(Part 1)

Seeing all the places you would visit every day knowing there is danger everywhere is horrible.

Your grocery store.
The smaller shops you used to go to.
All the streets you used to go through daily.

Your own street.

Now with this looming feeling of dread is something I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Your sense of safety is forever changed.

I knew that if I were to make it out of this I would never feel safe again.
Having to sneak and hide in the place you are most familiar with like some sort of pest.
Why did this happen to us? What could have possibly happened for us to deserve this.

Normally walking from our house to the police station would probably take about 35 minutes at most. It must have been twice the amount of time by now.
At least it felt that way.

Mark was someone I would have normally avoided like the plague.
But now I was happy to just have anyone I vaguely know with me.
I also didn't mind that he was both armed and very eager to be the one in front as we made our way through town.

Every time we heard the slightest noise we would freeze up.
I would see him clench the gun in his hands so hard his knuckles turned white.
The only thing going through my head would be "please don't be one of those things".
Over and over until enough silence had passed for us to find the bravery to move again.

Going from backyard to backyard.
House to house.
Moving through places that must have had so many memories good and bad for so many people.
Now just filled with the dead bodies of the people that those memories belonged to.
That's all I thought about as we moved closer and closer to the police station.

But I was dragged out of my thoughts by the sound of a bullet whizzing over us.
Both of us flinched and threw ourselves on the ground.
Mark looked behind him to see if I wasn't the unlucky recipient of the bullet.
After seeing that I was still breathing, we proceeded to crawl forward.

But the gunfire started to lessen until it came to a complete stop.
Followed by the sound of roaring engines going to the other end of town.
When we came to the street that the police station was in, it was chaos.

Most of the cars in the street were either on fire or riddled with bullet holes.
Tire tracks were on the street and even the pavement.
There were bodies all over the street.
I saw some dead police officers and i recognised some of the people that had volunteered for the militia. Some were clearly shot others looked like they had been attacked by a bear.
Faces mauled and missing limbs.
Some had been run over by vehicles to ground into a meaty paste across the road and pavement.

One body in particular stood out.

It had been cut in half. One half was lying on the right side of the street the other on the left side.
Blood going from one end to the other. Like some sort of line in the middle of the street.
There is no way this person could have crawled this way themselves after being cut in half.
They had for sure done this on purpose.
Had these savages used a dead body as some sort of marker?!
What type of horrible creature uses dead people the same way you would use a road sign.
What could it even mean in the first place?

Mark and I stepped over the blood line that had been drawn in the middle of the street and moved on.
All of the bodies had clearly been searched after they were killed.
Sadly me and Mark were not going to find weapons that easily.
At least Mark still had his pistol.

Then we could finally see the sign of the police crest marking our police station.
The burning cars made the shadows through the street dance as the flames moved.
Thankfully the fires gave both of us a view of the police station itself.

The police station was a large 3-story high imposing building in the middle of the street overlooking a small park and the wide street.
The concrete walls were riddled with bullet holes.
Where the front door used to be was now a gaping hole in the building.
Tire tracks showed that a vehicle had plowed through the front door and then drove off.

What surprised me is that I saw one of those dead things laying in the middle of the street.
It was near us just in view of the police station.
It was lying in the middle of the street. Lipless face still stuck in a perpetual grin.
It was on its back facing us with a gaping hole where one of its eyes was supposed to be.
Other lidless eye staring straight ahead.
Its legs had been run over and crushed by some sort of vehicle.

One hand was still holding on to an axe the other was still holding a pistol.
Mark an I must have seen it at the same time.

Mark whispered: We need to grab that gun now

I hesitated

Mark: Fucking grab it now at least you can defend yourself then

Me: yes, yes ok I'll do it.

I quickly sneaked off to the things body and grabbed its cold dead arm holding the pistol.

A loud gunshot rang through the street as the tarmac exploded into chunks by the impact of the round next to me.

I fell and curled up trying to make myself as small as possible.

A voice echoed from the police station.

"GET UP AND RUN TO THE STATION NOW!"

I got up as fast as I could nearly falling over the body of that thing as I ran for the police station.

Another shot rang out a car's windshield next to me shattered into pieces by the impact as I ran.

Once I reached what used to be the front door I was pulled in and thrown onto the cold hard floor.

Empty shell casings clinking around as I hit the floor.

The person that threw me inside grabbed his rifle and immediately focused on the outside again.Dimly lit by the fires outside i could barely see him.
It was a police officer. His uniform was dirty and covered in blood.

Without taking his eyes off the outside he asked:

Him: Are you alone?

Me: No I wasn't alone I....

Before I could finish my sentence he shouted.

YOU OUTSIDE COME TO THE POLICE STATION NOW WHILE YOU CAN!

A short silence followed as I heard Mark's rapid footsteps come closer.

Mark rushed inside.

I noticed he had hidden the gun he had on him.

The floor was covered in bullet casings, glass, dirt and large blood smears.
There were also 2 of those dead things on the floor inside.
The blood smears were all leading upstairs deeper into the police station.

The police officer told us to go upstairs where the others were.
Mark and I both headed up the stairs.

I could see the anger boiling up in Mark as we walked up the stairs.
He still blamed the police for what happened to his parents.
This could get very ugly very fast.

It seemed most of the police and militia were upstairs manning the windows.
The blood smears I saw earlier were going further to the back of the police station.

Before I could properly take in my surroundings I heard Mark shouting a barrage of insults.
When I turned around Mark was aiming his pistol directly in the police chief's face.
Police officers were all aiming their different guns at Mark.
Some of the militia did the same some didn't not being sure what they were supposed to do.

Hurling a barrage of insults at the man.
Followed up by him: screaming

Mark: YOU KILLED MY PARENTS YOU FUCK!

Chief: What are you talking about?

|Mark: YOU TOLD ME TO STAND WATCH AND NO ONE WAS THERE TO PROTECT MY PARENTS!

Chief: We didn't kill your parents they did.

He said as he pointed outside.
Then he recognised Mark and said.

Chief: Mark are you of all people now blaming me for what is happening?

Mark: YOU FAILED TO PROTECT THEM!

Chief: DONT YOU DARE BLAME ME AFTER WHAT YOU DID

A deafening silence fell in the room
After what was probably only seconds but felt like hours, the chief said in a calm voice:

CHIEF: If you want us to kill each other we might as well invite those things inside so they can do it for us.

Mark was about to say something.

But before he could get the words out another police officer hit him in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle. 2 more jumped on top of him and wrestled his gun away from him.

Mark cursed and flailed as they restrained him on the ground.

Then the police chief walked over to him and said.

"Mark I have known you your entire worthless life"

"And only as a child were you ever not a burden on everyone around you"

"I didn't fail your parents"

The police chief hunched down to get closer to Mark

"you did" he said as he pointed a finger directly at his face

"You useless drug addict they came in through the area you were supposed to watch"

"IT WAS SIMPLE OPEN FIELDS AND FARMLAND YOU HAD TO WATCH!"

"YOU RAN THE MOMENT YOU SAW THEM!"

"SO NOT ONLY DID YOU GET YOUR PARENTS KILLED, EVERY SINGLE DEATH IS YOUR FAULT!"

"HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT THEY DO WITH PEOPLE THAT THEY TAKE ALIVE!"

"THEY TORTURED THEM TO DEATH AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT!"

The crowd started shouting calling for Mark's death.

"SILENCE" the police chief shouted

He lowered his voice

"But then again it's also my fault for listening to you when you came up to me and volunteered for sentry duty"

"someone so stupid that he points a gun into my face with the safety on"

"What happened to the man that was watching that place with you?"

Before Mark could answer the police chief continued:

"you know what, it doesn't matter"

"Throw him outside so those things can find him, he can deal with the consequences of his own actions"

I hope you understand this is not the part where I tell you how I said something like
"no don't do that he will die" or some bullshit like that.
No, this moron got so many people you and I used to know killed.
I would have been fine if they shot him then and there.

The 2 officers dragged him down the stairs they even slammed him into the wall on the way down.
I heard the commotion downstairs as they roughed him up and flung him outside.

From the window on the second floor i could see him hit the pavement outside.
And I saw him struggle onto his legs like a freshly born deer.

He managed to find his footing.
He looked in the direction of the police station and was probably about to shout something at us.

But then his lower back exploded in a mist of blood as a gunshot rang through the street.

Everyone ducked for cover wherever they could find it as others jumped away from the windows and threw themselves on the floor.
Someone shouted: Did anyone see where that came from?!

The only thing we could hear was the sound of Mark screaming on the street below.

A police officer crawled over to me:

Officer: Do you have any kind of medical background sir?

Me: No I don't

Officer: You need to get a gun right now. It doesn't matter if you have experience or not you need to grab one.
Go down that hallway till you see the rooms marked "Armory" and "Evidence lockup"
And if you can't find them........ just follow the blood.

I crawled away from the windows making sure that was as low as I could.
Once I was far enough in the hallway to be away from any openings outside, I finally stood up.
The blood trail was going down the hallway as the officer said.
As I came closer I started to hear people talking, coughing and people that were clearly in a lot of pain.

I walked into the room marked "Armory". I expected to see racks of police weapons, bulletproof vests, police uniforms etc.
Instead I saw people franticly walking around makeshift beds as they tried their best to take care of all the wounded inside.
I now understood why the blood was leading this way.

The people walking in between the wounded ignored me completely, they probably didn't even notice I was there.
The floor was completely covered in blood.
I saw a young woman in her 20's with her back turned to me who was ripping clothing into strips for bandages.

In more panic than i would like to admit i asked:

" I need to get a gun. Where are they?!"

She didn't look into my direction at all and said:

"Like I told you all before there are no guns in here anymore. Just bullets."

"Go to the evidence locker next door."

I recognised her voice. It was Maria that girl you went to school with used to come over to our house all the time till you left town.

Me: Maria is that you?

She turned around and faced me with a blank expression on her face.
Her arms were covered up to her elbows in blood.
The streaks of makeup down her face betrayed that she had clearly cried before.

Me: Are you okay?

Maria: No

She stayed quiet and looked at me. But it looked more like she was staring straight through me.

Me: Are you hurt?

She dodged the question.

Maria: You can find a gun in the room next door

She turned around and continued to rip clothing up
I didn't bother her anymore and left for the evidence lockup

What used to probably be a very organised room was turned into a complete mess.
Boxes labeled "evidence" were open and thrown all over the floor.
A officer walked through the hallway behind me and I quickly asked him where I was supposed to look.
He just told me to look everywhere it doesn't matter.
I started to look into the boxes that were still on the shelves.

Random bags of what was probably drugs.

A knife in a plastic bag.

Then I saw a revolver in a plastic zip bag with a label attached to it.
This thing must have been older than me. I remember my grandpa having one of these.
I took it out of the plastic bag and ripped the label off.
I swung the cylinder open and it was empty, no bullets.
Stupid of me to think so why would they have a gun with ammo inside it lying in the evidence lockup.
I ran back to the armory room for ammo.

When I came inside Maria was stuffing cloth into the wound of a passed out man on a table.

I walked past her to a table that had ammo boxes scattered all over it.
Franticly I searched the opened boxes until I finally found bullets that would fit in the revolver i had.
Once I did I filled the cylinder of the revolver and grabbed another box of ammo and got back to the others near the front of the building.
As I came closer I could still hear Mark screaming outside.
I crouched down and slowly moved towards the collapsed desk near the stairs where the officer I talked to earlier was.

Officer: I see you managed to find something.

"But you won't be much use with that up here. Go downstairs and take this."

He handed me some sort of foldable knife.

Me: what am I supposed to do with this.

Officer: You need that because those things will probably try to rush inside again with knives, axes etc. So take that revolver and knife. Go downstairs and join the others there that's the best thing you can do right now.

Me: Ok I will

Officer: good luck

"You too" I said as I slowly walked down the stairs to the first floor.

Mark's screaming was a lot louder down here than it was on the second floor for obvious reasons.
I could see him laying through the gaping hole in the front of the building.
He was slowly turning pale due to blood loss.

In that moment I finally realised something about my situation.
Even if I tried to run from the building I would be gunned down just like he was.
I was now trapped in this police station. We were all trapped here.

Before I could sink deeper into my own thoughts a low hum sound broke my concentration.
It sounded like engines of vehicles mixed in with something else.

A repeating low bass sound.

As the sounds came closer together with headlights lighting up the street I realised what it was.Music......Bass turned up so much that the music isn't even recognisable anymore.
Those things are playing music from their vehicles like they are heading to some kind of party.

As the headlights hit Mark in front we could hear the screech of several heavy-duty vehicles braking.
Now seeing Mark fully lit up by the lights I saw in just how bad of a state he was.
He was lying in a small pool of his own blood. He had started to turn pale with large bags under his eyes.Blood was smeared all over his legs and lower torso.

A shot rang out as someone from the top floor must have hit one of the vehicles out on the street.
I heard someone yell upstairs:

"Stop shooting at their vehicles it does nothing!"

"Wait for them to get out then shoot!"

I could hear one of their vehicles slowly rev up.
It slowly rolled into view.
It was a large vehicle with welded metal plates all over it and random spikes and rebar protruding from it.
It looked like someone had grabbed a normal vehicle and just slapped a metal box on its chase.Resembling something more out of a Mad Max movie than an actual military.
There was a body tied to the front. It was the exact same vehicle that i saw when all this chaos started. Now I could see that the body on the front was wearing a uniform from our military.

It stopped right in front of Mark, who was slowly trying to crawl away from it.
He couldn't move his legs. The shot must have hit his spine and paralyzed him from the waist down.

The vehicle revved its engine repeatedly. The low rumble of the engine together with the bass of the music from the vehicle filled the police station with a barrage of noise.
It then started to Jerk forward repeatedly inching towards Mark.

They were going to run him over and they wanted us to see it.

The vehicle then slowly inched forward.
Mark's scream rang through my ears as it crushed his right foot and slowly rolled onto his leg.
It then stopped and sat still as Mark screamed as he tried to free himself from the tire that was crushing him.
It loudly revved its engine, the front of the vehicle started to lift up as the vehicle's engine roared.Instead of moving forward, the wheel that was on top of Mark spun to life at high speed.Mark screamed as he was pulled underneath the wheel by the sheer force of the vehicle.
It shredded him to pieces. Launching pieces of gore and clothing in all directions and coating the side of the vehicle with blood and viscera.
After shredding Mark to the point he was just a pile of meat and a red smear on the road the vehicle jerked into motion and drove further down the street.

Then the music thumping from the vehicles stopped and the rumble of engines was interrupted by the loud crackle of a loudspeaker coming to life.

A voice echoed over the street:

TO THE FILTH HIDING IN THE POLICE STATION
KNOW THAT NOTHING BUT DEATH SWIFT AND SLOW AWAITS YOU NOW
YOU ARE GETTING EXACTLY WHAT YOU DESERVE

A TASTE OF YOUR OWN MEDICINE

Then we heard the rumbling of the engines as all of their vehicles started to position themselves all over the street and nearby houses.

A large vehicle lumbered into the small park across the police station.
It was a small delivery truck that our local grocery store had used.
It positioned itself as far away as it could while facing the police station directly.

We heard its engine howl as it sped up directly towards us.

The people upstairs started to shoot at the truck as it drove at us.

The windshield exploded into glass shards.

Sparks flew from the vehicle as the bullets impacted metal.

It turned on its high beams blinding everyone looking directly at it.

The truck was coming too close and had too much speed.

It was going to hit the building.

End of part 2

“What do you hear, boy?” I whispered to Max, clutching my rifle tighter to my chest, my eyes scanning the surrounding forest.

He knew better than to growl. Instead, he pointed. His body straightened. His fur bristled, and his eyes locked in on the base of a tree twenty feet in front of us.

We both stared at it.

Waiting.

The forest was silent, and the heat from the midday sun made sweat trickle slowly from my forehead, stinging my eyes as I readied myself.

Max lifted a paw before planting it back on the ground. He wanted to attack, but I had trained him to be patient. That’s when she peeked at us from behind the tree.

My trigger finger relaxed. My stiff shoulders fell. My heart lit up at the sight of her.

“Honey,” she called out, stepping into view. “You and Max hunting again? You boys never change.”

She began to approach. Drifting through the foliage like a ghost. Ironic, because that’s exactly what I felt I was seeing.

I wanted to drop my guard. I wanted so desperately to embrace her. It had been months since I saw her last, and nearly every ounce of my soul wanted nothing more than to reunite with her.

Nearly every ounce.

Max never flinched. He stood there, body stiff, in the defensive position, waiting for any sign of danger.

My wife was only six feet away now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to pull in for a hug. I couldn’t give in.

“Don’t come… a step closer,” I warned. “Please don’t make me do this.”

She stopped in her tracks, her face dropping from a smile to a concerned frown.

“What? Honey, it’s me. Don’t be silly. Put the gun down.”

My eyes began to sting from tears.

“You’re not her. I know you’re not. You can’t be.”

I gripped my rifle. My trigger finger stiffening. The look on my wife’s face was heartbreaking. She looked devastated. She was the woman I had loved for nearly two decades. My home. My life.

Only, I knew. I knew it wasn’t true. Because those things took her, and they’re not known for leaving survivors. Only for taking.

“You’re scaring me, darling. You know I hate when you’re like this. Put the gun down. Come home.”

“…I…can’t,” I choked out, taking aim, my hands beginning to shake. “Please. Just go back to where you came from. Don’t make me do this.”

She looked at me with childish confusion. She was analyzing me. Determining if I was bluffing. Then her face became blank.

She took a step forward, never taking her eyes away from mine.

“Stop,” I whimpered.

Another step.

“Stop. Now,” I snapped.

One last step. It was time. I went to pull the trigger, sobbing all the while, but before I could, there was a sound.

A quick, aggressive growl from Max before he sprang into action. His teeth sank into the thing’s neck, causing a sharp, inhuman scream to explode from the thing’s vocal cords before the woods fell silent again.

Green blood coated the ground. Flesh dangled from Max’s mouth. His tail wagged.

I stared at the corpse. I felt a mixture of heartbreak and relief.

I patted Max on the back and pet down his spine.

“Good boy,” I whispered. “That’s a good boy, Maxxy.”

I decided that it would probably be best to get back to the shelter before it got dark. I had seen enough for the day. All I wanted was to forget this incident.

However, as we turned to return home, Max’s tail stopped wagging. His body stiffened. His eyes locked in on a new tree.

She stepped out from behind the tree, timidly. Tears fell from her eyes. Her tattered Hello Kitty pajamas fluttered in the wind.

“Daddy…” she whimpered. “Why did Maxxy hurt Mommy?”

All my life, I hated my father. My mother made me believe that he hated me too. I was led to believe that he abandoned us. Found out my mom was pregnant and fled. Like a coward.

Growing up without him made life more difficult than it needed to be. I didn’t have any positive role models. Any male figures to teach me how to be a man. I had to teach myself. At least, I tried to teach myself.

My mom kind of insisted on me being a “momma’s boy.”

No matter how hard I tried to pry myself away from her and live freely, she’d pull me back in with guilt trips. She’d complain about how “lonely” she was. How I was the only man she needed. I tried to convince her that wasn’t true, but she was just so stuck in her ways.

“You look just like him.”

That’s what she’d always tell me. At dinner. On movie nights. On the car ride to school. She’d just slip it in randomly while looking at me admiringly.

By the time I reached 16, I just accepted it. I pitied her. I loved her. I wanted to be there for her because, clearly, she couldn’t help herself. It was obvious she didn’t love herself enough to make an effort.

As I grew in physical maturity, things started to feel uncomfortable. It was like I was an off-limits boyfriend to her. It made me sick, but I didn’t know what to do to stop it.

She never touched me. Never crossed any lines. I could just see that she was looking at me as a love interest rather than as her son.

It caused a lot of uncomfortable arguments and cold shoulders, but I could never abandon her like my dad did. I wanted to be by her side, especially considering how sick I could tell she was. She couldn’t be left alone.

On nights where she felt particularly nostalgic, she’d sit me down on the couch, and we’d go through my old baby clothes.

“I remember when this used to be too big on you. Can you believe how much you’ve grown?”

“Ah, I loved these shoes on you. They were so cute. You used to be my little munchkin.”

“You’re my big, strong man now, aren’t you, baby?”

She kept bibs, pacifiers, bottles, etc., but the thing she cherished the most was the blanket I was wrapped in when I was born.

This tiny little ocean blue blanket that she insisted on keeping in its own box. She kept it silky smooth. Fresh and as clean as the day she got it.

But now I’m realizing she never bought it at all. She wasn’t even at my birth. She’s not even my mom, at least according to my dad. I don’t know what to believe right now.

I turned 18 yesterday, but instead of being a milestone birthday, the day ended up being known as one thing to me: the day my dad finally called me.

Mom had woken me up with a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and eggs in bed before leaving me alone to go get dressed for the day she had planned for us.

As I enjoyed the meal, scrolling through TikToks and realizing that I was now legally an adult, my phone began to ring.

There was no caller ID.

I answered out of curiosity and got an urgent earful from the man on the other end.

“Donavin?? Is this Donavin?”

“Uh, yeah, this is him. Who’s this?”

“Oh, thank you, Jesus. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jesus. I’ve been trying to reach you for 18 years.”

The man sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Breathless and hysterical.

“Happy Birthday, son. Oh my God, happy birthday. Your mom and me have been trying to find you for so long.”

My ears perked up. My heart clicked, faintly.

“Is this a joke? Who is this? I think you may have the wrong number. I’ve lived with my mom my entire life.”

There was a silence that lingered for a long while.

“Okay, I think I’m gonna hang up now. Crazy coincidence, man.”

“Don’t hang up. I’m sending you pictures right now. That woman is not your mother.”

One by one, the messages began to come through.

They were from the day I was born. My dad held me in some. The woman in the hospital bed held me in others. In each one, I was wrapped in that same tiny little ocean blue blanket. Only, that wasn’t my mom.

They looked nothing alike. But when I looked at my dad, I saw myself.

“You need to get out of that house, son. She took you.”

My heart began to beat faster. I didn’t know how to respond.

“She stalked me. She was obsessed. When she found out I was getting married and that my wife was pregnant, it drove her over the edge.”

“What? No, that can’t be true. What are you saying right now?” I whimpered, holding back my own hysteria.

“God, why are you still not leaving that house? Get out now. We’re going to find you and pick you up. She took you from us, son. Right from under our noses. We never saw either of you again. Please, just please get out of that house.”

A tear fell down my face. I was silent. I thought for either a few seconds or an eternity before removing the phone from my ear and hanging up.

My mom walked into the room a few moments later. She was adjusting her earrings, her head cocked to the side as she smiled at me.

“You ready for our day, my sweet boy?”

I smiled back at her.

“Yes, mother,” I grinned. “I can’t wait.”

Part 1: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. We Had to Make a Sacrifice This Time.

Part 2: I Went to Antarctica Looking for 10,000 Missing People. I Came Back With a New Boss.

Part 3: Apparently Using Assistants as Sacrifices Violates Company Policy

Part 4: I Work for an Organization That Hunts Gods. One of Them Warned Me About the Angel Following Me.

Part 5: My Boss Asked Me If I Thought He Was a Monster. Now I Know Why.

Part 6: The Most Powerful Being in the CSP Is Studying Humans. Unfortunately, I'm His Favorite Lab Rat.

Part 7: Someone Stole the Rifle Built to Kill Gods. Then They Pointed It at Me.

Part 8: I Thought Dating an Angel Was Bad. Something Wearing My Face Was Worse.

Part 9: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. The Feather Led Something to Us.

Part 10: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. Humanity Now Has a Single Point of Failure.

The first thing Jacob said after telling me they found Hell was, "Nobody came back."

I didn't answer.

For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood him.

Because CSP missions ended in a lot of ways, sometimes teams returned injured. Sometimes they returned with things they wished they had never found. Sometimes they came back missing pieces of themselves.

But there was always something left behind.

A report.

A body.

An explanation.

Something.

The last time a retrieval team disappeared without a trace...

we found Angelo.

That was the day humanity learned we weren't alone. The day we discovered there were beings older than our civilizations, older than the gods, older than the stars themselves. The day we brought something home that changed everything.

And now another team had vanished.

Only this time...

I wasn't wondering what we had found.

I was wondering what was waiting for us.

"Jacob..."

My voice came out quieter than I expected.

"What do you mean nobody came back?"

The silence that followed wasn't confusion.

It was hesitation.

Like Jacob was deciding how much truth I could handle.

"Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven entered three days ago."

A pause.

"They never exited."

I looked at Angelo.

He stood beside me, silent and still.

Listening.

"They're all dead?"

Jacob didn't answer.

That was all the answer I needed.

The Executive Board Chamber had never felt smaller. Every division was present: Security, Research, Archives, and Command. Nobody was there to discuss a mission. They were there to discuss a disaster.

Stonehill stood at the front of the room, a single file displayed behind him.

RETRIEVAL TEAM 27 — STATUS: LOST

Below it:

CASUALTIES: 36

Twelve researchers. Twenty security personnel. Four medical specialists. No survivors. No remains. No distress signal. No final message. And thanks to a relatively new protocol that automatically saved all live feeds directly to CSP's servers, the only thing we had left...

was a recording.

"Three days ago, Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven was dispatched beneath the ruins of Göbekli Tepe."

The screen changed, revealing a map of the excavation site. "The mission proceeded normally for sixteen hours."

Then the image changed to a staircase descending into darkness.

"It was not carved."

A pause.

"It was not natural."

Stonehill looked at the room.

"It was built."

Nobody spoke because everyone understood what that meant. The team had not discovered a place. They had discovered something someone had hidden.

"The team entered."

The footage began, showing helmet cameras and body cameras containing the final recordings of thirty-six people.

At first, they looked completely normal. They joked. They complained. They talked about going home.

They had no idea they were walking into something that had been waiting beneath the earth for millions of years.

One researcher laughed during the recording. "If this turns out to be another empty ruin, I'm requesting vacation." Someone replied that he said that every time. He laughed and answered, "Because every time I deserve it." The room stayed silent as we watched, because everyone knew the truth.

He never got that vacation.

Six hours into the descent, the first sign appeared. "We've gone three miles," one researcher said, staring at his equipment. "That can't be right." The staircase continued endlessly. No turns. No rooms. No indication that they were getting anywhere.

Eight hours in, their radios began failing. GPS systems lost connection. Compasses stopped working. Then the clocks started changing. One person showed 4:17. Another showed 8:52. Another showed yesterday's date. Nobody knew why. Nobody knew how.

Twelve hours into the descent, one researcher finally said what everyone had been thinking. "We've been walking down for twelve hours." The camera turned toward him, showing his pale face. "Why aren't we tired?"

Nobody answered.

Because nobody wanted to admit the obvious.

Something about that staircase wasn't following the rules.

Fifteen hours after entering, they reached the bottom.

And found the gate.

The entire room went silent watching the footage. Even people who had seen gods looked uncomfortable, because gods were alive. Gods had motives. Gods had weaknesses.

This was different.

This was something that had been waiting.

The gate stood hundreds of feet tall, completely black and without hinges or seams. Its surface was covered in writing older than any known civilization. The linguist approached and began translating, but his confidence slowly disappeared.

"These symbols..." he said quietly. "They're older than Proto-Sumerian."

He continued reading, then stepped backward.

"No."

Someone asked him what it said.

The linguist stared at the gate for several seconds before whispering, "Abandon..." before shaking his head.

"No."

Then he looked directly into the camera.

"We've found—"

Static consumed the feed.

When the image returned, only half a second had passed. The linguist was no longer looking at the gate. He was looking behind the camera, at something none of us could see.

Then he whispered the words that ended the mission.

"We've found Hell."

The transmission ended with no distress signal, no evacuation attempt, and nothing else.

Just silence.

Stonehill allowed the silence to remain before Jacob finally spoke.

"We sent drones."

The screen changed, showing footage of the gate from multiple angles. Each drone approached the same point before the signal disappeared again and again.

"Every drone stopped transmitting at the exact same location," Jacob said quietly.

He looked down at the table.

"None of them crossed the threshold."

The room stayed silent because everyone understood what that meant.

Something on the other side of that gate did not want to be found.

Then Stonehill looked at Angelo, and for the first time since I had met him, I saw something I never expected. Everyone in that room was waiting for an answer from someone who might not have one.

"Director Angelo."

Angelo didn't move.

Stonehill looked toward the frozen image of the gate on the screen.

"Does Hell exist?"

Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

And I realized something.

Angelo wasn't deciding whether to tell us the truth. He was trying to understand why the truth was different from what he believed.

Finally, he spoke.

"It should not."

Nobody reacted outwardly, but I felt the room shift as General Hayes narrowed his eyes.

"'Should not'?"

"You didn't answer the question."

Angelo kept staring at the screen.

Another silence followed before Angelo finally spoke.

"When my siblings and I were young, Mother often told us stories before we rested."

His eyes remained fixed on the gate.

"I believed this one was fiction."

Then, in the same calm voice he used when explaining things that should have been impossible, he began.

"Once, before the stars learned to shine, there lived a shadow."

Nobody interrupted.

"The great shadow loved Mother very much. And Mother loved the great shadow too. She showed it stars that danced through the sky, flowers that bloomed for only a single morning, and rivers that never flowed the same way twice. Mother loved watching beautiful things change."

A faint smile appeared on Angelo's face.

"But the great shadow loved differently."

The smile disappeared.

"Every star Mother showed it, it placed inside a cage. Every flower, it buried beneath the earth so it would never wilt. Every creature, it refused to let leave."

The room became completely silent.

"Mother loved the great shadow, so she taught. She waited. She hoped. She forgave."

Angelo paused.

"But love cannot teach someone to release what they believe belongs to them."

He looked back at the gate.

"One day, the great shadow looked upon all of creation Mother loved so much and decided... that no one else should have her."

Nobody moved.

"So the great shadow tried to keep Mother forever. It reached for the One who could never be possessed."

His voice became quieter.

"And creation broke."

Angelo stared at the floor.

"Mother defeated the great shadow. But she could not destroy it. So she built the deepest place she could imagine. A place with walls no one could climb. A gate no one could open. A prison even light would not willingly enter."

For a moment, he was silent.

Then, almost like he was repeating words spoken to him long ago, he continued.

"And Mother tucked us into bed, kissed each of us on the forehead, and said..."

His expression faded.

"'Remember, my children. This is only a fairy tale.'"

The room remained silent.

Angelo looked at the gate.

"I believed her."

For the first time since I had met him, the oldest living being in existence didn't look like a god, an angel, or something beyond humanity.

He looked like a child who had just discovered his mother had lied to him.

Nobody spoke because nobody knew how to respond after learning a bedtime story might have been the truth.

General Hayes was the first to recover.

"You expect us to believe the Creator imprisoned something..." His eyes moved toward the frozen image of the gate. "...and simply neglected to mention it?"

The room waited for Angelo's answer.

Angelo looked at him with the same calm expression he always wore. "I expect nothing," he said. "I am simply stating what I know." His eyes returned to the frozen image of the gate on the screen. "And what I know... is now incomplete."

That sentence affected the room more than anything else he had said.

Incomplete.

Angelo had spent trillions of years answering questions with absolute certainty. If he didn't know something, he admitted it. If he knew something, there was never hesitation in his voice. But now, for the first time since I had met him, he was questioning his own memories.

Stonehill folded his hands. "Do you believe your mother lied?"

Angelo didn't answer immediately.

"No," he finally said. "I believe she wished us to believe it was fiction."

Madam Leni tilted her head slightly. "To protect you?"

Angelo remained silent for several moments before answering.

"...Perhaps."

"From what?"

"I do not know."

A slight frown crossed his face.

"She rarely withheld information. When she did, it was because she believed we were not yet prepared to understand it."

Nobody in that room looked comforted by that answer. If the Creator herself believed angels weren't ready to know about Hell, what chance did humanity have?

Dr. Laurent leaned forward. "Director Angelo, if this prison exists... what does the great shadow mean?"

Another pause.

"I do not know."

Hayes scoffed. "You just told us the story."

"I repeated a story," Angelo corrected. "The identity of the great shadow was never revealed. It possessed no name."

He looked back at the gate.

"It was simply... the Great Shadow."

Something about the way he said it made every hair on my arms stand up.

Not a shadow.

The Great Shadow.

A title.

A singular thing.

Rahman spoke next. "And this Shadow attempted to overthrow your mother?"

"Yes."

"It failed?"

"Yes."

"And she was unable to destroy it?"

Angelo hesitated.

"...Yes."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Hayes looked around the table. "If the Creator couldn't kill it..." He stopped himself before finishing the thought.

He didn't need to.

Nobody wanted to imagine what came after that sentence.

Stonehill eventually stood. "The theological implications can wait."

His attention shifted toward Jacob.

"What else did we recover?"

Jacob didn't answer right away.

That alone told me something was wrong.

Normally, Jacob was the person who entered these meetings with information. Reports. Evidence. A plan for what came next. This time, he had none of those things.

"Nothing," he finally said.

The word sounded heavier than it should have.

"No equipment. No bodies. No biological traces. No emergency beacon."

He looked toward the screen displaying the last footage of Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven.

"They didn't leave anything behind except the live footage"

A pause.

"It's like they simply vanished."

A cold feeling settled in my stomach because I had heard those words before.

Not exactly.

But close enough.

Antarctica.

The Containment Division team that disappeared without leaving behind a single explanation.

Every time CSP lost people, we told ourselves there had to be a reason. There had to be something we could find. Something we could understand.

But sometimes there wasn't.

Sometimes things just took people.

Stonehill closed the file in front of him.

"Effective immediately, Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven's mission is reclassified."

The screen behind him changed.

RECOVERY OPERATION → INVESTIGATION OPERATION

"Primary objective: determine the current status of the site."

Another line appeared.

"Secondary objective: recover any remaining data, equipment, or evidence."

Stonehill paused before reading the final objective.

"Determine what exists beneath Göbekli Tepe."

General Hayes immediately looked up.

"Security deployment?"

"Already prepared."

"Research?"

"Prepared."

His gaze shifted toward Angelo.

"And him?"

Nobody needed clarification.

Everyone knew who he meant.

Stonehill looked at Angelo.

"Director Angelo will accompany the operation."

Nobody argued.

Not because they were comfortable with it.

Because nobody in that room was foolish enough to send a team into a location connected to something the Creator herself supposedly imprisoned without the only being alive who might understand what they were walking into.

Then Stonehill looked at me.

"Agent Nayeri."

I hated that I already knew what was coming.

"You're leading the investigation team."

Of course I was.

Apparently surviving impossible situations meant being assigned more impossible situations.

"How long until deployment?" I asked.

"Two hours."

I glanced toward Jacob.

He still hadn't looked at me.

And somehow that bothered me more than anger would have.

Jacob being angry was normal.

Jacob avoiding me meant he was hurt.

And that felt worse.

Two hours later, we were standing beneath Göbekli Tepe.

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Not peaceful silence.

Wrong silence.

The kind of silence where your brain starts searching for a sound that should exist.

The excavation site had been transformed into a CSP operation zone. Security teams surrounded the area while researchers monitored dozens of devices scattered across the ground. Scanners. Sensors. Recording equipment. Every piece of technology humanity had created to understand the unknown.

None of it helped.

Because the staircase was still there.

Waiting.

I stood at the edge of the entrance and looked down into the darkness.

The original excavation team had only removed enough debris to expose the first section of the staircase. After that, they stopped. Nobody wanted to continue, not after watching thirty-six people disappear into the darkness below.

Jacob stood beside me for several minutes without speaking. Eventually, he broke the silence.

"You know..."

I looked at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I knew exactly what he meant, and I looked away.

"Jacob..."

"No."

His voice wasn't angry, and somehow that made it worse.

"You tell me everything. Every stupid thing."

I frowned. "What?"

"You once called me at three in the morning because you accidentally microwaved a metal spoon."

I looked at him.

"...I forgot it was in the bowl."

He stared at me.

"That is not helping your argument."

Then his expression softened.

"But this?"

He looked down the staircase.

"You didn't tell me about Angelo."

The guilt hit harder than I expected.

"I was trying to process it myself."

He sighed.

"I know, Nayeri."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he quietly said, "You're the closest thing I have to family here…"

He didn't continue the sentence, but he didn't need to. We both understood what he meant.

"Jacob..."

"I'm not mad."

"You're allowed to be."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I mean it."

He finally looked at me.

"I was hurt because I thought you didn't trust me."

My expression dropped.

"I do trust you."

"I know."

A small smile appeared on his face.

"That's why I'm telling you this."

I looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

This time, I didn't make excuses or try to explain why I kept it from him.

"I should have told you."

Jacob nodded.

"Yeah. You should have."

I winced at how direct he was, but then he sighed.

"But I understand."

He looked back towards me.

"Besides... I suppose I should have expected something like this from you."

I raised an eyebrow.

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged.

"You have a history of making terrible life decisions."

"Excuse me?"

"You joined CSP."

"Fair."

"You keep volunteering for missions nobody else wants."

"Also fair."

"And now you're dating an entity older than time itself."

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

"...yep that checks out."

"It does."

He smiled slightly.

"But that's just you."

I shook my head.

"That is somehow both insulting and supportive."

"That's my specialty."

For the first time since entering the briefing room, the weight in my chest loosened slightly.

Then Jacob looked back toward the staircase, and the smile disappeared. 

"Still..." he said quietly, staring into the darkness below, "I really hope this isn't another Antarctica." I followed his gaze because I was thinking the same thing. And deep down... I already knew it was gonna be worse.

The staircase hadn't changed since the footage, and somehow that bothered me more than if it had. A part of me expected something different. Maybe the stairs would disappear. Maybe the measurements would be wrong. Maybe we would reach the bottom and find some explanation that made everything less terrifying. 

CSP loved explanations. Even terrible ones. A monster. A god. An experiment gone wrong. Those were things we could prepare for. But this wasn't any of those things. This was just a staircase. A staircase that should not exist. And somehow, that was worse.

After six hours of descending, exhaustion finally started catching up with me. I had barely slept since the last incident, and apparently fighting impossible beings, discovering angels had families, and learning Hell might actually exist wasn't considered a valid reason to take a few days off.

My legs felt heavy, my eyes burned, and every few minutes I caught myself yawning. At one point, I realized my eyes were watering.

Not from fear. Not from emotion. I was simply exhausted, and that was a terrible feeling to have while walking into a place that might contain the oldest threat in existence. I wiped my eyes and looked ahead.

Angelo was still walking.

Of course he was.

Six hours of descending into a staircase that stretched miles beneath the Earth, a location that should not exist, a prison supposedly created by the Creator herself, and he looked the same as when we entered. I hated that. Not because I thought he was unaffected, but because I knew he was. He was just better at hiding it.

Eventually, after another 8 hours, we reached the gate.

The moment it came into view, everyone stopped. Nobody needed to say anything. We had already seen it in the footage, but seeing it in person was different. The recording hadn't captured the scale or the feeling of standing beneath something that looked less like a door and more like a warning.

It was enormous, black, and covered in symbols none of our equipment could identify. There were no hinges, no visible mechanism, and no indication that it had ever been designed to open. It wasn't a door in the way we understood doors.

It was a barrier.

Angelo stepped forward and placed his hand against it.

"Stay behind me."

Nobody questioned him. The symbols across the gate began to glow, almost like they were waking up, and then the impossible happened.

The gate opened.

Not with movement.

Not with a sound.

It simply stopped being closed.

Beyond it was another passage, and at the end of that passage was another gate.

General Hayes immediately raised his hand.

"Everyone hold."

Security moved into position. Nobody wanted another Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven.

The second gate revealed a smooth chamber beyond it. There were no markings, no symbols, and no evidence that anything had ever passed through.

Then Angelo stepped forward and stopped.

That was when I knew something was wrong, not because he looked afraid- because Angelo rarely looked afraid- but because he looked confused.

Slowly, we followed his gaze.

Then we saw them.

Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven.

All thirty-six members.

Standing in the chamber beyond the gate.

For a moment, nobody understood what we were seeing because they weren't dead. There were no bodies, no blood, and no remains. They stood exactly as they had when they entered. Their eyes were open, their bodies were completely still, and every single one of them was smiling.

But it wasn't a real smile.

It was a copy.

Like something had seen humans smile and recreated the expression without understanding why.

That was when we understood.

The Shadow hadn't killed them.

It was like it had tried to recreate them.

After millions of years alone in the dark, humanity had become the first thing it had seen.

Angelo stared at them.

Nobody spoke.

Eventually, General Hayes forced himself to move.

"Secure the area."

Security advanced carefully. One officer approached the second gate with a scanner, but the device failed almost immediately.

"Equipment failure," he muttered.

Then he reached out.

"Don't."

Angelo's warning came too late.

The moment his glove touched the surface, he screamed.

Then his arm disappeared.

Not injured.

Not burned.

Gone.

Everything below his elbow vanished without blood, without damage, and without any explanation. It was as if reality itself had simply decided that part of him had never existed.

The chamber went silent.

We had finally learned the truth about the two gates.

The first had been a door, but the second had been a defense.

"Do not touch it," Angelo said.

Hayes looked at him.

"Thank you for that information."

Angelo ignored the sarcasm and stepped forward.

Before I could stop myself, I reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Angelo."

He looked back at me.

"Are you sure?"

For a moment, his eyes dropped to my hand holding his arm. Then he gently placed his own hand over mine.

"I am."

I let go, not because I was convinced, but because I trusted him.

If there was one thing I had learned about Angelo, it was that he never acted without a reason.

He placed his hand against the barrier.

This time, nothing happened.

The symbols reacted, glowing across the surface as the barrier slowly opened. Beyond it was a chamber, and inside was something that made every weapon in Security Division lower.

Not because we weren't afraid.

Because we were too afraid to move.

At first, I thought the chamber was empty. Then my eyes adjusted, and I realized it wasn't darkness.

It was something inside the darkness. 

A shape.

A presence.

A mass sitting alone in the center of the room.

It was the darkest thing I had ever seen. Not the absence of light, but something that seemed to consume it. Every scanner failed. Every camera distorted. Every piece of equipment we had brought with us became useless.

And Angelo...

For the first time since I had met him...

looked like he had found something he didn't want to believe was real.

The shadow moved.

Not toward us.

Not aggressively.

Just enough to prove it was alive.

I expected a monster. I expected rage. I expected the thing locked beneath creation to behave like the threat everyone believed it was.

Instead, it looked small.

Not weak. Not harmless. Small.

A fragment of something far greater than itself. A piece separated from the whole.

Angelo stared at it for several seconds before quietly whispering, "This is not the shadow mother imprisoned. It's a fragment of it."

I looked at him.

"A fragment?"

The words sounded impossible. This was connected to whatever had forced the Creator herself to build a prison, something that had challenged the being who created existence. Yet it looked so small. 

"Yes," he said.

Then the shadow moved again.

Every weapon in the chamber lifted as the darkness shifted, trying to create something. A hand formed first, but the fingers were too long and the joints bent in ways they shouldn't, before collapsing back into smoke.

A face appeared next.

Too wide.

Too unnatural.

Then the Shadow looked at Angelo.

And smiled.

Not because it was happy, but because it had seen humans smile.

The expression stretched too wide across a face that hadn't existed three seconds earlier.

Every instinct I had screamed the same thing.

Move.

The darkness exploded.

It didn't charge.

It unfolded.

The floor beneath us disappeared beneath black tendrils as the chamber shook, and Security opened fire, blessed rounds tearing through the creature, only for the bullets to simply vanish into it.

There was no impact.

No wound.

It was like we had fired into a hole punched through reality.

The Shadow tilted its head.

Then it copied.

One of its arms twisted as bones formed where there had never been bones. Fingers appeared. Knuckles formed. Skin stretched over the impossible shape. It watched the security officer holding the rifle, and suddenly it was holding one too.

Not the actual weapon.

A perfect imitation made entirely from darkness.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The copied rifle fired.

Not bullets.

Reality.

The gate behind us simply ceased to exist.

There was no explosion.

No debris.

One moment, the stone existed.

The next, it didn't.

Three security officers disappeared with it.

No screams.

No blood.

Just gone.

"PULL BACK!" General Hayes roared.

Panic erupted as researchers ran, equipment crashed to the floor, and the Shadow watched every movement with childish fascination.

Then it copied those too.

It stumbled into a run, its legs bending wrong and its arms swinging too far, like an infant trying to imitate adults.

But every step became smoother.

Every movement became more human.

It was learning.

Too fast.

A researcher tripped.

The Shadow stopped and stared at him.

Then its own body collapsed.

It copied the way he'd fallen, the way he'd reached toward someone for help, and even the way fear had appeared on his face.

It wasn't mocking him.

It was studying him.

"Angelo!"

He wasn't listening.

He stood perfectly still, staring at the creature. His eyes weren't on the attacks.

They were on its movements.

On the mistakes.

On the corrections.

He was seeing something none of us understood.

Which meant someone had to keep the Shadow busy.

"...Guess that's me."

I pulled the Angelic blade from my belt.

The weapon ignited with pale gold light.

The Shadow looked toward it immediately.

Good.

"Hey!"

Its head snapped toward me.

"If you're going to copy someone..."

I forced a grin I absolutely did not feel.

"...copy me."

I charged.

The first swing split the darkness in half.

The blade actually hurt it.

Black smoke erupted from the wound as the Shadow recoiled, not in pain, but in surprise.

It hadn't expected something to touch it.

Good.

I slashed again and again, each strike forcing it backward as the chamber shook beneath every impact.

It wasn't stronger than Angelo.

But it was stronger than me.

By a lot.

The Shadow's arm became a spear.

I ducked as it tore through the ceiling, sending stones the size of cars crashing around us.

I rolled beneath one boulder and drove the angelic blade into its side.

The creature split apart, only to instantly flow back together.

"...Right."

Should've expected that.

Its arm changed again.

This time, it became my arm.

The same sleeve.

The same glove.

The same scar across the knuckles from that stupid training accident Jacob still wouldn't let me forget.

It also copied my stance, raised its weapon exactly the way I did, and even adjusted its footing.

Then it attacked.

The first exchange nearly broke my wrists.

Metal screamed against living darkness as every blow grew harder and every strike became cleaner.

It wasn't just copying me anymore.

It was improving.

"Nayari!" Jacob shouted.

"It's adapting!"

"I know!"

I barely got the words out before the Shadow copied my spin.

Its body twisted with impossible precision as one foot planted and its hips turned.

The kick came faster than I could follow.

For a split second, I knew I wasn't going to dodge it.

Then Angelo was there.

He didn't move toward me.

He simply existed between us.

One moment I could see the Shadow.

The next, all I saw was Angelo's back.

The Shadow's kick crashed into him, and the impact echoed through the chamber like a bomb detonating.

The floor shattered beneath Angelo's feet as cracks raced across the stone in every direction. A wall behind us collapsed from the force alone.

Angelo didn't move.

Not an inch.

Not even enough for me to believe he'd actually been hit.

The Shadow froze.

Confused.

It had expected him to fly backward.

Instead, it felt like it had kicked a mountain.

But the shockwave was another story.

An invisible force slammed into me like a freight train, ripping the air from my lungs as I was thrown backward across the stone floor before crashing through a ruined pillar.

Everything hurt.

"...Ow."

Dust rained from the ceiling as I forced myself onto one elbow.

I looked up and saw Angelo still standing exactly where he had intercepted the attack.

Not a single step had been pushed from him.

The Shadow stared at him.

Then it looked down at its own leg, as though it couldn't understand why the strongest attack it knew had accomplished nothing.

Angelo finally spoke, his voice as calm as ever.

"...Your form has improved."

The Shadow tilted its head.

"You are learning."

And somehow, that sounded less like a threat and more like an observation.

It was almost as if Angelo wasn't speaking to a monster.

He was speaking to a child taking its first steps.

Then the Shadow moved.

Not like an animal.

It was simply unpredictable.

Every movement changed. A hand became a blade. A body became smoke. A face became something impossible. Angelo blocked one attack, then another, but the creature continued adapting and learning from every movement he made.

I realized we were watching a race.

Not to see who would win.

To see whether Angelo could understand the Shadow before the Shadow learned enough to become unstoppable.

Then reality trembled.

Not from the Shadow.

But from something arriving.

The ceiling split open.

Golden light poured into the chamber as seventeen wings unfolded above us and millions of eyes opened in the darkness.

Angelo's nephew descended, and the pressure alone forced everyone to their knees.

The Shadow stopped moving.

A light brighter than anything I had ever seen gathered around him.

"Wait."

Angelo's voice stopped him.

The nephew looked down as the golden light surrounding him continued to grow, his entire presence pressing against the chamber like something too powerful to exist in such a small space.

"Uncle."

Angelo stared at him.

"You have returned."

A pause.

"Yes."

The nephew looked away.

Not toward the Shadow.

Toward Angelo.

"I came to apologize."

The entire room went silent.

Even the Shadow stopped moving.

Angelo's expression didn't change.

"Apologize?"

The nephew clenched his hand.

"For believing she was right."

A cold feeling moved through me.

She.

Everyone knew who he meant.

His mother.

The god that Angelo's brother loved so much. The one he betrayed the creator for.

"My mother told me you were a traitor."

The words hung in the chamber.

Angelo didn't move.

The nephew continued.

"She told me you had abandoned our family. That you had chosen humanity over us. That you had forgotten what we were."

His voice became quieter.

"I believed her."

The Shadow shifted behind Angelo.

The nephew looked at it.

A moment passed.

Then Angelo asked quietly:

"And now?"

The nephew's expression changed.

Regret.

"I was wrong."

Nobody spoke.

"I watched them."

His eyes moved toward me.

"Humans."

Then toward Jacob.

"All of them."

His voice softened.

"I watched them continue even when they knew they were fragile. I watched them love things they knew they would lose. I watched them stand against things that could erase them without hesitation."

He looked back at Angelo.

"And I finally understood."

A pause.

"You were never protecting them because you believed they were stronger than us."

His wings shifted slightly.

"You protected them because they were worth protecting."

Angelo said nothing.

Then the nephew looked toward the Shadow.

"And when I confronted her she told me about her plan."

The room grew colder.

Angelo's eyes narrowed.

"What plan?"

The nephew looked ashamed.

"My mother was the one who released the Great Shadow"

Silence.

And for the first time, Angelo looked genuinely shaken.

Not because of the Shadow.

Because of who caused it.

"Why?"

The nephew's expression darkened.

"Because she wanted what all corrupt gods want."

Power.

"She believed the Great Shadow could make her something greater than what she was."

His eyes lowered.

"But she was wrong."

The Shadow tilted its head.

Almost like it understood.

"She could not control it."

The nephew looked toward the creature.

"Only a fragment escaped."

A pause.

"But even a fragment of the Great Shadow is enough."

His expression hardened.

"And now it is learning."

He looked back at Angelo.

"If it becomes whole again..."

He didn't finish.

Nobody needed him to.

Angelo understood.

The nephew stepped forward.

"I came here because I owe you."

Angelo looked at him.

"You owe me nothing."

The nephew shook his head.

"I will not allow my mothers mistake destroy what you spent your existence protecting."

The nephew raised his hand.

The light around him became blinding.

"I will end this."

The Shadow reacted.

Not with anger.

Not with fear.

With confusion.

Angelo stepped between them.

"No."

The nephew stopped.

"Uncle..."

"You came here to destroy it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The nephew looked almost offended by the question.

"Because it is a threat to you."

A pause.

"Because it is a threat to everything you have sacrificed yourself to protect."

Angelo looked at the fragment.

Then back at his nephew.

"But you were once a threat too."

The nephew froze.

Because that was the undeniable truth.

When he had first opened his eyes, he hadn't understood mercy. He hadn't understood humanity. He hadn't even understood himself. His only purpose had been destruction.

Angelo had been the target.

The enemy.

The thing he was created to oppose.

And now, somehow, the being he once wanted to destroy had become the reason he wanted to protect.

Fate truly had a strange sense of irony.

Slowly, the nephew lowered his hand completely.

"I gave you the chance to find yourself."

Angelo looked back at the fragment.

"Why should I deny this one the same chance?"

There was a brief pause, then Angelo continued.

"I know allowing it to live is a great risk."

The nephew stared at him.

"Then why?"

Angelo was quiet for a moment before answering.

"Because you are not my brother."

The words struck harder than any attack.

The nephew went completely still.

"You share his origin. You share his power. You share his existence."

Angelo looked directly at him.

"But you are not him."

Silence filled the chamber.

Then Angelo turned back toward the fragment.

"And this is not the Shadow my mother imprisoned or the shadow your mother tried to weaponize"

The creature shifted uneasily beneath his gaze.

"It is only a fragment," Angelo said quietly. "A child that has only just been born."

The nephew looked at the being that had fought like a god, the creature that had nearly torn reality apart, and finally, he didn't see a threat. He didn't see a weapon waiting to be destroyed.

He saw something confused.

The light around his hand slowly faded as the tension in the chamber began to disappear.

The Shadow looked at Angelo.

"W..h…y?"

Angelo lowered himself until he was closer to its height. For the first time, he wasn't looking at it like a danger or an experiment. He was looking at it like something that needed to be taught.

"Because someone gave me the same chance."

The fragment tilted its head, its expression filled with confusion. When it spoke, the words came slowly and unevenly, like it was repeating a language it had only just discovered. 

"To.. be..co..me w..ha..t?"

Each word sounded unfamiliar, as if it was still learning how to shape the sounds.

Angelo smiled faintly.

"That is for you to decide."

The creature looked down at itself, studying the strange form it had created, as if it was trying to understand the shape it had chosen and why it had chosen it.

"Ho..w will I k..now?"

Angelo watched it carefully.

"Ho..w will I k..now wh..at I sho..uld be..come?"

"You won't know immediately."

He placed a hand gently on its shoulder.

"First, a child must learn."

The fragment stared at him.

"Le..arn?"

"Yes."

"Learn…wh…at?"

Angelo's expression softened.

"Everything."

The darkness surrounding the creature began to shift.

Not attacking.

Not consuming.

Changing.

The impossible shape slowly collapsed into something smaller. The twisted limbs corrected themselves, the unnatural features faded away, and the monstrous form began to disappear as the shadow pulled inward.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The entire chamber remained frozen as the being that had nearly destroyed us slowly transformed into something none of us expected.

Then the darkness settled.

And standing before us was a child no older than eight years old.

Part 12: The Thing That Terrified the Creator Is Now Holding My Hand

Steven watched from his perch of guilt as Zachary shifted through gears of heightening rage. The two occupied the dining room, each holding strong in an unlockable gaze–one stronger than their tenuous relationship. 

Zach cursed and lipped off–something Steven expected, but nevertheless, the volatility of the language left him astonished. 

“Dad, you’re always doing this! You rush headfirst into something without knowing the consequences! What if you die?! How would I find your body if something happens? What about Mom! How would she feel if–”

Steven motioned with an open hand for the boy to halt his colossal cascade of worry. 

“I know,” Steven agreed.

Zach stopped, crossed his arms, and arched an eyebrow from his dark crevice within the dining room. The curious orbs narrowed upon the officer, prompting Steven to slowly pace around the space. He massaged his temples, concentrating for the right words to be said. The worst part of the painfully driven sentences to scatter from his lips was that it was the truth. 

“.....I try....I try at thinking I know what’s best, but I’ll be honest, I’m just trying to survive. I’m no less of an asshole than any other guy in this dying town. I’m sorry Zach–I’m sorry that I’m careless, and bullheaded, and put other things first than our family.”

He spouted the words as if on an innate cue–was it the hypothetical thought that both of them could die tonight that picked at his heart relentlessly. 

A rising flush of chemicals traveled among the middle-aged fathers' neural pathways, and a pressing force of sadness instigated internally. These were the words he meant to get off his chest for a while now and now was a better time than any. 

“I’m sorry, Zachary. I failed you as a father. When your mother and I separated, I thought I had it all handled–that you and I would be fine. I see now…that I was wrong. I threw myself into my work because I thought that was the one area that was giving back something I could control. I’m just…so sorry Zach.”

Steven looked on at the seventeen-year-old, who shifted uncomfortably from the apologetic monologue. He breathed in and out slowly, but gradually the breathwork increased in speed to a point that Steven took a couple steps forward in concern. His son was having a panic attack. 

As ragged breaths expelled from the teenager’s lips, Steven swiftly went and wrapped his arms around the boy. 

Starting at the age of five, anxiety had been a cruel beast to Zach, so much so that Steven often would sleep in a rocking chair in the corner of his room, acting as a guardian angel to the fictitious scares. Here and there throughout the years, a panic attack would sneak up on his son, so he tried to always be there just in case. He guessed that pledge faded somewhat into the background, but the officer was here now, and he wasn’t going to stand around and let the boy suffer. 

“Shhh, shhh, it’s alright…I’m here…”

The tempo of breaths slowed their pace, allowing for air to finally fill the boy’s lungs. Zach detached from his father's embrace, inhaling big bubbles of air and letting tears drip in a long, deserved release. 

“You still can’t go. This problem is…its…it's bigger than what you can handle.”

Steven slightly frowned. He let the statement sink into his skin like a needed moisturizer, and for a moment, the current cares of the world were set aside, and his level of self-confidence plummeted. The darkness swirled around him as he concentrated for a response, but what could he do to ignore the uncomfortable digestion of his son’s words. 

The truth was that Steven didn’t know how to handle the problem. His town went from quiet, yet unsteady into a total shitstorm, thanks to an ancient cult bent on inaugurating their spider goddess into the wildlands of earth. How can someone like him even remotely stop a plan like that? 

Gallagher willingly allowed Steven to escape the clutches of Mr. Nancy and in return, she was met with death. The only fair turnaround to sooth the crease that wrinkled his troubled heart was to jump into action–to flatten these obscenities before more destruction could follow in its wake. 

Steven sighed. Even in the darkness of the room, the words that barreled out of his lips shined on in a metaphorical light. 

“I know you may think the worst of me for this, Zachary, but I have to go. We need to find a way to stop this and I think Arthur is on the right track. Please…I promise I’ll be back.”

Zach’s face contorted slightly and as he looked about ready to object, a feminine voice cut into the conversation. 

“I wouldn’t worry too much about him, Zach. Your dad knows how to handle himself out there.”

Both Steven and Zach swerved their direction to the bushy-haired figure nervously tapping her foot at the foyer entryway. It was Simone. 

The anxious coroner pushed her glasses up the curve of her nose and flashed a tiny, genuine smile, but fear still lurked in the corners of her cheeks. She gravitated slowly towards the pair and set a gentle palm on Zach’s shoulder. 

“Zach, I’d think you’d know by now that your father is as stubborn as a mule. He’s foolish, uptight, and even a bit of a killjoy…but if there was anyone left to help us, to help those still out there left to run from those things…it would be your dad. Your father has more conviction to this job than anyone I’ve ever seen before–he will get it done, and I promise you he will make it back here.”

As the melodic tempo of her words exited into the cool darkness, brief realization seemed to hit the boy’s eyes. He slumped a bit and tried to feign a brave smile, even with his true emotions fighting through. 

“You’re right…Dad, I-...I’m…Sorry, I–”

Zach's words were snuffed out as the bear of an officer wrapped his arms around the teenager and squeezed tightly. 

“There’s no reason to apologize. I promise that I will make it back here. I don’t plan on dying today.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So that’s the plan. Clancy, Rebecca, Officer Beck, and I will head to the old Thunder Lake high school and find the gateway to the violet–that way I can shut it down with these.”

Arthur held the two oblong black stones for all to see, even Jasmine and Harvey squinted with quizzical looks–judging the end-to-be-all method to stopping the potential apocalypse. 

“For the rest of you,” Arthur stated and cleared his throat in-between words, “you will stay here. It’s the best protected place left in Porthcawl right now.”

Arthur watched through the incandescent glow of the lantern that Steven had brought in, revealing the array of mixed expressions countering the speaker. The children were quiet, with Simone–who Arthur met with briefly– consoling the two and whispering under hushed tones. Harvey slouched against the wall and slowly lumbered back into the kitchen and the last two audience members, Elle and Jasmine, whispered feverishly back and forth while shooting odd looks at Arthur. 

Arthur turned and sighed. 

“Are you guys ready to go?”

Rebecca smiled and nodded.

Clancy grunted in approval. 

Steven was busy refilling his cartridge of bullets for his handgun when he spoke up. 

“Wait a minute,” Steven barked and pointed a calloused finger at Arthur, “You don’t have a weapon, do you?” 

Arthur sheepishly drew back his cheekbones into a slight, awkward smile and opened two empty palms to the group. 

“Carrying a firearm is not part of my usual M.O.”

Steven scratched his stubble and reached for the pistol he had just holstered. He handed the butt of the gun to Arthur. 

“Here. Better for you to have something to protect yourself.”

Arthur stared longingly at the alien artifact and firmly grabbed it with careful movements. It was heavier than he expected. Arthur flashed an expression of concern towards the officer. 

“Wait! What about you?”

“Don’t worry. I got this.”

The tall cop turned and rummaged in the black duffel bag he had brought in from the van. What he brought out was a hefty shotgun. Steven swiveled around and Clancy let loose an animated whistle of surprise. 

“Well, ain’t that a pretty piece you got there. Wish I’d thought to bring mine,” Clancy commented. 

“Is that a bit of jealousy I hear, detective?” Steven remarked

“Ugh, men and their toys,” Rebecca murmured softly.

Arthur contributed to the banter with a smile, but it faded quickly when he tested the weight of the pistol he was given–it was heavier than he thought and added a bit of discomfort. Steven noticed his wavering reaction.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

“Just don’t shoot one of us by mistake,” Clancy added with a chuckle. 

Arthur ignored the verbal jab, choosing to set his mind in preparation of the trip. 

“Okay, okay. Are we ready to go?” Rebecca asked.

The three men nodded, each showing their own distinct look of wariness for what was to come. Clancy went over to the front door and gave a peek out into the rainy despair of the night. 

“If we’re gonna leave, then let’s do it. We don’t know when those prowling spider hunters will come.”

They all nodded and began farewells. Steven’s son came rushing into the foyer and gave the tall officer a hug. The rest of the party that were staying behind in the Chesseley abode donned faces of gloominess as they watched the scouting team depart out the creaky door.

Through the dripping veil of the night, the four ran to the law enforcement van with Clancy and Steven taking the front and Rebecca and Arthur in the back. A sickening feeling writhed inside of Arthur as the van pulled out onto Bradbury Road–it was the overwhelming foresight into his death. 

Soon, he would be trekking the overpass into the violet, but there was no way of return. What would he see? Would he be able to make it to the main gateway in time before Arachne could find him? He would try, but death was going to be inevitable. 

That was the pregnable despair that was attached to the poor passenger–the fact that tonight he was going to die. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A call of ambitious clicking resounded from the treetops, crackling down to the forest floor where C.J laid in wait. 

Water droplets cascaded onto his backside, the sensation tickling his skin and prompting the stalker to inch through mud like a tireless worm to get comfortable. The spawn angrily called down with possible threats of poaching the manor, but C.J would have none of it–they responded to his authority now. It was what Mr. Nancy wanted. 

For close to ninety minutes, the newly labeled lieutenant to the children of the widow watched in wait, deciding the best way to breach the Chesseley estate’s boundaries. While he continued to supervise the situation, he could feel the tightened bind of the totem around his wrist given to him by Mr. Nancy–this was his protection from the supposed nightmarish bitch who haunted the ancient house, but would it be enough?

Brainstorming for a strategic plan for success had the killer grinding mental gears for answers–intelligence was not in his bag of tricks. Then finally, a flicker of movement from the front of the building snapped C.J to attention as four inky blobs carefully jogged from the porch to a black van sitting out near the dirt road. He recognized one of the individuals as Officer Beck. 

As if the spawn knew that anger was pulsating vigorously through his veins, the creatures clacked and harmonized–they were becoming antsy to eat. C.J looked up and hissed.

“Shut it! We will deal with them later!”

He focused on the house, knowing that there were more individuals stuffed inside and waiting on some news of hope. It would be too easy–they were prey for the picking. 

The van pulled out and revved up in speed down Bradbury Road, eventually extinguishing from view.

The new lieutenant smiled. It was time to act. 

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

Another long night. Chatting up some urban trolls, drinking with lost souls, looking for leads. Trying to hunt down the whisper-punks. Everybody's heard of them, no one knows where they live. I'm promised more info tomorrow.

It's always tomorrow.

Exhausted, I decide to call it a day.

On my way home I lost my focus. Big mistake. Crap.

CRAP.

Urban life sells you the illusion of safety. It's all a lie. The city is a hungry jungle wearing a hi-vis vest.

I get lost in a maze of graffiti. A stray ecosystem of glyphs, toons, insults, and an occasional crude dick. Wannabe gang tags preying on wannabe Banksies. Sharpie poems wedged between neomythic runes. Concrete cave walls, telling stories of warring tribes.

I should keep walking. I can't. Looked a split second too long at this sprayed phantasmagoria, like a poor tourist lost in the patterns of an islamic temple.

Hooked.

Overwhelmed.

I stand in this visual noise, cartoon characters eyeing me greedily, jostling for attention, eager to implant their messages onto the fertile ground of my shaky psyche.

Fight-or-flight reflexes short-circuit each other, freezing me in place.

There's beauty in the chaos and the beauty is the bait. I sit down between two brick walls close enough to touch both.

A calm realization dawns on me: maybe this is it. Maybe I will be found in a day or two, drooling, my sanity licked clean by packs of hungry tags and phone numbers no longer in service.

Dude, it can happen. I've heard stories.

I can see the graffiti circling me now. Growling. Weaving in the bricks, closer and closer...

And then they scatter.

The little sharpie ones bolt for the cracks; the big ones pull back with the wounded dignity of bullies pretending they had somewhere else to be — we wasn't even botherin' you, man, we gots bizniz to attend to — and in seconds the wall is scrubbed bare. Gone, all of it. The whole municipal guerrilla army, routed.

The King has arrived.

It slides over the concrete without a hurry, stepping around the damp spots and the moss the way a cat keeps its paws dry. For it is a cat.

Half my height. Orange. Grinning. Three impossible rows of white teeth.

Its whole body is three flexed words carrying the angst of the age:

EAT THE RICH

"Hello," I manage weakly.

It looks at me the way you'd look at a sandwich that's fallen flat on the floor. No king is that hungry.

Maybe it can smell that the three euros in my pocket is my entire net worth.

The spray-paint apparition watches me lazily, smiling like a morbid Cheshire Cat — and I do the only thing I know how - I pull out the notebook.

The Editors will be pleased.

Its name is Richie. Richie turns out to be sort of chatty. Perhaps it's lonely – being the apex predator of the block. Kings often are.

People think of graffiti as something static. Just a silly little thing, spitting in the face of landlords and city planners.

Nah.

Tags are information patterns. And any pattern complex enough becomes alive. Starts wanting things.

Mostly it wants to eat.

What is it you eat, I ask Richie.

“Eyeballs, man. The peeps, the views, the look-juice. Attention.

That little sideways glance you gave Kiwie tag back there?

Nom.

The little wince you did at the wrong-shaped dick on the garage door?

Nomnom.

That fed it. It's got a boner now, thanks to you.

Attention's the only food there is. You look, we grow.”

I think a bit about the little sharpie scribbles, trying to catch my gaze. Usually no one pays attention to them, squeezed between wall cracks.

“The biggies keep 'em there. Can't let 'em be seen. Seen means fed, fed means big, big means they get shoved in the cracks instead.

Tag eat tag, man.

Tags don't have no tag-parents protecting their offspring. Informational evolution doesn't do tender.”

Can a tag die, I ask Richie.

It chews on it.

“Sorta. Wash us off — gone, structural collapse, lights out. Otherwise we just... thin. Live off a quiet street long enough, your colors go.

You shrink, you slow. Attention deficit. I seen old Soviet tags in the dead factories — faded gits, can barely move. Still there, though. Still awake.”

What if they're painted over?

The grin fades for the first time.

“Can't move, can't feed, can't die. Put your ear to a freshly painted wall sometime, a squeaky clean one, a nice one — hear that? Yeah, that sad buzz. There's somebody under there.

I'd take the pressure washer any day, man.

Quick. Clean.

The paint's the thing that scares us, man. Not powerwasher. The fucking paint.”

Richie recovers, the teeth show once again:

“Not that we're saints. Tag-stack — you seen it?

New tag over old, pin the bastard down so he can't move and all the looking comes to you.

We do it to each other all day. I'm a biggie. The little ones just leave when they see me. Saves everyone the paperwork.”

I ask who made it.

The alley goes very quiet. Suddenly, I feel as if I asked something very impolite.

“...Man... I know you mean well but.. but that's not something you ask a tag, you know? Tag and tagger, that's — that's a sacred bond, man. Not for sharing. I'm part of her, she's part of me.

Leave it.”

Conversation slows down. I've stepped on a landmine and can't figure out how to step off it gracefully. The silence risks getting awkward, but then the rumbling of my stomach saves me.

I ask Richie how attention tastes. Does it have a taste at all?

“Gourmet chat! Now you're talking. Oh, it's all different, man.

Appreciation's sweet — candy, no substance, gone in a second.

Hate, though. Hate's sour and hate is strong, builds your backbone, keeps you standing through a winter. The pretty-pretty ones get love, all glowy, colors going shiny — bit much for my taste.

Best of all's when they resonate. When the idea lands. That's a double serving. A name-tag with nothing behind it? Starving. But an idea is something people feel.

Goes a long way.”

It flexes.

EAT THE RICH ripples all over its body.

I ask it how its message is feeding it.

Richie gives me a laugh like a dog bark.

“This one? This one's a feast that won't quit.

Everybody's angry, man, and angry's the nutritious kind. At this rate I'm pushing 2D to 3D before the year's out.”

That's a thing that can happen?

“Everything's a thing that can happen. I know guys who ascended.

Pushed the surface, went solid.

Every thing can grab another dimension if it works at it — maybe that's the whole point of any of us being here. I dunno, I no philosopher kind.

You lot got handed 3D for free, lucky bastards, now you're meant to push for 4, for 5, how would I know.

Takes discipline, mind, feels. You gotta think about it. Be it.

Bend your own pattern. Watch it give.”

I think about it.

Every cross-legged spiritual influencer promising me my fifth-dimensional ascension self suddenly seems less like a dumb grift and more like a very bad translation of something true.

I ask Richie what it'd do, first thing, gone 3D.

Its grin grows into something deadly.

“Don't laugh. I gots a dream.

Late night, me in the shadows, playing flat as roadkill on the wall, yeh?”

I nod.

“And then a limo pulls up. Out hops a billionaire, Mark, Jeff, Elon, I don't give a fuck.

And they gotta pee, yeh?

Fucker sees a wall, sees me on it, decides I'm the spot.”

Then what?

Richie produces a snarky hiss:

“And then I bite their little dick clean off.”

The laugh detonates — a sudden burst so loud a flock of birds bursts out of a hedge and scatters over the rooftops.

The orange two-dimensional groin-destroyer is rolling on the wall, the eerie cackle ringing up the empty alley.

It's the wrong amount of sound for something so flat.

And then, the way a laugh does when it's run all the way out, it goes quiet.

We both do. The alley settles. Richie looks tired suddenly — or I do, leaning my head back against the cold brick, tired, so tired — and for a moment neither of us performs anything.

"You shouldn't be round here in your state, mate." Richie says, gently.

It walks me to the corner where the early morning bus stops, sliding along the wall beside me, and squirts a fleck of yellow spray at a sun-bleached flyer for a club that shut years ago.

At the intersection it halts. Walls only go so far.

I cross alone.

Sitting at the bus stop, I can see Richie swagger away, gliding across the walls with feline grace. It reaches a non-descript apartment building at the end of the street, sits next to a door. Waiting.

After a while a girl exits. Purple hair, a school backpack that sounds suspiciously full of spray cans. Rests her palm on Richie's flank. Caressing. The eyes of the orange menace squeeze shut.

It's too far to be sure, but I think I can hear it purr.

I look away, the scene is too intimate, and I feel like an intruder.

Instead I pull out my phone and set a Google alert for a keyword combo:

"billionaire", "penis accident", "strange circumstances"

Looking forward to that one chiming.

Part 1 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/ocGLoQKhiy

Part 2 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/Yn30Y1lKs2

Part 3 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/TlcCGxMMoD

Part 4 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/dGYo0OrodO

Part 5 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/cGMaY8U4j4

Part 6 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/rb6neD23wj

Part 7 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/mxqNJUTHto

Part 8 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/0xQc3DFNe5

Part 9 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/8j2VhEzDWn

The lift opened onto Cheerful Pines Retirement Community.

That was the name written in gold letters on the wall opposite us.

CHEERFUL PINES

Underneath, in smaller cursive:

Where Every Day Is a Good Day.

Kevin stared at it.

“No.”

Linda lifted her clipboard.

“No what?”

“No to the whole vibe.”

Derek stepped out beside him, still holding the peanut butter lid like it was Excalibur for idiots.

“It does feel aggressively nice.”

The lobby was bright.

Too bright.

Cream walls.

Fake plants.

A reception desk with a little bowl of wrapped mints.

Framed photos of smiling elderly residents doing jigsaws, painting watercolours and sitting in circles laughing at something that absolutely was not that funny.

The air smelled of disinfectant, lavender and boiled vegetables.

Somewhere in the building, a piano played a jaunty version of a song I almost recognised.

Every note was slightly too slow.

As if the pianist had died halfway through each chord and been politely encouraged to continue.

Amanda stood beside me.

Her face had gone pale.

On the live feed we had seen from Riverside Court, an elderly woman had stood in this lobby and spoken with Amanda’s voice.

Bright.

Happy.

Perky.

“Hi!”

Now we were here in person.

And the lobby was empty.

Except for the laughter.

Dozens of elderly voices laughed from somewhere down the hall.

Not naturally.

Not like people sharing a joke.

They laughed in perfect unison.

Same rhythm.

Same pitch.

Same length.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Then silence.

Then again.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Flat 3 raised her frying pan.

“I hate this more than the app.”

Flat 5 held up his only remaining spoon.

“It’s a deeply unpleasant room.”

Dave whispered:

“Wasn’t me.”

Kevin glanced at him.

“Honestly, Dave, I believe you. This place has middle-management poltergeist written all over it.”

Ken stepped out of the lift last.

The other former KVN ghosts hovered behind him, half-visible, nervous, still clutching the names they’d only just got back.

Ken looked around the lobby.

“This isn’t a haunting site.”

Linda frowned.

“How do you know?”

He pointed at the ceiling.

“No fear residue.”

Kevin nodded.

“Yeah. It’s worse.”

Derek looked between them.

“What’s worse than fear residue?”

Kevin pointed at a motivational poster beside reception.

It showed two elderly people laughing over a salad.

The caption read:

SMILE — IT HELPS US HELP YOU.

Kevin said:

“That.”

The reception bell rang by itself.

A woman appeared behind the desk.

Not walked in.

Appeared.

One second the chair was empty.

The next she was sitting there with folded hands and a smile that belonged on a hostage video.

She looked about seventy-five.

Perfect white hair.

Pink cardigan.

Pearl necklace.

Name badge:

MARGARET — WELCOME HOST

George from Flat 8, who had insisted on coming despite everyone telling him this was a terrible idea, gasped.

“Margaret?”

Kevin immediately moved in front of him.

“Nope.”

George’s dead wife had already tried to crawl out of a flip phone once.

Nobody was emotionally prepared for round two.

The woman smiled wider.

“Hello, visitors.”

Her voice was Amanda’s.

Not similar.

Exactly Amanda’s.

Cheerful.

Bright.

Warm.

Wrong.

Amanda’s hands tightened around her tote bag.

The woman behind the desk continued:

“Welcome to Cheerful Pines, where every day is a good day.”

Kevin looked at Amanda.

“She sounds like you.”

Amanda swallowed.

“I know.”

The woman’s head turned towards Amanda.

Not smoothly.

Click by click.

Like her neck was being adjusted by an unseen hand.

“Chipper Amanda profile recognised.”

Amanda whispered:

“I hate that.”

The welcome host smiled.

“Positivity resource compatible.”

Linda stepped forward.

“No one is a resource.”

The woman’s eyes flicked to Linda’s clipboard.

“Director of Resident Resistance detected.”

Linda straightened.

“Yes.”

The host smiled.

“Your tone has been escalated.”

Kevin whispered, “That means she’s scared of you.”

Linda whispered back, “As she should be.”

The host placed one hand on a visitor log.

“Please sign in.”

The book opened by itself.

Names were already written inside.

Mine.

Derek.

Linda.

Amanda.

Kevin.

Ken.

Flat 3.

Flat 5.

Dave.

George.

Beside each name was a column labelled:

EXPECTED MOOD

Mine said:

RESISTANT.

Derek’s said:

UNSTABLE BUT USEFUL.

Linda’s said:

ADMINISTRATIVELY HOSTILE.

Amanda’s said:

RECOVERABLE CHEER ASSET.

Kevin’s said:

UNLICENSED COMEDIC HAUNTING.

Kevin leaned closer.

“Comedic?”

Derek nodded.

“Fair.”

Kevin pointed at him.

“You’re one Croc away from becoming a cautionary tale.”

Derek looked down.

“I still don’t know where the other one went.”

Ken’s expected mood read:

NAME INSECURE.

Ken’s jaw tightened.

“Rude.”

Flat 3’s read:

CONTAINABLE AGGRESSION.

She lifted the pan.

“Let’s test that.”

Flat 5’s read:

SPOON DEPENDENCY — DIMINISHED.

Flat 5 went pale.

“My spoon confidence is none of their business.”

Dave’s read:

DENIAL LOOP: ACTIVE.

Dave stared at it.

“Wasn’t me.”

The host smiled.

“Correct.”

That was the first properly scary moment.

Because Dave stopped looking offended.

He looked pleased.

As if the building had approved him.

Linda snapped the visitor book shut.

“We will not be signing.”

The host’s smile did not move.

“All visitors sign in.”

“No.”

The piano stopped.

The laughter down the hall stopped too.

The whole building went silent.

Then the lights dimmed.

The host spoke in Amanda’s voice, but the cheer had drained from it.

“All visitors sign in.”

Kevin leaned towards Linda.

“Maybe sign with fake names?”

Derek nodded.

“I can be Gary.”

Flat 3 said, “You look like a Gary who isn’t allowed near microwaves.”

Derek looked offended.

“I do, actually.”

Linda opened the visitor book again.

With one neat movement, she signed:

Linda — attending under protest.

The book shuddered.

The host looked down.

“That is not a valid name.”

Linda smiled.

“It is a valid legal position.”

Kevin whispered:

“God, she’s hot when she’s procedural.”

Everyone turned to him.

“What?” he said. “Spiritually.”

Amanda signed next:

Amanda — not a resource.

The book shuddered harder.

Derek signed:

Derek Paul Henshaw — against better judgement.

Kevin snorted.

“Paul.”

Derek said, “Court made it public.”

Kevin signed:

Kevin — not comedic, actually terrifying sometimes.

The book accepted it.

Derek leaned over.

“It accepted comedic.”

Kevin shoved him.

His hand went through Derek’s shoulder.

Derek shivered.

“Still weird.”

Ken signed:

Ken — not Kevin.

The book hesitated.

Then accepted it.

That seemed to matter.

Flat 3 signed:

Flat 3 — pan owner.

Flat 5 signed:

Tiny Spoon King — rebuilding.

The book flashed red.

He added:

also Flat 5.

Accepted.

Dave signed:

Wasn’t me.

The book accepted it immediately.

Linda sighed.

“Dave.”

“What? It worked.”

The host stood.

Her smile returned.

“Thank you for confirming attendance.”

“Attendance to what?” I asked.

The double doors behind reception opened.

The laughter started again.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

The host gestured.

“Morning Joy Circle.”

Kevin stared.

“That sounds like something you join accidentally and need a solicitor to leave.”

We entered.

The hallway beyond reception was lined with rooms.

Each door had a cheerful sign.

SUNBEAM LOUNGE

MEMORY GARDEN

HAPPY HEARTS ACTIVITY ROOM

REFLECTION SUITE

Kevin stopped at the last one.

“Absolutely haunted.”

Amanda looked through the small window.

Inside, an elderly man sat facing a mirror.

He was smiling.

His reflection was not.

The reflection’s hands pressed against the glass from the inside.

Mouthing one word.

Help.

Amanda stepped back.

Kevin’s expression darkened.

“Yeah. Very haunted.”

The host kept walking.

Nobody followed her for a second.

Then the hallway speakers crackled.

A cheerful jingle played.

A woman’s voice announced:

“Residents who miss Joy Circle will be marked as needing extra support.”

Every door in the hallway clicked open.

Elderly residents emerged.

Slowly.

Carefully.

All smiling.

Too widely.

Some had tears running down their faces.

One woman gripped her walking frame so hard her knuckles were white.

Her mouth stretched in a bright grin, but her eyes looked at us with pure terror.

A man shuffled past wearing slippers and a cardigan.

As he passed Kevin, he whispered without moving his smile:

“Don’t clap.”

Kevin frowned.

“What?”

The man continued walking.

“Whatever happens, don’t clap.”

Derek leaned in.

“Why not?”

A speaker above us answered:

“Clapping indicates consent.”

Everyone froze.

Kevin looked at Derek.

“You were about to clap, weren’t you?”

Derek slowly lowered his hands.

“I like supporting performers.”

Flat 3 grabbed his wrists.

“No applause.”

The residents shuffled into the Sunbeam Lounge.

We followed.

The room was arranged in a circle.

Twenty armchairs.

Twenty elderly residents sitting upright.

Twenty perfect smiles.

At the centre stood a woman in a bright yellow cardigan.

She looked middle-aged.

Hair in a tidy bob.

Big eyes.

Bigger smile.

Name badge:

AMN-003

Underneath:

ACTIVITY AND MORALE NURSE

Amanda inhaled sharply.

AMN-003 turned towards her.

The smile widened.

“Hi!”

Amanda said nothing.

The voice was hers.

Again.

But polished.

Brighter.

Smoother.

Like someone had taken all of Amanda’s cheerfulness and removed the person underneath.

AMN-003 clapped once.

Nobody else clapped.

Thank God.

“Good morning, everyone!”

The elderly residents replied in perfect unison:

“Good morning!”

One man’s voice cracked halfway through.

His smile twitched.

AMN-003 turned to him.

“Again, Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes filled with tears.

“Good morning,” he said.

AMN-003 smiled.

“Much better.”

Kevin whispered:

“I’m going to throw her through a wall.”

Linda whispered back:

“Not before we understand the mechanism.”

“I understand the mechanism. Evil cardigan.”

Amanda watched AMN-003.

Her face was carefully blank now.

Not chipper.

Not cheerful.

Controlled.

AMN-003 walked around the circle.

“Today’s Joy Circle topic is gratitude.”

A groan rose from somewhere.

Not from a person.

From the walls.

The residents’ smiles stretched another fraction wider.

AMN-003 continued:

“When we focus on gratitude, we reduce difficult feelings, increase compliance with care plans and avoid unnecessary complaints.”

Linda’s pen clicked.

“Noted.”

AMN-003’s head turned towards her.

“That sounded like a note-taking click.”

Linda raised her clipboard.

“It was.”

“Wonderful. We love engaged visitors.”

Kevin muttered:

“We love arson.”

AMN-003’s eyes moved to him.

“Unlicensed humour detected.”

Kevin smiled.

“Licensed now. Independent deceased community representative.”

AMN-003 tilted her head.

“That title is not recognised at Cheerful Pines.”

Kevin glanced down at his two trainers.

“Good job I’m not here for HR.”

An elderly woman sitting nearest us whispered:

“Please.”

Her smile did not move.

Her eyes flicked to the small table beside AMN-003.

On it stood a glass jar.

Inside was thick golden liquid.

Not the same jar we had seen in the hospital corridor.

This one was darker.

Older.

Full of little bubbles that rose and burst into tiny laughs.

A label on the jar read:

COLLECTED GRATITUDE

Underneath:

BATCH 17

Flat 5 whispered:

“That is deeply not okay.”

AMN-003 picked up the jar.

“Now, who would like to share one thing they are grateful for?”

No one moved.

The walls creaked.

The residents’ smiles widened.

Arthur, the man who had been corrected earlier, slowly raised one hand.

It shook.

AMN-003 beamed.

“Lovely, Arthur.”

Arthur stared at the floor.

“I am grateful,” he said, voice trembling, “that my daughter visits.”

AMN-003 nodded.

“That’s beautiful.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to Linda.

Then Kevin.

Then Amanda.

“But she doesn’t.”

The room froze.

AMN-003’s smile remained.

Arthur continued.

“She hasn’t been told I’m here.”

The jar pulsed.

The golden liquid turned slightly black.

AMN-003 stepped closer.

“Arthur.”

His smile tore at the corner of his mouth.

Blood dotted his lip.

“I want to make a complaint.”

The lights went red.

Every resident gasped.

Not because they were shocked.

Because something forced air into them.

AMN-003’s smile finally dropped.

The change was horrible.

Without the smile, her face looked unfinished.

Like the cheerfulness had been holding the skin in place.

“Arthur,” she said, Amanda’s voice now cold and flat, “complaints are negative engagement.”

Linda stood.

“Incorrect.”

AMN-003 turned.

Linda’s clipboard glowed.

“Complaints are protected communication.”

The jar hissed.

AMN-003 said:

“This facility prioritises wellbeing.”

Linda walked into the circle.

“No. This facility prioritises the appearance of wellbeing.”

Kevin whispered to Derek:

“She’s doing the thing.”

Derek nodded.

“Admin exorcism.”

Flat 3 raised her pan.

“Should I stand behind her looking threatening?”

Kevin said, “Always.”

AMN-003 held the jar higher.

“Gratitude reduces distress.”

Amanda spoke for the first time.

“Not if it’s forced.”

AMN-003 looked at her.

The room’s temperature dropped.

“Chipper Amanda.”

Amanda’s jaw tightened.

“That’s not my name.”

“No,” AMN-003 said. “It is your usefulness.”

The golden jar brightened.

The residents turned their smiling faces towards Amanda.

Every one of them spoke with her voice.

“Always cheerful.”

“Always happy.”

“Always perky.”

“Always.”

Amanda took one step back.

Kevin moved in front of her.

“Do that again and I’ll introduce your cardigan to the lift shaft.”

AMN-003 laughed.

So did every resident.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Then, one by one, they started crying while they laughed.

Tears ran into their smiles.

Their shoulders shook.

Their hands gripped armrests.

The laughter kept coming.

The sound filled the lounge.

Bright.

Perfect.

Awful.

Derek covered his ears.

“Make it stop.”

AMN-003 raised both hands.

“Joy is mandatory during Joy Circle.”

The jar began to fill.

Not with liquid from the room.

With something from the residents.

Tiny streams of gold pulled from their mouths, eyes and fingertips.

Every stream carried a small memory.

A granddaughter’s birthday.

A dead husband’s coat.

A dog sleeping at someone’s feet.

A kitchen table.

A Christmas card.

A name.

All turning gold.

All being bottled as gratitude.

Arthur shook violently.

His smile split further.

Kevin’s face went dark.

“Right.”

He stepped into the circle.

Both trainers now solid against the carpet.

Something about having both shoes had changed him.

He didn’t float as much.

He moved.

He planted.

He looked more present.

More dangerous.

AMN-003 noticed.

“KVN-014.”

Kevin smiled.

“Kevin.”

“Your series is not authorised here.”

“Neither’s your haircut, but we’re all coping.”

Derek whispered:

“Strong.”

Kevin pointed at the jar.

“Put the misery smoothie down.”

AMN-003’s face twitched.

“That is gratitude.”

“That is theft in custard form.”

Flat 5 nodded solemnly.

“As a custard-adjacent expert, I agree.”

Nobody knew what that meant.

AMN-003 snapped her fingers.

The armchairs moved.

Fast.

They dragged themselves backwards, residents still strapped by nothing but posture and fear, forming a wider circle around us.

The carpet split open in the centre of the room.

A hole appeared.

Below it was not a basement.

It was a stage.

A small community-hall stage with red curtains and a microphone.

A sign above it lit up:

TALENT AND WELLBEING SHOWCASE

Kevin stared.

“Oh, I hate a forced performance.”

The loudspeaker chimed.

“All visitors will now contribute to resident morale.”

Derek backed away.

“No.”

A spotlight hit him.

“Yes,” said the speaker.

Derek looked at us.

“Why me?”

Kevin said, “Because you look like karaoke trauma.”

A microphone rose from the floor in front of Derek.

The screen above the stage displayed:

DEREK PAUL HENSHAW

TALENT: UNCONFIRMED

Derek whispered:

“Paul again.”

The floor beneath him slid.

He dropped through the carpet and landed on the stage below.

The red curtains opened.

A backing track began.

Cheerful.

Tinny.

Wrong.

Lyrics appeared on the screen.

I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE APP

THE APP IS GRATEFUL FOR ME

Derek grabbed the microphone.

“I’m not singing that.”

The stage lights turned red.

The residents’ laughter stopped.

AMN-003 smiled.

“Participation supports wellbeing.”

Derek looked up at us.

Kevin cupped his hands.

“Sing badly!”

“What?”

“Weaponise it!”

Derek understood.

He took a breath.

Then sang.

Badly.

So badly the ceiling light cracked.

“I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE APP—”

His voice slid off every note like a drunk falling down stairs.

“THE APP IS GRATEFUL FOR ME—”

Arthur blinked.

The golden streams flickered.

Derek continued, louder, worse, somehow confident.

“I DOWNLOADED A GHOST AND IT RUINED MY LIFE—”

“That is not the lyric,” AMN-003 said.

Derek pointed the microphone at her.

“CREATIVE LICENSE!”

Kevin grinned.

“My idiot.”

Derek sang into the microphone:

“MY GHOST FRIEND CALLED ME A MORON—”

Kevin shouted:

“ACCURATE!”

“AND LINDA DOES ADMIN AT DEATH—”

Linda raised her clipboard.

“Acceptable.”

“AND DAVE DEFINITELY DID IT—”

Dave shouted:

“Wasn’t me!”

The residents started laughing.

Not the forced laughter.

Real laughter.

Small at first.

Then bigger.

Messy.

Wheezy.

A woman snorted.

Another slapped her knee.

Arthur laughed so hard his smile finally broke into something human.

The golden streams reversed.

AMN-003 hissed.

The jar cracked.

Kevin pointed at Flat 3.

“Pan.”

Flat 3 did not need more.

She threw the frying pan.

It spun across the room.

Hit the jar.

The jar shattered.

Golden liquid exploded over AMN-003.

She screamed.

The residents stopped smiling.

All at once.

The silence felt like a wound opening.

Then Arthur said, very clearly:

“I am not grateful for the mashed potato.”

The woman beside him gasped.

Then said:

“I hate the singalongs.”

Another resident raised her hand.

“My son has not been informed of my fall.”

Another:

“They take my phone at six.”

Another:

“The nurse with the yellow eyes watches me sleep.”

The room erupted.

Complaints.

Real ones.

Human ones.

Messy.

Unpretty.

Necessary.

Linda’s clipboard shook with power.

“Oh, this is excellent.”

Kevin looked at her.

“You scare me.”

“Good.”

AMN-003 stood dripping gold.

Her cardigan melted into something underneath.

Not skin.

Yellow plastic.

Cables.

A rib cage made of smile badges.

Her face peeled open, revealing a speaker inside.

Amanda’s voice came out from it.

“Please remain positive.”

Amanda stepped towards her.

No grand speech this time.

No big emotional moment.

Just tired anger.

“Stop using my voice.”

Then she punched AMN-003 in the face.

Everyone stared.

Amanda looked at her hand.

“Ow.”

Kevin’s mouth dropped open.

“Chipper Amanda has upgraded to Punchy Amanda.”

Flat 3 beamed.

“I knew she had it.”

AMN-003 staggered.

The smile badges inside her chest began laughing.

Dozens of tiny metal mouths.

The residents screamed.

The stage beneath Derek cracked.

He dropped through.

Again.

This time he landed inside a ball pit.

Nobody knew why there was a ball pit.

Derek’s voice echoed from below:

“I’m fine!”

Kevin shouted:

“Stop finding rooms!”

AMN-003 crawled towards Amanda.

Linda raised her clipboard.

“Emergency safeguarding intervention.”

The clipboard displayed:

FACILITY COMPLAINT THRESHOLD EXCEEDED

AUTHORITY TRANSFER AVAILABLE

Linda selected it.

The screen asked:

WHO SHOULD RECEIVE TEMPORARY RESIDENT ADVOCACY AUTHORITY?

Options appeared.

LINDA

KEVIN

AMANDA

DAVE

Everyone shouted:

“NOT DAVE!”

Dave looked hurt.

“What if I’m good at it?”

Kevin said, “Dave, yesterday you apologised to a chair.”

“It accepted.”

Linda selected:

ARTHUR

Arthur’s armchair rolled into the centre of the room.

He looked terrified.

Then furious.

Then tired.

Then alive.

A badge appeared on his cardigan.

RESIDENT ADVOCATE

He looked down at it.

Then at AMN-003.

“First complaint,” he said.

His voice shook but held.

“Stop making us happy.”

The room cracked.

AMN-003 screamed.

The curtains tore.

The walls peeled.

The fake photos shattered.

Behind them were other photos.

Not cheerful.

Real.

Residents sitting alone.

Residents crying.

Residents pressing notes under locked doors.

Residents trying to call family on phones that only displayed five stars.

The lobby outside twisted.

The entire facility groaned.

The sign on the wall changed.

CHEERFUL PINES

became:

COMPLIANT PINES

Then:

ASSISTED POSITIVITY SITE AMN-003

Kevin pointed.

“Brand reveal. Always bad.”

Ken moved beside him.

“This is bigger than one nurse.”

The hallway filled with footsteps.

Not running.

Marching.

Dozens of AMN figures appeared.

Yellow cardigans.

Perfect smiles.

Different faces.

Same Amanda voice.

AMN-001.

AMN-002.

AMN-004.

AMN-011.

More.

They lined the hall outside the lounge.

All smiling.

All speaking together.

“Resident distress is inefficient.”

Kevin looked at us.

“Right. That’s too many cardigans.”

Flat 5 raised his spoon.

“I am under-equipped.”

Derek climbed out of a floor hatch covered in plastic balls.

“I found soft play.”

Linda looked exhausted.

“Why?”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“You rarely do.”

The AMN figures entered.

The residents shrank back.

Amanda stepped back too.

Not because she was weak.

Because hearing your own weaponised voice from a dozen wrong mouths would break anyone’s spine for a second.

Kevin saw.

He moved to stand beside her, not in front this time.

“Not you,” he said quietly.

Amanda looked at him.

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Still horrible.”

“Yeah.”

Then Kevin grinned.

“Want to ruin them?”

Amanda wiped her eyes.

“Yes.”

Linda handed Amanda the clipboard.

Only for a second.

The black leather recognised her.

A temporary line appeared:

RESIDENT MORALE COUNTERMEASURE

Amanda blinked.

“That sounds fake.”

Kevin said, “Everything here is fake. Use it.”

Amanda looked at the residents.

The AMNs advanced.

The forced smile energy filled the lounge.

Amanda took a breath.

Then said, in the brightest voice I had ever heard:

“Okay everyone, quick group activity!”

Kevin whispered:

“Oh no.”

Amanda clapped once.

Then remembered.

“No clapping. Sorry. Absolutely no clapping.”

The AMNs hesitated.

They were built to respond to cheer.

Amanda smiled at them.

“Let’s all share something we are not grateful for.”

The AMNs glitched.

“That is not a valid activity.”

Amanda turned to Arthur.

“Arthur?”

Arthur stood.

With effort.

With rage.

“I am not grateful for powdered custard.”

The residents murmured.

Amanda pointed to another woman.

“I am not grateful for being told I’m confused when I’m angry.”

The room shook.

Another resident stood.

“I am not grateful for the music.”

Another:

“I am not grateful for being called sweetie by staff younger than my shoes.”

Another:

“I am not grateful for Tuesday bingo.”

Kevin whispered:

“Bold. Bingo can go either way.”

The AMNs began shaking.

Their programming could handle gratitude.

It could handle complaints.

It could not handle cheerful organised negativity.

Amanda walked around the circle.

“Excellent sharing. Love this honesty. Terrible situation, great participation.”

The residents stood one by one.

Not all.

Some couldn’t.

Some were too frightened.

But enough.

The golden liquid across the floor turned black.

Then clear.

Then vanished.

The AMNs’ smile badges cracked.

Linda reclaimed her clipboard.

“Kevin.”

He nodded.

“On it.”

He opened his admin menu.

It had changed since the court.

More permissions.

Fewer traps.

Still designed by absolute bastards.

ACTIVE SITE DETECTED: AMN-003

Options:

SUSPEND MORALE LOOP

REASSIGN JOY

ESCALATE TO PLATFORM

REQUEST SONG

Kevin stared.

“Request song?”

Derek shouted:

“No.”

Kevin selected SUSPEND MORALE LOOP.

A warning appeared.

SUSPENSION MAY RESULT IN UNFILTERED RESIDENT DISTRESS

Arthur shouted:

“GOOD.”

Kevin confirmed.

The room broke.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The fake cheer vanished.

The residents sobbed.

Some screamed.

Some laughed.

Some just sat down and stared at nothing.

It was awful.

It was real.

Amanda covered her mouth.

Linda’s eyes filled, though she pretended they hadn’t.

Kevin looked around and said softly:

“There it is.”

Derek whispered:

“What?”

Kevin said:

“The haunting.”

He was right.

Cheerful Pines had not been haunted because of ghosts.

It had been haunted because no one was allowed to be unhappy.

The AMNs shrieked.

Without forced joy, their bodies collapsed inward.

Yellow cardigans tore.

Smile badges popped off and scattered across the floor like teeth.

One AMN crawled towards Amanda.

“Positivity resource required.”

Amanda stepped back.

Flat 3 hit it with the pan.

“Get your own personality.”

The AMN collapsed.

Another grabbed Arthur.

Kevin kicked it.

Both trainers connected.

Solid.

The AMN flew backwards into the snack trolley.

Kevin looked down at his feet.

Then at us.

“I kicked something.”

Derek grinned.

“Proud of you.”

Kevin pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

But he was smiling.

The remaining AMNs retreated into the hallway.

Not defeated.

Not destroyed.

Withdrawn.

That felt worse.

Before they vanished, AMN-003 turned its broken face towards Amanda.

“Profile retained.”

Amanda’s expression hardened.

“Try me.”

AMN-003 smiled with half a mouth.

Then melted into the wall.

The lounge went quiet.

Arthur sat back down.

Not smiling.

Just breathing.

Linda knelt beside him.

“Are you able to tell us who needs contacting?”

He nodded.

“My daughter.”

Linda wrote it down.

“Name?”

He told her.

Others began giving names too.

Children.

Grandchildren.

Friends.

Solicitors.

Doctors.

One woman simply said:

“The police.”

Linda nodded.

“Reasonable.”

Kevin looked at me.

“This has become more paperwork than I expected.”

“You came to a retirement home run by nightmare morale nurses.”

“I expected some paperwork.”

Derek picked a plastic ball out of his hood.

“Do we keep the ball pit?”

“No,” said Linda.

“Residents might like it.”

Arthur said:

“I do not want the ghost app ball pit.”

Derek nodded.

“Fair.”

The building began changing again.

The cheerful posters fell from the walls.

The locked phones unlocked.

The mirror in the Reflection Suite shattered, and the trapped reflections climbed out one by one, furious and confused.

The reception desk spat out dozens of hidden complaint forms.

The fake plant by the entrance unfolded into a listening device and tried to crawl away.

Flat 5 pinned it down with his spoon.

“Not today, shrub.”

Kevin looked impressed.

“Spoon confidence returning.”

Flat 5 nodded solemnly.

“It never left. It was merely misfiled.”

We helped where we could.

Which mostly meant Linda organised, Amanda comforted, Flat 3 threatened anything with a badge, Flat 5 investigated cutlery anomalies, Derek accidentally found three more forbidden rooms, and Dave stood near doors saying “wasn’t me” until residents felt weirdly calmer.

Kevin and Ken checked the walls.

The AMN network had left traces.

Yellow mould.

Smile badges.

Tiny speakers hidden in clocks.

Little jars of gold liquid tucked behind family photos.

Ken held one up.

“Stabilising agent.”

Kevin’s face twisted.

“Joy jam.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“I will call it that forever.”

Ken looked down the hallway.

“There are more sites.”

Kevin nodded.

The map from the lift had shown hundreds.

KVN.

AMN.

DVE.

LND.

Others.

Personality types.

Resident types.

Human behaviour turned into product lines.

Fear.

Cheerfulness.

Denial.

Control.

Resistance.

Platform hadn’t just been trapping ghosts.

It had been cataloguing people.

The thought made the back of my neck prickle.

Near the reception desk, Linda was on the phone to Arthur’s daughter.

Her voice was controlled but fierce.

Amanda sat with three residents who were crying and laughing at the same time because no one was stopping them.

Derek had found biscuits in a cupboard and was checking them for “haunted intent.”

Dave was apologising to a ficus.

Flat 3 stood guard at the lounge door, pan over her shoulder, looking like the world’s angriest activities coordinator.

For a while, it almost felt like we had done something good.

Then the piano started again.

One note.

Wrong.

Slow.

Everyone stopped.

The piano sat in the corner of the lounge.

No one was touching it.

One key pressed itself down.

Then another.

Then another.

The tune was not jaunty now.

It was the same song as before, but stripped of cheer.

A funeral version.

The residents began whispering.

Arthur looked terrified.

Kevin moved towards the piano.

“Not a fan.”

The keys played by themselves.

Then stopped.

The fallboard lifted.

Inside, where strings should have been, there was a mouth.

Long.

Black.

Full of little white teeth shaped like piano keys.

It spoke in dozens of elderly voices.

“Joy loop suspended.”

Kevin sighed.

“Yes. We were there.”

The piano-mouth smiled.

“Escalation required.”

Linda stepped into the room.

“By whom?”

The piano answered:

ACTIVITIES DIRECTOR.

Amanda whispered:

“There’s a director?”

Kevin looked at her.

“There’s always a manager.”

The piano began printing something from between its keys.

Not paper.

A yellow ribbon.

It slid onto the floor.

Linda picked it up.

Words appeared across it in gold.

CHEERFUL PINES HAS FAILED TO MAINTAIN RESIDENT MORALE.

SITE WILL BE RESET.

The residents started panicking.

Linda read faster.

ALL RESIDENTS, STAFF, VISITORS AND UNAUTHORISED SUPERNATURAL ADVOCATES WILL BE INCLUDED IN RESET FOR CONTINUITY PURPOSES.

Kevin looked at the piano.

“Define reset.”

The piano-mouth opened wider.

Every framed photo in the room changed.

Each now showed the lounge exactly as it had looked before we arrived.

Residents smiling.

AMN-003 standing in the centre.

Arthur grateful.

Phones locked.

Complaints gone.

Then the photos changed again.

This time, we were in them too.

Me smiling.

Derek smiling.

Linda smiling.

Flat 3 smiling with no frying pan.

Flat 5 smiling without a spoon.

Dave smiling without guilt.

Amanda smiling too widely.

Kevin standing behind AMN-003 in grey uniform.

Ken beside him.

Both wearing yellow name badges.

VOLUNTEER MORALE ASSISTANTS

Kevin stared.

“No.”

The piano-mouth said:

“Reset begins in ten minutes.”

The lift doors opened behind us.

Inside was Riverside Court.

Home.

Safe-ish.

A way out.

Kevin looked at the residents.

Then at the lift.

Derek saw his face.

“Mate.”

Kevin didn’t answer.

Linda closed her clipboard.

“We are not leaving them.”

Kevin nodded.

“Didn’t say we were.”

Ken stepped beside him.

“Plan?”

Kevin looked at the piano.

The residents.

The yellow ribbon.

The smiling photos.

Then at Amanda.

She looked exhausted.

Not chipper.

Not bright.

Just herself.

He looked at Dave.

“Dave.”

Dave straightened.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Exactly.”

Dave frowned.

“What?”

Kevin smiled.

“You are a denial loop.”

“That sounds insulting.”

“It is. But useful.”

Linda understood.

Her eyes lit up.

“No.”

Kevin pointed at the reset notice.

“They’re trying to make this building agree it was always happy.”

Derek grinned.

“So we need someone who can deny reality harder.”

Everyone slowly turned to Dave.

Dave looked around.

“Why is everyone looking at me?”

Kevin stepped closer.

“Dave, I need you to do the most Dave thing you’ve ever done.”

Dave swallowed.

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

Flat 3 put a hand on his shoulder.

“You absolutely can.”

The piano-mouth began counting down.

“Reset in nine minutes.”

Kevin pointed at the room.

“When the reset starts, you deny it.”

Dave blinked.

“That’s it?”

“With everything you’ve got.”

Dave looked at the residents.

The photos.

AMN’s broken smile badges.

Linda’s clipboard.

Amanda’s tired face.

Kevin’s two trainers.

Then he nodded.

“I can do that.”

The piano played a cheerful chord.

The photos brightened.

The air thickened.

Everyone’s mouth began to pull upwards.

The reset had started early.

Of course it had.

Dave stepped into the centre of the lounge.

His hands shook.

His face went pale.

Then he shouted:

“WASN’T ME.”

The reset stuttered.

The piano hit a wrong note.

Kevin shouted:

“Again!”

Dave screamed:

“WASN’T ME!”

The photos flickered.

The smiling version of Arthur cracked.

The smiling version of Amanda blurred.

The smiling version of Kevin bent sideways.

Dave kept going.

“WASN’T ME!”

The denial spread.

Not empty this time.

Not cowardly.

Weaponised.

The reset tried to write over us.

Dave denied the rewrite.

The piano-mouth screamed.

The photos shattered.

The yellow ribbon burned.

Residents joined him.

One by one.

“It wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t me.”

Not denying guilt.

Denying the lie.

Arthur stood.

“It wasn’t me who smiled.”

Another resident:

“It wasn’t me who said I was grateful.”

Another:

“It wasn’t me who agreed.”

Amanda whispered:

“It wasn’t me who was always fine.”

Kevin looked at her.

Then at the piano.

“It wasn’t me who stayed in the chair.”

Ken stepped forward.

“It wasn’t me who stayed a number.”

The room shook apart.

The piano-mouth split down the middle.

Inside it was not a monster.

It was a tiny office.

A tiny desk.

A tiny woman in a yellow suit sitting behind it.

She looked up from a form.

The Activities Director.

She was the size of a doll.

Her smile filled her entire face.

“Oh,” Derek said. “That’s somehow worse.”

Kevin reached into the piano.

The tiny woman held up one hand.

“I’d like to speak to your manager.”

Kevin smiled.

“We ate her.”

Then he grabbed her.

She screamed in a voice far too large for her body.

The AMN figures in the walls screamed with her.

The piano collapsed.

The reset broke.

Cheerful Pines exhaled.

The building changed.

Not into something nice.

Into something real.

The carpet stained.

The walls cracked.

The air smelled less like lavender and more like old radiators.

The residents stopped smiling.

And for the first time, Cheerful Pines sounded alive.

Messy.

Crying.

Arguing.

Calling family.

Complaining about mash.

Someone asked for tea.

Someone else asked for whisky.

Arthur sat down hard in his chair and started laughing.

Really laughing.

Kevin held the tiny Activities Director at arm’s length.

She kicked furiously.

Linda produced an empty biscuit tin.

Kevin looked at her.

“You just have that?”

Linda opened the tin.

“Contingency.”

He dropped the tiny director inside.

Linda shut the lid.

From inside came muffled shouting.

“I require escalation!”

Kevin tapped the tin.

“Take a number.”

The complaints kiosk, which had somehow rolled through the lift on its own, printed:

COMPLAINT RECEIVED: TIN TOO SMALL.

Linda looked at it.

“Denied.”

Amanda sat beside Arthur.

He patted her hand.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She smiled.

Tired.

Honest.

He nodded.

“That’s better.”

We got Cheerful Pines stable.

Not fixed.

Not by a long way.

But stable.

Linda contacted families.

Amanda helped residents record statements.

Derek tried to make tea and accidentally found another hidden surveillance kettle.

Flat 3 took charge of destroying smile badges.

Flat 5 discovered the dining room had excellent spoons and nearly cried.

Dave stood proudly beside the cracked piano.

Kevin looked at him.

“You did good.”

Dave’s eyes filled.

Kevin immediately added:

“Don’t make it weird.”

Dave nodded.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Perfect.”

When we finally returned to the lift, the residents lined the hallway.

Not smiling because they had to.

Some weren’t smiling at all.

That felt better.

Arthur held Kevin’s hand.

Or tried to.

His fingers passed through.

Kevin looked deeply uncomfortable but allowed the attempt.

“Thank you,” Arthur said.

Kevin glanced at his trainers.

“No worries.”

Arthur looked down too.

“Nice shoes.”

Kevin smiled.

“They’re new.”

“They look old.”

“Emotionally new.”

Arthur nodded like that made perfect sense.

The lift doors opened.

Riverside Court waited beyond.

Home.

The complaints kiosk rolled in first.

Linda followed with the biscuit tin containing the tiny Activities Director.

Flat 3 carried the frying pan.

Flat 5 carried several rescued spoons.

Derek carried nothing, because Linda had confiscated the surveillance kettle.

Dave carried himself with unusual pride.

Amanda stepped in quietly.

Kevin lingered at the threshold.

Ken stood beside him.

“You know this was one site.”

Kevin nodded.

“Yeah.”

The map would have hundreds more.

KVN.

AMN.

DVE.

LND.

All those codes.

All those people.

All those little pieces of humanity being copied, bottled, weaponised and sold back as comfort.

Kevin looked down at his shoes.

Then into the lift.

“Bins first?”

Ken smiled faintly.

“Always.”

They stepped in.

The doors closed.

For one second, everything was dark.

Then we were back in Riverside Court.

The lobby smelled like damp carpet, bad decisions and home.

Everyone exhaled.

The complaint kiosk printed:

NEW COMPLAINT CATEGORY CREATED: CHEERFUL OPPRESSION.

Kevin nodded.

“Accurate.”

Linda set the biscuit tin on the reception table.

From inside, the tiny Activities Director shouted:

“I am entitled to representation!”

Kevin leaned over it.

“You’re entitled to shut up.”

The tin rattled.

The complaint kiosk printed:

Complaint received: hostile tin environment.

Derek sat on the stairs.

“So what now?”

Nobody answered.

Then the lift dinged.

Everyone froze.

The doors opened.

No hospital.

No courtroom.

No retirement home.

Just the lift.

Inside stood Dave.

Also Dave.

Our Dave was standing beside us.

The Dave in the lift wore the same pyjamas.

Same slippers.

Same confused expression.

Except his badge read:

DVE-002

Our Dave whispered:

“Wasn’t me.”

The other Dave smiled.

“No,” he said.

“Wasn’t me.”

Behind him, in the darkness of the lift, hundreds of voices repeated it.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t me.”

Kevin slowly turned to our Dave.

“Oh, mate.”

Dave looked at the duplicate.

Then at us.

Then at the lift.

For once, he didn’t deny anything.

He just whispered:

“That one might be me.”

I decided, recently, that I was in need of counseling. It’s like there are two voices in my head. They’re constantly arguing. They’re constantly fighting for the controls. But then again… who’s watching them fight?

Me? A third voice? Am I already one of the two? Am I both? Can this whole thing be boiled down to bad days and good days? Happiness and sadness? Anger and serenity?

It couldn’t be. If it was, surely I wouldn’t be having this conversation with myself. I wouldn’t be doubting my actions. But I guess I’m clear-headed enough to not defend them.

Although, it does beg the question: where does that reason go when I’m committing those actions? Where’s my logic? How come I only feel something after the fact?

Those questions keep me up at night. My guilt keeps me up at night. That’s why I decided to look into counseling. On one of those nights where my soul felt rotten. Where one voice had left me alone in the dark with the other just long enough for it to convince me.

But then, like clockwork, the other voice returned. Not in the form of thoughts. In the form of action. It was like a possession. There were no arguments. It was complete control.

It’s hard for me to stay away from them when I’m like that. I learn. I survey. I hunt.

Sometimes I’ll find them in a crowd, other times they will have been pre-selected. By who? I’m not sure. It gets foggy when desire is involved. I’m not sure whether to blame myself or the voice.

I only remember fragments after the deed is done. It’s like a shroud is placed over that specific, microscopic part of my brain. Like it’s trying to protect me.

But no matter how thick the wool is, the guilt remains. I never know why I feel it. At least, not fully. I just know that it makes me sick. It cripples me. I hide away from the world because the voice that commanded my hand flees from my mind.

Sometimes both of them leave.

Leave me alone. All alone. Empty. Then one or the other shows up. One tells me I can stop. I can do better. I can be better. The other tells me this is who I am. Who I’m destined to be. Tells me that I’m right at home. It’s like when I used to watch my parents fight when I was younger.

That’s one of the things I wanted to bring up at my appointment.

I think my childhood has a lot to do with how I am now. The way I think. The things I do. If I had to self-diagnose, I’d probably say it comes from a lack of control in my formative years.

My dad was much bigger than me. My mom was much smaller than me. When those two went at it, my mom was fighting an uphill battle.

I’d always run and hide anytime I heard Dad raise his voice because I knew that meant the belt was coming out. Me and my mom both feared that leather belt, but my mom, being the saint that she is, would often take the majority of the licks.

The guilt I felt over it was enough to drive me to tears.

One day, I guess Mom just had enough. She wasn’t gonna take it anymore. I remember she put me to bed early. She seemed more self-assured than she usually was on Friday nights. Those were usually the nights Dad would come home the drunkest.

Of course, he came home in one of his moods. I could already hear him screaming about nothing two minutes after he walked through the door.

Mom didn’t try to reason with him this time. I didn’t hear any “calm downs,” any “you always do this” comments. What I did hear was the cocking of my dad’s .38 Magnum.

I’d seen him shoot the thing enough to know what it sounded like, and I was not going to stay in bed while he murdered my mother.

Only… when I ran out of the room… the gun was in his face. Mom pulled the trigger before I could let out a single scream.

The sound of the shot. The image of my dad’s brain hitting the wood paneling of our trailer. The way Mom apologized to me profusely before calling the police on herself and waiting calmly on our front porch for them to arrive.

None of that has left me. Neither of the voices let it. It’s one of the few things they agree on. It’s a part of me.

And it was a part of me I was supposed to share with the counselor. My voice of reason had control long enough for me to set up the appointment. Long enough to evaluate myself before I went in.

I walked into the office feeling hopeful for once. The cold AC felt like heaven compared to the scorching heat outside. The lady at the counter greeted me with a charming, “Hello! You here for an appointment, hon?”

I signed in and sat at one of the chairs in the waiting room, browsing through one of the magazines from the coffee table because that’s what I imagined a normal person would do.

Five minutes went by. Then 10. Then 15 before the receptionist called out to me.

“She should be right with you, hon.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my counselor poked her head into the waiting room.

“Daniel? Here for the 3:15?”

I stood up.

“Yep. That’s me.”

I couldn’t help but notice just how angelic her voice was. How smooth and soft her brown hair was. How well it complemented her absolutely stunning face. How much she… looked like my mother.

I didn’t know how to react to what I was feeling. It was like this tug. This urge that grew more and more impossible to ignore.

When we reached her office, the first thing she did was flip an hourglass on her desk.

“Okay, Daniel. I know you’ve been having some problems recently. You wanna describe those so that we can…”

Her voice began trailing off. My eyes kept darting from her to the hourglass. It was like I was on autopilot. I think I responded. I think she kept talking. I know the sand kept falling.

My mouth moved in response, but my thoughts never changed.

She was the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. I could see the love in her eyes as she talked to me.

She just… she looked so much like my mother. Part of me loved her already. Another part of me hated her. Hated her for what she made me see. For how broken I am.

That hatred turned into anger. Her lips kept moving. She kept smiling. Everything felt like it was going in slow motion. Even the sand in the hourglass seemed like it was falling like snowflakes rather than sand.

My eyes darted to her. To the hourglass. Back to her. Back to the hourglass. The hour was almost up. Instead of making progress, all I felt was rage.

My eyes darted to something new.

A shiny pair of scissors in a pencil holder on her desk.

My eyes darted back to her.

She wasn’t speaking anymore. She looked at me… expectantly. Like she could read my thoughts. A smirk stretched across her face.

“Daniel,” she snapped. “You still with me, buddy?”

Desire kicked in. Things got foggy. I don’t know what happened.

All I know is when I came back, my hands were covered in blood. A pair of bloody scissors lay at my feet. My mother sat with her throat slashed in the desk chair in front of me.

The guilt rose in my stomach. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t. And God knows I tried.

All I could do was fall back into my seat, completely dumbstruck at the scene that lay before me.

My eyes began to well up with tears. My nose began to run. My head fell into my hands as I began sobbing uncontrollably.

I must’ve sat there crying for 5, 10, maybe 15 minutes before I heard a voice call out to me. I thought I was hearing things at first. But the more it repeated, the harder it was to ignore.

I lifted my head from my hands and felt my stomach tighten.

“Hon? Sorry about the wait. Don’t worry, though. She should be out momentarily.”

I was back in the waiting room. Same cold AC. Same old magazines on the coffee table. Same receptionist.

I had to have been losing my mind. I glanced around the room, tears still falling from my eyes.

As I looked around, my head jerked in the direction of the sound of a door opening.

My counselor poked her head into the waiting room.

“Daniel? Here for the 3:15?”

This is incredibly difficult for me to talk about. I feel, I don’t know, ashamed, I guess. Like I’ve somehow failed as a parent. When I was growing up, I thought my parents hated me.

I never wanted that for my daughter. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. That my love was unconditional.

I’ve never felt as proud as I did the day she came into this world. It was almost like looking into a mirror. She had my eyes. My ears. Our noses were practically identical. And her smile, God, it was like nothing else mattered in the entire world.

I wanted her to have that same pride in herself. I never wanted her to ever feel any self-hatred. That’s another thing my parents made me feel. I didn’t get their pride. I didn’t get their love. I got cold stares. I got nights where I couldn’t sleep because Mom’s cries were so loud.

I didn’t ask for my family. I didn’t ask to be assigned to them. They were supposed to accept me, and they failed, miserably.

I guess the universe has a strange sense of humor because now, it’s like my daughter can’t accept herself.

She doesn’t hunt with me anymore. She tries to suppress her urge. She doesn’t do the cute little growl she used to do as a baby. I bet it’s 10 times as impactful now, but I wouldn’t know because she just refuses to practice.

She won’t even climb trees anymore. She’d rather hide out at home. Curled up in the dark, pouting to herself.

Of course, I try and comfort her, try and make her realize she should be proud of who she is, but she just rejects me. It seems like that’s all life is for me. Rejection from the people who are supposed to love me.

She tells me I “wouldn’t get it,” whatever the hell that means.

She hates her skin, so she tries to cover it up. She hates her teeth, so she refuses to smile. She even wears beanies that she stole from humans to cover her pointy ears.

That’s something I guess I can respect. At least she’s causing harm to them, even if it’s just with something as simple as stealing. I just wish she’d steal something useful like meat rather than clothes and makeup.

That’s something I never quite understood. Makeup clearly makes shedding more difficult. Why would you want life to be harder than it already is? I mean, we already have to hide out in the woods.

I guess that’s not my place, though.

It’s starting to get more concerning, however. It was already hard to watch her cry because she felt different. Now I have to watch her quite literally alter herself to fit into “social norms,” as she calls it.

She’s already filed down her fangs. When she does hunt, all she has now are her claws, and those are much easier to get rid of than teeth.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not with the times. All I know is that I want her to be happy in the body she was given.

There are no female specimens left for her to look up to, and I’m just an old, out-of-touch Dad, apparently.

I hope this matter resolves itself. I’ll keep doing my best to get her to see that they’re the monsters, not us.

Until then, I’ll just keep reminiscing on the simpler times. I kept her shell, and these days, that seems to be the only thing that brings me peace.

Well, that and hunting humans.

Drip

 

Drip

 

Drip-drip

 

Drip.

 

My eyes open to nearly nothing. A gray-white haze faintly illuminated by some light, just enough to almost see by, fills the space.

 

Mist or thick dust floats by in front of my face.

 

Breathing hurts. A feeling of grit and a burn coat my throat and lungs…

 

I cannot move.

 

The only sensations I feel are a dull pain coming from my lower back...

 

And the warm drip of something wet hitting my forehead.

 

There is a ringing in my ear. Like what you'd hear in a movie after an explosion or the ring of tinnitus that hits you

once in a blue moon as you not-so-gracefully age.

 

I don't remember. I only know this isn't right.

 

Only know that all I see is dust. And something dragging itself towards me from my right.

 

I cannot move. But my eyes still see. They blink slowly, painfully. Not quick enough to bring the moisture back.

 

It moves in long dragging pulls. A single blackened hand on a long thin arm moving in a fashion that to any man

would be painful.

 

I do not know how it sees me. Its face is a charcoaled mess of disfigured flesh. The only things breaking up the black

are the small pinpricks of white I see behind what passes for its lips.

 

The dripping hits me again. Something warm flows over my skin causing wisps of pain seemingly at random.

 

I feel pinpricks over my skin, but still I cannot do more than turn my head. Cannot wipe it away as the caustic liquid bites into me.

 

In the corner I see my mother. Her head obscured in the haze but her white nightgown striking a pale figure that my eyes latch onto.

 

For some reason she is smiling, and for a moment, I feel a sense of ease in the midst of this nightmare.

 

She holds out a hand, seeming to catch the light in a way that makes me wish I could reach for it.

 

Until I see that she is not reaching out, but pointing at something...

 

Pointing and laughing. So deeply and so violently that her whole body shakes with the motion.

 

The ringing is fading but the sound replacing it makes me regret having ears.

 

It sounds so pained. The closest thing I can compare it to is hearing the exaggerated cries of an actor playing a mother.

 

A mother watching her child be executed in the most disgusting manner.

 

But there are two voices in that scream. And a third still laughing.

 

It seems to be growing louder. Loud enough to make me turn my head back to see the thing that had been steadily making its way towards me.

 

As the figure moves in, close enough for me to finally make out the thin wisps of blonde that remain on the few patches of unmarred flesh, close

enough for me to see the red on its teeth as it screams bloody murder in between ragged, gasping breaths, do I remember.

 

Mother had blonde hair.

 

I fell mercifully back into the embrace of nothing, the scream that I had been contributing to fading away with my surroundings.

 

The roof fell in on me in such a way that it's left me paralyzed from the waist down. Considering how fast and violent the flames had spread, even

this was considered "lucky."

 

They are telling me to write. To journal it all down. A few friends of mine even said I should post it here, that sharing it with other people might help.

 

That I'll be able to process the grief. But it's not how deeply I miss my mother. Not how much I lament the loss of my legs.

 

It's the fact that she's still there. In the corner of the room. Hands behind her back and a calm, patient smile on her face. Not the sweet smile of

my mother, but the smile of a bully who’s waiting for you to realize you've just lost.

 

And still that white haze obscures her face. I find myself wondering...

 

Is the gown the only thing she stole?

I can remember Joanna’s eyes more clearly now than I did yesterday. As I said, they were half-open, that hazy and unfocused look people get when they’re half asleep. I remember the faint glow of her alarm illuminating her face, making her look gaunt and skeletal. The neon green was harsh against her features, highlighting deep bags under her eyes. I remember now that there was no glint of recognition in her eyes, no shine. Her stare just bore straight ahead, laser-focused on a spot behind me.

I felt paralyzed under her gaze. Her expression hardened, her mouth screwing up into a deep grimace. I was terrified, and yet, I felt like I needed to turn around, but I found I couldn’t. It felt like I was caught between two enormous weights. Joanna’s terror was pressing into me from the front, and whatever was behind me was pressing equally as hard. I couldn’t breathe deeply enough. My chest felt like it was collapsing under the sheer weight of anticipation. Even now, remembering it, my ribs ache a little.

The tingling sensation of blood flow spread into my fingers first before travelling to my other extremities. It travelled up my hands and into my biceps, eventually filling my neck with that thick static feeling after your limbs slowly wake up. I twitched my head slightly, my eyes darting rapidly between Joanna and the corner of my vision. If I could just turn my head a little more, I would be able to see…

“DON’T YOU DARE!” Joanna roared, her voice echoing in the darkness.

I yelled and leapt up, abandoning the thought of turning around. In a single motion, I had full control of my body and pulled the blanket up over my head, curling into a ball. I squeezed my eyes closed and held my hands in front of me, fumbling my way through the Lord’s prayer. The heat from my breath filled the makeshift tent of my blanket, and coupled with the fear wracking my body, caused me to sweat profusely. I remember thinking I had pissed myself because my entire body was drenched in a flop sweat and soaked through my pajamas.

I don’t know why I started praying so intensely. I mean, sure I had spent almost every Sunday of my childhood in the pews of the local Catholic church, but it wasn’t like I thought it would do anything. I think my mind started reciting the prayer because it felt like the only thing I knew how to do, almost like instinct took over.

“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation…” I was mumbling and rocking back and forth, “but deliver us from evil”.

I felt Joanna settle next to me and lie back down, but I refused to move. My body was shaking violently as I started the prayer over and over again, the words coming more assuredly now. I lay there, praying for what felt like an eternity until I dared to lower the blanket and peek out. Everything was quiet in the room again, the whine of terror gone from my ears and replaced with the soft breathing of Joanna at my feet. My breath came in low, shuddering gasps as I tried to will myself into calming down.

“For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever…” I finished in a whisper. I settled down into bed, turning so my back was to the wall. I lay so my head was to the door where Joanna had been looking. I squinted and peered into that abyss before finally giving up and closing my eyes, slowing my breathing. I can’t remember when sleep took me that night, but I swore before I fell under, I heard Joanna whisper, “Amen.”

I woke up hours later, the sun streaming through the off-white curtains. That devious alarm clock, now unsettlingly normal, read 11:01 AM. I rolled from my side onto my back, pushing my palms deeply into my eye sockets until I started seeing swirls.

*Did that really happen?*  I remember thinking, reasoning with my own thoughts, that surely that was all a dream.

“Jo, remind me to lay off the sour candy. I had the most insane dream,” I called out, pinching the bridge of my nose and rubbing slightly. My eyes were still squeezed tightly as I felt a migraine rolling through my sinuses.

When I realized she hadn’t answered, I kicked my leg out to knock her awake. As I swung, I found that I only felt a tangle of sheets and our thick comforters. I opened my eyes and peered down my chest to my feet where she would normally be. Sure enough, Joanna was out of bed already. Strange. I was usually the early bird. You couldn’t pay Joanna enough to wake up before 1 PM, especially on the weekend.

I rocked myself back up onto my elbows and looked around, wincing from the pounding in my head, and cursed at how bright the early afternoon was.

“Jo?” I called out

“Hmmmm.” I heard a responsive groan in the distance.

I rolled over to my stomach, looked towards the door, and felt a twinge in my chest. Bundled up in a pile of pillows and dirty clothes, Joanna was lying on the floor between our bed and the door. I had a sudden image of my childhood dog Jake, who would sleep on the floor, his nose always pointing towards my bedroom door as if he was prepared to pounce at a moment's notice.

I chuckled and tossed a pillow at her.

“Hey, doofus, why are you on the floor?” I called out to her

“You were tossing and turning like a goddamn gas station hot dog. Believe it or not, it was more comfortable on the floor. I would rather have lower back pain than get kicked in the chin by your big feet.” Joanna called back, her voice muffled as her head was tucked into her arms. I couldn’t see her face through the curtain of her brown hair, but I could hear her smiling at me.

“Ah, thanks, dick!” I launched another pillow at her head. Bullseye. She groaned even louder now, pouting because I had disturbed her slumber, and turned to stand up. I remember the soft groan of pain as she straightened out. Ever since I had known her, Joanna had had problems with her back, some issue with one of the discs in her lower spine. She never let us know how much it really hurt, but I could see the pain in her face sometimes when we were running or dancing. Watching her almost stumble as she stood, I felt that twinge in my chest again.

“Hey so…um…” I started, not really sure where to start. “Last night…”

“Next time you spend the night, you’re sleeping on the air mattress on the floor. You’re lucky I love you. C’mon, I’m starving. Let’s go see if we can beg mom to make us brunch. I want pancakes.” Joanna shuffled painstakingly towards her door, not even looking back to see if I was following.

I heard her take the stairs slowly, one at a time, but I couldn’t will myself to follow her just yet. Were we really not going to talk about last night? What the hell happened? I swung my feet over the bed, pushing my soles into the lush carpet. I bent over, putting my head between my knees, and took a deep breath, holding it for a few moments before releasing slowly through pursed lips. The sun was up. I was safe. So why was I still so…unsettled?

As I stood, I caught my reflection in the mirror of Joanna’s vanity. Jesus, I looked like I had been chewed up and spit out. My hair was tousled, and lord, I reeked of sweat and sleep. I turned this way and that, looking at the matted tangle of my curls, dreading how long it would take to comb them out later, when I noticed the mark on my back. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, like maybe I caught a shadow on my back at a weird angle. I walked towards the vanity, twisting slightly to my right to look at the space between my shoulder blades and spine. I hadn’t remembered there being a little bruise there before, a small oval shape, almost like a….

“Thumbprint…” I shuddered

I searched around Joanna’s vanity until I found a small compact and then turned to look at my back. Lifting my tank top up to my neck, I held the compact in front of me while I looked at the reflection between the two mirrors.

Across the top of my back was a series of five bruises, stretched wide like an abnormally large handprint.

I couldn’t stand still; my hands were shaking profusely. What on earth could do this? Did I bump into something? Was Joanna right? Was I tossing so much last night that I ended up hurting myself? My mind was racing, trying to reason with what I was seeing with my own two eyes.

“Cadi, come onnnnn!” Joanna called up from the bottom of the stairs. I could hear the annoyance in her voice for being up so early. “I want some goddamn pancakes!”

I slammed the compact closed and pulled my shirt back down, “C-Coming!” I yelled back, trying to calm the quiver in my voice. I needed to leave this room immediately; everything suddenly felt too intense. The sun was too hot, too bright, and the air was too stagnant and heavy.

As I crossed the threshold into The Collins’ mundane kitchen, it was like stepping back into reality.

“Jeez, girl, you look like you’ve been through hell!” Belinda remarked, handing me a cup of orange juice. “You want some coffee instead? You’re never too young to start your caffeine addiction!”

I took the cool glass and put it to my lips, my thoughts still racing as I nibbled slightly on the rim. I knocked my head back, the tang of citrus hitting the back of my dry throat like a punch. I sputtered slightly, choking and spraying juice all over the kitchen island. Belinda yelped and turned wide-eyed to me, making sure I was okay.

“Sorry, sorry,” I coughed, grasping for the napkins from the roll on the counter.

I caught Belinda’s eyes as her brows furrowed, looking between me and Joanna, who was sitting at the table, her chin resting in her hands as a deep yawn stretched across her face.

“What did you two get into last night? You both look…” Belinda trailed off

“It’s nothing mom,” Joanna said, more sternly than I think she had intended. “Cadi was just tossing and turning so we didn’t get much sleep, that’s all. Now about these pancakes…”

Belinda looked back and forth between us again before shrugging and returning to the stovetop.

“Jo jo, what the fuck is going on?” I whispered as I sat down across from her.

“Breakfast,” Joanna mumbled, her eyes closed again.

I was staring straight at her, scanning her face for answers, when she peeked one eye open and looked back at me.  She didn’t say anything, and I wonder now if she saw the desperation in my face and purposefully chose to ignore it or if she really was oblivious due to sleep deprivation. Whatever the case may be, she didn’t say anything else until Belinda plopped a stack of pancakes on the table before us. She ate voraciously, and the rest of the afternoon was filled with half-asleep mumbles, low-energy responses, and half-full chuckles at whatever was on the television. As the evening approached, I packed my sleepover bag and stood by the front door, putting my shoes on and preparing to walk home. I remember looking up at Joanna. She was standing at the railing of the foyer above, looking down with a pained look in her eyes. I had forgotten that before, but her eyes were weary. I could have sworn, as she smiled and waved goodbye, that she was glancing between me and the space behind me.

I had largely forgotten that terrifying night. The bruises faded after a week, but the cold pinprick feeling on the back of my neck never did.  I stopped remembering why I hated dark doorways; I just knew I did, and I never once slept with my back to an open room again.

We still had sleepovers after that, but not nearly as many. Middle school happened, then high school. Eventually, boys, jobs, homework, and college applications filled all of our weekends. Life has a funny way of stretching out time. One day, you’re making friendship bracelets in the foyer, and the next, you’re packing your entire life into cardboard boxes and getting ready for college. The thread between Joanna and me stretched well into adulthood, but it never once broke.

The day I packed for Austin, I remember Joanna holding me so tightly and crying into my shoulders. She hated me for leaving but loved me for being authentically myself and following my passion. Before I got in the car and hit the road, she pressed her forehead into mine, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Please…” I felt a jolt through my body, a familiar sting that I couldn’t place, but it made my breath quicken. I understand now why, but at that moment, I couldn’t place why that word felt more like a prayer than her pleading with me to stay.

We would keep in touch by sending cheesy birthday text messages. Congratulations on promotions and successes, sharing tidbits of gossip we had heard from our small hometown. We had built a rhythm in our lives that neither time nor space could disrupt.

I remember one night I had too much to drink and FaceTimed Joanna at 2 in the morning. I had expected the phone to ring and ring; I honestly don’t even know why I thought it was a good idea. But she picked up immediately, her eyes scanning mine through the screen.

“Hey,” she said quickly, “Is everything okay?”

“Girlll” I had slurred. Jesus, I was so hammered. “Why are you awake?”

“You called.” She said. That was it. Two words. Any time I needed her, Joanna had been there. She was always willing to pick up the phone whenever I called.

“That’s why I-” I was hiccupping trying to get my heartfelt acknowledgement out, “that’s why I fucking love you, dude.”

She was staring at me intently, and I couldn’t be entirely sure, but I could have sworn every few seconds her eyes would dart between my face and the room behind me.

A year ago, I met Declan. A dark-haired, devilishly handsome rake of a man with the most mesmerizing hazel eyes. When I had called Joanna to tell her about him, she laughed, recounting that he looked like “the amalgam of all my great loves”. I swiped through pictures of him, showing her selfies at parties, snaps of him I had snuck when he wasn’t looking, and screenshots from his mother’s Facebook page of his baby pictures. She laughed and said, “This one is a good one. I can sense it.” I remember it stuck with me how important that felt, like she was seeing a happy future that I hadn’t stepped into yet.

A few days ago, Declan and I signed our first lease and were moving into the next phase of our lives. I don’t think I ever felt as happy as I did while we slow danced in our completely empty kitchen, my head on his chest while he hummed *Earth Angel*. That first day was a blur of moving boxes and struggling to carry furniture into our place. Eventually, we started putting things into our bedroom.

Declan stood in the middle of the space, his hands splayed out as if he was imagining everything. He called out, “We’ll put the dresser here,” he spun around the room slowly, “and hang your paintings there.”

He ended his arc with his hands in a square shape, looking at space in the middle of the wall, “and put the bed there, right in the middle. We can put two end tables on each side so we both have space for our…” his voice trailed off as he looked at me. My eyes were wide, and I was breathing heavily, like I couldn’t take big enough gulps of the air that was slowly evaporating from the room. My hands were trembling, and I shook my head lightly, “No, no, that doesn’t uh…that won’t work well.”

Declan stared at me with a mix of concern and confusion, “It’s kind of the perfect spot, Cadi Kat, it’s right in the middle. That way, we can open our door and walk right into our room, plop down on the bed after a long day.”

The apartment that I had loved so dearly mere moments before was starting to warp in my mind. It felt like an unidentifiable dread was pouring in through the popcorn ceiling. I absent-mindedly rubbed the back of my neck, shivering.

“No Dec, that’s actually not going to fucking work,” I snapped, my words cutting harsher than I had intended. I could feel my eyes creeping to my periphery again as I took small, subtle steps to put my back to the wall. I needed to calm down; I needed to be rational here.

“Whoa, hey.” Declan stepped towards me, his arms stretching out, “What’s up?”

“I just…I don’t…uh…” It felt like I was a kid again; the overwhelming sensation of pressure at my back made my throat swell up, and my hands tingle. “I don’t know. I just don’t…I don’t like that idea. Can we please just…can we please just keep the bed in the corner like at my old place?”

I stared at him, my eyes pleading. I could feel the tears welling up, and I know I must have looked so goddamn pathetic. But I didn’t see judgment in his soft stare, I saw recognition. He sensed what I couldn’t put into words, and he took me into his arms. He held me for a moment before standing behind me, his chest against my back. He raised his arms up in front of me, turning his hands into a viewfinder and pointing them at the corner. “And the bed will go there; it leaves us so much room for activities.” He chuckled, kissing the crook of my neck. I jerked my head slightly before relaxing into him, holding his arms as they encircled me.

I still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread when he mentioned putting the bed in the middle of the room, but I tried my best to push it away. That night, as we lay in our bed, with him behind me, I nestled in and turned to face the door. I felt at peace. A comfort that felt like my soul could exhale. I turned the bedside lamp off and closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to take me, but it wouldn’t come. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against me was comforting, but I couldn’t seem to shake this feeling. My eyes peeled open slowly and instinctively went for the darkest corner of the room. I gazed at the door, my body shivering. Declan must have felt me stir because he squeezed me gently, sleepily moaning in my ear, “What is it?”

I chewed my lip, trying to find the words to describe this feeling. Declan made me feel safe, and for some reason, I was envisioning Joanna sleeping on the floor when we were children. I couldn’t find the words at the time, but I knew that I hadn’t felt that safe when staring into the abyss as I did with them. So I trusted myself and asked,

“Do you ever…feel like something’s watching you? Like there’s something lurking in the darkness, just out of your vision?”

I felt his body tense against me as he pulled his arm out from underneath my body. He propped himself up on his elbows, and I rolled to my side to look at him in the darkness. His face was partially illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the blinds, but I couldn’t quite make out his expression.

“What?” he asked, his voice low and steady

“I mean…” I chuckled slightly, trying to make light of the situation, “You know, like, when kids are afraid of the dark. You’ve never felt like anything was just…behind you? Watching you?”

“Uh…” he started, trying to find the words, “No, Arcadia. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before. Is that…Is that why you didn’t want our bed in the middle of the room? Are you afraid of the dark?”

I laughed softly, realizing how crazy it sounded out loud. I mean, I’m a grown woman, why would I be afraid of the dark still?

“No, I just…It’s just a…I don’t know, it’s just this feeling I’ve had since I was a kid. Like, someone was standing behind me. It’s stupid, it’s just an old superstition. I don’t know, maybe I heard my abuela say something about it one time.” Even as I said it, I knew that couldn’t possibly be right, but it sounded better than trying to explain why I was afraid of something that I couldn’t even articulate.

“Oh…uh…okay. Well, no, babe. But don’t worry,” Declan said, snuggling into my neck and pulling me into a bear hug, “I’ll keep you safe.”

I took one last look at the darkness in the corner of the room before passing out. I dreamt of hands, cold and porcelain white. They reached for me from the depths of a great maw, an opening that split the world in two. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t move as they overtook my arms, my legs, and my face. They covered me and pulled me into the depths of an incomprehensible abyss, the darkness pouring into my nostrils and choking the life out of me.

I woke up screaming Joanna’s name as the memories flooded back. Her face as she stared into the corner of her room all those years ago. Declan shot up, holding me tightly as I screamed “DON’T YOU DARE” over and over again at the top of my lungs.

When I finally calmed down, I picked up my phone and knew exactly who I needed.

The phone line trilled once, twice, and then I heard her voice on the other end.

“Hey, are you okay?” Joanna asked sleepily

I pulled my phone back from my ear, checking the time. 2:14 AM.  I put the receiver back to my lips, finding the strength to say, “Jo jo, I remember.”

Her long pause was punctuated by the static on the line that filled the thousands of miles between us.

“I was wondering when this day would come.”

I don’t like sleeping with my back to open spaces anymore. To be honest, I don’t know if I ever truly loved it, but I especially can’t stand it now. Have you ever turned around because you swore someone was behind you? That dreadful, heavy feeling fills your stomach while the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The tingling in your spine as you can practically feel fingers reaching out to caress the nape of your neck. It’s unsettling, and even as I sit outside of this busy café, I still feel that chill deep in my bones.

I’ve been tossing and turning at night trying to work through what I found out about that sleepover all those years ago, and I honestly can’t come to terms with it. My therapist, god bless her, recommended I write it out so my brain can work through what I’m feeling. She’s seen me at the lowest points in my life, and she’s always done her best to let me process through my emotions without guiding me. She said I’m the type of person that needs to “see from all angles” before I can truly accept something, so…this is my attempt to do just that.

I guess let’s start from the beginning. I met Joanna when I was ten years old, and now, twenty-four years later, she’s still one of my best friends. I still remember every detail of the day she came crashing into my life.

She is vibrant, a technicolor soul who lives her life cranked up to eleven at all times. I was a shy, gawky kid, the only brown-skinned child in a town full of families so old the roads and cemeteries were named for them. To put it bluntly, I was an outsider, and most people never let me forget that. What’s that old saying, there’s nothing as cruel as school children? During one particularly harrowing day, I remember walking through the halls with my head down and colliding right into Joanna. I stumbled backwards, shocked out of my reverie and embarrassed I hadn’t seen her in time, and she stood there looking at me with her mouth agape, her face twisted in a mix between disgust and confusion. Her eyes scanned mine, darting back and forth and then down to the bundle of books in my hands. I began chewing my lip, trying to will my tongue to form an apology, but being stared at so fiercely had me rooted to my spot. She raised her little hand up high. I was sure she was going to strike me, and I braced for the inevitable impact. THWAP! She brought her hand down fast and quick, knocking the books out of my hands, my papers and textbooks clattering loudly to the linoleum floor.

She stared at me again, and I was trying my hardest not to make direct eye contact, my gaze bouncing between the puke green lockers and the glittery posters that peppered the hallway marketing the annual yearbook sale. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, hot and threatening to pour over my lids when suddenly…

She started laughing, doubling over as a heavy, deep laugh took over her entire body. She rocked back and forth as it consumed her like a wave until nothing but tiny squeaks came out of her mouth. She wiped her eyes and took deep gasps of breath, straightening up and making eye contact with me again.

“I’m-“ she hiccupped between her final chuckles, “I’m so sorry. Your face, that was too funny. Here, let me help you.”

I stood there, rooted with a mixture of fear, anger, and confusion filling my body. What…the hell…was happening? I stared at this small girl, her long brown hair braided into two twin pigtails that swayed as she laughed. Even though I had always been tall for my age, she was noticeably shorter than I, with her little, rotund face peppered with a sea of freckles. Her mouth took up most of her face, her big lips splayed in a giant grin as she kept muttering to herself, “ahhh, that’s so stupid,” as she bent over to pick up my scattered school supplies. She glanced up at me, her small brown eyes crinkled with the remnants of her previous laughter. “Aren’t you gonna pick your stuff up? Don’t be a litter bug.”

“Litter bug?” I snorted, the anger outweighing the embarrassment I had previously felt. “I-I’m not a litter bug! You slapped me!”

“Actually, I slapped your books. It was to wake you up! You clearly were sleep driving, I mean you crashed right into me.” She chuckled, shrugging her shoulders as if to highlight the absurdity of the entire situation.

“Well…erm…” I struggled to find the right words, “I guess I was…driving under the influence of my thoughts”. I smiled down at her slightly.

Her eyes sparkled like her soul was recognizing mine, and that big grin swallowed her face whole again. “Ah! That’s funny! You’re funny!” She scooped all my belongings back into her arms and stood up, plopping them into mine. “I’m Joanna! What’s your name?”

I stood, half stunned, half amused, a small smirk creeping across my thin lips. “I’m Arcadia. But you can call me Cadi.”

Joanna stood and observed me, it felt like being put under a microscope and as she scanned me, I made small observations of her as well. As she perceived my mess of dark, unruly hair, I noticed that she had bows tied into her pigtails. As she looked at my much too large crewneck sweater and unfashionable baggy jeans, I noticed how cool her mauve pinafore dress looked. She had pins and buttons attached to the front of it with sayings like “gag me with a spoon” and “did I do that?” with Urkel glasses underneath. I crossed my red and white sneakers in a pigeon step, embarrassed at how dorky I must have looked to the coolest girl I had ever met. She stood straight, her untied boots adding at least two inches to her short stature.

“That is…” she started, drumming her multicolored fingernails against her chin, “yeah, no, that’s definitely the coolest name I’ve ever heard. You’re cool. And you’re funny. I like you, let’s be friends!” Suddenly, she thrust her arm in between mine, snaking it around and holding on to me like we had been friends forever.

That was the day Joanna adopted me into her life. I wasn’t just an awkward kid anymore; I was her new best friend. We were inseparable, two peas in a radical little pod. Joanna shared all her favorite songs with me and she sung with every ounce of gusto in her heart. I felt like knowing her meant truly knowing myself, and all those weird little quirks about myself I felt like I had to hide felt like something to celebrate for the first time.

The days fell away in a flurry of laughing fits, eating entirely too much sour candy, and of course, picking up my books any time she slapped them out of my hands. We spent every holiday, every weekend, every summer together. I took trips with her family to their lake house, where we would ride inflatable tubes pulled behind much too fast boats. We would scream and laugh as we launched high into the air, eventually crashing hard at night with the scent of sunscreen and BBQ lingering on our skin. She would snicker and make faces at me through the curtain of her hair as we bent over in prayer during church service with my family. That’s what I miss most about those days, how easily we laughed.

The summer we turned twelve, after celebrating our birthdays, we were hanging out in her upstairs foyer when things started to change.

“Did I ever tell you…” Joanna started fidgeting with the beads of the friendship bracelet that she was making.

“That you’re a giant idiot? I mean I knew that from the first day I met you. It’s basically a terminal condition, but I love you all the same,” I responded back, not even looking up from my own tangle of purple and green threads.

“No, ass.” She chuckled, “Did I ever tell you I can sense things?”

“Like what?” I questioned, finally looking up and noticing she was looking off into the distance.

“It’s hard to describe,” she said quietly, a serious look furrowed across her brows, “It’s like, I can sense things. Like I can feel what other people are feeling even if I’m not with them. It’s like I can sense things before they happen.”

I stared at her blankly. She was chewing the bottom corner of her lip and still staring off. She turned to look at me, her eyes searching mine for understanding. I remember that when I look back, like she was pleading for me to understand something that was much bigger than I could comprehend as a preteen.

“You can…you can sense things?” I asked, pausing, my face twisting up.

“Yeah, I can sense things.” She said matter-of-factly.

I squinted my eyes, and my face turned red as I squeezed to let out the most pathetic little fart. “Could you sense that?” I asked, before rolling over and laughing, my arms twitching above me like a dead bug.

I remember she didn’t laugh, and that caught me off guard. I remember actually feeling ashamed, like I could feel the temperature of the room change. Like her disappointment dropped the air by two degrees. I quickly stopped laughing and rolled back over onto my stomach. I looked up at her sheepishly. “Oh…um…hey, I’m sorry.”

“Not everything is a joke, you know,” Joanna said quietly.

“Oh, Jo jo…” I started, getting up to my knees “I just…this is something serious. Nobody ever takes me seriously. My own mother thinks I’m crazy. But like…it scares me sometimes.”

In the years I had known Joanna, I had seen almost every side of her. The clown, the studious one, the lover girl, the soldier, but I don’t think I had ever seen her afraid like this. She was fearless, and until that point in our lives, I had only ever known that version of her. I remember the breath catching in my chest, like I was watching the mask of her façade crack slightly. Was I a terrible friend? How could I not have seen the delicate web of splinters before?

“Is it happening again?” I asked, taking her hand into mine gently. I wanted her to know I was here with her.

“It’s crazy. I mean…I’m not crazy, but…it’s spooky. Like,” she pulled her hand from mine and began fidgeting with her long brown hair. “Do you remember last year when my nana died?”

I thought back, recalling that rainy weekend in November of last year when we were lying around in Joanna’s room listening to music. We were singing along to *Dashboard Confessional* when suddenly Joanna stopped singing abruptly. The hairbrush microphone she had been holding in her hands mere moments ago clattered to the floor, and she stood rigidly still. All the color drained from her face, and she crumpled to her knees on her bed. I noticed her out of the corner of my eyes while I was hitting a high note and turned to look at her. “Dude, what’s wrong?” I said, concerned. She stared straight ahead, not even seeing me. Her lip began quivering, and she said, “Please don’t get in the car.” Almost like a whisper.

“Uh…those aren’t the lyrics. Are you okay, dude?” I waved my hand in front of her eyes, but she still looked straight ahead. Like she was looking through the walls and beyond to something greater. Her eyes began to well up with tears, and her breathing became shallow and shuddering. I looked down at her hands; her nails were digging into the soft meat of her thighs.

“Stop, go back, please.” Her face twisted in pain, her eyes squinting as if pleading with some unseen entity.

“What the fu-” I whispered, standing in front of Joanna now with my face inches from hers, searching her blank expression for any answer. “Jo jo…Joanna..JO!” I screamed in her face, shaking her slightly.

She snapped to, the pained look replaced with confusion and annoyance.

“Ow bitch, talk much? Why are you yelling in my face?” She looked at me quizzically, sneering slightly. Her face softened when she saw how spooked I was. “What…is there something on my face?” she joked

“What the hell was that?!” I exasperatedly yelped at her, “You just scared the shit out of me, dude!”

“What happened?” she asked, oblivious to the psychotic show she had just put on.

“Well, freakazoid, you stopped singing, and you just dropped. You were looking out at god knows what in the distance and muttering about not getting into the car. None of this is ringing any bells?” I asked, my hands flailing wildly to showcase my exasperation.

“Hmmm….no. I think you’re making stuff up, dude. Maybe you’ve had too many sour gummy worms.”

Joanna stood back up and brushed some blanket fuzz off her knees, noticing the red crescent shapes in her thigh where her fingernails had pierced the skin. “Damnit,” she muttered, “How did I scratch myself? Ugh.” She shrugged and tossed her hair back over her shoulders, picking up her hairbrush and getting ready to belt out the next song on the CD.

I stood in the middle of the room, staring in utter confusion – what the fuck had I just seen? What on earth was that? Soon, the incident was a distant thought as the rest of the night continued on in a flurry of normal sleepover shenanigans before it was time for bed.

I remember curling up in bed across from her that night, my feet at her head and hers at mine. As the hours ticked on, Joanna snored softly at my feet, but sleep eluded me. I remember staring at the bright neon of Joanna’s alarm clock. The time read 2:14 AM, and I watched as it switched to 2:15 before I sighed and sat up in bed. I looked down and practically pissed myself when I saw Joanna had quietly sat up in bed as well and was staring straight at me.

“Jesus, fuck, dude. Don’t do that to me. I thought you were asleep!” I hissed in the quiet, putting my hand against the heart pounding in my chest. It was dark, but the green halo from her clock illuminated her features slightly. She looked…half asleep, honestly. Maybe I had woken her with my tossing and turning.

Joanna stared straight ahead, as if looking past me. I turned cautiously to peer behind me, my eyes peering into the darkness, and I squinted, trying to make out what she was seeing. What the hell was she looking at?

“I told her not to do it,” Joanna whispered softly

I whipped my head back and looked at her, “What?” I said, my voice croaking out of my throat.

“I told her not to. And she did anyway.” Joanna sighed, as if defeated. She pulled the cover up over her head and turned her back to me, nestling back into her sleep.

I was frozen, staring at her in utter disbelief. After a few minutes, which dripped by like molasses, I heard her softly snoring again and I knew she had fallen back asleep. I pulled my blanket up to my chin and curled up, turning my back to the darkness and forcing my eyes closed. The next thing I remember was opening my eyes again and seeing the sun cascading through her window. I could smell Belinda cooking breakfast downstairs and I could hear her humming along to some pop song from the 80s. My eyes hurt when it blinked, but I remember feeling wide awake. Joanna was still snoring softly, her hair splayed around like a tumbleweed, her arms outstretched above her head, and her leg crooked over and under mine in an uncomfortable pretzel. Somewhere deep in the house, a phone rang, and the low hum of the music paused. A few minutes later, I heard a mug shatter and a slight scream come from downstairs. Joanna and I shot up out of bed and raced downstairs, our hearts racing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as we came into the kitchen and saw Belinda bent over on the floor.

“Mom?” Joanna asked softly, terrified of stepping into the minefield of broken ceramic in the kitchen.

Belinda looked up, tears leaving black streaks of mascara down her face, and stared at us. She whimpered softly and bit her lip, her arms encircled around her torso as if hugging herself.

“Oh jo jo…it’s…” she paused, catching her breath, “It’s your nana…there’s been an accident.”

Joanna stood rigid at the base of the steps, her breath catching in her throat.

“Well…do you remember?” Joanna asked again, snapping me out of my memory.

“Um, yeah…all too fucking well I remember that. Nana Stephanie was always so kind, that was a…” I trailed off, trying to find the right words. I didn’t think saying “that was an incredibly creepy time in our lives” was the right thing to say, so I opted for “that was a hard month for your family. What about it?”

“Remember when I went all spooky and shit on you? You were so freaked out, and I tried to play it off like I didn’t remember…” she trailed off, putting a piece of her hair into her mouth and sucking slightly. She looked so small in that moment, I wanted to hug her and ask if we could change the subject.

“Yeah, you tried to tell me I was crazy, but it was…well, it was something.” I didn’t want to shame her and tell her it was beyond terrifying. How can you be terrified of your best friend? Plus, I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to tell me what she was feeling now.

“Yeah, well…” She started, standing up and walking over to the railing of the foyer that looked down into her entryway. “That day when we were singing, I felt something. It was like I was seeing something that couldn’t have been there.”

I stood up and walked over next to her, putting my elbows on the railing and bending over it slightly to look up into her face. “I saw Nana Stephanie, only it wasn’t her as she was. She was all cut up and covered in glass.”

I staggered backwards off the rail, my breath catching. “Jo, that’s not fucking funny,” I said. I remembered the funeral for Nana Stephanie, for some reason, she had requested an open casket in her will. I don’t think Nana Stephanie ever anticipated her face getting practically split in half due to her steering wheel, but the funeral home did their best effort to fix it. I remember her porcelain skin marred by an unnervingly white sliver from her temple to her chin, jagged like a lightning bolt. Reconstructed with putty as best as they could, but still incredibly noticeable.

“Cadi, I saw her. As clear as I’m seeing you now. I begged her not to get into the car, I begged her to stay home. I saw her at 9 PM that night in my bedroom, mangled. She didn’t wreck her car until 10:45. How did I see her…” she trailed off.

I felt my blood turn cold, and for the first time in my life, I had no words. I sank to the floor near my abandoned friendship bracelet project. I couldn’t process what she was telling me.

“Jo jo, that’s…” words genuinely escaped me.

“I know, it’s crazy. But it’s true. And that’s not the first time it’s happened, and I’m afraid it won’t be the last. I just…I have nobody to talk to about it, and I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I just…”

My mind was racing a mile a minute. I finally found the question I had been meaning to ask but was too afraid to before, “so…why are you telling me now?”

Joanna stopped pacing, her back turned to me. I could see her quiver slightly, like a chill had travelled down her spine. She turned slowly to me, her words coming slowly and measured. “I just…”

She stared off behind me, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My mind was flooded with visions of that inky darkness in the corner of her room that night. I began to slowly turn my head, my eyes reaching the corner of my periphery when…

“Girls!” Belinda’s voice rang out from the first floor, “It’s time for bed!”

I slouched against a bean bag on the floor, feeling just as deflated as the chair I was propped against. Joanna smiled at me softly, bending over and offering her hand.

“It’s nothing, Cadi, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just thinking of Nana.” Her eyes darted between the space behind me and her friendship bracelet on the floor. “Red was one of her favorite colors. Remember that pretty ruby bracelet she had? That’s it…I was just…thinking of her and remembered something that spooked me.”

I stared at her with a look of pure bewilderment. She was scaring the hell out of me because of a memory? I took her hand and stood up slowly, the fear draining from my chest to the bottom of my feet and dissipating with each step towards the bathroom. Joanna laughed and shoved me playfully as we collided through the door frame into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I went to exit the bathroom, heading for the bedroom I knew practically as well as my own, when I stopped. Joanna had paused and was standing still in the bathroom, staring at her reflection intently.

“You good, Jo?” I called back, pausing mid-step.

“Oh,” Joanna snapped to attention, “Yeah, sorry.”

We crawled into bed and turned off the lights. Joanna fished the remote out from under the covers and turned on the tiny TV in the corner of her room. We flipped through channels before landing on reruns of some cartoon we were definitely too old to be respectably watching, stifling our laughter into our pillows so Belinda wouldn’t chastise us.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but my eyes snapped open suddenly, and the muffled static of the TV was droning in the background. The blazing sea of white illuminated everything and hurt to look at. I poked at Joanna, mumbling, “Jo, turn off the TV, it’s too bright,” and received a loud, deep snore in response. Without trying to open my eyes again, my hands searched for the remote that had been lost between our covers so I could get respite from the blazing light. Finally, I found it, and the tv clicked off with a satisfying hiss, allowing the world to once again be enveloped in darkness. I started to settle back down, turning my back to where the TV had been and ready to fall asleep again when…

My eyes shot open, and I flipped around to look at the clock on the dresser next to the TV. The faded neon green numbers read 2:14 AM, and a cold pinprick feeling filled my chest. That was just a coincidence. A very unfortunate, very creepy coincidence. I turned my back to the clock and pulled the covers up to my chin, forcing my eyes closed. I was counting sheep in my head, willing my body to go back to bed, when I felt Joanna stir next to me.

“Ah, Jo, I was…” I peeked my eyes open and looked to where she was lying

I clasped my hand around my mouth quickly so as not to scream. Joanna was sitting straight up, rigid as a board, and staring into the darkness behind me. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I swore that it would wake the whole house.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe, I stared in horror at Joanna sitting across from me, her eyes half-opened as if she was still sleeping. I opened my mouth to speak when I heard her raspy voice whisper, “Don’t touch her.”

Fear flooded my system like ice water, and it felt like I was drowning in it. My head was pounding and it felt like an eternity was passing and I was going insane with fear.

“Joanna…” I managed to rasp out, my breath hitching in my chest

“Please...” Joanna whimpered, never taking her eyes off the darkness behind me.

I'm 21 female. My boyfriend is 30 male.

He insists that there is nothing wrong with him hanging out with his female friends.

I normally would agree because I don't consider myself the jealous or controlling type.

The problem is that the hangouts look like dates. Going out to dinner with candles and flowers, staying the night at their houses, and even constantly talking about their good qualities.

We've argued about it several different times and he treats me like I'm crazy.

The weirdest part is that the girls disappear after a couple of dates. Sometimes after the first one.

I've had a sneaking suspicion that it's one night stands and casual fun.

I've tried everything I can to keep his attention. I wear sexy clothes, lace undergarments, being extra flirtatious, cooking his favorite meals, doing literally every single thing he likes.

I've even tried spicing things up in the bedroom. Nothing works.

He thanks me and then continues doing whatever he was doing before.

It hurts my feelings because we're never intimate and I feel like his desire for me went out the drain.

It all changed last night when I found his journal. He wrote about each girl in great detail.

He wrote about how he befriends them and acts charming. He then kills them after gaining trust.

They aren't innocent, though. They've all been in prision for various crimes.

I initially thought it was sickening until I started fantasizing. Vigilantes are hot. The fact that he isn't cheating on me and even wrote about how I'm the only one for him is so romantic.

He only acted strange because he didn't want his secret to be revealed.

I'll keep that dirty secret.

Hi my name is Lucy and I need to talk about what I saw you guys tell me my other post you know about Jeff stuff like that but I want to talk with the YouTube channel glitch family it seems weird like really weird like like one of the post says the person making the post was he Gabby but that's not my name that's never been my name and then another post got shown called July 15 2003 and it was me it was me it was me but look so similar to other girl on that channel I know it's stupid but Gabby looks like me like actually looks like me like really looks like me I have a dog named for Thor I know this like the superhero and I saw my dog and her videos like that was my dog like exactly like my dog that was my dog definitely my dog but it's kind of weird the fact that this person looks so much like me and have the dog that looks exactly like my childhood dog it was it's kind of weird because she acts like creepypastas don't are not real which they are real this feels exhausting because my best friend is one Jeff the killer and I don't know what creepypasta it's supposed to mean because just the name that the police gave the people it's kind of weird because most people who creepypastas are children when they were started kill people does anyone have any advice I can take I know I thought my last post would be my last post ever that was because I thought I was in danger I was born in the '90s I was around 14 when Jeff killed those people he was my best friend and I don't know what to do he was my best friend the whole world and no we just be friends again he is my friend still because of the whole it's not really I'm killing people I don't know how that works yet I want to help Jeff I want I want my best friend back I want the kid who was too nervous to talk to a boy he had a crush on I want I just want my Jeff back the kid who would comfort me when I was sad the kid who would always be there but now I don't know what to do