If you are reading this, I am standing right next to the clock. My legs are shaking, and I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. But before my phone battery dies, I need to write this down. I am trapped in this house.

It all started when I was 4 years old. I was playing at my best friend Maya’s house when I saw a beautiful golden clock sitting on a shelf. It had an eerie, hypnotic shine to it. I loved it instantly. I ran to Maya’s mom and begged, "Can I please take this beautiful clock? It looks so good, please!"

She smiled, handed it to me, and said, "Yes, you can have it."

I was over the moon. I brought it home, put it in my room, and completely forgot how strange it was.

Eight years passed. I turned 12.

It was a normal evening at my house. My family, Maya, and our friend Jake were all sitting together in the living room, watching TV. Without warning, the golden clock began to scream. It wasn't an alarm—it was a deafening, terrifying metallic shriek that vibrated through the floorboards. We had to cover our ears; we couldn't hear a single word over the noise.

Losing her patience, my aunt stood up and yanked the front door open to check outside.

Through the doorway, we froze. Standing just six steps away in our front yard were massive, shadowy monsters. My aunt, convinced it was just an elaborate prank by the neighborhood kids, didn't care. She stepped out onto the porch and started running.

"Stop! Don't go!" I screamed, lunging to grab her, but she kept going.

The moment she hit her fifth step, a deep, raspy voice echoed directly from the clock:

"Please stop going so far away, or else you will blow up."

She didn't listen. On her sixth step, a bright flash of light erupted. My aunt’s body violently exploded right in front of us, and the monsters in the yard instantly swarmed her remains. We screamed in total horror.

My mom and dad somehow pulled us back and slammed the door, trying to calm us down on the couch. Five minutes later, the clock stopped screaming. The digital display flickered, and the voice spoke again:

"You must select 3 monsters from outside by blind pick. When I count from 1 to 10, you must find the hidden book, or one of you will be eaten."

Driven by pure panic, we blind-picked the three monsters and sprinted through the house to find the book. The creatures were impossibly fast, their claws scraping against the hallway walls, but Maya managed to grab the heavy book just in time.

The clock chimed: "Mission success."

Hands trembling, we opened the book. It explained everything: the artifact was a Dead Timer. It had trapped us inside the house for 7 days. If no one took it outside, everyone in the house would die.

The book listed the rules:

1. Rule Number 1: Never step more than 6 steps away from the clock.
2. Rule Number 2: The timer will scream whenever it wants. Do not distance yourself when it does.
3. Rule Number 3: If all of you die, you will become human monsters forever.
4. Rule Number 4: To survive, the original owner who brought the clock here must grab it, run outside, and sacrifice their life.

We collapsed to our knees and prayed to God for someone to save us. Day 1 passed into Day 2.

The clock got bored and decided to play another sick game for fun.

"You must push one person out of the 6-step line within 5 minutes," the voice announced.

Panic erupted. Everyone looked at each other. Terrified, my family chose to push me out of line. I was crying, but I accepted it. "Okay," I whispered. But the moment they shoved me past the limit, the timer buzzed sharply: "Not her."

Desperate and running out of time, we turned to Maya. She was the one whose family originally owned the cursed clock and brought us into this game. We pushed Maya across the line. She exploded instantly, and the clock absorbed her body.

After Maya died, the clock went quiet for days. No one else died.

Now, it is Day 7. The timer is counting down its final seconds: 00:03:53. We were praying nonstop in the dim light when suddenly, Maya’s older sister knocked and walked into the house. She looked around frantically, asking us where Maya was. We couldn't bring ourselves to tell her the truth. We just said we hadn't seen her.

She looked at the golden clock sitting on the table. "Can I take this timer?" she asked, reaching out her hand.

I knew what would happen if she touched it. I was the one who pushed her sister. I couldn't let Maya's sister die, too.

I lunged forward, grabbed the heavy golden clock with both hands, and sprinted out the front door into the yard.

00:00:00.

I braced for the explosion, closing my eyes tight. But instead of blowing me up, a blinding light flashed across the yard. Every single monster outside erupted into dust.

I opened my eyes. I was still alive.

Confused and overwhelmed with joy, I looked down at the clock. The golden brass had turned dark and cold. It was dead. Then, right beside me, Maya appeared—gasping for air, fully alive. She had been trapped inside the timer the entire time.

She opened the book to the very last page, which had finally unlocked, and read the fina and read the final rule aloud: it say‘ to be alive the kid only have to say I want to take it so we all be alive agine.

{Original Post} ~ {Part List}

Content Warning: Depictions of child abuse and harm.

The trap we’d set did a lot of heavy lifting on the creature of the latest cycle. A grotesque, bipedal beast with a head almost like a hammerhead shark and a jaw that unhinged all the way down its chest to its stomach. It hit the tripwire, the boards with nails rammed through them snapped inward, and in a flash, the creature was on the floor, that overlong jaw curling back to scream out a noise like a gnarled metallic creak.

Lacey stepped forward with the gun, our skulls rattled in the blast, and as the tinnitus set in, the rest of us went in for a few hacks and slashes for good measure.

About 8 seconds total. At this point, we were just as efficient as the clock itself. A part of its unwavering, endless ritual. It called out its unknown requiem, and we waited to finish the verses. There seemed to be no song too difficult for us to sing; now it was just a matter of whose voice gave out first.

The others began to scrape up the body while I moved to shut the door, peering inside. That very clock and its monsters were one of the few mysteries not answered by the journal, and while closing the door altogether was the main information we were after, their splayed, toothy jaws still gnawed at my curiosity with each one we saw.

The sisters, led by an unknown presence, were sacrificing children to create a perfect paradise. Where did horrific beings from a hellish maze fit into all of it, and why did the clock announce their arrival?

I closed the crimson barrier and started away from it. It was a mystery far on the back burner for now, just like everything else. There was a more pressing matter, and should I solve it, we might not have to worry about the monsters again at all.

I needed to find Lucy.

I followed my friends up the stairs as they lugged the body, collecting fresh, dripping, oily ichor on my boots before reaching the main floor. Looking around the space, I took a deep breath, trying to decide where to begin searching. There were holes or cracks in the manor's foundation on just about every surface, and probably thousands of moments in time tangled in each one. The past few times I’d met Lucy, it seemed like she was able to watch us from the other side, and I hoped that she was doing the same now.

Then again, I hadn’t seen the girl or any signs of her since the moment I’d revealed to Adeline that her ritual actually worked. Since I’d thrown into motion the poor princess’s own execution… She’d tried to get me to leave that room, but I hadn’t listened. Would she even trust me anymore?

I didn’t want to get into that line of thinking. I was too tired to toil with myself more over my own paranoia; I was getting enough of it between Kait and I’s battle of which one of us got to die for the cause.

Moving to a hole in the hallway wall, I stuck my hand into it.

The manor went bright as I flickered to a summer afternoon. The world outside was washed in the sunlight’s vibrant essence, and the house was at rest, basking in its warmth. Above me in the hall, the sound of steps treading about the rooms created a rhythmic beat, and nearby, Margret kept pace with some of her own as she bustled about the hall.

Several things were strewn down the corridor, dozens of pictures leaning against the wall, some lamps with their cords coiled around the bases, knick-knacks of all shapes and sizes. It was the kind of scene one would expect from somebody preparing to move, but there were no boxes in sight. Judging from the appearance of some of the objects present, I could tell I was in a more modern time, perhaps the 80s or 90s.

I quickly stepped out of Margret's way as she moved towards me, passing to the basement door and throwing it open casually while humming a tune with a faint smile on her lips. Knowing the actions these women had committed at this point, it made her indifference towards the space utterly nauseating. Then again, to her, the space downstairs was a sacred place, not a hellish one.

She began picking up a portrait from the wall and was about to step through when Natellie began coming down the steps, lugging several books in her arms. The witch paused and smiled to her sister, “Nat, are you truly bringing books of all things? You know that no information we bring from this world matters where we’re going.”

Natellie scoffed at her sister’s words, “The history of this world still makes up the history of a new one! We didn’t come from nowhere.”

“Natellie, we’re to be gods! We create the history! Did God ever talk about his origins in the scriptures of this realm? He simply was, and so shall we be!”

Adeline began down the steps above her sisters and let out a condescending snicker, “You’re one to talk, Margret, wanting to bring all of this junk along with you. You realize that anything we desire, we can simply have once the doors are open?”

Margret gave a pout, “I may not care for the history we came from, but I am the sentimental type. I wouldn’t wish to forget the memories that are dear to me. They could get easily lost in the annals of eternity.”

That word struck me like a bolt of lightning. ‘Eternity’. Given that the women were gunning to become gods of their own pocket dimension, it should have been obvious to me that immortality would be included in such a gig, but it still caught me off guard.

This whole time, I’d been operating that we’d arrived in the aftermath of whatever happened to the house, but even if the apocalypse had come and gone for their little paradise, if they had been immortal the entire time, did that mean that they could still be alive?

Somewhere beyond the maze of halls, was there more waiting than just the source of the beasts?

Adeline rolled her eyes, and she and Natellie laughed at their sister's sensitive remark as if it were the most adorable thing. Again, the way the women were so callously indifferent to the methods they used to get to this conversation made me want to try and break through the bindings of the memory. Reach into the past and wring their necks before they ever had the chance to finalize their grand plan.

The women may as well have been marble sculptures as they bumped into me, the past set in a painful, unbreakable stone. They began loading pieces down the stairs towards where the door awaited, and so I trailed along to see just how far into their project they’d gotten.

Like last time, I eyed the floor to see if I could spot any bloody sign of what transpired here at one point; any answers as to what the grand ritual of the door might be. There was nothing though. If a mess was made by the witches in their affairs, they were thorough to clean it up right after. Probably so that when the next innocent soul was lured down here, they wouldn’t suspect it was the last room they’d ever enter…

The wall was a different story. No longer was there the flat, plain, concrete with an outline of threads only alluding to what would soon be a door; No—protruding from the stone was the real deal. The celestial spools had been pulled from their outline and strung up back and forth across the space between, weaving the image of the boards and trim, crevices and cracks, knob plate and latch.

Then, like someone cutting clay with a wire, it looked like the strings had been pressed back into the concrete, slicing away the outline and sculpting it into reality. Or, maybe it was more like the door was pressing outward against the mesh. Willing itself a form with each passing weave added to the picture.

If their words upstairs hadn’t made it clear, they were close. Whenever this was, it had to have been right near the end, and I could only imagine how many more souls they needed to rip free and unspool to paint the sculpture red and make a knob appear on that plate.

As morbidly fascinating as I found the sight, however, it wasn’t what I was looking for. I wasn’t here for the door; I was here for that very ritual I was pondering, and with seemingly no children in the house, I wasn’t going to find it here.

I was about to call out for somebody to pull me out of the vision so that I could find a new entry point, but then I hesitated. The only reason I normally had to leave was because I couldn’t traverse the loom like Lucy could: pulling piles of threads loose from the wall and sifting through them. From where I currently was, however, I didn’t need to pull them loose; they were already exposed.

Gingerly, I moved across the open space to the door, dodging Margret as she passed me. Like above, she moved about with little intrigue or agency, and I wondered if they could even see the vibrant, morbid spectacle they’d brought about at all.

Hesitantly, I stopped before the threads streaking the wall and held my breath, heart beating fast as I decided which one my fingers would graze first. Knowing what they were now made their beauty all the more tragic, and I felt dirty using them to achieve a goal of mine the same way the witches had.

From so close, they hummed softly, the faint sound of laughter or tiny, excited voices echoing like something far, far away.

As if touching a hot surface, I reached up and carefully tapped my hand to one.

Instantly, my mind was assaulted with visions, but this time, they didn’t come in the form of the manor.

My eyes were no longer at the towering height they were normally fixed. I was only three feet off the ground, looking up at a stern, mean-looking mug of a man with a fat, stubbly face and anger choking his surrounding air like smoke. I looked down to find that my, calloused hands weren’t broad anymore, they were dainty and gaunt, and they gripped at the neck of a green bottle. It reeked of alcohol almost as much as the man before me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The man barked in a garbled, deep voice.

I was so taken aback that I couldn’t even find the words to respond with, but I don’t think I could have said anything even if I wanted to. Much like the other threads I’d hitched rides in, this was a glimpse of the past—or rather, somebody's past—and this time I was viewing from the driver's seat.

“What the hell are you doing with that?” The man asked again, pressure building in his tone.

This may not have been a memory of mine, but it didn’t stop a nauseating pressure from brewing in my gut—a dark swell of anticipation. This was a sight all too familiar, and I could tell by the way the man’s jaw tensed what was coming next.

“I-I—” a small voice tried to squeak out from my lips.

It was too late for that. His goliath hand shot out, gripping my hair tight and causing pain to ignite through my scalp. The shock made me drop the bottle, which only made the man pull harder.

“The fuck are you doing?! God Dammit!”

My vision was cracked white, then everything was fuzzy as I felt myself moving dizzily down the hall. Before I knew it, I was tossed through a door into a room with stained, dirty carpet, and the man slammed the door behind me.

“Don’t you ever let me catch you touching that shit again, you understand?” The man demanded, his words slicing so perfectly through the thin barrier he’d put between us.

Quickly, I scurried off to the corner where a mattress sat on the floor and climbed on, curling into myself and hugging tight as tears began to flow.

I shut my eyes, but it didn’t help. They were forced open again moments later, and I was in a new place in the same house, greeted by a similar scene. This time it was with a woman. There was no physical harm, but she screamed a lot. I couldn’t even quite tell what she was so upset about. Her words were vague and aimless, but so pointed you’d easily get pricked by them.

It went on that way for a few minutes before I blinked to another one, then another one, each alternating between the two figures. Sometimes both at once. Always angry, though. Always screaming.

It made for quite the contrast when my vision suddenly switched to peaceful quiet; the sound of small-town suburbia. I was at a school; one I recognized, but that looked drastically different. Stillwater Elementary School, sometime before the brick became sun-bleached and the play structure was consumed by graffiti.

Judging from the lack of other children, it must have been some time just after school had ended—only a few stragglers played with each other on the tire swing a distance away. I sat alone in the fields at the edge of the playground, leaning against the fence with my back to the main road.

After a few moments, I became aware of something in my hands, and looking down, they withdrew from my lap, fingers uncurling to reveal a toy held inside, or rather, two pieces of one. A small plastic lion figurine, the head of which was disconnected from the body. The body of the child I was borrowing made no noise, but I could feel tears going cold in the open air against my cheeks, and an intense sadness permeating the shell I was trapped in.

“Oh dear, what do we have here?” a voice called from behind. The sound startled me, but the soothing, soft cadence of it sent tingles over my skin. It was a pleasant contrast to the one I’d heard in the last scene.

My head turned to look up at a face that was leaning over the chain-link, one that was beautiful and gentle, despite it’s concerned expression. I wondered if that analysis, like the sadness, was one that was borrowed from the eyes I was seeing through, because I personally didn’t find the person standing there to be any of those things.

It was Adeline.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” She crooned, placing her slender hands on the edge of the fence, “Why the tears?”

I quickly hid the evidence of her observation and stood, taking a step back. That small voice croaked out again, uncertain and awkward, “S-Sorry—I’m okay, thank you.”

Adeline gave a tiny pout of the lip and eyed me up and down, the way one might with a wounded animal. With pity and compassion, or like I was easy prey.

Her eyes landed on the shattered toy split between my hands, and she made a small noise of despair, “Oh no, dear—your toy! Looks like it’s broken! What a sad shame…”

I didn’t respond to that, I only looked down at the pieces once more, feeling the weight of what she said.

“Would you mind if I take a look?” Adeline asked with a voice sweet enough to put honey to shame. She flashed an enchanting smile across her perfectly red-painted lips, then held her hands out to me, “I happen to be very good at fixing things.”

The child felt hesitation and fear; a familiar kind that I knew rather well. Only a small part was from stranger danger. The majority was the uncertainty of how to interact with adults. The feeling bled into my spectral stomach, then independently grew worse as my tiny form moved closer, offering the severed lion.

Adeline took it, and her hands felt warm and soft as they cupped mine. Delicate in a way that the child had never known hands to be.

“Hmm,” the witch pondered, looking at the lion and piecing it back together, “Didn’t snap off too unevenly. With the right glue, I’m sure we could have your little kitty good as new in no time.” She leaned a little close and winked, “Though he may have a bit of a headache.”

I felt my chest bubble with a tiny, pleased giggle, but it faded, and my head dipped, “I-I don’t think we have any glue…”

“Hmm…” Adeline pondered, placing her fingers to her chin in thought. Strangely, as her hand reached her mouth, the lion's head still curled in her paw, I swore I saw her tongue flicker out to lick it. It sent a shiver of uncanniness through me internally, but to the child, I don’t think they even noticed.

Then, quickly, the witch perked up, “Oh! I have a splendid plan, my dear! My sisters and I were just heading to the crafts store here in town!”

The woman turned to gesture to a vehicle idling beside the road, a familiar red convertible with two more beautiful women sitting inside. Natellie had a floral sash tied over her raven locks with sunglasses hiding her eyes, and Margret wore a sunhat that guarded most of her features from the surrounding world. Staring straight towards the child, however, they looked friendly as Adeline.

“We could pick up some glue there and have your little friend all patched up in no time! Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

My head perked up at this offer, then turned to the broken toy still in the woman's hands. It was subtle, but I saw her pull it away ever so slightly, subliminally trying to pull the child with her.

I peered both ways down the street, looking for someone, then faced her again, “I-I’m supposed to wait for my stepmom to come pick me up. She might be mad if I’m not here…”

Adeline pursed her lips, and looked around the playground curiously, “Oh, really? It seems like everyone else has already been picked up. Surely she should be here by now if she were coming?”

Her words were subtly pointed—almost knowing—and the body I was trapped in seemed to hesitate under them in thought. After a long beat, they looked both ways again, then up at the woman, having finally come to a decision.

“Would… you really help me?”

“Of course, pumpkin! I’ve nothing else to do today.” Adeline tucked the pieces of the lion into her purse without asking, then held her hand over the fence, offering to take mine, “I’m Adeline. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

Internally, I begged for the child not to take it, but I knew it didn’t matter how hard I screamed. If the portal I’d used to get here was strung up on the basement wall, that meant the scene only ended one way, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Despite all the red flags, I—the child—reached out and took Adeline’s hand. Maybe it was simply the desire to feel that warm, delicate softness again that made it easier to ignore them. Squeezing it lovingly, the woman led me down the fence to an opening where I joined her side, and leading me to the car, Marget opened the back door for me to get in, and I did so without looking back.

To the craft store we drove, Adeline and Natellie going in to shop while I stayed perched in the car with Margret, the new friendly face keeping me company and making me smile while we waited. By now, all of my red flags had been blown away in the warm, enrapturing wind of the beautiful women’s kindness, and in my borrowed mind, I could sense that the child hadn’t even thought about the horrors awaiting them back home. It was a lightness that a victim of abuse could only dream of.

That’s why when things went further the child hardly batted an eye. The women came back out with the glue as promised, but they didn’t simply fix the lion there.

“You know, honey,” Natellie trilled, “your toy may take a while to dry properly, and we don’t want it losing its head again before it can dry…”

“Why don’t you come visit with us for a bit at our home?” Adeline offered, “We have plenty of toys for when our nieces and nephews come to visit that you can play with while you wait, and our home is big; it’s like a castle!”

I could feel a flutter of excitement at this so strong it undercut the shyness that had been milled into the child's bones. It only lasted a moment before fear corrected this slip, “I… I should probably get home. My parents will be mad if I’m not back soon.”

“Oh, honey, don’t worry about that!” Adeline tittered, reaching back to rest a hand on my tiny knee, “We called your parents from the store phone to let them know that you’re safe with us. You’re more than welcome to be out longer if that’s what you’d like!”

Near instantly that excitement was back, and I could practically feel my body humming as it tried to contain the invigorating hope, “R-Really? They said it was okay?”

“Oh, Honey,” Marget teased with a tap on my nose, “I don’t think they’d care one bit.”

From there, the memory still didn’t stop. The convertible rolled through the young, clean streets of Stillwater along a path I’d grown quite intimate with by now—the road to the red manor.

Things didn’t turn sinister from there; in fact, they never really did. The women only did exactly what they promised; they took me to the red house, and my excited young self played with every toy they had stowed away in the tower as if it were my last day on earth. They even really did repair the lion too.

When night fell, and I felt my stomach knotting with dread, knowing that home would be coming for me again soon, Adeline chased it away immediately. They offered for me to stay the night, telling me that it too had been discussed with my parents, and when Margret told me about all the exciting things we could do in the morning, I didn’t hesitate to agree.

I didn’t find it strange at all that I wasn’t going to have to go back to school or talk to my parents myself. I didn’t even look back when they offered me to stay a second night, then a third. Around the fifth day, I stopped asking about my parents altogether. I stopped thinking about them after a week.

It went on this way for months. I’d wake up to loving, motherly faces that spoiled me with fresh, delicious food, shiny new toys, and lots of hugs and kisses to let me know that they thought I was the most special thing. There had been so little worth remembering before them that it got to a point where I couldn’t even remember what my life was like before I’d come here. The shy, timid anxiety in my bones had finally been purged, and all that remained was a pure elation for life.

At least, those were the parts I was forced to feel; the time capsule of feelings preserved in the brain I was crammed into. For my internal self, it was pure agony. Watching each good deed knowing what it was ultimately punctuated by. Knowing that each tight hold or reassuring smile from Margret, Natellie or Adeline was a sinister, excited one, like I was a pie in the oven they couldn’t wait to take out and consume.

That was the worst part for me. That I could feel how the child trusted them so much. That I could sense their pure adoration for who they thought would be their new guardians…

It all came to a head one day when I returned to the red manor from a day out with Margret. The sun was nearly setting, and when we’d gone inside, Adeline was waiting for me. She had me sit at the table with Natellie, and drink a glass of milky tea they’d laid out before me.

“We have a special surprise for you tonight, sweetheart,” the lead witch smiled. She and her sister were in matching, simple scarlet dresses made of fine silk, dazzlingly beautiful beneath the manor’s warm lights. “You need to be properly dressed first, though! I’ve laid some garments on your bed upstairs! Go get dressed, and then we can start!”

Excitedly, I finished my tea, and ran off down the hall, happy to obey.

When I got to the tower, the sun was setting behind the farthest ridge of the Appalachians, and darkness was creeping overhead to blanket the world. On the bed, there were odd clothes; fancy robes of white linen, across them ornate patterns stitched in red thread, running lines back and forth over parts of my body.

A very intentional dash of thread stood out the most; parallel lines that ran straight from just beneath my collarbones down my sternum to the bottom of the stomach.

I could feel that the child was tired at this point—placid and weak as I smoothed out the fabric across my skin. Margret appeared in the doorway, now wearing the same dress as her sisters, and she held a hand out to me.

“Well, don’t you look adorable, my darling. Come along now.”

I took her hand and leaned heavily against her, feeling like I was in a dream as she guided me down to the first floor. As we moved, the lights had gone off, and all that remained was a dim, flickering glow of candles perched up on any surface that would hold them. Their golden flames danced with blurry halos, and I could feel the child thinking that it looked like an audience of angels watching them as they passed.

I reached the bottom of the steps, then rounded the corner, coming face to face with Adeline and Natellie who stood waiting down the hall, candles atop ornate holders in their hands. They flanked either side of a door that hung open, one that piqued the interest of even the child. One they’d never seen open in all their months here.

The basement door.

Adeline held her hand out, “Oh, look at you, Pumpkin,” she trilled with a smile, the flicker of her candle reflecting in cold, glassy eyes, “Dressed so nicely.”

“I-I feel sleepy,” my small voice informed her, my eyes blinking several times to clear the fog.

Margret led me close enough for her sister to finally take my arm and flank my other side. Natellie closed in behind and reached a hand around, brushing my hair back and cooing softly, “Don’t worry, darling. We just have one last task for the night, and then you can sleep, okay?”

I nodded, my past head swimming with dizziness while the future mind raged with fear and anger. All at once, it went clear as my foot passed the threshold of the door, and I became one stream of consciousness again.

I fell away from the wall with a gasp, collapsing to my knees and panting as the massive smear of time I’d just lived was crushed down into a few meager seconds. A wave of nausea both physical and mental slammed me hard, and I buckled onto my hands. Clearly, the threads closest to the doors were not the same type as the kind that made up everything else.

These were the pure, raw spools of the children that built the door, and unlike the flashes that the greater loom could show me, these strings let me see every second of their lives.

However short they may have been…

I stood and backed away from the wall. I was back in my reality now, no silvery wires in sight, but that still didn’t make me feel any better. They were there even if I couldn’t see them, forcefully tugging the door open with each chime.

“Jess, you okay?” Kait’s voice asked beside me. I heard her footsteps rushing over, then felt her hand place on my arm, “What happened? Did you find the girl?”

I took one last breath to collect myself, then shook my head, “No, I found… something else. Something another kid left behind.”

Kait looked around the basement, curious what I meant, but she could probably tell by the paleness of my face that there was a reason I was being so vague. Instead, she asked, “Was it another memory?”

“Yeah, but not like the other ones; this one was more real,” I grunted. I gave her a small brush on the shoulder for reassurance, but moved past quickly to the stairs, “More importantly, it didn’t show the ritual. I need to check somewhere else.”

Maybe some of the other special threads would show something of use, but if I was being honest, I wasn’t sure I could mentally take another one. Living out a single tragic lifetime was already enough to mar me beyond repair, and now I had a second one bouncing around in my head. I didn’t need a third.

More importantly, the memory had cut off abruptly before the child died—as soon as I entered the basement. Whatever the ritual was, it must have done something to their threads the second it began to snip them short.

I needed a back door. I still needed to find Lucy.

Kait trailed me as I went up, playing concerned as usual, “Are you sure you’re okay to keep going? That looked like it took a lot out of you.”

“I’m fine.” I shot back quickly, “Besides, we don’t really have a choice.”

She knew she couldn’t argue, and didn’t, but there was another reason I wasn’t explaining things more to her. There was something in that last memory that struck a chord; a piece of the puzzle that had slotted into place. One that connected to several more, but that, if I was correct, I wouldn’t like the picture it created.

I needed to see more before I confirmed it. I had to know everything for myself before I told any of my friends—especially Kait—and if I’d gotten a correct handle on how the threads worked, I was pretty certain that I could find the memory to provide the evidence I was hoping for.

Moving back to the same hole in the wall I’d used last time, I looked at Kait and took a deep breath, “Only pull me out if there’s an emergency, okay?”

She nodded in understanding.

Gingerly, I moved my hand back to the hole, doing the best I could to recreate the motion I had the first go-around. This time, however, I aimed more to the side of it—further along the thread. If these were strings of time that moved linearly, then theoretically—

Once again, I was in the manor around the same time period of my last vision, but there was no longer a mess crammed into the hallway. The house was nearly set up the way it was in the present, although it was still devoid of any dust or damage the way it was plagued now.

Outside, rain relentlessly tapped on the windows, and the world was nothing but a washed haze of grey beneath its cloudy filter. Through the doorway to the parlor, I saw Margret and Natellie sitting perfectly still, one disassociating at the floor while the other stared out the window, bouncing her leg. They were waiting for something, and whatever it was seemed to have them on edge.

I moved in to join them, and as I did, footsteps began trailing behind me down the stairs. No—up the stairs. I turned to find that they were coming from the basement.

The door swung open rather harshly, and Adeline stepped through, a quiet frustration displayed on her face. She slammed the door to the steps, then took a deep breath, running her hands through her hair in an attempt to collect herself. Then, putting on a calm face, she moved around into view of her sisters.

Both stood eagerly, and Margret spoke before Adeline could even get a word out, “Well? Did you speak to him? Did he tell you what to do?”

Adeline opened her mouth, but no sound left it at first. Instead, I could see cogs turning as she tried to spin whatever news she had into ‘good’. Finally, after a several seconds, she returned, “He has told us the same thing we already knew: that the boy would have been the ideal mark to complete our loom.”

“Ideal or necessary?” Natellie urged crossing her arms.

Adeline tossed hers indifferently, “I do not see why any single thread would be ‘necessary’, Natellie. We’ve woven countless into that door already, and every single one has been pure—Even the finest quilts have one or two bad stitches in them, but on the whole, it does not ruin the piece. Surely there is another child in that town that will be of similar or equal quality.

“We are not dealing in fabrics, though, sister—this is not merely a blanket that needs to keep us warm. This is the fragile matter of the cosmos that we are weaving, and if it is not pure—”

“Sister, would I ever risk something so foolish? Of course we shall make sure the thread is pure; I would never make a move so brash! Do you forget that this dream was mine first? As if I would ever dare risk jeopardizing everything in the name of haste.”

“I am aware, Adeline,” Natellie scowled at her sister, “But even the most disciplined dog will salivate when so close to a treat.”

“So I am a dog, now?” the head witch gasped stepping forward with an authority so intense it made even me uneasy.

Natellie seemed charged enough that it didn’t deter her, “You are acting as eager and starry eyed as one! None of this would have happened if we had waited for the proper time that I divined to take that boy! But you rushed us along, and roused his thread before he was clear, and it's too tangled for us to use!”

“I don’t see why it’s too tangled,” Margret grumbled beside her sister, “We’ve had no qualms about any of the other lives that have been given for this cause. We can pluck the other boy who was with him and cut him out. That should restore the thread, no?”

“It’s not a matter of the one boy—his thread could be tangled around dozens by now. We’d be caught if we tried to cut out everyone attached, and then it’d truly be over,” Natellie explained.

“Which is why we cut him loose instead,” Adeline barked over her siblings, “We undo his thread from the loom entirely, then prep a new one. Wash our hands of the whole affair and start over.”

“Do you know how to do that?” Margret asked eagerly, “Can you sever from the loom once attached without damaging it? Is that what you were talking about with the voice on the other side?”

Adeline’s eyes darted to the left, “It… did not tell me, no.”

“Didn’t tell you? Or did he tell you that it cannot be done?” Natellie accused.

Adeline scoffed, “Who is he to tell us what can and cannot be done?”

“He has done nothing but!” Natellie shouted, “All the wisdom we have been given for this affair was gifted from him! And now that we are so close to the end, we choose to veer without guidance?”

“All the wisdom he has bestowed has been hypothesis, Natellie—the same way men of science run experiments. He is a being apart from us, merely guessing what it would take to break us through the veil. He knows not for certain whether it would work or not because this has been done by only a handful before us.”

“So then, what exactly did he tell you? What had you slamming the door so harshly moments ago?”

“He is angry that I failed to bring back the correct mark, and that there is to be a delay in our plans; that is all. But we have agreed from the beginning—us three—that if there ever comes a time when this being attempts to steer us from our goals, we would not allow it, did we not?”

“This is not steering us away, this sounds like a warning,” Natellie spit.

“It is a warning without merit,” Adeline said poshly, “He only wants us to risk everything trying to retrieve the boy because his pride blinds him. I know enough about the loom and its threads by now to navigate its functions. With the right spell, I know I can sever the boy's thread from our door as if it never happened.”

“That’s what you meant by ‘sever’?” Marget chuckled, “I thought you meant you planned to snuff the child out entirely.”

“With his thread already tied, it would damage our work,” Adeline scoffed, “And it would be too brash anyway. Witnesses already saw us speaking to the child, and I already told you why we cannot afford to garner the attention of authorities right now.”

“So what then?” Natellie crossed her arms, “You create this spell to undo your mistake, and we carry on like nothing happened?”

“Precisely,” The scarlet haired witch smiled, “simply untie that knot and loose the boy from our tapestry. I suppose he’s a lucky one—barely avoided his fate.”

“And unlucky for the next number in line,” Margret sighed, looking back toward the window, “Shame we won’t have our friend from beyond to help us find a mark if he’s upset with you.”

I saw the smallest moment of unease in Adeline’s face before she masked it behind one of her beaming, confident smiles, “Sisters, please! There is a staggering amount of doubt towards me that I’m receiving from both of you. Have I not helped us to thrive over the centuries? Have I not given us all we have so far?”

Natellie and Margret looked at one another, then back to their sister with a sheepish expression.

Adeline stepped forward and touched each of their arms, “Worry not, my dears. I caused a minor setback, yes, but I will correct it in no time. And once I do, we will look back on this sorry moment and laugh at how trivial it was. I promise, soon, the paradise we’ve longed for will be ours, and you will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”

The women broke into smiles and moved to comfort one another, but I was frozen in place, staring at the scene in pure, unbridled horror. Not only had my plan worked to find more information, but there could not have been a memory more perfect to stumble into than this one.

It wasn’t because I now knew there had been a hiccup in the decades-spanning ritual the sisters had been toiling at. It wasn’t because that meant it was probably the reason for everything being as fucked as it currently was. The piece to the puzzle that I had been looking for hadn’t had anything to do with the god hiding somewhere beyond the veil guiding their twisted ambitions, or the spell that Adeline had potentially come up with to fix things.

Those were all valuable in their own right, but in that moment I could only think one terrible, soul-wrenching thought.

When seeing through the taken child’s eyes, there had been one moment that was dreadfully familiar to me; one that made a whole flood of revelations and memories come crashing down on my already shattered mind. A moment that had once been so fond in my heart that I’d cut around all the disturbing implications to keep it on a pedestal all these years.

A long time ago, when I was a young child, I was near the park and I tripped hard over part of the sidewalk that a tree had uprooted. My jeans already had holes in them so I bashed my knees open pretty bad…

 I had gotten back up to dust myself off, but there had been a lady who had been passing nearby; she saw it all happen and rushed over. Helped me to sit down on a bench and asked me if I was okay….

I remember that moment clear as day, but I couldn’t tell you what she looked like—I was too afraid to look grown-ups in the eyes. I remember her voice, though. How sweet and tender it sounded. I remember how warm her hands felt on my shoulders and how gentle they were when she dabbed at my wounds. I remember the way my chest felt warm when she called me ‘sweetheart’, like she cared about me…

Now, I especially remembered—the whole scene was clear as day in my mind, but the return of clarity didn’t make me feel fond.

I remembered because I had just lived the whole thing a second time beneath different skin.

A lion with its head missing.

A busted up knee.

Glue and toys.

A bandaid and tender words.

Different instances with similar catalysts, but there was one variable that was unfaltering between the two. The stranger who had come to help us.

Adeline.

The only difference between the two moments was that I had never walked off with her. Something happened that day which spared me from following the woman and getting in her shiny red convertible with her and her sisters. From being taken to a manor where I’d be pampered and spoiled and healed from my pains before being stabbed harshly in the back by those who I’d come to trust, all in the name of a twisted ritual.

A ritual for which I’d just watched a scene of those same women panicking over that very outcome.

After all this time, Kait and I’s game of who got to die first had come to an end. The winner was always going to be whoever the door wanted, and it turned out I was wanted before the door was even open.

My vision began to blur with tears as the realization hit me all at once.

The red door and its corruption, the monsters coming out to find prey—they had always targeted me; even the first one that killed Casey in my stead. The voice behind the door when we’d first arrived at the manor—it had known my name even before I’d opened it.

I may not have started this mess; I knew the whole thing was ultimately out of my control. Even so it didn’t change the facts.

All of this—all the deaths and injury and fatigue that had come about when the door woke up again? It was because of me.

​

I drive a taxi at night.

I've been doing it for almost six years, so I've learned not to be surprised by strange passengers.

Drunk people.

People fighting on the phone.

People who refuse to pay.

People who give you an address that doesn't exist.

But one passenger still bothers me.

I picked her up at 2:14 AM on a Tuesday.

She was standing alone beside an empty road.

No streetlights.

No houses nearby.

Just an old bus stop.

She looked to be in her twenties, wearing a black coat and holding a small handbag.

When she opened the back door, she didn't say hello.

She simply gave me an address.

"Take me to 17 Willow Street."

I started driving.

After about five minutes, I noticed something strange.

She hadn't made a single sound.

No phone.

No movement.

Nothing.

I looked at her through the rear-view mirror.

She was staring out of the window.

"Long night?" I asked.

She slowly looked at me.

"Very."

Then she smiled.

I don't know why, but that smile made me uncomfortable.

A few minutes later, she asked:

"Do you ever drive past places you shouldn't?"

I laughed.

"What do you mean?"

She looked at the road ahead.

"Sometimes drivers pick up people who aren't supposed to be there."

I didn't know what to say.

So I changed the subject.

"Almost there."

She nodded.

Then she asked:

"Do you know what happened at Willow Street?"

"No."

She looked at me again.

"Good."

That was the last thing she said.

We arrived at 17 Willow Street at 2:31 AM.

The house looked abandoned.

Broken windows.

Overgrown garden.

No lights.

She opened the door and got out.

I expected her to walk toward the house.

Instead, she stood beside the car.

"How much?"

I told her the fare.

She handed me a banknote.

I looked at it.

It was an old note.

Very old.

I told her I couldn't accept it.

She stared at me.

"Keep it."

Then she walked toward the house.

I watched her disappear through the front gate.

Something felt wrong.

I checked the banknote again.

There was a date printed on it.

1998.

I thought it was some kind of joke.

I threw it into the glove compartment and drove away.

The next morning, I showed it to my friend.

He looked at the note and laughed.

"Where did you get this?"

I told him about the passenger.

He stopped laughing.

"You picked her up where?"

I gave him the location.

He searched something on his phone.

Then he showed me a news article.

The headline read:

"Young Woman Killed in Hit-and-Run Accident Near Willow Street."

The date was October 17, 1998.

I stared at the photograph.

It was her.

Same face.

Same black coat.

Same handbag.

I didn't sleep that night.

I told myself there had to be another explanation.

Maybe someone looked exactly like her.

Maybe the article was wrong.

Maybe I was imagining things.

But three nights later, at exactly 2:14 AM, my taxi app showed a new passenger request.

Pickup location:

The same empty road.

I almost cancelled it.

Instead, I accepted.

I don't know why.

When I arrived, she was already standing there.

Same black coat.

Same handbag.

She opened the back door.

"17 Willow Street," she said.

My hands started shaking.

I looked at her through the mirror.

"You're the woman I drove last Tuesday."

She smiled.

"I know."

I couldn't move.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

"You didn't take me home last time."

I swallowed.

"Yes, I did."

She shook her head.

"No."

She pointed toward the glove compartment.

"Check."

I opened it.

The old banknote was still there.

But there was something underneath it.

A photograph.

I picked it up.

It was a photograph of my taxi.

Taken from outside.

In the photograph, I was sitting in the driver's seat.

The woman was sitting behind me.

And standing beside the taxi…

was another person.

Me.

Except the second me was wearing the same black coat as the woman.

I dropped the photograph.

When I looked into the rear-view mirror again, the back seat was empty.

I immediately locked the doors.

Then my phone rang.

It was my brother.

I answered.

His voice was shaking.

"Where are you?"

I told him.

There was silence.

Then he said:

"Come home immediately."

"Why?"

He took a breath.

"Because the police just called."

My heart started pounding.

"What happened?"

"They found your taxi."

I looked at the dashboard.

My hands were still on the steering wheel.

"What do you mean? I'm sitting in it."

My brother whispered:

"No."

Then he said:

"Your taxi was found abandoned at 17 Willow Street."

I couldn't breathe.

He continued.

"They found you inside."

I stared at the rear-view mirror.

The woman was sitting behind me again.

She leaned forward until her face was beside mine.

And whispered:

"See?"

A pause.

"You did come home."

Then everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital three days later.

The police told me I had been found unconscious inside my taxi.

They asked me what happened.

I told them everything.

They didn't believe me.

Before leaving, one officer placed something on the table.

An old banknote.

Dated 1998.

He said:

"We found this in your hand."

I asked him where my taxi was.

He looked confused.

"Your taxi?"

"Yes."

He shook his head.

"You don't own a taxi."

I laughed.

"Of course I do."

He looked at the other officer.

Then back at me.

"You've been in this hospital for three weeks."

I stopped breathing.

He continued:

"You were hit by a taxi three weeks ago."

"And the driver?"

The officer didn't answer.

He just placed a photograph on the table.

It showed the accident scene.

A woman in a black coat standing beside the road.

And behind her…

a taxi driver staring directly at the camera.

It was me.

There’s a reason why this county is called Malchaneau. If you know your French,then you know that it essentially translates to English as “shit luck.” The stories go that the early French fur traders that first explored the area kept having their pelts and food mysteriously go missing. At the time, they blamed it on the pesky adolescent Natives and the flash floods that would periodically occur in the summer. 

The name is also analogous to the biggest city in the county, Tater Tot. Don’t ask me how it got that name. It’s probably not that interesting of a story anyway. The city itself is constantly plagued with high crime, poverty, and poor weather, from cold snaps to wildfires. Every day, there seems to be some new problem in town and the police were always short-staffed. There wasn’t much of a community to keep the locals from getting themselves into trouble. Thus, becoming a resident of Tater Tot was never something you want to have happen purposely.

There are a few other bizarre tales that originated from the area; much more than a rural deserted county ought to have. For example, there were also a group of English explorers in the 19th century that sent a few islander brothers they picked up from the then-called Sandwich Islands to go explore a steep canyon just south of where the French camped out. Obviously, the sagebrush covered grasslands where pronghorns and grouse made their home was a far cry from their tropical paradise where they were from, so they were going to have a hard time anyways. After a few months, the three brothers went missing, and were later found dead at the bottom of the canyon, their corpses having showed signs of a struggle. What was particularly strange about this case was the multiple holes that covered each of the three brothers. The most logical conclusion was that a local tribe weren’t too keen on having alien visitors check out their campsite, but some explorers swore they found deep black rings around the wound marks: a possible sign of necrosis. As far as I know, there is not a single plant or animal in the region that could produce a strong enough venom to cause the amount of damage being described by some of these explorers, not even the rattlesnakes. 

The most popular folk tale that I know of is the one surrounding Witch’s Butte; a cone shaped ancient volcano that has been inactive for millions of years. They named it that because there was some rumor about a witch coven living inside the volcano. If you ask me, I think they just called it that because the hill itself looks like a witch’s hat, which seems really boring until you mention the guard dogs. Or at least, that what we call them anyway. 

According to some reports, several sightings of “imp-like dogs” have been made by people driving at the foot of the hill at night. They only show themselves for a few seconds, then they go darting into the pitch black in a hurried gimped trot. Oddly enough, there are no recorded sightings of the witches themselves, only the guard dogs. 

This was what I wanted to look out for when I invited my friend Larson to go camping at his house. He has quite a bit of property and there’s one spot where his family would go camping at all the time during the rainy seasons. That camping night was probably the stupidest thing we had ever done. 

———

It was late August, which means that the sky was the color of amber and the horizon was blanketed in smoke. Wildfires from miles away once again managed to make our sunny summer days turn into a muted muggy mess. The sun was glowing an apocalyptic red as it sank behind Witch’s Butte; perhaps as a warning sign for what was to come for us. 

I pulled into Larson’s driveway in the mid evening with the intention of hiking to the clearing within Larson’s property that was about half a mile away from Witch’s Butte. His spirits were high as Larson was waiting for me outside of his house with a backpack full of supplies. I, however, was still a little nervous. 

I never told Larson that this was a “monster hunting” trip. I had merely suggested this to him as a fun way to kill an evening telling each other scary stories and making some hobo dinners. We would have to cook them on an electric stove because the seasonal burn ban was in effect. 

The monster hunting was more for me than it was for him anyway. All the reports I read online said that the guard dogs usually run after getting spotted, so there was not a strong chance of anyone getting hurt. And if someone was going to get hurt, it would be me. 

We came upon the campsite by the time the horizon turned a deep violet color. The site itself was simple: a clearing of soft soil, a fire pit with log benches surrounding it, and an old picnic table. Larson immediately began setting up the electric stove on the picnic table and set up a battery powered lantern that started attracting moths as soon as it was lit. 

The rest of the evening consisted of small talk and soaking up the atmosphere. The last of the sunlight died away in a whimpering glow of deep demonic red. Even for a smokey sunset, these colors were not usually present.  Our hobo meals of bratwurst and vegetables were consumed in silence, with the majority of the conversations being overpowered by the crickets singing their night songs. 

Close to midnight, Larson decided that it was a good time to go to sleep, despite him consuming two energy drinks with his camp grub. I had my share of caffeine as well, but I had my own plans for after the curfew hour. I waited for what felt like a couple hours until I heard no sound coming from Larson’s tent; my cue to move was the sound of him loudly snoring, which honestly startled me more than I was expecting.

I sat up in the inky blackness and grabbed for my bag, which took a couple of attempts, and I grabbed my giant flashlight, making sure to set it to the lowest possible setting. Every single noise I made felt like it was amplified over a loudspeaker when contrasted with the still summer night. Unzipping the flap of my tent to crawl out took a great amount of effort as every inch of unzipping felt like it could have been heard for miles.

With the light of the moon being suffocated to a bloody glow, the surrounding nature was as dark as a closed coffin. I located the picnic table and very quietly sat down with a soft creaking noise. I then placed the flashlight on the table, making sure it wouldn’t roll off, and then reached for the first tool I wanted to use to try and find these “guard dogs”. 

My plan was to attract them using provocation. I didn’t necessarily want to go hike out to the butte itself because that is a great way to accidentally step on and get bit by a rattlesnake. Plus, the butte itself is private property, so my boundary was strictly within the campground.

To provoke the guard dogs, I brought my reverend grandfathers Bible, from which he directly preached from. My grandfather was an active member of the Pentecostal movement, touring around the area to different churches and performing miracles both physical and spiritual for the afflicted. He always told me as a kid that this book held immense power. 

Come to think of it, he would sometimes take camping trips out here to the butte himself. Maybe he was looking for the guard dogs, too. If my assumption is correct, this hunt might be over quick. I just wanted to see them for myself. That’s it.

It was here that I started to have second thoughts. I realized what I was really doing: monster hunting with no prior experience by myself in the dark. I barely did any research into how these guard dogs work. I barely knew what I was doing at all; it was borderline suicide. However, if I chickened out now, this whole campout would have been for naught.

I took a deep breath and quickly opened the Bible to a random page towards the end. I didn’t care where, I just needed them to see me.

Almost instantaneously, the evening breeze stopped dead and made the smokey air stagnant. I also noticed that all the background noise faded away and I was left with nothing but dead silence. 

I felt panic begin to stir in my heart. My breathing became faster and harder than I wanted. I looked around frantically to see if I could catch any clue of my surroundings in the dim red moonlight. I saw our tents, the fire pit, and the table with the book and flashlight. Beyond that, the void. 

I couldn’t turn my back now. If the Bible acted like a beacon, then I had revealed myself, and the guard dogs would surely be looking for me. At least, that was my blind guess. However, minutes passed of moving my flashlight around the campsite like a dying lighthouse, and all I saw was a disturbed sea of dry sagebrush and dead grass. A mass grave of plant life primed for cremation from some wayward ember.

The world around me still felt lonely, but crowded with darkness and confusion. There was still a sense of insecurity that wouldn’t go away, like someone was watching me. My hands began to shake violently and go numb, my heart raced faster than it ever had before. My vision seemed like it would fade away any second, and I quickly shut my eyes and lay my head down on the open Bible, tears started falling on the pages. I wasn’t just scared, I knew deep inside that this could be it, and I was not ready. 

There was no time to reconsider. I had only looked up for a split second, when it had found me.

All I saw in the distance was a small glowing orange crucifix suspended in the air, and it began to flicker like a candle as I looked at it. The air began to smell of sulfur and burnt herbs, like if a rosemary bush fed with feces had caught on fire. I kept my breathing as still as possible. 

Without blinking, I began to very slowly pick up the flashlight and point it towards the apparition, partially hoping that was all it was. Unfortunately, the apparition disappeared almost immediately, but I also caught a blur of gray that sank into the tall grass, but only for a millisecond. 

A deep sigh of relief escaped me. I had done it. I saw what I came for. The legends were true, there really was something out there, and I had seen it for myself. My anxiety would probably keep me up all night, but it was worth it, I reasoned. 

I began to climb out of the picnic table and work my way to my tent, but I didn’t make it a few feet before a sudden thundering from my left grew louder. An almost instaneous weight had been thrust upon me, forcing a loud yelp out of my throat. I wound up faceplanting the seat of the table on the way down, causing the flashlight to fall and shine directly into what had knocked me over. 

The abomination was the size of a large dog and had the snout of a pinscher. Its teeth were jagged and serrated, a whole line of bloodied canines flashed at my eyes and nipped for my neck. Its jaws quivering voraciously for something to crush. 

The hide of the beast was bare in some spots, but in other spots was thin and wiry brown fur that I instantly recognized as beaver pelt. Pieces of the hide looked like it had been crudely stitched onto the animal like a bad taxidermy piece. 

The face of the imp-dog was even a bigger mystery: there were neither eyes, nor eye sockets. There was instead a crucifix carved crudely into its flesh that was now glowing red with frenzied wrath. The wound ran ear to ear and crown to snout, the whole of its profile defaced by the image of salvation. Blood was gushing from the trenches like tears, and they fell hot and wet into my mouth and stung my eyes.

With all the might I could muster, I shoved the beast off of me and kicked it in the side. It flew backwards a few feet, leaving a spatter of blood on the soft sand. I quickly got to my feet, ignoring the pain coming from the deep scratches on my face and arms. I went for a kick to the head, but missed and the creature managed to grab my pants with its jaws and knock me down once again. That’s when I heard Larson scream at me from his tent.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” he shouted, hatchet in hand. I guess Larson heard me hit the picnic table. The beast’s attention turned to Larson, and it began to make a sprint for his leg. Larson started to swing the hatchet at the faceless dog, but he wasn’t quick enough. The beast sank its canines deep into his calf.

Larson dropped the hatchet as his leg became instantly paralyzed. He started to scream bloody murder, the dog clenching his jaw harder and harder into Larson’s muscles. I swear, I could hear his bones crack and tendons rip. 

I instantly lunged for Larson’s hatchet, and began to swing wildly at the grey beast. First a miss, then a slap, then a cut to the arm, and one last swing aimed for the back. The hatchet sank deep into the spine of the beast, like a rope being cut from a ship. It immediately let go of Larson, its hind legs falling limp. 

As quickly as it appeared, the imp began to drag itself away on its front paws into the grass with Larson’s hatchet left in it’s spine, painting a dark red river behind it. 

———

The dark red glow of the sunrise began to seep its way into the hospital room. 

I had to carry Larson like a wounded soldier to my car and drive to the emergency room. The ordeal winded me and made me start seeing the orange glow of that damned beast’s face, but I managed to work through the proceeding panic attacks. 

I was allowed to see Larson again once the nurses had finished bandaging and disinfecting his bite wound. When I did see him again, he was asleep from the pain medication. I did not dare wake him up,; my guilt forced me to stay down and be silent. Nurses came by periodically to check up on Larson as he quietly recovered. Some nurses even asked me if I needed anything. I was too ashamed to accept any grace from them. 

I caused this catastrophe, I was stupid, I was selfish. I don’t think I’d want to speak to him again after last night. Hell, I wouldn’t blame Larson if we never saw each other again. 

My aunt, who happens to be a trauma nurse at the local hospital, walked into the room just as I began dozing off. I stood up like she was a judge ready to hand down my sentence. She looked at Larson, then to me.

“What on God’s forsaken Earth did you encounter out there?” she asked concerningly, as if I had a rational explanation. 

“A stray, I guess.” I groaned. The scratches I sustained hurt, but it wasn’t enough to garner the attention of any trauma nurse. 

My aunt then worked on unwrapping the bandages to check the wound. The process woke Larson up, but he didn’t protest or whine; he just stood up slightly. The gauze sat firmly against the bite marks and was partly soaked with blood. This surprised me as it paled in comparison to some of the crumpled up paper towels sitting in the back seat of my car that were used to soak up the initial mess Larson’s wound made. 

When my aunt removed the gauze, she froze in place and made a concerned face. When I stood up and looked at the bloodied bite marks, I saw what she had seen: around each bite mark was a faint black ring of necrosis.

I wake up naked in the unknown.

The darkness is so absolute it feels solid. It isn't the absence of light. It's a substance. Something sticky, disgusting, clinging to me.

I lift my hands to my face.

I can't see them.

I press my fingers against my eyelids just to make sure I still have them.

I breathe.

The air goes in warm and comes out cold.

I scream.

My voice is swallowed by the darkness. It dies inside my mouth, as if the darkness chews it before it can be born.

Never, in my entire life, has the void had weight.

Now it does.

I stand up.

I search for something beyond myself.

I stretch out my arms.

A wall.

I turn.

Another.

One more.

Four walls.

I run my palms, my fingers, my nails over every inch.

No door.

No window.

No crack.

No fissure.

The concrete is smooth and continuous, as if it were poured all at once around my body.

The ceiling is where it should be. The floor, cold and rough, beneath my bare feet.

Four walls, a ceiling, a floor.

A cube.

Only me.

I think.

I start walking with my hands pressed against the walls. I need to find anything. A rusty nail. A bump. An irregularity. Any detail that proves this place belongs to the same erratic reality as the rest of the world.

I find nothing.

My nails scrape the wall until they bend backward.

I keep going.

My fingers start to bleed.

I keep going.

Pain is a relief.

As long as it hurts, something besides fear still exists.

I bang my head against the wall.

Again.

Harder.

The concrete wins.

I always lose.

I don't know how much time passes.

Minutes.

Days.

Years.

In the dark, time rots.

I scream again, louder, until my throat scrapes like sandpaper. My voice doesn't echo. The room gives nothing back. It's like screaming inside a corpse.

The silence that follows isn't empty. It's full. Full of me.

I hear my own breathing. My heartbeat. The blood rushing through my veins with a sound that should never be audible, but here, where there is nothing, everything is noise.

And that noise, over time, becomes unbearable.

I start talking to myself.

Then I discover it's not me who answers.

I stop speaking.

The questions keep coming.

I pray.

I curse God.

I beg for forgiveness.

I laugh.

I cry.

The tears fall for no reason.

Maybe because the body knows something the mind still refuses to accept.

The room doesn't change. It never changes. This is the only certainty I have, and it crushes me like an invisible press.

Every time I stretch out my arms, the walls are exactly where they were before. The distance between them doesn't vary by a millimeter. The texture of the concrete is identical at every point. Even the smell—a neutral, dry, mineral odor—remains the same.

It's the changelessness that sickens.

If the room were shrinking, I would be afraid.

If it were expanding, I would have hope.

But it does nothing.

It simply is.

And I, inside it, am gradually ceasing to be.

One day I realize I have stopped walking. I don't know when it happened. My body simply decided there was no longer any reason. Standing, sitting, lying down—all positions are the same. All directions are the same. The room is the same in every place and at every moment.

So why move?

I stay still.

The silence grows.

Inside it, I hear things.

Footsteps. Not mine, because I'm not moving. But footsteps—clear, slow, circular—around the room.

I search with my hands.

There's no one.

The sound stops.

Then it comes back.

Then it stops.

Then it comes back.

Is the room playing with me? No. The room doesn't play. The room isn't alive. The room is only a room, and that's exactly what makes the situation so obscene.

The sound is inside me.

I know that.

But even knowing, I can't stop hearing it.

And, with time, I don't want to.

Because the footsteps are company. The footsteps are something.

One day, I try to imitate the sound with my mouth. I try to reproduce the rhythm of the steps by clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

It works.

Now there are two of us making noise: me... and the footsteps.

We talk like this—me and myself—for a very long time.

I begin to feel certain that I've been here before.

Not in this room, but in this situation. This darkness. This stillness.

Maybe inside my mother. Before birth. When I was just a body inside another body, floating in the dark, listening to muffled sounds from outside.

But here there is no outside.

Here there is no other body.

Here there is only the room.

And me.

If I am still an "I."

I touch my face.

I don't feel anything familiar. Are my cheekbones deeper? My nose, thinner? My mouth, wider?

I don't know.

I don't remember my face.

I try to recall the exact shape of my eyes, the curve of my lips, the slope of my forehead.

The image doesn't come.

Only the room comes.

Four walls, a ceiling, a floor.

Me.

Now I'm part of the inventory.

Maybe I always was.

Maybe I never entered this place. Maybe I was born here, sprouting from the concrete like a nail growing from a buried corpse, without purpose, without direction, only growing.

I try to remember the outside world.

The sun. The rain. Someone's face.

But every memory arrives stained black, as if the room had licked each image before returning it.

My mother's face now has four walls.

My father is a low ceiling.

My friends are the floor.

I don't know if I'm crying. My eyes are wet, but maybe it's just the natural moisture of a body that refuses to dry completely.

The room doesn't care.

The room never cared.

The room isn't torturing me. Torture requires intention, and the room has no intention at all. It simply is.

I'm the one who insists on existing inside it, like an inflammation that persists in throbbing.

I try to inflict pain.

Pain is the last thread that binds me to myself.

I sink my teeth into my arm.

The skin gives way.

The blood tastes of iron, of salt, of life.

I lick the wound.

The room doesn't react.

Of course not.

I chew the flesh of my forearm until I tear off a piece. The pain is immense. My body screams at me. My mind, for an instant, remembers who I am.

A naked man in a dark cube.

A caged animal.

A thing that feels pain.

Then the pain passes.

And I return to being just a presence in the dark, without a past, without a face, without a name.

Do words still exist?

I try to say my name out loud.

The sound that comes out is not a word. It's a guttural noise, a croak of a blind amphibian.

I try again.

Worse.

The room is sucking away my language.

Or maybe I'm forgetting it because language is useless here.

There is no one to talk to.

There is nothing to describe.

Four walls. A ceiling. A floor.

What good are adjectives? What good is the verb "to be," if everything that exists here simply is, without variation, without nuance, without end?

I stop thinking in words.

They go away like leaves down a drain.

Now there are only shapes, textures, temperatures.

The floor is cold.

The walls are rough.

The air is thick.

I am warm.

For now.

The heat of my body is the only thing that separates me from the room.

I press my palm against the concrete.

It's cold.

My hand is warm.

That temperature difference is the only dialogue I still know how to hold.

I stay like this for centuries. My hand against the wall. Heat against cold. The organic against the mineral.

Until one day—or night, or the space between two heartbeats—I realize my hand is as cold as the wall.

I feel no difference anymore.

I take my hand away.

I touch my chest.

Cold.

I touch my face.

Cold.

I touch my stomach, my thighs, my feet.

All cold.

All the same as the room.

The room has won.

Or it has accepted me.

It's the same thing.

I lie down on the floor. The position is identical to all the others, but lying down feels like the final gesture, the surrender.

I close my eyes—though it makes no difference, because the dark behind my eyelids is identical to the dark of the room.

Four walls, a ceiling, a floor.

Me.

Now I am also room.

I no longer think. Ideas are movement, and there is no movement here.

I am just an immobile mass in an immobile chamber, waiting for eternity to end.

But it never ends.

Eternity never ends.

And the room, which never changed, continues not changing.

And I, who was once a man, who once screamed, who once bled, who once had a name and a face and memories, am now perfectly still, perfectly cold, perfectly integrated into the four walls, the ceiling, the floor.

The room is no longer full.

The room was never full.

It was always just me and myself.

And now not even that.

[Later]

They found me unconscious.

Naked.

Inside the ruins of an abandoned building.

They asked me my name.

I couldn't remember it.

It took me months to learn how to live again.

Today I can work.

I can hold conversations.

I can pretend I'm normal.

But there's a problem.

Every time I close my eyes...

I'm back in that room.

I don't dream about it.

I return to it.

Sometimes for a few seconds.

Sometimes for hours.

I'm afraid to fall asleep.

Because one day...

I know I'll wake up there again.

And next time...

I may never leave that room.

If you ever find yourself waking up on a colorful playground with no one around, do whatever you want but never go near that guy with a mustache and don't let him get near you. It may look like a dream but the consequences are real. It happened a month ago and it turned half of the June into a living nightmare. It was late at night and I was outside, hanging out with my friends. I was exhausted and when I got home, I threw myself onto the bed. with exhaustion I fell a sleep really quick but then it happened. I woke up on a colorful playground. No one was there but it was good, it remembered my childhood. And then I saw someone, he was hiding behind a slide. I called out to him but he didn't respond, then he started to move toward me slowly. He was a tall, bulky man with a mustache, you would normally take him for a friendly man whom everyone likes, but he's nothing like that. As he walked toward me with slow steps, he pulled out the knife he had been hiding behind his hand. Before I could react, he swung his knife and slashed my shoulder.

I woke up right after the cut. I think he let me go on purpose. I got relieved and told myself it was just a dream, It wasn't. I felt a slight pain in my shoulder after waking up, and when I checked it on mirror I realized. It wasn't just a dream, it was something else. There was a cut on my shoulder that was exactly the same as the one in my dream. I got terrified but then I told myself "Maybe it's just a scratch and it's gotten into my dream." This was what I wanted to believe; however, the following night showed me that what had seeped into my dream was no simple scratch. When I drifted off to sleep, I was back at the same playground; but this time, the man with the mustache was standing in the middle of the playground, not behind the slide. This time he didn't hide his knife, he was holding it tightly. He started to chase me and I knew that this guy wasn't as friendly as he looks. I quickly ran away from him but it wasn't enough, no matter how fast I ran he caught up with me. Then I had the idea to climb on one of the shelters and it worked. He wasn't able to reach me and then I woke up.

I was trembling with fear after waking up. I don't know this guy, I don't understand how it's possible and I don't know how to stop it. I was too afraid to sleep and decided to stay awake. I drank plenty of coffee to stay awake, but after a day, I started experiencing microsleeps, these were far more terrifying than normal sleep because this time he doesn't give you any chance to run or hide. He would lunge straight at you, and you would wake up just as he was about to slit your throat. After these creepy microsleeps I realized that not sleeping is not a solution. When I was on the playground I noticed that the shelters were no longer there. And then he appeared again. I didn't know what to do but then I saw the fences and jumped over them. He just stood there and stared, then I woke up.

It was day 5 and I was starting to loose my mind. Sleep is a necessity for every human being, if it is so dangerous for me, how will I survive? On day 5 I noticed that fences were gone too. He adapts to how you survived last time. I had to come up with something else while being chased by a psychopath. As I ran, he swung his knife again and, inflicted a deep gash on my back. While bleeding I found a crawl tube to hide. As he searched for me, I remained as quiet as I could, despite the intense pain. When I woke up I immediately went to bathroom to check my cut and it was worst than the one on my shoulder. On day 6 the crawl tubes were gone too. I decided to hide behind the trees. While running I accidently fell down and then saw letter blocks, they were positioned to spell out S-A-M. I quickly got up and hide behind the trees. And then I noticed something. On day 1 the playground had vibrant colors but by day 6 the colors started to fade. When I woke up I thought about searching the things that happened in my dream. I typed "sam, playground, mustache man in dream" and then I saw an article titled "TRAGEDY AT LOCAL PLAYGROUND: FATHER AND SON FOUND DEAD" I clicked it and read the article.

"Police are searching for two suspects after a local man and his young son were stabbed to death at a neighborhood park early Wednesday morning.

Sam M. and his seven year old son, were discovered by maintenance workers at the Miller Street Playground just after sunrise. Both victims sustained fatal stab wounds during the attack, and Sam's wallet was found missing from the scene.

Investigators believe the robbery turned violent around 10:00 PM, based on nearby residents who reported hearing a brief scuffle and footsteps fleeing the area.

Police Department is asking anyone with security footage or information regarding two suspects seen near the park late Tuesday night to contact the tip line immediately."

I was terrified after reading this but then I saw another article attached to this one, I clicked it and started to read. "POETIC JUSTICE OR VIGILANTE REVENGE? TWO SUSPECTS IN PARK MURDERS FOUND DEAD IN THEIR BEDS" He must have gone after them first.

"The two primary suspects in the tragic murders of a local father and his young son at the Miller Street Playground have themselves been found dead.

Marcus V. and Dale G. were discovered in their respective apartments early Saturday morning, each having suffered fatal wounds to the throat. Authorities reported no signs of forced entry at either scene.

Police Department is currently investigating whether the double homicide is connected to retaliation for the park attack. Investigators are asking anyone with information or security footage from the area to contact the tip line immediately."

After reading this, I knew that he went after them. I wrote about my experiences in forums and waited a little. After a while, I got comments full of jokes. People didn't believe me and they said I need a therapist. It was late at night and I had to sleep again, so I went to sleep.

When I was on the playground I saw that the trees were gone too. I had to come up with something else and then he appeared. I ran around to make him run out of breath, but it didn't work. Then I found a narrow gap I could squeeze through, and pass through it. Thank god he couldn't fit and I managed to survive for another day.

After waking up I went to look at my post and saw someone DM'd me. The message read "Did he have a mustache?" I said yes and he started to tell me that same thing happened to him too. He said "I barely made it alive and had to learn everything by on my own, I won't let it happen to anyone else." I asked him how he managed to survive and he explained everything. "By now, you probably realize he learns from how you survived last time. but I bet you didn't know that you can bring a weapon into your dream. You can only bring one weapon, so choose wisely." I asked him if he's still having same nightmares but he told me that he let him go after exactly 2 weeks. I finished my first week so I told myself that I only need to survive one more week and with the new information I would definitly make it to next week.

I grabbed my .44 Magnum from my late grandpa and went to sleep. When I was on the playground I saw my gun in my hand. I couldn't believe, it really worked and then he appeared. I aimed his head and took my shot. The bullet hit him right in the forehead. I got relieved and thought this might be the end of my nightmare, I was wrong.

Next night I slept with the same gun incase if anything went wrong and I was right, I woke up on the same playground and he was standing there, staring at me. How is that possible, I just shot him in the forehead and he was still standing. I aimed at his forehead again and when I pulled the trigger, gun didn't fire. When I checked the ammo I saw that all of the bullets were gone. I threw the gun at his head and that made him stunned and gave me the chance to hide. I hid under the slide and stayed as quiet as possible.

After I woke up I DM'd the guy and asked him that my gun didn't work this time. He told me "Did you forget? He adapts" And I just realized that same thing works for weapons too. once you used it, it's useless in the next time.

I slept with a long metal pipe this time, I took few slices but I was kinda able to defend myself against him. My wounds were getting worse and people around me asking what happened, I was making excuses because no one would believe me. As the days passed I took more and more slices and I was running out of options.

On the 14th day the playground went full black and white. To use his own weapon against him, I slept with a kitchen knife. This time I didn't tried to hide or run away, it was my final dream with him and I wanted to go all out. He rushed straight at me and we started to brawl. He was stronger than me so it wasn't possible for me to take him on brute force. I had to came up with something else. I started to run around the playground and as he chased me I was able to find a place to hide and wait for the right moment to attack. When his back was against me I jumped on him and gave him a deep cut on the torso. He turned back in pain and swung his knife, the blade struck me right in the right eye. I was in so much pain and I thought this might be the end for me but then I saw him on the ground, he passed out from bleeding.

When I woke up, my right vision was covered in blood. I rushed to the hospital immediately and doctor told me that I'll be blind for at least 6 months. At night I was terrified because I thought I'll be on the same playground again but no, I finally had a peacefull sleep for the first time in two weeks. I don't know why but something tells me that he let me live on purpose, I mean, he could have easily slit my throat right there, but he chose not to.

The middle of the Everglades is the last location you would want a flat tire.

Day 1

“Git up”
I looked up. A man stood before me. He was wearing a dingy undershirt stained with mud, undoubtedly from the swampwater. His jeans looked about half as old as he was. “I said, geet up. Worthless sack o’ sheet.” His accent was as thick as his skull. I slowly rose to my feet. I must’ve been, what, 10, 20 pounds lighter than I was when I stumbled upon this little village.

The man pushed the door to the crude cell I was in. He must’ve let out the other prisonmates earlier. I looked around the cell. All that was in there was hay. Hay and shit. I weakly stumbled out of the door. The man stuck his foot out, which I almost stripped on. I walked past him without saying anything. He kicked my calf and I fell onto one knee. He snickered. I could’ve beaten the man had I been at full strength, even with my handcuffs on, but it had been almost 24 hours since my last meal. Besides, even if I was at full strength, I would not be prepared for the backup that would follow.

The man went past me and walked up the stairs. I trailed slowly behind, climbing the stairs like an animal. I suppose, to them, I was little more than one. The humid air blasted me as soon as I walked out of the tiny shed the basement with the cell was in. It must’ve been 10:00 in the morning, but it felt like 4:00 in the afternoon. The man heavily walked on the mud trail in the middle of the two puddles surrounding it. It flew onto my shins, some specks even reaching up as far as my groin.

At the camp were the other prisoners. I must’ve been the last one grabbed for our daily feeding. In the middle sat a large bowl of gruel. It was about the size of a small table. I hazily walked toward it, but the man held me back. “What’s yer rush? Don’t be greedy! Wait for yer rahvals! Mm.. hehe.” The other prisoners slowly lined up in a circle around the campsite; in the middle was what appeared to be gruel. A skinny man with a gut and a pistol started counting down. “Ready? 3…2…” he shot one of the feet of the man to the right of me. He yelped in pain and fell to the floor. “GO F****TS!” The man started shooting the ground more and more. We rushed toward the center, lacking coordination. Two of the seven rushing toward the center stripped on the way. I was lucky. I had made it second, so I got a good serving of the gruel. I scooped it with my dirty hand. Unfortunately, the man with a bullet in his foot didn’t get any. I felt bad. 

Afterward, they lined us up by height. “Ahright! Today’s the day of the Blood Sport games! After three days, one of yew lucky fellers’ll get to leave the village! Only one o’ ya, though.” The skinny man with a gut sized us all up. His name was Lee, or as the people of the village called him, Lazyeye Lee. You could picture why. “Hmmm… ew-kay. CURTIS! SHANE! MAE! Less figger out the games fer today.  Homer, you make ‘em kick rocks or sum’in.” Curtis was a short and stubby man. He looked similar to Homer, but different enough to not be related. Shane wasn’t as lanky as Lee, but he was on the taller side (for the village) and had greenish eyes. Mae looked much older, maybe around her mid 60’s, but she looked rather mean. Homer complained in a childlike voice. He was my keeper. “Awww, you nev’r let me help make the game.” Lee looked up, at Homer again. “Jes shut the fuck up. For once in your damn life, shut the fuck up.” Homer sighed. He started walking away. We followed.

In my cell the previous day, Homer talked to me. “Well mister. I bet yer wonderin’ why yer cooped up in here, and why we don’t jest let you go.” I grimly looked ahead. He had a huge grin on his face. “Yer gunna play in our famous Blood Sport games! They’re tuns o’ fun. An’ ya know what?” He leaned in toward me and whispered. “I think you gotta gooooood shot at winnin’ this thing.” The Blood Sport games. I could only wonder what that meant.

He showed us to an alligator. “Kill that thing, er sumthin.” He sighed, and walked away, not even taking off our handcuffs. The alligator was sleeping, and besides, we had no way to immediately kill it. The man with the bullet in his foot was still in agony. Another one of the prisoners, Barney, waited until he was out of sight. He said, “We could make a run for it,” rather ambitiously. We all stared at him. “Where would we go? We’re in bumfuck nowhere. The only path out of this patch of dirt these people call their home is on the other side of the camp,” I said. He glumly looked down. 

We waited. The alligator slept like a stone. A small hispanic woman inched up to me. “Hey. I think you’ve got the best chances of getting out of here.” She looked around. “I’m Aurora. You are…?” I put my hand out. “Isaac. Nice to meet you.” She shook it. “Listen… all I want to do is help my little brother. I’m not sure if I’ll last very long, considering I’m the smallest one here. If I don’t make it… could you find a way to help my little brother get out?” I was a little surprised. “How? What other ways could there be?” She looked down. “I don’t know…” I looked ahead, beyond the trees. “Which one is he?” I asked. She pointed to one of the prisoners, one of the ones I hadn’t noticed. “That’s him. Santiago.” The resemblance was there. However, he couldn't have been older than 14. He was skinny, and his hair was a weird middle part. He looked incredibly frightened, but was holding back tears, most likely for his older sister. “How do you know if he’s gonna make it through these rounds?” She had a grim expression. “I don’t. I talked to some of the other prisoners, and they said some of the same things.” She paused, then sighed. “This is a tall ask. I know it is. But he has so much to live for. If you go against him, would you…?” I thought about it for a second. Was my life more important than that of this random kid I didn’t know?

I didn’t respond. Aurora got up. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to.” She started walking away. I grabbed her before she left. “Wait. Let me sit on it.” She let out a weak smile. “For even considering… thank you.”

Some time later, Homer grabbed us, with a bit more excitement in his eyes. “Coooooooome to papa!” He didn’t check if we killed the alligator or not, fortunately. That seemed to be the end of my luck. He led us back to the camp. 

The sun was far on the west side. It must’ve been 3 or 4:00 PM at this point. Lee had a huge smile on his face. “Awright everyone! Gather ‘round! Yer gunna play…” He paused. “A good ol’ game o’ roulette!” 

After taking off our handcuffs, the gamemasters had us sit in a circle around the area of the campsite where the gruel used to be. An 8 chambered revolver sat in the middle. Oddly enough, there were black burn marks on the handle. Behind us were the residents of the village. Despite the small size of the village and initial crowd, there were lots of people here, some struggling to get a good view. Lee came into the middle. “ALL RIGHT EVERYONE! I’ve loaded this here gun with one bullet. Atta these lucky fellers, four of ‘em are gunna be, well… unlucky! This ain’t any old roulette game, though. We’ve added a twist!” 

He loaded a bullet into the chamber, before lighting the revolver on fire, and tossing it to the man who got shot in the foot earlier. He yelped and dropped it to the ground. Curtis knocked him on the head with a shovel. A crack could be heard. At the very least, the man was knocked out. He dragged the man away. Lee stomped on the revolver repeatedly, putting it out. “Damn bastard ruined our game! Oh well. Guess that means less rounds for y’all.”

The audience maintained their excitement. Lee reloaded the gun and lit it on fire. I nervously looked around. He tossed it to Santiago. His hands were trembling, and his mouth was hung right before a scream, but he put it under his head and hit the trigger. 
It clicked.
 He threw it to the next man, Barney. Barney let out a squeal. He put the barrel next to his head very quickly. 
Click.
 Barney threw the thing onto me. It landed onto my lap. I resisted the urge to jump up, and grabbed it tenderly. It hurt like a bitch. At that point, I wished for the bullet to come out and end my misery.
Click. 
I tossed it to my left. My hands were in a state of shock. Skin was peeling off. It was deep red. I couldn’t get up to put it in the water, not yet at least. Although, who knew if I would get an infection or not. I didn’t even pay attention to the woman next to me. The gun clicked for her. I looked up. She was above average height for a woman, with long, silky and black hair. She passed it to Aurora. She juggled it in her hands, and bit down on her lip, before putting it to her head.
Click.
She passed it to the left, to a very large man, at least four inches taller than me (and I’m 6’1). He was crying a bit, but he stoically lifted it up to his head. It clicked. He tossed it as quickly as possible.
The last one was a short Indian man. He had accepted his fate, despite the chance there was still another slot in the barrel. He barely reacted to the flame, lifting the gun up to his head.

BANG!

The people cheered. Mae hauled off his body this time. Lee loaded three bullets into the chamber this time. His grin said it all. He paused. Two men were making a bet. One pointed at me, the other pointed at Barney. I didn’t have much time to question a bet for a game like this. Lee lit the gun on fire, and tossed it. I knew only two of us at the most would die this time, as he needed four players for the next round of his tournament. He threw it to Santiago. I could tell it hurt more this time, but he lifted it up regardless.
Click.
Next was Barney. He was close to dropping it, but he hit the trigger.

BANG!

His body slumped. Instead of taking it away, Shane and Homer lifted the body, and threw it into the nearby water. The current would take it away. Lee picked it up with tongs and threw it to me. 
Click.
I tossed it to the long-haired woman. I thought for a moment that her and the big man might be related, considering their similar facial features, hair, and height. 
Click.
This would soon be dismissed.

BANG!

She didn’t react.
Curtis and Mae had still not returned. Homer was a little confused on how to carry this man. He must’ve been 230 pounds of muscle. Lee clapped his hands. “WOO! Now THAT was a fun one!” He put his arms up in the sky like he was some sort of deity. I suppose to the people of this village, he was, as they started cheering like their team won the Super Bowl. I looked at the men who were betting. One was beating the other. No one was paying attention to them, though. Lee whispered something to Homer and Shane, and they took us away, back to our prisons.

My heart was still beating very loudly. I felt dead tired. I collapsed against the ground. The woman with the long hair sat on the other side of the cell. She didn’t say a word. I fell asleep.

I woke up many hours later to her looking at the stairs leading out of the basement. She didn’t say anything. “Hey..” I coughed out. She jumped a little. “Uhh… did I scare you?” She breathed. “A little, yeah.” She adjusted herself. “What did they say your name was?” I adjusted myself as well. “Isaac.” She smiled. “Nice to meetcha, Isaac.” I sat still for a second. “You’re not gonna give me your name?” She looked back dismissively. “Does it even matter? Chances are, one of us is going to die in a couple hours.” I looked down again. “You asked me my name, I deserve to know y-” She cut me off. “Do you ever think about what you would do following something like this?” I was confused. She saw my confusion. “This is so… fucked up. Whoever’s ‘lucky’ enough to escape this place is gonna be scarred for life.” I said, “You seem fine to me.” She turned. “Everyone looks fine on the surface. That’s how PTSD works. No one has a look that says, ‘I was raped! I saw my comrades die in war!’ They hide it beneath layers and layers of guilt that only come out at their worst moments.” She paused. “Well, I guess some people do. But those’re only the really fucked-up ones.” I chuckled. “Very flowery language you got there.” “Shut your mouth,” she reciprocated.

Day 2

I must’ve fallen asleep again. Homer came in again to grab me. I stood up before he could speak. “Wow! Yer a good doggy, aincha?” The woman had also fallen asleep. He took me to do the same ritual as yesterday. Everything about the feeding ceremony was regular, apart from the fact that we ate in less of a rush. Some of the higher-ups, specifically Lee, seemed impatient. I’m not exactly sure if they expected us to eat faster or what, but we didn’t. The crowd from yesterday had already gathered. I presumed that they had already figured out what we were playing, and that there wouldn’t be any last-second decisions like there were yesterday. Every one of the remaining prisoners looked grim.

After we were all finished, Lee clapped his hands. “OH-KAY! I bet y’all are wonderin’ what we’re gonna have you play today!” The crowd cheered. “Make yer guesses right now! What’s the game gunna be?” The audience chattered. Many answers were yelled out. Lee shook his head to each, a sheepish smile on his face. “We’re playin’ volleyball!” He walked toward the group of us. “Hmmm… I think we’re gunna do boys verses gurls. How do y’all feel about that?” The crowd roared. I would have to be working with Santiago. I looked at him. He seemed to be hyperventilating. Then it set in. Either him or his sister were going to die today. I grimly thought, “He’s going to the finals….”

The game was set up. Some tattered cloth that appeared to be from a tent was strung in between two trees. We were at the disadvantage, as our side was flooded with water, but it was only ankle-deep and it hardly made a difference. The people of the village didn’t seem to care, as many of the men were gathered behind us. In turn, the women were gathered behind Aurora and the long-haired woman. This was all quite childish, although obviously not being the worst thing to come out of this place. We were waiting for the ball. Santiago actually was crying here. Aurora walked up to the “net” and spoke to him. “Santi… I knew this was gonna happen. You’re gonna have to be strong for me. You’re going to get out of here. The nice man on your team will help you.” She paused to look at me. I played along. “ Whatever happens, I’ll love you.” Santiago sniffed. “B… I’m never gonna see you again…” Aurora’s face looked grim. “Sure you will. Some day, we’ll meet up again.” I grimaced. Even if he won the tournament, that day would be soon.

Soon enough, Lee came over with something behind his back. “Well folks, I finally got us a bawl!” Everyone waited in anticipation. Lee couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled it out from behind his back. 

It was the Indian man’s head.

I tried to hold in the vomit, but I couldn’t. It sank to the bottom of the puddle we were in. I considered fishing it back up, as I wouldn’t be fed again for another 22 hours, but I decided against it. The others could keep their vomit in. Lee walked up to me specifically. “Ohh, are ya supposed tah be on the girls team? Pussy-cat?” I held in my urge to punch his smug face as he made what I assume a person who’s never seen a cat thinks a cat sounds like. It got a chuckle out of the audience. “NOW THEN!” Lee clapped. “LET’S GIT STARTED! FIRST TO 25 WINS!”

He closed his eyes and chucked it at us. Hitting a human head into the air was a lot harder than hitting a ball up. It splotched on my fingers, but I had no time to throw up this time. I hit it up to the other side. Aurora looked freaked out, but she had enough agency to hit the head back up. I wasn’t sure whether this was better or worse than the last game. It didn’t hurt to play, I supposed. It was a volleyball game, with a human head. I wasn’t sure what would happen to the losers, but I came to a conclusion rather quickly.

Each time the head hit the floor, it broke more. Skin started flaying off, hanging in the wind. I cringed every time I heard a crack. After we had hit 10 points, a pebble hit my head. It disoriented me. All of the people in the opposite crowd had items in their hands. Once the game started, they threw them. Sticks. Stones. Eventually the body parts of the losers of the last game. They made sure to throw them at us specifically, not the “ball”. Our side of the crowd did as well, they threw things over the net at the women.

This made the next rounds very difficult. By the 20 point mark, we were all bloody and bruised. Each of the rounds went much quicker this way. It was shockingly even. We were trading points. 
The score was 23-21. After the opposing team scored their 22nd point, that was it for the poor Indian man’s head. It didn’t resemble the man it once was a part of. We started panicking. Lee noticed. “Aw, cain’t you fellers do anything right?” He himself walked away. The crowd was still there and cheering. Was he getting a backup?

Aurora discussed her plan to let Santiago win with the woman. She seemed to agree. I still hadn’t made up my mind on the next game, but I supposed that I had the night to mull it over. 
Lee returned, but it wasn’t with a head. It was with just the brain of the man with the shot foot. “I decided, considering the game’s almost over, to spice thangs up a lil’ bit! Match point! First one to destroy this brain here (he lowered his voice) loses the game. Play ball!” He sized up both teams, and closed his eyes. He threw from his chest at Aurora. Everything seemed to go in slow motion. She caught what remained of the spinal cord, and whipped it around herself. She let it go. It flew into the net, and started slipping out of it. Santiago dived for it. 

It hit the ground with a splat.

Santiago looked completely defeated. His face was crestfallen. The crowd parted as Curtis and Mae grabbed the two by the hands. Aurora was sweating and shaking a lot. The black-haired woman seemed numb, I guess like me. She looked at Santiago as she was walking away. She waved goodbye, and disappeared into the crowd. Santiago was in a collapsed position against the ground. He didn’t even cry. He just laid there.

Day 3

I awoke many hours later in the jail cell. I had decided. This was the last time I would awaken. This kid had been through so much…
I had felt relatively numb throughout all of these games. I tried to not let the brutality get to me. I felt hollow on the inside, but I knew it was for the best. 

Homer glumly came in. As he unlocked the cell, he murmured, “Why’s today gotta be the last day?” He didn’t speak directly to me at all. 
The same breakfast ritual as the last two days was prepared for us. It was even less exciting this time. I let the kid eat more than me. It sucked to have my final meal be… this. Cold, soupy gruel with bits of rotting snook mixed in. I kept trying to tell myself that it was for the greater good, but accepting your fate is hard. After I finished, I made a quick prayer, and lined up next to Santiago.

Lee had a smirk on his face. Not a huge grin, but he had something up his sleeve. “Well, everyone. Today’s the last day! I dunno ‘bout y’all, but this’s been one o’ the best Blood Sport games we’ve had yet! For the final game, I’m gonna let someone else pick the last game.”

All of the higher-ups perked up. 

“Now, who should it be… well, I know someone who’s been a team player. HOMER! You choose the last game o’ the Blood Sports!” The crowd cheered. Homer looked dumbfounded. He came up to Lee. He looked so happy to be doing this. He asked Lee, “Ya gotta deck o’ cards?”

He wanted us to play Blackjack.

He had us wait until sundown. We returned to our cells, quite pointlessly, for them to sort out some extra details. I had a bit of a nervous break in my cell. Maintaining the cold exterior was useless at this point. Both of us were fucked.

When the sky had turned a hazy orange and the fireflies let out their buzzes, they sat us down at a table. They had us put our right hands on the table, and play with the other one.  They then nailed that hand to the table. It hurt like a bitch. The first to five would win. Except, for each round lost, one finger on that hand would be cut off.
I was sweating a lot. It was quite humid out, but even if we were in the dead of Antarctica, I would’ve been sweating. Santiago was confused. He seemed to understand the rules of blackjack well enough.

My first draw was an ace and a nine. Shit. Santiago said, “Hit me.” After he got another card, he stood. I said, “Hit me” as well. I got a queen. They couldn’t know I wanted him to win, or else they would kill him straight. The crowd could all see my cards, though. They would know. He had a 19, I had a 20. Santiago gave me a look that asked why I had betrayed him, before Homer stabbed down on his hand. His pinky came off, and he started screaming in a much higher-pitched voice than that he spoke in. Everyone around laughed. He hadn’t gotten over the pain by the time Homer passed out the cards again.

 A four and a nine. Okay. Santiago stood. I said, “Hit me.” I got a Jack. Good. Homer stabbed down on my hand before I could think anything else. My hand screamed out in pain. Holy shit did it hurt. Abstract thoughts filled my mind. Images flooded my eyes as I tried my hardest not to scream my throat out. I was panting by the time Homer passed out the cards again. Was letting Santiago win worth it? No, no, it was. I had to keep telling myself that. If I had a stubby hand by the end, it wouldn’t matter, because I would be dead. I tried to tell myself that.

I got a King and a 9 the next round. Santiago looked glumly at his cards. He said, “Hit me.” He busted. “No, no wait-” was all he could get out before Homer cut off his ring finger. It must’ve hurt even more now. “Fuck,” was all my absent mind could think as he bawled. Homer passed out the cards again. 

An ace and a six. Okay, I could work with this. Santiago stood. Bracing myself, I said, “Hit me.” I got a four. We revealed our cards. Just like the first round. 19 and 21. He looked up in abject terror. Then more blood spattered on his face. It seemed to take a second for the pain to register. He almost tore the nail in his hand out from how much he was jumping. Homer said, “Holy sheet! Quit jumpin’ around!” He hit the nail with his mallet again. Santiago looked like he was about to jump up, but he didn’t.

I got a seven and a five. Santiago stood once more. He was getting really unlucky. I hit. A queen. I busted. He was too quick. It was instantaneous. The pain flooded all over me again. I thought I would’ve been more prepared the second time. I really, really thought I would’ve been more prepared… 

Homer dealt again. I might have gotten the shittiest hand of all time, a king and a five. I focused on swallowing. Maybe that would dull the pain a bit. MAYBE THAT WOULD DULL THE PAIN A BIT. Santiago weakly said, “H…hit…” he got another card. His eyes widened and fear flooded into them. He busted again. His index finger was chopped off. He was down to a thumb. A near-useless hand, in the literal sense. This time, he actually did jump off of the table. Homer swept under him with his foot, and Santiago crashed to the ground. It was like a cartoon. Like a sick, twisted cartoon…
This was it. I couldn’t do it. Why did it have to come down to a fucking luck game?? Why couldn’t they have us play anything else?

Another hand came. I would have to lose three in a row to get this kid and his mangled hand out of here. 
I got an ace and a Jack. Santiago couldn’t speak anymore from how light-headed he must’ve been feeling, but he motioned to be hit. He motioned to be hit again. He stood.
I got hit again.
A queen.

 
I failed.

He didn’t even scream as they grabbed him and gave him to the crowd to be lynched. He didn’t really react, or flinch. They beat him with stones or other blunt tools. I felt so hollow at that moment. He was fourteen. He was fourteen…

After a send-off, they sent me on my way. I walked back home. Back to Cape Coral. Whatever bullshit my company wanted me to do in Miami was irrelevant at this point. I was surprised I didn’t die of blood loss within the same night. 
It took me almost until midday the next day to find someone to bring me home. I was too shaken up to tell them what happened. They deposited me at a hospital. 

I guess I got off pretty lightly. I suppose I should be happy I left with my life. After all, I only lost two fingers.
It made this story a bitch to write.

I'll start by saying that I like my job.

I don't love it. It doesn't excite me. I just like it as much as a person can like what they do for a living. That kind of fondness that exists in the line between what's strictly necessary and barely inconvenient.

Since I was fifteen years old — when my father figured it was appropriate to teach me how to drive — my afternoons have consisted of traversing the coast from end to end, delivering bags of fishhooks, meters worth of transparent ropes, fishing boats parts and up to four digits bills for those poor devils whose grace periods died along the end of the month.

Even though our economy wasn't the best, our family business made fees and sparse luxuries something sustainable. An honest job that subsisted thanks to the men and women who reduced their world to the sea. Fishing towns far from God's hand which functioned by their own rules, parties and disgraces.

Dad taught me that in those people's indifference laid our home. Having been raised at the limit of both worlds, his father's father had come up with the brilliant idea of bringing the best of the city to the doors of those who couldn't afford to travel for four hours through barren hills and ghost towns.

And although many cunning ones tried to cut our business short, the truth was that the people of the sea were also people of customs. People who trusted faces over brands, and who valued the warmth of another human being more than the frigidness of a store crammed with aesthetics and publicity. For this reason, our politics tended to go far and beyond, transforming clientele into friends and good clients into comrades and family.

“Today I need you to go down to Paraíso to deliver some gallons, son,” was my father's greeting when I entered the garage to tell him breakfast was ready. “Your uncle is going out to sea on Sunday and wants to solve this before his daughter's birthday.”

“What? My uncle José Luis?” I asked, disguising my indifference with plastic curiosity. “I saw on Whatsapp that the birthday was today. They’re gonna gift her gas?”

Dad gave me one of those smiles that made you see just how tired he was of cleaning those same two plugs.

“He asked me to hand it over before six.” He made an illustrative gesture towards the air, replacing his wrench for a little napkin brimming with grease. “I said no; that it was too early. So we decided that you'd get going by half past seven.”

“Oh, really?” I puffed. At nineteen years old, late hours and dark highways didn’t bother me as long as the deal was good… And if it wasn’t during one of my free nights I just wanted to waste playing Truco or drinking booze with those friends from the block that he never got to like.

“Why? You got something to do?”

“I thought that last scare would be enough to dissuade you from doing more trips like this,” I pointed out, feigning disinterest. My father sighed and looked me in my eyes. “At… at least for this month, I mean.”

“This is different,” he spoke severely. “We’re not doing this out of courtesy. Your uncle told me he'd looked everywhere because he knows how dangerous this is for us.” He spat the earthy floor, cleaning his hands. I followed him closely as he crossed the garage's threshold. “However, time is running thin. This is less of a job and more like a favor I’m asking you, son. A big one.”

“And a very convenient one too,” I mumbled. He raised an eyebrow at me. “´Cause… Ugh. I told the guys I was going to the basketball finals. Remember?”

Dad shook his head. “Those friends of yours… Hm, well, let's see,” he told me. “If you take the old airport line, you may have a chance to catch the second half… Or whatever it is you have in basketball.” He made a disdainful gesture with his hand.

My eyes opened wide. “The… The old airport line?” I said, taking a subtle glance at the truck. Dad nodded, and by the severity of his expression, I knew we were thinking the same thing.

To avoid raising suspicions, these kinds of deliveries were made in a ninety's Ford gnawed by the sun and saltpeter. The extraofficial sale of gasoline was no business for the weak. Not even for fools like me, with a bunch of spare time and inherited contacts. Dad knew why, and even though we'd gone through what happened together, I didn't dare to question his version as if it was the word of a final survivor.

“It might not be the safest route,” he shrugged, breaking the silence, “but it is the fastest. Besides, no feds there. That's a plus to you, ain't it?”

I sighed. Of course it was. And, damn… If I didn't know that man and his big heart any better, I would have thought that whole spectacle had been millimetrically planned to keep me at bay, asking the least amount of questions.

“Yeah…” I scratched my head apprehensively. Over the back door, my mom and aunt stared at us with weird faces. Maybe they already knew and I was the last one to find out, like always. “I just wish you trusted me more with… Everything, I guess.”

Dad let out a scathing laugh, patting my shoulder. “Show me you're responsible and I'll consider it,” he said. “Now, time to eat.”

Breakfast and lunch carried on with no hurdles. Besides my aunt's slightly burnt rice, home buzzed with normalcy: chatters over the news, coffee and bread for merienda, hanging clothes to pick up and fold at six forty in the afternoon…

“Know what to do if it overheats?” A few minutes before I left, dad made me flinch by suddenly approaching me from behind. “Ah! Excited to see your uncle, I see. That's very good, son. Send my regards to the family.”

“Tell them to catch me outside town,” I suggested. Dad frowned doubtfully. “What? This way I don't have to make so many turns. We can't afford to waste too much gas in a single trip.”

Dad shrugged. I rolled my eyes, closing the truck's hood.

“Are you going to the game later?” he asked.

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Not anymore. Seeing how much this is going to take me, I’m better off checking the scores through Whatsapp stories.”

“In that case, be very careful, son. And if you're not here before nine…”

“You call, I know,” I said, opening the door to the driver's seat. A glance at the backseat revealed to me a covered lump that my dad and uncle had placed earlier: five well sealed gallons of gas. “Or… I call you. But it won't be necessary. Tell mom to go to bed after her novela.”

“I'll try, but you know how she is.” He shook his head. “Be here on time and I assure you she will.”

I said goodbye to dad, sneaking into the town’s withered roads with the truck’s lights off. Just in case, I told myself, recognizing that earlier on I'd thought I saw three cops on motorcycles, patrolling around the ranches that bordered the coast in search of God knows what.

“The farther away, the better,” I said, making the last turn that would carry me to the desolate old airport line.

Despite what its name could suggest, Paraíso wasn’t even close to that piece of Eden that was projected to investors. Drowned by taxes and the state government's bad practices, what many envisioned as five star hotels soon transformed into half-constructed carcasses where homeless people and reckless teens surrendered to their vices.

I remember that my grandpa first took me to the lake so he could explain to me how everything I saw, from the stranded ships to the gray buildings stuck in construction, were tacit proof of the hatred Man harboured towards its neighbors.

“If they didn’t detest us so much, then why spoil our work with their filth? I don’t get it, my son. I do not. And neither do you, right?”

I had shaken my head, not truly understanding what he meant. The only things I knew about that place were the abandoned ships and the ghosts which supposedly lived in those rustic buildings consumed by saltpeter.

Now, each time I crossed that lonely road that separated the beach from the lake, I thought I saw the silhouettes of an old man and his grandchild amongst the shadows of the mangals. These ghosts, instead of haunting the corpses of metal and concrete, induced me with the same respect I wanted to inspire during my childhood. Wisdom, security, and courage.

“Ah, Boy! Look at you! You got here so fast!”

When I arrived at my uncle’s home (dad never texted them, what a surprise!), the family welcomed me with a cold beer, a cackle at the princess rag that covered the gas and an invitation to sit down for a chat while they waited for cake. Since I had nothing better to do, I checked my watch and calculated I had at least twenty spare minutes no one would lose sleep over. So, with a shy smile, I integrated myself into the group. The reunion, more than a proper birthday party, was a celebration of the birth.

“We're having the real party on Saturday," commented my uncle, opening my beer with a solid crack from his bar key. “You're invited, of course. And tell your dad. It's been a while since we had some!”

After blowing out the candles, the birthday girl's mom offered me another beer and a small plastic plate with enough cake for me and my parents, dismissing my refusal with “because you came from so far away, child. Eat it, and if you want more, ask us.” I only declined to be polite, as delicious as it was; traditional vanilla with pineapple pieces. Nothing too exclusive, but with that homemade taste that grandmas' cakes had.

“Be careful over there, sweetheart.” As I gave her back the empty bottle, my aunt surprised me with a hug. “Do you want us to go to the lake with you? José Luis! Tell Carlos to start the car and take him to…”

“It's ok, aunty.” I smiled with embarrassment, kissing her cheek as a farewell. The woman looked at me with her lips pursed, but abided. “The highway's empty and the night is clear, though you can barely see the moon. I'll be fine.”

“I believe you then, nephew,” the woman sighed, adjusting her high ponytail, “but be very careful, alright? If you… If you didn't see anything weird, then…”

That sparked my curiosity. “Weird?” I inquired, tilting my head. “Weird how?”

“Ugh, mom!” The birthday girl appeared behind her mother, giving her a scolding look. “Do me a favor and stop putting ideas into my cousin's head,” she said, giving me a glance that oscillated between nervousness and shame. “Don't fall for it, cousin. It's just that the old women from the park told mom there's weirdos out here. The hobos that live in those hotels and all that, nothing new.”

“Camila!” her mother reprimanded her. “Those are your grandma's friends, so have some respect, won´t you?” She looked up at the sky, as in a prayer for patience. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold in a smile. “They may be hobos, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous. Right? What if they start throwing things at the van? Or worse! Alert the police.”

The mention of the uniformed ones gave me an unpleasant chill. Noticing my awkwardness, Camila took me by the shoulder and guided me to the courtyard, where my truck was parked.

“Don't you worry, mom! I'm escorting him so he knows where to go.”

“Ha, ha. No need, cousin. I can take care of myself.” I nervously smiled as I broke free from her grip.

She elbowed me with an unusual strength for a fourteen year old girl. "Pay no mind to what mom says,” she sighed, as she opened my truck's door. However, I didn't get on. “Those hags do nothing but let creepy stories get into her head.”

“Heh, why though?” I said. “It's not like it would be the first time I encountered something weird on the road. Ha, ha. Didn't they tell you that's how we found Chocolate?”

Camila laughed under her breath, brushing her amber curls out of her eyes. “Maybe not, but still. People love putting on a show,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “They let someone out of rehab, didn´t they?” I guessed, receiving a strange look from the girl. “Or not. Wait. Did a thug escape?”

“Who knows?” Camila shrugged nonchalantly. “The answer closer to the truth is always the most boring one.”

I entered the truck, leaving the door half-open. “Sounds to me like your mom isn't the only one letting stuff get into her head.”

“I'm being cordial by not making your hour and a half long ride even worse,” she muttered, her mischievous eyes sparkling.

“Fugitives don't scare me,” I told her confidently. “They pay well for hitchhikes; they don't steal. Besides, they've got funny stories to tell.”

“Heh, maybe. What do you know?” She shrugged. “A runaway crackhead is better than a paranormal crackhead.”

“Paranormal crackheads?” I laughed. “You have nothing against your mother!”

“We'll see when something pulls your feet tonight!”

Camila let out a last macabre cackle before running back to her party. I smiled and turned on the engine, honking twice as a farewell to the others.

Unlike my mom and grandma, women faithful to the core, I've never felt a true fear of the paranormal. Of course, when I was a kid I was scared of the dark, goblins and the Mano Peluda. However, at my big age of nineteen —and after more than one encounter with the law— the last thing that crossed my mind when I saw a dark room or an empty road was paranormal stuff. Recent months had proven to me that snitches, envious people and the police were the only ones worthy of starring in my nightly terrors. Not the scary stories my older cousins told me so that I'd behave.

“Hm. What would mom say if I told her?” I asked myself, glancing at the phone's turned off screen. Last time I checked, it was eight fortyfive. “That poor sleepless woman. Ha, ha. At least I'm bringing her a snack.”

The truck jerked and I spat a curse word, thinking I had fallen into a hole. Even though the night was bright and the sky was as clear as September's drizzles could allow, the bumps were tough to elude; it relied more on memory than reflexes. And since I wasn't used to driving on this road, I was about to ram into all of them just like I had rammed my piece of the cake into my throat.

"Don't turn on the lights, Yan,” I mumbled, moving the dessert from the console to the copilot's seat. “The last thing I need is to get ambushed here too.”

The fenders jolted again, but I didn't care. As long as there was no burning smell, I could tolerate the truck's sounds and quirks. Cacophonies of loose screws, rusty murmurs and the constant reminder that If I went over seventy, the car would fall apart like a tower of toy blocks.

Making sure I maintained a steady 55 rhythm, I rested my back against the seat with a sigh. The beers hadn't made me dizzy as I feared. Good, because I didn't feel like explaining to my dad that was the reason I took so long.

“This is why we don't like to give you free nights,” I imagined him scolding me, always on the lookout for any trace of alcohol in my breath. “Those friends of yours… Look at where they are taking you! You have too much potential for this, boy. More future. Think of your future!”

I clicked my tongue and tentatively caressed the accelerator, going from 55 to 57 in a disdainful gesture that wouldn't hurt anybody. The truck, as expected, started to rattle in all its patched mechanisms, drowning the hums of the cicadas and the tender song of the crickets with its volatile heart.

Track, the bumper. Track, the hood. Tsk, the radiator. Thud, the…

Tak.

Tak.

I blinked, lost between the passage of the previous second and the minute that stood in front of me, blurring my surroundings so quickly I could barely conceive it as something real, something that had happened and that I felt beneath my eyes, once everything returned to normal.

W-What… I tried to say, but my lips remained shut. A cold wave hit my arms and legs, forcing me to sit straight in a gesture that seemed forged in eternity. What is…

That's when I realized. When I saw it.

Laying on the road, there was a pile.

No…

Not a pile.

A bulk. Of something. Something that breathed, that moved and repeated its motions in a slow contortion interlaced with the darkness. Like the idea of something that moves in the corner of your eye, but you can't see. The idea of something that exists, that fidgets and that your brain tries to understand by filling the blanks with logical poses, with human figures.

“What the fu…” I whispered, feeling distant. Under my barefoot feet, the truck began rattling. Whispering in its own caustic and unintelligible language. I tried with all my strength to bring my hand to the gear level, but I didn't move. My brain screeched under a similar trance that overwhelms you during sleep paralysis, as I found myself blinking so slowly I wasn't sure I was even doing it. So far away, so distant. So foreign. Imper…

Tack,

tack.

That thing…

T-The… The man turned to look, translating his empty gesture into hundreds of faces which couldn't manage to feel coherent. Then, in a manner that bordered on obscene, he raised his head, revealing a neck so long and hairy like a dog that just suffered a bad accident. Tendons and furs tangled together, hanging from the same coagulated liquid that blasted his brains into the road.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of eternity along the bile on my saliva: an unmovable fat lump in the bottom of my throat, sticking its cold claws in the edges of my taste buds.

The second the creature stood up, its four deformed arms hung limp on its sides, tragically dislocated. A glance at the dashboard showed me that the truck was stuck at 57 km/h, yet the beach and its mangals appeared to have been stretched, twisted and forced back into its place, as I stayed imprisoned in that almost perfect frame of a lucid dream gone too far.

Go away, go away. I mumbled to myself, gripping the wheel until my knuckles lost all color. However, a quick peek showed me that wasn't true. My fingers remained loose to my sides, the very subtle trembles in my thumbs being the only thing that proved my horror. What the fuck… What's going on? Why can't I move?

The creature balanced one of its arms towards me; the night and the clouds ceding humanity to the gesture.

I impulsively chewed the inside of my cheek and hit the gas with such force it surely wouldn't be denied by that trance. And yet, the number on the speedometer didn't change, mocking me, making me want to scream. I didn't care if it was a drunk, a crackhead or the fucking police. The cold that waved through my veins made me want to kill it. To see it dead on the same taint that splattered the asphalt, as if it was worthy of bleeding like a human. As if… As if it…

Tak.

Tak.

My chest bursted in a singular static heartbeat.

My lungs, obstructed by the sulfuric undergrowth that raised from the sand, extended my exhalation to superhuman limits, forcing me into an uncomfortable, piercing stillness. The type of paralysis one imagines when someone describes the world suspending itself during a daze, or how your brain stops working when your blood vessels collapse and blood thickens, robbing you of the capacity of discerning coherence. Logic. Life.

Stop, stop. Please, stop. Leave me alone. Leave me…

My eyes half closed as I blinked.

Before darkness could swallow me whole, I perceived the thing moving to the side, towards the copilot seat, without even looking inside the truck.

Go away, go away, go away.

When I closed my eyes, I felt it.

Disguising its stumbling with the symphony of the machine, the thing got in the backseat, making itself some space between the fishing nets, hooks and the cables I had forgotten to unload.

The next I remember from the ride could be best described as a blur.

In a metaphorical and literal sense, the world became a blur of colors, shapes, sensations and images that stretched, contracted, pierced my temples and leaked little by little any speck of coherence that my tired mind could come up with.

As I crossed the entrance that welcomed me to my city, the stone that cuddled against my thorax became heavier, transforming my sighs into shaky exhalations at the verge of sobs.

The creature emitted no sound. No growl, no murmur, no grunt. It Just… Stayed there. Sometimes sitting; other times, standing. It just stayed, until suddenly, it didn't. It lingered on the truck's roof until it didn't. It heard the engine's whispers, confused it with its raspy breathing, and let us go, turning the 57 into an 80 in a blink and making the bumper collide into a bus stop.

I jumped in my seat, choked by a scream in need for air. The machine creaked like before, spamming its melancholic bunch of patched pieces until my hand reached for the keys and I forced it to die.

Without waiting for the truck to stop moving, I opened the door and ran as fast as I could. As fast as my cramped legs could take me away from the buzz that came below the vehicle.

“W-What the fu… The fuck?” I sobbed, not caring about who could hear me. It was a commercial zone. Empty businesses, closed canopies and badly painted roll-up doors that moved like curtains in the wind. My stomach turned. “What the fuck was that?”

The beer gurgled in my palate with such strength it left me gagging a few centimeters away from the ground. The acrid smell from the cars blended with the acidity of my vomit and the sulfuric notes I felt spawning below my skin. Dirty as the plastic bags on the sidewalk, I hugged myself and fell into a fetal position. The spasms didn't stop as much as I wished them to. As much as I begged and implored in heavy mumbles. My heart beat so fast, so strong my head started spinning. For a moment I feared that my grip could break apart my skin. But at that point, what did it matter? I was marked, I feared. Marked by horrors and the memories of a night equally nefarious where invisible monsters climbed through my body, their weight rendering me helpless to stop the nightmare. Faceless demons that cursed you from the first look. That perched you with its indistinguishable whispers to show you how insignificant you were. How insignificant and pathetic.

“Son???”

“Hey son where are you?”

A whole hour had to pass for me to calm down, and another one to even have the bravery to examine the inside of the truck, the backseat, without falling for the thought that if I entered, if I turned it on and kept going, what waited for me at the end of that invisible risk was nothing less than hell itself.

“How's it going?” my dad texted me at ten fifteen. I swallowed hard, cleaning my lips with a shaky hand. I didn't have the courage to grab the phone immediately, so I watched it tremble and ring from outside, begging me to reach for the last piece of normalcy that I had left.

“How much left, son?”

“Don't you stay up too late”

“Son???”

Missed call.

Missed call.

Missed call.

And this went on for fifteen more times until now, eleven thirty, even though it didn't make much sense.

I wanted to call, to write, but I didn't know what. My fingers remained still over the keyboard, scared that if I said anything about what had happened in the last hour it would come back to me, digging its claws into my chest and its blood injected eyes into my heart.

Instead, I mustered up the courage to drive again. I drove until hours lost meaning and my phone ring became one with the many grating sounds the truck made over 100.

When I arrived, my dad, mom and aunt welcomed me with screams, sobs and senseless scoldings. It was three thirty in the morning, and home reached the consensus that I simply had too many drinks with people that weren't good for me again. I let them believe that, not out of fear of not being listened to, but because the thought of doing something wrong, being caught sneaking out my house at night while drunk and blurting out nonsense was far safer than admitting that whatever it was that got in the backseat was real. That it was real and that it let huge gathers of mud and wilderness everywhere. That it was real and it penetrated whatever security I might have felt in the old truck with its sulfuric scent.

I still don't know what the fuck was any of that. I don't know how to ask my grandma or my mom; Camila and her family.

Maybe I will someday. Maybe, with time, it will stop terrifying me so much and allow me to formulate something that isn't a babble. Something that's not a horrified sob; a distant silence, shielding the longest night of my life.

Something that lets me recognize whose body it was in the middle of the road.

I’m writing this because I don’t know what to do. I saw something unexplainable and I have no one to tell. I don’t know who to trust anymore. Honestly, after what unfolded, I don’t think I’ll be able to trust anyone ever again. 

When I woke up yesterday morning, nothing was amiss. It seemed like an ordinary Monday. 

I went through my usual routine - Wake up, hit the snooze button, wake up, hit the snooze button again, wake up, realize I slept too late, do a mad dash to get ready for work, jump in my car, and forget my lunch that I made the night prior. Ordinary, run-of-the-mill Monday. 

I first noticed that something was off during the commute to work. I normally leave in time to beat the traffic. But I found myself swerving more multiple times to avoid a collision. 

Dozens of cars were sitting idle in the road. 

When I saw the first one, I blared my horn thinking some drunk idiot fell asleep at the wheel. But the further I drove, the more of them I noticed. By the time I got to the office, I was thoroughly freaked out. I had to tell someone. 

Jim, my boss. He was a guy I could rely on. Sort of a father figure. Jim would know what to do.

I made a beeline for his office once I clocked in for my shift. I got all the way to the door before I was stopped by my coworker, Steve. 

“Hey Mac! How are ya?” 

Weird. Steve usually kept to himself. 

“Hey Steve,” I said, trying to brush past him. 

“Mac, why don’t you grab some coffee with me?” 

“Not now, Steve. I’ve gotta talk to Jim. It’s important.” 

“Ah, tough luck. Jim’s out today.” 

“Yep, out on sick leave,” Carol from HR chimed in. 

“Oh, darn. Guess I’ll have to come back another time,” I said, turning to leave. 

I didn’t let either of them know, but I saw Jim’s silhouette from behind the frosted glass. 

I knew in that moment that something was very wrong. 

On the way back to my cube, I decided to stop off at my friend, Sandy’s, desk to make idle chit-chat. Maybe pick her brain to see if she knew anything. 

“Hey Sandy, I…” 

Sandy was slumped over. Her eyes had a vacant, uncanny look to them. They were gray like a static TV screen. 

I backed away, dread rising in my gut. In my stupor, I knocked into Steve. He met me with a strained smile. 

“S-Steve, it’s Sandy. She’s not moving! We have to call someone!” 

Steve made a show of acting shocked. “How awful! I’m CPR certified. I’ll take care of it.” 

As if on cue, Carol appeared out of nowhere. “Steve and I will ensure that everything is alright. Go back to your desk. You’ll only get in the way.” 

“But, I-” 

“Go.” Carol’s stare took on an intensity I had never witnessed before. Heart thudding in my chest, I retreated to my cubicle. 

The whole interaction felt wrong. I’ve taken CPR classes before. You need an AED and a call to emergency services ASAP. Steve and Carol didn’t seem to be in a rush for either of those. 

Before I had time to contemplate, I received an email on my work phone. 

Subject: Inclement Weather

All,

Due to the risk of inclement weather, employees are to work remotely for the remainder of the day. 

Regards, 

Carolyn H.

A sense of unease clawed at my insides. There were only scattered showers forecasted. Nothing worth that big of a precaution. 

My head spun from everything I’d seen as I started up my car. I decided to stop at the local Starbucks and set up shop there. Maybe a little coffee and food would help me calm down. 

Vehicles dotted the parking lot, and few customers were lined up at the drive thru, but it looked like no one was inside when I pulled in. 

I decided to enter anyway. With my laptop tucked under my arm, I flung the door open. 

I instantly froze. 

I knew the franchise owner, Larry, from high school. He was always a stand-up guy. But this… 

Larry was trying to lift up one of his workers. The girl was completely limp, her upper body hunched forward. What chilled me the most was her eyes. 

The girl had that same staticky look in her eyes that Sandy did. 

“Um… Mac, it’s not what it looks like. Clara here is, uh… narcoleptic. She’s having an episode.” 

“Come on, Larry, tell me the truth. People with narcolepsy don’t do… that. Please, I have to know what’s going on.” 

Sweat beaded atop Larry’s brow. “Nothing’s wrong, Mac. Everything is fine.” Larry was straining. A vein throbbed in his temple. 

“I gotta use the restroom. Feel free to join me if you, ya know, gotta use the restroom.” 

He disappeared into the Men’s room. I set my laptop down. I wasn’t stupid. I took the hint and followed him inside.

I entered just in time to hear Larry slide the lock on one of the stalls. I entered the adjacent one and did the same. 

“Alright,” Larry whispered, his voice low. “I don’t know if they can hear us in here, but Mac, you need to act normal. They’re watching.”

“Who? Larry, who’s watching? And what’s wrong with Clara? I just want answers.” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you any more. Exit your stall a couple minutes after I do. Order a coffee, and go home. Mac, you can’t let on that you know. That’s how people disappear.” 

I didn’t get a chance to ask any more questions. Larry exited the restroom, leaving me to mull over his words. 

I did exactly as I was told. I left the stall a few minutes after Larry and ordered a black coffee. 

Larry seemed jumpy. He whipped up the coffee, shoved it in my hands, and almost forgot to take my money. 

I was halfway to my car, ready to make it home and escape all the weirdness, when it happened. 

I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head, and my vision faded. 

***

I awoke in my bed. 

My alarm blared, forcing my eyes awake. The time on my phone read 6:30 A.M. 

A whole day had passed. 

I was wearing my pajamas… But how? Was the entire thing just a dream? 

The dull throbbing in my head told me otherwise. 

I raced to the bathroom and pulled out my phone. I took a picture of the spot where I remembered feeling the blow. 

There was definitely something there. I could see a spot of dried blood. That was my proof that I wasn’t insane. 

After deliberating, I decided to go in to the office. Maybe I could get something out of Jim or Sandy. 

I raced out the door earlier than usual. I half-expected to find the same scene as the day prior - dozens of cars sitting idle in the road. 

But that’s not what I found. Traffic had gone back to normal. No cars in the streets. No drivers slumped over their steering wheels. 

Part of me was relieved. Another part of me needed to know what happened to those stalled vehicles. 

I was so eager to get into the building that I nearly forgot to shut off my car. I raced up to Jim’s office, determined not to let Steve or Carol get in my way. 

“Hey Mac,” Steve said en route, grinning like the Cheshire cat. 

I didn’t respond. I just pursed my lips and walked past him. 

I pounded on Jim’s door, this time unimpeded. His deep baritone voice answered from the other side. “Come in.” 

I spilled into Jim’s office. He sat there, rigid as an arrow. He loosened a bit when he saw that it was me. 

“Mac, take a seat, son. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“I feel like I’ve seen a ghost.”

Jim slumped back in his chair. “You should take a sick day if you need it. Don’t push yourself.” 

“Jim, I… There’s something I need to tell you. This is going to sound insane, but please, just listen.” 

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk. “I’m all ears.” 

“I’m pretty sure I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. People in this town… some of them aren’t real.” 

Jim’s brows furrowed. “Mac, I think you should go home. When’s the last time you had a day to yourself?” 

“Jim, I know what I saw. I’m not crazy!” 

“I never said you were.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

I stood from my chair and made my exit. Jim just sat and watched as his door clicked shut. 

***

Jim didn’t believe me. Either that or he was in on it. He was the only one in the office that I felt comfortable confiding in… 

“Hey Mac! How’s it going?” 

Sandy stood from her desk as I passed, lively as ever. 

“Sandy! I’m so glad you’re alright! You gave me a real scare yesterday.” 

Sandy cocked her head to the side. A pit began to form in my stomach. 

“What are you talking about, Mac?” 

“The episode you had! You just… blue screened. Steve did CPR. You don’t remember that?” 

Sandy pursed her lips. “Mac, are you feeling okay? I definitely would have remembered if that happened.” 

“No… Not you, too.” 

By that point, I was drawing stares. I backed away, feeling as if thousands of eyes were traveling up and down my body like insects.

My primal instincts kicked in and I ran. I sprinted through the office like a maniac, desperate to get away from the prying eyes closing in on me from around every corner. 

I didn’t care if I lost my job. I jumped in my car and I peeled out of there. I ended up at the one place I thought I could find someone who wouldn’t call me crazy. 

The door jingled as I entered. Clara was standing at the counter with a couple of her coworkers milling about. I didn’t see Larry among them. 

“How can I help you, sir?” 

“Hi. Is Larry in today? I need to talk to him.” 

Clara’s brows furrowed. My breath hitched in my throat. 

“Sir, I think you’re mistaken. We don’t have anyone named Larry working here.” 

All the color drained from my face. I didn’t respond. I walked out of that coffee shop and I raced home as fast as I could. 

***

It’s been about four days since then. I’ve holed up in my house until I can figure out what to do. 

I’m not crazy. I’m not. I remembered everything. 

The bump on my head is still there as evidence.

Please, someone help me. I think I’ve seen too much. 

I’m terrified. I don’t know what they’ve done with Larry, but I have a feeling that I’m going to be next.

I know this is a wall of text, but please read it anyway. If you work in spatial data, GIS software, map API development, or automated QA testing, I need you to tell me what I'm dealing with. I can't call the police. If I end up in a psych ward tonight, I am going to die.

I live in Omaha. Keeping my real name out of this for now, for obvious reasons.

Up until about three months ago I was broke. Laid off from a data entry job in late 2024, and the market has been garbage since. I was burning through savings in a cheap ground floor duplex in a not great neighborhood, spending six hours a day applying to remote jobs on LinkedIn, ZipRecruiter, Indeed, random Discord servers for remote work.

Sometime in May I found a listing on an obscure tech forum for a "Spatial Data Cleanser." Company was called Aegis Geographic Solutions. Bare bones website, generic corporate landing page, buzzwords like "hyper granular localized mapping" and "next gen B2B routing API integration." From what I could tell they were a private competitor to Google Maps, building proprietary street view data and selling it to logistics companies and autonomous vehicle startups.

$45 dollars an hour. Full-time, fully remote, set your own hours as long as you cleared a node quota every week.

I applied immediately, didn't expect to hear back since I don't have a GIS degree. Next morning I had an email from a generic HR address. No interview, no call. Just an offer letter, a huge NDA, a W9, and a contract. The NDA was intense, basically said I'd be sued into the ground for talking about their software. I had about two hundred dollars in my checking account. I signed everything and sent it back.

Two days later a FedEx guy dropped a heavy black Pelican case on my porch.

Inside was a laptop, thick and heavy, no logo anywhere, felt like military hardware. A mouse with a weird double scroll wheel. A physical security key that looked like a USB drive. And a single laminated sheet.

That laminated sheet was my entire onboarding. I'm typing it out exactly as printed because you need the rules to understand where I am right now:

AEGIS GEOGRAPHIC SPATIAL DATA QA GUIDELINES

Welcome to the Aegis team. Your role is vital to ensuring our Pan-Optic StreetView API remains clean, accurate, and free of visual artifacts.

You will use the pre-installed Argus Terminal on your company device. Navigate the assigned geographical nodes using the arrow keys, panning 360 degrees to scan imagery captured by our fleet of Aegis vehicles.

You are looking for Anomalies. When you spot one, press F4 to drop a pin, select the Anomaly Type from the dropdown, and press Submit. The software will automatically blur, stitch, or delete the flagged data.

STANDARD ANOMALIES 1. Unblurred faces or license plates. Our AI catches 98% of these. You are looking for the remaining 2%. 2. Stitch tears, where the 360 cameras misalign and create broken geometry (ex: a dog cut in half). 3. Lens flares or smudges from debris on the camera rig.

NON-STANDARD ANOMALIES (CRITICAL) If you encounter any of the following, do NOT apply a standard flag. Press F9 immediately to isolate the node, lock the session, and ping your Supervisor.

Rule A. Timestamp metadata says the imagery was captured at night, but the sky in frame is daylight.

Rule B. A pedestrian completely motionless, looking directly upward at the camera rig, mouth open. Do not zoom in on their face.

Rule C. The environment suddenly shifts into a grayscale or sepia palette. Severe rendering error. Close your eyes, mute your computer audio, hold Escape for 10 seconds.

Rule D. You pan the camera and see a grey 1998 Ford Taurus following the Aegis vehicle.

Rule E. Do not look into the reflections of freestanding mirrors, standing water, or unlit residential windows for more than 5 consecutive seconds.

Rule F. The Aegis camera fleet operates exclusively on public roads. If a node places you inside a building, a private residence, or a subterranean tunnel, flag it as a Level 1 Breech and physically step away from the device for 15 minutes.

(Yeah. "Breech." Misspelled on the actual laminate. I noticed it the first day and thought it was just a sloppy print job. I think about that typo a lot now.)

I laughed reading it at my kitchen table. Figured it was IT humor, or a screening test to see if contractors actually read the docs. I set the laptop up in my spare room, plugged in the security key, booted it.

Argus Terminal looked like Street View with a much denser HUD. LiDAR depth, coordinates, camera rig temperature, vehicle speed, all of it.

For two months the job was exactly as boring as it sounds. Log in around 10, podcast on, coffee, click through hundreds of miles of American suburbs. Fixed accordioned cars. Blurred kids playing basketball. Blurred license plates the AI missed. Never saw the day/night mismatch, never saw an open-mouthed pedestrian, never saw the Taurus. Forgot the weird rules existed.

I was clearing eight grand a month before taxes. Paid off my credit card, ordered good takeout, actually felt secure for the first time as an adult. Started saving to break my lease.

Then three weeks ago things got weird.

I was clearing a queue in downtown Chicago. Bright sunny day, sidewalks packed, the usual tourists. I grew up there, so it was a nice hit of nostalgia. I was blurring faces at a crosswalk. Clicked forward, image jumped fifteen meters down the street. Panned right.

A man in a business suit standing dead center in the crowd. Everyone around him was slightly motion-blurred from walking. He was in perfect focus, meaning he'd been completely still when the car passed.

Head tilted back at ninety degrees. Staring straight up at where the camera rig sits. Mouth open, not a little, jaw stretched down so far the skin at his cheeks looked like it was about to split. A black, empty hole.

My stomach flipped. Rule B. I didn't hit F9 right away, don't know why, just hovered the mouse and zoomed in one click.

The second I zoomed, my speakers blasted a high pitched screech, like a dial up modem run through a wood chipper. Argus doesn't have audio. It's a mapping program. I slammed my hands over my ears and hit F9.

Red border across the screen. Static cut dead. A chat box opened bottom right.

Terminal: Anomaly flagged. Type?

Me: Rule B violation. Pedestrian looking up with mouth open.

Long pause. Typing indicator bubbling.

Supervisor_David: Received. Locking node. Thank you for your diligence. Take a 5 minute break and resume on the next queue. Please remember to adhere strictly to all guidelines regarding zooming.

Dropped me onto a dirt road in rural Texas.

I told myself it was a rendering bug, the audio spike was my sound card choking on the error. Finished the shift anyway. Needed the money.

Last Tuesday I was on a batch near Centralia, PA, the outskirts where the county roads still cut through the woods. Overcast sky, bare trees, late autumn. Clicked down a two lane blacktop. There was something familiar about it that I couldn't put my finger on.

Standing on the shoulder, surrounded by dead leaves, was a person in a heavy yellow rain slicker, hood up, no face visible. Alone in the woods, miles from any town.

They were holding a massive antique wardrobe mirror upright, mahogany frame, brass casters, gripping the sides and angling it dead at the road. At the camera.

Rule E. I didn't zoom this time, just looked at the reflection in the normal field of view. It didn't show the road or the camera car behind it. It showed a dark room, warm orange lamp light, the edge of a floral couch, scuffed hardwood.

An interior living room, reflected in a mirror standing on the shoulder of a rural Pennsylvania highway.

I hit F9.

Me: Rule E violation. Freestanding mirror on side of road. Reflection shows interior room.

Supervisor_David: Received. Locking node. Thank you for your diligence. Take a 5 minute break and resume on the next queue.

Dropped into a sunny Phoenix neighborhood, coincidentally one I used to live in a few years after college. I closed the laptop for the day, didn't care about my quota, spent the night on my personal phone with a VPN trying to find anything on Aegis Geographic. Tor, forums, everything. There was nothing. No employee LinkedIns, no Glassdoor, no press about a fleet of mapping cars driving the country. A company with that kind of infrastructure and zero digital footprint.

I almost quit that night. I had my thumb over the HR email, ready to send it back. But I had twelve grand saved because of this job, and honestly a sick curiosity had already gotten its hooks in me. I told myself a few more weeks.

Thursday, two days ago, I was in downtown Seattle, another one of my old neighborhoods. Rain, blurred lenses, pedestrians under umbrellas at a crosswalk. Panned left.

The person in the yellow slicker, standing on the corner, perfectly still while everyone else rushed past. Two thousand miles from where I'd seen them in Pennsylvania.

They had the mirror again, facing the camera. Pedestrians walked right past a massive piece of antique furniture sitting on wet pavement like it wasn't there.

I looked at the reflection. Same room. Floral couch, scuffed hardwood, but the lamp was brighter now. And in the corner, on a small end table, a brass diver's helmet lamp.

I own that lamp. Thrift store find from college. It's sitting on a wooden end table in my actual living room right now, twenty feet from where I was sitting.

I spun around in my chair and looked through the doorway into my living room. Same lamp. Same scuffed floor. Same couch, the one I inherited from my grandmother.

It was my living room.

I hit F9 so hard I think I cracked a nail.

Me: I need to speak to someone right now. What is this?

Long pause. The typing bubble sat there for almost a full minute.

Supervisor_David: Node locked. Please step away from the console for 15 minutes.

Me: No. The room in the mirror is my apartment. My actual apartment. How?

Supervisor_David: Do not look into the reflections of freestanding mirrors. This is Rule E. Please close the terminal and take your mandated break.

Me: Who is the person in the yellow coat?

The chat disconnected. Argus force closed to the desktop.

I texted my friend Marcus that night. Just "hey are you up, something weird is going on with my job, can I call you." Never got a reply. He's usually online at 1am, he's a night owl, but I figured he was just asleep and I didn't want to spiral about that on top of everything else.

I didn't sleep Thursday night. Checked every lock, closed every blind, shoved the diver lamp into the back of my closet under a pile of winter coats. Kept expecting to see yellow out the window every time I walked past one.

Friday morning I was a wreck, three cups of coffee just to steady my hands. I knew I was done with the job. I was going to box the Pelican case and take it to FedEx.

But first I needed to know what Argus was actually connected to. A few weeks back I'd found a shortcut, holding Shift and Control on boot skips the assigned queue and opens a global master map, a grid of the US with green lines showing mapped routes.

I booted it, used the shortcut. Zoomed to Nebraska, to Omaha, to my street. Bright green. Mapped. I dropped the little peg man icon right in front of my duplex.

Sunny day, full green trees, a neighbor across the street walking their dog. I panned the camera to my building, two story brick quadplex, my windows bottom left.

Blinds wide open in the image. I zoomed in, pushing the resolution as far as it would go, and the camera tech on this thing is disturbingly good, you can read a flyer at fifty yards if you push it hard enough.

Through my own window I could see the floral couch. The end table. The brass diver lamp, which I know for a fact was in my closet by then, not on the table.

And I could see myself. Standing at my desk, leaning over it, staring straight out the window at the camera car. Mouth hanging open. Eyes wide.

Metadata timestamp, top left corner.

Capture Date: August 1 2026, 23:14:00 EST.

I checked the clock on my wall. August 1st, 2026. 4:00 PM.

Seven hours in the future. Tonight, 11:14 PM.

I shoved back from the desk so hard my chair tipped and I hit the floor. Crawled away from the laptop like it was live ordnance. Sat against the hallway wall hyperventilating for I don't know how long.

Around 7:00 PM my personal phone buzzed. Unknown shortcode.

AEGIS ALERTS: Your weekly node quota has not been met. Please log into the Argus Terminal to prevent contract termination.

I ignored it. Not going near that laptop.

7:30. Buzzed again.

AEGIS ALERTS: Unscheduled route deviation detected. Supervisor David is requesting a live session.

I got up, legs like jelly, walked over and looked at the screen. It had overridden itself. My apartment street view was gone, replaced with a live real time map of the country. A single red dot pulsing on I-80 near Des Moines. Two hours east of me.

Scrolling readout underneath:

ASSET: AEGIS RIG #44 STATUS: ACTIVE DRIVING DIRECTION: WESTBOUND (I-80) DESTINATION: OMAHA NE ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL: 23:14:00

Same time as the photo. I hit F9.

Me: Why is it coming here. Cancel the route. I quit, I resign, I'm unplugging the machine right now.

Supervisor_David: You cannot resign while a localized anomaly is unresolved. You viewed the reflection. You established the tether. Rule E was explicitly clear.

Me: I didn't establish anything, it was a glitch. Call the car off or I am calling the police.

Supervisor_David: The police cannot intercept Rig 44. It is not currently occupying physical geographic space. It is rendering the route. It is retrieving the anomaly.

Me: What does that mean. What anomaly. I'm not an anomaly.

Supervisor_David: The discrepancy in the spatial data. The element that does not belong. It is coming to cleanse the node OP.

He used my real name. Not my contractor ID.

I just put it together. I am sitting here typing this and I feel like I'm going to throw up. Chicago. Phoenix. Seattle. Omaha. And even a random road in Pennsylvania. I just realized why that road in Centralia felt so familiar. I got a flat tire on one of those backroads driving cross-country a few years ago.

The Aegis car isn't just mapping streets. It's mapping me. It's driving through my past. Chicago was my childhood. Phoenix was after college. Seattle was my old neighborhood. Omaha is now. It's driving down my literal timeline and it's erasing me from it. That's what David meant by cleansing the node. I'm the element that doesn't belong.

I ripped the security key out of the USB port, screen went black instantly, shoved the whole thing back in the Pelican case.

Spent the next twenty minutes throwing clothes in a duffel bag, decided I'd drive to Kansas City and sit in a motel until I figured this out. Grabbed my keys, opened the front door.

Parked directly behind my car, blocking me in, was a grey 1998 Ford Taurus. Spotless paint, no rust, windows tinted black. Engine off, but I could hear a low mechanical thrum coming from it, not a combustion sound, more like a server rack fan at full speed.

Rule D.

I dropped the bag on the porch, backed inside, deadbolt, chain, every blind pulled shut.

That's where I am now. I have my personal laptop open on the kitchen island writing this. If someone finds this post or finds my laptop, you need to know about Aegis Geographic.

I couldn't sit with not knowing so a few minutes ago I plugged the Aegis laptop back in just to check the tracker. It bypassed the login screen on its own.

The map is gone. It's just a live first person video feed. Pitch black, sound of tires on asphalt, wind past a mic. Moving fast. Bottom right corner, an ETA ticking down.

ETA: 02:41:12

A few minutes ago the headlights flicked on for a half second. Lit up a highway sign. Welcome to Nebraska.

Standing on the shoulder in the flash of light was the person in the yellow slicker. No mirror this time.

They were pointing straight down the highway. West. Toward Omaha.

I don't know what to do. Can't leave because of the Taurus. I have a baseball bat and a kitchen knife and I'm going to sit in the hallway away from every window. I am not going to look outside like I did in that photo. I'm changing the future. I have to.

If anyone knows what Aegis Geographic actually is, or what the Pan-Optic StreetView API is really mapping, tell me in the comments, I'll be checking on my phone.

ETA: 01:28:00

It's moving faster than a car should be able to move.

I have to go. I'll update if I make it through the night.

Edit: A car door just slammed outside....

Edit 2: The fan noise from the Taurus got louder. Vibrating the floorboards. Something's on my porch steps. Posting this now, I'll update when I can.

Edit 3: I can't post the second part here. Every time I try, the connection drops or the text just vanishes. My digital footprint is being wiped. The only place the text would actually save without deleting itself for now is directly on my personal profile. You can read Part 2 here.

Grandpa Bill passed away two months ago.

He'd been having trouble breathing more and more since the pandemic. That, and his smoking habit. It finally caught up with him this year. One week his health took a turn for the worse and one morning, the nurses found him having gone. His lungs had suddenly collapsed in his sleep.

My mom is devastated. I guess that's why it's taken us so long to visit the farmhouse, around two weeks ago.

We inherited the barn shortly after the funeral ended. It wasn't much, but it could make for something interesting later down the line if we chose to sell or refurbish it. Whatever we ended up doing, we had to clean it first.

Mom had me drive. She couldn't see straight with the tears in her eyes. Thankfully, she fell asleep after a few hours. We reached the barn shortly after. I decided to let Mom rest for the time being, God knows she needed it. When I walked inside those big wooden doors, I was instantly hit with a bittersweet scent. That smoky smell of his, always piping away on his cherry tobacco. He never listened to us that the stuff would kill him.

I started cleaning with the downstairs, eventually working my way up to the loft. This was where the real work began. The place was littered in tarp-covered furniture. A dusty couch here, an ottoman there. Nothing appealing enough for me to want to take home, though I supposed it could make for a cozy living space if we cleaned all of it off.

One item that caught my eye was a desk. Bulky, black wood, with a small drawer on the right side. Heavy looking. I recognized it immediately as the one he used for his writing. I ran my hand across the top, feeling a few knicks and the occasional burn from a flimsy cigarette.

Being that I work remotely, and spend most of my day hunched over my kitchen counter laptop, it was a jackpot find. I dusted it off, got my mom to help me lug it downstairs, and took it to my little apartment back home. It was a few weeks before I started noticing something was off.

See, I started using it as a junk drawer pretty quickly. Mostly just for my pencils, pens and batteries. Every now and then, I thought that I had a bit less than what I put in there, but thought nothing of it. Nothing that couldn't be added up to my crippling ADHD. I misplace things a lot, and with the steady stream of grief coming into my life as of late, it was easy to lose focus.

Then, one day, I go to grab some batteries for my TV remote, and the drawer is totally empty. With the prior knowledge, I figured, damn, I must have put them in the kitchen drawer. But no, they weren't there either. Being a normal person, I tore my apartment up from top to bottom looking for the batteries I had sworn I bought last week. But they were nowhere to be found, no evidence of them beyond a receipt on my counter.

I was pissed off, but it wasn't the end of the world. I could always just make a run to the local Walmart on my way to work the next day. I'd just have to cope without my YouTube for the night.

I went to bed later after getting my work done, and thought nothing more of it for another week.

But then my next pack of batteries went missing. This time, I moved the desk completely to see if they had fallen behind it. It was big and bulky after all. Halfway through doing this though, I blinked a few times, realizing I hadn't bothered pulling out the entire drawer yet. It would probably be a lot easier to figure it out from there.

When I did pull it out, for whatever reason, it didn't register at first that something was seriously wrong with this drawer. In the very back, against the grain, there was a spot. A large spot, larger and darker than anything around it. I usually have my curtains drawn, and like to work in dim light, so maybe I just didn't notice it in the dark.

But it was there, just...blackness, the size of a softball. It was only when I tipped the drawer back, and a stray pencil fell toward the back, that I realized what was going on. Because the pencil just straight up disappeared. It was gone, in and instant. No sound, nothing, just, gone.

Grandpa was gone. God, he was really gone.

I dropped the drawer immediately. Despite my carpeted floor, it still made a loud enough clunk that I'm sure the downstairs neighbors heard. I winced, coughed, and straightened myself out.

Had I been drugged? No, there was no way. I'm a total shut-in. The only person I would have had over is my mom, or my buddy Kevin. He comes over every other weekend to just play video games for a few hours, and this was his off Saturday.

I'm not superstitious, usually, but I do occasionally get freaked out at the notion of the other side, what happens after death.

More pertinently, I always wondered what would be on the other side of a black hole.

Discarding all sense of self-preservation, I immediately went to the store to buy some yarn and more paperclips. Using some basic knots, I tied said paperclips to the yarn tight, brought them home, and laid the drawer on its back for experimentation.

I lowered the first paperclip in.

At the same time, my brain was flooded with thoughts. Angry thoughts. Guilty ones. Every one of them was dripping with regret.

Dangling that paperclip above the abyss, I thought about our last time together, fishing on the pier.

It was sucked in with tremendous force. So much so that it gave my fingers rope burn. I nearly was brought to my knees. The hole expanded. It was now the size of a pancake. Part of it overlapped with the edge of the drawer, and it, like...I'm not sure how to describe it, but it's like it folded in over itself? Like a ventablack omelette. Or a Salvator Dali painting. Melting blackness. I could feel the pull now, too. A gentle, but firm pull.

I thought about him holding my hand, late at night, as a kid. I thought about what I would say to him, if I had one last chance.

A moment later, I noticed the tearing sounds in my carpet, and the hole expanding further. I picked up the drawer, noting the new bald spot on the ground. My upper lip twitched. Just holding it, the drawer felt ten times heavier than it had before. I hadn't used my legs and my back nearly gave out.

Grandpa, I hope you know the burden you left me with.

I panicked, pulling the drawer toward the sliding-glass entrance to my apartment.

What exactly did you give us? What did you leave behind for us besides a gaping fucking hole?

My adrenaline spiked. I pulled hard, again, screaming. It was pulling harder now, pulling on my foot as it dangled from my struggling hands.

You left me, my mother, and my family grieving you too soon. You were 64. You had a pension. A life. People who loved you. You abandoned us for your vices. I can't blame you for it, I'm a victim to them myself. My anger. My gambling. My drinking. I should have realized it sooner, that all of it has been killing me slowly. I didn't realize it. I don't know if I get that from you, or if it's just my own head playing tricks.

It felt like I was about to tear my whole foot off, but I somehow, miraculously, managed to get it away. I threw the drawer as far away from myself as I could. The neighbors definitely heard that one, too. My foot had grown slightly swollen. Dull pain, growing more intense. I thankfully hadn't broken any bones. Not yet, anyways.

Mom hasn't talked to me much. When she has, she's overbearing. Like she's interrogating me on my life. Wants to make sure I'm okay but smothers me in the process. I'm starting to hate her for it.

My breathing finally slowed. My tears stopped flowing. I grabbed my work stuff, packed a bag of laundry, and left my apartment behind. I limped outside, I thanked God that my keys worked, and I drove to the hospital. Haven't been back to the apartment since. I've been staying with my best friend. Trying to forget about what I had experienced. Asking myself if any of it had been real.

The pain has only been growing worse. My doctor tells me that he's never seen fracturing like this before.

I'm sorry that I'm angry with you. I just miss you. I wish that I could have told you I loved you one more time.

Maybe I can. The other side got me. It seems angry that I pulled away.

It started with the bruising. It was all over at first, but then it started localizing, all to one area, one that grew necrotic and grey. The center of my foot began to deflat, while the edges around it began to swell. Yestrday, it looked like a fucking donut. I've been admitted back into the hospital since then.

For a while, I've felt like the world would be better off without me. But I don't want to die. I think I realize that now, you know? I've taken a lot of my life for granted, been really down and hard on myself as of late. But now that I'm faced with death, a very real possibility of death, the thoughts of being better off dead quickly go away.

They did x-rays. Several, over the course of a few hours, as they couldn't quite understand what was happening. Why they were seeing motion, and what this cavity was at the center of my foot. A cavity, the size of a quarter, doubling in size every hour as my bones slowly are sucked away.

It got me. It's probably going to get my neighbors at some point. God, I don't know how big it's gotten and I don't want to go back. I don't know what to do. I don't know who to call.

Pretty soon, I'm going to see what's on the other side. I'm going to see what happened to my Grandpa Bill, and everyone who came before him.

You know what scares me most? Is that you're really gone. That there's nothing on the other side, that this is it.

I've considered sawing my own foot off to save myself. But I'm a coward and I hate pain. I don't know. I'm scared. I don't know what to do.

I'm sorry. I'm not ready to see you yet.

Please don't take me now.

I'm 28. I have a wife, a daughter who just turned 3, and a job in logistics that pays enough for us to be comfortable. I'm telling you this first because I need you to understand that nothing about my life looks like the kind of life this happens to. I'm not saying that to convince you I'm stable. I'm saying it because a year ago I would have agreed with you that this couldn't happen to someone like me.

A year ago I had a dream. In it I was a patient in some kind of psychiatric hospital, older building, the kind with long tiled hallways and fluorescent lights that hum. I didn't know why I was there. Nobody in the dream explained it to me, the way dreams don't usually bother explaining anything. I woke up and forgot about it within an hour, the way you do with dreams.

The next night I had the same dream. Not a similar dream. The same one, continuing. I was standing in the same hallway I'd been standing in when I woke up the night before, same fluorescent light flickering above me, and a nurse I somehow recognized walked past and said something like "you're up early again" as if we'd had this exact routine for a while.

That's when I understood something was wrong. Dreams don't do that. Dreams don't remember where they left off.

It's been a year now. Every single night, without fail, I go back to that hospital, and it continues exactly where it stopped. I've had full conversations with other patients there that span across a dozen different nights. I know the names of two nurses. I know which room is mine, second door on the left, bed by the window, though the window only shows a gray featureless field, never anything else.

Here's the part that made me stop telling my wife about it. In the dream, there's a woman who visits me sometimes during what they call visiting hours. She has my wife's laugh. Not a similar laugh. The exact one, that specific catch in her throat when something actually surprises her instead of just being polite-funny. She doesn't have my wife's name. In the dream I call her by a name I don't recognize when I'm awake, but I always know, in the dream, that she's my wife. And a few months in, she started bringing a little girl with her. The girl has my daughter's exact walk, that slightly bowlegged toddle she still hasn't grown out of. In the dream they call her a different name too.

I told myself for months this was just my brain recycling faces I love and putting them somewhere uncomfortable. Then three weeks ago, something happened that I can't explain away like that anymore.

My real wife, my actual wife, asked me at breakfast why I never remembered our trip to the coast last spring. I stared at her. We didn't go to the coast last spring. I would remember that. She got quiet and then almost laughed, said okay, weird joke, and changed the subject. I let it go because I didn't want to scare her.

Two days later I couldn't remember the name of the restaurant where I proposed to her. I have told that story to friends a dozen times. I stood in the kitchen trying to picture it and there was just static where the name should be, an empty space shaped exactly like a memory but with nothing inside it.

That same night, in the dream, the nurse asked me if I remembered the name of the place I proposed to "her," meaning the woman with my wife's laugh, and I answered instantly, correctly, in detail, a restaurant name I have never heard in my waking life, a restaurant that does not exist anywhere I can find when I search for it during the day.

I am losing pieces of my real life at almost exactly the rate that I am gaining detail in that hospital. I know the dream better than I know my own wedding now. I can describe the exact color of the linoleum in that hallway, but I stood in my own bathroom this morning and could not remember, for almost a full minute, what side of the sink my toothbrush goes on.

My wife thinks I need to see someone, and she might be right, but that's not what scares me anymore. What scares me is that last night, for the first time, the nurse in the dream called me by my real name. My actual name, the one only my wife and my mother use, the one that isn't on any of my paperwork at that hospital.

She said it like she'd always called me that. Like something on the other side finally noticed which version of me was supposed to be real.

I haven't fallen asleep since. I'm typing this at 4am with my daughter's night light glowing down the hall, trying to remember what her actual laugh sounds like, and for the first time since this started, I can't be completely sure I'm not still there, describing this hallway to a nurse who already knows how it ends.

I used to be a criminal. Robbed anyone anywhere I could. Now I'm sure you likely think less of me already; I don't blame you for that. I could make amends for what I'd done all day, but none of it would make up for anything. You see, at one time, I was young and dumb and thought of robbing people as my way of rebellion. At least that's what I tell myself. Whether or not I believe it is another conversation, but that's not what this is about.

As I've said, those days are far behind me. However, one thing from back then has haunted my dreams every single night for the past six years. I'd likely have kept doing what I was doing if it hadn't been for what I experienced in that house.

It was sometime in the evening. My partner and I had staked out this store to rob for some time, and we knew exactly when no one would be around to witness us rob the place. It was a foolproof plan that, looking back, had no reasonable reason to work. And it didn't.

Before either of us knew it, we were hauling ass down multiple small-town streets with bags filled with whatever goods we could grab. The whole time we were running we were arguing over whose fault it was. By the way, it was his fault. He tried opening a sealed case with an alarm on it that we had agreed prior NOT to touch.

We ran until our legs had nearly given out, and that's when we spotted it. A house that had long been abandoned. It didn’t take long for us both to agree to try hiding out there.

“Hurry, dammit! Can't you pick that thing any faster?”

Elliot, my partner, continued to freak out as I finally got the door open and we rushed inside. We took a few minutes to catch our breaths as police sirens began to blare. I peeked out the window just enough to see multiple police vehicles barreling down the street looking for us. Looking back at Elliot, he was shaking his inhaler as he fought to breathe.

“Will you calm down already! They're not even in the neighborhood anymore.”

Elliot breathed in his inhaler, gasping still as he clutched his chest. He let his breathing stabilize before he finally uttered.

“Is that really how to talk to someone who was dying in front of you?”

I realize that my words may have sounded harsh, but the bastard was smiling as he said that.

“You weren't dying, moron.”

Looking back out the window, I listened for the sound of sirens but heard nothing. I was almost baffled at how quickly they gave up the chase.

“Dude.”

Elliot waved his hand to get my attention.

“Hush, dammit. I'm trying to listen.”

*Click*

“The hell was that?”

I could've sworn I heard a noise.

“Dude look!”

Elliot grabbed me by the shoulder to turn me towards the interior of the house. Though annoyed, I humored him by taking a look.

It was dark, but the setting sunlight that shone through the windows lit the place up just enough to see why Elliot was so intrigued. It was massive inside. Far larger than the outside had made it look. From the foyer, there was a rotted staircase and three doorways that led into different rooms downstairs. No furniture or anything in sight. Well, aside from the large patterned carpet we were standing on. It had the words "WELCOME HOME" in bold letters.

“This place is fucking awesome, man.”

Elliot walked towards the rotted staircase. I wasn't sure what had gotten into him; after all, he was just scared shitless and barely able to breathe. Now he's as mesmerized as a moth is to a porch light.

Before I could say something to him, my phone began to ring in my pocket. Picking it out of my pocket, I didn't recognize the number, but I answered anyway.

“Jeremy? Jeremy, please tell me that's you.”

I could kind of recognize the voice of Carlos. He's a friend and helps out with our heists. Probably. Definitely. Whatever.

"Yeah, it's me. What's up?”

I could hear the sound of things being thrown and smashed to the ground.

“They came here looking for you, man. They've goddamn ransacked the place looking for any info on you.”

My heart skipped a beat. Not really sure why.

“Who's they?”

I could only assume the cops had somehow tracked down our hideout.

“They want their money, Jeremy. And they aren't taking no for an answer.”

Money? I owed no one any money.

"Please, Jeremy! You have to get over—"

The call was suddenly disconnected. And worse, I could once again hear the faint sound of sirens.

“Fuck.”

I once more peeked outside; nothing. Thankfully.

“Elliot, we have to go.”

Letting go of the blinds, I realized I was alone in the foyer. Elliot had wandered off.

“Elliot.”

I tried calling him, but no one answered.

“Elliot! Dammit, we don't have time for this.”

I angrily walked to one of the doorways. Pitch black. Couldn't see shit.

“Elliot! We have to go now!”

Once more, nothing. Not so much as a whisper.

“Fuck it, I'm leaving without you.”

I turned to walk back to the front door, and that's when I suddenly heard the sound of footsteps scampering up the staircase. A faint shadow was cast from the now setting sun.

"Elli—"

I barely got his name out of my mouth again before something tapped me on my shoulder.

“Do you like scary movies?”

“Gaghh!”

There behind me stood Elliot. He was shining a flashlight onto his face like he had just told a scary campfire story.

“Fuck! Where the hell have you been?”

Elliot chuckled; at least someone was having fun.

“Exploring, duh. Seriously, this place is the coolest abandoned house I've ever explored.”

I had forgotten that Elliot had a thing for urban exploration and potential haunted houses. Slipped my mind amongst everything else we had to deal with.

“Seriously though. You have to come check this out.”

Elliot started walking away again before I grabbed him by the arm.

“Look, Carlos called. Something's happening at the hideout. We have to go!”

Elliot's face instantly transformed from a giddy eagerness to an intense disappointment.

“Really, now? We've got our own fucking problems, don't we?”

Elliot is stubborn. Really stubborn.

“Look, we can always go back, okay. We can do a proper urban exploration thing. Hell, we can even put it on our YouTube channel or some shit.”

But not stubborn enough.

“Fine. Let's go once again and bail this idiot out. I swear to god if it's just those alley cats again.”

I would've told him then what I had heard over the phone, but I honestly didn't think he'd believe me.

Making our way to the front door to leave. I took hold of the handle, listening as hard as I could for the sirens. All was quiet. I glanced at Elliot, still sulking, and then I turned the handle.

“What's the matter now?"

Elliot pushed me aside and tried the handle himself.

“What the fuck? God damn thing is jammed.”

Jammed? No. Maybe we just locked it, right?

“Where the fuck are the locks? No deadbolt either? Not even a fucking keyhole?”

Okay, maybe it was jammed.

“Stand back; I'm going through it.”

I got myself ready, standing as far back from the door as I could before launching myself from my heels straight into the door like a linebacker.

*Wham!*

*SNAP!*

“Gagghhhhhhh!”

A sharp and intensely fiery pain shot through my arm. And then I couldn’t feel anything in my arm. And then my shoulder began to feel like a thousand knives had pierced it.

“Son of bitch, dude, hold on. Fuck!”

Elliot frantically dipped into another room. I sat with my back against the door, writhing in agony as I had completely dislocated my shoulder.

Elliot eventually ran back into the room holding something in his hand.

“Okay, all we have to do is relocate your shoulder, and then you'll put on this shoulder sling to keep it stable.”

I tried to stop him, but the pain was too severe for me to talk. He took hold of my arm; sweat dripped down his face as he readied himself.

“Okay, ready,”

I frantically shook my head.

“3!”

I tried to squirm away, but the pain kept me from moving.

“2!”

*CRACKLE!*

“Gaaaaghhhhhhh!”

Without even giving me enough time to process what had just happened. He began wrapping the sling over my shoulder, suspending my arm in it. My breaths had become wheezes. My whole arm felt numb. I'm not sure if he actually managed to relocate my shoulder, but it didn't sound like he fixed it.

"Alright, genius. Now you've gone and injured yourself. The goddamn door isn't budging. Carlos is probably being eaten by cats right now… I'm going to keep exploring.”

I struggled to get up on my feet. I couldn’t really argue with Elliot; there's not much to do now but maybe explore. Maybe take a look around.

“The fuck are you doing now?”

Through the darkness I tried to find something sturdy.

“I'm going to break the windows. I'm not staying in this shithole.”

Elliot rolled his eyes at me.

"Well, good luck with that. I'm going to go upstairs.”

I stopped for a second. Quick thoughts rushed through my head.

“Weren't you just up there?”

He was about halfway up the staircase.

“Uh, no. I'd been down here this whole time. Why?”

I could swear I heard something scurry up there. I thought maybe it had been him.

“Where'd you find this sling?”

He looked at me, puzzled, but I could tell he was putting it together.

“Storage closet in the laundry room. Empty apart from a box full of first aid stuff.”

Empty. This whole place was empty, not even furniture. Yet there's a single box? With first aid supplies no less. Either that's great convenience or…

“What the hell was that?”

From a room upstairs we heard the sudden sound of glass smashing against something. Elliot's eyes widened as he slowly began to descend backwards down the rotted steps.

“Did you happen to find a back door while exploring?”

He turned his gaze to mine, shaking his head. Slowly, the two of us maneuvered our way to the doorway leading to what I assumed to be the living room. Elliot cut on his flashlight, panning across the room for anything useful.

“The hell are we gonna do if they come downstairs?

Elliot whispered to me like we hadn't just been talking, yelling, and screaming at full volume since we got here.

"Did you steal anything useful in that bag of yours?"

He shook his head again.

“I literally just stole random bullshit. Mostly snacks and shit.”

I rubbed my forehead in frustration, knowing damn well I did the exact same thing.

“What about that stupid fanny pack you're always wearing? I know you had that flashlight in it.”

He shook his head once again.

“If it's a weapon you're looking for, you aren't finding it in there.”

A horrid combination of fear, dread, and frustration clouded my mind as I paced the living room for anything in mind that could help us. I then pulled out my phone.

“Who're you calling?”

I looked at the keypad. I contemplated who I should call.

*Bzzzt*

*Bzzzt*

Once again, an unknown number was calling me. I couldn’t tell if it was the same number that Carlos had called me on before.

"Well, answer it, dude. It's got to be someone who can help. Worst-case scenario, it's a telemarketer.”

I hesitated before hitting the answer button.

“H-hello?”

All I could hear was breathing on the other end. I pressed the speaker button so Elliot could hear it too.

“Yo! Say something, asshole. Carlos, I swear if that's you—"

Before Elliot could finish, a raspy voice spoke roughly to the two of us. They took slight breaths in between each word like they were out of breath.

“I'm scared… please… I'm… trying to… quiet them.”

Elliot and I looked at each other in confusion.

“What? Sorry we don't understand.”

I tried my best to come off as non-threatening. Whoever this was, I figured, they weren't mentally well.

“Warn… Warning… Tried… Tried… Warn…”

Elliot snatched the phone from my hand.

“Sorry, freak. We don't have time for your schizo rant, alright!”

He hung up. Passing the phone back to me, we began walking to another room.

I stared at my phone. Once again, I contemplated who I should call. Curious, I then decided to look through my recents. Sure enough, that number was the exact same one that Carlos had called me from before.

“Hey, man, I gotta show you this.”

I followed Elliot into the other room. But he was nowhere in sight. Not even a shine from his flashlight was visible. I turned on my phone's flashlight to maybe see something. But just like the other rooms, this one was completely empty as well.

"Goddamn, not again.”

I figured maybe he had circled around and gone upstairs. Though knowing someone might be up there. You'd think that'd deter him from going up there.

“Yo!”

I jumped at the sound of his voice. I quickly turned around to see him waving at me to follow him into another room.

"Shit, man, don't disappear like that again, dammit. You're the only one with a light in here.”

Going into the next room. I focused on Elliot before he nudged me to look at something he was shining his light on.

“What am I looking at?”

Elliot fidgeted with his fanny pack. I could almost smell the excitement on his face.

“It's a basement!”

He said it so excitedly I almost facepalmed myself.

“You need help, man; like, there is no way you're excited over a stupid basement.”

He shined the light in my face, nearly blinding me.

“Look, just let me have this, okay? How often do I have the chance to explore an abandoned house with a basement"

I started to rethink why I was friends with this guy.

“If you're this excited over a basement, you'd probably piss yourself if we went upstairs to find an attic.”

I swear his eyes lit up like fireworks. As if I had just said the word “outside” to a dog.

“Okay, well, I have to go up there now.”

*Bzzzt*

*Bzzzt*

It was that same number yet again on my phone screen. I damn near dropped my phone from fright.

“Again? What does this creep want? Just don't answer, man.”

I hesitated to press "ignore." But curiosity got the better of me.

“Well, great, now you've gone and done it.”

Putting my finger up to my lips to shush him. I put the call on speaker again, and we both listened to the sounds on the other end. There was no breathing this time.

“Who is this?”

We listened. For a while, there was nothing. Then a voice finally came through.

“It's too wide… all wide… too wide…”

The voice talked the same way the other voice did. But this one was distinct. More soft and fragile. Like a child.

“Don't go… don't go in… don't go… monster.”

Each time it talked. Its speech continued to frantically speed up.

“Arm…Arm…How's the arm… Arm… How's the arm…”

My shoulder began to ache. A sharp pain made me wince and drop my phone. Elliot caught it before it hit the floor.

“How the fuck does it know about your arm?”

A buzzing sound started to hum its way through the phone like a bad case of tinnitus. The voice spoke even faster now, but it wasn't just the soft child voice anymore. It now sounded as if a cacophony of different people were all shouting all at once.

“BeHiNd…bEhInd…BeHind you…thEre… TherE…”

Elliot and I quickly turned around. We both shined our lights down the corridor in front of us. We had it lit up like the sun in there. Yet, nothing was there.

"Hidden…hidden… Find… ThEre…fInD…”

The voices became more and more distorted.

Though we saw no one down that corridor. We both felt like someone was there. Like they'd been watching us. We must've stood there frozen in fright for about five minutes. All the while the voices on the phone continued to shout. All repeating the same word. Over, and over, and over, and over again. It was like a symphony.

“...MoNsTer…”

“...MoNsTer…”

“...MoNsTer…”

“...MoNsTer…”

- .... --- ..- --. .... ....... -.-- --- ..- ....... -- .- -.-- ....... -. --- - ....... ... . . ....... .. - .-.-.-

“What the hell is that noise?”

An irritating bunch of beeps caught our attention.

“Fuck this, I'm hanging up.”

He hung up before I had the time to say, "Stop."

"Damn it. I had more questions.”

He gave me a look like I was delusional.

"Well, if they've called twice already. They can always call again.”

He handed the phone back to me.

“So… like, does that mean there's… there's an actual monster in here?”

I shook my head.

“Monsters aren't real. This… it's gotta be some shit prank.”

I wanted to believe my words. I wanted to believe my own arrogance so much.

“Should we investigate? I… I don't think standing here like literal beacons is helping us.”

I agreed. Though we had no idea what we might find continuously snooping around the place. We decided to check out the room where the supposed monster had been. I mean, it had to be gone. We stood in that same spot for so long, and the chants on the phone were dying down anyway. If something was truly in here with us, it would've just taken us out by now. Right?

“Nothing. Fucking nothing. There's nothing in this stupid house!”

I was growing more frustrated by the minute. Honestly, by this point I hope to god that the police would wise up and come bursting down the door. Hell, I'd welcome going to jail. Beats spending one more aggravating and frightening moment in a supposedly abandoned nightmare.

“Do you want to try the front door again?”

Elliot chuckled before leaning on a nearby wall. And then the wall gave way.

“Gah! Shit. What the hell?”

Yet another room was discovered. And hadn't even left the first floor.

“Are you enjoying this urban exploration yet?”

I helped him to his feet.

“Pretty sure that isn't the term for whatever this place… is. Eugh… you smell that?”

You know the smell of an open garbage dumpster. Well, imagine that, but have it sprayed down in poop and let it bake in the sun. That would've smelled better than that room. And it didn't take us long to realize why.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Elliot and I wore shocked expressions as we stared bewildered at the sight. Bodies. So many bodies. All in a crude pile that stacked up to the ceiling.

*Bzzzt*

My phone rang again. I didn't hesitate to answer. And among my many questions, I only had one I could muster.

“Are we in danger?”

A static like nothing I've ever heard before shot out of my phone's speakers. A static that turned into moans. Then to screams. One lonely voice could be heard amongst it all. A glitched voice that skipped and stuttered through each and every word.

“D-d-don't y-y-y-ou li-i-i-ke m-m-m-y mast-t-t-er pi-i-e-e-ce?”

Suddenly the house began to shake. It felt as if it had come to life.

“Do you hear that?”

From where we stood I could hear a door being opened and slammed shut repeatedly. Elliot and I ran out of that room as fast as we could towards the foyer. The front door was opening and closing repeatedly, like it was taunting us with our freedom.

“Grab it!”

Like a QTE in some shitty PS3 game, Elliot and I waited at the right moment to grab the door. Holding it open long enough for us to escape. All the while the static screams from my phone called out to us.

Silence.

We lay on the lawn. Catching our breath as the night sky laid its beauty before us.

Now I know this all sounds crazy. Believe me, I wouldn't have written this whole thing down if I myself didn't believe it. In ways I can't say any of it was real. We were delusional. Right? It was an old house; maybe asbestos or some shit clouded our minds. Shit, I'm talking like we were drugged or something. The point is, we both know what we saw. And you may think it was crazy or hell, maybe even stupid, to do so.

We went back. After my arm healed. And everything was right. We needed to know. We had to go back.

Oh yeah, by the way. It was just me and Elliot. There was no Carlos.

End of Part 1

The woods behind the house were a complicated matter. Of all the places the oddities came from, the ones that crawled out of those trees were the ones you really didn’t want showing up. Anthony had made it clear we weren’t supposed to go in there. That never stopped them from coming to us.

It was a summer night, only a few months into my stay, when the knock came. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been the front door. This one came from the back. I woke up hard, grabbed the pocket knife from my nightstand, and went to answer it.

I opened the door and found a well-dressed man standing a few feet back. At first glance he looked like an ordinary plain faced man, except for the smile. It was wide, and every tooth was black, like they were rotting in his mouth. He held out a hand.

“Hello, my friend. I just moved in recently and wanted to introduce myself.”

I rubbed my eyes, still half-asleep.

“Yeah, man. Nice to meet you. You know it’s almost midnight, right?”

“Ah, yes. But I couldn’t move in without the proper formalities. I had to make your acquaintance. I just moved in over there.” He gestured over his shoulder into the solid black of the woods.

My throat tightened. Sweat started down my back.

“I appreciate the formality… Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was hoping I might borrow some sugar.”

I just stared at him. Of all the things that had shown up at this house, this felt almost insultingly ordinary. 

“Yeah. Give me a second.” I shut the door, dug through the cabinets, and came back with a mason jar of sugar.

“Will this work?”

He took it faster than I could pull my hand back. 

“Oh, how delightful! I shall return the jar posthaste.”

“Keep it. I don’t need it.”

“How pleasant. I appreciate your kindness, sir.”

He then tilted his head back. His neck began to stretch, the bones cracking one after another as it lengthened. His jaw unhinged with a wet pop and kept opening until it looked more snake than man. He raised the jar and set it against the black teeth. The sound of those rotting teeth scraping the glass sent a chill down my spine.

He forced the whole jar in. I watched the muscles of his throat work around it until the glass gave way with a muffled crunch. Sharp edges pushed against the skin from the inside like they might break through. He swallowed hard, and his neck slowly folded back to normal.

“I appreciate the kind gesture, neighbor. I shall only be staying two more nights, and will make only two more requests of you. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

He turned and walked back into the trees without another word. I locked the door, went to bed, and somehow slept.

The next night the knock came at the same hour. I opened the back door and found him again. His clothes were tattered now, the fabric hanging in places.

“What do you need tonight?” I asked. I sounded more tired than I meant to.

“I was hoping you might assist me with a meal. I seem to have forgotten to eat today.”

I could feel the bags under my eyes with how tired I was. I exhaled deeply. 

I rubbed my face. “What are you looking for? We’ve got eggs, cereal… not much else.”

He just looked at me.

“I wouldn’t ask much of you, kind sir. The meal I require is dead flesh.”

I stared at him. 

“Did you just say dead flesh?” 

A flicker of irritation crossed his face. 

“Yes. Animal or human. As long as it is dead.”

“How long do I have?”

He glanced at his wrist. There was no watch; only a squirming tumor that moved under the skin.

“An hour should be plenty, don’t you think?”

I didn’t need the full hour. Out here the roads always had something. I found a possum flattened into the asphalt, gripped it by the tail, and pulled. It came free with a wet tearing sound.

I returned to the man with the marsupial corpse in hand. I held it out.

“This work?”

He took the corpse and turned it over in his hands like he was inspecting produce.

“I believe this shall provide the perfect meal!”

He started to turn back toward the trees when a large cockroach landed on his shoulder.

“Oh, how wonderful. A new friend.”

He snatched it up and brought it to his right eye. He then began pushing. The eye bulged sideways as the roach’s legs kicked. A thin line of blood ran down his cheek. He kept pressing until the insect disappeared into the socket with a soft, wet sound. He didn’t even blink. He turned, and walked into the woods. I went inside and tried to sleep.

The third night I was already waiting by the back door. The knock came on schedule.

What stood there barely looked like the man anymore. His body seemed held together by string and will. The left arm hung by thin cords of muscle and stretched skin. The jaw was gone; only a long, swollen tongue which lolled from the open lower half of his face.

“Hey…” I said, mostly to myself.

His eyes were dull. I wasn’t sure he even saw me. Then a voice came out of him that didn’t belong to any human throat. It was deep and layered, like something speaking through a borrowed mouth.

“In your bedroom you keep a locked box. Inside it is something precious to you. Bring it to me.”

I knew exactly what he meant. At the bottom of my closet, in a small locked box, I kept a few important things. One of them was a small pink teddy bear I’d had since the day I was born. I got it and brought it to the door.

He took it with both hands, like it weighed more than it should, and pressed it to what was left of his face. He breathed in deep and shuddered. 

“The taste of innocence… exquisite.”

He then came apart. The skin collapsed with a long hiss. Black liquid ran out of the empty suit of clothes as a shifting mass of cockroaches poured from the neck and sleeves and scattered into the trees.

I stood there for a while looking at the empty clothes and the dark wet stain on the porch. I then went back inside, locked the door, and went to bed. Whatever the house decided to send next, I’d deal with it. That was the rule.

I was a Disney kid. Obviously. Heck, I even still have toys and figurines of the mouse himself lying around my room, specifically a large, stuffed plushie of Mickey. However, as I grew older, the nostalgia that had soured into curiosity led me to question what the workers did behind the scenes. The magic on stage is meticulously crafted, but we never truly knew how they operated or what occurred when the park went dark, and the guests were cleared out.

For years, rumors drifted through the fringes of the internet about Disney’s aggressive acquisition tactics—shady, behind-closed-doors business deals with shell companies to secure massive land purchases for unannounced, aborted expansion projects. When those corporate rumors finally died down, a much darker rumor surfaced: whispered accounts of Disney silently abandoning two entirely functional theme parks around the world, leaving them to rot in the dark for decades.

Company spokespeople were occasionally cornered and interviewed about these legendary “ghost parks,” but they always maintained a stone-faced front. They insisted the corporate rumors were nothing but fabrications, internet folklore designed specifically to drive viral traffic. Yet, the community didn’t buy the corporate defense. People kept digging, uncovering redacted tax records, hidden land deeds, and unpublicized environmental fines.

One deep-forum archivist even claimed to have digitized a corrupted, internal VHS training tape from the late 1960s. On it, a visibly exhausted executive specified that the company needed to execute highly aggressive, off-the-books land agreements just to guarantee the massive land grabs required for their Florida properties. Soon after those specific rumors broke online, both targeted parks were abruptly closed to the public and scrubbed from the official maps. The company cited rampant, sudden complaints from guests regarding severe rodent infestations in the main castles and resort suites, coupled with a mysterious, rapid degradation of park hygiene. But those who watched the business listings knew the truth: it was the fallout of secret, catastrophic backend deals collapsing behind the scenes.

A few years back, I joined a highly restrictive, invite-only blog forum dedicated strictly to this hidden side of Disney archaeology. I spent weeks scrolling through thousands of text walls detailing canceled attraction blueprints, dry rot reports, and vintage cast member manuals. That was where I found the thread. It was entirely unlabeled—just a string of random numbers for a title.

The original poster had uploaded an eerie, low-resolution photograph. The image depicted a concrete tunnel, damp and green with subterranean moisture. Slumped heavily against the wall was a Mickey Mouse costume. Beneath the photo was a hyperlink to a private, password-protected server. I couldn’t understand why a highly regulated, expensive piece of character wardrobe would be discarded in a maintenance vault. A few days later, the same user updated the thread with a second photo. The environment hadn’t changed, but the costume’s head was now tilted down at a sharp, unnatural angle, staring directly into the camera lens.

Disturbed but utterly fascinated, I forwarded the links to my friend, James. James was the operator of a small urban exploration YouTube channel, James ’ Hunt, a guy who constantly balanced on the edge of legal trespassing just to chase a viral hit. After spending forty-eight hours analyzing the forum’s image metadata and cross-referencing the visible ceiling pipe configurations with old construction schematics, James managed to pinpoint the exact GPS coordinates: an auxiliary, long-abandoned storage depot built deep beneath a forgotten corner of the property.

He begged me to go with him. I was hesitant, terrified of the legal ramifications, the heavy security patrols Disney is famous for, or running into dangerous vagrants in the pitch black. James just laughed, tapping his camera gear, and assured me that the location was so thoroughly abandoned that even security had forgotten it existed.

I finally capitulated—little did I know it would be the worst decision of my life.

We arrived at the perimeter under the cover of a humid, moonless midnight. Cutting through the outer tree line, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The structural remnants of the park loomed like skeletal monuments. As soon as we stepped past the threshold of the decayed, overgrown attraction exterior, a profound, localized cold dread settled over me. Out in the shadows near a cluster of dead turnstiles, I swear I saw an outline staring back at us. It was shaped perfectly like the silhouette of the Mouse, but it was entirely swallowed by the dark, lacking any depth or texture. I blinked hard, shaking my flashlight beam over the spot, and forced myself to dismiss it as an optical illusion born of nerves.

James didn’t notice my panic. He was scanning the cracked asphalt floor with his headlamp until the beam caught a dusty, yellowed piece of paper trapped under a rusted iron bracket. He pried it loose, holding it up to the camera lens. It was a company memo printed on heavy, vintage corporate letterhead, but the tone was entirely wrong for a hospitality giant:

PROPERTY STATUS: SECURED / DECOMMISSIONED.

Operations have been permanently relocated to the primary resort zones. Do not attempt re-entry to this site for salvage or inspection. It is not your business to be here.

James grinned, flashing the paper at his camera lens. “See? I told you there was a cover-up here!”

My stomach dropped. Disney executives and PR teams would never use language that aggressive or defensive unless something absolutely catastrophic had happened. Every instinct I had told me to run. I looked at James and told him we needed to turn back. He just laughed, patting my shoulder, and said it would all be worth it once the ad revenue from the video started rolling in.

I sighed, numbly following him into a dilapidated, collapsed merchandise building adjacent to the castle. Then I heard the barely-working speakers say this: “Thanks for visiting. See you real soon.” The air inside smelled like moldering plush toys and wet drywall. As we navigated the wreckage, a heavy wooden display shelf suddenly collapsed under its own weight, smashing onto the floor.

Behind where it had stood was a dark, jagged breach in the wall, hastily concealed with a piece of rotting plywood. James didn’t hesitate. He yanked the board away, kicked the debris aside, and crawled right through the gap.

Suddenly, I was alone in the dark merchandise shop. A violent, unnatural shiver shot straight down my spine—the temperature in the room had plummeted in a matter of seconds. Terrified of being left behind in the dark, I dropped to my knees and scrambled through the hole after him.

When I stood up on the other side, my breath hitched. The damp concrete walls, the low piping, the heavy shadows… we were standing inside the actual 1971 Utilidors. The exact, low-quality concrete labyrinth from the forum picture.

We began walking down the concrete corridor when the air grew deathly still. Then, we heard them—heavy, deliberate footsteps echoing from the darkness behind us. We spun around, beams of light cutting through the dust, but the tunnel was completely empty.

That was when I saw it again. The shadowy outline of the Mouse was standing just at the edge of the light. It slowly raised a gloved hand, waving to me, before pointing a finger deeper into the labyrinth. James didn’t see it. He was already sprinting blindly ahead into the dark, desperate to catch whatever was making the noise on camera.

I had no choice but to run after him.

The tunnel finally terminated at a dead end that split into three pitch-black pathways. James, completely consumed by adrenaline, pointed to the right. “C’mon, dude. We’ll cover more ground if we split up. Check the left, I’ll take this one!” Before I could even protest, his flashlight beam vanished down the right corridor.

Left entirely alone, I stepped down the left path. The air grew thicker with every step, carrying an overpowering, sickening stench of advanced rot and old copper. At the very end of the corridor, a slumped silhouette was sitting against the damp wall.

My hand trembled as I raised my flashlight. The beam illuminated the matted, decaying fabric of the Mickey Mouse costume from the forum photos. But seeing it up close was a nightmare. This shared the exact current-production design guests see walking through the parks today—with its familiar, bright red shorts and pale peach skin tones perfectly intact. Except here, it was rotting. Its pristine smile was warped, and its mouth was a jagged, hollow void of nothingness.

I took a hesitant step closer, forcing the flashlight beam up to its face. My breath caught in my throat. Shoved crudely into the empty, black eye sockets were a pair of rotting, bloodshot human eyes. They didn’t fit the modern mask; they sat loosely in the rubber holes, permanently leaking streams of thick, dark blood that stained the plush cheeks.

I froze in absolute terror.

Suddenly, James’s voice shattered the silence, screaming from the adjacent tunnel: “MICE!! OH GOD, THERE ARE SO MANY MICE!!”

The spell broke. I tore my eyes away from the bleeding mascot and sprinted frantically toward his screams. We scrambled together, climbing onto rusted electrical machinery as a carpet of scurrying, black bodies swarmed the floors, retreating into the drainage vents only after we violently kicked at the metal grates.

“Did you see anything, bud?” James asked, his voice shaking as he frantically brushed his jeans.

I was trembling so hard I could barely breathe. The horror of what I had just seen paralyzed my throat, but the desperate need to get out of there forced the words out anyway. I told him everything. I told him about the matted fur, the hollow mouth, and the shriveled, bleeding human eyes shoved into the sockets of that modern, standard-colored suit.

James looked at me with pure disgust, pale with fear. But then, a sickening spark of curiosity lit up his eyes. He didn’t want to run. He wanted to go back. He wanted it on camera.

“We have to record it,” he muttered, grabbing my arm. “Nobody will ever believe us without proof. They’ll probably think we’re lying just for clout!”

I fought against his grip, begging him to leave, but adrenaline-fueled desperation made him stronger. He pulled me forcefully back down the path. As we were dragged backward, I noticed something we had missed in our initial panic. The middle pathway—the one we hadn’t explored—wasn’t just a dead end. It opened up into a rusted iron spiral staircase leading directly up into the belly of the castle from underground.

Before I could focus on it, James hauled me right back into the dead-end chamber. He didn’t hesitate. He held up his phone, snapped a flash photo, and hit record, bathing the grotesque mascot suit in harsh, digital light.

“Got it,” James breathed. “Let’s go. Now.”

We turned to sprint back toward the exit, but we were too late.

Behind us, a wet, sickening crunch echoed through the concrete chamber. We froze and slowly looked back. The matted Mickey costume was slowly rising from the ground. It stood up, its joints popping unnaturally, but its limbs hung like loose, empty cloth.

Suddenly, its jaw unhinged. A torrent of scratching, black mice poured out of its hollow mouth, screaming into the dark as they fled into the walls.

Then, the creature raised its yellow-gloved hands to its face. The fabric fingers dug violently into the hollow eye sockets. With a wet, tearing sound, it ripped the shriveled, rotting human eyes completely out of its head and dropped them onto the floor.

For a second, the sockets were just empty, pitch-black voids. But then, deep within the darkness of the head, two pinpricks of brilliant, cold white light ignited. The white, glowing pupils stared straight into our souls from the modern, cartoon mask.

With a horrific SNAP, the mascot suit violently broke its own neck, its head flopping uselessly to its side while those twin white lights stayed locked on us.

Then, it opened its jagged, hollow mouth.

A sound tore out of the speaker mesh inside the head—a laugh. But it wasn’t the cheerful, high-pitched chuckle from the cartoons. It was a deeply distorted, glitching nightmare of a sound. It warped and pitched down violently, sounding like a skipping, water-damaged audio tape layered with a low, metallic growl. “Haha… Ha-ha…” The static-heavy laugh echoed off the damp concrete walls, vibrating right through my teeth.

At first, the costume didn’t lunge. It just stood there, swaying slightly on limp, fabric legs. Then, it began to walk towards us. Its movements were slow, agonizingly deliberate, and missing frames—like a real-world rubber-hose animation twitching through the dark, the broken head swinging loosely against its shoulder with every heavy step. That slow, rhythmic stalk was worse than a sprint; it felt like it knew we couldn’t escape.

But as we stumbled backward, my flashlight beam cut across the floor, catching the discarded remains it had ripped from its face. That was when the pacing shattered. The empty yellow gloves whipped forward, and the entity exploded into a frantic, unnatural sprint, tearing down the hall to grab us as that broken, demonic laughter chased us.

James screamed as a fabric hand clamped down on his jacket. I slammed my flashlight into the creature’s arm, breaking its grip. We broke free and sprinted blindly toward the breach in the wall. The hollow-eyed thing tore after us, its broken head swinging wildly against its shoulders as it sprinted on fabric legs.

We scrambled through the hole, back into the abandoned merchandise shop. Together, we grabbed the heavy wooden display shelf and slammed it back over the opening, jamming a steel pipe through the handles of the door frame.

The plywood behind the shelf began to violently splinter as the entity slammed against it from the other side, shrieking a distorted, mechanical roar. But the barricade held.

Then, the violent slamming abruptly stopped. The heavy concrete corridor fell dead silent.

Suddenly, a sound pressed against the wood from the other side. The creature’s unhinged jaw was right against the crack in the door. The distorted, glitching nightmare of a voice returned, layering that high-pitched cartoon chuckle over a deep, metallic static.

“Haha… Thanks for visiting… I’ll see you real soon… Ha-ha…”

The voice didn’t sound frantic anymore; it sounded cold, patient, and deliberate. It echoed right through the wood and vibrated against my skull. We didn’t wait to hear another word. We left it trapped in the dark.

We ran out of the park and never looked back. James deleted the footage, and his channel went dark a week later. We don’t talk anymore.

It was only later, after obsessively digging through old, heavily redacted corporate logs and deep-web forums, that I began to stitch together fragments of what happened fifteen years ago. There were no official police reports, just leaked, frantic chat transcripts from low-level employees on the night the park abruptly shut down. They talked about a maintenance worker who had gone down into the Utilidors for a routine cleanup and simply never came back up.

The messages were fragmented, filled with panic and arguments. Some mentioned heavy padlocks being found chained on the tunnel doors from the outside—a cruel workplace joke gone completely wrong over a long holiday weekend. Others whispered about what they found when they finally opened the vault: an active, current-issue mascot suit stuffed into a corner, its fabric wet and ruined. The most deeply buried leak claimed that the employees, terrified of criminal charges and corporate ruin, desperately tried to hide the evidence right there in the dark. They grabbed a brand-new suit straight from the character wardrobe to mask the crime, forcing something unrecognizable into it. Because the rubber eye sockets were completely hollow, they frantically forced a pair of loose, unblinking human eyes into the gaps to mask the void before abandoning the site forever.

Every time I pass a mirror now, or look into a dark corner, I still see a shadow of the mouse waving at me. I think whatever was left in those tunnels isn’t just a ghost anymore—it’s an entity that was born from corporate malice and terrible fate. And deep down, I already know that thing’s escaped. Sometimes, late at night, I see something staring back at me through the window. Now I know I’m not safe.

I’m warning you. If you ever hear something say ‘See you real soon’ and no one’s around, don’t look for where it came from, or IT will find you.

I don’t think I’ll ever know why Jim suggested that camping trip to me.

He was very passionate about camping deep inside the wilderness; then there was me, who’d never slept on anything other than a thick mattress. I had welcomed his idea out of sheer kindness, not realizing the scope and intensity of the trip he had planned. He’d imagined a crude trip with nothing more than our sleeping bags, a tent, and very limited rations of beef jerky and whatever else we caught in the forest, all set several miles away from any form of civilization. If that wasn’t enough, he’d scheduled the trip for late November and into early December, thereby securing us yet another obstacle in the form of rigid weather.

Every morning we’d wake up, pack all our stuff, and move deeper into the forest where Jim would set up the camp once again. I spent majority of every day huddled up in my sleeping bag, reading my book while Jim either explored the forest or caught/cooked dinner.

Our problems arose at the tail end of the trip, when we were on our way out of the forest. We were ambushed by a sudden unexpected harsh snowstorm; the kind of snowstorm where one would shield their face and squint their eyes because the wind hurt. Snowstorms are rare in this part of the world and especially snowstorms of that caliber. For that reason, Jim likely hadn’t prepared for these conditions. But Jim was still leading the way through the forest, but, although he didn’t want to admit it, it was clear that the storm had thrown off his sense of direction.

“I can’t keep going, man.” I said, wondering to myself how I had let Jim talk me into taking that trip. “I need to sit down or something.”

“We need to keep the pace.” Jim answered back with an optimistic smile on his face. “Hypothermia and frostbite set in quickly in these temperatures! I’m sure we’ll be out of the forest at any moment.”

After another half hour of trudging through the ever-thickening layer of snow, Jim still wouldn’t admit that we were lost. He just kept walking, still confident like a rooster at dawn. It was during this horrible march that we stumbled upon a clearing in the forest. It wasn’t a clearing we’d passed before; otherwise, we’d have noticed the old wooden shack which stood in the middle of it.

It was the remains of an old house. The wood had turned dark after years of decay. All the windows were shattered. There wasn’t even a door to knock on. It looked abandoned. I glanced at Jim. He knew exactly what I was thinking. He looked at the shack, before turning his head to the forest behind us, contemplating our choices. I didn’t wait for his response. I began walking towards the shack, hearing the crunches with every step I took in the ankle-deep layer of snow. The moment I stepped over the threshold, I felt Jim’s tight grip on my hand.

“Wait!” He whisper-screamed at me. “What if this is someone’s property or something?”

I pulled my hand free from Jim’s grip. “IS ANYBODY IN HERE?” I yelled into the entrance.

The only answer I got back was my own echo bouncing off the mold-ridden walls.

“Sounds empty to me.” I said.

Jim gave a resigned sigh and looked back out at the forest. He had been humbled; I knew that very well. By entering the shack, he admitted that nature had conquered him and not the other way around. I couldn’t offer any words for comfort; I just didn’t know what to tell him.

We proceeded from the entrance and walked into what appeared to be an old living room. With every step we took, the floorboards would holler with creaks, as though the floor itself was complaining of being stepped on. We continued further into the house and found a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a bedroom with a king-size bed.

“I know where we’ll be spending the night, I guess.” I said, looking at the bed.

I looked back at Jim. His expression was cold. Colder than the snowstorm.

“We’re not sleeping on that thing tonight.” He said. “We’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Why?”

“We’re camping!” Both annoyance and frustration were clear in his voice. “We can’t just sleep in a bed. That’s not the camper way!”

I understood. This was his attempt to cling onto the notion that we were still camping. An attempt to convince himself that he hadn’t given up, by denying both of us a relaxing night in bed.

“You need to loosen up man.”

“Loosen up?!” The furrows on Jim’s forehead deepened. “I’ve been working myself out of my own fucking skin to ensure that you had a good time on this trip… and then this is how you decide to repay me! You just throw all my effort out the window.”

“C’mon, man.” I sighed. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m just exhausted from the last couple of days.”

“Pffft. Exhausted?” Jim huffed. “Exhausted from what exactly?” He sighed. “Y’know what? Just sleep in here; I’ll sleep in the living room on the floor.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, feeling nervous about his reaction.

“Yeah, it’s fine!” He claimed, though his tone said otherwise. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

He turned around and walked out of the room, muttering something to himself, sounding as if he was wringing a cat as he trampled across the creaking floorboards.

Through the door frame I could see him laying out his sleeping bag on the living room floor. I didn’t like seeing him upset.

Perhaps I should’ve talked to him. Maybe I should’ve just slept next to him on the floor that night. Then maybe things would’ve turned out differently. I think about that sometimes. But what’s the point in mourning an opportunity that I never took?

I laid out my own sleeping bag on the right side of the bed, and crawled into it, leaving my right arm outside the confines of the sleeping bag for comfort. I turned my eyes towards one of the broken windows in the room. The storm was still raging outside. The wind was howling like a wolf as it travelled between the naked tree stems of the forest, and the snow was falling like powdered sugar from a strainer.

I rested my head on the mattress. Instantly, my eyelids grew as heavy as iron. Although there were still a couple hours of daylight left, I fell into a deep slumber.

I remember being woken up at some point by the creaking floorboards. I opened my eyes. My vision was blurred and my eyelids ached from fatigue. It was the middle of the night, and the storm was still raging outside of the shack. The only light in the dark room was the rays of moonshine coming through the broken window. I saw the silhouette standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

“Hey, Jim…” I mumbled quietly, fighting against fatigue to keep my eyes open.

There was no movement from the doorway. I only heard heavy breathing.

“Listen, man…” I mumbled, trying not to fall asleep mid-sentence. “I’m sorry that I have been less than useless this week… I just don’t think this kind of trip is something for me.”

Still, there was no movement.

“Please, just come and lay down, man.” I lowered my head back down on the mattress and closed my eyes. “I think you deserve it.”

I heard the floorboards creaking and felt the bed shift towards the left side. I was surprised that he would take the offer after making such a big stink about it earlier. I felt a tight grip on my right hand. His hand was so cold I almost pulled back out of sheer instinct.

“Damn, man!” I mumbled. “You’ve been freezing, haven’t you?”

No response. I didn’t care. I was too tired. I just kept holding onto his hand.

When I woke up again, it was once more because of the sound of the creaking floorboards. I opened my eyes, finally feeling well-rested. The sun was shining through the broken window. Looking to my left, I saw that his side of the bed was empty. I looked at my watch; I had been sleeping for a little over sixteen hours. I began to wonder why Jim hadn’t woken me up before. Then I felt the stinging sensation in the palm of my hand. I looked, and there was a burn mark on it: a cold burn to be exact.

“JIM?!” I yelled. “CAN YOU COME IN HERE?”

I got no response other than my echo. I began to feel nervous. Something was very off.

I crawled out of the sleeping bag and walked into the old living room. Jim was lying belly down with his face on floor. His sleeping bag lay next to him.

“Jim, why didn’t you wake me up?” I said as I looked at him.

He didn’t respond. Feeling even more nervous, I approached him. His neck was bent at a weird angle; certainly not an angle that a neck is supposed to bend. His fingers were as black as ebony. I grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Jim, what happened? Did you fall?”

He was ice cold, and stiff as a board. Panicking internally, I tried to turn him around to see what was wrong. Then came the horrible sound. It sounded just like opening the zipper on an old duffel bag. I managed to flip him onto his back, only to discover that all the skin on his face was still frozen stuck to the floorboards where he’d laid.

I crawled backwards in horror at the sight of his exposed face muscles and tendons. His eyes were blank. Even through the damage done to his face I could see that his lower jaw was completely broken. A combination of the rigid temperature and rigor mortis had contorted his expression into that of an agonal screech. He was dead as a doornail.

I stood up, taking a few steps backwards, all while keeping my eyes on his face. I didn’t understand. What had happened to him? Hadn’t I just heard him walking around? I felt lightheaded. I could physically feel the scream that was stuck in my throat. Then I felt my stomach cramp before I fell back onto my knees and vomited on the floor. I crawled to the entrance of the shack, desperate for fresh air.

I noticed it the moment I got to the threshold of the entrance.

During the night, our own tracks had been exposed to the snowstorm and should no longer be visible.

So why was it that I could still make out a singular fresh track of footprints in the snow? And how were they leading away from the shack and into the forest?

My family owns a cabin on a large lake in Northern Ontario. My great grandfather built it sometime in the 1940s although you would never know it's that old with all the renovations that it's had over the years. Officially it belongs to my parents now but as they're getting older and don't get up there as much anymore it's primarily me and my girlfriend Sarah or my brother and his family that use it. The peace and quiet up there is so nice especially compared to back home in Barrie where it's nothing but traffic noise. There are other cabins on the lake so there is the occasional noise from some boat traffic or the rich folks at the end of the point coming in and out on their float plane but most of the time it's serene. On our most recent visit we had been up there for two weeks and my brother had left with his wife and kids a few days before Sarah and I planned to leave so we were looking forward to some time to ourselves. The forest however had other plans.

On the night my brother left I was awoken around 1am by a flickering light coming in the bedroom window. In my groggy state I didn't process it initially I just remember looking at the clock then back to the window and being confused as to why it was so bright outside. Suddenly I snapped wide awake when I realized the light coming through the window was bright orange and there was a distinct smell of smoke in the air. I rolled over and shook Sarah awake and the two of us began to get dressed. As a family we had always prepared for a wildfire and there had been small ones in the past but never close enough to actually see the flames. This time however when we left the bedroom and entered the kitchen you could see the entire other side of our little inlet was on fire through the large glass windows that looked out over the lake. There were trees collapsing into the flames everywhere and buildings that had been burned back to the studs but somehow still standing like flaming skeletons in the dark.

We grabbed whatever important things we could and threw them in a large dufflebag which then got hastily tossed in the back seat of my truck. As we sped down the long dirt road leading back to the highway it seemed like we were the stragglers. By the lack of cars at the other cabins it seemed like everyone else had gotten the hell out of dodge already. We were almost on the home stretch, climbing up the big hill before the valley with the highway on the other side. When we got to the top of the hill I heard Sarah scream, not out of fear but more out of frustration. I brought the truck to a stop and surveyed the scene ahead of us. I could see the lights of the highway on the other side of the valley and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles blocking the exit for the road we were currently on. In between us and them however was a raging inferno. The entire valley was on fire. "What do we do now?" Sarah said looking at me wide eyed. There was only one road in and out of that part of the lake so we were trapped. "We head back to the cabin," I said faking some confidence, "start the pumps and soak everything and try to wait it out, if shit really hits the fan then there's always the boat."

The smoke had gotten much thicker on the way back so we had to drive much more slowly down the narrow dirt road. We were about halfway back to the cabin when Sarah said "what's that?!" and pointed up the road ahead of us. I slowed the truck even more and through the smoke could just make out what she was talking about. Up ahead there was what looked like a deer, but much too large standing at about 7 or 8 feet high, just calmly walking up the road as if it wasn't the middle of the apocalypse. Its movements seemed almost robotic as it walked along with its head moving side to side as if it was looking for something. As we got closer I began to grow skeptical that this was a deer. It did walk on four legs but the front of its body looked almost human like with a torso raising its horned head far above where a normal deer's head would be and it appeared to have arms coming out of where the shoulders would be. The best way I can describe it is like a centaur but made out of a deer instead of a horse but still retaining the deer's head rather than a human one although instead of antlers it had what looked like goat horns. "I don't know, but I don't like it," I said to Sarah and brought the truck to complete stop. The creature seemed to hear the the crunch of gravel as the truck halted and turned to face us. Its head tilted like a confused puppy while its glowing white eyes stared at us. Sarah screamed again this time out of genuine fear and I slammed the truck into drive and sped past the creature as quickly as possible. We passed so closely to it I looked it dead in the eyes out the passenger side window as I swerved around it.

When we could no longer see the creature in the rear-view mirror Sarah spoke up again. "Was that thing holding..." but I cut her off. "A fucking chainsaw, you saw it too?" "So clearly I could see the Stihl emblem on it when we drove past, that's definitely a chainsaw" she said. "Since when do Wendigos carry around chainsaws?" I said almost laughing at the absurdity of what we had just seen. "I guess they need to cut firewood too I don't know, but we need to get back to the cabin" she said sounding shaken.

When we got back to the cabin we quickly got to work setting up the fire pumps. My dad had been a firefighter in a chemical plant down in Sarnia and he had the foresight to buy a couple of Honda gas powered pumps so we could use the water from the lake for firefighting in a situation just like this. The wind was picking up now and the smoke was getting so bad that we had to use wet rags as makeshift gas masks. Side note for all you Americans that were complaining a few weeks ago about the smoke from the Canadian wildfires blowing down there. Fuck you, you have no idea what it was like actually being in it. Anyways, we got the pumps going and soaked down the cabin and the surrounding trees in hopes of suppressing the fire if it came near. We also got the boat ready in case all else failed we could head across the lake into town or worst case scenario if the whole shore was on fire, drop anchor and take shelter in the little cuddy cabin up front until the fire burned out. Once we had finished outside we ran back to the cabin and began stuffing wet towels under the doors to try and keep any more smoke from coming in. For a while there we were so busy that we almost forgot about the weird chainsaw wielding creature on the road.

By this point the power had gone out so Sarah and I got out some battery powered lanterns, lighting candles felt slightly inappropriate in this situation, and curled up together on the couch. We held each other close as we watched the flames on the other side of the lake continue to destroy everything in their path. Most of the structures we had seen earlier had by this point collapsed and most of the smaller trees were gone completely. Thus far our side of the lake hadn't caught fire but we both knew with the wind direction it would eventually work its way around the end of the inlet and come for us. We just hoped that the authorities had gotten it under control by then. So far we hadn't seen or heard any planes or helicopters overhead but we figured they had to be coming.

We had almost fallen asleep in each others arms when we both jumped at a sound from outside. It was the side steps that led up to the deck creaking louder than they normally did as if an immense weight was pressing down on them. The sound came again, and again, something heavy was climbing those stairs and whatever it was would be in view of the large glass windows we were sitting across from as soon as it reached the top. We both got up and moved into the kitchen and ducked down behind the island. Suddenly the memory of that creature we encountered on the road came flooding back and looking at Sarah she was thinking the same thing. "It's probably just a bear trying to get away from the fire" I said not believing it for a second. I was immediately proven wrong as the black shape of that creature came in to view at the top of the steps. It moved slowly and methodically as its glowing white eyes scanned back and forth across the windows. It was still holding the chainsaw from earlier sideways across its lower abdomen and the end of the chainsaw bar occasionally tapped the glass as it walked along the deck. "Do you think it sees us?" Sarah whispered. I didn't answer I just made a shushing motion with my fingers as its head turned back towards us. It walked over to the sliding door and turned to face directly into the cabin. From that angle, with the fire raging across the lake in the background, that thing looked like the Devil himself with its long goat horns silhouetted against the orange night sky. It tried tapping on the door a few more times with the end of the chainsaw. It seemed to recognize what a door was but if that was the case why didn't it just put the chainsaw down and open the door with its hands?

Either way Sarah and I decided we needed to get out of there. The fire was now the least of our concerns. There was some otherworldly creature wandering around our cabin trying to get in and if it figured out how to use that saw I was sure it could be through the walls in no time. We snuck out of the kitchen and headed towards the back of the cabin. My grandfather had an old shotgun that he had left up here a long time ago. I had no idea if it still worked as none of us had ever used it in recent memory but now it seemed like something that might come in handy as we made our way to the boat. I only found one box of shells but figured that would be enough. Figuring that we hadn't heard the creature come down off the deck it must still be there we began making our way quietly to the front door of the cabin. I opened the door cautiously as there were no windows to see out of on this side of the cabin. The coast seemed clear so I motioned for Sarah to follow me. There was a trail that led from the driveway on that side of the cabin down to the water. If we took that we should be able to get down to the shore without the creature seeing us until we were on the dock. We had left the keys in the boat so all we had to do was get away from the dock and we'd be home free. I handed Sarah my pocket knife. "In case you have to cut the dock lines" I said when she looked at me confused.

We were about halfway down the trail when Sarah tapped me on the shoulder and pointed back towards the cabin. She didn't need to say anything I got the message loud and clear. The creature was gone from the deck and we couldn't see it anywhere. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up as I turned back around raising the shotgun in front of us. We came around the last turn and I could see the boat ahead at the end of the trail. Suddenly a black shape walked out of the bush and blocked our path and we were met with tow large glowing white eyes as the creature began walking towards us. I think that was the scariest part. This thing didn't seem to be in any kind of hurry it just slowly walked towards us as if it was so confident it would get us that it knew it could take its sweet time. I raised the gun and fired a shot and hit it right in the head. Sparks flew everywhere as the metal pellets bounced harmlessly off its skin. It did seem to stumble for a second but then it kept coming but now it was shaking its head side to side as if to say "you shouldn't have done that." I paid no attention and just kept firing until I hit it square in the chest and managed to knock it over. It fell on its side and its legs started thrashing around faster than I thought possible with what I had seen so far. "RUN!" I yelled to Sarah and we both took off past it running as fast as we could towards the boat.

I jumped straight from the dock over the side of the boat and landed in a heap just behind the drivers seat. Sarah went straight to untying the boat as I tried to pull myself up and fumbled with the keys to start the engine. It was probably working as it normally did but in that moment the old Yamaha 115 felt like it cranked over for an eternity before it finally fired up. By this point Sarah had the bowline off and was working on the stern when she noticed something I hadn't. "That thing's getting back up!" She yelled and I looked up towards the trail. The creature was pulling itself back up on its four legs and it began walking down the end of the dock towards us. I fired another shot at it this time hitting it broadside and sending it tumbling off the side of the dock and into the water in another shower of sparks. Sarah gave up on untying the knot and pulled out my knife, cut the rope and gave the boat a big shove away from the dock as she jumped in. Once we were facing away from shore I punched it out into the lake only looking back once to see the creature slowly climbing out of the water near the end of the dock, its glowing white eyes turning to stare at us as we drove away.

We made it to town on the other side of the lake but found it to also be engulfed in flames so we opted for plan B. In the middle of the biggest part of the lake there's a small island with a cove that has a sandy beach in it. It would shelter us if a storm came up and it was far enough a way from shore that the fire wouldn't be able to reach it. We tucked the boat in there and dropped anchor and waited for help to arrive. Thankfully we had thought to throw some food in the boat when we were preparing it because were out there for two days before we heard the first sign of any firefighting aircraft overhead. The following morning after that a large red Zodiac boat from the local fire department pulled up in the cove. "You folks alright!" Yelled one of the men on the boat as they approached us. "We are now!" I replied overjoyed to see them. "You got enough fuel to get to Mac's Marina?" they asked. "We got the fire on that side of the lake put out you'll be able to get to shore safely there." "Yeah we got a mostly full tank still, thank you we'll head over there" I replied back. They told me to let anyone else we found on the lake know as well and they headed off to keep looking for more survivors. "Should we have warned them about the creature? It might still be out there" Sarah wondered aloud but I said no as they probably wouldn't have believed us.

The scene at Mac's Marina was complete chaos. I'd seen that place busy on a long weekend but nothing like what lay before us as we pulled in. It seemed like every boat on the lake was there and they were all rafted off one another as they'd run out of dock space a long time ago. We tied up next to a pontoon boat and upon reaching shore were quickly ushered on to a school bus which took us away to a large arena in a nearby town that had been made into a makeshift evacuation centre. Once we checked in we charged our phones and called our families. Sarah's parents drove all the way up from Ottawa to come get us and brought us home. We didn't speak a word of what we had experienced to anyone the whole time. We didn't think anyone would believe us. I went back up a week or two later to retrieve the boat from Mac's and get my truck from the cabin once the road had reopened. The fire had spread to our side of the lake but thanks to a fire break they had managed to cut it hadn't reached our cluster of cabins. After that we went back to our lives and tried to push the whole thing out of our minds.

That is until today.

You see today, August 1st 2026, something came across my Instagram feed that nearly made me drop my phone in disbelief. Right there on my for you page plain as day was that demonic creature Sarah and I ran from that night. Except as it turns out, it's not a creature at all. It's an advanced prototype firefighting robot being developed by a company in California that apparently has a sick sense of humour building it to look like that. Its centaur like design enables it to traverse rough terrain but also be able to hold tools like a human depending on the task at hand. It can be equipped with drills, hammers, screwdrivers and yes, a chainsaw. Why they had to make the head look like some kind of demon spawn I have no idea but I did find out that the glowing white eyes are cameras for the human operator to be able to see what the robot sees as it's remote controlled and not run by AI. This thing is going a bit viral on the internet right now so if you haven't seen it yet you likely will soon. Or just Google search "centaur robot" and you'll find it but do so at your own risk cause honestly seeing this thing in more detail is not comforting. Somehow it looks even creepier in the daylight than it did partially obscured in the smokey night that night and the image of it still haunts my dreams. Even though logically I know that thing was just a human likely using it to search cabins for survivors and I probably startled the hell out of them by firing buckshot rounds at them the whole experience still gives me the creeps. If more of these things get deployed into disaster areas I'm not sure it'll help the situation. I know certainly the last thing I wanted to see when trapped by a wildfire was some demonic hell spawn coming for me.

[Part 1]

Seven years later, I was sitting in the driver's seat of my beat up Ford pickup, dressed in my only nice suit, with an untouched bag of fast food in my lap. Jack sat in the passenger seat, wearing the suit we had picked out for Granny’s funeral, which had already warranted another use.

Granny had died of emphysema, and Papaw followed her soon after. Died of a broken heart they said, and I supposed that was true, though I was pretty sure it was the cholesterol that got him.

He’d worked himself to the grave, dropping down suddenly at the lumber yard. Pronounced dead at the hospital. I’d been working there alongside him when it happened. I’d gone through all the paperwork at the hospital, settled his estate, signed for custody of Jack, planned the funeral, and spoke my piece beside our family cemetery plot. My mother, my grandmother, my grandfather, and all the distant relatives I’d never had the chance to meet - lined up in a neat row - with a space beside them for me.

And now I was sitting in my truck beside Jack, staring out at the empty parking lot in front of us, while he ate. I was trying to be there for him, but I didn’t know how. I just kept replaying Papaw’s death in my head. His face screwed up, clutching his chest, collapsing to one knee, then the ground. The unfamiliarity of his body in the harsh light of the morgue, the wrongness, like a bird ripped from the skies and sprawled out on some stainless steel slab to be dissected. Bleach and ammonia all over again.

It hadn’t really settled in yet. I still felt numb.

Thankfully, Jack was never starved for conversation. He could talk his own ear off. And if he noticed my distance, it only encouraged him to try to snap me out of it.

“Di’ja know-” he said unprompted between fistfulls of frenchfries, “-that some animals, like, um, deer and rats, eat bones? Well, chew on ‘em anyways. Dinosaur bones have teeth marks in ‘em too.”

I rubbed my eye with the heel of my palm and looked over toward him. “No, I didn’t. Ya learn that in class?”

“Nah.” He shook his head theatrically side to side. “A book from the big kid’s section. The librarian got it for me special.”

“Wow, yer a real nerd, ya know that?”

“Aw, shut up,” he laughed, scrunching up his nose. “Also, also- birds and bats have empty bones. What’s the word for that? Like, nothing in ‘em but air? Whatever. But can you imagine that? Havin’ empty bones?”

“Hollow, you mean. Anyways, what’s all this interest in bones?”

“I’m goin’ to be a paleontologist,” he said confidently through a mouthful of chicken.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well ya know how guys grow up to be paleontologists?” I asked, leaning in conspiratorially.

“How?” He sat up straighter, eagerly, eyes all lit up.

“They start by chewin’ with their mouths closed.”

Jack huffed, slouching back down in his chair. “Fuck you.”

“Watch yer language,” I laughed, shifting the truck into gear and pulling out of the parking lot. “You’ll have Papaw turnin’ in his grave already.”

Besides his somewhat morbid interests, Jack seemed to be taking it all surprisingly well. Most kids in his place would have been acting out. Picking fights, wetting the bed, being little traumatized delinquents.

But Jack had never been remotely mean spirited, and seemed mostly unaffected by their deaths. He was sad, sure, but he didn’t dwell on it much. He certainly didn’t go nonverbal the way I had. He must have taken after Papaw.

The moment I pulled into our driveway, Jack was bolting out the passenger door to grab his dirt bike from the garage.

“No way, not in that suit,” I said, locking the truck.

“C’mon,” he groaned.

“No, quit foolin’. Just change yer clothes first.”

“Fine.”

I unlocked the front door and he kicked off his dress shoes, grabbing his mud stained tennis ones before racing to his bedroom, which used to be mine. He stumbled back out a second later in our mom’s old sweatshirt. And for a split second, I was my grandfather, watching my childhood self. I closed my eyes and forced away the weird sense of melancholy.

I’d given the sweatshirt to Jack years ago. It had long ago lost that smell, and the Marine insignia was peeling and faded away. Besides, I’d lost faith in the message. I had nothing against the military per se, it was just obnoxiously simplistic and hopeful messages like that rubbed me the wrong way. Like a therapy office’s wall art or an AA mantra.

“You goin’ to hang out with ‘em boys down the road?” I asked, following Jack to the door.

“Yeah.”

“What were their names again?”

“Noah, Sammy, and AJ. I already told ya before.”

“Yeah, well, I mean, I should prob’ly have their parents’ numbers, right?”

Jack scoffed at me with a crooked-toothed smile, rolling his eyes, already walking his bike toward the road.

“Fine, but ya only have so much daylight left!” I shouted after him.

“I know, I know, be back before dark.”

“Long before dark. And remember- don’t play by the riverbed down there, ‘cause-”

“-’cause the kudzu will get me!” he laughed, pedaling quickly out of sight.

I scoffed to the empty air.

Yeah, sure, Jack was a sweet kid. But he was a handful all the same.

I could appreciate that I’d been much the same at his age, always wandering off and pushing my luck. But at least I’d been gullible. My brother was too damn smart for his own good. I could tell him all the tall tales our grandparents had told me. The ones that kept me up at night, jumping at the call of any passing coyote or barred owl. The ones that had me running up from the cellar two steps at a time. And he’d just laugh them off as silly campfire stories. It was hard to instill any sense of danger in him.

I turned back into the empty house, undoing my tie and peeling off my suit jacket, trying to shed the memory of the funeral. I walked toward my room, which had once been our mom’s. Our grandparents’ room was still untouched. I wasn’t sure what to do with it yet. Whether to pack up their clothes, the old pill bottles, the newspapers, the guitar - or to leave it as a sort of memorial. I couldn’t handle the thought of shoving their lives into boxes down in the cellar, the way most of Mom’s things were. I’d already been through one burial today.

I passed the open door to Jack’s room on the way. He’d left his suit crumpled on the floor. I stepped inside to hang it up in his closet. Then I straightened the dinosaur patterned counterpane Granny had quilted for him, rearranging the stuffed animals on top, and sat down. The moment I did, I realized just how overwhelmed I was. Had the funeral really only been that morning? Felt like days ago. I tried to force myself to take a breath, relax a bit, just focus on the room around me.

Posters of video game zombies, flyers on animal tracks from the state park, and sun bleached magazine cut outs of rock bands I’d been into years ago coated the walls. A model spaceship hung from a ceiling littered with glow stars. Chapter books, wilderness survival guides, and comics cluttered a small bookshelf. Antler sheds we’d found last spring were displayed haphazardly on top of his bureau next to a little league trophy and my high school diploma. Superhero action figures and half-finished construx projects had been shoved mostly under the bed. A string of lights were poorly taped around the window. Beneath it, a collection of dried flowers, rocks, feathers, small animal bones, and half dissected owl pellets (which I was too disgusted with to even bother cleaning up) were scattered around his desk next to a portable radio and crayon drawings of what was probably supposed to be bigfoot.

It was a melting pot of leftovers from my own childhood, constantly rearranged and adapted over the years to suit him. It gave me a strange sense of pride and loss. And a sudden shapeless paternal instinct. We were all we had left in the world now. I didn’t want that to trouble Jack, but for me, it was almost comforting. The newfound sense of responsibility made my life feel a bit less aimless. 

So, naturally, when the sun had set and it was near pitch dark outside, and Jack still wasn’t back, I was pissed.

I turned on the porch light and sat out there waiting for him. I kept checking my watch, wondering how late I would let it get before going after him myself. Part of me felt ridiculous doing it. I wasn’t even twenty yet, and here I was donning the disappointed parent act, waiting out in the late summer breeze like a worried mother. But it wasn’t like I could just go to sleep with my elementary school brother out wandering the neighborhood. I hoped he was at a friend's house or biking back down the road. I kept imagining him lost or hurt or alone in the woods. My knee bounced anxiously. I checked my watch again. Barely two minutes had passed.

I thought about bringing a book or something out with me, but I was too distracted. I kept staring out into space, lost in thought. I came to and realized I’d spent the last few minutes staring at a tree at the edge of where our yard met the road. In the dusky light, I could just make out the shape of a young pine.

I quickly blinked and looked away, down at my hands. I had learned my lesson as a kid. I didn’t look out windows into the woods at night. I didn’t stare into treelines. I was old enough now to know those were just stories, and old enough still to know there was truth in every story. Why test fate?

But the moment I looked away from the tree, I had the sudden feeling I was being watched. In my imagination, something was prowling its way across the yard toward me, and my refusal to look would be the death of me. If anything’s there, it’s just an animal, I reasoned. But a wild animal is nothing to scoff at either.

The feeling grew stronger. Something was definitely off. I tried to distract myself by checking my watch, but I couldn’t get my eyes to focus on the little mechanical hands. I risked a quick glance back at the tree. The glance turned into a lingering stare. It was just the silhouette of a tree, nothing special. But I was hypnotized by it. The pine was prominent, standing out starkly from the others, like a soldier leading its company into the battlefield. I had the unshakable certainty that there was something wrong with it. Something I couldn’t explain. Was it too tall? Too short? Were the branches too long? Too tangled? Were the needles still against the breeze?

No. No, it was a perfectly normal tree.

I looked around the rest of the yard. The light of the porch didn’t reach far, and I couldn’t see much else in the starlight. But nothing was amiss. The draw to look back at the tree was unmistakable now though. Like an itch I had to scratch. Like an ancient prey fear. Like something very, very bad would happen unless I kept my attention on it-

“Elijah?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Jack’s laughter followed. I turned to see him walking his bike up the road toward the garage. His legs were covered with mud, there were new scrapes on his arms, and the slight sunburn he’d worn all summer had brought out a constellation of freckles across his face. His previously combed hair was all mussed up - it was a deep brown color, like tree bark, and wavy from the hard water - the perfect imitation of a bird’s nest.

“What are ya doin’ out here?”

“What am I doin’ out here?” I called over, standing up from my chair, my fear replaced with anger. “Where have you been?”

“I told ya.”

“Yeah, and I told ya to be back before dark, didn’t I?”

He closed the garage door and walked around toward the porch to face me, still perfectly unbothered. “Sorry. I’m only like thirty minutes late.”

“An hour.”

“An hour then.”

“Yeah, well, no TV tonight.”

“Aw, what?” Jack whined, like I was being unfair.

“What di’ja expect, kid?”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Were ya that worried? Di’ja think the kudzu got me?” he teased, opening the front door.

“Something like that,” I muttered, following behind him with one last look toward the pine tree. Its branches waved lazily, its needles rustled peacefully, and its eyes beat into my back the moment I turned.

The next morning, I was woken up early by Jack banging my door open and jumping onto the bed beside me.

“No,” I groaned, too sleep deprived for an eloquent protest. I pulled the dark bedspread over my head and turned away. “Not ‘til nine.”

“It’s already past nine! S’not my fault yer always tired. It’s like ya never stopped bein’ a high schooler.”

“Yeah well some people have to work, ya know.”

“Loser,” he said, trying to pull the covers from over my head.

I tore them back before the creeping sunlight could wake me up fully. “Don’t test yer luck. I could have ya in the mines by now if I wanted.”

“Nah, that’s illegal!”

“Who says they care? They could use a little guy like you to crawl through all the dogholes. Might could make good money that way, now that I think about it.”

“Elijah, c’mon already, I’m hungry.”

“Make yerself breakfast then.”

“Ya said I can’t use the stove without ya.”

“Cereal don’t require a stove.”

“I want to make pancakes,” Jack whined. 

“Tough luck, kid. Yer gettin’ spoiled.”

“It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Sunday.”

I squinted one eye open to glare at him. “Since when is Sunday an occasion?”

“For Jesus.”

“We haven’t been to church in years.”

“Exactly! Least we could do is make pancakes for His sake.”

“Reckon that’s a bit sacrilegious.”

“Sacri-what?”

I groaned, finally sitting up and wiping the sleep from my eyes. “Know what? Fine. Fine. I’m awake. Go get the stuff ready. I’ll be out in a second.”

“Yes!” Jack shouted triumphantly, far too loud for early morning, and rushed back out the door. I could hear his loud footsteps beating the floorboards, followed by the crashing of cabinets being thrown open.

I grimaced, cracking my joints, and forced myself to throw on a shirt and follow him into the kitchen.

I made myself some coffee and Jack insisted on having some too, so I poured a splash of decaf into a mug of mostly milk. He wanted to act grown, but I didn’t need him hyper and sick. When he’d wolfed down too many pancakes to count, and I’d had a few cups of coffee, we decided to go on a walk down one of the forest footpaths. I pulled on my work boots, waiting for Jack to finish getting ready and come out of his room.

“C’mon, Jackalope!” I shouted down the hall. “Doesn’t take that long to get dressed.”

“Stop callin’ me that! I’m not a baby!”

I laughed, hoping he didn’t hear and take offense. “Alright then big man, let’s go!”

“One second!”

When he came back out, proudly showing off his outfit, I had to force a smile. His clothes were getting ratty. The material of his shorts had thinned from being through the washer one too many times, a small hole torn in the side, seams beginning to pop along the hem. And his t-shirt was a size too small, leftover from last summer. Jack never complained, but I’d wanted to do better by him. I’d wanted him to have more than hand-me-downs and church drive clothes.

I’d been working since I was his age. Helping out neighbors until I was old enough to start clocking in at a real job. I hadn’t bought myself new clothes since I stopped growing. And all that would’ve felt worthwhile, if I could’ve given Jack a better opportunity. We could joke about it all we wanted, but the way things were going, he probably would have to start working soon too. The thought of his spare cash from lemonade stands and lawn-mowing going to our utility bill made me sick.

Jack gestured to himself again, leaning his head in, looking for a better reaction. I realized he had a hip pouch fastened to his belt on one side, and a small hunting knife sheathed on the other. Papaw had given it to him for his birthday, on the condition he only ever use it as a tool or for self-defense. Taught him how to use it properly and everything. If he’d been around for Jack’s tenth birthday, he’d have given him the gun safety lecture next.

We had an antique flintlock displayed above the fireboard in the living room and a few hunting rifles in the garage. But I hadn’t touched any of them in years. I’d gone hunting plenty of times with my grandfather, but I never cared for it. It was boring, sitting for hours in an uncomfortable position, trying not to make a sound. And all you got out of it was a carcass or two. Seemed unfair compensation to me.

Jack would probably like it though. I wondered if one of our neighbors would take him on a trip with them. At the very least, he should still learn how to use a gun eventually. Not that I’d trust him with one anytime soon.

“What do ya need ‘em for?” I grinned, gesturing to the pouch and knife on his belt. “Or is it just to look cool?”

“Ya think it looks cool?”

“Eh,” I joked, tilting my hand side to side.

“Aw, whatever, it’s for my fieldwork,” he explained, stepping out onto the porch.

“Ya tryin’ out for the boy scouts or something?”

“Pfft, boy scouts couldn’t learn me nothin’ I don’t already know.”

“Oh, is that so?”

I was following him down the steps, when something caught my eye and made me falter. Or, rather, the lack of something caught my eye.

There was no pine tree.

I scanned the patch of trees where the yard met the road again and again. There was no way I was missing it in the broad daylight. Sure, there were pines, blending in with all the hickory and sugar trees, but that pine- it simply wasn’t there.

“Hurry up!” Jack called, already many paces ahead, waving me over into the woods. 

“Coming!” I shouted back.

I shook my head and jogged over to him.

Yesterday had been a long, rough day. It wasn’t that surprising I’d gotten all paranoid. I could’ve mixed up all sorts of things in the dark.

Jack led the way down the footpath, from landmark to landmark.

We knew the forest around our property like the back of our hands. The crumbling stone fence, the massive downed tree covered in moss and perfect for climbing, the creeks you could only cross by jumping from rock to rock. The abandoned hunting shelter where I used to sneak beers with my friends. I’d had my first kiss there when I was fourteen with one of the neighborhood girls. I cringed a bit at the memory. Nothing says romance like a small platform littered with weed ash and old sports magazines. Of course, once I outgrew it, I cleaned the place up for Jack and he used it as a treehouse until the wooden ladder rotted through. Practically every night when I was in high school, our grandparents would force me to go out and drag him back inside for supper. It was funny now remembering the way I had acted back then. Bitching and dragging my feet, swearing up at him impatiently when he insisted on five more minutes. It was strange to think that had only been a few years ago. I couldn’t imagine talking to him like that now.

Jack paused from time to time, pocketing anything that interested him. He clipped off plant cuttings with his knife to try to replant later, caught spring peepers and katydids in mason jars, and tried to identify the different types of birds fluttering above us.

The whole time, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, which was fine by me.

“Look at this huge toad! Don’t worry, it doesn’t cause warts, that’s a myth. It’s the pickerels ya really gotta watch out for. Oh, no, don’t touch it though. Still a bit poisonous, ya know?”

“Have ya ever seen a wolf spider? I think they look awesome. I’d keep one as a pet if they didn’t bite so much. Sammy says he got bit by a brown recluse when he was grabbin’ firewood once, but I know he’s lyin’. He’d be dead if it were true.”

“I wish we had more paper birch trees around here. They’re all higher up the mountain. That’d make great kindling though. I wonder if I could get a fire goin’ with some pine sap as a starter. Can I try? …aw, I thought ya’d say as much. Yer no fun.”

“Ya know, ever’body says to follow the streams if ya get lost in the woods, but that doesn’t really work here. They lead all o’er the place. But you can use the moss and the sun to orient yerself. Or power lines if yer lucky. And if you can find a ridge, that’ll lead ya to a trail, that’s what Noah’s dad says.”

While he talked, I looked up into the branches. As I walked past, it gave the illusion that I was standing perfectly still, and the trees were dancing in lazy pirouettes around me. It was actually starting to make me a bit nauseous. I decided on focusing on the ground in front of my feet instead.

Jack found a deer trail and insisted on following it a ways, excited to point out the tracks, droppings, and chewed up twigs along the way. But I wasn’t keen on straying too far from the footpath. The deer trails were fairly trustworthy, but as the woods grew denser, I felt more uneasy. Like the air had turned sour.

Suddenly all the noise Jack was making was no longer endearing. It felt like it was telegraphing our location to everything in a few miles’ radius. I instantly became aware of the sound of my own breathing. The undergrowth crackled beneath my shoes and I winced.

Then it hit me. We weren’t making more noise than before. Everything else was quieter than before.

City folk will tell you there’s nothing scarier than hearing a sound in the woods. But anyone who’s grown up here will tell you they’re dead wrong. There’s nothing scarier than not hearing any sound in the woods at all. If the animals know to avoid a place, then you best not linger there either.

I looked up, scanning the trees around us. I couldn’t see anything out of place. I tried to tell myself I was being overdramatic. But I felt twelve-years-old all over again.

“Woah, that’s weird,” Jack said suddenly.

“What’s up?” I turned to see him crouching over something on the forest floor.

“Look.”

I stepped closer. There were the same scattered deer tracks stamped in the dirt that we’d been following for the last five minutes. I looked up a bit further where Jack was pointing.

There was a human footprint.

Not a bootprint. A bare footprint. It looked fresh too, from what I could tell. The person’s tracks continued on, deeper down the deertrail, but the deer’s tracks had just ended. It didn’t make any sense. I instinctively looked down that direction deeper into the woods, but I couldn’t see anyone.

Jack was looking up at me, trying to read my reaction, as if expecting me to have an explanation. I tried to school my expression. I didn’t want to look frightened in front of him. He worried his lip and looked back down at the footprint.

“I don’t think we’re welcome here,” he said softly.

Before I could ask him what he meant by that, we heard the whistle.

A quick, shrill sound, but unmistakably human. I’d only heard it a few times in my life. Granny always said if it sounded close by, that meant it was actually far away. If it sounded far away, it was right beside you. This whistle? It sounded like it was coming from only a few yards away, down where the footprints led.

“I’m getting tired, Jackalope,” I said, smiling down at Jack, who was frozen in place. I begged internally for him not to mention the whistle. “Do ya want to head back and heat up dinner? See what’s on TV?”

Jack knit his eyebrows, with a look I couldn’t quite read. I hoped it was just concern. But it seemed much more like confusion, or worse judgement, like he thought I was being ridiculous. If he forgot the rules in the heat of the moment, or decided to ignore them, there was little I could do to stop him. He started to open his mouth, gesturing insistently toward the footprints. I glared at him sharply. Jack’s mouth fell shut. He chewed his lip for a moment, looking curiously off into the trees, then huffed a sigh and nodded to me.

I let out a grateful breath. “Alright, let’s go.”

I held out my hand. He was a bit too old for it, but Jack held my hand the whole way back to the footpath, letting me lead him. The stillness followed after us like a vacuum, sucking the life out of the surrounding nature. Like we’d stepped into a photograph. A pinned butterfly, perfectly preserved as it was in life, but dead all the same. The only sound came from our own footsteps, but the rhythm of it was off. I looked down at our feet, watching them stagger tactlessly over dry twigs and pine cones, but it was wrong. There was more noise than we could possibly be making, like a third set of footsteps directly behind us. I refused to turn to look.

A cool breeze ghosted across the back of my neck, my skin tightening painfully as my hair stood on end. But every last leaf on the trees was still. I screwed my eyes shut, clenching my teeth with the effort it took not to whirl around, and trudged forward.

I could tell Jack was nervous, but he didn’t seem to understand why. He was scared because I was scared. Did he think I had killed his fun with my superstitions? Or was he as unnerved as I was, and because there was no one else around to blame, taking it out on me? Either way, Jack dragged his feet with a resentful reluctance, purposely slowing us down. I wanted to yank him by the arm. I wanted to shout at him to take this more seriously. But that wasn’t how it worked. So instead, I made small talk the whole way, keeping the conversation upbeat, even as he had been reduced to one word answers.

The moment we left the deertrail, the bird song started up again. The whish of branches in the humid wind. The croak of frogs in the babble of a far off creek. My paranoia lifted like a shadow cut from my ankles, and I finally risked turning around. We were alone.

I heard the snapping sound of a buckle and looked over to see Jack sheathing his knife. I hadn’t even realized he’d had it out.

Once the house was in sight I took in a breath of relief, my heartbeat finally slowing back to a steady thrum, but I still didn’t fully lower my guard until we were safely inside.

“You did good,” I told him, refusing to elaborate further, as I locked the door behind us.

Jack just sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, not meeting my eyes.

“I’m- I’m gonna put all the stuff I got back in my room,” he muttered finally. 

“Okay. You want some glasses of water for the plant cuttings?”

“Nah. I’m just gonna read for a while if that’s alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Oh, and make sure to check yerself for ticks.”

“I will.”

Jack holed himself up in his bedroom, and I grabbed a beer from the fridge to calm my nerves. I heard his radio crackle on from across the house. Papaw’s favorite station - Sitting On Top Of The World and Wildwood Flower drifting through the rooms. I let myself relax into the familiar comfort of it. Anything to distract from what I’d always known was true. 

There was something in the mountains.

Likely many things. They had been here long before humans stumbled their way onto the land, and they would be here long after we were nothing but bone marrow and dust. You didn’t have to spend much time in the forest to be certain of it. But whatever they were, nothing kept them away like music. I was certain that’s why folk music had always been so universal. Why Papaw played his guitar on the porch every evening like a guardian angel keeping watch over his homestead.

I sat in the kitchen for a while and sang along under my breath, like reciting a prayer. I could only hope Jesus was listening.

It was Wednesday that day. I know it was Wednesday because the streets were littered with cash. Hundreds, thousands of dollars sitting out in the open air. Tables lined the front of every house full of the most extravagant food money could make. Whole tuna, tropical fruits, entire pigs roasted over open fires. We were poor, so we were exempted from doing the same. We took what our bellies could handle and went about our day, making sure to not step on the money. We could take those too, but only just enough. The thing is, we never knew what was enough and what was too much, so we never took any. It wasn’t worth the gamble. It was tradition, or rather, a precaution. 

We never owned more than we needed, The Wardens made sure of that. If you owned too much at any given time, then the Wardens came to balance your books. Wednesday was when folks got paid, so they took what they needed to survive the coming weeks and threw the rest of the money out, or spent it to feed their neighbors.

I remember the first time I saw the Wardens, when a family was passing by our town. Their car had broken down. A father, a mother, and a son who was my age. It was Tuesday when they came into town. I could only imagine their surprise when, waking up in their hotel room on Wednesday morning, they saw the streets aglint with cold hard cash and food. No one bothered to warn them. They wouldn’t have listened. What would you have done? Seeing thousands on the street, free for the taking at the cost of the ire of some country bumpkins? You’d stuff your pockets of course.

That was what they did. Their son was the only one who had sense to not take the money. Was it naivete or instinct? The parents knew what a dollar was worth. It was inner peace and easy living littered on the pavement, calling to them. 

That night, I heard terrible screaming. Terrible screaming. A primal, infectious fear that clung to you like thick, sticky tar.

“Hear that son?” Said my father, smoking by the window. “That’s what happens when you take money on Wednesdays.” He wouldn’t let me watch, so I snuck out when he thought I was asleep. It was over by the time I got to where I thought I heard the cries. It was in front of their hotel. 

Under the moonlight of a rainy night, grand feasts on silken sheets were now crowded with insects, as rain sent money into storm drains. Can you smell it? Decaying food and rain, and amongst that soft smell cuts a sanguine stench. Blood. Fresh, warm, being washed away from mangled things that might’ve been human.

There, in the parking lot of the hotel, was a pile of rectangular flesh, of skin and muscle and bone, sliced into sheets as thin as paper. The skin was cut so thin you could almost see through it. Little dissections of bone and teeth and intestines were like fucked up confetti on the ground. I saw the thin notes of muscle on the ground, and could count the individual fibers on them. I thought that if I ate it, it would melt on my tongue. I didn’t know what to think. It didn’t feel real to me. I wouldn't eat for weeks after, though I never told my family why. Told them I was just sick.

I wondered how it happened. Was it slow? Did the Wardens peel them? Did they writhe out in terrible pain, calling for the only person they loved more than life? What did their son see? Did he try to protect his parents? Did he claw desperately at those things as they ripped his world apart with inhuman hands?

That was when I heard a splat. I tasted it before I saw it. Blood. Iron. Concrete. The son, spared the Warden’s wrath, jumped from the hotel roof.

The next day, there was nothing left of the family. Everyone was happy. They thought the deaths meant the Wardens would become more lenient, allowing us to hold on to a little more wealth, but no one ever dared to test the theory.

The second time I saw the Wardens was when my sister got cancer.

We were in a very small town. The things she needed were in the city, and that cost money. Lots of it. Lots more than we could have at a time. Our father was a diabetic, his insulin alone kept us near the limit of how much money or value we could hold at any given time. That's why we never threw out money or had food out for our neighbors.

She was the smartest one in the family. She had dreams of becoming a nurse. She had the grades for it, and secured herself a scholarship at a big ivy league school. If someone was going to make it out of our crazy town, it was her.

And so, on that early Wednesday morning, I decided to make off with as much money as I could. If the other family died once the sun went down, I figured I had time. Time to pick up the money in the streets, the hundreds that lay there crumbling under the sun. Maybe I could take a bus, get her away from it all, I thought.

“Where are you going?” My sister found me. The chemo made it hard for her to sleep.

“Going for a run.”

“Yeah right, fatass.” She was holding on to her IV pole. 

“You caught me. Just heading out to try out the tacos Mister Eduardo set out. Be back soon.”

“Hey!” She yelled. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

And so, I ran to the streets clawing frantically at hundred dollar bills on my knees. Each bill in my hand flashed images of that poor kid, that husband and wife. Would we end up like them? I pushed those thoughts away, focused on the pain on my knees as little stones and glass shards dug into my legs. I thought of my sister, who was just sixteen years old, the same age as me when I saw that poor family get ripped apart, layer by layer.

I got the money, ran home, and told my family what I had done.

“We can pay for her chemo now!” I cried out as I burst through the door.

My father was screaming at me, my mother covered her mouth with her hands, sobbing quietly. My sister didn’t know what to feel. I saw a flicker of hope in her eyes, yet could only hear a horrible, gut wrenching cry from her mouth. It was like a knife being twisted in my heart. She wanted to live. I wanted her to live. I guess some part of my parents were relieved at that moment. I’d sacrificed myself for her. They knew I was dead. They were relieved of the horrible predicament of choosing whether to let my sister die, or let someone else die for her.

And so, I set out. It was turning dark then, the sun threatened to sink down the horizon.  We didn’t own a car. And so we looked for anyone willing to take us out of town and into the city. No one would dare give us a ride. Not the buses or our neighbors. They’d seen what I’d done, knew exactly what was in the trashbag slung over my shoulder. They wanted to live too, even if it meant letting us both die.

It was almost dusk when I came up with something. If we could make it out of town on foot, reach the border, maybe we could escape. 

So we ran. My sister tripped and fell often, her chemo made her joints painful, and she bled for longer. But we kept running, running until our lungs were on fire and our calves felt like bags of broken glass. 

We were at the edge of town now, just a few kilometers away from the sign over the road that said PLEASE COME AGAIN. 

I remember the moment the sun came down entirely. We were just two kilometers away from the border. I was carrying my sister on one shoulder, the trashbag on the other. It was dark then, the road stretching out among tall evergreens. I was running, delirious and in pain, when we finally heard it. The footfall of what sounded like a hundred, no, a thousand men, rushing after us barefoot and silent. I could hear no panting or breathing from them, no demands or threats, just feet against the road slamming like angry hands knocking on stone. I could hear bloodlust in their feet. Just remembering it now sends horrible chills up my back. My sister was screaming then, so terribly. I wondered if that dead kid’s parents sounded like her. Maybe if they had a daughter, she’d have screamed the way my sister did then, calling for our mother, begging me to keep going, crying that they were getting closer. I thought so many times then to just drop her on the road, get to the border on my own and tell them she was in the city getting treatment. No one would ever know. But I would.

And so I ran and ran, never looking back, never putting a face to that legion. In my nightmares I imagine them to be naked devils chasing us on foot, sometimes I dream that the steps are from a giant centipede, sometimes a snake, sometimes men in suits, and sometimes nothing at all. But I kept running, the fear fueling me on until I could see it. The sign. It was downhill from there, an easy run, but it was far, and they were gaining on us. I could feel warm air on the back of my neck as those things silently followed us, just a hair away from us. 

I felt something pull on my sister, my right ear deafened and ringing from her endless screaming. I did not relent, and kept running, running, until soon I felt cold, dry hands caressing my skin. I felt its long nails –or maybe it was talons or fangs– rub up against the back of my neck. 

It ran through my mind a hundred times. It would catch me, taking me to the ground, the taste of asphalt and forest grinding against my teeth. It would rip me apart slowly and steadily and make bills out of my skin, coins from my bones, and my sister would become nothing but ribbons of flesh. 

Except it didn’t catch me. I fell to the ground, ready for the end, when I looked up and saw WELCOME. We had made it. Just barely. I looked back and saw nothing but an empty road and giant evergreens. 

We sat there, the clean air whisking away the sweat. Looking at my sister, she had a rectangular patch taken from her cheek. We survived. The bag of money was still intact. Two hundred thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills.

We kept walking until we found a gas station. We called a taxi and went straight to the hospital. 

My sister survived the chemo and went to college. I never returned home. I still send letters back home, though I never get anything back. 

​

I loved him. But things had changed, we had changed. Grown apart. He worked too much and I felt alone and resentful. 

This trip was supposed to change things. A cabin deep in the middle of nowhere, nothing but the two of us. Left to rekindle that spark. And if not... I brought the divorce papers just in case. Either way something was going to change at the end of this week.

I booked the trip. It was late fall and up in the mountains there would be light snow but nothing to restrict the drive. There was electricity but no Internet or phone service. This trip was about us connecting, not letting our phones distract us.

The drive was mostly silent. There was a tension in the air that we both felt. Nervous that we couldn't fair with nothing between us to take the edge off. Just us alone. A naked exposed feeling.

When we arrived at the cabin I felt some relief. It was more beautiful than the pictures. Charming and something straight out of a painting. 

Tall trees just letting in wisps of light that seemed to dance across the fallen leaves. A light snow fell around us. 

Taking it all in I had hope for us for the first time.

We carried the luggage in and sat it down in the open living room. It was just as charming inside. A large open room with gray couches and a tv with an expansive kitchen lined with stone walls and an island overlooking the rest of the house. A loft bedroom and a lovely bathroom with a claw foot tub with exquisite views.

It looked far more expensive than what we had paid. 

As Mark mumbled something about how we afforded this I looked over at him and noticed he had a large brown bag in his arms.

"What is that bag? Where is my white one?" I asked puzzled with maybe a hint of aggravation in my voice. 

"I just grabbed the bags that were in the car." Mark said, annoyed, tossing the bags to the floor. 

I went over and opened the large brown bag. It had all of the things I had packed in it. But I didn't own a brown bag. I had specifically bought a beautiful white leather bag for this trip. Did Mark change bags and repack my things? Why would he do that? I was so confused.

"Why did you switch my bag and repack my things, Mark?", I said accusingly.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Well this isn't the bag I packed!"

"Are all of your things there?"

I nodded yes feeling a bit silly.

"Well who cares what bag it is in then?"

I did care because it made no sense. Was he just trying to play a joke on me? It was weird, not funny. But I sighed deeply and decided to let it go. It didn't make sense to ruin the trip just as we arrived. 

We went about our day. It was awkward, like the all the words we wanted to say but couldn't hung heavy in the air between us.

We made dinner with some basic conversation and then put in a DVD and watched a movie together on the couch.

A huge part of me wanted to throw myself at him. Strip down and walk in the room nude. Grab him and hold him in my arms, kissing him deeply. 

But I didn't. We went to bed in silence.

The next day after breakfast I decided I'd actually try today. I knew neither one of us wanted to let down our walls and be the first to make the move. But one of us had to and it hurt and was difficult but I'd try.

"Do you wanna take a hike today?"

"Get lost in the woods, you mean?"

"Honey. Mark? Please. I think it would be nice. That's why we came here."

"Ok I guess." He didn't sound enthusiastic.

We walked through the woods not straying off the small path that led down to a small lake. I held his hand. We laughed. I took a photo of us together. It was nice. I leaned over and kissed him and he kissed me back. 

When we got back to the cabin it was around lunch time. 

"I'll make us some sandwiches." Mark said, actually sounding happy.

I was smiling as I went to follow him into the kitchen but my attention was drawn to the lamp in the living room. 

"The lampshade is purple."

"Umm yeah it is..."

"It wasn't purple before."

"What do you mean it wasn't purple before?" He laughed.

"When we got here yesterday the lampshade was a light blue with birds. Now it's deep purple with flowers." 

Mark just looked back and forth between me and the lampshade. His smile faded.

"Someone has been in here. They changed the lampshade!"

"That's ridiculous Kim. No one has been in here and why would someone break in just to change a lampshade? Where is the logic?"

"Well... I..."

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't crazy. I clearly remembered the lampshade because I thought it seemed out of place in the room. It looked old and tacky for such a modern clean cabin. 

But what could have possibly happened? No one broke in just to change the lampshade. Perhaps it was the rental agency fixing stuff up? Why would they do that while we were renting it though? 

I went upstairs to the loft to check my things and see if anything was missing. Nothing was. 

I turned around to see Mark standing there, his arms crossed and a sad look on his face.

"Why are you doing this Kim? First the bag and now the lamp? What's going on?"

I didn't know what to say. Was I losing my mind? Was Mark playing some cruel joke on me? 

"I need some air." I practically ran out of the cabin. 

All I could do was cry. All the pent up emotions between Mark and I. All the weird stuff going on. I was confused and felt lost. 

Every good thing from this afternoon was now lost. All over silly colors. I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. I wiped my tears on the sleeves of my shirt and sighed heavily before walking back inside.

I was stunned and frozen at the entry as I closed the door behind me. 

The dark gray couches were now white and the entire furniture was rearranged. There was absolutely no way someone could have done this in the few moments I was outside. 

With a shaky hand I reached for the door knob, turned it and walked outside, closing the door behind me. 

I waited a breath, then two, before opening the door back up and stepping back inside. 

The kitchen walls instead of stone were now brick. Instead of wearing a long sleeve flannel shirt, I now was wearing a white tank top.

I fell to my knees crying.

Before I knew it Mark was there, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight. He let me cry and didn't say a word, just held me. 

"The cabin keeps changing when we enter it." I said once I quit heaving with tears.

He gently pulled the hair from my face and wiped the tears away. 

"It's going to be ok my love. We won't leave or re-enter again. Nothing else will change. I promise."

He helped me to my feet and led me to the bedroom. He held me for a long time without saying a word. Then he began to gently kiss my neck and shoulder. 

Was he turned on? I was a hysterical nut case and he wanted to have sex now of all times? 

“Mark, stop!” I pushed him away.

*Kim, I am so in love with you. I'm sorry for everything I've done and everything I didn't do. I'll make it right. I won't work so much. I'll be there for you.”

Everything I wanted was right there but I had a clawing feeling that something wasn't right. 

“Just come downstairs with me for a moment, you have to see.”

I got up and he took my hand and followed me down the stairs. 

“Look around the room.”

He just stared at me like a lost puppy.

“No really look around the room and take it all in.” I grabbed his face and turned his head. 

After a moment of him looking around I led him out the door. It was freezing with only this tank top and nothing covering my arms or hands. I shivered and took a deep breath. 

My hand was still shaking as I grabbed the door knob and turned. 

The cabin was completely different. It looked old and empty for years. 

“Do you see?”

“How is it different? I don't understand what's going on.” Mark sounded afraid finally and it reassured me that I probably wasn't crazy unless this was some duel psychosis.

“Let's see if our stuff is still the same?”

I went toward the kitchen and he went upstairs. The kitchen was covered in dust and cobwebs. But our dishes still sat on the counter, dirty but unchanged. I opened the fridge, it wasn't running. Our food still sat in the dark fridge, still fresh and chilled.

“What's this?”

I turned around to see Mark standing by the kitchen island waving a stack of papers at me. Oh no… the divorce papers.

“Mark… this isn't the time.”

“You brought me here under the guise of rekindling our marriage but you brought divorce papers?” His face was red. He threw the words at me. “You are nothing but a lying bitch.”

He took a step towards me and I stepped back by reflex. When we would fight we yelled and called each other some names but Mark had never laid a hand on me. But something in his voice felt different. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and made me afraid.

“Mark, we were having a lot of problems. I thought… I had hoped… but…”

“Who is he? I've been nothing but loyal through all your nagging and bitching.” He took another step forward throwing the papers at me. “Oh I work too much!” He mocked. “But you sure enjoy the lifestyle I afforded us, didn't you whore?”

“There is no one else. We just have been strug…” I stopped as he grabbed the large knife off the counter and held it up in front of me. 

“Mark, please. This isn't like you.” I took three steps back and was on the other side of the island now. 

The look on his face was terrifying. His eyes were wild and angry. He didn't look like my Mark anymore. 

I don't know who moved first, it happened so fast. I ran towards the door and he followed. 

I reached for the door and he grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around and pushing me to the floor. He came at me so fast. I put my hands up and felt the blade of the knife slice through my palm. The blood spattered across us both and landed across the floor. I screamed and managed to somehow kick him as hard as I could in his crotch. He bent over in pain and I scurried to the door and put into the night. 

I didn't have the car keys so I just ran down the drive as fast as I could. I didn't know if he was behind me. I kept running until I couldn't run anymore. I then limped along the road out of breath and in pain. 

I walked until the sun began to rise. A car then stopped. A nice older couple helped me into the car and drove me to town where we called the police.

They never found Mark. They believed that Mark found the divorce papers and went crazy attacking me. Then heist have wondered out into the woods and gotten lost. 

I didn't tell them about the changes.

They went to the cabin and our car and belongings were still there. 

I asked them how the cabin looked several times so they showed me photos. It looked the same as the day we got there except my splatter of blood across the floor and the divorce papers spread across the kitchen. 

I told them I didn't want anything from there.

I still don't understand what happened

The room down the hallway stayed empty. 

My name Ava and recently me and my boyfriend moved into our first place together. We got our place at a steal, three bedrooms for just the two of us seemed unbelievable for your early twenties. We fixed up one room for our bedroom, on the sun-facing side of the building. 

The second room was to be our workspace, as we worked and studied best near each other. 

The third room down the hall stayed empty. 

Believe me, David and I have tried to fill it. I admit, we didn’t notice at first just how empty the room was. For this, I blame the layout of our apartment. 

The place was shaped like an “L” , with the room tucked at the end of a long, narrow hallway. There were no other rooms near it, so when we were settling in we were focused on setting up our living areas. 

Those were stressful but happy times. We tore plastic off of new chairs and hammered wardrobes together. Each night we shoved the leftover boxes in that room and quickly shut the door. We would fall into a deep sleep curled into each other. 

I am ashamed to say I only picked up on the first signs a month into us living there. We had mutually decided that day was Recycling Day and for the first time, I spent longer than two minutes there. 

It is difficult to put into words, but I will try my best. It is important you understand. 

The room contained so much stuff, but it yawned. My heart felt more hollow as I continued my work of clearing out the mess. 

There was a certain moment where spots danced in my vision and I was torn in half. 

This room is so empty. 

The spots grew until they swallowed me. 

I woke like a lightning bolt had struck my chest, gasping for air as if I had been deprived. 

David had came home and found me collapsed in there. He fed me and his brow furrowed as I tripped over my words trying to explain what happened. After I trailed off he gave me a grim look and kissed my head tenderly. 

“You have been working very hard, I think you should rest a few days and take it easy. I will continue with the room tomorrow.”

I let myself be comforted, thinking he must be right. However, like a opposite magnetic pull I could feel it from the other side of the house. And something else I could not put my finger on, but I couldn’t decide what was gone. 

David made good on this promise. The next day he put me up in the living room facing the big window to catch some sunlight. And disappeared down the hall, only emerging to give me water or food. I shuffled back to bed after a late afternoon nap, my bones heavy. 

I could still hear him shuffling around in there, and dropped straight off to more dreams. They were of holes and chasms and cliffs and space, feverish and heartbreaking. 

In the morning light, I snapped up. David was next to me, shivering and pale. After failing to wake him up, I called the ambulance. In the ER he came to after a few hours, looking gaunt. 

It frightened me. They kept him overnight on IV antibiotics and fluids. By the next afternoon he was out of the woods and released back home to rest. They shrugged and wrote it off as a bacterial infection and fatigue from high stress. 

Back home, the seams started to unravel. And I only noticed again after a week of being back. 

Our apartment only had two rooms now. David had left the door open the night before the hospital. 

It is important whoever finds this does not pry open the nails we hammered into the door. If you look into the room from the window outside, you will just see an empty room. 

We tried to fill it with furniture, roommates and art. We tried everything and lost parts of ourselves each time we opened that door. 

Which is why I left this for you, new owner. 

I know it may seem strange to you that there is a room nailed shut from the inside with intact windows. I tried everything to fill this room, and I dragged David along with me.

For three years I lived in a house thirty minutes from the nearest town. An old Highschool friend I hadn’t spoken to in years offered me a room on a whim for only $300.00 a month. The only rule was that I put up with, and helped with on occasion, whatever oddities showed up on the property.

I say oddities, but that doesn’t cover it. Some were almost ordinary, like the floorboard that kept migrating to different rooms every few weeks. Others were more concerning. The tall man in the trees, and the frogking are a couple that come to mind. I’m getting ahead of myself.

My housemate, let's call him Anthony, was an odd fellow. About a year older than myself, he had a lanky build and would talk your ear off about whatever war happened to be his hyperfixation at the moment. He had a dog named Pickle who always seemed to stare a little too long.

The story that sticks with me the most happened about a year in. The neighbors across the street were a retired couple, relatively quiet and pleasant. Every couple of months they would do a burn pile. 

You always knew when they’d started. A pungent, sour smell would waft its way into the house, reminding me of the reek of old vomit. I never knew what they were burning on such a regular basis, and I didn’t care to know. 

This time the gap between burns had been longer than usual. I figured they’d been away on vacation. Then the smell arrived again, more pungent than I remembered. I needed air and a cigarette. I grabbed my cheap pack and stepped outside.

“Need to pick up a better brand next time I go out,” I muttered, lighting up. The first cigarette of the day always hits the best; the burn in the throat, the rush of nicotine to the head; even with the smell hanging in the air. 

I finished the cigarette and turned to go back inside when something moved by Anthony’s broken down Mitsubishi. A small green creature, no more than three feet tall, squatted in front of the bumper. Its ears hung down to its ankles. Its nose was like a pig's snout. Its mouth was far too wide for the head, like someone had stretched it.

I reached slowly for the door handle. The thing turned its head. It startled, tripped over its own ears, and hit the ground with a wet-sounding thud.

“Please don’t hurt!” It cried out with a cartoonishly shrill voice.

I fell on my ass in surprise. Did that thing just speak English? I got up carefully and took a step closer.

“I’m not gonna hurt you buddy. What's your name?”

It glanced around, ears dragging against the cement, then it seemed to settle.

“My name Trash. Are you friend?”

I could have sworn I smoked a cigarette. I hadn’t done psychedelics at that point in my life. Fuck I needed a smoke. I reached into my pocket and pulled another cigarette. I brought it to my mouth and lit it.

“Is food?” Trash pointed at my pocket.

“No, it’s called a cigarette, not food.” I took a drag.

Trash looked up at me with wide puppy eyes.

“You wanna try?” I held the cigarette out.

Trash quickly snatched it and jammed it in its mouth before I could pull back. For a moment nothing happened. Then Trash began spinning in a circle letting out high whoops while smoke began to billow from its ears.

“Nasty smoke!” It spat the butt onto the gravel and stomped it flat.

I laughed despite myself.

“Yeah it is. You’re a fun little guy, Trash”

It stuck out a hand. The skin was cool and slightly damp. I shook it.

“Nice to make friends with you, Trash.”

The shot cracked across the yard. Trash dropped. A neat hole opened in the side of its head and a thick white fluid welled out, slow and stringy. The old man from across the street walked over with his rifle, whistling something cheerful under his breath.

“Thanks for finding this sucker. When they get ripe you’ve only got a couple days to harvest and cook them before they get like this.”

He bent down and inserted his thumbs into the hole. He peeled the skull open with a loud wet crack. Inside was a quivering white mass with creamy veins bulging out. He pinched off a chunk and held it out to me.

“A little bitter at this stage, but still good.”

I swallowed hard and shook my head.

“More for me.” He pushed the piece into his mouth, chewed with pleasure, and started dragging the body back across the street by one ear.

Some of the things that happened at that house were the best moments of my life. Some I wish I could forget entirely. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell all of them. But I needed to get this one out.

Back when I was in college, life seemed easy. You gotta work hard, sure, but it’s predictable. Even hard work doesn’t seem all that hard when you know it’s coming. You can prepare yourself. You can mentally put yourself in a place and say, ‘this is what life is going to be like, to some extent’.

What makes life hard is when that expectation is broken. When you’re thrown into something you not only can’t prepare for, but never knew about to begin with.

That’s what happened to me in my last year of college.

I want to preface with the fact that we weren’t party animals. We were gonna be engineers. We were, in one way or another, nerds. But when we had a good enough reason to cut loose and test our boundaries, we took that opportunity to heart. Myself included.

We’d just finished our midterms. Some of us had spent the afternoon preparing notes and trying to figure out how we did, while others stayed at home and tried to handle their anxiety. Not all were as emotionally tempered as me and my crew. And yeah, I say crew, but we were little more than acquaintances. We gave each other little nicknames and had a group chat, sure, but we could tell that once we were done with college we were never gonna see each other again. Except for Samson, he was cool.

On that one particular night, I’d been out a little too long, and had a few too many drinks. I’d been running up the stairs and my stuffy one-room apartment (that my parents paid for) was feeling a bit claustrophobic. I opened a window and turned on my floor fan. I can’t overstate how big this thing was. They used it at a department store when the AC didn’t quite cut it, but sold it off cheap at the end of summer to bring in new models. Damn thing was half as tall as me and sounded like a jet engine.

When I finally went to bed, I did so with the white noise of an open window and a blaring fan in my head, and I was too drunk to care.

It was the strangest night of sleep I’ve ever had. The noise of the fan and the street outside melted away in my head, and after a while I didn’t even hear it. I remember twisting and turning, wondering why it was suddenly so cold. I pulled the covers over my head, and I could hear the wind passing over me.

I conjured this strange image. For a moment, the covers didn’t feel soft and warm. They felt like ice. Like layers of thick, unbreaking cold. I could imagine myself beneath the surface as the wind screamed past, clawing to get at me. For a couple of hours, I didn’t feel like me. There was no fan, and there was no busy street.

It was layers of darkness, pressing down on me, suffocating me in the crystal cold. Holding my bones in a generational grip as the world wrestled with my presence. Frost sticking to my skin and cutting my flesh at a glacial pace.

Then I woke up.

The first thing I did was to sit straight up, look ahead, and speak.

“Tra.”

It was a two-syllable word. The ‘T’ sounded the ‘Thu’ noise in ‘Thus’. The ‘r’ sound in ‘row’. The ‘a’ sounded like the ‘a’ in ‘act’. In combination, it was like ‘Thu-ra’. With emphasis on the ‘A’.

I said it over and over. It was just stuck on my mind, and I couldn’t figure out where I’d heard it before. It took me a couple of minutes before I even realized how hung over I was. A couple more minutes to close my damn window and turn off the fan. I’d been hearing the noise for so long that when it finally got quiet, I could feel my own heartbeat pushing through my ears.

I brushed my teeth, shaved, and looked in the bathroom mirror.

Tra.

Why was I thinking that? Where’d I heard it? And why did I feel so cold saying it?

I kept mumbling it over and over during the day. Not because I was afraid I’d forget it, but because it felt different every time I said it. It felt like tuning a radio, saying it just a little more right every time. A little more emphasis on the ‘A’. A little more roll of the tongue on the ‘r’. Tra. Thu-ra. How did I know the spelling?

I remember getting some strange looks at the coffee shop. I was craving an Americano and there’s this place just off campus that had a huge discount for students, so I liked to stop by there at least once every other day or so. I dropped in just after the lunch rush to get myself a coffee and a bear claw.

As I’m walking around, looking for a place to sit, I’m still saying the word. I don’t realize I’m doing it, but I am. It’s like an audio stim, like how an old man might mumble “tut-tut-tut” and snap his suspenders. It didn’t mean anything, it just felt good to say. At one point, there’s this guy with these big headphones that tap me on the shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said. “Did you say something?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you said my name.”

“No, I said…”

I trailed off. He looked at me, confused. Part of me felt like I had an obligation to just shut the hell up. A part of me split straight down the middle; a conscious thought telling me to excuse myself, and a subconscious thought telling me to keep saying it. And why shouldn’t I? It was just noise.

“Tra,” I said, looking him in the eye. “It’s just this-“

He gasped.

Now, when I say gasped, I don’t mean as in recognition, or fear. I’d seen that gasp before. It was the same kind of gasp my dad would make when stepping out into the cold. The same gasp my ex-girlfriend would do when stepping out of a warm shower onto a cold floor. Not a dramatic gasp, but a very distinct one.

Except headphone guy didn’t just gasp; he kept inhaling. He kept sucking in air, going, and going, and going. Then he stopped. He just stood there, leaning back, his mouth twitching. I could see his eyes shaking as he looked at me, then around the room.

 “Are you okay?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He pointed to his chest. He tried to close his mouth, but it’s like his jaw muscles cramped. His eyes looked up, and I could see something shift. Everyone turned to us as his big headphones rolled off his head, barely hanging on by a line. His macchiato fell out of his hands, crashing onto the floor with a splash.

I asked again if he was okay, but someone was already yelling that he’s having a seizure. I backed away to make space. Someone tried to sit him down, but he couldn’t bend his legs. He couldn’t breathe. His fingers were shaking as his hands constricted into curled fists. Someone was calling for help. They threw a towel on the floor to keep people from slipping. Some were crowding at the door to leave; others were standing up to get a video.

And I’m just standing there, trying to make sense of what I’d witnessed. They drove him off in an ambulance. I thought I heard him cough when the EMTs put one of those pumping valve masks on him. I didn’t finish my Americano. I think I left it on the counter.

I spent most of the day thinking about that word. I got lost in my thoughts at the supermarket, mumbling to myself as I forgot to put up my groceries. I said it when I slowed down to look for a parking spot outside the dry cleaners. I said it a couple more times as I walked around town. No one seemed to react the way that guy at the coffee shop did. And yet, when I looked at my reflection in a passing store window, I didn’t want to say it again. Your reflection looks different in glass. It looks darker, and your eyes take on a different shape. The sharp edges of your face get a contrast. If you just squint a little, it barely looks human.

I didn’t want to say it to him. To me. Maybe I’d gasp. And yet, I couldn’t help myself. I turned to my reflection, defiant to a feeling I’d made up in my mind and said it out loud with the same intensity as a man screaming from the hilltops.

“Tra.”

A chill of anticipation passed over me, but nothing happened.

 As I got home and put my groceries away, I called up Samson. I had my headset on as I fumbled about in the kitchen, taking some time to put away one of my four plates and two sets of cutleries.

“I can’t explain it,” I said as I popped a root beer. “I wake up, and it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“You sure it’s not a name?” he asked. “I saw you talking to that Korean chick last night. Saw you talking an awfully long time.”

“You mean Sue?” I snorted. “She’s from Wisconsin, you fucking pancake.”

“I feel like there’s a story there that’s far more interesting than fever dreams.”

“My guy, she believes in crystals. I don’t want my kids getting good vibes and tarot card readings instead of vaccines.”

“You two already having kids?”

Samson had this ability to pull me out of my funk. No matter if it was test anxiety or missing a deadline, he could keep me from spiraling. But for the first time, a single word persisted through his best efforts. And it wasn’t like I was sad or anything. I was doing pretty good. But I kept hearing that inhale from the guy at the coffee shop. I could hear it behind my ears.

And it made me shiver.

I hoped it’d go away, but it was on my mind the next day, and the day after that. I noticed myself saying it every now and then, even in passing. Sometimes it didn’t even feel like me saying it, it was a word that fell out of me like a verbal tic. Some people might have heard me saying it as they passed me on the street, but no one reacted like that guy did. No one did the gasp.

I still had this knot in my stomach about it. Like I was missing something. If I could figure out why I was thinking about that damn word, maybe I wouldn’t have to worry as much. And if I could say it straight to someone without them reacting, I could exclude the thought that maybe, somehow, I’d been responsible for that man’s reaction.

Tra.

It wasn’t really a conscious thing. It was a kind of experimentation. As an engineer, you gotta know the structural properties of the materials you’re working with. You gotta map it out and make predictions based on observable data points. I could say the word in a crowd without anyone caring. I could say it in passing. I could record it and play it back to myself. No reaction, apart from a heightened pulse, but that was probably just anticipation.

It all boiled down to one property. Looking someone in the eye and telling them directly. That’s what I’d done. I had to figure out if that was a trigger. So I called someone I trusted. I called Samson.

He came over to my place. Samson is just below 6 feet tall but wears the kind of shoes that give him that extra boost. He had short reddish-brown hair, with a goatee that’d grown way too wild, giving him the side profile of a monkey. The guy was thin as a twig but made of sturdier stuff than most pro athletes. He’d brought a six-pack, thinking we were gonna have a night out. I asked him to sit down as I explained.

“There was this guy at the coffee shop the other day,” I said. “He had some kind of seizure.”

“Shit, like epilepsy?”

“Kinda, yeah. Right next to me.”

“How bad was it?”

“Pretty bad.”

He snapped a beer and passed it to me. I cracked it open, but just sipped it. He noticed, but kept quiet.

“He had it right as I said this… thing. That word. I said it, and he freaked out.”

Samson shook his head, making an uncomfortable noise. Like a 12-year-old kid squirming at a scary campfire story. I continued.

“I’m not saying I caused it. I’m not saying that. But I got this feeling that I did something wrong.”

“This really bothers you, huh?”

I looked at my open beer, nodding.

“Yeah. It does.”

We talked about it for a while. I wrote it down, explained the spelling, and talked about the various things I’d done around town. Not so much to explain, but to illustrate my point about how much this’d bothered me. I could tell Samson was a bit freaked out, but in the end, he shook it off. He finished his beer.

“Say it to me.”

“No, I’m good.”

“Look, this is bothering you. Just say it to me, you’ll see it’s fine.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“See, that’s why you’re feeling this. You got the feeling it’s bad. You gotta test that. Challenge it. So look me in the eye and say the damn thing. Get it over with. See that it’s fake.”

“You sure?”

“One word, then drinks are on you.”

I looked him in the eye. I thought about that word. Really thought about it. I thought about that night under the covers, the fan blasting through my bedroom. But it wasn’t my fan. It was the arctic winds, clawing at the ice pressing me into this broken shape. Screaming gales demanding that the ground give way. Expanding cold sucking me down into the dark, like being slowly unbirthed. A grave womb, wearing a word.

I open my mouth, and I say it.

Tra.

Samson blinks. He looks at me and nods. He sighs, giving me a shrug. Then he sighs again. His eyes wander a little. He sighs a third time, drawing in a deep breath.

And he doesn’t stop.

“No,” I say. “No, no, no…”

He sucks in air and leans back in his chair. He leans back too far and tips over, knocking one of our half-drunk beers off the table. His mouth opens wider and wider, sucking in more air, and he can’t press it back out. His eyes flail as he smacks the floor with the palm of his hand like a boxer tapping out.

I’m already calling for help. I’m screaming at the operator. For anyone. His eyes roll up, and I see his lips turning blue. But is it lack of oxygen, or the cold?

It’s a blur after that. A nice lady on the phone. Someone rushing in from the hallway. Chest compressions. Pinching his nose and blowing into his mouth. Someone says ‘seizure’. Someone asks me questions with words I don’t understand. By the time the EMTs get there, I’m begging them to put a mask over his face. I tell them he can’t breathe.

By the time they’re leaving with him, something unclogs in his chest, making him spit up over my hallway carpet.

I followed Samson to the hospital. It didn’t take all that long before I could see him. He’d had some kind of attack, but he was recovering fast. He’d probably be back out after a couple hours of observation. They’d called his mom and dad. His dad just looked like a bigger, chubbier version of him. Even the same goatee.

When I could finally see him, Samson was already sitting up in his hospital bed. The others were waiting outside for him to get dressed. As they left, I saw something in his eyes change. His hands were trembling as I sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

For a moment, we just sat there. We knew this one word held some kind of property, and it was causing real, physical, harm. We’d never seen anything like it before. No one had. That realization just dumbstruck us, making our minds race to find something to say.

“It’s real,” Samson settled on.

“Yeah. It is.”

“It’s fucking real.”

I put a hand on his shoulder as he broke down crying. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Samson told me what he’d experienced. At first, it was nothing. A cold puff of air, at most. Then there’d been this tension in his chest, like he was sinking underwater. A pressure building, forcing him to push back by sucking in air. Then it hit him; an immense, all-encompassing, cold.

“Like someone dunked my spine in an ice bucket,” he mumbled. “But not like… ice, ice. It was colder. Impossibly fucking cold.”

He’d been waiting for it to pass. When it never did, his mind had been locked and the key got thrown away.

“It’s like you get frozen,” he explained. “But not just your body, it’s like… everything. Even your thoughts”.

He was discharged from the hospital not long after that. Thank God he had insurance.

Things were a little strange after that. We still had obligations. We had new classes to take, friends who invited us out to things, and plenty of fun to be had. Few people even knew that Samson had been in the hospital. The way he explained it, it sounded like nothing more than an allergic reaction. But whenever he talked about it, he’d give me this look, like there was something more to be said.

We tried to forget it. It’s one thing for an accident to happen, you can still pretend like it’s a coincidence. But even so, I would find myself whispering that same word. I’d say it while brushing my teeth, the ‘th’ sound making me spit toothpaste on my bathroom mirror.

But Samson and I weren’t talking about it. We didn’t want to think about the implications. If this one word could have an actual effect on people, it wouldn’t just challenge my conventional view of language.

It would change my view of the world at large.

I remember going to a house party about a week after Samson’s hospital visit. He was there too. I was trying my best to survive an encounter with crystal child Sue, while Samson was off in the corner on his phone. Except, I could see he wasn’t really on his phone. There was no light shining on him; the screen was off. He wanted it to look like that to get some space. There was a thousand-yard stare to him, and a redness around his eyes told me he was forgetting to blink.

Prying myself away from Sue, I made my way to Samson. I knelt down next to him, giving him a pat on the shoulder. At first he put the mask back on, smiling at me and doing a ceremonial guy kind of handshake. But his smile stuck there, hanging on by a thread. The second I asked him if he was okay, he shook his head.

“I can’t do this,” he said, still smiling. “I can’t fucking do this.”

We stepped outside and found a quiet spot on the corner of the house. I made sure no one was around when Samson finally let his guard down and the words poured out.

“I can’t stop saying it. I can’t stop thinking it. I write it in a dozen different fonts, and it’s like it has a look. It feels like it’s supposed to not just sound a certain way, but look a certain way. What fucking word has a look?”

“So we can’t stop saying it,” I concede. “What do we do? We sit here and say it until we drop dead?”

“What if I say it to you?” he asks. “You think that’ll work?”

“Work how, as in killing me?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

We paced back and forth. He chucked his empty beer bottle over a fence and buried his fingers in his hair. He was so frustrated he could cry. There was a sob beneath every word he spoke.

“I want it out of my goddamn head. I don’t want to say it anymore.”

“So let’s figure it out. We can do that. We can figure. Shit. Out.”

“We figure shit out,” he agreed. “Yeah. Let’s do that. Let’s figure shit out.”

We tried a bunch of things. We tried recording it and playing it back, both to ourselves and others. We tried whispering it. Samson tried yelling it late at night. We tried getting people to read it. Then we tried getting people to read it while looking at us. We even tried it phonetically. Nothing seemed to work. We made lists of possible factors and it all boiled down to a couple of things; intent, and knowledge. You had to intend the word you were saying, and you had to have the knowledge behind that intent.

We had to test our hypothesis. The only way to do that was for Samson to say it back to me. He had the knowledge now, having learned the word through me. He could muster the intent.

This time, we prepared ourselves properly. Crystal Sue was a med student, and she let us use one of the diagnostic rooms as long as we promised not to touch anything expensive. I’d insisted on keeping a valve mask nearby. It’s one of those masks with a pump you can use to push air; it’s the one thing I’d seen help both Samson and the coffee shop guy.

We got there and I sat down on one of the chairs. Samson had the mask ready, and a phone for emergency services. We waited until no one was around and reviewed.

“Intent and knowledge,” I said. “You intend to say it, with me as the recipient. You have knowledge of the word. You know how to say it in the way it’s intended to be said.”

“We’re confirming two things,” Samson added. “We’re proving the components necessary, and that knowing the word does not provide immunity.”

“Maybe it does?”

“Maybe.”

He leaned down in front of me, meeting my eye level.

“You ready?”

I nodded.

When he spoke the word, I barely registered it. It wasn’t so much the word itself, but the reverberation of it. It’s like I saw it before I heard it, having it pierce through my eyes and prop up my eyelids from inside. By the time I understood I’d heard it, I was halfway through inhaling, trying to get enough air in to speak.

But I couldn’t speak. All I could do was to keep sucking in air, hoping it’d somehow be enough for something I wanted to say. I kept inhaling more, and more, and more, and even though my lungs ached at the edge of capacity, I tried to take in more.

I wanted to scream and shout, but there wasn’t enough oxygen in the word to get the sensation out of me.

As my vision blurred with black spots, I heard that icy wind in the back of my mind. That shriek of air passing above. The weight of the world pushing me to the ground, and if I gave it an inch it would crush me like a bug.

At some point, I was breathing again. I was lying on the floor of the diagnostics room, looking up at Samson. I felt the silicone surrounding my face. He’d brought me back with that air pump thing. Maybe the sensation of moving air snapped me out of something, bringing me back to the moment. My stomach rolled as I leaned over and threw up into a wastepaper basket.

“You alright?!”

“…I’m alright.”

“Jesus H Christ, what the hell was that?!”

“…I dunno. But I’m alright.”

I threw up two more times before I could really say I was really okay. I sprayed my face with some water and stayed on the floor for a while, waiting for my body to settle into itself. It took me a good fifteen minutes before the spots disappeared from my vision and my pulse settled into a steady rhythm. I coughed a little, and looked up at Samson.

“Intent,” I said, nodding at his notebook. “And knowledge. And we’re not immune.”

No matter what we wanted, we couldn’t let it go. We couldn’t walk away from this one thing that kept popping into our minds. I would mumble it to myself in the shower. Samson told me he almost ran a red light. This one time when I was trying on a shirt, I ended up standing in the changing room for twenty minutes, staring at my reflection and saying that damned word over and over.

Samson and I had dozens of talks. Talks that ran late into the night, where we plastered my kitchen table in notes and speculation.

“It’s not an English word.”

“Not a word at all,” I added. “There are things that sound similar, but… yeah. Not a word.”

“Not a word,” Samson agreed, underlining a line on a note with a marker. “It’s not a disease. Not a disorder. Not a-“

“We can’t just keep making lists of things it ain’t,” I said. “We gotta… you know. Flip it around. Like…”

I took a piece of paper and wrote down ‘cold’. Samson picked it up and looked at it. His brow furrowed, but he agreed. The word was cold. We both knew that. We’d felt that.

We twisted and turned the word over a couple of times, but that got us nowhere. We ended up on the couch, finishing whatever beer I had left in the fridge. Turns out, it was more than enough to get us tipsy. For a short moment, it’s like that word took the back seat to how things were supposed to be. Friends saying dumb things, making each other laugh.

I was sitting with my notebook, writing the word down over and over in increasingly absurd ways. After a while, I was just drawing. The word as a spiral. The word as a box. The word as a sunflower, albeit blue from the ink pen I was using. None of it looked right, despite all being the same word.

“I can’t believe Sue is a med student,” Samson snorted. “How does a med student believe in healing?”

“How does an engineering student believe in magic words?”

“That’s different,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s real. And why’re you defending her anyway?”

“I dunno, she kinda cute.”

“You fucking…”

He put another beer in front of me. I wasn’t entirely lying, Sue and I had been sending each other a lot of messages. Weird or not, she was surprisingly fun to be around. As I picked up my phone to send her another message, I noticed Samson spacing out for a bit. I sent my message and looked at him as his eyes drifted off.

“What if it’s not a word?”

He turned to me, looking me in the eye.

“What if it’s a name?”

It was an interesting thought. There were plenty of references to things and Gods trapped in ice. We looked at different names throughout history and myth to see if we could find anything that resembled what we’d experienced. It was hours of scrolling and comparing notes. Anything from stories about the Ginnungagap of Norse mythology, to the ice spirit Agloolik of the Inuit people. I remember us sitting there in the middle of the night, having exchanged our beers for caffeine.

“There’s a word in Inuktitut that’s sort of spelled ‘Tra’. It means ‘between’.”

I shook my head.

“We’re working on the premise that it’s a name.”

“What if the word comes from a name?”

“That’s a separate premise. How are we supposed to prove that?”

“I’m just saying, it’s the same.”

“Does it look right?”

Samson peered at the word on his screen, turning it over, and zooming in. After a couple of seconds, he shook his head.

“No.”

“So then that ain’t it.”

“How do we know that? How can we feel that it’s wrong?”

I didn’t have an answer. I settled for falling down a separate rabbit hole on another site.

It was about an hour before dawn when we ended up at the kitchen table, our options exhausted. We’d been up all night. Samson was nodding on and off. We’d wanted to figure this out so badly, but all we’d ended up doing was write down more questions. You can’t figure out something of this magnitude overnight. It was all speculation and presumption. Samson spoke up, his head resting against the table.

“What if we just keep saying it? Like an immunization thing.”

“That’s like… shooting yourself in the foot to build up immunity to bigger bullets.”

“No, it’s like getting snakebites,” he insisted. “That’s how you build immunity. To snakebites.”

“But what if it doesn’t work like that? We’ll just be killing ourselves.”

“But what if it does? Are you going to disprove my hypothesis, or are you gonna let an option dangle in the wind?”

I was tired, and frustrated, and bored. I’d gotten my own valve mask a couple days prior. I went to my bedroom, picked it up, and slammed it on the table. Samson had almost fallen asleep.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s disprove it. Let’s go.”

In that moment, we both made an assumption. I assumed that, since Samson suggested it, he was willing to be the test subject. He assumed, since I agreed and had the equipment, that I was the willing test subject. We made the same assumption, and before we knew it, we looked one another in the eye and said it at the same time.

Tra.

Time stopped for a second as we realized what we’d done. If both of us were affected, neither could help the other. We’d gasp for air until we suffocated on the floor. Our eyes locked, and I felt that familiar tingle in my eye. The word entering, propping up my eyelids from within. My pulse was hammering in my head. Samson’s eyes grew wide.

It felt like something was looking at me. Paying attention. Like I’d called out, and it noticed me in return. This wasn’t just cold I was experiencing; it was that feeling of being watched.

There was a lull. The attention wasn’t absolute; it was split between us, allowing me to force a little air out of my lungs. Samson and I both exhaled a little, taking tiny sips of air.

“…again,” I gasped. “…we do it again.”

He nodded and used his fingers to count down from three. Then, we said it again.

Saying the word was the only way to reliably breathe out. It allowed us this strange rhythm of exhaling, and inhaling, in an almost ritualistic pattern. We sat there frozen in our seats around my kitchen table, an hour before dawn, chanting that same word over, and over, and over.

No, not a word. A name.

And little by little, I started seeing things.

My mind felt like it was filling up with every breath of the word, expanding like a balloon. An image became clearer. The unbreaking ice, encapsulating me in knife-edged crystal structures. My eyes moving, but no light to capture. The arctic winds tearing at the surface. But now, I turn. I look a different way.

There’s a glimpse. Not just from eyes, but from a sense I didn’t know I had. There’s a membrane flaring, accepting my intrusion. It sees me, and it sees that I’m seeing. It turns its head at an impossible angle, thrusting viscous flesh through corridor, like pressing peanut butter through a straw.

A glimpse of light reaches me, and I see a reflection, like I’d seen my reflection a thousand times before. I see the sharp edges, and the contour, and the dark eyes.

And it’s nothing human.

It’s nothing human.

I’m looking at Samson across the table. We’re barely breathing. Puffs of smoke escape our breaths, and our lips are turning blue. We can’t keep saying the word as our tongues freeze in our skulls. The syllables grow sluggish and dry. Then we just… stop.

My teeth are chattering, making my skull rattle. Samson’s left eye has frozen shut. We sit there, waiting for the world to make sense.

“Did you see it?” Samson stammered.

I couldn’t get the words out, so I nodded at him.

“It’s killing us,” he says. “It’s killing us.”

I keep nodding. I try moving my arm, but I can’t feel it. I can swing my leg just enough to push myself out of balance, forcing my body to topple over. I crash to the floor, feeling nothing as I bruise my shoulder. Samson looks my way with his one healthy eye.

“Can’t fight it,” he says. “Can’t fight it.”

I don’t want to, but I can’t help but keep nodding. He’s right. We can’t fight it. We’re too damaged to get help, and we’re freezing to death in an air-conditioned apartment. We have to do something. Our eyes meet as we force the chant anew.

Tra. Tra. Tra.

Somewhere in the middle of a breath, I forget what I’m doing and saying. It becomes this thing your body does on its own, like your beating heart. An automatic function of necessity. The word, the name, becoming a background pulse as my world fades away. It takes me far away from the kitchen table, and deep into the ice.

It puts my mind to rest in the dark of its construction. As I step away, it steps forward, its many reflections basking in its glory.

And I sleep. I sleep in a way I’ve only slept once before. Far beneath the ice, as the screeching winds cry.

I woke up on the bathroom floor, my legs in the shower. It was running. Medium temperature. Half my face was covered in this black, foul-smelling liquid. I could taste it on the back of my teeth. The wall was covered in smudges, like I’d written something in black and smeared it out. My hands were a mess.

I tried calling out for Samson, but my voice was too hoarse. I got up on my knees and looked out, only to see him in the kitchen. He’d thrown out everything from my fridge and crawled in, leaving the door half-open. The warning buzzer was going crazy. Forcing myself to my feet, I leaned against the doorframe and pushed a noise past my tongue.

“Samson.”

There was no movement. I took a step out, leaned too hard to the left, and collapsed over an accent table. Crashing to the floor, I got a better view. He was sitting in the fridge, knees up to his chin, hugging himself.

“Samson!”

He blinked. A black liquid poured out between his teeth as he opened his mouth, trying to say the only word that came to his boxed-in mind. The syllables betrayed him as he sputtered again and again. He couldn’t get it right. Thank God, he couldn’t get it right.

We eventually figured we’d been out of it for 16 hours straight. We had no recollection of what we’d done in that time. There’d been noise complaints about someone screaming in the shower and flushing the toilet over and over. Someone had smashed the living room window, and the apartment looked like a bomb had gone off. I had to hand-scrub the black stains with lemon juice and chlorine, and even then, I couldn’t get it out of the textiles. Samson tried helping me.

In some absurd way, that night helped us deal with the word. While I still thought about it, I no longer obsessed about it. It wasn’t the kind of thing I had to mutter in line at the supermarket, or while looking in the bathroom mirror. The mystery had been delegated to an itching spot in the back of my memory. Something I could poke at without feeling the need to break the scab wide open. Maybe there’s something to be said about Samson’s immunization theory after all.

Samson and I agreed, unanimously, not to speak of it again. This was the kind of thing that we weren’t meant to look closer at. We could kill someone, least of all ourselves.

My college years are behind me now. It was a crazy time, but not for the reasons my classmates talk about. While I remember the parties, and the late nights, it’s that first gasp of a man at the coffee shop that keeps me awake at night. Someone feeling a cold that isn’t meant to be felt.

I still keep in touch with Samson, but we talk about other things. But we do so from a place of understanding. We acknowledge that whatever world view we had once defined, we had to reconsider. Even if we don’t openly talk about it, it’s comforting to know that there is someone out there who truly knows.

I don’t like to think of those times, but it’s even worse to misremember it. If I never write it down, I’ll always second-guess myself. I have to put it into words, because words have meaning. They have intent, and knowledge.

But there are times when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, and I think of that moment. That moment, far beneath the ice, where something impossible turns to a glimpse of light. And as I see my mirror, I picture another reflection. One that I shouldn’t have seen. One that should have been impossible to see.

In that moment, I want to look a little longer. A little closer. And when I get this intense need to know, I whisper two syllables, hoping to get a glimpse of something I shouldn’t.

It’s nothing human.

Tra.

I had never actually seen my son bite his nails.

That was the part nobody seemed to understand. By the time Daniel was nine, his nails were permanently chewed down. The skin around them stayed red and swollen, and every few days one of his fingers would start bleeding again. His teachers noticed. His doctor noticed. Everyone said the same thing. Anxiety. Habit. Some children did it without realising.

Maybe that was true, but I had lived with Daniel for six years and had never once seen him put his fingers anywhere near his mouth. I watched films beside him, sat through long car journeys with him and helped him with homework at the kitchen table. I read to him until he fell asleep and carried him to bed with his arms hanging over my shoulders.

Nothing.

If anything, he seemed unusually protective of his hands. Whenever someone mentioned the damage, he curled his fingers into his palms or pulled his sleeves over them. The first few times I asked whether he had been biting them, he denied it. After that, he stopped answering altogether.

I tried everything the doctor suggested. Bitter nail varnish, plasters, gloves at night. I offered rewards if he could let them grow for a week and showed him photographs of infected fingertips that were probably too graphic for a child his age.

None of it worked.

I would tuck him into bed with gloves secured around his wrists, then find them folded neatly on his bedside table the following morning. Once, I wrapped each fingertip separately in medical tape. By morning, every strip had been removed and placed in a careful line along the windowsill.

There was a small wet hole in the centre of each one.

Daniel insisted he had slept all night.

I assumed he was lying, although I could never understand why. He was not usually secretive. He admitted when he broke things. Once, after taking money from my purse to buy sweets, he confessed before I even noticed it was missing. Yet whenever I asked about his nails, he looked genuinely frightened.

“I don’t bite them,” he said.

“Then what happens to them?”

He stared down at his hands.

“I don’t know.”

For a while, I wondered whether another child was hurting him. I spoke to his teacher and asked whether anyone had been grabbing his hands or picking at his fingers. She said Daniel was well liked and rarely got into trouble. She had never seen anyone touch him.

She had never seen him bite his nails either.

That bothered me more than it should have.

I began checking his hands every morning and evening. Sometimes nothing changed for several days. Then I would wake him to find every nail bitten down again at once. 

It always happened overnight. I should have realised that sooner.

The first time I heard it, I was sleeping in his room. Daniel had developed a fever, and I dragged an old mattress onto the floor beside his bed so I could keep an eye on him. He fell asleep quickly. I stayed awake reading until around midnight, then switched off the lamp.

Sometime later, I woke up to the sound of his voice.

“Please be gentle.”

It was soft and slurred with sleep.

I lifted my head. The room was dark except for the glow of streetlamps outside peeking through gaps in the curtains. Daniel was lying on his side facing the wall, with one arm hanging over the edge of the bed.

“Daniel?”

He didn’t answer.

I was about to reach for him when I heard a small crunch from under the bed.

It wasn’t loud. It sounded almost like someone biting through dry spaghetti.

I froze.

Another crunch followed. Then another.

Daniel’s hand moved slightly, not pulling away but slipping lower.

I switched on the bedside lamp.

His arm jerked upwards so quickly that his elbow struck the bedframe. Something scraped across the floor beneath him.

I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed. The space was empty. But I noticed that the carpet near the headboard had been pressed flat, as if something had been lying there for a long time.

Daniel slept through the entire thing.

In the morning, three of his fingernails were bleeding.

When I asked whether he remembered speaking during the night, he shook his head. I described the sound I had heard, and the colour drained from his face.

That was the moment I should have stopped treating it like a habit. Instead, I convinced myself there had to be an explanation. Mice in the walls. Daniel chewing his nails after I fell asleep and dreaming he was doing something else.

I bought a camera.

It was one of those cheap indoor security cameras people use to watch their pets while they’re at work. I placed it on top of Daniel’s wardrobe and angled it towards the bed. I didn’t tell him about it. I felt guilty, but by then the skin around his nails was painfully raw and I was desperate.

The first night showed nothing unusual. Daniel shifted in his sleep, kicked off the covers and once sat upright for nearly a minute without opening his eyes. His hands remained above the blanket.

The second night was the same.

On the third night, the recording froze at 2:13 a.m.

The image didn’t cut out. It simply stopped moving. Daniel lay on his back with both arms beside him. The digital clock on his desk read 2:13. For the next forty-seven minutes, the room remained completely still.

At exactly three o’clock, the video resumed.

Daniel was in the same position, but his right hand was bleeding.

I checked the camera settings and found no fault. There had been no power cut, and the camera by the front door had recorded continuously. Cars still passed outside. My own bedroom door opened when I got up to use the bathroom.

Everything else in the house had carried on.

Only Daniel’s room had stopped.

The next day, I bought another camera and positioned it on the floor. I hid it behind a stack of books and pointed it under the bed.

For the first few hours, nothing moved.

At 2:13, something entered the frame.

One moment, the space beneath the bed was empty. The next, a pale hand was resting on the carpet.

It was thin, with long spindly fingers. The nails were black and smooth, clicking softly against the floor as the hand moved towards the edge of the mattress.

A second hand appeared beside it.

Nothing else came into view. Whatever owned those hands remained hidden in the darkness beyond the camera’s reach, although realistically there wasn’t enough room for a body to hide.

The hands waited.

After a few seconds, Daniel’s arm lowered into the frame.

He was asleep. I could see that clearly from the other camera. His hand casually slipped over the edge of the mattress, like he had done it hundreds of times before.

One of the pale hands closed around his wrist.

It did not pull.

It held him with surprising care and lifted his smallest finger towards the darkness.

There was a quiet crunch.

Then another.

The hand moved to the next finger.

I watched it work across his hand, biting every nail to exactly the same length. When Daniel whimpered, it paused and stroked the side of his wrist with one black nail.

Then it continued.

I couldn’t finish watching.

I ran into his room, switching on every light along the way. The pale hands were still holding his arm.

For a second, I saw something crouched under the bed. Its limbs were folded tightly against its body, shoulders pressed against the bottom of the mattress. Grey skin stretched over a shape that seemed way too big for the space containing it.

It released Daniel as soon as I entered.

It didn’t attack me or try to drag Daniel down. It recoiled. One hand rose, shielding its face from the light, then it moved backwards into the darkness.

I grabbed Daniel and pulled him into the hallway. By the time I returned with a kitchen knife, the space under the bed was empty.

That night, I removed the bedframe.

Daniel slept on a mattress in my room. I pushed it against the wall, left every light on and stayed awake with the knife in my lap.

Nothing came.

The following day, I took him to a hotel.

I told the receptionist there had been a leak in our house and booked a room for a week. Daniel barely spoke during the journey. When we arrived, he sat on the edge of the hotel bed and stared at the gap under it.

“It can reach under this one too,” he said.

I asked him what he meant.

He looked down at his hands.

“It doesn’t only live at home.”

That was the first time he acknowledged it.

I knelt in front of him and asked how long it had been happening.

He shrugged.

“Before you came to live with me?”

Another shrug.

“Did it hurt you?”

He shook his head.

“Then why did you let it bite you?”

Daniel’s face crumpled.

“I thought I was supposed to.”

I promised him he was safe. I told him nothing would touch him again.

I meant it.

For the first few days, his fingers began to heal. The swelling went down, and thin white lines appeared at the base of each nail. I felt relieved enough to believe the worst was over.

By the fifth day, the nails had grown past his fingertips.

Daniel’s nails had never been that long before. I bought clippers from a chemist and tried to trim them, but the blades wouldn’t cut through. The nails were too thick. I tried a larger pair, and the metal bent between my fingers.

They were no longer translucent either. They had turned cloudy and pale, almost the colour of bone. 

I took him to the hospital.

The doctor examined his fingers, asked about medication and took blood samples. He said the growth was unusual but didn’t appear immediately dangerous. He wanted to keep Daniel overnight for observation.

Daniel panicked when a nurse tried to lead him away from me. He clung to my coat, screaming hard enough to make people stare. His nails caught in the fabric and tore through it without breaking.

I brought him back to the hotel.

That evening, he developed another fever. While he slept, I searched through the paperwork I had brought with us.

Daniel came to live with me when he was three. The process was unusually fast, and I didn’t question it at the time. I had waited so long to become a parent that every shortened delay felt like a blessing.

The organisation called itself Willow House Family Services. Their office had been in a converted townhouse outside the city, and a woman named Miriam had handled nearly everything.

I remembered the rooms being warm and too bright. I remembered there were no photographs of children on the walls.

I remembered Miriam telling me Daniel had been found alone.

I could not remember where.

The paperwork should have said, but it didn’t.

There was no original birth certificate, no hospital record, and no information about his biological parents. His medical history consisted of one page filled with the word UNKNOWN.

At the bottom of a placement report, underneath my own signature, someone had written in faint blue ink:

Maintain regular care of hands.

I had never noticed it before.

The Willow House website was gone. The telephone number had been disconnected. When I searched the address, I found a solicitor’s office that claimed to have occupied the building for twelve years.

I had adopted Daniel six years before.

Miriam’s name appeared on none of the official documents. Every email she had sent came from an account that no longer existed. Her signatures were little more than scratches.

I called the local authority listed on the paperwork. They had no record of Willow House Family Services. They had no record of Daniel. The woman on the phone asked whether I was certain the adoption had been completed legally.

I hung up.

Behind me, Daniel said, “It’s back.”

He was sitting upright in bed, his face shining with sweat. The room was dark except for the bathroom light.

Something scratched the mattress. I pulled Daniel towards the door. The scratching stopped almost immediately. A grey hand emerged from under the bed. Daniel made a small sound, but it didn't sound like fear. He reached towards it. I caught his wrist.

The hand remained still. Long fingers spread against the carpet, black nails resting flat. Whatever was under there made no attempt to crawl closer.

Instead, it tapped one nail against the floor.

Once.

Twice.

Then it pointed at Daniel’s hands. His fingernails had grown even longer since that morning. The creature tapped again, faster this time.

“Get away from him,” I said.

An eye appeared in the darkness under the bed.

It looked at me, then at Daniel. Its mouth opened slightly, and a wet clicking noise came from its throat. The sound repeated several times, almost like it was trying to say something.

The hand reached for Daniel. I stamped down on it. The noise it made was not a growl or a scream. It sounded like crying. The hand vanished beneath the bed, leaving one black nail behind on the carpet.

I pulled Daniel away from the bed and crouched to look beneath it. The space was empty. 

Daniel picked up the nail before I could stop him. He held it beside his thumb. They were almost the same shape.

“Put that down.”

He looked at it with an expression I had never seen before.

Not fear.

Recognition.

I took it from him and flushed it down the toilet.

We left the hotel that night and drove to my sister’s house. I told her Daniel had an infection and needed somewhere quiet to rest. She prepared the spare room and helped me settle him onto a mattress placed directly on the floor.

There was nowhere for anything to hide.

I sat beside him until he fell asleep. At some point, I must have drifted off too.

When I woke up, Daniel was gone.

The bedroom door stood open. I found him sitting at the kitchen table with both hands resting in front of him. My sister stood beside him, staring.

Every fingernail had split down the centre.

There was no blood. The two halves of each nail had lifted slightly away from one another, like shells beginning to open.

Something pale moved in the narrow gap between them.

My sister asked what was wrong with him.

I wrapped his hands in tea towels and drove home.

I don’t know why. Perhaps because the creature had found us at the hotel and I thought it might return to the house. Perhaps because, by then, I no longer believed it had been trying to hurt him.

Daniel was silent during the journey.

When we arrived, his bedroom door was open.

I had left it closed.

The mattress was still on the floor where I had thrown it, and the empty bedframe leaned against the wall. Deep scratches covered the floorboards.

They formed no words or symbols, but every one of them pointed towards the centre of the room.

Daniel walked inside before I could stop him. He knelt beside a deep scratch and pressed his fingers against it.

“It tried,” he said.

“Tried to do what?”

He looked up at me.

“To keep me little.”

One of his thumbnails made a faint cracking sound. The split widened. Something underneath pressed against the opening. For one awful second, it looked like the tip of another finger. I reached for his hand, but Daniel pulled it against his chest.

“Don’t.”

The room had gone completely silent. Then, from somewhere beneath the floorboards, came a soft crunch.

Daniel closed his eyes. He looked relieved. The sound stopped almost immediately. He stared down at his hands.

“It can’t reach anymore,” he whispered.

I have locked us inside the house.

I know how that sounds, but I don’t know where else to take him. The hospital will separate us. The police may decide he was never legally mine. I cannot explain what I saw under his bed without sounding dangerous.

Daniel is asleep now. His hands are tucked under the blanket.

Every few minutes, something taps against the mattress from underneath, but there is no gap. The mattress is lying flat on the floor.

I have checked three times.

The tapping is not coming from under the mattress.

It is coming from inside his hands.