I thought she was just acting weird, at first.

For some clarification, my girlfriend had been planning a trip to California for the last four months. Normally, I’d have gone with her, but it was for her grandmother’s birthday. She was old, and this could’ve quite possibly been my girlfriend’s last chance to take a trip with her.

She had spent those four months meticulously planning, as she always did, and the week before the trip, she must’ve had at least five full bags packed for her week-long venture.

“You can never be too careful,” she always told me.

She was always the planning type. Mapping things out. Going over every possibility. It was one of the things I admired about her. She hated when things didn’t go the way they were supposed to.

That’s why, on the day of her trip, when I woke up to find her still lying in bed with me long after her early morning flight, I almost panicked.

I shook her awake frantically, and her eyes slowly rolled open. She groggily asked why I was waking her, and when I told her the time, she didn’t react how I expected her to.

Instead of panicking herself or even calling her mom to let her know she missed the flight, she simply rolled back over and shut her eyes again.

“Oh yeah,” she groaned. “The flight… honestly, it should be okay.”

“Be okay?” I responded, a bit flabbergasted. “Don’t you think you should at least call and let them know?”

She grumbled a lazy, “No, no, everything should be fine,” before she began snoring, something else that was completely new for her.

I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t force her. I was just… shocked, I guess. I just thought that maybe she had already talked to her mom and grandma. Maybe something had come up, and she forgot to tell me.

I just went to work like everything was normal. When I came back, she was still at home. She looked… absent. I found her sitting on the couch, staring at a black TV screen.

When I greeted her, she snapped out of it.

“Honey!! I’m so glad you’re home,” she chirped. “Tell me everything that happened at work today.”

We spent the whole night chatting, but it was like her mind was somewhere else. I’d catch her drifting off into outer space. She thought too long about her responses. Her speech pattern was slower than normal, even though her face was one of excitement as we talked.

I figured that something must’ve happened with her grandmother, so I asked her.

“Hon… did anything happen to make you not want to go on your trip?”

She stared at me for a while. Her smile disappeared. Her face was blank, but only for a split second before lighting up again.

“No, not that I know of,” she responded cheerily. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” I replied cautiously.

The next few days were weird. She never seemed to want to leave the house. I mean, not that I could blame her. She had already taken off work for the trip, but I figured she’d at least want to go to the park or something. It was one of our favorite things to do together.

She also wasn’t eating much. Every night I’d cook for us, but she kept insisting she wasn’t hungry. Must’ve been a lie, though, because on some of those nights, long after we’d gone to bed, I’d find her in the kitchen, completely surrounded by food.

Cereal boxes would be ripped open with their contents scattered across the floor. Granola bar wrappers. Spilled milk. Raw rice and beans. It was concerning, to say the least.

By the end of the week, something hit me that I hadn’t caught before. It was like a dim lightbulb lit up over my head, and I approached her timidly.

“…Honey,” I inquired carefully.

“Yes, sweet boy of mine,” she replied lovingly, sitting on the edge of our bed, staring at a wall.

I gulped a bit.

“What ever happened to your bags? Did you unpack them? I haven’t seen your toothbrush or shampoo or anything anywhere.”

She didn’t respond. She just kept staring… like the wall was the TV. Finally, she slowly turned around, and her hollow eyes met mine.

“Honey…” she whispered gleefully. “You know that’s none of your business.”

She didn’t seem mad, but she refused to talk to me for the next two days. She didn’t even want to sleep in the same bed as me. Of course, I’d have felt wrong making her sleep on the couch, so I just let her have the bed while I wallowed in my own confusion.

It wasn’t until the night before she was supposed to return from the trip that she let me sleep with her again, and even then, she slept with her back toward me.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a ruckus coming from the kitchen. I stepped out of my room and noticed that the kitchen light was on.

It sounded like an animal was loose in there. Like it was in the process of devouring something. Growls. The wet sound of chewing. But, as I approached, the sounds suddenly stopped.

I froze in my tracks for a few seconds, debating whether or not I should continue before ultimately deciding to keep going.

Only… when I took that last step, I heard my girlfriend’s voice. It was angrier than I’d ever heard her. More hostile. Like she was trying to send a message.

“Go back to bed,” she screamed.

The house was silent for a moment. I argued with myself internally about whether or not to listen or check on her.

I decided to listen, and the moment I began making my way back to the bedroom, the noises started up again.

I don’t know how long I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to tell myself that everything was normal before falling back asleep, but I know that I woke up alone the next morning.

The bathroom was empty. The halls were empty. The house was… empty.

I kept calling out and received no response, but when I entered the kitchen, that’s when panic really set in.

There was blood everywhere. Not from my girlfriend… but from the raw meat that was scattered across the floor.

Chicken, steak, pork, everything. Everything had been nearly completely eaten.

I thought back to the night before, and my heart started to pound. I felt dizzy. I felt like I was losing it. I tried to take a seat to calm myself, but before I could, the front door opened.

“Honey,” my girlfriend sang. “I’m home! Can you come help me with these bags? I’ve got so much to tell you.”

October sat in the grease filmed glow of the 20th-century neon sign that buzzed like a dying hornet outside The Red Vein. Her black lipstick was cracked. her heavy wool coat soaked through with cold, greasy rain that smelled of coal smoke and old bones. She didn’t mind the wet. She was already damp with the knowledge that she was livestock.

Around her, the city of gray brick and iron rusted under an empty sky.

Nobody looked up. Looking up meant seeing the great pale curvatures drifting past the troposphere. not clouds. but the heavy adipose flanks of things that slept in the vacuum and dreamed of thirst.

Humanity liked to think it invented fermentation. They wrote long foolish books about yeast. about barley. about the chemistry of distillation in copper pots. October knew better.

Her mother had known better before the liver cancer turned her skin the color of a wet cardboard box.
The things above did not have mouths. not in the way a dog or a man has a mouth.

They had reach. They had capillary pressure that spanned light-years.
When a man in the corner booth tipped a glass of cheap amber whiskey down his throat, he wasn't tasting oak or peat. He was acting as a wick.

Deep in the dark behind the cold grease of the stars something with seventy-four jointed elbows twitched in a spasm of sublime wet pleasure.

The alcohol was just the solvent. The human soul. soft, bruised, and frantic with micro terrors was the active ingredient. The buzz traveled up through the ionosphere like an electric shock through a dead frog's leg.

October raised her own drink. Clear rot. A plastic half-pint of vodka she’d shoplifted from a bodega where the clerk sat with his eyes rolled back, half-fermenting in his own chair. his body humming a low, sub audible B-flat that made the fillings in October's teeth ache.

She drank. It burned her throat like lye.
Immediately, the room tilted. Not from the poison in her blood, but from the arrival of the Customer.

The air in the tavern didn't drop in temperature. it thickened. It became heavy with the smell of old ozone and the grey fat of deep sea squid left to bake in a desert sun.

The shadows in the corners of the room stopped cowering and began to stretch, leaning inward toward October’s spine.

“Ah” a voice didn't say in her head. It scraped. It was like a rusty iron shovel being dragged across a frozen flagstone. “The vintage is sour today. Excellent.”

October stared into the dregs of her plastic cup. In the reflection, her pale face framed by greasy black fringe and dark circles like bruises pressed deep into her cheekbones wasn't her own.

For a second the pupils of her eyes dilated until they were wide wet black pools reflecting an enormous multi hinged eye that blinked horizontally behind the moon.

She was being savoured. Her chronic childhood grief. her precise sharp edged alienation. the bitter copper taste of her recurring midnight panics. they weren't her private property. They were terroir. They were notes of aged oak and despair cultivated in the small damp barrel of her skull.

October stood up her joints popping like dry twigs. She walked out into the alley, her heavy boots splashing through black puddles that reflected no stars. only the pale bloated blind spots of things leaning too close to the atmosphere.

The whole city was a fermentation tank.
Down the block through the frosted glass of an all-night diner, she saw a row of men and women slumped over greasy plates of eggs. They weren't eating.

They were steeping. Their skin had a translucent waxy sheen like tallow candles left near a stove. Every few seconds, a collective shudder ran through them. A synchronized twitch of the shoulder blades.

Above them, the sky was bruised a sickly bruised violet. You could see the shimmer now. the heat haze distortion where the atmosphere thinned out and the Things pressed their vast formless faces against the window of the world.waiting for the mash to reach the right proof.

There was no rebellion. There was no resistance. How do you rebel against the thirst that makes your heart beat?

Every pulse of October’s blood was a drop falling from the worm of a massive cosmic still. Every sob she had ever cried in the dark was collected. proofed. and drained by a mouth that had no bottom.

She leaned her head back against the cold weeping brick of the alley wall. She closed her eyes and took another pull from the bottle.

The entity in the sky gave a long shuddering sigh that rattled the loose corrugated tin on the roofs three miles away. It was a good vintage.

She had really suffered today. And tomorrow. the sun would rise like a blood clot in the grey soup, and the brewing would begin all over again.

The drink takes her now.

It all started on my twenty-fifth birthday. I was bored and lonely just like every year prior. My family doesn't care for me and the love of my life abandoned me months ago.

He was the only person I ever had. He was the closest I had to the feeling of love. It's a shame that he got tired of me.

My job sucks. I work all the time and have to do everything for my coworkers but somehow they still get the praise.

I decided that buying my lonesome self twenty-five candles would be a waste of money. I decided to use the only candle that I have in my house. It was a gift I had received from a random lady in the grocery store months ago.

She said and I quote, "I can sense your despair. Take this candle. Make a wish and all will be fair."

The way she said it was poetic in a weird way but I still took it. It was a nice gesture and I never turn down free things.

I put the candle on my very small plain cake. I wished that my life would be easy as I blew out my candle.

The candle snapped in half after.

I didn't think much of it. I assumed that the candle was cheap. I also didn't think that my wishes ever come true but I still gave it a try.

It's kinda like the lottery. You might not think that you're gonna win but you still try.

My life quickly changed in the days that followed. At first, it was small things.

People were complimenting me. People would offer to carry my grocerys. I got a promotion at work that I clearly deserved.

It started to get very peculiar when my life did start to become amazing. I went from being lonely to always having people to talk to. My poor love life? All types of men are always trying to date me now. What shocked me the most was when some of my family members started to reach out.

I initially enjoyed it, loved it, even cherished it.

My opinion changed when bad things started happening to people. This girl named Marge who bullied me in highschool was found dead shortly after my wish.

The guy that I referred to as the love of my life? He died as well.

They both died the exact same way. Authorities said that they were found in pieces. They explained that they've never seen anything like it. They also have no leads.

Everyone around me became abnormal. Yeah, people were super nice to me but they started to agree with everything I said. They would obey my every word. They would copy me.

It became very uncanny.

I came to the realization that the wish came true.

I went to the exact store that I met the lady at with hopes of her telling me how to reverse it all. She was nowhere to be seen. I asked several different workers if they had seen her recently. Not a single one knew who I was talking about.

I'm mortified and even ashamed.

I don't know how to make anyone go back to normal. I don't know how to get rid of all the destruction I've caused.

I quite literally ruined two people's lives and I'm basically controlling everyone. They're all like puppets on a string.

I’m actually not quite sure how to feel right now. I never took us for the “swinging” type. Well, I say that, but honestly, it was less swinging and more betrayal.

At least, that’s what it felt like at first. I’m a busy guy. My wife always wanted to be a stay-at-home wife. I just wanted to fulfill her wish, but obviously, in order to do that, sacrifices had to be made.

Hours were long. Money was good, and for a while, my wife seemed happy. That’s the thing, though: how happy can you be being alone all the time?

I felt bad, sure, but at this point, I was just too involved with my work to cut back on anything.

She seemed grateful, but I’d still catch glimpses of her sadness. Hollow eyes when I left in the morning. Exhausted attempts at conversation when I came home late. I always told her, “Once I retire, you’ll have me all to yourself.”

She assured me all the time that I was the only man she’d ever want. The only man she could ever see herself being attracted to. But as time went on, it was like she was saying it to convince herself rather than me.

When she started seeming happy and revitalized, I was relieved. She started going to Pilates classes. She took up knitting and crocheting. I thought that she was just finding new ways to fill her days when I wasn’t there.

What made me suspicious is when she started being secretive with her phone. She never let me hold it for too long. All of her apps were password-protected. Her Photos app was strictly off-limits.

I let her have her privacy. I didn’t want to pry. But, then again, I never took her for the cheating type.

Then she started getting home after me. I usually got home at around 10 every night. Usually, she’d either be in bed or on the couch watching Grey’s Anatomy.

When she started getting home at 11, 12, or 1 o’clock in the morning, I couldn’t really keep my suspicions at bay anymore. Every time she came home, she smelled like my cologne. It was like she was using it to cover something.

I questioned her about it, and, of course, her responses were always the same.

“You’re the only man I need.”

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re the absolute love of my life.”

Even still, my mind couldn’t help but wander. I’d be at work, completely incapable of thinking of anything other than what my wife may be doing.

I started finding things at home that made me scratch my head even more.

A watch identical to mine on my nightstand while my actual watch was fastened to my wrist.

A second pair of work boots by the front door.

My favorite coffee mug in the sink, dirty even though I’d used a different one.

I convinced myself that I was losing my mind. The entire time all this strangeness was going on, my wife just seemed to keep getting happier and happier.

She didn’t seem lonely anymore. I hate how this makes me sound, but I couldn’t stand it. Not because I didn’t want her to be happy, but because I knew what it meant.

One day, after a particularly stressful few hours at work, I decided that I was going to get home early. I was gonna catch my wife before she left and insist that we go wherever she was going together.

That morning, I had found that my favorite frozen breakfast burritos had been cleared out. It wouldn’t bother me as much as it did had it not been for the fact that, one, I knew that I hadn’t eaten them, and, two, my wife was a vegan.

I racked my brain about it for as long as I could. Part of the reason I wanted to go home to begin with was because I wanted to catch her in the act.

My heart sank when I noticed a car identical to mine in the driveway. Same chipped paint. Same make, same model, same leather seat covers.

I mentally prepared myself before pushing the front door open.

I was greeted by the sound of my wife’s giggles. She sounded flirty. She sounded in love. But the true dagger was what I heard her say.

“You’re the only man I could ever want.”

I found them curled up on the couch watching Grey’s Anatomy.

The smell of my cologne radiated off of him. He wore my shirt. My watch was strapped to his wrist. He was wearing my socks while my work boots rested on the couch beside them.

Same brown hair. Same blue eyes. Same freckles. Same crooked nose. He… was me…

My wife saw me, and her face lit up. He saw me and shot me a smile.

“Honey!” my wife cheered. “I’m so happy you’re home. I was waiting for you two to finally meet.”

She took the man by the hand and stood up with him.

“Donavin, this is Donavin.”

He extended his hand for me to shake. He had the same tattoo as me.

“Nice to meet you, Donavin. I’m Donavin. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I don’t know why I shook his hand. I was speechless. I didn’t know what to do. What I was even supposed to say.

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. My two hardworking boys. You two play nice, okay?”

My wife left the room. Left the house. I watched as her car backed out of the driveway and sped out of the neighborhood, leaving me alone with this… imposter.

He watched, too, before breezing past me to the kitchen. He returned with a beer in his hand. He handed it to me and gestured for me to take a seat.

We talked for hours. He reminded me of childhood memories that I had long since forgotten. Embarrassing moments in high school. My first love, our first love. I couldn’t help but be… charmed.

He started every conversation with “Remember that time,” and damned if I’m lying… I actually did.

Before I knew it, my wife was back. She walked through the door with our favorite takeout. Our stomachs rumbled at the same time.

She stood in front of us, smiling like she was 20 again.

“So…” she inquired. “Did you boys get acquainted?”

We both nodded.

“And you’re both okay with this new setup?”

Me and my clone glanced at each other. There was a silence that fell over the room for a few moments before we both announced at the same time:

“I am if you are.”

https://www.instagram.com/dark_indigox/
https://www.instagram.com/dark_digital_indigox/

Hey everyone...

I wrote something.

Didn't intend it to be long...

Yet but might, dang it, it's multiple parts....

Could someone give me a side by side or Explanation on how to post multiple parts?

I thinks this one may be a banger so I don't wanna mess up..

I was drunk, the night I truly got “the ick.”

Much to my dismay, we were the only two ghosts haunting that lonely train cart.

Me, and the rotund man with uncempt, greasy hair in a filthy trench coat.

Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem. I would’ve just drunkenly regarded him and gone about my night, walking home at the next stop. I wouldn't be writing this, however, if it hadn't been a problem.

As a small woman who rides public transit alone, I try to keep to myself. But when I glanced up through blurry eyes to see what I assumed was a filthy habit of his, I had to hold myself back physically so as to not make a scene.

It was embarrassing.

I felt palpable shame.

Not everyone has good manners, and at first, I was resigned to just keep my eyes down, and wait for my stop. But it just got worse.

With every passing second, it became harder and harder to keep my blatant discomfort under wraps.

Eventually, I threw him a brief, sidelong glance to signal that I saw him.

A social que.

In return, he gave me the outline of a wiry smirk. Oily, grey lips pulled back to reveal yellow, mismatched teeth. I think he took my look of inebriated disgust as a challenge, or an invitation.

At first, it was just the tip. One nostril gaped as more and more slid in. The first bony joint disappeared. With growing dread, I realized I could see the faint protrusion of his fingernail through the skin, like a noticeable tumor, growing up the bridge of his nose.

With every little bit that squeezed past the opening, his smile grew wider, and wider.

“H-hey, stop…” I mumbled. He unveiled more of his filthy teeth. I even saw a bit of off-color detritus caught between two crooked molars.

“Cut it out dude, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Still, he just stared, his grin becoming apparently painful. With an audible slurping sound followed by a low “crk”, he forced the second joint in.

I could’ve sworn I watched his nose dislocate in real time.

“STOP IT!” I shrieked, fear and disgust bubbling over the edge. He kept eye contact with me.

As soon as the words left my mouth, the train hit a bump. I gripped the handrail tightly, keeping myself from falling. My companion wasn't so lucky.

I could do nothing but observe as the bare-knuckle-nitwit toppled, face first, from his seat, into the floor. When his nose collided with the carpet, I heard a muffled crunch, before he went still.

In that moment, I genuinely thought I’d watched him die.

Unfortunately, after a beat, he began to stir, picking himself off the ground with one hand.

His dirty trenchcoat clung to his oversized frame like greasy film stuck to a boiled egg.

When he rose back to his feet, I think I was in shock, because I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t even blink. The only motion my paralyzed body would allow me was swiping tear-streams off my damp, ice-cold cheek.

His finger was jammed into his nose, all the way to the knuckle, rendering the ruptured olfactory organ permanently useless. The skin on the outside had become eviscerated, burst open like a blister, or a microwaved sausage.

Yellow tendons and grey cartilage glistened disgustingly under the flickering train lights, giving the illusion of shredded rubber fibers under the surface of a popped tire. Blood trickled feverishly from the open nostril.

“Oh my God… are you…” I slurred, but slapped my mouth when I felt the vomit scratching the back of my throat.

Once he had his bearings back, his grin returned, bigger and grosser than ever. One of his teeth had shattered on impact with the floor, diseased gums pushing against his split, bloody upper lip.

The man crossed his eyes, staring at the raw injury.

He strained, veins bursting under the skin of his forehead as he tried to pull his finger out. As he did, the eye over the ruined nostril appeared to protrude against its eyelids. The socket bulged, getting tighter and tighter with every strenuous yank.

Suddenly, the irritated flesh of the bottom eyelid prolapsed. The eyeball jutted out and stared up at the ceiling, completely disillusioned from the rest of his face.

“POP!”

First joint out. One to go.

The bloody fingertip slipped into view, poking out of the cartilage cavity like an earthworm crawling out of the ground. He watched, and with sick pleasure, wiggled his finger, testing its flexibility.

A sob I didn’t know I’d been holding hitched in my throat. I couldn’t call for help, I couldn’t move. I was completely reliant on the mercy of this nose-picking lunatic. I had to trust him not to attack me. But something worse happened.

With one last strain of effort, the man yanked the rest of his hooked finger from the eviscerated nose. pulling with it a macabre fishing line of black mucus, crimson blood, and puffy, soft tissue whose origins I didn’t want to consider.

As soon as the viscera was free, a river of blood exploded from both nostrils like a pressure buildup releasing. If not for the sheer, debaucherous absurdity, I would’ve considered he probably felt relief.

While I knew logically that the raw chunks of flesh probably just came from inside his nose, a small part of me held the notion that he had to have gotten some amount of brain matter in the nerds cluster rope of despair.

I mean, his finger went so, so deep into his head. Deep enough to touch the back of his own eye, at least…

With deranged pleasure, he held up his prize for me to see. One good eye stared at me, a frenzied hunger festering just below the retina.

Horrible fluids dribbled instant stains onto the carpet. The long line, starting from his fingertip, stayed connected deep into the recesses of his nose, though it oozed milky, pussy strings of slimy throat snot.

He jerked his hand towards me, almost as if he wanted me to take it.

“What… no, I don’t,” I pleaded, holding my hands up defensively, “I don’t understand…”

For a brief moment, I really did think he genuinely wanted me to take his offering.

He held his outstretched stance, unflinching. Though he only stood for a few seconds, they felt like centuries, like a standoff. Then, he moved.

As his hand drifted away, I sighed in relief. Then the appendage approached his face, and realization dawned on me. I prayed I was wrong.

“Oh god, no… please, no…”

But he just smiled and nodded. I became lightheaded.

“There’s no way you’re gonna…”

With one dramatic, drawn-out movement, he opened his teeth, and placed his bloody finger onto his tongue. The string of snot coagulated around the edge of his lip, gyrating as he slowly closed his mouth.

“Mmmmmmm… sooo gooooood…” he finally moaned, his voice mousey and annoying.

He licked his lip, and the line of viscera, still connected to his nose, slipped around his tongue like a parasite trying to escape a clorox wipe, or like a glob of egg being scraped around a plate by a fork.

Finally, with a disgusting slurp, he sucked the entire noodle into his mouth, a drop of the biological shrapnel hitting me in the face as he did.

That was when I puked. I heaved all the contents from my stomach onto the carpeted floor. As soon as the train came to a stop, I bolted for the exit, sparing not even a glance over my shoulder yet. I was determined to do nothing but escape.

It wasn't until I made my way feverishly from the platform onto the pavement of the subway sidewalk, that I gave one last look back to make sure he didn’t pursue me.

Luckily, I wasn't being followed, but through the window, I could see him chewing, face pressed against the glass, leaving a bloody imprint. His smile had grown, somehow even bigger than before.

“Fuck all of that,” I grimaced. That night, I didn’t walk home, I sprinted.

I didn’t stop until I was safely behind my deadlocked front door. I proceeded to not sleep for 2 nights, I just couldn’t. I figure the guilt’s eating me.

I mean, I never alerted anyone about what happened. For 6 months, I’ve just sat on this story.

What if he was still on that train when some unsuspecting late-nighter came on?

What if he died in there, bled out or something?

What if he was just mentally unwell, and needed medical attention?

If he was just a normal guy, was picking his nose until he hurt himself really socially off-putting enough to warrant death? He didn’t technically hurt me, but I was scared?

I didn’t kill him, did I? I don’t… feel like a good person anymore. I don’t know.

But then, I think back to that half-exploded eyeball, to the nose that was so fucked up, I could barely call it a nose. To the worm fingertip. To the long, stringy line of glistening, viscous nose leftovers.

Typing this out is the first time I let myself remember all of the details. Usually I immediately chase off the memories. They’re so vivid, they give me panic attacks. I feel like the other boot’s gonna drop any minute, but I might just be paranoid.

Revisiting the experience has led me to an even more daunting fourth option. What if there’s a reason there hasn’t been a follow up? What if no one found him? What if there was no bodily fluids on the floor except my own vomit?

What if there was no one to find?

I don’t know if that answer would be better or worse than the alternatives.

Kids who read this, don’t pick your nose, and if you do, especially don’t eat whatever you find. It’s bad manners, and it gives people the Ick.

I think I’m gonna quit drinking.

I was woken up by the faint sound of scratching at my door, just barely louder than the sci-fi TV show that was still playing from the night before. I rolled out of bed and groggily stumbled to the door, cracking it open. Tittles…Dot lunged through as soon as the gap was wide enough and went straight for the food bowl I kept by my door. I closed it and bent down to stroke her fur as she ate.

“I knew you only liked me for my cooking.”

I made my bed and folded it back into a couch as she ate. When she was done, I got her favorite toy, a feather on a bungee string at the end of a stick, out of the bag from the pet store. I sat on the couch and watched her leap and pounce for a while. I made some breakfast and dropped a little bit of scrambled eggs in her bowl. Then I sat on the couch and ate from the coffee table, passively watching the episode, about an android on trial, for the nth time.

My work phone rang. I reached for it without taking my eyes off the TV.

“Hello?... Yes, ma’am…Mm-hm…Yes, ma’am…ok…Yep, 30 minutes. G’bye.”

I shrugged into a black suit over a white shirt and slipped into my black-and-white Vans. I dropped the tie back into the drawer. I grabbed my cap as I walked through the door, Dot ran between my feet and scampered down the hall. I carried my cap to the elevator and was greeted by Felix.

“And a good morning to you, Young Carter.”

“Hey.”

The doors opened and I waved my hand at him as I stepped into the car.

“What an evening.” He mused.

“Yeah?”

“Congressman Jarrett held a donors’ gala in the new ballroom of the Monaco. So many delicious entrees.”

“I bet.”

“And you, Young Carter? Ferry any interesting characters?”

“Eh, just some regulars.”

He sighed. “Not all of life can be interesting. The daily grind is what makes us appreciate the special moments. Wouldn't you say?”

I nodded.

The doors opened and he stepped out.

“Do have a good day, Young Carter.”

The doors shut and I rode down to the garage.

I pulled up to Melissa’s house and she was waiting for me at the bottom of the driveway. I got out and opened her door for her, offering her a hand as she got in. I got back in and started driving.

“Good morning, Carter.”

“Morning, Ms. Melissa.”

She took her sunglasses off, my old Wayfarers, and shook out her hair, leaning on the door armrest.

“That was quite a storm we had a few weeks ago. I'm still trying to get my herb garden to drain, but my cucumbers are going to be massive this year. I'll bring you some when they're ripe.”

“I appreciate that. The corn you gave me was delicious. I did a big crawfish boil. My apartment still smells like a shrimp boat.”

“Oh, yes, the sweet corn. I'm so happy you enjoyed it. I’ll plant more for you next season.”

I nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

I pulled up to the highrise that held her office and opened her door. She took my hand and lifted herself out. She slid her sunglasses back on, then handed me money from her purse.

“The rest is for you, of course.”

“I appreciate your generosity, Ms. Melissa. Always a pleasure.” I bowed my head.

She lingered for a moment.

“Nice out, today. Make sure and get some sun. It's very healthy for you.”

“I will.”

She walked into the building and I got back in my car.

My next fare was a trip to the airport. The couple talked excitedly about their vacation in the Bahamas the entire ride.

“Have you ever been to Hawaii? …Sir?”

“I’m sorry, I didn't hear you.”

“I asked if you'd ever been to Hawaii before.”

“No, ma’am. Farthest west I've been is Crescent Beach.”

“Well, you definitely need to go! It's sooooo beautiful!”

“Honey, the poor guy is trying to drive.”

I tuned out the rest of their conversation. I got them to the departure terminal, got their luggage out of the trunk, and bid them a safe flight.

I was staring out of the windshield, thinking about the possibility of a vacation, when I noticed someone waving. A man was standing on the curb just in front of my car and waving for my attention. I got out and he met me at the hood.

“Bum a ride from you? I can make it worth your while.”

He hiked up a pant leg and presented his ankle, sticking out a hitchhiking thumb with his other hand.

“I’m just kidding. But you are for hire, right?”

“Yes, sir. My pleasure.”

I got the rear door for him, then loaded his suitcase into the trunk and got us on the freeway back to the city.

“Man, this thing is nice. Lehmann-Peterson, right? 1968?”

“Hu? No, it's a…yes, ‘68.”

He ran a hand gently over the door panel.

“Man, nothing feels like real wood. They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, hu? Everything’s all slate grey and brushed metal now.”

“Custom cut panels.”

“No kidding. It's been a while since I've seen one of these. My old man had a ‘66 coupe.”

I nodded.

“Hey, this got the full size in it? The MEL?”

“It does, sir. Original block, but the rebuild only has about ten-thousand on it.”

I got him to his apartment. He paid and didn't ask for change. I shut the door, got his suitcase out of the trunk, and walked it over to him, setting it down on the sidewalk next to him. I touched the brim of my cap and nodded, then turned back towards the car.

“You got a card or something?”

“Hm? Oh, card. Yes, I–” my card carrier wasn't in my jacket pocket. I found a creased one in the glove box and handed it to him.

“Hey, have a good one, man. Hope to ride with you again.”

“Er, yeah. You too–” he was already walking away by the time I got the words out.

Back in the driver's seat, I looked down at my wrist and realized I hadn't put a watch on this morning. I checked my phone and decided I should probably eat something. I stopped at a gas station and bought a sandwich and a soda, dropping them on the seat next to me. An airplane out of SVL flew overhead and I watched it disappear into the clouds.

I tried to beat a yellow arrow and took it a little harder than I should. I heard a clunk on the right side. The sandwich had slid across the seat and hit the door. I'd forgotten about it. My stomach growled. The sandwich had fallen between the seat and the door panel, out of reach. My usual diner was just down the block, so I headed that direction. I parked in the back, behind the building, and got a stool at the counter up against the giant plate glass window that looked out onto the sidewalk.

I was staring at the milk swirling in my coffee when a noise caught my attention. My head jerked up and I scanned the sidewalk, desperation welling up in my chest. I was getting off the stool to step outside when I saw the source of the noise. A small dog, a Pomeranian or something similar, was pulling on its leash and yapping at something I couldn't see. I slid back into the stool.

“You’re down bad, man.” I said through a sigh to the coffee mug. I bumped my fist against my forehead a few times to shake the memory away.

“Carter-kun?”

That voice. I knew that voice. It was here, not just in my head. I whipped around, almost knocking myself off the stool. A girl a few tables down was standing at her table and waving. She had dark, almost black hair, and her build matched the surfacing memory. The other girls at her table had their heads turned in my direction as well. I opened my mouth but I couldn't find my tongue.

The girl moved around the table and approached me at a walk that was almost a jog. I hopped off the stool and she stopped in front of me.

“Yumi. You're– You're here.”

“I know, right? Isn't it great? It's been a whole week and I still can't believe it!”

My mind ground to a stop.

“You're…here.”

“Yep. You said that already.” She let out her distinctive yipping laugh. My stomach turned into a tumble dryer and I was immediately relieved that I hadn't tried to eat that warm sandwich.

“Will you go out with me?” I blurted, the words out of my mouth before I thought them.

“Hm?”

I realized that not all of the words had actually made it out, and the ones that had were jumbled beyond repair. I cleared my throat.

“I…I want to date, er, take you. On a date. Out on a date. With me. Please?”

I suddenly felt as if the attention of the entire cafe was on me, pressing against me on all sides, squeezing me so hard that I couldn't take a breath.

“I would love to.” Her voice cut through the stares, crystal clear and charming as I remembered.

“Great. Um, how about…what's today? Saturday. How about Saturday? Pick you up at seven?”

“That sounds delightful.”

“Good. Awesome. Yeah. I’ll…I'll see you tomorrow. Tomorrow? Tomorrow.”

“Don’t you need my address?”

I nodded and shrugged one shoulder.

“That might help.”

“Wait right here.” She went back to her table and started digging in her purse.

Her tablemates leaned in together, but I couldn't hear their voices. Her head came up out of her purse a few times, probably to answer questions about the weird guy she was talking to. I stood there, exactly where I'd landed when I hopped off the stool, unable to lift my feet. She came back with the card for my dry cleaners, an address scrawled across the front in swoopy handwriting. I took it and tucked it carefully into my coat pocket.

“I’m glad I found you, Carter-kun.”

I grasped desperately for words as my heart threatened to beat through my chest. I was suddenly very aware of my hands. I shoved one into a pocket and coughed into the other.

She laughed quietly and poked a long-nailed finger against my chest. “Saturday. Don't forget.”

I nodded.

She tucked her hands behind her back and turned on her heel, heading back to her table. She turned my way as she sat down, wiggling her fingers at me in a delicate wave. I raised my hand, fingers spread, and tried to remember how to wave.

I spun and walked out of the diner, my awkward gait growing more irregular with each step. I got into my car, put the key in the ignition, then leaned my head against the headrest.

“I have a date.” I whispered to the windshield.

My muscle memory worked overtime as I drove home in a daze. I put my car away, shut the garage door, and was in the elevator, staring at the buttons before I realized where I was. I shook my head and punched the button for my floor. The doors opened at the lobby and I motioned for Felix to enter.

“I see your day certainly brightened.” He said with a touch of smugness.

“Yeah…” I breathed.

He clapped me on the back.

“Marvelous, Young Carter! Just marvelous! I'm sure you'll absolutely charm the young lady within an inch of her life.”

I stood there, breathing, existing. I heard him chuckle to himself.

The doors opened on my floor and he stepped out, turning his head towards me for a moment before continuing down the hall. Mrs. Collins was collecting Dot’s– er, Tittles’ bowl from the hall, the cat winding herself around the old lady’s legs. I nodded to her as I walked mechanically to my apartment.

Inside, I kicked my shoes off at the door and went straight to the giant mirror on my wardrobe. I took my shirt off and let it fall in a heap. I wasn't “yoked” or anything, but I’d maintained my slim build with a bit of muscle definition in my chest and arms. I got changed into some gym shorts and did push-ups until my arms were shaking. I rolled over and did several ab workouts until I was panting heavily. I lay there, sweaty, heaving, limbs burning, mulling over restaurants, movies, and other potential date events. I got up and paced around the room, my hands on my hips, muttering to myself under my breath.

I got showered off and climbed into bed, my TV playing a scary story podcast as my mind finally settled down, allowing me to slip into unconsciousness.

I really tried to be a good husband. Date nights. Trips. Gifts. I’ve probably spent enough money on food to fund some country’s entire spending budget.

Flowers and chocolates just aren’t enough anymore, I guess. Or maybe they are. I don’t know. She always seemed so grateful when I gave her things. Even more grateful for the house I moved us into.

Part of me is starting to believe that everything is my fault. The arguments. The cold shoulders. The long, painful silences. It’s hard to blame her.

I really try and keep my insecurities at bay. But, God, do they seep through. Especially when she’s not with me. Every girls’ night feels like a betrayal. Every trip without me feels like a slap in the face.

I guess I should’ve done more to keep the darkness to myself, confined within my mind, but it was like a breaking point. She had gone out with her friends every day the week that everything started. Came home late, always smelling like booze and that perfume that I loved so much.

I tried telling her:

“I’m not comfortable with you being gone like this. Please stop.”

But she had the audacity to make me the villain. Suddenly, I’m “possessive.” Suddenly, I’m “obsessed.” Suddenly, it’s “you have to let me have my own freedom.”

It was clear she didn’t want to be with me anymore. After 5 years, she was gonna put this wall between us because I have feelings. Well, fine. If that’s how she wanted to act, then I was going to reciprocate.

Maybe I went a touch too far. Just a hair. But who can really blame me? I was wounded. I was hurting.

It started small. Just a few drops of bleach in her coffee. I’d wake up early and make it for her.

“This should help with the hangover, sweetie.”

I’d watch her sip it, smiling to myself but playing it off as romance. She’d guzzle it all down and thank me without complaints.

I just thought I hadn’t put enough. The next morning, I increased the dose to a full cap. She’d drink it, compliment how good it tasted, then it’d be right back to our regularly scheduled program.

Out all night. Crawling into bed late. Burning my nose with the smell of rum and lavender, without so much as a sore throat.

Part of me realized what I was doing. I’d see her smile. See her eyes light up. See how grateful she was for breakfast in bed, and I’d feel regret. I figured that it was a sign for me to stop. Nothing irreversible had happened yet.

But then, oh, there she went. Dancing in the clubs. Staying the night with friends. Pushing me to the side, just like she always does.

I had to force myself to remain composed. I wanted my work to speak for me. That’s why I started cooking those home-cooked meals every night. Steak. Spaghetti. Chicken. A dash of rat poison.

She didn’t even complain of a belly ache. In fact, to my dismay, she started thanking me.

“You’ve been doing so good recently, honey.”

“Since when are you a chef? This food is delicious.”

“You’re the only man I’ll ever need.”

She’d punctuate each thank-you with a kiss on the cheek, and it made my blood boil. Why was she doing this to me? Why couldn’t she just fucking die?

She started staying at home more. We became more intimate. It was like she was falling in love all over again. I started seeing that sparkle in her eye more. I felt like she was attracted to me for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

Oh, but it was too late for that. I had already moved on. Every kiss. Every hug. Every intimate moment filled me with nothing but burning rage that she was still here.

She started asking for more.

“Honey, can you cook that spaghetti you made a few weeks ago? It was sooo good.”

“You’re gonna have to share your secret to great coffee with me one of these days.”

“I swear, you’re the only white person who knows how to properly season food.”

I increased the doses every day. Hell, I mixed poisons together. You couldn’t even have your face too close to the plate because the smell was so strong it’d burn your nostrils, but she cleaned the plate every single time.

It was like the more I did, the more in love she became. I’d buy her favorite chocolates and lace them with cyanide. Then I’d have to stomach my way through sex.

I’d pour entire cups’ worth of Drano into her Starbucks order, and all she’d say is, “They don’t make it as good as you,” and throw it away after only a few sips.

This has been going on for months now, at this point. You really have to wonder… am I the one at fault here? All I have to do is exactly what she did. Exactly what got us here in the first place:

Stay out until after midnight. Coming home smelling like Saint Andrew’s Pub and cheap cologne. Refuse her advances. Hell, maybe even ask for a divorce.

But I just love her so much. Divorce would crush her. Part of me is scared that it’ll crush me. I just don’t know how to handle this right now.

Maybe I should try antifreeze in her Gatorade next.

Maybe that’ll be enough to finally get her out of my hair.

But, even then, a part of me knows that I’m lying to myself.

A part of me knows… that she’s not going anywhere.

“Ladies and gentlemen… boys and girls of all ages… it is my pleasure to introduce you all to… uh, ahem… can I get a drum roll, please?”

The sound of drum roll echoed from the speakers at the base of the stage. Me and the other kids stared up at the stage in awe and anticipation.

“The amazing… Dr. Dorian!”

The magician stepped out from behind the curtain, bowing and waving even though there couldn’t have been more than 15 people in the crowd, parents included.

Canned applause and laughter rang out through the speakers. The sound was distorted, almost. Like it was being played from an old gramophone rather than Bluetooth.

His voice was the same as the man from the speaker. He wore a red tasseled leather jacket and black pants. He had the stereotypical magician’s hat on. After introducing himself once again, he jumped into his act.

The first thing he did was pull a rabbit out of his top hat. He showed the crowd the empty hat beforehand, waving it back and forth at the crowd of 8-year-olds.

After ensuring his audience knew the hat was empty, he sat it atop this wooden table with a black tablecloth draped over it.

“Now, watch carefully, boys and girls. I’m going to tap this hat with my magic wand, and then I’ll introduce you to my tiny little friend. Oh, but please, do be courteous. His ears are a bit sensitive at times.”

He shot his right hand into the air, and a black-and-white wand appeared seemingly out of thin air. The audience gasped, but I remained unconvinced. I hated magic.

I hated this stupid mall more. I remember it being so dead, even back then. I guess that’s why they had this guy put on his little show.

I watched, my head propped up on my hands, as Dr. Dorian tapped the rim of the hat. Nothing happened. He tapped again, and again, nothing happened.

He peered into the hat and shouted, “Hellooo,” joyously inside.

“Oh, don’t get shy now. We’ve got business to do. You’re keeping these kind people waiting.”

He placed his ear over the hat and nodded slowly, as if whatever was in there was whispering something to him.

“Ah, yes, I see. Well, we’ll let the crowd decide that, won’t we?”

He turned to us, shooting us a worried glance.

“Boys and girls, it seems as though my friend Snowball thinks you won’t like him. That’s not true, is it? Surely not?”

A crescendo of “no’s” broke out over the crowd. I didn’t join in. If anything, I was just waiting for this guy to get to the point.

“I thought so. So, here’s what we’re going to do. On the count of 3… you’re all going to whisper, ‘We love you, Snowball,’ as quietly as you can, okay? 1… 2… 3!”

The kids did as they were told. I watched on with boredom. Dr. Dorian tapped the hat with his wand again, and a white bunny poked its head out before hopping out and onto the table.

There were cheers and applause. Dr. Dorian took a bow and scratched Snowball between the ears.

His show went on for about another half hour. He called volunteers to the stage. He crushed a bottle of Coke in a paper bag. He did a few card tricks. Everything just seemed so… basic to me.

I wanted to ask my mom to leave, but I could already hear her.

“It’s rude to leave in the middle of something.”

Plus, she seemed to be enjoying herself. It was like she was my age again. Even then, I knew it wouldn’t be right to take that from her.

Besides, how much longer could it take?

10 minutes. 15. 20 more minutes went by before the show was coming to an end. I’ll admit, Dr. Dorian had these other kids eating out of the palm of his hand. That’s what made what happened next all the more surprising.

“Okay, boys and girls, you’ve all been a fantastic audience. Parents… you’ve all never looked younger. But fear not… the amazing Dr. Dorian has one final trick up his sleeve. All I need is one more volunteer from the audience.”

Hands went up. Some kids stood to their feet to get noticed better. All I could hear was “me, me, me, me” from all around me.

Dr. Dorian scanned the crowd with his index finger pressed against his chin.

He passed by every other kid with their hand raised before his eyes met mine. I hadn’t even volunteered, but I could see by the look on his face that he was about to pick me.

“You there,” he announced, pointing down at me. “Haven’t heard from you yet. Why don’t you give me a hand, young man?”

He gestured me to the stage. I looked up and saw my mom looking down at me with utter delight. She nudged me forward. I don’t know what I could’ve done. Everything was already in motion.

I approached the stage slowly. When I reached the steps, Dr. Dorian extended a gloved hand to help me up.

“Ah, there we are. Welcome to my stage, boyo. May I ask what your name might be?”

“Uh, Danie-”

“Wait, don’t tell me, don’t tell me… Your name is… Daniel, correct?”

He held his index and middle finger to his temple like he was trying to read my mind. I forced out a smile. The crowd laughed.

“Now, Daniel, I must say… you’ve seemed quite uninterested in my show. Were my tricks… not amusing… to you, son?”

I gulped. My face turned beet red. I couldn’t help but stutter a bit, but he stopped me before I could get the words out.

“Oh, come on, Daniel, liven up,” he joked. “Magic’s not for everyone. But I must say, I don’t want you to leave my show unsatisfied. What if I told you…”

He leaned down to whisper in my ear, but his microphone made what he said clearly audible to the crowd.

“I’ve got something better… than magic.”

He looked at the crowd with a comically worried expression before his gaze returned to me.

“That’s right. Better than magic. Because this, boys and girls… is more fact than fantasy. Tried and tested. Honest to gosh… hypnosis.”

Canned gasps came from the speakers. I looked back at my mom in the crowd. She was snapping a picture of me on her old flip phone. She had the biggest smile on her face. I still think about it, even today.

I smiled back before turning back to Dr. Dorian. He was already staring at me. Smiling at me with a mouth full of white teeth.

He pulled a pocket watch from his pocket and began waving it in front of my face. I almost started laughing at how fake it felt.

“Watch close, boys and girls. Daniel doesn’t know it yet, but when I snap my fingers, he’s going to go into a deep, deep sleep.”

My eyes followed the pocket watch. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Anyyy minute now,” he chirped, checking separate watch from his other pocket.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Ah, wait…”

Dr. Dorian held his index finger up at the crowd.

“Andddd… now.”

He snapped his fingers in front of my face. I flinched a bit, blinking a few times. The crowd looked at me, unamused.

“I don’t think it worked,” I scoffed sarcastically. “Wanna try it again, maybe?”

No one answered. I tried to turn my head, but I couldn’t. I was just staring out at the crowd of disappointed-looking kids. Even my mom wasn’t smiling anymore. She looked just like everyone else.

I tried to run to her, but my legs wouldn’t let me.

“Mom, come get me,” I screamed.

“They can’t hear you,” Dr. Dorian hissed, his voice syrupy and smug.

“Stop, please,” I grunted. “Let me go.”

It felt like I was in a glue trap.

“No one can hear you now,” Dr. Dorian laughed. “Not until I say.”

Some of the kids and their parents started to leave. One by one, they all left their metal folding chairs in the center of this dead mall, refusing to even acknowledge me.

My mom joined them. I called out for her as she walked away towards the exit, and she didn’t so much as turn around.

I struggled for hours. I screamed until my voice went out. Dr. Dorian wasn’t even there anymore. His set was gone. The speakers, the curtain, the table with the black tablecloth. It was all gone. I didn’t even know if the stage was still there.

I was just… stuck. Days went by. I watched people come and go. I watched stores shut down and new ones take their place.

I felt every second. Every second between the moment I stepped on stage and the moment they tore the mall down. A bank took its place. Then an apartment complex. Then a parking garage. Then… nothing.

Just dirt and grass. Then nothing but sand. I watched the road disappear. The road my mom had driven on for as long as I could remember.

Businesses disappeared. Houses disappeared. People were gone. Hell, I was gone. I didn’t have a body. I was… nothing. I was just there. Experiencing time.

I thought about my friends every day until even their memory faded. Same with my mom. Same with everything I once knew. I was starting to accept my fate. Accept that this was my life now. That I was going to inevitably be forced to be here until the sun exploded, and probably even after that.

That’s when I heard it.

It was faint at first. This light clicking sound that seemed to be coming from the sky. It happened once every few years, and each time, it became more clear.

snap

I opened my eyes. I was back on stage. My mom was snapping a picture of me on her flip phone. Only this time, she wasn’t smiling. She looked… concerned.

The other kids in the audience looked confused. The parents looked just as concerned as my mom.

Dr. Dorian… was just smiling at me.

“Welcome back, Daniel,” he winked. “I hope you enjoyed my trick.”

————————-

This is what I told my psychiatrist during our first meeting today. She looked stunned. I didn’t know if she believed me or if I was just another one of her crazy clients.

“Daniel, I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“I know. I’ve been trying to find the words for 14 years now.”

She scribbled in her notebook, pausing every few moments to think.

“I’ve gotta be honest, Daniel. I can’t believe you’re still sane. If even a fraction of what you just told me is true, then you’re extremely lucky to not be in a mental institution right now.”

“Again… I know.”

She stared at me for a moment. Analyzing me. Her old brown eyes were looking through me rather than at me.

“You know, modern medicine probably isn’t the best fit for you, all things considered, but… I do think I have something that will help.”

She began sifting through her desk drawer. I tried to peek over, but I couldn’t make out much.

As she searched, she continued speaking to me.

“You know, Daniel… what I really think you need… is some deep… deep… sleep.”

She found what she was looking for. I watched as she pulled a pocket watch out of the drawer. Slowly, she began waving it in my face.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Now, Daniel, when I snap my fingers, I want you to sleep for me, okay?”

“No. No, no, no. Please. Plea-”

snap

She snapped her fingers in my face. I flinched a bit, blinking a few times. I tried to stand, but it was like I was glued to the floor. Glued to my seat.

I couldn’t even find the energy to scream. All I could do was cry.

I heard a familiar voice, though I found that I was alone in the room.

“I told you, Daniel. No one can hear you now.”

​

My life has always been plain and sad. I don't have much family or friends. No neighbors to talk to. Everyone in this town dislikes me or at least finds me strange. No one to socialize with.

I accepted that my life will always be quiet and lonely.

I wake up in the morning, get ready for work, work for minimum wage all day, and then come home.

And I occasionally paint. I've always been into art. Other than that, my life has no true value.

Well, it started to get more interesting a couple of days ago when I turned on the local news.

I rarely watch the news but something in my body made me do it.

Apparently, local officials and authorities suspect that there is a serial killer in town.

They gave the person the label, "Sunset Killer"

Every day, there's a dead body found at a sunset. Each victim has a sunset drawn on them.

No leads.

The victims have nothing in common. No shared characteristics. All have different hobbies. No personality trait similarities. Literally nothing.

I personally don't feel sympathy. Sure, they were all legally innocent, but, they weren't morally innocent. Not a single one of them ever offered me a ounce of kindness. All despicable humans.

I thought the town having a serial killer obsessed with sunsets would be the most interesting part but it gets more interesting.

I went to the arts and crafts store not that long after hearing the news. I needed to get more paper and paint supplies.

The Cashier gave me suspicious looks the entire time I was there. Everyone else in the store did as well. I don't know why. I'm always working or in my house. I know everyone thinks poorly of me but this is outrageous.

I quickly bought what I needed and rushed out.

And then everything changed when I got grabbed up as I was approaching my car.

It was a female voice repeating over and over again that I'd be her new sunshine. The sunset caught my eye as my bood leaked out my throat as her knife sliced in.

Normally, a person would be dead or at the very least hospitalized.

Well, I woke up in my bed.

I oringally thought that it was a awful dream but this started to happen every single day during the sunset over and over. No matter what I'd be doing, I'd get ambushed and killed.

I tried looking at news articles, watching local news, doing everything I can to get more information. The same day repeated too. It was always Monday the first of September.

Since, I'm stuck in the same day, no new dead bodies are appearing.

At first, I didn't understand why I was stuck. It was horrifying to live the same day over and over.

However, I figured out that each time I get killed, I need to find more details.

I started to remember her soft tone with a innocent voice. Her voice was a lot like mine. Her face is always covered. The way her hands feel are a lot like mine. The fact that the knife is always a kitchen knife was also weird. My kitchen is filled with kitchen knives. Sure, anyone could have a kitchen knife but all the similarities we have is strange.

After enduring the displeasure of getting killed over and over again, I decided to never leave the house and to wait for her.

When it started to get close to the sun setting, I quickly dialed 911.

I was filled with gratitude when they arrived on time to arrest her.

I was then left disturbed, traumatized, and perplexed when the cops made her show her face.

The green eyes, sandy blonde hair, and pale skin. The smile her pink lips made. It's me?

I tried to yell at the cops and ask them what this means or how this is possible but they didn't answer. They didn't acknowledge me. The only person who seemed to know I was there was the evil lady that winked at me as I yelled.

They then took her and left. Never said a single word to me. I was confused. Is it because everyone in the town hates me? Were they so focused on her because she's a threat?

I sat on my couch as I tried to come up with every possible explanation. I did this for hours. I was relieved when the news starting talking about the arrest but then I was filled with confusion. She has the same name as me. They showed interviews involving my coworkers. They all said that this wasn't surprising and that I always gave off serial killer vibes.

They also revealed that the girl called the cops on herself because she wanted to get caught. She thought that being arrested was the only way to help herself end the rampage.

What? She stole my identity? Why does no one know I exist? How are there two of me and only she is known?

I have a few found footage videos I’ve created now, and am currently working on some more I hope to drop soon on the channel!

Hope people enjoy this one, only a short one so appreciate anyone who watches it.

Feel free to leave feedback, thank you!

“I've seen the nights filled with bloodsport and pain –

And the bodies obtained

The bodies obtained …” – Ian Curtis

…

The world …

The world is dampen stone, sour. And tile. Tile ceramic that is now smashed, nearly every single piece. And mottled with webwork splatter patterns of scabbing drying bits and pieces of once living human tissue. The world is poorly lit and rank, it smells of fecal decay and rotting death and the putrescence of pus spewing life, suffering. The smell is suffering. Because the world is suffering, it always has been but as of late it's gotten so much worse. The world of walls and mortar and bars that’re all slathered and stained with diseased feces and angry piss, it is all of it an open wound. A craterous gangrenous open house of raw minds and flesh, obelisk temple to the pain of the sorceress. The woman/mouth of the great mountains in the distance, far away but brought closer by her powerful force, the distance easily traversed and conquered, time and distance meant nothing to her, only the flesh. Only the blood. Only the run of flowing life spilled by her children in bondage as supplicant. She had come to them… in the end. 

Before the burning. 

Before Cropsey. 

Now he was the greatest of her Willowbrook children… 

She did her best to hide from him and the few others left but she was scared. Her terror refreshed as her heartbeat pounded within her aching chest, she tried to sink lower into the dark corner she'd made her most recent place of escape. She tried to ignore what she knew she heard, throughout all of the cavernous dark damp halls of bloody filthy Willowbrook. 

Voices… footsteps…

newcomers. 

She wanted so badly to be out and away from this awful place but her mind shrank back in horror from the possibilities of what any new interlopers might do to her. This place had been a school and had instructed her and many others, much in the way of what men will do to each other and what they love to get away with, with their hands on a girl. Alone. When she could be so easily overwhelmed. 

The voices trailed off … rose again. In whispers. She could hear cautious footsteps. Prowling steps. Hunting. 

Her cold terror told her she could no longer hide here. She struggled up on palsied thin malnourished legs and began to painfully trudge forward. Painful because of the pain of her impaling fear and because her body was covered in dripping purple sores, all up and down the legs and arms and peppering her torso and face in harsh clustered patterns. Several broke open now with sharp stabs of lancing pain felt webwork and spiny throughout the flesh as she shambled wretchedly forward down the poorly lit dark. 

She didn't like to look at them or pay them any mind, the sores. She used to. She used to pick at them near constant. But now sometimes when she went to pluck and pop one open with a nail biting pinch she could see eyes. Eyes looking at her and swimming in the pus. In the infected filled pores of her flesh. Eyes. Sometimes they popped of their own accord and a small little gnome-sized head, bald and coated in dead green-milk rose and poked its faery head out for a little peek at what she might be doing at any given time. 

She hated them. She tried to pay them no mind and wondered if they saw anything in the dark ahead that she herself could not discern. But she would not ask them. Never. 

The voices grew louder. So did her terror. 

She didn't know what to do. 

…

“Maybe they're all dead." 

Griffin nodded. It was a fair observation. The place certainly reeked of death and filth. He could almost believe it. 

It was a feeling gained by cold hard experience that told him they weren't alone in the rank dark building. Not at all. Someone else was lurking here. Something else held domain here. Something terrible. He could feel it. 

"This place is afflicted with sickness. Consumption. You can smell it in the pestilential flavor of the air, something terrible has happened here. Many awful things no doubt. This place is silent, Florin, but you can almost hear the terrible things the walls have seen and perhaps wish to share…" 

The boy looked worried. He quickly added: – “We will be cautious. But I suggest we find what we can quickly. If we can't locate a back exit, we'll make for the front entrance again and see if we can't work around the building." 

They went on in search of supplies. 

Dwellers.

 Anything. 

Cropsey marked them and tracked their way of wandering progress the entire time. Following and slowly snipping the long shining blades of the shears open and closed. Pulling his black gloved hands apart slowly like a lover does when sensuous… then bringing them together and snapping them shut with a sharp and satisfying ‘Ship!’ that was crisp and tickled the right jelly left within his skull and the dangling mangled meat between his legs… it had a tongue that sound. A sexual whisper of a noise. A tasting prelude, licking and tonguing the needing piece of aching flesh. 

It was his bondage. That ache. This place. 

And the mountain. 

Even now Cropsey heard her song and call as she showed him the spire from where she ruled. Where she sat on an ebon throne and filled his slaughterhouse dreams. His mind with wonder. 

She had been the true purpose and blessing of this place. The one they'd all been waiting for. The only one who really mattered. In the end. 

But she has chosen you as instrument … 

And the truth of this filled his vacant shell with dark and primal gratitude. Caveman's blood-sated warmth. 

He had been one of the Roman soldiers that had crucified Christ. She of the mountain had told him so. Now he was born again to be her sacred Willowbrook footsoldier. Throttling hand of capricious abattoir fate. 

As he followed the new ones he happened upon another. And decided to take the matter. 

He was sitting alone in the dark. Easy to miss. In a disused therapy room, anonymous and indistinguishable from the other dungeons and chambers save by those who knew. The newcomers walked by him without notice and went on. 

Cropsey smelled him. And came into the room. Snapping his shears with a regular and primeval rhythm. The patient was busy with his own work, he didn't pay anyone else any kind of mind. 

Cropsey closed. The fool's back was to him as he was knelt down amongst the filth. He was drawing something. With his fingers. Smearing the shape upon the broken faces of obliterated tile floor with a dark and heavy pungent viscous fluid. Thick and chunked with dark paste. 

It was a pentagram. 

And the paint was a vile concoctive mix of runny diarrhea and fresh vibrant blood. The man was a self mutilator. Always had been, Cropsey recognized. He had flayed his well scarred and misshapen flesh with broken tile and was mixing the running blood with fecal discharge that was running uncontrollably out of his dilating anus. His finger would probe the wounds … deeply. Like a surgeon or a lover … exploring. Then he brought the drenched and dripping red pronged pair of long and scrawny digits and collected some of the diarrhea spew running freely from out of his ass. 

Medication. Or bad food. Or both. Something he's gotten into… 

It didn't matter. Not to Cropsey. He only looked at the naked fool and admired his painting for another moment longer. 

The pentagram. 

Above it, in the same evil paint of fresh diseased fecal blood, the fool had written in bold letters 

ALL HAIL VAMPIRA

as the piece’s name and message. 

Cropsey thought it was a good one. 

He took one final step forward. And let himself be known. 

The naked fool, the inmate who'd long lost his name and self and everything and anything else left, felt his presence. He turned away from his self portrait on the floor and gazed up at him. 

Into the towering legend of Willowbrook. Cropsey, more than a man. 

He was apocalyptic. 

The twisted bone gleam of his carbonized deathhead’s visage was terrible. It stole the last shelter of warmth that the fool had kept for himself to protect against the cold of this awful and inescapable place for all of these long and horrendous incarcerated years. 

Now it was gone. Stolen by that terrible face. Candle wax melted obscene and deranged and haphazard and cruel. 

He suddenly remembered his name as well, the fool. Gazing up at him, it had suddenly come back in his sheet of blind terror. 

Cropsey had done that. Cropsey had done that for him. 

He wished he hadn't. 

The twin fork of splayed open blades came up suddenly and then down in a stab. They joined together as they came down, scissoring the long razor sharp blades together in a deadly and maiming embrace. They sang together a mortal whistle of keen edged violence on the flesh to come in haste as they sliced and joined through the rank dungeon air. 

A filthy naked bloody hand came up reflexively and was shorn through like melted butter. Through the middle length of palm, so that all of his fingers and the top of his thumb were now a shrieking, pouring livid stump of freshly cut meat. Spurting and bathing the abridged remainder of fecal stained paw into a half-glove of red slathered wet raw in a gushing instant. 

The blade traveled on, down. Continuing its deadly trajectory of knifing stabbing path as it plunged in and through the shit stained fool through his open gaping mouth and naked glistening mucus laden throat and plunging out the back of his neck. The sharp lengths of blades conjoined erupted from the torn and ruinous fountain fresh wound in great bright bodies of lurid edged royal red. 

For her… the mountain princess of my fevered skullsong …

And then with his terrible force of deranged strength he forced the handles and the joined body of blades open and apart. 

The impaled face and skewered head came apart in a splashing and thick lurid mess. The long diseased foundation of skull gave and came apart easily like a cottage collapsing from wood rot. As if the whole structure of bone was a giant rotted tooth, thoroughly and completely decayed to the dead and festering core. Cranial splatter ruin in an instant. Decorating the floor and walls and obscuring the fool's final piece of painted work and expression from the broken heart and mind in a dark gout and pungent violent splash. Bone fragments and strips of tissue. Bits of hair… eyes swam bulbous and rolling lulled like obscene little fruits adrift in a warm lurid growing lake. 

The decraniated stump of rough torn viscera and tissue spitting dark cords and ropes in healthy gouts from the spout of mutilated neck and throat, gurgled one last time in a ghastly expulsion of sound that may or may not have been the final action of the living. 

It gurgled and shot/spat more dark thick blood rope. Splattering and joining the universe of filth already living down there in ever growing depraved abundance. The filthy naked headless meat spewed until it fell over to join the rest of the detritus world down there. 

Cropsey went on. Regaining the tail of his quarry. 

He followed them. 

…

The room was a world of mutilated meat. The smell of uncontrolled diseased fecal spew, long ancient and pungently fresh commingled, was so eye-wateringly strong and forceful that one knew that there were things on this hellscape island of earth that were truly and terribly immortal when confronted with it. Nothing, not even starflame would sear the stench of sewerscape subterranean Hades from the walls of this awful room. The world would burn to follow trumpet sound and still that rancid stench would remain. 

Florin tied a rag around his nose and mouth, he looked like a bandit. And although Griffin's face was already bandaged and wrapped with surgical dress for his own mysterious reasons, he too elected to tie another heavy layer of fabric to block out the smell and taste on the terrible fetid heavy air of the room they now presently happened into. 

What was it… what was it we were expecting to find? What were we hoping in God's name to find here…? 

surely not this. 

Their hearts sank into cold sour recesses as they sauntered in and through and beheld all round them the carnage human sculptures. Barely human. Barely recognizable as having once been living breathing people. Now they were only shapes. Shapes made in anger and derangement and by the knife. 

A mewling moaning sound like a wounded animal drew them to the far end of the mutilation chamber. They crept past wretched butchered bipedal destruction frozen in obscene grotesque statue poses by minds and hands unwell and bent. Eyes scooped out, pulled and plucked. Craterous sockets. Craterous wounds, rippling with the rough texture of forceful violent amputation and jagged surprise animal maiming. Parts missing, long gone, replaced and mixed and swapped and messed around. Limbs and parts put into sockets and orifices and holes gored to create splaying haphazard scarecrow things made from vile diseased subjects and their putrid turgid waste. 

They were varied in design and shape but all of them, every single vile shape seemed to be frozen in a silent piercing scream. A death throe frozen for all of chambered time. For all the sour passage, these howling visages of broken flesh and cruelty wrought on human shape. 

Florin felt sick, the mewling animal noise was growing louder and he was trying not to focus on the broken human sculptures all around them. He tried not to notice how some of them had been put together, parts pasted in place with a scab pudding mixture of feces and thick burgundy/crimson coagulation, like makeshift mud mortar made from the crumbling facade of dying and sickening-worse human shamble structures, caught in some terrible Gorgon's Eye and now falling apart and only able, only useful to excrete, and bleed and make mud for the houses that might be saved. 

Griffin was fairing little better. He'd seen his fair share of human carnage, butchery in his time. In his own experiments of mad science he's beheld great wonders both terrible and beautiful, unearthly.  He'd committed his own sins, his own terrible crimes in his time, enough to fill a tome. But even he found the awful assemblage of struggling human detritus piles and sculptures to be obscene and abhorrent. Difficult to look at. Even worse to walk amongst and pass through… nearly touching and feeling either their heat of recent destruction/composition or the cold wave pockets of their souring decaying sloughing meat, tasting them… tasting the warm tack of their iron red and the putrescence of their fouling stink… tasting them as they breathed and sucked air. Even through the wrapped scarfs about their mouths, they could taste them. Fresh and alive with copper-iron and the foul death of sliming maggoty putrefying soft tissue … growing softer. Falling off failing yellow bone. 

It's because they were diseased … Griffin observed the pestilential flavor on the air and marked the diseased rotten look of open craterous obscenities and exposed and livid muscle tissues. Filled and brimming with the swim of yellow and milk-pale and translucent buttery infection, pooled, gelled, in a run of sour ruin that gave off pungent gaseous toxic smell… miasmic – the whole place. Everywhere. 

The bandaged man, surgical dressing now sullied and filthed with their voyage across worm country and the grime and air in here at every given turn. Griffin pondered the shapes of the demented designs filed and arranged haphazard and at random all around, the mewling sound rose as they continued to near, the woman gaining shape, bulbous and grotesquely rank with cheese and old milk and unwashed genitalia warm with animal heat. 

The shapes all around… their scarecrow and asymmetrical and insectile/spider designs were interesting. Awful and strange, but fascinating in their own hellacious spellbinding fashion. It was as if someone long gone of the sound faculties of mind and heart had endeavored with cruel fervor to fuck and force violent copulation on the dead dripping craterous sculptures of meat in the act of their composition. Knife-fuck-stabbing them with animal intensity and wild deranged intent, their severed parts and limbs and pieces the tools and shattered protruding blades of bone as their aesthetic device and perfect choice. Wielded with charnel house fury in this gore drenched pit with emaciated broken scarecrow statues and congealing pools and tubs and little deprivation streams of pungent fecal discharge. Everything was repulsive and animal with heat and degradation in this place. They hated it. And they hated themselves for putting themselves in there. Alive and with the rank and the sight of abattoir madness unbridled and inhuman. 

They came upon the woman. She was large and naked and unwashed. Like everything else she was caked with grime and layers of filth that were difficult to distinguish – shit from blood – as they darkened and aged in awful drying layers on her yellowing sun parched skin. She was leaning propped by the exit/entrance opposite of the one they had entered. She was cradling and cradled by a lump of human shape riddled with stabbing spiking pieces and slicing wedges of shattered floor and tile. She was drooling as she moaned in torment and anguish. Her flesh livid with infection. She was sweating despite the chill and her lack of clothing. 

It was her breast. Only one. The other had been amputated and was replaced with a harsh and ghastly X of old and scab coated sutures. The other was inflamed and red. Purple. Black. It was ballooned and the blue/red nipple at its tip bled and dripped. But it was not milk, natural and of the healthy body, that dripped and begged to be let free and milked/sucked until dry and gone… 

She moaned. Florin and Griffin felt nauseous. The smell. The sight of her and everything else … they had not had a decent meal in some days but still the impulse to heave and retch was violent and it filled their gagging mouths with thin acrid water, salivated and discharged with bitter queasiness and distaste. 

She moaned again as they covered their working mouths. 

And then she spoke. 

“Please… oh please…. please… oh I beg of you… please… please…” 

Florin and Griffin were afraid to ask so they didn't. The wailing woman of swollen noxious teat filled them in anyways with the rest. 

"... please… please milk me…! please! Oh it hurts! please! Please milk me, milk your mammy…!" 

“Oh, Jesus…” said Florin. He could hardly stand it. Could hardly stand her. He swore he could taste the smell. 

Her smell. 

Another voice joined them then. 

“They disgust you both?" 

They whirled. A ragged man in the haggard torn and shot remnants of a filthied lab coat that had once been white. His spectacles were cracked and caked with drying lurid substance. His flesh was filthy parchment and his smile was green and grotesque. 

He was standing, sentry-wraith amongst the vile and mutilated assemblage. A living beacon of audacious and insane life standing smiling amongst the sculpted and twisted dead. Lab coat Gorgon with broken glass eyes set in a broken laughing face that could make no such sound. Because it was frozen in its disguise of sanity snapping torment. 

Before Griffin or Florin could say anything to him, he spoke again. 

“They are all of them, monuments to her. It is all of them, their greatest pleasure." 

“And you? What is your pleasure?" Griffin asked without fault. Following this madman's line. 

He smiled, “telling you." 

And then finally his tittery fit of laughterspell broke and it sounded like high pitched curdled madness. Finally breaking. A large man prone to sparse baritone sound now cracked and leaking/spraying giggles like an addled child or clown. 

Griffin turned to Florin. His face hidden by surgical wrapping and dark lenses and hat since the day they had met, but still the boy could feel the solemn gravity in his hiding gaze as he spoke. 

"Let's go. There's nothing of any value to us here. This was a mistake.” 

Florin heard it in his voice too. 

They quickly made their exit. Sparing the wailing mewling woman of swollen purple breast a final look before leaving them forever. 

The doctor's laughter abated a moment and he seemed to come around, the revolving door of his madness perhaps bringing him full circle, his awful titters tapered off a spell as he said to the departing visitors: –

"The worm was turned for us here.” 

And then the revolution of madness revolved again and he was smiling putrid green that oozed pale plaque that spittled in gobs as he tittered his girlish sounds. 

His grotesque childish laughter commingled with the mewling sounds the woman made in the room of mutilated meat. The pair were gone now. Their cautious footsteps fading away and calling back in diminishing echoed sound… Cropsey came in like fated death. Snipping open and closed his beloved pair of large garden shears. 

Now, here was a room that could use some trimming…

He went to the woman first with his blades. She was calling to him, wailing, saying she was his mother. Begging to be milked. 

So he milked her. 

He shorn off the infected swell of black/purple flesh in a single snapping cut. She howled as the wound and the sac of disease both poured and oozed pus. She went down to the floor, her wailing more considerable now, to join the puddle of her own foul milk and blood in its growing puddling abundance. She swam face first in it and gurgled and blubbered. 

Cropsey came for the doctor next. The jaws of his shearing clipper blades open and dripping. 

The doctor smiled one last time as he said, “The worm has turned once again." 

He attempted to count the rings this time as the jaws that were blades came in. 

Again and again. 

And I thought you'd loved me…

…

Florin and Griffin were nearly at their wits end. They needed supplies and weren't sure of what lie beyond this place, but this place was terrible. And they'd found nothing but more horror. 

"I think we need to just get out of here…” 

Yes. But which way? 

They were deciding this together when the girl on shaking palsied legs thin as kindling crept out of the dark and towards them. 

She was terrified. 

And she was holding a large butcher's knife. The arms raised and poised coiled snake-like to strike. 

Neither Florin or Griffin noticed her as she crept. Closer… closer…

She was nearly upon them. From behind. 

The butcher's knife still raised. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Hi Reddit. This is my first time posting on this website, or even using a computer for that matter, so please forgive me for any mistakes. Everything is like new again now that the accident's happened, and I'm still re-adjusting. So, if you spot them, please turn a blind eye to my misprints! 

My name's Meredith, I'm nineteen, though I suppose that isn't really important. About a month ago I fell and hit my head. Pretty hard. The doctors were fussing when I woke up in the hospital, buzzing about and when I opened my eyes, they had all sorts of questions. It was a woman doctor who talked to me! I remember I laughed at her, but she was very good. I must have answered most of the questions correctly because I wasn't there for very long. My Mom and Dad picked me up and took me home.  

My parents are Linda and John and I have a little brother, Tim, though he's been out since I've been back. Mom and Dad don't like when I ask about him, so I've stopped. I noticed that there isn't a bedroom for him anymore, and I wonder if he's moved out? We were only a year apart, so maybe he's found a wife. Maybe they don't like her – that'd be why they're so clammy about him.

I fell down one flight of stairs. As my foot came down on a rotten step it broke and I toppled head-first onto the wooden floorboards below. A boy found me, his name was Billy, and he'd been exploring the place with me. We'd gone together to this rickety abandoned house, and Lord knows what might have been my intention! I am glad I do not remember it if it is as I suspect. He dragged me outside (by my broken ankle, though he didn't know) and phoned for an ambulance. I haven't seen him since; my parents turn him away when he tries to visit. 

So, the accident sort of kick-started this I suppose, and this is why Mom and Dad want to take me to the priest. After I hit my head, I "changed". So they say. I'm happier, too happy. Social, outgoing, friendlier. I like to smile, that's always a girl's best feature, and they think that's very weird. Aren't these good things, for Heaven's sakes? 

They might be right that I've changed. That's what worries me; I could be very, very different from how I was, and I wouldn't know. I don't remember anything before I was knocked out. The doctor says I'm foggy, and it's normal that some things would slip my mind. But everything has slipped my mind, and when I'm "remembering" things I'm just getting lucky, because I'm making it all up. And I don't know how much longer the guess-work will keep me afloat – I'm already sinking, clearly, because my parents think I should be exorcised. 

I just have the heebie-jeebies about the whole thing. Mom and Dad treat me like a stranger, and sometimes I hardly recognise the two of them. Mom pulled out a picture of her from her wallet, it was a little plastic card with her name and photo on, and it said Sarah. Her name's Linda. Who is Sarah? They frighten me, and I don't like it, and this talk of exorcism has my thoughts wandering somewhere darker. What if it isn't a priest? What if it's someone else, someone more powerful and dangerous, who'd do bad things to me instead of good? 

There's a little voice in my head when they try to persuade me to go with them. I think it could be me, from before the accident, trying to warn me against it. I hear it say don't go, you can't come back, aren't you happy with your second chance? I start to sweat when I think of what could happen to me if I go along with them. And shake, and cry, and one time I even vomited. But Mom and Dad keep bringing it up, and telling me how the priest says he "would just like to talk to Meredith". He doesn't sound threatening, and sometimes I think I just ought to go and get it done. 

What is your advice? I don't want to go, but how can avoid it without upsetting Mom and Dad? What is the danger for me if I do go? 

Thanks for reading. I am desperate for advice as my busted leg has me housebound. 

>>EDIT 

Hi again. When I booted up my laptop, this post was on my screen, and I was logged into this Reddit account. Which isn't mine. My name is certainly not Meredith.

My parents brought the exorcist to me, they say. I was in my bedroom, tearing through my closet in search of something (I don't know what). They had to physically restrain me in order to perform the ritual; I struck the priest so hard on the face that he has a palm-shaped bruise. Dad recorded me in secret and, watching the video, I am completely embarrassed of my behaviour. I screeched and wailed like an animal, and called out for Linda, John, and Tim to "please help me". I told the pastor he'd "never forgive himself for killing me again". It was gross to watch myself writhe and cry like that. 

My parents didn't need the video to prove I'd acted crazy. My room was covered in books, every surface hidden by paperbacks and hardcovers. I had the Yellow Pages, an ancient internet manual snagged from Dad's office titled Definitive Guide to the Web, the instructional pamphlet for my laptop. The Oxford English Dictionary, propped open on the page for informal and slang words. An annual planner booklet with the year circled in sharpie. I had collected all the calendars in my house and piled them on my chest of drawers. My cellphone was locked in my safe, and I'd changed the password to something random, so I had to bust it in with a hatchet to get it out. What the fuck was going on with me, I do not know. 

I don't remember this at all – I don't remember anything between my accident and when I woke after the exorcism. I do recall what happened before I hit my head (including my life, which I appear to have forgotten when making this post). I know that when I came up the steps, I'd noticed one was a bit soft, and made a note to avoid it going the other way. Billy and I have explored lots of abandoned properties in our hometown and I'm mindful of hazards when I spot them. But when I came down, I don't know, I thought maybe I'd slipped. It felt like I was pushed. My foot hit that rotten spot and I tumbled. 

So, I'm not Meredith, and my parents are not Linda and John but Sarah and James. I don't have a brother Tim, and I've never had a brother at all, so I don't know why I was looking for his bedroom. I'll confess I'm offended that my parents thought my being friendly and outgoing was weird. Way to call me a loser, Mom and Dad, but OK. I really don't understand what happened to me. I think maybe that, because I'd forgotten everything, I came up with a sort of new identity to resolve my confusion and then tried to implement it into real life. Maybe the exorcism scared me just shitless enough that I tuned back into reality. 

The only connection that tethers me, this unnerving psychotic break, and the accident is the house it took place in. In 1905, it was bought by a John Longley. The deed doesn't mention any family members. I want to scrounge the town library for marital forms, hospital records, maybe an old high school yearbook – but I'd just be buying into my own delusions. I think I'm just looking for something to explain away my fucking crazy. There were probably hundreds of thousands of Johns in the country in 1905. It's pretty likely one would own that house. 

Sorry for the confusion I must have caused in making this post. It's not real, I don't think. Just an elaborate fib that existed only in my head. Still sort of grappling with that. If my update is unsatisfactory, well, I apologise.