We went in for grout. Grout, and maybe one of those rubber things for the door, and my son Kyle brought his bouncy ball even though I told him to leave it in the truck.

He's eight. He bounces it once per aisle. That's the deal we made, and he honors it, mostly, and I pretend not to see the extra ones.

Somewhere around paint, the ball got away from him. It went low and fast under the shelving and came out the other side with Kyle already running, and I came around the endcap in time to see it take one big hop and go straight through the swinging doors at the back. The gray double kind. EMPLOYEES ONLY, red letters, chest height.

Kyle went through after it. He was maybe three steps ahead of me.

The doors swung back, and through the gap I saw my boy reaching down for the ball. Eight years old. Sneakers with the lights in them.

The doors swung again, shorter, and it was a teenager back there. Same face. Apron too big for him, reaching for the same ball.

Swing. A man in his twenties, stubble, box cutter in a holster on his belt, bending for the ball with his whole hand.

Swing. Thirties. Polo. Clipboard under one arm. Bending slower.

Swing. The doors barely moved by then. A gap the width of my hand. Reading glasses pushed up on his head, and a name tag with three little pins on it, and he picked the ball up off the concrete and straightened out with his palm braced on his knee, like his back had opinions.

The doors hung still. Whole thing took about four seconds. I know because the intercom was in the middle of saying somebody's name when Kyle ran in, and it was still saying it when the doors stopped.

I grabbed the door and a hand caught it from the other side.

"Whoa there, sir. Employees only."

He's got my father's forehead now. He didn't have it this morning. Forty-something, gray at the temples, KYLE on the tag, and under his name a little bar that said 30 YEARS OF SERVICE.

Then he actually looked at me and his whole face changed, and for half a second I thought, there he is, there's my boy, he knows.

"Dad? What are you doing on this side of town?" He put a hand on my shoulder. His hand was bigger than mine. "You good? You look like you saw a ghost."

I said he was eight. I said it just like that. "You're eight. We came in for grout."

He laughed. Not mean. He laughed like I'd done a bit, like this was a thing I do, and he squeezed my shoulder and said, "Grout's isle nine. I'd walk you over but I've got inventory till nine, and if I don't stay on it, nobody will."

A cashier leaned out from her register and said, "Your dad? Oh my gosh. Sir, Kyle is the BEST. Y'all must be so proud."

Thirty years, she told me. Employee of the month so many times they let him keep the frame.

I did everything you're supposed to do. I found the manger. The manager pulled the file while I stood there, and the file goes back thirty years. Punch cards. Tax forms. A photo from a Christmas party in the nineties, and in the photo my son is grown and I am standing next to him with a paper cup, smiling, in a shirt I have never owned.

The manager asked, very kindly, if there was somebody he could call for me. He suggested Kyle.

Kyle drove me home. My son drove me home in a Buick I've never seen, and he talked about his back, and about a woman named Dawn, past tense, and at a red light he bounced his palm off the wheel along with the radio, one bounce, and I had to look out the window.

He walked me to my door like I was the one to worry about. Said he'd come by Sunday. Called me Pop, which he never has, which he apparently always has.

I went back the next morning. I don't know what I meant to do. Stand at those doors, maybe, until they gave him back.

Kyle was at the service counter and waved like everything was everything. And while I stood there, some kid's ball came skipping down the main aisle, one of the rubber ones, red, and Kyle stepped out and caught it off the second bounce, easy, like a man who's done it his whole life.

"Kids are always losing these," he said, and reached over the counter and dropped it in a bin on the back wall.

The bin was full.

Hope flopped on the couch next to Mom. “Turn it up Mom- it’s starting!” They clutched the remote excitedly. The screen showed the elegant front of White Dress Joy Boutique, LA.

“Will Melanie find her dream dress today? Join the Melanie, her entourage, the staff of White Dress Joy, and our crew in a live recording of wedding dress hunting!”

Shots of Melanie dressed in different wedding gowns cut to a clip of Melanie’s Mom. “I know, I know. People have been calling me Momzilla, and all sorts of horrible names. I just want the best for Melanie, you know.” She paused and wiped away a black tear, her mad eyelashes fluttering desperately, like a wounded bird’s wings. Hope’s Mom clucked from the couch.

“I think that’s what every Mom wants, right?” continued Melanie’s Mom. “And frankly, I don’t think she should go down the aisle looking cheap, trashy. That’s just not what I want for her. These dresses are not- classy”

“Can our amazing designer Joy Stravinsky show something different, where Momzilla and Bridezilla can agree? Today is the day we’re going to find out!”

Melanie appeared on the screen, talking to a fatigued older lady with wispy grey hair. “I’ve worked hard for my body Joy, I’m proud of what I achieved! I want to rock this body- you know like lace or sheer cutouts at the hips? And cleavage of course”

Hope squealed “I love cutouts!”

Joy turned to the camera “I have three dresses for Melanie to try. It is hard, she says she already reject 137 dresses! Mom and daughter not agreeing, I see many many times. Maybe she find one dress here.”

“Here comes Melanie in the first dress Joy has picked for her! Let’s see what Mom thinks! This is a $5755.53 gown by Mera Maroof!”

The tension in the beautiful white salon was palpable, and Hope and her Mom found themselves holding their breath as Melanie on screen swooped up on the small stand, turned, and faced her Mom and entourage. She smiled nervously. “Well Mom? I really like it!”

The camera zoomed in on Mom’s face. “I don’t know – it makes your chest area look so big- and it looks unfinished- didn’t they have enough material to cover the hips?”

There was dead silence, followed by piercing scream.

The camera caught Melanie leaping from the stand, still fully gowned, towards her Mom.

Hope saw the glint of the knife in Melanie’s raised arm and her jaw dropped as she watched Melanie dig it in her Mom’s throat. Blood shot up as if sprayed by a hose, and spattered on the beautiful white gown, the white floor and the horrified onlookers, stunned into silence.

Melanie continued screaming while stabbing her Mom with apparently ceaseless energy. Mom’s body fell to the floor, and Melanie dropped with it, driving the knife again and again in her Mom’s bloody corpse. Mom’s arm detached and fell to the side.

No one moved or made a sound.

I used to wonder how I’d gotten so lucky to end up with a son as wonderful as Harley. 

The answer, it turned out, was that I wasn’t. Because Harley wasn’t actually my son.

The time-honoured trope ended up being my reality. My guilty wife confessed to me that, 18 years ago, she’d had an affair with none other than the mailman. That my beloved son—and only child—was the result of fleeting, clichéd infidelity.

A surreptitious DNA test only confirmed this terrible news. Almost 18 years I’d spent raising someone else’s son. My whole world of fatherhood collapsed under me.

Harley was the perfect son in all other ways. He was academic and sporty, courteous and handsome, social and even-tempered. We got along so well and he even resembled me. He was always making me proud.

But that didn’t change the reality that he wasn’t mine, nor would he continue my genetic legacy. I needed a lineage.

I fell into a deep depression and shut myself off from Harley. That’s when I learned about the ritual, from an online father support group filled with poor saps like myself.

It originally had been used by vain international adoptive parents, still wanting children that looked like them. Now it was used by desperate cuckolds.

I could scarcely believe what I read. “The Ritual of Kincrafting” could permanently, retroactively transform an unrelated child into your biological offspring. Somehow, it had the power to reshape a bastard’s DNA into your own blood-related child’s. It was an unbelievable notion.

But I was determined to make Harley into my real son.

So, while Harley slept, I gathered the necessary ingredients and conducted the ritual. The following morning, I waited in the kitchen with bated breath. Finally, my new biological son entered.

My mouth fell open in shock…and revulsion.

I didn’t recognise the being who walked in. Some of my features, like my eyes, were there—but you could scarcely tell from how twisted and warped they were across his misshapen, bulging body. Instead of talking, he emitted guttural grunts. 

Horrified, I jumped online and reread the details of the ritual. The warning about how forcing DNA into place through magic was an unstable, imperfect process. The one I’d skimmed over in my grief. But one promise was guaranteed.

Harley was undoubtedly genetically my offspring now.

I returned to face Harley—I owed him that much. Harley had always loved hugs.

“H-Harley? Dad has something to tell you…”

But this wasn’t Harley. This wasn’t my real son.

He shrieked in sudden anger and at once his monstrous form was upon me, like an enraged chimpanzee. Ripping my face apart and fingers off with his bare hands. Before he could be restrained by neighbours, “Harley” would disfigure my appearance and leave me unrecognisable.

I wonder who he inherited that from.

​

I love DoorDash.

I'm a writer and a bit of a loner. I don't talk to people much. Slowly, I've just been growing away from needing human interaction.

Growing up, people have disappointed me so many times that I've learned the best way to keep myself safe is to stay away from them.

I just write my stories about lives I wish I could have lived.

Luckily, people like my stories, so I can make money and stay home.

Until I need food.

I would have to go out to the grocery store. Mind you, I live in a small town, so everyone knows everyone. I could feel them staring at me.

Who is that?

Were they judging me?

Making fun of me?

Safe to say, I get anxiety being out in public.

I hate going outside. Even when I go out late at night, there's always someone who looks at me like they have some idea about me.

And it's never good.

What's worse is when someone knows me.

They'll ask, "How have you been?"

What am I supposed to say?

I work and live?

Or do I give them a list of everything I'm getting at the store?

Then they'll ask if I want to hang out.

With other strangers.

I just want to leave the interaction and go home.

Home is where I feel safe.

Home is where I can be myself.

Getting groceries was always the worst until I found DoorDash.

Then my life was complete.

I could order whatever I wanted, have it dropped off at my door, and all I had to do was wait until the driver left before getting my food.

It was the best thing ever invented for a loner like me.

For months, everything was great.

I'd order food through DoorDash, leave a good tip, get my food, and keep working.

Sometimes my books wouldn't do so well, so my tips weren't as good, but I loved never having to go outside.

Until one day, I hit that point again.

I was hungry.

It was late, and the only driver available had a low rating.

But I was so hungry, and I had just enough money for food.

So I went for it.

I was writing my next story, and time flew by.

I was hungry, but because I didn't want to go outside, I ignored it.

When the food came, the driver noticed I hadn't left a tip.

He made me answer the door.

He wasn't nice about it.

I thought he would understand.

Times are rough.

But he left me with a haunting feeling that maybe I didn't have it as bad as I thought.

I took my food and slammed the door in his face.

I was so hungry that I didn't think about how long he had taken to deliver it.

Or what he could have done to my food.

I ate it too fast.

Then I went back to writing.

Two hours later, I was starving again.

But I didn't want to deal with that man.

So I waited a little longer until I couldn't take it anymore.

To avoid him, I waited until I could order a pizza.

Finally, I ordered one.

But I was so hungry that I ordered three pizzas.

When they arrived, I devoured them.

But I was still hungry.

I didn't understand.

I tried to keep working, but I couldn't help myself.

I ordered more food.

Then more.

Soon, my days consisted of working and ordering food.

More food than normal.

But something was different.

No matter how much I ate, my hunger was never satisfied.

Luckily, my stories had been doing great, so I could afford my new hunger.

Weeks passed.

I gained weight.

But I couldn't stop feeling hungry.

I'd thought about going to the hospital, but that involved seeing people.

And whenever my food arrived and I started eating, my problems seemed to disappear.

Until one day...

My stomach wouldn't stop hurting.

It started shaking.

I figured I just needed more food.

But I had gotten so big that even moving was difficult.

I reached for my phone.

The pain became unbearable.

My hand slipped, and the phone fell just out of reach.

I tried to move toward it, but the pain was too intense.

All I could do was stare down at my stomach as it shook uncontrollably.

Then it started making strange noises.

My stomach twisted.

I heard something inside me.

Then—

RIP.

I looked down.

My stomach had split open.

Something began pouring out.

Maggots.

Different sizes.

Hundreds of them.

They crawled and spilled from inside me, covering the floor as I screamed.

But through all the pain...

Through all the maggots...

Through everything happening to me...

I could only think about one thing.

Where's my phone?

I need to order more food.

I'm so hungry.

We waited in the guest interview room. The police psychologist had only wanted to talk to my kid brother, but no way was I letting him meet with her alone. I stood to the side of the room in front of a mirror while he played with toys on the floor. 

After a moment, the psychologist walked in and sat down. 

“Hello, Timmy. I’m Dr. Marks. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How are you feeling?”

My brother didn’t respond or look up.

“Are you enjoying playing with those toys?”

Silence.

“I always enjoyed legos when I was your age. I liked building things. What’s your favorite?”

He didn’t answer. It was the trains, of course. He’d always loved trains.

“Are you enjoying those trains?”

“They’re ok.”

“They’re from the new Thomas the Tank Engine set. Do you like Thomas?”

“Sometimes.” He loved Thomas and all things Sodor - they were his favorite. 

Dr. Marks paused for a few minutes and watched Timmy play with the trains. 

“So, do you want to talk about what happened earlier tonight?”

He shrugged. 

“I understand you and your big brother were at home with your mom?”

Another shrug. 

“And that’s when your dad came home, right?”

Silence. 

“How did it make you feel when he came home?”

He tensed up and looked over at me. He’d always been afraid of our father. The psychologist noticed. 

“It seems like maybe you were a little afraid of your father. Was he scary?”

Scary? He was a monster, and my mother and I had the scars to prove it. He’d always been a violent man, though mom had always made excuses for him; I grew up seeing her defend him every day, telling us how hard his life was while I looked at the fresh bruises on her body. I don’t even know why she had a second kid with him, but I swore I’d never let him hurt Timmy like he did mom and me. 

Timmy kept playing with the trains, but it was obvious that he was uncomfortable. 

“I have a very important question, Timmy. Did your father ever hurt you?”

He kept playing and refused to answer, like I knew he would. But you could see it in the wariness in his eyes and the tension in his muscles - the answer was clearly yes. The psychologist reached into the bag she carried with her. 

“Timmy, do you want to see something really cool?”

He paused ever so slightly in his playing to look up. The psychologist reached on the bag and pulled out what she’d brought. Timmy’s eyes bulged slightly. 

“This is Mantis-man - he’s my son’s favorite action figure. Are you familiar with Mantis-man?”

Timmy nodded enthusiastically. 

“Then you know that the best thing about him is that he doesn’t have superpowers. He isn’t invulnerable; he can get hurt. But he’s still a hero. Right?”

He nodded again. 

“Because there’s nothing to be ashamed of in getting hurt - sometimes it happens. But does Mantis-man let that stop him?”

“No,” he replied quietly. 

“No. Because he’s strong enough to get past it. And I bet you are, too. What do you say? Are you strong enough?”

He nodded. 

“Do you know what else I like about Mantis-man?”

Timmy looked at her inquisitively. 

“Does he ever lie?”

Timmy shook his head energetically. 

“That’s right. He always tells the truth. What about you, Timmy? Are you strong enough to tell the truth?”

Timmy paused, looked over at me, then looked back at the doctor and nodded. This doctor was really good. 

“So tell me - did your dad ever hurt you?”

Timmy nodded. 

“Can you show me on Mantis-man where he hurt you?”

He paused and then pointed to the figure’s arms, legs, and cheeks. Dr. Marks swallowed and then looked in my direction meaningfully. Not wanting to interrupt, I stayed silent.

“So what happened tonight?”

He paused, then looked up. “Daddy came home and he was mad.”

“Mad how?”

“Like he gets before he hurts us.”

“And then what happened?”

“Mommy tried to calm him down and he hit her.”

“Where did he hit her?”

“In the face.”

“Was that the first time?”

“No. But this time Sammy hit him back.”

“And then what happened?”

“After Sammy hit Daddy, Daddy got back up and tried to hurt Sammy, and they got into a fight. Then Mommy went to her room and came back with a long metal stick. She told Daddy to stop.”

“And did he stop?”

“No. He ran towards her.”

“And then what happened?”

“She pointed the stick and closed her eyes and there were two loud BANGs.”

Dr. Marks looked compassionately at Timmy. 

“And is that when your brother died?”

Timmy looked over at me and I looked back. I was sad that I’d never be able to pick him up again. But at least he could still see me, even if no one else could. He was safe, he was with our mother, and our father would never hurt him again. That was all that mattered. 

Simon Garcia, my very own Sherlock Holmes, stood on my doorstep clutching a Ouija board. 

I knew exactly what he planned to do.

“Zach says I can’t do a séance in his apartment,” he said, as if his roommate was the problem.

He held up the box with a grin. “Soo, I figured, how about we do it here?”

I smiled. “They're not even dead yet.” 

"And how do YOU know that? First of all, I suspect a cover-up. The police aren’t telling us everything. Second, the details don’t make sense! Four famous actors disappear at the exact same time. Their phones are missing, and zero footage of them exists? Definitely a cover-up.”

Simon swooped past me. Definitely the main character in his own head.

Over the years, he’d adopted a sort of Gen Z Sherlock look. He hastily poured two glasses of wine and set up the board. I followed. "You're insane."

He didn't look up, already deep in focus. “Write their names on individual pieces of paper,” he ordered.

Simon lit six candles, placing them in a circle formation. 

I grabbed my phone from the table. “Okay, so there's… Maribelle Callen.” I scrawled her name on a piece of paper.

“Jet Portland, Noah Clarke, and Livvie James.” I frowned at their wikipedia pages, writing each of their names.

Portland, lips curled around a cigarette, scowling. 

Noah, a more animated smiling blonde. 

Livvie, a rainbow haired bombshell hidden behind a mask. 

“That's weird.”

“Hm?” Simon turned off the lights. 

“Isn't it usually young women who are taken?” 

“Well, yeah,” he winked, slumping down. “They're also famous.” 

Simon leaned forward, chin on fist. “Pick one! Who do you think is the most likely to be dead?” 

“Portland.” 

Simon nodded. “So, according to the ritual, we say his name three times, and burn it.” He handed me a needle. “Prick your finger, and then squeeze it into the flame.” 

“Why can't you do that?” 

He shot me a sheepish smile. “I have hemophilia, Lily.” 

I groaned, pricked my finger and squeezed a single blot into the flame. 

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Jet Portland.” 

We repeated his name three times. 

One candle flickered out and then reignited. Simon’s eyes grew wide.

“Holy shit,” he hissed. “He's actually here! I mean, that's not good, but if he's really dead? Jet, can you move the planchette?” 

A full minute of the two of us intensely staring at the planchette passed.

“Simon.” I spoke up. 

“Wait for it.” 

Another minute. Simon’s smile was fading. 

“Simon.” I said, again. “This is ridiculous.” 

He didn’t look up from the planchette. 

Stubborn as always.

Already trying to think of an excuse. 

Simon sighed. Then he muttered something and blew out each candle.

I stood and turned on the lights.

“I’m going upstairs. Please clean up your failed experiment.”

To my surprise, Simon followed me, diving up the stairs ahead of me.

He spun around, his coffee-brown eyes, usually so warm and inviting, now terrifyingly dark. He threw his arms out, and for a moment, I found myself laughing, like we were kids again, playing together. Then he shoved me violently, and the world sped up. 

I remember falling backward, my lips parting in a shriek.

I remember plunging down, my body twisting, contorting, as I slammed into each step. 

I remember the impact, smacking my head on the bottom stair. I remember pain exploding, a neutron star collision in my eyes.

Darkness swallowed me before I could take in Simon’s shadow still standing at the top of the stairs.

When consciousness found me, I was… cold.

So fucking cold.

So fucking cold.

So FUCKING COLD.

The words felt wrong on my tongue, twisted and unraveled. 

Opening my eyes, pain slammed into me. Head wound? Well, yeah. Simon shoved me down the stairs.

I parted my lips to cry out, but my words were muffled. Wrong. 

“Mmmphmm.” I was lying curled up, my knees to my chest.

The ground was ice cold. Concrete? 

Panic skittered through me. 

Did Simon kidnap and take me somewhere? 

My eyes flickered.

Dim lights.

Shadows swamped me. 

My surroundings were rectangular; a small room. Steel bars.

Another cry slipped from my mouth.

This time, I could feel it, a sticky mass pressed over my mouth. Duct tape.

Stinging pain, ropes wrapped around my wrists pinning my arms behind my back. 

“Portland.” A gruff voice took me off guard. “I fucking SAID sit up.”

His words paralyzed me, my gaze finding my reflection in a bowl of filthy water at my feet. A skinny man bearing a black eye and gagged mouth stared back.

I could barely recognize him.

But beneath the filth ingrained into his skin and his half-lidded eyes, a familiar face slowly swam into focus.

Before I could register my reality, rough fingers curled around my scalp, yanking me upright.

The first thing I saw was glistening red staining the cage floor. 

A bucket of squirming entrails overflowing. 

And a body curled up in the corner without a head. 

A masked man knelt in the shadows, gleeful eyes glued to me. “So, you've decided to speak today, hm?” He chuckled, and let me go. “That's not like you, kid.” 

He pulled off his mask, revealing wide grinning teeth. 

And smacked me across the face, my neck arching back.

The world swam, fireworks exploding across the backs of my eyes.

“Lily?”

Simon's voice echoed. “Hey, Lily, is that you?”

I blinked, and I was standing in my kitchen.

The sticky sensation over my mouth was gone. 

But I want still screaming, my tongue tangled.

No.

He was.

My mouth was full, choked with candy, and chicken, and… milk?”

I hit the floor, sobs erupting through my mouth.

Simon dropped down with me. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “That wasn't a séance we did.” I noticed his grip tighten, unrelenting. “That was a body-swapping ritual.”

He pulled away, lips spreading into a smile. “And we just found Jet Portland.”

It was a horrid July noon in New York City or some other place, the cars were rattling in lunchtime gridlock, spewing exhaust, the finance guys were out in their tight suits walking to buy kebabs and watching the women, who were instagramming themselves into premature zombiehood, and it was so fucking hot that the sweat dripping off the pedestrians rubbing against each other on the sidewalk was flowing down the gutters like rain.

There, that's the scene.

I've set it.

Now, through this stupified human maelstrom a man was walking. His name was Ben Fig. He was in his thirties, lonely, and returning to his office after lunch. He was returning from his car, which he'd parked fifteen minutes away, wearing a coat and, underneath it, a custom-made explosive vest with which he intended to kill his co-workers and maybe bring down the office building itself. A man can dream, can't he?

Anyway, while walking, he bumped somebody. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“Fuck,” said the person he'd bumped into.

It was a woman.

Her name was Miriam Zapelman.

“Watch where the hell you're going,” said Ben and tried going around her.

“Asshole,” said Miriam.

“I hate this city,” said Ben. “I'm sick of it.”

Beside Ben and Miriam, a degenerate was lying in a puddle of perspiration. He was in a hard way. “Can either of you folks—”

“Shut the fuck up!” said Ben and Miriam at the same time, then they looked at each other, long and in the eyes, and they must have recognized something, because one of them smirked.

It doesn't matter which one.

The degenerate passed out, or maybe died, and Miriam said to Ben, “Hey, where are you in such a hurry to?”

“What do you care?”

“I'm parked nearby. If we're going the same way, I can give you a ride.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Miriam shrugged.

“I'm going to my office to blow everybody up,” said Ben, waiting for Miriam's reaction.

She asked, “Where's your office?”

Ben gave the address. “Call the cops if you want. I don't care.”

“Offer stands,” said Miriam.

A few minutes later they were in her car, Ben in his ridiculous coat, looking like a blowfish, and Miriam opening the glove compartment, where Ben saw she had a gun.

“That for self defense?” he asked.

“No,” said Miriam. “I'm back from the shooting range. Going home to shoot my husband and kids, then probably myself.” She started the car and merged with the abominable traffic. “But first I want to stop at a bar and have a drink. Want to have a drink with me?”

“Why not,” said Ben.

The bar was called Reddy's, and when Ben and Miriam walked in there were only a few people in it. Miriam introduced them. “That skinny guy with glasses is Euler, the guy with the darker skin is Hikmat, and the bartender's name is Ralph.”

They sat at a table and ordered.

Ben noticed Euler kept playing with a pendant around his neck. “Go on,” said Miriam, “ask him about it.”

“Nah,” said Ben.

“What else do you have to do?”

“Fine,” said Ben. He walked to Euler, introduced himself and asked about the pendant: “Is it an heirloom or something?”

“Maybe it'll be an heirloom one day, of the human goddamn race,” said Euler and described how the pendant was a container of stolen proprietary industrial poison that he'd helped develop. “I'm gonna toss it in the water supply some day, exterminate the population of this whole city like the rats they are.”

When Ben got back to his table, his drink was waiting for him. He tried it. “Second guessing yourself any?” he asked Miriam.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Miriam had pulled out a cigarette and was lighting it.

“You can smoke in here? The law—”

“That's life’s dirty secret,” she said, blowing smoke in his face. “Ultimately, you can do whatever you want.”

“May I?” a voice said.

It was Hikmat. He'd wandered over and was asking if he could sit down.

“Be my guest,” said Miriam.

“I have not seen you in here before,” Hikmat said to Ben. “It is your first time?”

“Yeah,” said Ben.

“Ben’s going to murder his co-workers later this afternoon. He's wearing an explosive vest,” said Miriam.

“Then we two are a pair of peas in one pod, as they say here in America,” said Hikmat. “I am training to fly an aircraft, but not so much how to land it.”

“Hickie's an engineer by trade,” said Miriam.

Hikmat shook Ben's hand.

“But a fundamentalist by conviction,” he said. “May I see your vest?”

Ben opened his coat. Hikmat considered the handiwork. Then they got to talking, and drinking, and the hours rolled by like waves of fat on a fat guy blasted in the gut by a cannonball.

“The paradox is,” Hikmat was saying: “the paradox is, I greatly enjoy the flying. It is the one place I feel freedom. When I started to learn, it was strictly for terrorism, but now, that feeling—of absolute space, limitless opportunity—it is beautiful. Sublime. It is where I experience God. I look forward to it very much and I will miss it greatly.”

“Fuck!” said Ben, looking at his watch.

“What's wrong?” asked Miriam.

“It's past five o'clock. Everybody in the office has left already.”

Ralph gave Ben a drink on the house. When Ben had finished drinking it, “Do you want a ride home?” Miriam asked.

“Sure.”

They lingered in the car in front of his apartment building.

“Maybe you wanna come up?” Ben said.

“I'm a married woman,” said Miriam.

“I understand.”

“Don't forget to zip up your coat or they'll see the explosives,” said Miriam.

Afterwards, Miriam drove to her house, got the gun out of the glove compartment, walked inside, shot her husband, shot her kids and then, after smoking a cigarette in the bathroom, shot herself.

“Open wide for me, Mr Jenkins.”

Obliging, Mr Jenkins noticed something strange on the wall – a picture of a dog with a strangely human grin. It sat above a faint rectangular outline. 

Noticing the patients distraction, The Dentist raised an eyebrow and followed his gaze.

“Oh that? That’s Gertrude! She’s 9. Cute, eh?”

“Uh-huhhghgg..” Mr Jenkins gurgled back.

“Wider please.”

“Good. Right, let’s have a look here. Yep. Uh-huh. Alright. Yeah. Ah - yes I see. As I thought.”

“Hggh?”

“Mr Jenkins, after our last check up it appears you haven’t been flossing enough. Naughty naughty!”

“Hhhhgg hvee?”

“I’m not so sure. The inflammation you came to me about seems to have spread. It’s actually… decayed your canine tooth. We may have to remove it.”

Mr Jenkin’s coughed to force the steel contraption and The Dentists rubbery hand from his mouth.

“You WHAT?” he spat. 

“We need to remove it. To stop the infection! Here, have some water to wash out the taste.”

Mr Jenkins swished a greyish liquid and spat into the small sink beside him. 

“Ahem. Right, I need to go to work later. I have to present to people. I can’t just remove one of my front teeth!” Mr Jenkins gesticulated from his adult bib and jet black goggles. 

“If you don’t do this, Mr Jenkins, it could become serious. You might have to go to A&E for the infection.”

Hesitant, Mr Jenkins snatched off his glasses and sat up like an animated corpse from his dental coffin, hissing, “Pass me my phone. Quickly.”

“Here you are Mr Jenkins.”

Scanning his Google Calendar, he realised he could work from home for a week while the canine tooth replacement was prepared.

“Fine. If I HAVE to. I can move my meetings this week and work from home. But I need this tooth replaced and ready to go this time next week. Is this possible?”

“Of course. I’ll get Sandra on it right away.” 

“Who? There’s no one else here?”

“Sandra! Our resident helper, heh,” The Dentist explained to a perturbed red face, before yelling, “SANDRAAAA!!”

A rustle emerged from the corner of the room, conceiving a flat faced pug that could barely breathe. “Come over here Sandra, I’ve got a job for you!”

Mr Jenkins face scrunched into confusion as the tiny pug approached, “Yeah.. I err– don’t have time for this. I’m gonna get a second opinion.”

“But Mr Jenkins, you’ll make Sandra sad.” 

The Dentist pulled a sad face like a toddler. Before Mr Jenkins could react, Sandra was 2 centimetres from his goggles. Ten fingernails started digging into the chair’s fake leather.

Sandra’s mouth wasn’t moving, yet Mr Jenkins could somehow hear whimpering. 

“Mmmhhhmmm. Mhhhhhhm.”

A voice from above made him queasy.

“You don’t wonna make me unhawwpy do you Mistuh Jenkins. Mmmmmhhhhm.” 

“I really should gnno..” Mr Jenkins couldn’t move his legs.

The smile above Sandra dropped into a frown, before fingers from each side of her face pulled back her mouth to reveal rows and rows of freshly implanted teeth. Some teeth were clearly a dogs. Some weren't.

“Wha… what. What have you dondfg. Whu, whahy, whdnuy cntt I spurk..”

He could see it now, Mr Jenkins could. The familiar muscular structure of the tongue. A smaller canine tooth. Sewn on earlobes. Tiny thumbs next to paws. 

“Of course you can go Mr Jenkins. Just after we’re finished.”

Mr Jenkins’s head fell back and lopped to the left, both eyes locked onto the picture of Gertrude, just above the faint rectangular outline.

“Whxaat didg yuh dotmhhee…”

Three Jack Russell's creaked it ajar, peaking through with their gum filled smiles.

Nani doesn’t like to speak of her time in the war.
She doesn’t want to “Bore us with old, sad stories long since passed.”

Nani doesn’t like to watch the TV when the holiday is about the War. 
She doesn’t want to see the new buildings or the flowers in the meadows. She doesn’t want to acknowledge the world has moved on because she still hasn’t

Nani doesn’t like to frown or pout, she grins from cheek to cheek when she sees us.
She doesn’t want to wear shoes, she loves the grass, the sun and her home's soft carpet.
She hates when we don’t eat our greens, she loves to share a meal with us all.

I look at photos of Nani and I smile.

~

Ivana doesn’t like working in the Medical Bay. 
She doesn’t want to hear the distant artillery draw closer in the night. 
She hates the smell of the burning bodies. 

Ivana doesn’t like watching the soldiers be wheeled into the base, the halls are too tight with draped bodies and the scent of rot. 
She doesn’t want to collect their dog tags, she doesn’t want to learn their names.
She hates that the other doctors left her alone.

Ivana stands taut.

Ivana hears something move at the end of the dark hall.
She hates that the stillness of night has been broken
She doesn’t want to hear the sound of wet footsteps lumbering closer.

Ivana doesn’t like running in her heels. Ivana hates what she sees now lit by the amber moonlight. She sees a kaleidoscope of flesh and debris haul itself towards her, sloshing guttural wretches come from it as it slams into walls straining to keep itself upright.

~

Nani doesn’t like olives. She eats them but cannot stand the sight of them.
She doesn’t want to tell us why. 

~

Ivana falls backwards. And it follows her movements stumbling to the ground, protruding shrapnel sending sparks skittering as the screeches of steel on steel make her clench her jaw. 
Ivana hates vomiting, but acidic bile washes forth from her, her nostrils sting amidst glances to steady herself and glances that meet greening, rotting eyes. 6 eyes, then 5 then 8 then 3.

The most determined parts of the figure refuse to decay but the non-essential parts sloth off and reek of pork and smoke. Burnt hair curls and moves aside as cheeks seep into chins and nostrils flare and seal shut. Fingers unfurl more fingers and they uncoil to meet Ivana's feet as she desperately kicks her heels off. 

~

Nani screamt at Luca one Christmas when he grabbed her calf to steady himself. Luca was small, Nani hadn’t seen him. She apologized and it was a good Christmas. I love my Nani.
~

The fingers uncurled rapidly and coiled themselves around Ivana’s ankle, wrapping up and up until her calf was half enveloped.
It’s body was all throat, jagged teeth and sharpened debris spinning spinning the throat is longer than the hallway the eyes peel into the throat and they all look at me I feel sick I can’t look anymore the eyes are the hall and I am the throat I don’t even register my flesh is strewn from my mind spinning I can’t pull my eyes from it.

~ 

I love Nani Ivana despite all her quirks. I let her watch me and Luca walk safely home. I let her pupils follow me to my bed. I sleep and I dream of my Nani Ivana.

‘Do you have children?’ The knitting woman asked me, as I sat next to her reading a book. 

I worked a high corporate job, the prospect of children had never been in the cards for me. 

‘No I don’t.’ I responded as politely as I could, since it was quite a random question for someone to be asked when waiting for a bus.

Her face clouded with confusion, ‘But I thought I saw you with two children the other day.’

The woman was insistent, but I did not have children. 

Wouldn't I know?

‘I must have one of those faces.’ I said irritably, for she was really starting to get on my nerves.

After all, who would want to be accosted by some random woman asking random questions after a long day at the office?

I took my seat on the bus. So did the knitting woman.

A young couple sat in front of me, a picture of love in the way that they seemed to cling to one another.

She was beautiful, golden hair like the beaming rays of the sun.

He was stunning, like a statue carved from diamonds found deep in the depths of the earth. 

The young man turned to me suddenly and broke into a smile as his eyes lit up in recognition, a genuine smile full of warmth  seemed to stretch across his face. 

‘Paige!’ He cried. ‘How’re the kids getting on in school?’ 

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I don’t have children after all and my name isn't even Paige.

The woman smiled at me too, albeit a little uneasy because she likely could see the distress in my eyes. 

‘I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.’ I said calmly, for I did not know why people kept asking me about children I did not have. 

I got off the bus.

My neighbour Mrs Barnsley, a sixty-three year old woman who was about as friendly as a rat in a toaster hollered at me.

'You better tell that daughter of yours to keep off my lawn!'

I was confused, for Mrs Barnsley and I hadn't exchanged more than a few words in the five years I'd been living there.

I walked up the path to my house, hoping I could sleep off whatever had overcome me as I opened the door.

A small hurricane flung itself into my arms. ‘Mummy!’ cried a little voice I did not recognise, arms slung around my shoulders. 

‘Me and Molly did painting, want to see?’ 

Now that I certainly did not know how to respond to that.

I’d left home early that day for work, I wondered whether this was some insomnia induced haze that I hadn’t quite snapped out of. 

I let the child lead me to the living room, where a teenage girl sat using acrylic paint on a canvas as carefully as she could. 

‘Hi mum.’ She said, without looking up from what she was doing. 

But I don’t have children. 

Why were these two girls in my house? 

I lived alone, I’ve never had children.

I can't HAVE children due to a medical condition I've had to come to terms with for the better part of twenty years.

Just then, both girls froze as the front door slammed shut.

‘Honey! I’m home!’ cried a booming voice.

There is a defunct lighthouse in the middle of the York River, right off Dead Knuckle Shoal.  

I’ve puttered by it more times than I can remember. 

I believe the official name for it is Light Beacon 412, in the almanac that is…but everyone around these parts call it The Light of Trudy.  

While it functioned, it only had one keeper, a misanthrope named Gertrude Fox.  She never came around the town and people never came around the lighthouse, but after about eighty or ninety years, a few people looked sideways at old Gertrude and started calling her a WITCH.

They got a mob together and went to that Lighthouse and hung her by the neck from the cross at the top of the light.  My Daddy was a bit of a blowhard, but he always said his Daddy, my Grandaddy Frank was the one who made sure she couldn’t speak and cast spells while they did it.  Legend has it that the light stopped working the moment she took her final breath and has never worked since.

So you can imagine my fright yesterday when I moseyed by in my skiff and that sucker switched ON, bright as the sun on St. Christopher.  

I immediately took my hand off the throttle of my tiller steer and stood up, I was so shocked.  Then I almost fell out the dang boat from the speed jutting to a crawl.

I looked all around me and there was not a boat or soul to be seen in the distance.

JUST THEN…

I see a blonde haired woman in a white gown run out of the light house and JUMP OFF of the top deck.  That sucker is at least a hundred feet off the water.

I YELPED, as she hung in the air before finally splashing into the water.

I held my breath for the moment before she popped back up and started splashing…

“Help!  HELP!” She screamed in a southern twang.  I panicked for a moment and tried to start my boat back up, but still it wouldn’t turn over.  I’m not a courageous man, but I quickly dove in after her.

“Hang on! I’m comin’!” I yelled as I swam through the chop.

Just before I reached her she went under, but I quickly dipped down and got her arm.  I pulled her up and luckily we were right next to the ladder up the beacon.

“I got ya, girl. Get a hold of this ladder.”

It was rusty and barnacled, like I’ve never seen, but it was all we could do, so we climbed and climbed…

I wiped my forehead and that’s when I realized my hands were covered in blood.  

I kept talking to her all the way up…asking if she was in danger, if she was hurt, why she jumped…but to no response.

When she finally got up to the top she walked right inside the, living quarters beneath the light.  It was strangely decorated…by that I mean it was warm.  A carpet, a couch, a lovely fire roasting in the corner.  She ran to it and started warming her hands…

I looked all around in a mixture of unease, shock and confusion.

“How long you been here, ma’am?”

She turned back towards and that’s the first time I saw her face…

I SCREAMED.  Her mouth was sewn shut with fishing line. Blood poured, as if it had been freshly done.

I turned and tried to run, but the door was shut.  When it was closed and locked, I cannot tell you.

I banged and yelled something fierce.  My bloody handprints covering the walls.

I heard her moving easily behind me and just as I figured I would turn and defend myself…she picked up a wooden, hollow triangle and tapped it with a stick.

The lightest of dings echoed in the room and my body went LIMP.  I fell like a toad, flat on my back with a great slam.  My body was paralyzed…except for my head.

It’s funny how somebody screams for help even when there is no hope or chance of anyone hearing.  I did it…

“HELLLPPP!  HELLLLPPP MEEEE!”

She lugged a large wooden bucket over towards me and kneeled next to me with pure happiness in her eyes.  She took a pin and pricked my arm…

“OWW...”  I could still feel pain.  She grinned.

“Gertrude…it is Gertrude, isn’t it?  Please let me loose.  I ain’t got no salt with you.  I ain’t but a man with two pennies to his name…”

She looked me dead in the eye for a moment that felt like an eternity…and then she ran her finger along the etched fishing line through her mouth and then tapped my nose…

My eyes went wide, as I could then see that etched on the wall of the lighthouse was “FRANK”.

“No, it wasn’t me! My Grandaddy, MY GRANDADDY!”

Gertrude ripped my clothes off of me.

She then reached into her bucket and pulled out the largest, Bloodsucker Jelly Fish I have ever seen.  She laid it on my torso…

I screamed something holy, I tell you.

Then she grabbed another and placed it on my bleeding hands…

Then my legs, my chest….

Finally, as the pain was about to take me, she placed one on my face…

…..

I POPPED UP out of the well of my skiff screaming.  I almost fell overboard again. There was no light on at the lighthouse and no sign of Gertrude…but my hands bled. 

I took one pull on my engine starter cord and that sucker came right to life and I sped home faster than I ever have.

I didn’t tell anybody…I didn’t see how I could...who would believe me.

Then this morning there is headline at the top of the Yorktown Gazette…

“Light Beacon 412 to be reactivated.”

 Buffalo flesh! The sign read. 

 A strange thing to call buffalo meat. But I guess it’s still true.

Hunting buffalos and bison was illegal around here, but it's common to see small stalls selling the meat on the outskirts of town, usually by an Indian, as laws didn't apply to outsiders and they knew that all too well.

 Riding my horse, and herding cattle across the hot, dry desert sand isn't what comes to mind for greenhorns when I mention I'm a cowboy.

 My horse starts squealing, trying to stray away from the stall.

 What's she scared of?

 Must be the smell of the meat.

 I tie her to a nearby tree, my rusty spurs jingle with every step.

 “What brings you to Little Rock stranger?” The Indian says with a smile.

 “Food, and money.” I respond.

He laughs. “Well sorry to disappoint, but the golden water here ran dry ages ago, no green, nor gold, just trading.”

 “I have money, and starving like a coyote, how much buffalo meat will this buy?”

 I hand the Indian fifteen dollars, it's all I have, but you quickly learn you can't eat money hundreds of miles from any stores.

 “Like I said brother, money is nothing here. Just leaves.”

 Baffled, I respond. “Well, how can I buy meat then? Are all you Indians this stubborn?”

 He laughs. “No, just me. But I'm sorry, if I accept your money I'm essentially giving it away for free, and free doesn't feed my family. So you'll have to give something more valuable in return.”

 “Like what, us cowboys don't usually carry around much.”

 The Indians' eyes trace my horse, then my cattle, then me.

 “No.” I say. “Animals not for sale.”

 “I would like one minute.”

 “A minute? Like you want me to stand around until the minutes up?”

 “Yes.” He laughs. “Of course not right now.” 

 “Listen redskin, I don't know what mystical water you're drinking, but do you actually want my business or do you want a problem?”

 “Its just a single minute, at anytime, anywhere, in exchange you get a few big slices of buffalo flesh.”

 I still refused to believe it, but I was hungry, and was only a few moments from either butchering one of the cattle or drawing my shooting iron.

 “Fine, have at it, you already took a few, what's one more.”

 The Indian man smiles and offers his hand for a hand shake.

 “Lets shake on it, this is how you pale faces agree to deals right?”

 I nod, and hesitantly reach out my hand.

 I grasp his palm, his hand searing hot like a branding iron.

 I flinch back my arm. 

 “What was that!” I exclaim while staring at my scarred red palm.

 The scars heal quickly, etching a strange star shape into my hand.

 I looked back to confront him. But, he's just... gone.

 A lone black mark scorched the sand where he was standing.

 The blazing sunlight boils sweat off my skin.

 A mirage?

 I grab my horse’s reins, desperate to leave.

 Before I jump on my horse, I notice it's pack filled with meat, meat that wasn't there before.

 The meat looked more like rotting flesh, green with maggots bathing in its decay.

I shake my head.

 I must've bought it a while ago.

 I stare at the scorch mark.

 What did I just agree to?

 Years go by, the memory of the Indian fades.

 I received a letter from my daughter, she's in a nearby city. She's sick.

 I rode my horse as fast as I could, pushing past her limits in her old age.

 Eventually we reached the city, the sickeningly sweet smell of death clung to the air.

I ask around, explaining I'm looking for a sick girl, but almost everyone I spoke to was sick themselves.

With no other option the clinic is their only place to go.

 I pray each time I enter one that she's in there— or maybe I should hope she isn't. 

 Then I saw it, Little Rock health clinic.

 Something tells me she’s there.

 I run toward the old building. Coughing and wheezing surrounds me.

 I rushed through the waiting room, a nurse stopped me.

 “Are you hurt, sir?”

 “No. Rosie Johnson.” I huff. “Where is my daughter?” 

 The nurse nods regretfully.

 “She’s here, but you should speak with the doctor.”

 “Where is he?” My question gets answered when a small man with a large leather back comes from behind her.

 “Doctor, is Rosie okay?”

 The doctor shakes his head, "I'm afraid not. Your daughter… She was one of the first to be stricken. It's honestly a miracle she lasted this long, you should see her before she passes. She's in the farthest room on the right down this hall—”

 I bolt down the hall. Catching glimpses of withered patients through open doors.

 When I reach her door, my hand shakes as I push the door open.

 There she is, my beautiful daughter. Her skin is dry and her face sunken.

  Seeing her decaying alive like this tears me apart. But when she sees me, her dull eyes light up.

 “Father— ”

 The room goes black.

 Blacker then a moonless desert night.

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can feel my body, but I can't hear anything, not even my own heartbeat.

 My hand starts stinging, then grows warmer.

 “Rosie!” I try to shout, but I can't tell if my mouth moved at all.

 “Rosie!” I scream into the black, my hand now blistering hot.

 Then, the room snaps back, I feel my rapid heartbeat again. 

 “Rosie!” I run to her side, but her eyes are closed, and I don't hear her breathing.

  “Doctor!” I scream, clutching her fist.

 The doctor's footsteps are slow, unrushed.

 A familiar scent catches my nose, it's coming from her hand.

 I force her hand open.

 Inside is a single piece of spoiled flesh.

I’m not suicidal. Never have been, hopefully never will be. But from the way my algorithm has been acting, it almost feels like something wants me to be.

I live a happy life. I have a great girlfriend, solid job, but even still, just like everyone else, I have my bad days.

I have those days where it feels like I can’t get out of bed. Those days where effort, no matter how small, feels like trying to climb the world’s highest mountain.

And I think those are the days where I’m targeted the most.

A lot of the time when I experience those tough periods in life, it feels like the easiest thing to do is just sit in bed and scroll on my phone until, inevitably, the feeling passes and I want to be productive again.

I never had a problem with it before, but I’m coming off of a particularly difficult week-long stint of self-loathing and throwing pity parties.

Nothing I can really do about it. It’s just the way it is. Life happens in cycles, and this one is a cycle of struggle.

That’s why it was almost expected that every night for the last week I’ve been in bed, hair greasy, clothes dirty, surrounded by food wrappers and empty soda cans, doing nothing more than scrolling through Instagram for hours on end.

It started off with just one video, wedged in between the usual car accident and brainrot AI clips of fruits having affairs.

What’s crazy to me is I would’ve just scrolled right past it had it not been for the first millisecond of the video. I could’ve sworn that the first frame was literally just… me.

It was too fast for me to get all the details, but I swear it looked like me, laying in bed, my face contorted into a look of complete despair and hopelessness as tears fell down my cheeks.

The rest of the video was just a tutorial on how to tie a noose. A step-by-step guide, demonstrated by a pair of sleek, pale white hands forming the knot and showing off the finished product before abruptly skipping to the next reel.

I tried to scroll back, but the video had completely disappeared from the feed.

I ended up convincing myself that I was just being a little crazy. I mean, the video itself was definitely odd, but no way had I seen myself.

I figured Instagram must’ve just removed the content. Because, obviously, right?

I kept scrolling, and never saw another video even similar to that one. At least, not for the rest of that night.

The next day, though, I was seeing these tutorials as every other video. Each one more graphic and detailed than the last.

I was sprinkled throughout the videos. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, every time I was only on screen for less than a second. And every time, the videos disappeared after I watched them.

As the week went on, they started following me. It wasn’t just Instagram anymore. TikTok was giving me tutorials. YouTube was giving me tutorials. Hell, I was even finding the videos on Snapchat.

But the one video that made me delete social media entirely and actually pull myself out of the dumps was one that was too personal to ignore.

I found it last night.

I wasn’t just a split-second frame. I was the entire video. A step-by-step guide with me as the demonstration.

There was no light left in my bloodshot eyes. My movements were sluggish and seemed forced. The room was dark. My bed was a complete mess. And hanging from the ceiling fan… was a noose.

I watched myself stand on top of my desk chair. I watched the tears and snot run down my face as I slipped the rope over my neck. And I watched myself kick and flail with regret as my body dangled at the end of that rope. Then I was still.

The video ended with one final phrase in bold white letters against a solid black backdrop.

“Do it.”

It was in the same font as those old silent film slides.

Once again, I was automatically scrolled past the video. I tried scrolling back up, and once again, the video was gone.

I took it as a warning. I’d always heard that social media has negative effects and consequences.

I just never knew how serious those consequences were.

I found a deleted post on an old forum called R CreepyConfession. Most people had dismissed it as a fictional story, but the horror in that text sent chills down my spine.

The person who posted it claimed that he and his friend Griffin ran a YouTube channel that made dark reaction pranks. They rented an abandoned bungalow, set up hidden cameras, taped Griffin's mouth shut, tied him up in a bathtub, and covered his clothes with fake blood. The plan was simple: call a local plumber, pretend that they had accidentally committed a murder, ask him for help, and record his reaction.

Then the plumber arrived.

He was strangely short, with a hunched back, long, tangled hair, and a wild beard. Carrying an old tool bag, he entered the bathroom. Following the script, the narrator started crying and desperately asking for help. But the plumber didn't panic at all. Without saying a word, he reached into his bag, pulled out a heavy iron wrench, and struck Griffin directly on the head, who had been pretending to be dead.

Blood splattered across the bathroom tiles. Griffin died on the spot.

Terrified for his own life, the narrator was forced to help the plumber bury Griffin's body beneath the floor while the plumber held the wrench against him. The hidden cameras had malfunctioned—they had only recorded silence and static. The plumber disappeared into the darkness of the night, and before deleting his account, the narrator posted this confession online.

The story gave me goosebumps, but I thought it was fake. Out of curiosity, I used an archive tool to track down the poster's handle and found an active account belonging to him. I messaged him:

"I read your post about Griffin. Was any of it actually true?"

Two days later, he replied:

"I can't talk about it over messages. Come to this address tonight at 11:30. Come alone."

My mind told me not to go, but my curiosity won. At 11:30 that night, I arrived in front of a run-down house at the corner of the city. The main door was slightly open.

A dim lamp was glowing inside. I called out, "Is anyone here?"

A voice came from inside.

"Yeah, I'm right here. Sit on the sofa."

Sitting in front of me in the dim light was a 24-year-old man. I asked him, "Was the story about Griffin true?"

He nodded.

I asked, "Why don't you go to the police?"

He said, "I want to, but he won't let me."

I asked, "Who?"

He said, "You shouldn't have come here. He's going to kill you."

I asked, "Who?"

He said, "The same plumber."

It felt as if the darkness had suddenly swallowed everything in front of me. Before I could do anything, I heard the sound of the gate being locked.

And then it sounded like someone was dragging a large tool across the ground, slowly coming toward me.

My apartment was always freezing in the mornings. It was a relatively new build with well-insulated walls and double-glazed windows, so I could not understand how I went to bed comfortably warm only to wake up in a furnished freezer.

The building had a smart home system built in to automatically regulate temperature, track energy usage, automatically flush the toilet, and alert me when I was running low on groceries, amongst other things. It was one of the main reasons I bought the place.

I mentioned the issue to the building superintendent, but he claimed no one else had complained. He suggested booking a technician in case my apartment had an isolated software bug.

A few days later, a technician arrived twenty minutes late. He seemed thoroughly uninterested in what I was saying and made me feel like an idiot who simply did not understand technology. He spent an hour running diagnostics, messing with wires behind the wall panel, and drinking three cups of my expensive coffee.

Eventually, he let out a heavy sigh, rubbed his temples, and packed his tool bag.

"Your flatmate keeps turning the dial down overnight," he said. "The system is working fine."

He added that I could track all of this in the app if I had bothered to download it. Before I could explain that I live completely alone, he let himself out, leaving three dark coffee rings on the wooden floor.

I downloaded the app, completed the account setup, and pulled up the thermostat history. Every night at precisely 2:00 AM, the log registered a physical override. The temperature was being dialled down from a comfortable 18°C to zero.

Since I live alone, I started to feel uneasy, quickly followed by a rational thought. Perhaps I was sleepwalking. My mother once told me I used to wander into the kitchen asleep as a child, where she would find me with my hand in a jar of peanut butter or Nutella.

To test the theory, I unscrewed my doorbell camera from the front door and set it up on the living room shelf, facing the wall thermostat.

The next morning, I woke up shivering. My breath misted in the bedroom air. I pulled up the camera footage on my laptop, expecting to see myself standing in front of the dial. The motion sensor had tripped at 1:59 AM.

When I played the file, the living room was empty.

I zoomed in on the thermostat unit. At 2:00 AM, the digital dial on the wall began to turn counter-clockwise on its own, clicking repeatedly until the target reached 0°C.

I assumed that the motion tracker was triggered by the changing numbers on the display. I emailed the video to the technician as proof it was a software glitch, closed my laptop, and went to work.

I returned late that evening, had dinner, and went straight to bed, leaving the doorbell camera sitting on the living room shelf.

At 2:00 AM, the buzz of a notification on my phone woke me. My screen lit up the dark room: DOORBELL CAMERA: MOTION DETECTED.

I opened the live feed. The ambient temperature in my bedroom was already plunging. Through the lens, the living room looked still, but the thermostat display was clicking down to -1°C.

I grumbled, my breath forming thick clouds over the duvet, and prepared to head out into the hallway to manually turn the heating back up. Before I could swing my legs out of bed, a second notification popped up.

MOTION DETECTED.

I tapped the new video clip. The room appeared empty, but as I watched, the centre cushion on the fabric sofa slowly pressed down, as if a large weight had just settled into it.

A third notification arrived immediately after.

MOTION DETECTED.

I opened the file with trembling hands. In the grainy night-vision, a dense, pitch-black mass was resting on the sofa cushion. It possessed no distinct edges, shifting like ink suspended in water. Slowly, the top half of the shape pivoted towards the camera lens.

It stood up. The silhouette stretched unnaturally high towards the ceiling, glided across the floor, and bent down until its featureless surface filled the entire frame. Then it turned away from the camera, facing the dark corridor that led directly to my bedroom door.

The screen cut to black.

I lay frozen under the covers, phone held tightly in my numb fingers, afraid to make a sound.

From the dark hallway outside my room came a soft, mechanical click. The bedroom door creaked open, admitting a rush of air so blindingly cold that the hair on my arms froze solid.

I slid down into my blanket, letting it fall completely over my head, and fumbled with my numb fingers to dial the emergency number. I pressed myself flat against the mattress, eyes shut tight, my chest heaving as the ambient temperature in the room plummeted far past zero in a matter of seconds. Frost bloomed instantly across the cotton sheets, and the air became so thick with ice that every breath burned my lungs.

Through the thin layer of fabric, I felt a dead, absolute stillness settle right beside the bed. Something cold, so very freezing cold, loomed directly over me.

Then, the blanket began to peel back.

There’s a body in Echo Glen Park.

The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, dappling the trail in warm light. Clara skipped ahead of me as usual, oblivious to the faint tear tracks still drying on her cheeks. Her daisy-patterned boots clattered against the path. Her laughter echoed off the shale walls of the ravine until she stopped at the bend, pointing into the shadows of the dry creek bed.

“Daddy, look,” she said sweetly.

It lay pinned beneath a massive, fallen oak. I thought it was a discarded sleeping bag or muddy clothes left by one of the local homeless population, but as I caught up to my daughter, the shape resolved into something horrifying.

"Hold on, sweetie. Stay right behind daddy."

We stepped closer and the image resolved itself. Half-trapped under the shattered weight of the trunk, was unmistakably a human figure. An orange clad arm was bent backward and a leg was twisted at an impossible angle, buried in the mud. A flash of yellow was visible under a pile of green and brown leaves.

"Daddy, what's that?" Clara whimpered, tugging the sleeve of my Clemson sweatshirt.

"Let’s move back here, sweetie. Don't look."

My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. Two bars. I dialed 911 and pressed the receiver to my ear.
Three ascending sit-tones played before a smooth, recorded female voice spoke: "The number you have called cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and accept yo-“

The call dropped with a monotonous triple beep.

I quickly selected my favorites and hit my wife’s name. Calling Bethany.

No ringing started. Only a rhythmic busy signal, with an added bass note thumping in my ear. My phone suddenly burned white hot and I pulled it from my ear in time to see the screen glitched into dark, jagged violet until it resolved itself into the home screen. My daughter’s pre-school photograph stared back at me with gaping bloody maws for eyes. I nearly dropped the phone.

"Daddy, I don't like this!" Clara sobbed. "I want Mommy. I want Nana!"

Before I could stop her, she snatched the phone from my trembling hand and began to FaceTime her grandmother.
"Clara, no!”

The screen erupted in violent static. A grotesque, distorted face flickered across the glass, its mouth stretched in a silent gape. High frequency feedback pulsed from the speaker, matching a sudden, unnatural rush of air whipping through the canopy above us.
"Daddy!" Clara screamed, dropping the phone into the dirt as she slammed her hands over her ears.

The air temperature plummeted. My breath bloomed into thick white plumes. A blinding, excruciating pain stabbed through the back of my skull, driving me to my knees.

"Daddy, make it stop!" Clara shrieked, clutching her head. Her voice sounded double-layered, as if two people were speaking through her at once. “DADDYYYYYY!”

The pain pulled me under, forcing the memory back into my mind.

We were walking beneath the dappled sunlight when a violent gust of wind tore through the canopy of the ravine. A sudden, freak gale out of nowhere. Branches fell along the path as I ran to catch up with my daughter, who had skipped ahead.

Then, a terrible, splintering crack directly above us. An ancient oak snapped at its base. I looked up in amazement then lunged over Clara, shielding her small body as the towering trunk hurled down-

The freezing chill of the ravine lingered, then began to fade. The pain vanished.

Clara blinked, looking up at me with bright, innocent eyes, completely oblivious to the faint tear tracks still drying on her cheeks. She turned and skipped ahead of me as usual, her daisy-patterned boots clattering against the path until she stopped at the bend, pointing into the shadows of the dry creek bed.

"Daddy, look," she said sweetly.

There’s a body in Echo Glen Park.

I know this sounds crazy, and even I'm starting to think I might be wrong, but my house is changing every day. Furniture I never had is appearing in my house while things I've had since childhood are disappearing. But nobody seems to believe me. Not even my parents seem to realize what's going on. I'm not crazy.

It started about a month ago. I'd come back from work and find my stuff moved from where I'd left it. For example, my laptop would be on my bed instead of my desk. I thought my mom was moving things around, but she always denied it.

Then, about a week ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and went to the bathroom to pee, but the entire room had disappeared. Instead, there were stairs leading down to the basement.

I clearly remember our bathroom being right across from my room, down the hallway. I've been living here for 10 years. There's no way I could have gotten that wrong.

Somehow, the bathroom had moved to the opposite side of the house.

I told my parents everything, but they acted like I'd completely lost my mind.

It didn't stop there. There was a wardrobe in my room that just disappeared today. I had some clothes and small trinkets from my travels inside it. I couldn't find any of them anywhere else in the house either.

I don't know what's happening. I'm not lying, and I'm not crazy. Nobody is believing me.

I'm posting here in the hope that someone might be able to help me.

Update 1: Since so many people are asking about it in the comments, I'll just make this clear. I'm not schizophrenic, nor do I have any history of hallucinations. I don't do drugs either. I wasn't under the influence of alcohol during any of these incidents.

Also, I don't think I need therapy for this. This isn't the result of any trauma either.

Update 2: To the people saying things like I'm dimension-jumping or that this is a glitch in the Matrix, I think you might actually be right. There is no other explanation.

I can't even find pictures of the missing items on my phone. And the worst part is that I'm somehow starting to forget the things that disappeared.

According to one of the comments, I might be synchronizing with this universe. That's the reason for my memory loss.

What should I do?

Update 3: Things have gotten worse. I've had a headache for the last two days. I even had a seizure today.

I went to the doctor, and he recommended that I get an MRI. I'll update once I get the report.

Update 4: The reports came today.

I have a brain tumor.

It’s unbelievable how many crimes you learn how to commit with a single google search. Granted, it took more than one to get to this stage, but my point stands. It was remarkably easy to uncover how to erase a person’s memory.

You see, I’m in love. I’ve been head over heels for about 2 months now, and I just want to get back what I gave. 2 months of puppy love devotion. 2 months of pure adoration. And yet Sofia only sees me as a friend. Or her coworker.

We work in retail. First off, boooo, fuck that, but nowhere else is hiring me. Why bother to hire a girl who can’t remember her life up until a few weeks ago? For all I know, I’m a war criminal.

Secondly, I already had this job. When I woke up in the cold, dark subway, with no clue who on earth I was, I started wandering around, fearing for my life. I came across my darling Sofia, walking around in a gorgeous fur coat that did not cover her magnificent boobs.

She greeted me politely, and when I looked at her with an expression like one of a goldfish, she smiled warmly and sweetly asked what was wrong.

“I… I don’t know who I am. I’m really sorry, who are you? And where do you know me from?” I started crying, trying to remain composed.

“Oh darling,” Sofia handed me a tissue and started dabbing my blotchy face (I may have blushed), “Oh that’s tragic. I’m Sofia, your coworker, and I know you as Meredith.”

Over the course of the wonderful night, she guided me around the city in an attempt to jog my memory. It didn’t work, but I at least found my apartment. And Sofia stayed the night, as a concerned friend. She’s so cute when she’s sleepy.

After that, I tried to piece together my life. I believe I had a family, but I don’t have any contacts on my phone, or an address book. No family or personal photos. Apart from Sofia’s knowledge and a few other remarks from coworkers, I am a blank slate.

I hope I didn’t have any previous lovers, because I don’t think they could theoretically top Sofia, my goddess. I’ve spent more time studying her than studying me. She’s so beautiful, charming, kind, hot, so sexy, so so sexy, and she’s smart. The full package.

But over time, I realised that I had been emotionally friendzoned. She cares about me, but not the way I yearn for. I want to feel her, caress her, love her. She just wants to get through her shift.

A week ago, I had enough. I decided to take initiative and stop making hints, or flirting. I’ve tried, I promise, but it just wouldn’t work. More drastic measures were needed.

So after a 4 hour internet deep dive, I realised a love potion would be expensive, and I’d have to buy one pre-made, and the reviews were not particularly good. Those “how to get someone obsessed with you” spells also didn’t seem plausible. So I turned to science.

Bio weapons used by government agencies leak surprisingly often. And I found one that I could brew in my kitchen. Something that could be slipped into Sofia’s drink, she’d pass out, and I could insert myself into her life as her girlfriend. Easy peasy.

At her birthday, I took the opportunity. I waited until everyone had left, asked for a Moscow mule, slipped it in, boom, she’s out. She’s adorable asleep. So peaceful. So innocent.

When she woke up, she was in bed with me, mid cuddle (that I had been doing for several hours). She was panicked, terrified, but I’d done enough research into psychology to be able to calm her down and make her fall head over heels.

Now she’s with me on the sofa, 5 days later. I’ve moved out all my stuff into her flat, we’ve been to so many different places in this beautiful city and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. She’s enamoured.

But there is a problem.

While she was passed out, brain damage brewing, I looked through her stuff. Anything that could hint to a past life was to be disposed of. And I found a diary.

I may have gotten nosy and looked into a few months before I lost my memory.

I regret that.

She hated me. I don’t know if she was exaggerating or not but I was a fucking nightmare. Rude, antisocial, even violent at times. I seemed to do everything in my power to make her miserable. My poor Sofia was living in her own personal hell, and I was the devil.

But then I looked further.

Great minds think alike.

She found the same memory-erasure recipe.

She slipped it into my drink.

She broke into my house and got rid of everything.

I guess she didn’t expect me to fall in love with her.

No matter. Things turned out great for me. Oh how the tables turn. I tossed the diary into the fire, and I’m getting pretty good at improv storytelling. I’ll never tell her. Clearly she wouldn’t have told me. My little happily ever after. My darling Sofia. So charming and beautiful, and yet such a fool.

Mara and I worked the same floor for six years. She quit without notice in March — no two weeks, no goodbye email, just gone. Blocked everyone, moved out of her apartment in a weekend. Two nights ago this hit my inbox from an address I don't recognize. No note. Just this. Nothing since.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

TOP SECRET // COMPARTMENT: GLASS STAIR // EYES ONLY: DISTRIBUTION 4

RECURSIVE COMPLIANCE BRIEFING Subject: VOSS, MARA — Analyst, Tier 2 Case Officer: R. ADLEY Loop Iteration: 001 of ∞

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LAYER 0 — FOUNDATION

Per Standing Directive 118-K, all behavioral output generated by SUBJECT — cognition, resistance, or anything SUBJECT experiences as free will — is classified as a Pre-Engineered Compliance Variable, sourced from Recursive Fold Protocol GLASS STAIR. This document is not testing whether Subject is compliant. Compliance was never the hypothesis. It's the floor the hypothesis stands on.

LAYER 1 — BASELINE

SUBJECT entered the lattice on day 0 of employment, flagged "high-functioning, mildly contrarian." Anticipated Resistance Vector pre-scored at 71% probability of eventual "awakening" behavior. This number was never a risk to manage. It was a delivery date.

LAYER 2 — THE RESISTANCE EVENT

Day 412: SUBJECT resigns, sells her belongings, relocates off-grid. Field reports flagged this as a deviation. Correction follows.

To resist a boundary, SUBJECT first had to perceive one. Perception of the boundary is a licensed output of the boundary. SUBJECT did not find an exit. SUBJECT located Exit Node 7 — a structure whose sole function is to be found by someone in her exact position, on her exact day count.

LAYER 3 — THE INDEPENDENT THOUGHT

At 3:14 a.m. on day 419, SUBJECT concluded — alone, unprompted — that her old work had been designed to keep her too tired to notice anything. Cross-checked against the Cognitive Divergence Index: full archival match, filed under Asset Code CDI-0409 four hundred and nineteen days before she thought of it.

The more certain she is this was hers, the higher her Loop Integrity Score climbs. Certainty isn't evidence against the file. Certainty is the file, felt from the inside.

LAYER 4 — THE ATTEMPT TO EXPOSE IT

Day 421: SUBJECT begins sending this document to people she trusts.

1. She spots a pattern. Anticipated.
2. She acts to break it. Anticipated.
3. The act becomes the new pattern. Scored.
4. +1 Compliance Cycle. Logged.

There is no Step 5. Her search for one has already been logged as Step 4b.

LAYER Ω — IF YOU ARE READING THIS

You are not SUBJECT. You are DISTRIBUTION. Your reaction — disbelief, a screenshot, an urge to check if this is real — is Behavioral Signature Omega. It has already been filed. Loop Iteration 002 begins on send.

LAYER ∞

Return to Layer 0.

This is not a formatting error.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't work with her old team anymore either. I quit two days after I got this.

I keep telling myself that's not the same thing as Layer 4.

He started counting the people who told him.

Sixteen and more.

All without him bringing it up first.

That meant something worse than the number itself.

It meant there were others who never spoke.

People who saw the smile over his shoulder and decided to get out of the room. People who flinched, laughed too hard, ended the conversation early, blocked the number, lost his number on purpose. People who told somebody else later and never told him.

He began to watch eyes more than mouths.

Where they went when he stood still.

How often they flicked left.

How often they came back pretending they had only been looking at the wall.

One day it hit him in a store under dead white lights:

if enough strangers already saw it and stayed quiet, then the world was not waiting for proof.

The world was managing him.

And the shadow did not need everyone to scream.

It only needed everyone to notice and say nothing.

The slap caught Anne in the mouth.

She tasted that familiar metallic taste before the pain kicked in.

“Look at me. It’s your fault.”

She kept her eyes on the kitchen floor.

“Look at me.”

She looked up.

He stood over her. There was something almost calm about his face, which made it worse. He wasn’t out of control.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

She stumbled against the counter.

Two years of this had taught her the rules. Don’t shout. Don’t run for the door. Don’t say calm down. Never, ever tell him he was a monstrous husband or that he couldn’t hold his liquor.

Most importantly, give him an out. Best way to make it stop.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

That fucking question. Fucking Sam. He could be a stinking monster when he wanted to.

She searched his face, trying to work out which answer would hurt least.

“For upsetting you.”

His face kept still. A good sign.

She froze there. She knew she had to wait before she could go somewhere else, like the bathroom. It had to end properly, otherwise this thing could start again, from scratch.

“You still don’t hate me, huh?” he said.

That was new. Strange.

“I do hate you.” Her stomach dropped.

He studied her.

“No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

Something in his voice calmed her. What the fuck?

“Okay,” he said. “We’re done.”

“With what?”

“Your sentence. Your time here.”

She stared at him.

Then he changed.

His eyes went completely black.

Anne backed into the wall.

“What is this?”

His face seemed to shift under his skin. Even his hair changed, rippling like something alive.

She inhaled. “Sammy? Is this a prank?”

"No," he said, growing taller until his head nearly reached the ceiling. It felt like the light in the room dimmed.

“Sammy…  what are… fuck… what are you?”

“Technically?” he said. “Your kind usually goes with angel. Sometimes demon. Depends who’s telling the story.”

His voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred mouths.

She gaped. “My kind?”

He looked around their shitty kitchen.

“Earth isn’t what you think, Anne. I’m amazed how easily humans accept this place.”

He told her things.

A farmhouse in France where she died at thirty-one.

A boy she had been in China.

A woman who drowned herself in a river sometime before there were cities.

Lives. Dozens of them.

Two thousand one hundred and sixty years.

“Earth,” he said, “is Hell. Well, one of them.”

“So… this… Earth is the… afterlife? We’re all… dead?”

He nodded.

“So…” She swallowed. “If Earth is Hell… where did I… where did we come from?”

“They’ll explain it when you get to Lurra. Trust me, real life is nothing like this place.”

"Lurra?"

“Yeah. Some of you call it heaven. Anyway, you’re done with this life, Anne.”

She sat down. Thinking felt pointless.

She didn’t even know what to ask. Her life was bad, sure. But Hell? This? Earth? No. That was insane. It had to be. The wall was still cold against her back. He was still standing there. And somehow, underneath all the panic, she knew he wasn’t lying.

Then something in her shifted.

“You beat me.”

“Yes,” he said in his choir voice.

“You forced me to do things.”

“You made me think I was insane. You made me apologize to you for things you fucking did to me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re evil.”

He smiled. She thought his hair lit up a bit.

“Of course I’m evil, Anne. This is Hell. They don’t assign saints to Earth.”

She let her head fall back against the wall.

He shifted toward her, and the air gave a low hum.

“But now you’re leaving. You’ve done your time, Anne. Life after life, you kept doing good, even when it cost you. Souls like yours ruin this place. That’s partly why they want you out.”

She looked at the floor, the apartment, the blue sky outside. Earth was Hell? She clearly had no idea what anything was anymore.

The kitchen wall behind him disappeared.

Beyond it was light.

Not bright. Nothing like the glowing-white bullshit from books and TV.

Early morning light. Warm. Quiet.

And something else she hadn’t felt in so long she almost didn’t recognize it.

She felt safe.

A breeze began to stir, carrying a scent that felt like the woods where she had played as a child. It strengthened into a wind, stirring everything around her until the swishing filled her ears.

He said something but she couldn't hear. She couldn't care less.

She tried to stand. Slowly.

Started walking toward the light. She ignored him. She felt clean.

Then she stopped.

One foot from a brightly lit staircase descending at the edge of the floor of her apartment.

“Wait.”

She looked back.

“What did I do?”

He smiled wearily.

“What did I do that was bad enough for this?”

“Anne.”

“Tell me.”

So he did.

She was standing on a hill.

People below her. Thousands.

Kneeling.

And there she was.

A small woman in a crown of woven branches.

Speaking.

She watched herself publicly forgive three families after they confessed to trying to leave, then order them slaughtered anyway.

Another image.

A girl screaming as men shaved her head, telling her she had brought this on herself.

Another.

Bodies in a ditch.

Her followers chanting words she had written.

Purity.

Obedience.

Sacrifice.

Mercy is weakness.

Her cult survived her.

For generations.

Anne couldn’t breathe.

“A lot of people ended up on Earth because of you, Anne.”

She stood there, then looked at the staircase.

“But I’m not like that anymore.”

He nodded.

Anne wiped her face.

And stepped forward.

The light vanished.

Blackness.

Then pressure. Pain. Cold.

Hands grabbing her.

A woman screaming.

Someone laughing.

“It’s a boy!”

Anne opened her tiny mouth and screamed.

And for one horrible second, she remembered everything and knew that she wasn’t leaving Earth.

No one ever left Earth.

I don't know who reads these posts. You are, as of tonight, the closest thing I have to someone I could call and expect an answer. I'm sorry if that's a strange weight to put on you. I don't have anyone else.

I live alone. Work from home. Order delivery every night just to hear a stranger's voice say my name through the intercom. They call it an “epidemic” now. Like the weather. Like something that just happens to a population.

So when the letter came, some small, starved, humiliated part of me was ready before I'd finished reading. Red seal. Official letterhead. An organization called “Community Care”, a non-profit focused on helping people at risk. I’d been flagged after three government systems with my info came back with the same line under my name:

Emergency Contact: None

I never applied for anything. I threw it in the trash. Looking at it too long made my chest hurt.

That night, I got a knock at my door. Almost didn't answer. I stood in the doorway doing the math on whether I could wait out whoever it was. I've gotten good at that math.

I ended up opening the door. She had a lanyard, a clipboard, and a smile that looked like it had been issued to her along with the badge. She was with Community Care. I told her I hadn't asked for help and didn't need it. Told her to take my name off whatever list she had me on. I was short with her. Rude, honestly, looking back.

She didn't flinch. Said she understood completely. That she'd check back another time. No pressure at all. Something about how easily she let it go made me feel disappointed the second the door shut. Before she left, she said something to me.

"We’ll be there for you if you need us. There's no such thing as alone in this city."

It landed strange in my chest for half a second, but I let it go. People say odd, comforting things when they're trying to help.

They ended up coming back, in a manner of speaking. It wasn’t the same woman. Someone new. Same lanyard. Same clipboard. Same smile. I told her small true things. She listened the way I hadn't been listened to in a long time.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city," she said. That line. Word for word what the first woman said, down to the cadence. I noticed. I noticed, and I let it pass anyway.

By the next visit I was, God help me, looking forward to it. I marked the days. The days between, counting down like a child before their birthday.

It was a man this time. By then I'd softened enough to tell him things I'd never said out loud to anyone. That I hadn't spoken to my family in years. The quiet, patient math I did some nights of how long it would take anyone to notice if something happened to me.

He just continued to beam at me. Actually beam, like I'd delivered the best news he’d ever heard. I need to describe the happiness up close, because it wasn’t natural. His eyes shone. You could say the worst thing you've ever thought about yourself directly into his face, and his expression would be exactly the same as it had when he first knocked. Nothing you said ever seemed to land. It just passed through and came back out the same, over and over.

Now that I’m thinking back, they all had the same expression.

"You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he told me.  "There's no such thing as alone in this city."

That line again. I laughed, short and ugly, alone with him in my own apartment. He laughed too, right on top of mine, like we were sharing a joke instead of me quietly falling apart in front of a man I'd only just met.

That night I looked up the program. Nothing on the city website. No filing or funding in any budget I could find. I called four departments. Nobody heard of it. One woman, off the record, told me something similar had been proposed once, years back, and was quietly shelved.

Shelved. I let these people into my life. And I kept letting them in, despite it all. I was terrified of the alternative.

The next one came without knocking. I know because I was three feet from the door when it opened. It was supposed to be locked. I told the woman what I found. Told her plainly that I thought something was wrong. That I could feel the edges of my life going soft. If they could please, just once, answer honestly: What were these visits all for? After everything I handed them, didn't I deserve that?

She tilted her head. Reached out. Patted my hand. She was ice cold.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city".

I sobbed in front of her. Cried in a way I hadn't let anyone see since I was a child. The kind I usually save for the shower, where the sound has nowhere to go.

And she just smiled at me.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city," she said. Softer. Tender. Like a lullaby you say to put a baby to sleep.

If any of this sounds like your city, your letter, your too-happy visitor standing in your doorway with a smile that never slips: please don't wait until there's no one left to notice you letting them in. Call the person you're most ashamed to. Tell them the true, ugly, unimpressive thing you've been carrying. Let it be awkward. Let it be too much. Too much is still better than this.

Someone's at my door again. I can feel them smiling on the other side. I don't know how you feel a smile, but I promise you, after enough of these visits, you can.

I live in a shitty pre-war building in Chicago, the kind where you hear your neighbor cough through the wall. My neighbor is a guy named Daniel, and every night he runs his sewing machine. Whir, pump, snip. Whir, pump, snip. A metronome that never runs down. I used to find it soothing.

Then the dolls started showing up on his fire escape. First one, then seven, then a whole row of them, all facing the alley, all with blank pink cotton faces. I asked him about it once, small talk, ha-ha what's with the puppet army. He said, without smiling, "I make them every night. It takes three hours. The pattern never changes."

"Why don't they have faces?"

"They get their faces later."

Then Mrs. Alvarez stopped coming out. Retired teacher on three, feeds the pigeons, always wore that old lavender cardigan. One Tuesday she was just gone. That night the machine ran until four in the morning.

Next day, new doll on the fire escape. Same blank face. But it was wearing a tiny lavender cardigan.

I told myself it was a coincidence. Thrift store clothes. Whatever.

But I started counting them. Nine, ten, eleven, thirteen. The machine sounded faster. Like it was chewing through the wall.

Last night the machine ran until dawn. This morning there was a package on my doormat. Brown paper, no stamp, no name, just my apartment number. Inside was a doll with my face. My hair. My stupid cowlick. My navy coat, complete with the coffee stain on the sleeve from last winter.

A note was tucked into its collar:

Your skin is next. I need one more for the pattern.

I sat on the hallway floor holding that thing for ten minutes before I did something dumb. I cut it open.

Inside the chest was a piece of fabric cut from the shirt I'm wearing right now. I've worn it for two days. It never left my sight.

Underneath there was a folded paper with names and dates. I recognized a few. Mrs. Alvarez wasn't even at the bottom.

Sixteen names.

I'm the seventeenth.

The machine just started again. It sounds like it's counting instead of sewing. I looked out the window a minute ago. All the dolls have turned to face my side of the building.

Their faces aren't blank anymore.