took a lot of energy to disappear that little fat boy." He started walking out of the tent.

"I thought you were going to saw someone in half," yelled someone from the back.

Jean-Marvot kept walking.

"Where’s my friend?" I screamed.

The magician turned back. "You will probably find the little fat boy wandering around outside, confused," he said, before disappearing out the back of the tent.

Nick and I ran outside and circled the tent. There was no sign of either Petie or Jean-Marvot. I ran to the barker, who was sitting outside the tent’s entrance.

"Oh god, it’s you fucking kids again," he growled. "What do you want? No refunds."

"What happened to my friend? Jean-Marvot made him disappear but he never came back." I said.

He laughed. "He’ll turn up. They always do. Don’t know how he does it. But your friend will be safe."

Nick and I searched the fairgrounds for almost 15 minutes, before we found Petie wondering around the livestock pens. We shouted his name, but he showed no sign of recognition. I ran up to him. He had a vacant look in his eyes. I yelled his name, but he just kept walking. Finally, I grabbed him and started shaking him.

"Where am I?" he finally asked.

"You’re at the Blackberry Festival," I said. "We were just at the magic show. Do you remember anything?"

"I remember being at the show, and the magician asking me to come up on stage. Don’t remember anything else. He must have hypnotized me or something."

"You sure you weren’t in on it," I asked. "He knew your name and everything. Was there a trapdoor?"

He shook his head. "I don’t know. It’s weird, very weird. I feel sick, lightheaded. I think I’m going to go home."

For the first time in my life, I left the festival early. We rode our bikes to Petie’s house and went up to his room. Without saying a word, he laid down in bed.

As Nick and I read comic books, Petie slept. He slept for hours, not moving, not making a sound. A little after six, he woke up screaming.

"You OK?" I asked.

"Just a nightmare," he said.

"You remember anything about what happened at the fair?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not a thing. I want to go back there tonight, look over the tent, see if there’s a trapdoor or something."

"You sure?" I said. "It might be dangerous?"

"I need to."

​

At ten that night, we set off for the fairgrounds. The fair had been closed since eight, and there was no sign of life from the grounds. We hopped the fence and made our way to Jean-Marvot’s tent. I entered, holding a flashlight. Nick and Petie followed close behind.

We examined the dirt around the wooden chair. It was just dirt, no sign of a trapdoor.

"There’s nothing here," I said.

"You are wrong, little child."

I turned and saw the smiling Jean-Marvot, wearing the same purple cloak that he had worn earlier that day.

"I knew you children would come," he said. "You want to learn the secret of my magic? I will tell you."

We dashed towards the exit, but halfway there we were frozen in our tracks. I turned my head and saw Jean-Marvot raise his hand. We flew threw the air, landing at the sorcerer’s feet.

He chuckled. "It is not polite to trespass. The least you can do is stay to hear my story. It will be of interest to you, I hope, for I am no ordinary conjurer. I was born in a small village in Brittany, on the day that Louis Antoine, the last Dauphin of France, reigned as king for twenty minutes—"

"A dolphin?" asked Nick. "Like Flipper?"

"Do you think you are funny, little child, or are you just an imbecile? Please do not interrupt me again or I will sew your lips shut. Now Brittany is a strange land, an ancient Celtic nation, far different than the rest of France. I was raised by my grandmother, who only spoke Breton and not French. I listened to her folk tales of korrigans, dwarf-like spirits who danced in the woods, and those of Ankou, the reaper of death. I was convinced that magic existed, and I was determined to find it.

"There was an old man, a drunkard with a peg leg, who always hung around the local tavern. If you bought him a pint he would perform some card tricks, like the first one I performed. Naively, I believed he was a true sorcerer. I begged him over and over to teach me his secrets. Eventually, when I was about 15, he agreed. When I learned his secrets, I was disappointed at how simple the tricks were, but I still yearned to discover real magic, which I knew in my heart existed.

"I talked to other old women in the village, and learned some simple folk charms from them. I became convinced that there used to be magic in Brittany. But it had been diluted and weakened in the years since its conversion to Christianity in the 6th century. Undeterred, I continued my search. I scoured the woods, looking for traces of the fairies from my grandma’s tales. I trekked to ancient monasteries located on rocky cliffs, searching their libraries for any clues that might guide me. But I did not have much time, for the army came calling.

"In the army, I kept my ears open, listening for rumors of true magic. I saw hundreds of magicians, but their tricks, although sometimes impressive, did not fool me. That was until one night, when I was stationed in Algiers. Outside a crumbling mosque, an old man, his white beard nearly reaching the ground, was entertaining a group of children, a scimitar in his hand. I snuck over and watched in horror as he swung the sword at his neck, decapitating himself. His head, levitating a few feet off the ground, started singing in a language that I did not understand, neither Arabic nor one of the Berber languages, a strange, harsh, guttural tongue. As the boys ran off screaming, the old man grabbed his head and reattached it to his body. He looked at me, smiled, and vanished into thin air.

"I knew that I had, for the first time in my life, encountered real magic. I asked about the man in the bazaars and the brothels. What I heard was that he was a dark sorcerer, a devil worshipper, who called on jinns to perform his deceptions. The imams wanted him dead, but he was never able to be located. I asked the street children about his whereabouts, but they just said that he appeared out of nowhere before vanishing into thin air.

"One night, I was walking back to the barracks along a street that I had walked back many times before, when I passed a red-and-white-striped tent that I had never seen before. Inside was the old man, reading a large tome by candlelight.

"He looked up at me as I entered. ‘I have been expecting you,’ he said in perfect French, a language only a few of the Algerians spoke. I asked him to teach me his secrets, and he, to my great surprise agreed. He opened his tome, written in a language I did not recognize. Although I was a farm boy, I had done the best to educate myself, and could tell that it was not Greek or Arabic or one of the Oriental languages. He said a few lines, and asked me to recite them after him. It was the same guttural tongue that his severed head had sung in a few weeks earlier. After I had finished, he told me that I was ready. That I could begin my study. I looked at the pages, and to my surprise, I could read them. Then he started laughing. He told me that he had been a former Roman soldier from Gaul, who, like me, had been interested in the occult. He spent decades searching the corners of the empire, talking to oracles and mages, until one day, when he was close to death, he met an old Berber in North Africa. The old man offered to show him the secrets, but there was a catch. The holder of the secrets would live forever, unless he passed the knowledge on to someone else, someone who was deemed worthy. And that person was me.

"I watched as the old man swung his scimitar and decapitated himself. This time, his head did not levitate, did not sing. His bones turned to dust. After many centuries, the old man had finally been granted eternal rest.

"I did not care that I would live forever. That to me was a blessing, not a curse. I spent all my free time studying the book. However, as I got further into it, I became horrified at what I was reading. I tried to burn it, but its pages would not catch it alight. I left it behind, but it would always find its way back to my cot at night. I did not dare open it, but it still would not leave me.

"A few months later, I was sent to Crimea, where a Russian bullet pierced my heart. I remember waking up on a pile of decomposing bodies. I got up, unharmed, and walked back to my barracks. Once inside, I heard screaming, heard the soldiers uttering prayers. They thought I was a ghost. I knew then that my life would never be the same.

"I made my way on foot back to France, performing some tricks in exchange for food, for even though I was immortal, I was still susceptible to pangs of hunger. I no longer had any joy, all I wanted to do was die. In Alsace, I set upon a prelate when he refused to give me lodging, beating him to death. I was captured and sentenced to die. I could have escaped, but wanted to see if the steel of the guillotine was powerful enough to end my life.

"The priest who came to give me my last rites recoiled in horror when he touched me with his cross, saying that I was the devil. When the blade fell down, my head was severed, but I did not bleed. I, and I had no control over this, picked it up and reattached it, as simply as a man putting back on his cap that the wind blew off. As the villagers shrieked in terror, I ran off. There’s no scar on my neck, just as there’s no scar on my chest where the Russian bullet pierced my heart.

"I knew that the only way to die would be to find someone else. Someone else worthy. But that is the tricky part, very few are worthy to carry out the task. I made my way to England and joined a traveling circus, getting hired after demonstrating a few simple tricks. There I was christened Jean-Marvot, a silly name, not even a proper French name. My birth name, Corentin Cormon, was apparently not fit for show business. Don’t know why, I thought Corentin the Conjurer had a nice ring to it. But I digress.

"I thought that those who believed in magic would be apt to see me perform. But, alas, I have wandered for over a hundred years, but have yet to find someone who the ancient ones, the Sons of Cain, deem worthy. Hopefully tonight that will all change."

He produced a deck of playing cards. "Now we will see, each of you take one."

I drew first, not wanting to, but my hand moved as if I were a puppet on strings. I pulled out the Ace of Spades.

Jean-Marvot smiled at me. "You look familiar. I believe I met your grandfather in this very town nearly half a century ago. I thought there was hope in you, but alas, no."

Nick was next, and drawing the Two of Diamonds.

Jean-Marvot laughed. "My hope rests in little fat boy, the skeptic, our Doubting Thomas. Let us see what card he will pull."

He drew a card from the middle of the deck. There was no face or number on the card, no suit. Just plain black.

The magician smiled. "I would not have suspected this. But the cards do not lie. You, little fat boy, will be my successor."

"He doesn’t want to," I said.

Jean-Marvot laughed. "It does not matter what he wants."

An ancient book, thicker than my family Bible, materialized, hovering in the air. I watched as Petie recited the ancient lines after Jean-Marvot, his voice emotionless, flat.

"One more thing," Jean-Marvot said. "There is something I forgot to tell you. A sacrifice is required, a blood sacrifice." He looked at Nick. "You drew the lowest card, you stupid boy."

A cleaver materialized in the sorcerer’s hand. I tried to run, tried to help Nick, but my legs were stone. I watched as the wicked magician raised the cleaver. Nick, paralyzed below the neck, had a look of horror was etched on his face. The magician swung his cleaver at his neck, swung it over and over until his head was severed.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but the rest of my body was paralyzed. I looked at the smirking magician. "Please," I begged. "Don’t do this. Reattach his head."

He laughed. "My powers are gone. Even when I had them, I could not bring a man back to life, no matter how small his brain was. I couldn’t even turn base metals into gold. I was not a god, there were many more powerful than me. But now, I am just a mortal man. And tonight, I will finally obtain rest."

I looked towards where Petie stood, but he was gone. Never heard any footsteps, but he had vanished. Nick’s body had also disappeared.

"They are with the Children of Cain" said Jean-Marvot.

"Please," I cried.

"The show is over. Adieu." He bowed, and walked out of the tent.

​

Jean-Marvot’s body was found hanging in his trailer the next morning. But no sign of Nick or Petie ever was. The state police and even the FBI got involved, but not a trace of them was located. Never did I dare tell anyone what happened on that fateful night.

I have tried to put the past away, tried to convince myself that I imagined the whole thing. But there are some things that will never leave you.

This morning, I saw a flyer at a roadside diner, advertising the appearance of Bobby the Boy Wonder at the local county fair. His name may have been altered and the smile he always wore vanished, but his face didn’t change. It was the same chubby boy with rosy cheeks whom I played with every day growing up. The boy who has haunted my dreams ever since that night in the tent of the Marvelous Jean-Marvot.

I want to share my story here. I think it may be a warning for those who are gluttonous for a peek into their neighbours' windows.

Here are screenshots of our chat and below is text transcript

Today

Max - Guys, wanna some FF today? - 01:14 AM

SweetHeart90 - I’m waiting for an update, I’d rather go aram - 01:16 AM

Me - Invte me - 01:17 AM

Cleomaniac1 - I pass, I’m fully immersed in TLOU. - 01:17 AM

SweetHeart90 - What episode? - 01:18 AM

Cleomaniac1 - 2 - 01:18 AM

spacEOddity - Strawberry memes ahead :) - 01:19 AM

SweetHeart90 - Fuck off :) - 01:20 AM

Max - D, my man, co-op? - 01:20 AM

spacEOddity - Nope, I have a binocular session today - 01:22 AM

Me - ?? - 01:22 AM

spacEOddity - Viewing the Moon with binoculars - 01:23 AM

Max - Lol, wt for? - 01:23 AM

spacEOddity - Helping niece with classes - 01:24 AM

Me - I bet he’s just peeping neighbours))) - 01:24 AM

spacEOddity - Nope - 01:24 AM

spacEOddity - Thanks for advice though ;) - 01:24 AM

SweetHeart90 - It’s gross, you little creep - 01:25 AM

Cleomaniac1 - WTF, Derek! - 01:25 AM

spacEOddity - What? I don’t see anything interesting anyway - 01:25 AM

Max - Hey D, stop waistin time, deal with ur homestuff asap, join my party, profit - 01:26 AM

spacEOddity - Guys, I see a couple standing near the window - 01:27 AM

SweetHeart90 - Srsly? - 01:27 AM

spacEOddity - Woooooo! They noticed me! They definitely don’t mind :D LOOOOL! - 01:28 AM

That girl is in a night dress, a man standing next to her, lights off, but I still can see them. - 01:29 AM

Cleomaniac1 - Oh, stop, Greg, get him off of this chat. - 01:29 AM

Me - He is an idiot, ignore him - 01:29 AM

spacEOddity - FUCK! GUYS! SHE JUST SUCKED HIM UP! - 01:31 AM

SweetHeart90 - Drunk? - 01:31 AM

spacEOddity - I MEAN LITTERALYY JUST FLESH AND BONES. - 01:33 AM

spacEOddity - I MADE A PHOTO OF HERE SHE IS CREEPY AS FUCK! - 01:33 AM

spacEOddity - SHE IS WATCHING AT ME AND GRINNING!!!!!!! - 01:34 AM

Max - Lol, she just wnt to suck u to - 01:34 AM

spacEOddity - *uploading photo* - 01:35 AM

photo

Cleomaniac1 - Meeeehh, stop joking. - 01:35 AM

spacEOddity - I’m serious! She disappeared, Icant see her I’m getting off the balcony, I will be calling cops - 01:36 AM

spacEOddity - FUCK SHE IS HERE ON MY BALCONY AND KNOCKING MY WINDOW - 01:39 AM

Max - man, if u re joking it’s not funny u know? - 01:40 AM

spacEOddity - Shes trying to break my balcony door, call cops please - 01:40 AM Cleomaniac1 - bboooooooring. - 01:40 AM

SweetHeart90 - Wait, maybe he is serious? - 01:40 AM

Cleomaniac1 - not again, he is just trolling you guys. - 01:41 AM

spacEOddity - Im idiiot i ran into the elevantor and i hear her screaming and laughing, she running after me screams something about hell and lust, i dont want the door open i dont know what to do fuck - 01:42 AM

Me - D, come on - 01:42 AM

Max - if none gonna FF today, Ima going alone - 01:43 AM

Cleomaniac1 - I’m starting new episode, see you tomorrow folks. - 01:49 AM

SweetHeart90 - You mean later today? - 01:50 AM

Cleomaniac1 - Yup! - 01:52 AM

Me- no show from Derek today - 02:12 AM

SweetHeart90 - Guys, I checked Derek, I can’t find him - 09:13 AM

*SweetHeart90 started a call*

Cleomaniac1 - He is not picking up - 09:21 AM

Me - I can't get through either - 09:22 AM

*Cleomaniac1 started a call*

As Cleo dialled for a group call, we saw Derek finally answering. But the relief was short-lived. All we could hear were gruesome cracks and the sound of someone with a high-pitched, inhuman voice muttering chilling words.

"Tasty," the voice whispered, followed by a sickening slurp. "I won't return," the voice growled, filled with malice and hunger. "I will find you all." Cleo's screams filled the call.

As the call abruptly ended, we were left with a haunting image burned into our minds. The image of Derek, torn apart and devoured by a being so terrifying that we couldn't even comprehend its existence.

From that day on, we lived in fear, knowing that there are things in this world beyond our understanding. Things that hunger for us, that crave our flesh and our souls. And we can only hope that we never cross paths with them.

Ms Robinson had always been…eccentric. You wouldn’t notice at first; her wavy brown hair, grey eyes and radiant smile usually set people at ease when they saw her, but sooner or later her quirky nature would always give in.

“Her name is Gertrude, his name is Herbert, and would you please stop flirting with Ruby over there Samuel? You have a boyfriend.”

Seem ordinary? It does, doesn’t it? Until you realize that Gertrude’s the name of the back wall of our classroom, and Herbert is the ceiling. Ruby’s our resident leftie, if you’re wondering. Not my fault there was only one seat available that day.

Most parents would’ve killed to have her removed. Most parents are idiots. Ms Robinson was fun, energetic, and one of the best teachers I’d ever had. You’d be hard-pressed to find another teacher with such a passion for their subject as Ms Robinson, which only further cemented her abilities as a more-than-competent teacher.

Which was one of many reasons I’d always chosen to ignore the less funny facets of her teaching regimen. Such as the near-obnoxious amounts of perfume that was constantly being sprayed around the classroom. You couldn’t enter the place without at least one tear rolling down your cheeks. When I asked her what it was, she just said that the janitorial staff were testing out new cleaning products.

“And they couldn’t have done it in a classroom that wasn’t being used?” I asked, strapping my face mask on.

“Common sense isn’t as common as you might expect,” she muttered, obviously displeased. “You’d think they’d learn the first time.”

When I turned back to ask her what the hell that meant? Ninja-disappearing trick. Never gets old, until it does. And with Ms Robinson, it got old fast. Like, ‘this is the hundredth time this week!’ kind of fast. Every time I tried to ask her about the smell, or the creepy groans, she just vanished.

Oh, I didn’t mention the creepy groans? They happened when I was alone, or when the class was actually silent. Sometimes, when we were really bored and the teachers were out, we’d tell them to shut up or groan back. That usually made them quiet down.

Or, at least, they used to. Now…I’m not so sure. Now, I think I’m noticing patterns that I never knew of before. Strange patterns. I didn’t even notice it at first, until one of my friends pointed it out for me.

“Hey, you haven’t seen Annie at school lately, right?” Stephanie asked, fiddling nervously. My brows furrowed. I hadn’t, actually. Annie and I weren’t close or anything like that, but it was weird of her to skip school for two weeks straight. Even weirder was the fact that, when we checked, nobody knew what was happening.

Apparently, her parents packed up and left in the break or something. We got a new student though. Mark. Ms Robinson had Marky seated to the far back of the classroom, saying that Annie would like the company.

Sometimes I can’t believe how stupid I was. Maybe it was the fact that I’d known Ms Robinson for so long. It felt impossible to me that she might be anything other than good. I keep trying to tell myself it wasn’t my fault. I was a child, trying to survive my high school years.

But that doesn’t stop the memories. It doesn’t stop the pain, the guilt, the shame. It doesn’t stop me from curling up into a ball every time I remember it, screaming until the sounds fade away and the only thing I hear is my own pitiful sobbing.

There’s a storage room in my school that nobody goes to. People say it’s haunted or something, and that’s why everyone, even the janitors, stay far away from it. My friends thought it would be funny if I were to stay back in school.

Obviously, I wasn’t too pleased with the prospect of spending what could’ve been a productive/fun night in the Hellscape we call our second home, but the five thousand bucks they threw in helped sweeten the pot.

The plan was simple. While everyone else left the school, I’d be hanging back in the storage room until six in the morning, at which point I’d head out using my friend’s key (long story that we really don’t have time for). My parents were out of town so it would be fine.

“Careful. I heard there’s ghosts down there,” Jack joked, handing me a bottle of water before he left. I downed it in one gulp.

The storage room was surprisingly comfy, to be perfectly honest. Sure, a little cold, but nothing like I expected. Best of all was the smell, or lack thereof. After spending years being assaulted by ridiculous amounts of perfume, it was a welcome change. I plugged in my earphones and waited to fall asleep, my alarm already set for 6 AM.

It was midnight when I heard the scratching. I tried to ignore it at first. Maybe a cat or something got in? I couldn’t do anything about that, so I just tried my best to fall back to sleep. I failed, and ended up doing a few stretches when I heard something else. Something darker.

“Sam?”

Her voice was distant, and yet so close I could feel her breath on my nape.

“Annie?”

I sat there, waiting for a reply. Possibilities rolled through my mind. A prank? Possible, but unlikely. My friends had a 5-mile radius policy set as soon as school ended. Maybe they put some kind of timed recording?

I looked around the storage room. The place was spartan. Nowhere you could hide a recorder. I sighed, and turned on my phone flashlight. For a moment the light burned into my retina, and I stood against the wall, dizzy and blind.

A few moments passed, and when the spots in my vision began to clear, I felt vertigo hit me like a freight train on steroids. The room had become narrower? Or longer? I wasn’t sure, but something was wrong. I staggered forward, and the room twisted again.

I kept walking, trying my best to make sense of this strange spatial anomaly. Using my phone as a flashlight, I managed to navigate the corridors. I’d have time to wonder what the hell this was about later. Right now, I needed to find a way out.

“Samuel…”

“Sammy?”

“Sam!”

The words kept echoing in the back of my head. I screwed them shut, trying to focus. But it wasn’t working. The world kept turning and changing around me. Sometimes I saw hands crawling out of the walls. Sometimes they came from the floor. Some were skeletal, others were made of decaying flesh and blood.

What was happening?

I must’ve walked for hours. No, tens of thousands of hours. But the nightmare showed no sign of ending. Would I be trapped here forever? Would I never get to see sunlight again, or tell my parents I loved them?

I got my answer when the storage room door opened.

“Samuel?” Ms Robinson asked breathlessly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I couldn’t answer. I just fell to the ground, too tired to say anything.

When I woke up, the doctors said I’d hallucinated. Apparently my ‘friends’ had drugged me with some kind of hallucinogen, and that’s what caused my hallucinations. I fainted because I’d spent three hours walking in the same room. I’d crashed into the wall at least twice.

The water bottle, I realized.

The rest of the school year was as normal as ever, except my parents freaked out and grounded me for life. That was years ago.

I’m 25 now, and this story had never been of particular importance to me until now. I mean, sure, it’s fun to say at parties: hey, did you know I got drugged that one time? And you thought your story about sharks was scary!

But now, now I don’t want to think about it at all. I thought those voices had been hallucinations. I was wrong. A few weeks ago, the school was being renovated for something. One of the workers apparently fainted on the spot when he saw what was behind one of the walls.

Kids. Hundreds of kids. Some were nothing more than skeletons now. Others were rotting and decayed. And you want to know the worst part? Some of them were still alive. Theirs’ were the most horrifying faces I have ever seen.

The chemicals had been the school’s way of stopping the smell and infections. Those voices? The kids, trying to cry out for help. The walls were thin enough that they could speak, but judging by the state they were in, even breathing would’ve been difficult.

The police still aren’t sure how the hell they did it. Whatever it was, it was designed so that nobody would ever figure it out. Some of the kids weren’t even from our town. All of them matched missing case reports from the last fifty years, ranging from our town all the way to…I don’t even know.

Gertrude Gilbert.

Herbert Jennings.

Annie Myers.

The police have no suspects. No leads. Ms Robinson is gone, along with the rest of the faculty. I have no idea how this hasn’t made national news yet. I’m afraid it never will. Nobody likes to admit when they make mistakes, and trusting Ms Robinson was the greatest mistake of all

When I was six years old, I followed a red bird into the woods. I didn’t think much about it, it just made a funny sound and I wanted to look at it. So I wandered off. My mother had fallen asleep on her sunbed after toting about in the garden, she was usually very attentive. Once the bird flew away I tried to turn back, only to realize I’d wandered off the trail, and I had no idea where I was. It was the first time I truly feared for my life. The forests of West Virginia can be so dense that they eat your screams; no one could hear me calling for help, and I couldn’t hear my panicked mother looking for me.

I ended up moving further and further into the forest. I went the wrong way. The sky slowly turned dark as the hours passed, and I found myself following a river. I was thirsty. It eventually got so dark that I couldn’t see my own feet.

At some point, I put my foot down wrong and twisted my ankle. It just broke me. I couldn’t straighten my leg out or put any weight on it. I just sat there by the river, completely devastated. I cried my eyes out, screaming for help, but no one came. It was just me, and the dark. And the dark was ready to eat me alive.

​

In the darkest hours of the night, as the fear had reached into the back of my heart, I just sat there; shivering. It was as if the panic had subsided into a sort of revelation. I imagined Death waiting for me at the other side of the river. I knew it was there.

I never saw it, but I painted a picture of it in my mind. I figured it had a really long arm, with a single painted nail. If I looked at it, or talked to it, that arm would grow longer.

But it wanted me to look. It wanted me to know it was there.

“Look-a-me,” it whispered. “Look-a-me, little boy.”

​

Sometime during the night, I passed out. They found me by the river just before sunrise.

And although my leg healed, my mind didn’t. And from that day forward, I’ve always had the sense that something lurks in the dark, just out of sight. Something that wants me to look. To find it.

To reach me.

​

Ever since, I’ve had an anxious relationship to the dark. Some would call it nyctophobia. A sort of fear of the unseen. I’ve always held that gnawing feeling of something waiting on the other side of the river, just out of reach; but one misstep, and it would get me. Even as an adult, I still get that sense of dread. An all-encompassing panic. The sense that you’re not getting enough oxygen, despite hyperventilating. Blood rushing to your head so fast it starts ringing in your ears. And then and there, in my most vulnerable moments, I can still hear it.

“Look-a-me, little boy. Look-a-me.”

​

Over the years, I’ve been to various therapists. I’ve had treatments. And honestly, just being open about my fears has helped tremendously. I’ve faced my fears time and time again and channeled them into creative outlets. That’s how I eventually became a screenwriter.

I worked my fingers to the bone. Sometimes out of ambition, but most often just to distract myself from that all-consuming darkness that sneaks up on me late at night. I moved to the West Coast in 2011. An internship lead me to a position as an uncredited assistant screenwriter on a popular sitcom. I can’t name any names, but I’m sure there were quite a few nerds enjoying our fourth season.

I got my first job at a movie set in 2016. I mostly worked on last-minute edits and consultation, but it was the first time I saw my name on the silver screen. I’m sure some of you horror fans out there enjoyed it. And to those of you who’ve gained a lifelong fear of dolls; I’m sorry.

​

I worked several stray projects until 2018, when I met a very influential man. Let’s call him Patrick, or ‘Pat’ for short. Pat and I met at the wrap-up party of another project, and we got a bit too drunk. We started talking about horror movies, and the two of us ended up talking about our fears and anxieties. It was a “drinking red wine from the bottle at 3-am” kind of talk.

I ended up mentioning my trauma. It sort of just slipped out. I mentioned my sprained leg, and sitting there at the bank of the river. I mentioned a presence in the dark. The long arm, growing longer the more I tried to see it.

“Wha… what’s it called?” Pat asked, flabbergasted.

And in that moment, I realized I’d just pitched my first screenplay.

​

Pat fast-tracked the whole thing. He was aching for a producer’s credit, and he genuinely loved the imagery of the ‘Look-a-Me’. A creature lurking in the dark with an arm growing taller the more you paid attention to it. He thought it was absolutely chilling, and he kept hyping me up about it several times a week.

I had a rough draft ready in two weeks. I tried to channel my childhood fears into a cohesive story, but instead of a kid stuck by the river it was more of a classic horror setup. A group of young adults who got lost in the forests of West Virginia, being relentlessly hunted by this primal force. That first draft was rough, but I got a good outline.

I worked with two other writers for the second draft. Kellan, who mostly worked crime drama, and Morgan. She was a comedy writer who wanted to break into a new genre. There was a lot of late night rewrites. Morgan was also an amazing concept artist, which brought every piece of our story to life.

​

I remember one night as we worked on the second draft. Kellan was rambling on and on about what the ‘Look-a-me’ represented.

“It’s too simple,” he sighed. “It can’t just be death. We’re not making a… a Jason Voorhees. It’s something new. It means something.”

“I think it’s trauma,” said Morgan. “Like, how it gets worse the more you poke at it. The more you look at it. It’s painful.”

“What the hell kind of message is that?” Kellan scoffed. “Are we telling people not to confront their fears?”

“No, we’re… we’re telling them to not get… goaded into it. To do it on your own terms, you know?”

​

It felt like a good and bad conscience chattering into my ears. But at the end of the day, it was my script, and it came down to my decision. Kellan wanted to paint the picture of a threat, something symbolic. Morgan wanted to send a message, using the Look-a-me as a tool. Neither of them was getting the point.

“There’s nothing to it,” I finally said. “It is not a message. It is not a symbol. It’s there, and it hunts. Just like a bear, or a shark.”

“So we’re just making a monster movie,” scoffed Kellan. “Jaws 4, deep forest boogaloo?”

“There was a Jaws 4, actually,” smiled Morgan. “It was called The Revenge.”

“Oh please.”

They argued back and forth. They argued about how bad the script could get if we continued down this path. They argued about the clichés we were wandering headfirst into. And it dawned on me; they were just scared of the dark. They didn’t have control. I did.

“I got it from here,” I said. “Take the night off.”

So they did. They were still arguing in the hallway, on their way out. Moments later, Kellan turned back. He leaned in and gave me a final look.

“You know you have to show it, right?” he said. “No matter what, we can’t just have it hidden in the dark. We have to show it.”

​

That’s where my writing stopped. No matter how I twisted and turned it, I couldn’t picture the Look-a-me. All I saw was this long arm reaching towards me, coming out of the dark. A woman’s hand, with a single painted nail.

“Look-a-me, little boy.”

But the more I thought about it, the more my anxiety spiked. I knew I could see it in my mind, if I wanted to. I could. But looking at it too closely, in any way, would give it the power to reach me. My mind wouldn’t let me see it. My reptile brain was reaching through my anxiety to rattle me into looking the other way. To turn my mind away from the page.

I couldn’t describe it. All I got was that… that long arm.

And I could’ve sworn I felt it brushing against the back of my neck.

​

The second draft stalled for a couple of weeks. Pat was getting impatient. He called me into the office one rainy Wednesday afternoon to have a “serious conversation” about the rewrite.

When I got there, I was ambushed by a whole gaggle of writers. An entire team. A room full of people, who’d all been briefed. They all had printed-out copies of the first draft, and both Morgan and Kellan had told them about the issue with the rewrite. Pat wasn’t playing around; he wanted this done.

I barely got a word out before we were ushered into our seats and pushed into finishing the draft. There were about a dozen of us. Some were pretty big industry names, called in to give some pedigree to the script. One of them had worked on prosthetics for a big zombie show, and he came out swinging.

“Let’s just expand on what we got,” he suggested. “Instead of a long arm, why not several? Just… all arms.”

“Yeah,” someone chimed in. “Like it, a… saves them. The arms, I mean.”

“It adds to itself,” someone laughed. “A literal growing fear.”

“Ringu meets The Blob. Love it. Love. IT.”

​

They were all talking over me. Through me. Past me. They didn’t know any better, and as a collective, they all looked at the Look-a-me. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. They were bringing it into focus. And even there, in the bright lights of that film studio meeting room, I could feel that darkness coming over me. My breath growing shallow. My vision turning into a pin. And in the back of my mind, I heard it.

“Look-a-me, little boy.”

I ran out of the office, locked myself in the bathroom, and puked my guts out. I screamed into the toilet bowl, waiting for the panic to stop. I could feel that long arm reaching for me. And the more I thought about it, the closer it got.

“Look-a-me,” it hissed, its voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. “Look-a-me!”

​

I didn’t return to that meeting. I got in my car and went straight home to take my backup anxiety meds. I hadn’t used them in a while. I fell face-first into the bed and just collapsed into a nightmarish mid-afternoon nap.

Later that day I poured myself a bath and a glass of red wine (non-alcoholic); even brought out some bubbles. I figured I’d stay in for the rest of the day and get takeout.

Just a few minutes into the bath, my phone started buzzing. Turns out Pat had run out of patience. They’d finished the second draft, and they were going ahead with it; with or without me. I was invited to add to it, but they weren’t gonna budge on what the ‘consultants’ had come up with.

I skimmed it. And there it was.

​

They had been poking at the Look-a-me for hours. There was concept art, vivid descriptions, and even a storyboard sketch.

The Look-a-me. A hundred arms from a hundred victims. An eldritch Medusa. Ringu meets The Blob. They had comparisons, charts, mood boards… one of them already had a casting suggestion for the voiceover.

​

Then the power went out.

With a snap from the ceiling light, I was enveloped in complete darkness. In a heartbeat I went from a screenwriter back to a little boy; lost and alone in the dark. I imagined myself submerged in that forest river. I scrambled to get out. I kept slipping, as I felt the bathtub give way for river stones. I could feel them. I could smell the algae.

“Look-a-me, little boy,” the darkness hissed. “They gave me a body. They look, little boy.”

A long nail brushed against my neck.

“You made them look-a-me. And now I can reach much, much further.”

​

A warmth against my cheek, as something leaned in. Sticky lips parting, like slowly pulling off a band-aid. It was right there, in the dark.

“Thank you.”

​

As the lights came back on, I felt my heart skip a beat. Every square inch, every bathroom tile, every towel and shampoo bottle; it was all covered in handprints.

And for the first time since I was six years old, I screamed like my life depended on it.

Like a part of me was still stuck in those woods, hoping for my mother to find me.

​

Over the next few days, my fear of the dark kicked into overdrive. Every time I stepped out of the light, I heard it. Little remarks, snickers, and laughter. Just closing my eyes was all it took for the sound of tapping fingers to creep closer.

I couldn’t help but to imagine it. It was no longer just an arm in the dark, it was this… this amalgamation. It poured out of every dark corner of every room. It had so many more things to say, and its arms were so much longer.

And no matter how many lights were on, and no matter how much light I let in from the windows, I could still sense it. Out of every unseen corner, out of every closed door; it was there.

And it wanted me to look.

​

I was getting regular updates. They were on a third draft. Kellan and Morgan had completely taken over the writing, and I was turning more and more into a “consultant”. The project was running away from me. More concept art. More lines. More dialogue.

They were looking at it. I had pointed it out to them, and now they were all looking.

I was in a feverish panic. I could feel it growing stronger, bigger, more assertive. It was no longer just something lurking in the back of my mind, it was reaching across the river. And at every turn, at every corner, there it was.

“Look-a-me, little boy.”

​

I’ll be honest, some of those days are a blur. I remember a rainy evening in the middle of the week. I was sleep-deprived, exhausted, and mentally torn.

I don’t even remember going to see Morgan. I just had this drive to stop her from looking too closely. I had to stop her from whatever was going to happen if she looked for too long.

I had to save her.

​

The moment I put my hand to her door, it opened. Morgan looked at me with sleepless eyes, her hands shaking. For a moment, the two of us just looked at one another.

“I, uh… I thought you were sick,” she said. “They said you were.”

“You don’t… don’t look too great yourself,” I said, forcing a chuckle.

Every light in her apartment was on. Even her TV, a flashlight, and her laptop. Her curtains had been torn down and spread across the floor. It might’ve been evening outside, but her place was bright as day. I could put two and two together, but it felt strange saying it out loud.

“You’ve… you’ve seen it. You’ve looked, I mean.”

Morgan nodded, her head shaking up and down like a bobblehead. Poor thing was exhausted.

“It’s real,” she stammered. “How… how can it be real?”

​

She invited me in. I sat down on her sofa, on top of a flowery curtain. Morgan’s hands were shaking so bad I could hear the spoon in her cup of tea rattle back and forth.

“It, uh… started a few days ago,” she said. “And it just… it never stops. The more I try not to think about it, the more real it gets.”

“It wants you to look,” I said. “It wants-“

“It wants to become this… this real thing. It wants us to create it. It has lived in the back of your head for years, and now it’s clawing its way out.”

“That’s… yeah. Something like that.”

“So how do we stop it?” she asked. “What, do we… do we kill you?”

She sat down next to me, holding her cup tight with both her hands.

“I don’t, uh… I don’t think so. It’s already out there.”

“But we can’t un-look at it. It’s done. It’s… it’s happening.”

​

And the thought hit me.

What the hell would happen once an audience of thousands, or tens of thousands, or hundreds of thousands, watched it? How long would it grow, just from test screening? How far across the river could the Look-a-me get, if everyone was eager to watch it?

A cold chill went up my spine. Maybe this was the plan. Maybe this was what it wanted. Maybe it pushed me towards writing to begin with. Maybe it lived in me, putting me on a path to birth it onto the world stage.

I felt sick.

​

“I… I can’t let this happen,” I said. “If that… if it… if we shoot anything. A promo, a… a trailer. Anything. If we do the goddamn casting, or there’s a leak, or… or…”

“Oh my God.”

Morgan covered her mouth, her eyes going wild.

“D-do you think-“

I just nodded. We were thinking the same thing. This… this mind-creature, if brought to the public, would be unstoppable.

​

We got our coats and got out of the apartment. We had to see Pat. Maybe he was experiencing something similar. Morgan fumbled for her keys and almost stumbled over her own feet. I could hear her swearing with frustration.

The moment we got out of her apartment, it was as if time stood still. Morgan was right behind me, but something happened. There was this strange ammonia smell in the air. I slowly turned around, holding my breath.

I hadn’t thought about it, but the hallway light outside her apartment was broken. And for a moment, we were standing in darkness.

​

One by one, the lights in her apartment went out. Twinkling on and off, like dying stars.

A pair of pale fingers dug through her hair; a single painted fingernail poked out behind her ear.

So many fingers.

​

Morgan gasped. We looked at one another, breathlessly.

It could reach all the way across.

It could reach across the river.

​

In a heartbeat, the door slammed shut. There was a visceral tearing, and the sound of something rolling across the floor. And outside, the lights were starting to die.

“Look-a-me, little boy,” the dark said. “Look-a-me.”

Long pale arms crawled out of every corner, reaching for me. It wasn’t even dark yet. It didn’t care.

It laughed.

​

I refused to get trapped in the elevator, so I ran down the stairs , feeling the sole of my boots trample curious fingers with every corner I rounded. I could feel them nipping at my clothes, grasping for my neck.

I burst through the exit to the street level, knocking over a middle-aged couple as I scrambled towards my car. I didn’t even hear their insults. All I heard was my heartbeat, and that little voice growing louder every time I left the safety of the streetlights.

​

I drove past red lights, broke every speed limit, and went down the wrong end of a one-way street. I was in a frenzy and ended up frantically knocking on Pat’s front door.

I tried to compose myself, but there was no use. My eyes were wild, and I couldn’t stop my legs from shaking. My lips quivered, like I was hypothermic.

Pat was having a small party, just like the one I’d first met him at. He was about to invite me in, but he stopped himself. Clearly, I wasn’t well.

“We gotta… we gotta stop this, Pat,” I said. “We gotta stop production.”

“What are you talking about?” he smiled. “There’s no reason to-“

“No, you’re not hearing me. This… this is not a-a… a debate.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let you talk to me like-“

​

I heard it. That snickering, pleading little voice. Asking me to turn around, to look into the dark of the night.

“Look. Look-a-me.”

​

I snapped.

I shoved the door open and forced my way inside. I picked up a small wine glass from a nearby table, stomped into the living room, and tapped it with my phone for attention.

It could be a thousand times worse. Ten thousand. A hundred thousand.

No.

​

I barely even noticed the glass breaking, and everyone staring. At least three dozen industry professionals. People I’d looked up to my entire professional career. Hell, one of them was an A-lister.

“We’re, uh… hi,” I stammered. “We’re cancelling all production of the, uh… The Look-a-Me.”

There was a murmur in the crowd. Little smirks and pitying smiles.

“It’s happening,” I said. “It’s done. It’s gone.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” groaned Pat. “I’m calling the police.”

“Do whatever you want, but if I see a single goddamn still from that production, I’m burning the goddamn studio to the ground.”

“You gotta be-“

I grabbed Pat by the collar and pushed him up against the wall, rattling his wine glasses.

“I’m burning. The goddamn studio. To the ground.”

​

Career suicide.

Complete, absolute, career suicide.

​

I collapsed back into my car, still holding the broken wine glass. I turned on the dome light to drown out the darkness, but it didn’t work. I flicked it a couple times, but nothing happened.

A pale hand pushed down on my door lock.

Click.

​

“Time to look-a-me, little boy,” a voice whispered from the back seat, as a cold hand stroked my cheek. “Time to look.”

I thought back on that night from so many years ago. That absolute terror. That certainty of death. And just like then, there was this moment where fear gave way to revelation.

Of course.

​

“You can’t kill me,” I said. “I’m the only one who’ve… who’ve really looked. I’m the only one giving you this reach.”

Cold fingers curled around my neck.

“That’s it, isn’t… isn’t it? It’s because of me. Otherwise you would’ve killed me. You would’ve stopped me from going in there.”

There was no response. Just a tightening grip. Long nails brushing my hair, grabbing at it.

“Without me, and without that show, there’s no one to look. All the drawings will be tossed. The script forgotten. It’ll just be you and me, and… and if I’m gone… there’s just you. And you’re nothing. You are, literally, nothing. You never were anything but… but nothing.”

And I turned around to look, at the look-a-me.

​

And all I saw was a pale white hand retreating into the dark.

​

​

Now, it’s… it’s been a while.

I’m no longer under a studio NDA, but I’m not taking any chances. No charges were pressed, no production came to pass. It was easier to just shut it down and move on.

You might’ve heard about Morgan. The details were graphic. And no, of course that’s not her real name. They said she had some kind of episode, and the results were… tragic. How you can do something like she did to her own head during an "episode" they conveniently left out. But I know.

I'll always know.

​

Some things out there defy our explanations. Our rationale. Some things aren’t a message, or a monster, or a theme. It just is. It exists because we make it exist. And it wants to be seen.

To me, I don’t know where the Look-a-me came from. Maybe it came from me. Maybe it is me. Or maybe it was just something that found me in the dark, and decided to stick around.

But now I know that as much as I will be stuck with it, for the rest of my life, at least that thing is equally stuck.

With me.

‘Pop! Pop!’

“Honey…” I groaned, “It’s really late. I have to get up for work in the morning.”

“Huh!” Manny grumbled. He was popping bubble wrap in bed again, “Sorry, Mel. I’ll try and be quieter.”

‘Pop! Pop!’

He was still too noisy, but I let it go: he had recently lost his job.

Manny used to work in a warehouse, packaging boxes to be delivered. It was going fine until he was fired. He told me it was because the bubble wrap in the deliveries he sent was all ‘popped’. Even though they repeatedly told him not to pop the bubble wrap in his packages, he still couldn’t help himself. He had been unemployed for a few days.

It had been 5 years since we married and we still had a strong relationship. We were both on our way to our mid-30s and considering having children. We were the odd couple. We were ‘Manny and Mel’. It’s how the locals always saw us: always together. I remember the first time we fell in love: I was the one who fancied him. He was cute, with bright brown hair and brilliant blue eyes. I still love him. And I really miss him.

Manny was awkward. He was different. Not the bad kind of different: he was just peculiar. He always saw the world in a different light from everybody else. He wasn’t a genius by any means: he was just unique. And he was kind, kinder than any other man I had ever met. He wasn’t lonely either. He could have lived a life of solitude, but he struggled to socialise. I think that made us work well together, I was the social front of our relationship and he was the deep thinker. He had his quirks, but they never really stopped him until he was fired.

Of course, Manny’s most notable quirk was his strange obsession with popping bubble wrap. Yet, some people found it odd, but I always thought it was normal. If you knew him, you would understand. And who doesn’t like popping bubble wrap? Everyone does, even me. Manny just enjoyed it more than everyone else. And he was never ashamed to admit it. I thought that was really bold of him. I still did find it annoying occasionally, but I could look past it. You’d be surprised how many people judged him for it.

The next day, I returned from work. Manny was outside our flat, fumbling around with 5 person-sized rolls of bubble wrap. I was just as surprised as I was pissed off. Where the fuck would we keep them: we live in a flat?

I stomped up to Manny, who was trying to pick up two rolls at once, “Well?!”

“Ok, Mel, hear me out.” he stammered, “It may look like I splashed 120 quid on bubble wrap, but I got them at a reduced price.”

“No, that’s not the fucking issue: you told me that your ‘hobby’ wouldn’t grow out of control. Plus, where the hell will we keep all this.”

“Oh come on, we can easily squeeze it all in the laundry room.”

“The laundry room!” I yelled, my voice squeaking, “Ok, how much did you spend?”

“About 12 quid,” he said, sounding cooler this time.

I could not deny how cheap that was for 100 metre-long bubble wrap. “Oh, o-ok. Was there some bargain sale for bubble wrap going on then?”

“Well, you see, the thing is.” He seemed to lower his voice, as though he knew some government secret, “While I was looking for a new job, I found this website that sells bubble wrap at a reduced price. It was called ‘Bob’s Bubble Wrap’ or somethin’. I’ll send you the link on Whatsapp.”

He got out his phone and a few seconds later my phone ‘dings’. While he lumbered the bubble wrap into the flat, I tried using the link. ‘This site can’t be reached’. “Manny, this link does not work.”

“W-what?” he said mid-way to our laundry room.

I repeated myself “This link, it doesn’t work.”

“Are you sure?”

I tried it again, but it still didn’t come up with anything. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Gimme a sec,” he dumped the roll in the hallway and came over, “May I have a look?”

I looked at him with a slack jaw. I sarcastically said “Well ok, Mr Tech-genious! I don’t know how you gonna magically make it work, but go ahead!”

He took the phone from me “Well, the link worked for me, so I don’t see why it shouldn't for you.”

“Of course, the link only works for you.” Like any other person, I do not like being told how to use my phone. Manny did this every time he thought I was being technologically incapable. I guess it was another one of his quirks: being shrewd as fuck.

“Here,” he said as he passed it back.

It worked. My phone showed what looked like an early 2000s webpage. “Wait, what did you do?!”

“I just used the link,” he said as he backed up towards his rolls of bubble wrap.

I looked at the site on my phone: it was the strangest site I had ever seen. The title read ‘Bob’s Bubble Wrap for Poppin’’. It sounded like it was written by Ned Flanders. I read the description:

‘Have you ever been a wonderin’ why the world uses bubble wrappin’ for deliverin’ and not a poppin’? Well, my goal in life is to try an’ make bubble wrap to pop for all bubble wrap enthusiast's hearts desirin’. No strings attached! An’ everythin’ on here is as low a pricin’ you’d ever gettin’. 10% the usual pricin’! Buy now!’

Like, what? What is this description? How is this site selling this shit to anyone – excluding my husband? This just made me laugh.

Anyway, I decided to look at some of his products. He wasn’t lyin’, it only sold bubble wrap. From widths of 300mm by 100m up to 1500mm by 100m: my husband had gotten 5 rolls of the latter, obviously. He also sold them in all the colours of the rainbow. Thank gods Manny only got plain white: the other colours look childish. It seemed so pointless, a whole site just for buying bubble wrap. It smelled funny, but what harm could it bring? I read the disclaimer at the bottom but only remembered it later. I regret that now.

I approached Manny, he had just laid the rolls of bubble wrap out on the floor of the laundry room. “How did you pay for this: did you buy it in-store or…”

“No, they must have delivered it here.”

“You mean for free?”

“Hmm,” he grunted credulously, “I guess so.”

I did not ask how he paid for the bubble wrap itself. “Thank gods you weren’t scammed, you numpty!” I said with a hint of annoyance, “I hope it was worth it: now you have plenty of bubble wrap at least.”

“Yep, this should keep me going for a while,” he said stretching his arms and groaning. He then lay back across the bubble wrap, feeling its bouncy consistency. “Ahh! Can you imagine what sex would be like on this stuff?”

“W-w-what?!” I said, giggling. Sometimes, my husband would say the most random and funny-as-shit of things. “Are you for real?!”

He just gave a look that screamed: ‘Ya betcha’, I am!’

I laughed out loud at this, “Come on, let’s watch some Netflix.”

I’ll leave you to guess whether we had sex on the bubble wrap bed or not.

A couple of weeks later, with nothing of note happening. Manny remained unemployed and I kept our boat afloat. So scratch what I said earlier about him being capable of living by himself: ‘living a life of solitude’. He would most definitely sink without me.

I was talking with Jane, one of our neighbours. We did this every time we would run into each other outside the flat, more out of politeness than shared interest as you do. She was talking about one of the neighbour’s cats that usually visit her: “You know Mel: the one that keeps bringing me presents.” she prodded.

“Oh, you mean… What was its name? Connie.” I suggested.

“That's right, Connie. Unfortunately, I heard she died recently,” she said sadly.

I was not surprised: pets die all the time. Yet, I still acted sad, “Ohh. What a shame.”

“Well, yes.” She dawned on the face she puts on before gossiping, “They apparently found her a bloody mess and almost unidentifiable, except for her colour.”

I frowned, “So, she was killed by someone?”

“Perhaps, but they could not tell. When they got a veterinary to look at her, the veterinary couldn’t say how she died. But, rumour has it: she looked like she… exploded!”

I let out a short laugh and then enquired: “What?!”

Jane chuckled as well, “I know: exploded! Cats don’t simultaneously explode, do they?! I don’t really believe that. Who is to say how she died? I don’t know where that rumour came from.”

“It sure sounds way too steep to me.”

She then lowers her voice back to her normal volume, “Ohh. I will miss her. It wasn’t long ago she brought me a scrap of bubble wrap. It is probably from your husband’s collection.” I just nodded at this. “How is Manny at the moment, anyway?”

“Oh, good, good. Still looking for work: he hasn’t given up yet.”

The conversation rambled off from there.

It was not too long before Manny started changing. I was walking past the bathroom one morning when I heard it.

‘Pop! Pop!’

Manny was in the bathroom: it sounded like he was popping his bubble wrap in there. This was very unusual of him. Plus, the ‘popping’ noise didn’t sound the same: it sounded wetter.

‘Pop! Pop! Pss!’

Then he made a pained noise. “Nghh…”

It was like he was trying to repress the sound. If something was wrong, I knew he wouldn’t make a fuss unless he knew it was serious. “Honey!” I called “Are you alright?”

With a sudden stir, he yelps “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m good. I just hurt myself, like an idiot.”

“Well, ok.” I moved on.

Later, I noticed loads of plasters (band-aids: if you’re an American) from our medical cabinet had been used. The packaging had been crumpled: as though Manny had desperately scooped them out of the box.

He was lying down on the sofa popping more bubble wrap, “Have you been using the plasters? Almost all of them have been used up.” I knew he had, but I felt he needed to admit to using them.

He looked towards me slowly and robotically said “Yes. I accidentally cut myself.”

“Multiple times?”

“No. I just didn’t apply a few of them properly at first.”

I looked sternly at him, “How did you cut yourself?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing, but I think I did it on the bubble wrap.”

“Oh, really?” I had felt the bubble wrap (and maybe popped some of it), though it didn’t seem too sharp. If anything, it was soft and cushioned. Still, I had no real reason not to believe him. So I decided it wasn’t worth interrogating him.

Then, suddenly, it got a lot worse.

The evening news was on, and Manny got up to get something from the kitchen. But, he seemed to trip. It was not the sound of him falling to the ground that made me come over: it was the pain he sounded like he was in. He was whining like a hurt deer.

“Are you alright?” I said as I made my way to him. Though, I didn’t need him to respond, as I saw the droplets of blood on the floor just behind him, “Gosh! Your bleeding!”

“I’m alright!” he spat feebly, “I a… I… just cut my heel.”

“Let me have a look!” I lifted up his foot before he could respond: there was an inch-long tear on the bottom of his foot. It definitely was not cut: it looked too jagged. I looked him in the face, “This isn’t a cut. It looks like you grazed your heel somehow. Did you tread on something?”

“Urr… umm.” He had given me a look that told me he did not want me to know.

I knew he didn’t want me to worry about him, but I needed to know what was wrong. “Ok, what is going on?! You look like you’re hurting and you won’t tell me why!” I gave him a severe look, “Please, we’re partners. Tell me what’s happening.”

Manny looked back at me, and I could immediately tell he felt what I felt: worry and confusion. “I’m sorry.” he said, “It’s just I don’t really know. Honestly. Just… Look.”

He took his shirt off, exposing his chest and arms. I couldn’t explain it: they didn’t look like cuts or tears. His skin was inflating: not like a balloon, but more like bubbles. They only occupied his left breast and his left arm. They formed in patterns: each a few centimetres from the other in chequered formation. They looked like worts, just without the infected look. His skin stretched with the growths, making them look pale and almost transparent. More than anything, they made his skin look like bubble wrap.

The bubbles, under the peeling away plasters, on his arm looked similarly damaged to his heel. As I noticed this, I realised that his skin hadn’t been cut or torn, but had been burst.

“Wha- Wha- Are you-” I stuttered, now hyperventilating, “Are- Are you having some kind of… reaction?”

“I don’t fucking know!” he said, anger and fear now very present in his voice, “I don’t know what is happening! My skin started… doing this yesterday. It- They just keep coming back! No matter how many times I pop them! And nothing but air comes out of them when I do. My… my arms are numb and-” He suddenly flinched at the sudden movement of one of the bubbles on his arm. They were fucking growing!

He raised his other hand to pinch one of the bigger ones. At first, I didn’t think he would: it was the size of a marble. But, then he just… ‘Pop-, ss-, blop!’ I don’t know how to describe the sound. It popped, hissed like a deflating balloon and spat out blood. He then did it again: to the next one along. And then again.

I just watched him for a few seconds in confusion. As I looked at him: I recognised his expression. It was the same satisfied look he wore while popping his fucking bubble wrap. Just this time, slightly pained. Then, I figured he was not doing it out of necessity, but compulsion.

“Stop!” I yelled, reaching for his right arm. I held it away from the bubbles, “Don’t! You’ll make it worse!”

He kept trying to pull his arm towards the bubbles while pushing me away. His compulsion was too strong. It was only then I heard his breath: it was starting to struggle. Like he was choking on a new potato or something. He bent forward suddenly to try and choke it up, yet was completely unsuccessful.

“Hold on! Breathe!” I pleaded while he weighed down on me, “Just hold on! I- We-” I finally came to my senses: I needed to phone an ambulance. “Wait here! I’ll call 999!” It pained me to leave him in that awful state, but I needed to get my phone.

It was on the coffee table. I picked it up and called an ambulance. “Emergency, which service?” the operator had boomed.

Everything after that was a blur. I remember sobbing wildly into the phone while the handler desperately tried to understand what was happening. The paramedics came and delivered Manny to A&E. I only became aware of my surroundings again when I started to calm down.

I was in the hospital corridor when the doctor came to me, “Mrs Watts?”

“Yes?!” I spoke up with confidence, “Is Manny alright?”

He looked at me with an expression which meant bad news, “He is alright. He is still struggling to breathe, but…” he paused, “We are still trying everything we can to stabilise him.”

“What’s wrong with him?!” I asked.

“We… don’t exactly know. We first thought it was Anaphylaxis, but… now we think it is… Air Embolism.”

“Air embolism?”

He then started using a lot of medical jargon, so I will try and explain it to the best of my ability. Air Embolism, he explained, is when air gets into the bloodstream, blocking it and causing blood vessel blockage.

To make it easier to understand, it is like that one scene from Jojo’s Bizzare Adventure when Kira, the antagonist from Part 4, is attacked by Stray Cat. Stray Cat puts an air bubble into Kira’s arm, causing blood vessel blockage. As it said in the anime, if Kira did not remove the air bubble, it would make its way to his heart: killing him in minutes.

Why was my husband still alive then? That was what the doctor couldn’t figure out. Instead of the air in Manny’s blood travelling to his heart, it was collecting in his bloodstream, creating bubbles on his skin. “My current theory,” he said, “Is that some unknown force is taking the oxygen out of his blood cells and amassing bubbles in random places in his bloodstream. We still can’t figure out why they are in organised patterns. Or why it is happening at all, but we will do everything we can to find out. If we keep the bubbles forming in his bloodstream small, we can at least keep his blood circulation stable.”

“So, what's causing him to choke?”

“Well, from what we can tell, a big one started forming in his throat.” he stared at me gloomily, “If we don’t do something about it, he could suffocate. But if we pop the bubble, he may bleed to death. Our options are limited.”

I teared up when he said this. I didn’t want him to die. “Can I see him?”

The doctor nodded and he showed me to Manny’s room.

Manny looked even worse than before. The growths were now all over his back and front. The biggest was the size of his fists: they made him look like he had tumours growing under his hospital gown. They were all in the same pattern, the bigger ones pushing the smaller ones out of the way. And even then, I could still see him popping the smaller ones around his belly.

I grabbed his hand gently and eased it to my chest. “Manny…” I cried, “What is happening to you?”

All he could do was croak some short sounds under his oxygen mask, “I… Mes… up…”

“It’s not your fault. They will fix you. They will…” I put his hand on my forehead, wishing for a miracle that would never come.

The bubble in his throat, now visible and the largest, bulged as it grew a few more inches. He gasped as his throat closed up even tighter.

“Manny!” I pleaded, “Breathe… Please, breathe…”

“Co…me… clo…ser…”

I put my ear right beside his mouth, “What is it?”

“I…” he coughed once more before finishing, “ I… lo…ve… you…”

I will never forget what he did next.

Instantaneously, he pulled his hand back and crushed the bubble in his throat.

‘Bang!’

Blood splashed onto my face, dousing me in the stuff. It gurgled from his mouth while spluttering out garbled noises as it flooded down his jaw in pints. And the fear on his face. I think he wanted it to be a graceful way out of this world, but his face only told me how utterly scared he was. His eyelids were glued to the tops of his eye sockets and his mouth opened wide in an inaudible, bloody scream.

Everyone else moved around me: the doctors and nurses pushed me out of the way. Someone was pulling me away from him. I don’t know who, but I didn’t resist. I was deaf to all of the noise in the room, my ears ringing like a bomb went off right next to me. And nothing could break the view of my husband: our eyes had locked on to each other before I could hear the long bleep of a failed heart from the heart monitor. I blacked out.

A couple of days later, before I started writing this, I was thinking about what had happened. After Manny died, the doctors gave me their consolation, when all I really wanted was answers. The head doctor thought it could be some new virus or disease. Like we needed another one. This was only speculation, as all the blood tests they performed on Manny came up with nothing. And yes, he did consider whether this virus/disease is contagious. He thinks it isn’t. He said he’d contact me if anyone else showed any symptoms. I haven’t heard from him yet. I did tell the doctors what happened to the cat and its similarities to my husband. I don’t think they will do much to look into it. As far as I know, the cat was buried. I don’t know the owner.

It was all just so unfair. Manny was a good person and did nothing wrong to deserve this.

Even though I knew it was mad, I considered the website Manny used. Yet, the link still doesn’t work for me. I don’t know. Maybe Manny had something which gave him access to the website?

Though, I did start thinking about what I could remember about the site. And then I remembered the disclaimer. It took me a while to try and remember what it exactly said, but this is what I could recall:

‘The bubble wrap sold on this website is for poppin’ only. If it is used for deliverin’: there will be consequences.’

It was just weird when I saw it at first. But now, could it be the reason all of this is happening? I don’t believe in any supernatural mumbo jumbo, but could it be breaking this rule had led to my husband's death?

I do remember Manny having to deliver something to his mother. It was a late Mothersday gift, I think. Why not use the bubble wrap that was lying around at the time?

Then what about the neighbour’s cat? I mean it did not need to use bubble wrap. Though, could it have taken the bubble wrap? Connie did sometimes come in through the window into the laundry room. And Jane did say that it ‘delivered’ some bubble wrap to her.

Did I use the bubble wrap for anything? I don’t think I did. Then again, Jane did ask, not too long ago, whether she could use some of it. That doesn’t mean I ‘delivered’ it to her, does it? Though, the verruca on the back of my foot does seem to be getting… Bigger.

“Issac? Issac? Helloooo? Dude, are you even awake?” - J

A booming voice came over me. I struggled to open my eyes and wiped my mouth as I yawned.

“Jesus, man, I thought you got some sleep last night.” -J

Jonathan Davis. An A+ student, physically built, the best player in the midwest, and my best friend since 4th grade. The night he’s referring to was last night when Johnny, V, and I stayed up playing Halo 2.

“What time was it when we finished?” I asked while rubbing my eyes. - I

“It was like two-something when we got off.” - J

“Yeah, right. More like 3 in the morning,” a chipper voice came behind us. - V

It was Valerie. We called her V. She was a caffeine addict. There was never a day when she didn’t have caffeine going through her veins. We met V in our 6th-grade year. Nobody wanted to be her friend because she “used to talk a lot.” I used to have a crush on her back then, but she always had eyes on Johnny and Johnny the same.

“Both you boys were out like lights last night. I practically had to carry both of your sorry asses.” - V.

“As if!” Johnny said out loud, getting a few stares at him. He has a powerful voice.

Before he could say anything else, Mr. Walker came in.

“Settled down, Mr. Davis. It’s not that serious” He put his briefcase on the desk. Johnny rolled his eyes. “Now, I know it’s a Friday and your last Friday before your finals, then graduation, but that does not mean you can lollygag in my class.” A few students chuckled. “You still have to pass my class, and for some of you, you have a long way to go, Mr. Jones” He looked at Michael Jones, our high school star player, and all-round prep boy. “You have a C in my class. If you want to get into Duke, you need a B.” - W.

The bell rang, and we were out of the classroom quickly.

“So, are we going to the party tonight?” V struggled to put her arms around our shoulders. - V

“Since when do you go to parties?” Johnny laughed - J

“Since now, asshat. It's the end of the year, and I want to get out of my shell.” - V

“You have a shell? Never heard of it. Besides, whose party is this?” I asked while putting my books into a locker. - I

“Chris Everett” - V

“Mr. Everett’s son?! What makes you think you're invited?” Johnny crossed his arms while leaning on his locker. - J

“Since he’s friends with Jessica Bryson, and she has a big crush on this giant” She tapped his chest. - V

Johnny got flustered. “What do you mean?” - J

“Oh, like you don’t know.’ V looked at me. “So a couple of weeks ago, Johnny was working odd jobs to save up some money for a car, right.” I nodded my head. “Well, he decided to mow some lawns, and guess whose lawn he mows?” - V.

“Bryson?” - I

“Exactly. Jessica Bryson’s lawn!” She said in a joking tone towards Johnny. “Jessica was all over him that day. You should have seen it, ” she said, laughing. - V

“And how do you know this?” - I

“She knows this because Jessica wasn’t the only one gawking.” V’s face went pale. - J

“DID NOT!” - V

“Oh, did too. You should have seen her. Mouth all open, too,” Johnny laughed before yelling in pain. V had stomped on his foot with her big boots. - J

“Again, how do you know Jessica’s even going?” I said after chuckling. - I

“I overheard her talking on the phone when she was watching me.” - J

“Okay, so how does this all come back to us getting into the party?” I said. - I

“We get him to ask for us.” - V

“Johnny?” looking up at him. - I

“Whoa, I thought we were gonna go see House of Wax? I heard it's freaky.” - J.

“I’ll just get it off the pirate bay. Besides, I agree with V that it is the last moment before we all head out.” - I

“Please, Johnny?” - V

With the biggest sigh, he agreed. We saw him walk over to Jessica and ask her if he was invited. They talked for a few, then came back to us smiling. He got us in. Afterward, we walked out the school’s front doors patting him on the back.

“Thank you, Johnny!” we said in an annoying tone.

“ Yea, yea, you guys owe me big time.” - J.

We laughed and started heading in the direction of our houses. Johnny wanted to stop by to pick up a flannel I had. He lives across the street from me, while V lives on the next block.

“Dude, I wish you had your car right now!” he said while drinking water. - J

“Me too. This fuckin heat is killing me. At least it’ll be cool tonight.” I was using a graded test to cool me down. - I

“Yea, hopefully. You think your car is gonna be ready in time?” - J

“ I dunno. I have to ask my brother. You know how he is.” - I

“Yep, all too well.” - J

Johnny was afraid of my brother because one time, my brother took us to a party, and a fight broke out. Johnny didn’t want to be there in the first place, so you can imagine his increasing dislike for my brother when the three of us landed in the county for the night.

“Look, I’ll call you when we’re ready to go, right?’ - I

We shook hands and then went our separate ways.

I walked into my house and greeted my dad at the dinner table.

“Hola Papa”

“Hola hijo. Como estuvo la escuela?”

“ Estuvo bien.Queria preguntar si puedo ir a una fiesta con mis amigos?”

“Terminaste tu tarea?”

“Si”

“Y tus quehace?”

I looked at him with an answer he knew all too well.

“Date prisa, no quiero que tu madre me regane.”

“Papa?!”

“No, me, papa. Hazlo y te puedes ir”

“Bien,” I sighed. I went to my room before bumping into my brother.

“Hey, were you off too?”

“Nowhere.”

“Aye, watch yourself.”

“Why do you care anyway?”

Before we argued my dad said “Eso es suficiente. Ustedes dos. Che e a terinar su auto. Isaac. Quehaceres.”

We both went passed each other. I dropped my stuff off in my room before doing my chores. After finishing, I took a shower and got dressed. I grabbed a white shirt and black fannel and hopped out of the room while putting on my shoes. I went to the garage to find my brother.

“Hey, is he ready or not?”

My brother rolled out from underneath and got up, wiping his hands on his tank top.

“You should be fine. Just don’t floor it, or else you'll blow the engine.”

“Hey, thanks again. I’m sorry about earlier.”

“No sweat, you’re all good. I’ll just put it on your tab.”

“WHA-” Before I could finish, my phone rang.

“Yea? Yea, it's finished. I’ll be right there.”

“Look, I still gotta design it and shit,” he said as he lit a cigarette.

I looked at my car. My brother was an artist when it came to spraying paint, so seeing the nice green on my car, I ended up agreeing.

“Fine, but you'll finish it this week, right?” He nodded his head and tossed me my keys.

I hopped in and pulled out of the garage. Before going to Johnny's house, I got out and threw up a V and L with my hands. He smiled and threw up the same with his hands. I pulled up to Johnny and honked. Johnny came running out, screaming at his parents that he loves them.

“Sweet ride.” - J

“Thank you, Thank you but get in. We are late.” - I

He hopped in, and we drove to V’s house. I honked loudly, and Johnny screamed her name.

“V!” he laughed before looking in awe. - J

V walked out in a pink cut top and jean shorts while wearing converse. She had a big duffle bag.

“How do I look?” she asked. - V

Johnny stuttered out a nice.

“You look good. What’s with the bag, though?” - I

“I forgot to tell you that it’s a beach house we’re going to, so I packed us clothes.” she tossed the bag in the back and hopped the door. - V

“Are we ready to go?” They all nodded. - I

We pulled out of the driveway and drove off. We got to Everett’s house around six o'clock' right when the sun was about to set. I parked close to the house.

“Ready to get your cherry popped?” V laughed, and we smiled.

We waved to some people and gave a few high fives.

“So what do we do?” - J

“Try to blend in” V smiled.

“Well, Imma get us some drinks.” I walked off, leaving Johnny and V by themselves.

I scooted through people before I made it to the kitchen. I was filling up a cup before someone put their hand on my shoulder. I told them to wait their turn, but they just spun me around.

“Hey-” - I

I was about to get upset before realizing that it was a guy I knew, Vincent Gordo.

“Oh shit Gordo where’ve you been, man?!” I

“You know me; I've been around.” - VG

“You should have told me,” I said while putting the cup down.

“I would have, but I’m not allowed at your house, remember.” He smirked. - VG

“Oh, yea… I remember.” I got flustered when he said that.

“So who’d you come with?” - VG

“Johnny and Valrie” - I

“Ooooh. Well, listen, come find me later, and we could catch up, you know.?” - VG.

“Yea, yea, for sure!” - I

I smiled and continued filling up two more cups. I went back toward my friends while not trying to spill more of the drinks.

“Here you guys go.” I passed the drinks to them. “Guess who I saw right now?” They both looked at me, intrigued. “Gordo.” - I

“Wait, the same Gordo? Like from that one summer?” - J

I nodded while drinking.

“What did he say?” - V

“He said to come find him later. He wanted to catch up.” - I

“Well, what are you still doing here? Go find him.” - J

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you guys here.” - I

“We’ll be fine. Now hurry, go get him.” - V.

I moved through the crowd with excitement and went toward the backdoor, where there was more of the class drinking and going down to the lake. I said hi and waved to people that called me out. I saw him talking with some other people.

“Vincent!” - I

He looked over in my direction and then smiled. I think he told the people he was talking to that see em lantern because he came walking towards me.

“What's up, Isaac?” - VG

“You wanted to catch up. Now we can catch up.” - I

He chuckled “ okay then, wanna go for a walk?’ - VG

I nodded while catching my breath. We walked into the woods but kept close to the shoreline. The more I walked, the less I heard the party.

“So, where’ve you been this whole time?” - I

“Like I said around.” He smiled. - VG

Vincent went to our school till Junior year. He had to move to the city nearby. His father got a better job and decided to take Vincent instead of leaving him with his aunt to finish school with us. We got close during biology class. I was his lab partner for the whole year.

“How’s everything with you?” - VG

“Everything is all good. My grades are nice, my body is in shape, and confident that I'm going to USC.” - I

“Your body, I can tell, but moving to the big city? That's the first I hear.” - VG.

“Yeah, Johnny and I wanted to be where the weather is nice.” - I

“Mhm. Does your dad know?” - VG

I groaned.

“You haven’t told him, have you?” - VG

“If I told him, he’d kill me. Let alone my mother hears it too.” - I

“Where’d he want you to go again?” he chuckled - VG

“Princeton. He’s a lawyer and wants me to become one too.” - I

“And what do you want to be?” - VG

“Something that’s not a lawyer. I’ll figure it out when I get there.” - I

He put his arm around me.

“Don’t worry, I know you. You’ll figure it out. You always do.” - VG

I looked at him a felt the same way I felt last summer. I was going to lean in before we heard a loud roar and then a crash. The roar was almost deafening. Vincent and I stumble to our feet.

“What the fuck was that?” - VG

“I dunno, but look.” I pointed through the tree line. - I

There was a lone red glow beaming through the tree lines. Rays of red and orange light pulsing off the wood of the trees. We walked towards it and got a clearer look at what we saw. I was a liquid gel, almost slime, but not quite. There were some fallen trees from where it crashed, yet not fire, as you would see in the movies. The closer we got, the brighter it was. We had to shield our eyes from it.

“The hell is that?” - VG.

“I have no clue” I reached out to touch it, but Vincent quickly grabbed my hand away from it. - I

“What, are you crazy or something? Don’t touch it. You got no idea it is.” - VG.

“I know, but- “ - I

Another roar rang the woods. This time louder than before. The ground vibrated as if there was an earthquake happening. The slime started reaching out and almost stuck to Vincent before I pulled him back.

“We got to go. NOW!” - I

We got up and ran back the way we came. We noticed the night sky was darker, and the moon reflecting off the lake was blood red. There was no time to say anything because when I looked back, the Thing had morphed into a human-like figure. It roared again, and we ran harder than we ever ran before. We saw the house in the coming distance, but I knew the thing was gaining on us. Every step we took was two more the thing took. We ran to the edge of the woods; right before we got to the house, I tripped over a classmate. I was sure it had me, but the classmate I tripped over was quickly wrapped in the liquid. I crawled back, seeing the thing burn away the flesh and dissolve whatever clothes he had. His scream became muffled and distorted as the liquid consumed him. Eyes became loose, bones turned into ash, and nerves being separated from the body before the thing was split into two. The other half went straight into the water while this half lurked into the treeline. I got back up and raced into the house shouting.

“Something in the woods! SOMETHING IN THE WOODS!” - I

Everyone looked at me as if I was having a bad trip or something. Vincent collapses to the floor, gasping for air.

“SHUT THE DOOR! SHUT THE DOOR NOW!” - I

“Rodrigez, what the hell is the matter with you?!” Mickey yelled at me. - M

“WE GOTTA LOCK THE DOOR RIGHT FUCKING NOW! THERE IS SOMETHING OUT THERE.” - I

I dropped down to check on Vincent before looking a Mickey peeping through the curtain and having a face of horror.

“BARRACIDE THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!” - M

Everyone in the room moved the couch and other furniture to the outside doors. Before we knew it, another roar moved the walls. Screams then overpowered the roars. Banging on the doors filled the air, following pleas from our classmates to let them in. Crunches and squishes were coming from the backyard. Dark liquid sprayed the windows, leaving a disturbing silhouette. Screams turned into distorted moans and heavy footsteps. We kept quiet as we heard the footsteps recede. When the coast was clear, Mickey pinned me against the wall.

“What the fuck was that outside? You better explain pretty fast.” - M

“I don’t know. I swear!” - I

“YOU’RE LYING.” - M

People around us were trying to calm down Mickey, but Mickey wasn’t having it.

“Honest to god, Mickey, I don’t know. Me and Vincent were in the woods when we found that thing.” - I

“So you fucked with it?” - M

“No, no, no. It was alive, Mickey.” He put me down. - I

“It’s the truth, Mick. The thing almost took us. We ran here as fast as we could. That thing was faster, though. It doesn’t stop. It fuckin ate someone out there, man. Honest to god, mick.” - VG

“I hope that's not him out there.” - J

I obviously didn't foresee this happening. All I was doing was going to the mall with some friends. Then, out of the blue, there's a huge goddamn explosion. What the hell?

I get myself up off of the ground. I was extremely disoriented, and what was once a light-filled lively food court was now a destroyed, dark hell scape. It wasn't any better outside of the food court either. The large walkway with stores on either side was in ruins too. There must've been multiple explosions. Once I gathered my thoughts, my head says, "Shit, where are Aaron and Travis?" From the looks of it, l'm the only one in the food court. I charge forward to the walkway. Once I get out there though, it's worse than I thought. Everything is destroyed. But I'm not given any time to focus on that. I hear a large clanking noise from inside of a smaller clothes store. I start walking over to investigate it. Suddenly, a gargantuan, dark creature of some sort, probably ten feet tall, jumps out of the store and rams into the wall on the other side of the walkway.

I don’t stay to find out what it is. I scream "Shit!" and bolt the other way. The thing makes a loud shrieking noise and I start running faster. Faster than I've ever ran. Once I think I've lost the thing, I dive into an electronics store. I get up and move toward the back of the store, away from the entrance to whatever godforsaken things are happening outside of here. I walk behind the counter and jolt back. There’s a body laying on the floor. It’s severely scratched all over its left side. There’s a name tag on the shirt. Jim. I kneel down to try to wake him up, to no avail. I sigh and get back up. I think for a minute and decide to try and leave again. I run out of the store, towards were I remember coming in. I run through the atrium of the mall, now covered in glass shards, and look up through the skylight, seeing the blue sky. I keep going to the exit. There's a huge area of debris covering it. I move towards it, when another one of those creatures drops down from above. God damn it! I run back again, but this time it's relentless. I run back to the atrium and grab a shard of glass. As it jumps towards me, I slice through the crumply flesh on it's abdomen. It spurts out this dark purple liquid and falls to the ground with a shriek. It's still alive, though. It crawls towards me, clawing at my shoes. I slam the shard into the back of it's neck, and it shrieks again and drops down. I stand there watching the purple liquid come out of it's neck. I realize that at this point, using a conventional exit to leave isn't an option. I look up to the skylight. That seems like a viable option, but I have no idea how I'd get up there.

Gonna have to find a way somehow.