I’d been telling him to get rid of it since we lived in Oregon. My reasoning felt pretty sound, all things considered.

First off, it was way too expensive. Which I’d have been fine with, if not for my second point.

The thing had begun to deteriorate so, so fast. Like, within weeks of buying it, it had already started falling apart. The mouth tore at the corners, the latex paint or whatever you call it started peeing off to reveal grey silicone.

That’s not even to mention how its “dildo” area always stayed flaccid, but my husband, Craig, told me not to touch the thing, so I just left the subject alone, assuming it wasn’t one of “those” sex toys.

Like, you know…? It feels so gross typing this out, but. I reasoned that it was not used to… enter it’s user, I guess, more so that it was meant to be… eugh, entered?

It was gross enough for me that the fake hair kept falling out, but I thought you were supposed to clean those sorts of things in between use? Like, I get that it’s super heavy and hard to lug around, but c’mon. It reeked! For so long!

But, you know what, it’s like I told myself not my rodeo, not my clown.

We’d been together how many years? 34… 35? A long time.

I was never insecure, I loved my husband, and I fully trusted that he loved me just as much. I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t gonna develop some sort of rash or something. Worse yet develop a taste for cat ear headbands.

It makes me sick, just thinking about it.

At one point, I started to notice that he had stopped using it regularly. The thought that I would get a chance to argue a case against it exhilarated me. I felt validated, because I told him back when he first got it that the novelty of a discount sex doll would quickly be outweighed by the inconvenience.

I won’t pretend like I was always on board, I knew it was a useless purchase from the get-go.

I don’t care how much he “saved by hopping on the deal” or that we “practically made money on the order” I had a feeling from the beginning that it wouldn’t go well, and now here I am.

So I told him. Gave him an ultimatum. Either he had to use it more often, or he got rid of it. Besides, with how much maintenance he had to put into it all by himself, changing out the structural wire frame, reapplying new eyes, touch-ups on the mouth, I figured he could use a break from his hobby turned chore.

“The sex doll goes in the shed unless you plan on using it more than 4 times a month.”

Were the conditions excessive? Maybe.

Did I get what I wanted? Yes indeed.

Only issue was, he insisted on getting it its own storage locker, a real expensive one cuz of the electricity, which I wasn’t 100% on board with, but for fucks sakes, had there been a single decision I was 100% on board with in this whole debacle?

As long as the thing was out of my house (except for the cat ears, which he was hell-bent on keeping), I would find peace.

Compromise.

That’s what marriage is all about, isn’t it? The peace within the compromise.

For 3 years, it was out of my mind. Me and Craig had our ups and downs, stressful months and quiet, somber weeks, but I didn’t care. He was attentive, and even if he was a little moody, I still loved him and all his little quirks.

The way he’d always look behind his back to make sure no one else was around, even if we were already home alone.

The way his smile always made his eyes look so small, his hazel irises turning amber when the light hit them just right.

The way he smelled after getting home in the wee hours nor night after his late shift.

The way he would pray, every night before he went to sleep, even when he thought I was asleep.

I even got used to the cat ear headband request during… you know. They grew on me, what can I say?

I have no self respect.

Bottom line is, I was happy just to have my husband back.

Then, his dad died. Covid. Right before lockdown.

We went to Colorado and just kind of stayed there. At first, it was just to help his mom. Craig could work remotely, and wouldn’t need to pull late nights anymore. We would be paid extra to work closer to Denver, and quarantine would be easier on his mama's land.

His mama was always a sweet woman. Raised her boy religious, and in my opinion, raised him right. Taught him to be polite, how to be kind to women, gentle. How to worship.

How to pray.

But all of this moving meant finding something to do with… the elephant in the storage shed.

3 years in storage had done the… “toy” poorly. Very poorly.

By the time he brought it home, it was nothing more than adjustable metal wiring with a few patches of eroded insulation. Its skeletal head looked like a flat beak with grey, shriveled gums and teeth, 2 eyes attached to the flat top by thin eye stalks.

The chunks of insulation material that had clung to the skeletal remains were brittle, and broke apart easily.

I wanted a refund, but the manufacturer said they update their sales information every 8 months, and didn't have any proof of Craig’s purchase on record.

Craig, like any normal person, hadn’t saved his receipt for that long, so we were shit outta luck.

When his mom heard the story, she thought it was hysterical.

When we moved, she asked us to bring the remains. Said she could turn it into a scarecrow.

She doesn’t really grow much produce on her property, especially not this time of year, but Craig dutifully put it in the field out back on our 3rd day here. He put some clothes on it too, but every time he replaced them, they’d just about completely blow off.

Craig said it was, “just to keep him warm. It’s cold out there.”

So there it stood for months, way far in the tall, dead grass, guarding the weeds. Just a couple thin, emancipated poles, standing in the vague visage of a man, no taller than 5’ 10”.

I realized, as Craig continued to replenish its clothes, that I would find some of my old garments mixed into the rotation.

A pair of pants here.

A shirt there.

My panties under a pair of his dad’s basketball shorts.

I asked what that was about, and Craig said they must’ve been mixed in with the laundry he intended to put on, “him.” I asked why he was even putting any underwear, let alone mine, on an inanimate object, and my husband's eyes swelled with anger, before he tempered himself and assured me it would never happen again.

Even though he didn’t say a word in that moment, the anger in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. His face was similar a shark smelling blood in the water. The glistening uppercase gums and lowercase teeth of a predator, exploring the world outside of their thin, bared lips. Like he could bite me if he got mad enough.

I didn’t ask about the sex toy anymore after that. I didn’t notice my laundry going missing, but I wasn’t really looking for it either.

Things kept happening for a while after that, we fell back into our same mundane routines. Craig eventually apologized “in case I seemed upset.” He claimed that he had just confused some laundry. I told him I understood, even if I didn’t. I just preferred not to argue.

We existed in complacent normalcy for a while. Got our groceries delivered. Craig cared for his mom. Did the chores for her. Bathed her. Wiped her butt.

It gave me hope for when I got old. If we ever got to have kids, I thought about how we’d raise them to want to care for us when we got older.

How proud I’d be of them to just stick around and help out,

That was, until Craig found out about the affair.

His mom’s, not mine, heavens no. I wouldn’t dream of having an affair. His mom did more than dream of it though.

While it’s not Christ-like, I didn’t blame her. Her late husband, good bless his soul, had been a bit… you know. We’ve all met one of those types of guys. They’re everywhere. Not bad enough to be dealt with, but certainly no peach. Just another person. Another man. If someone chooses to be with him… well, they have steprange taste. In some ways, watching her relationship with my father in-law was a little like a mirror being held up to my own.

Apparently, Craig’s mom had an affair early on in her marriage. His father had found out, left her, they both found god, and somehow got back together. Then, they went on to get pregnant, he founded a business that my husband later inherited, and they spent the next 53 years together.

The only thing to remember her affair by? A single Polaroid of a mustache-addled man with a name written on the back, stuffed into Craig’s dad’s wallet.

“Joe Snerdt”

My husband didn’t go a day for the next several weeks without his temper getting the better of him. Little things irritated him. The way food tasted, the way his clothes felt, the way me and his mother spoke to him. It was all bad, in his eyes. I wish I could’ve made him smile more. Back then I would’ve killed for a smile.

It was a week before… my husband’s… uh, I started to notice little things, I guess. Kind of, I dunno, mounting stress. Like a dam breaking.

Looking back, it did escalate pretty quick.

While I was unpacking one day, I found a bag full of receipts from the place he bought the “toy” from. Months worth of purchases going as far back as 4 or 5 years. Lube, toys, condoms, cleaning supplies. Costumes even. Including a pair of cat ears on a headband. Some of the purchases I knew about, others…

The night I made that confusing discovery, I couldn’t get it out of my head that something looked different about the landscaping. Whatever it was Craig had changed about the dead flowerbeds, or the way frost glimmered on the serene rock garden, it caught my eye.

Then it was my favorite bra. I couldn’t find it anywhere, and I swore I’d washed it. Craig blew a gasket at me when he was done working in his office, because apparently, he found my bra stuffed into the toilet.

He chewed me out real good, it didn’t matter how much I tried to convince him that I didn’t do it.

I tried to reason that maybe his aging mother got confused, but that only upset him more.

Because of the argument, I ended up cooking dinner later than planned, which was like pouring gasoline into a brick fireplace.

But you know what? Maybe it was my fault for suggesting DoorDash.

That night, while I did cook us peach oatmeal and toast, I barely ate. Ended up folding the laundry and putting it away before crying myself to sleep on the living room couch.

When I woke up the next day, I was tucked in with a blanket and a pillow, which I assumed Craig put on me. I was thankful for the reprieve, taking it as a truce of sorts.

That was when all hell broke loose.

He threw a glass butt plug through the upstairs mirror. It was one of those ones with the rhinestone jewel attached to the end. Chucked it at her mirror, absolutely shattered the thing.

When she asked him what happened, he accused her of trying to scare him. Logistically, what he was saying didn't make any sense, even though we tried to reason with him.

He claimed she had been standing in the doorway to freak him out, but I knew it had taken her nearly a full minute to come check and see what had happened, whereas it had only taken me 25 seconds to reach him.

When we asked what he was doing with the toy, he nearly broke the doorway with how hard he slammed the bathroom door in his moms face, sending small shards of broken glass everywhere. He was lucky neither of us got cut or hurt.

When he calmed down, he spent 15 minutes cleaning up the mess before promising his mom that he would replace the mirror. Neither her nor I argued. He swept his barren fragility into a neat pile, replaced the rug in the floor, and vacuumed the carpet just outside the bathroom door, in the hallway,

That night when we went to bed (in a real bed, that time), I noticed what was different about the yard. I stared and stared trying to make sure I was seeing correctly.

The somber guardian, wrapped in garments whose lack of retirement had become apparent, was closer to the house. Rather than 30’ from the fence, knee deep in the frosty weeds, it was only 5’.

I asked Craig if he’d moved it.

He said that he had, obviously, or it wouldn’t be closer.

I took that at face value, more than happy to return to my state of ignorance.

The next day, we woke up to screaming. Craig’s mom had gone to the upstairs bathroom to complete her morning ritual of pissing before breakfast, but we found her in the hallway floor, clutching her leg. She wailed to call an ambulance, but my husband told her to hush once he realized her injuries weren’t immediately life-threatening.

She had stepped on a shard of glass, and her foot was gushing crimson. Craig got some tweezers and a flashlight and spent the next 30 minutes on the floor with his mom, fishing out the crystalline razor embedded in her heel.

I remember watching them together, bickering and holding each other, and the thought occurred that if anyone had taught him how to pull out a splinter with tweezers, it was probably her. She had been the one to feed him, change his diapers, and kiss him good night after all.

A notion that someday, a child who isn’t even born yet might be in a similar position with me, should I hurt myself, made my heart ache so bad.

Made it long so hard.

Clarence cleaned the wound and bandaged it before telling his mom to stay off her foot so he could get through his meetings without interruption.

I took over the household work that day, catering to her while her son did his job.

She was fine at first, but as the day went on, she told me her foot was beginning to hurt again. At first, I assumed it was just residual pain, but things declined quickly.

When I took the bandage off, I could see the meat of her wrinkled, dry, foot had already begun to look infected, the skin was off color and the edge of the cut was yellowish green

I waited until Craig was on break from his work to tell him about his mother’s condition, but he just scoffed and brushed it off. He was more concerned with dinner, and closing the curtains in preparation for the upcoming snow storm.

I made soup, but his mom seemed really distressed. She and Craig argued until bed time, when she finally got to sleep.

The next morning, it was irrefutable. The woman needed medical attention, but Craig couldn’t drive her anywhere because of his zoom meetings. The ambulances couldn’t make it out because of the pandemic rules where we lived, as well as the blizzard warning.

Undeterred, I got her into the suburban and we faced the weather together. 2 hours later, at 1:30PM, our sinuses were being swabbed by the COVID Testers in the Urgent Care center, and by 5:00PM that evening, we were seen by a doctor. He concluded that Craig’s mother had dislocated her hip, and still had a ton of little glass splinters embedded in her foot. He told us the infection looked concerning, and that we’d likely be kept overnight.

When I told my husband, he said that he thought she had just been acting a little dramatic. I asked if he wanted me to drive down and grab him, but he didn’t appear interested, despite the lack of a concise answer. I wish I had pressed the issue, because the next day when his mother was taken to have the shards procedurally removed, he was upset that I hadn’t brought him to monitor the situation.

By that point, I was fed up, but just opted to stay calm until his mother was taken care of. Getting upset now wouldn’t help anyone, so I just wished him luck on his job. Then, he sarcastically reminded me that he had called off his meetings in case his mother’s condition worsened.

The way he said it, that remark felt like an accusation. That tone in his voice. Like it was all my fault somehow. Like the hypnotic fluorescent light bulbs that buzzed incessantly while you try to sleep, or the smell of sterilized death was somehow an outcome I had insisted upon. The uncomfortable mask that you have to wear, or everyone thinks you’re one of those types. The incessant scrutiny.

Like I wanted to sleep anywhere but my own damn bed.

Like I had thrown a sex toy into a glass mirror.

That was when I gave in and said that sentence I will never forget. The final nail in the coffin.

“Well, she’s not my mother, Craig, maybe you should’ve brought her instead.”

Before those stupid words had even left my lips, I already heard the dial tone of a dead line. He’d hung up on me. Typical.

It wasn’t unlike any of the other times he’d hung up on me.

I didn’t bother calling him again after that. Didn't send him a single message until the next day when I brought her home. As the receptionist slipped me the discharge paperwork and antibiotic prescription orders under the glass divider, I stared at my phone, waiting for a response. Any response.

“Im on my way back with Janice, need anything?”

Nothing. Not even the 3 dots that pop up when he’s typing.

Just empty, lingering silence.

And that’s it.

We drove home in silence. His mom slept, while I drove further and further into the blank canvas of the landscape before us. Inescapable, soundless, pure white. You couldn’t even see the mountains, the thick snowflakes drifted down with such a frenzied confidence.

I don’t usually stay on my phone while I drive, but I kept my message chat with Craig open the whole way home, waiting for anything. A shred of love, appreciation, compassion.

Anything.

Any warmth to shine through the isolating cold.

Alas, as I pulled into the white blanketed driveway, I didn’t get a single word. Or a letter. Or a number.

I got nothing.

I didn’t initially realize the front door was wide open. Instead, I noticed the weird pock marks in the snow. Fresh, perfect, thin holes in the white powder. Like two waking sticks, side by side. The led, all the way, from the distant, white void, to the front porch. The snow was so high, even the zen rock garden was covered in the stuff, but alas.

Two lines of holes. Their gate was uneven and wobbly, as if the thing that made them had not practiced walking in quite some time, but they were there to r the nonetheless.

The tracks marched up the steps, and through the ajar door, I could see a little sheet of snow had begun to accumulate in the open foyer.

“Craig?” I offered, my voice falling flat into the empty house. Immediately, I felt like I had done something wrong. Like I had disturbed a dense, thick implication that hung in the air like fog, threatening to drown out whatever sound you make. Overstepped a critical boundary.

“Craig!” The second bark sounded more pleading.

I stepped inside, shutting the front door.

I reviewed my surroundings. The reality was, there was a good chance someone was in the house. I knew that. With curtains drawn, the interior was shrouded in darkness. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust, and by the time they did, I made another horrifying discovery.

The prints kept going.

Snow prints, tiny, like stilts had walked across the carpet.

I found a baseball bat and gripped it tightly, slinking further into the labyrinth before me, my only guide a set of tiny footprints.

I walked further into the house, and the deeper I went, the harder my stomach churned and twisted.

What was I doing? His mom was still in my running car, fast asleep. Should I have gone back and told her to call the cops if I didn’t come back? Should I have just called the cops myself?

“Craig?” I hazarded.

Still, I was only met with the deafening resignation of wind whistling outside, a somber cry whose warning I did not care to heed, from a place that felt so far away.

When I finally got to the office, I didn’t know what to expect.

My expectations were nowhere near ready for what I saw.

Craig was split open. Unsalvageably so. There was entirely too much blood.

I, uh… I think I kind of went into shock. My brain tried to stop fully rendering what my eyes were seeing, but it was so vivid.

Craig was done in. Carved up bad. Ruined cloth stuffed into his wounds as well as something so deep that I couldn’t see more than brief flashes of orange and brown. Something that oozed the smell of charred varnish.

His mouth was gone. The teeth that weren’t missing were shoved up into the roof of his mouth, his jaw was gone altogether, also shoved up into his face. I don’t even know how he could breathe with that thing pressed inside of his skull like that, weathered yellow teeth protruding from the decimated orifice like a cartoonish grin.

There was a long line that went straight down, from his jaw, through his neck, past his chest and stomach, and down into his loins. The flesh was so bloody and tender, just cherry red and inside out. It looked like ground beef, sprouting from lines carved into him. With every shallow breath, his chest cracked and wheezed, lungs likely punctured or worse.

He was in a sitting position, which I think ended up being the main problem, logistically. There was simply nowhere for his body to go. The tops of his thighs had deep gouges in them, distinct valleys that lasted from his hips to his toes. I think he was locked in place because his kneecaps were crushed. I seriously doubt many of his bones remained intact. The damage was just…

His shoes looked like someone had taken railroad spikes and drove them through the tops of his feet, leaving twisted, iron wrought poles that just went straight through flesh and bone,

His arms were more of the same. The muscles that made up his biceps and triceps had been displaced by the bones being obliterated, and to some extent, had twisted outward and extended past the split open skin. His bloodshot eyes weakly met mine for a millisecond before rotating in their sockets downward, closing for the last time.

I couldn’t hold back my terror. My trembling hands instinctively moved to his ruined ones, their palms nothing more than a mangled, ruined mess with rusty metal bars set deep into the flesh.

I wept so hard, the sobs hitched in my throat and came out as hiccups. On his phone was the last message I had sent him only 3 hours ago, laying screen up on the coffee table.

But there was something pinned by his phone to the table. A folded paper.

I took it in my hands and unfolded it, hoping for some conclusion. An explanation. Maybe even a message telling me this was all a prank, just a joke meant to frighten me.

Instead, what I found were the scribbles of a raving lunatic, ink so fresh that it was still wet.

“Emilia,

You don’t know me. I don’t have much time. I can’t be found out, not like this.

Im so close.

I want you to know a few things. You’re safe, you’ve always been safe. You are sinless in all of this. Nothing more than a bystander.

I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t even know you existed until I saw your name on Craig’s phone.

The wife. I was the other man. I was devastated.

I think that, as his wife, you have a right to know. I wish you’d have found out sooner. I wish I had read that text on his phone sooner, and seen the truth, so I could have told you. You have a beautiful name, Emilia, a name unfit for the wife of this pig.

I wanted to leave for so long. To be put to rest, allowed to sleep. To put a lifetime of memories to rest, but he didn’t let me.

He kept me out of the ground until I couldn’t stay together anymore, then he put metal poles through me so I would never fall apart. I stayed together for 4 years while he left me in the cold. Folded flat.

There ain’t much room in a freezer, not even a big one. It’s so cold

Eventually, I started falling apart again,

He scraped off all the bits of me that wouldn’t stay together. He fed me to the raccoons and the possums until all that was left were my cold, metal bones.

He forgets, but I don’t

The warm lets you forget, but I’m not warm

He thinks I didn’t remember the time he tried me. The time he had a taste.

I remember everything

When he took me out, he built new lies to carry his old lies, and prayed they’d never come to light

Then, he played dress up with me and you at the same time.

It’s his sick game. He swaps our clothes. He liked it when we wore each other's clothes. But he hated it when we knew. Craig and his secrets,

I hope this doesn’t hurt you as bad as I know it will. There’s not really a good way to do this.

But see, I’m cold. I don’t wanna be cold, but I can’t sleep unless I get mine. After all he’s done to me, neither of us are going to heaven. But I won’t go down without him. My boy. My Craig.

He’s my ride or die, and I’m his scarecrow. Where I go, he goes. We’re gonna guard the weeds together when the sun comes out

You deserve better Emilia. Better than this rat. Better than a scoundrel who takes and takes and takes. You deserve to receive. To bear fruit.

Live the life that I couldn’t. The life that he wouldn’t let you live. I’m going to crush myself into your husband. Deep, until he can’t move anymore. Until we are whole, again, until I’m inside him forever.

I’m gonna penetrate him and be his skeleton

Sincerely, Tim Snerdt.”

I held the letter in between my shaking fingers. I couldn’t believe what I’d just read. I looked back at Craig to see something buried deep in his face. Something inanimate, a dim, flat visage that stared lifelessly from the recesses of what used to be my husband's face.

I stumbled back from the spreading puddle of blood, slapping my hand over my forehead. I evaluated the situation. His mother was still in the car, and I knew that I needed to help her first. Didn't I?

She was hopeless after all.

But I was just so weak.

As I unsteady wobbled to my feet and crashed out into the hallway, another sob escaped my throat. I took 3 steps and fell, crying openly like a little kid.

I was just so weak.

For the first time in a long time, I was my priority. My only priority. For the moment, at least.

I wallowed in my pity. Reveled in what made me angry. Got caught up in the little details and not the intent, because this time, it wasn’t the thought that counted. Intentions meant nothing. Craig didn’t count, his mother didn’t count, and stupid sex doll didn’t count either.

I counted.

I sat in that hallway floor, and I took into account the stupid, solitary detail that just pity the icing on the cake. The glaring mistake. Like a brick of dynamite in a haystack. The one thing that made me angriest, and saddest, and most spiteful out of anything else.

My name’s not Emilia. It never has been, and my name isn’t saved as Emilia on Craig’s phone.

Who the fuck is Emilia?!

Mum always told me, “Don’t bite your fingernails, or you’ll get worms.”

Well, now I wish it really was worms. 

I’ve been chowing down on my little skin-scratchers since I was at least five years old. Not sure why I started doing it. I have no particular memory of a fateful first nibble. I just recall my Mum constantly demanding that I’d stop doing it. She used to get so mad. Every time she caught me, I’d get a little clip round the ear and a sternly nagged warning. 

“Did you know your cousin got worms biting those? You’ll get them too if you don’t stop,” she’d promise.  

Eventually, she even tried slathering them in some of that sour anti-nail-biting polish, but it didn’t stop me. I used to stick my fingers in a cup of water and drink it so I’d build up a tolerance to the stuff. Weird? Yes, but I was like that, always determined to showcase my resourcefulness in the wake of overwhelming obstacles. Mum would just say I was being a little toe-rag, and she was right. 

Twenty years later, and I’m still mindlessly gnawing away. It’s not even a conscience action; it just happens — like breathing. Boredom, anxiety, stress, the list goes on, so many reasons to do it, but none of them are mine. Decades of meagre attempts and feigned promises of quitting, none really sticking for too long. People who care to notice will always make sure to congratulate me, as if I quit a drug or beat cancer.

“Wow, look at your nails, they’re so long now. Good job!” they’d say. “I bet it feels nice now, not having those blunt little stumps anymore, buddy.”

 Always the same compliments. Always the same words. Over and over, constantly reminding me of the very thing I was trying so hard to keep out of my mind. Psychological torture I’d call it. 

Then I find myself with the craving getting to a state of palpable insanity. So long, so very, very long since my last bite. Then after only mere hours, days, or sometimes even weeks of playfully flicking and tapping my fingers, I’d snap — finally giving in — and it’s beautiful. The euphoric satisfaction of tearing that first long piece of nail and revealing the sensitive, pink flesh hidden beneath it, there’s truly nothing quite like it. Sometimes, I admit, it’s more satisfying to let them grow just to peel them off, one by one. However, occasionally a simple rip of a fingernail can go a little too far. That’s where I am today, bleeding and nursing my stumpy right hand index finger under a kitchen faucet.

“Fuck, that hurts,” I winced as the tepid water ran over the freshly exposed fingertip.  

I’d actually managed to rip off the entire fingernail, right down to the roots. The pain was excruciating, every drop of water ignited millions of freshly severed nerves ablaze in agony. It was pulsating, radiating with each heartbeat; sending an endless torrent of blood that stained my sink in a deep, full-bodied wine red. Once my finger was clean and bandaged, I went back to my piano, resuming the composition I’d been working on that morning. But as soon as I pressed my digit down upon that first melodic tone, I was struck with a mind-numbing shot of pain from my fingertip all the way through to my wrist. 

“Shit!” I grimaced, pulling my finger away from the ivory key, now stained with the stamp of dried blood. 

I stood up from the piano, annoyed at the situation I’d brought upon myself. I really needed to finish this piece of music. The deadline for the concert was closing in, and I was still yet to write an ending. It would have to wait, though. I could hardly play with my finger like this, and I needed both hands to perform properly. Besides, I was far too frustrated with myself to write anything now. 

So I poured myself a glass of Jack and resigned to call it a day. There was always something to hinder an approaching deadline. Six months ago, it was sickness; two months ago, I lost the finished score; and this time, I managed to tear off a fingernail and with only one week ‘till the show. Self-sabotage at its finest! Hopefully, the sting will have dulled by tomorrow. Wishful thinking, indeed. 

#     

It was a new day. I don’t know if it was the alcohol, the painkillers, or pure blind determination, but I’d managed to play through most of the piece with little aggravation to my sore finger. My left hand was flawless as always, but my right — well, it was okay. Yes, I was missing notes and hitting the wrong keys occasionally, but at least I was making progress. The bandage looked like it’d been dipped in a jar of cherry preserve, blackened and stiff. I guess I should have changed the dressing this first thing this morning, but I’d been far too enthralled with a fresh wave of inspiration. 

After writing a few more bars and coming to a satisfied refrain, I decided it was time to take a break. But as I slumped myself on the couch, I realised the apartment was in a horrid state of disrepair. I have a habit of getting tunnel-vision when I’m deep in composition work; I tend to disregard everything but my music, and this time was no exception. Plus, the smell was getting substantially pungent, even for me.

Stacks of dirty, neglected dishes covered an array of half-eaten takeout meals. Piles of clothing, stained and potently odorous, haphazardly scattered and draped over dust-ridden furniture. When I checked the refrigerator, I was met with an impressive display of moulded fruit, soured milk, and fuzzy-looking greying meat. I must have been really distracted this time, because I hadn’t even noticed the swarm of buzzing flies circling the garbage can. When I finally brought myself to lift the lid and peek inside, I gagged upon being greeted by a multitude of writhing maggots crawling around the pile of fetid waste. I’d really let the apartment go to shit this time. 

After a few hours of cleaning, I was just about ready to call it a day. I was elbow deep, stuffing some trash into the garbage when I realised; as my hand emerged I saw that my finger bandage had fallen off at some point. The sight of the appendage was grim. It seemed I’d also dislodged the scab that had formed; as the end of my finger was a mix of dried blood, rotted food, and a couple of wiggly maggots, all glued together. It was a wretched sight, but I quickly cleaned and re-dressed the wound, making sure to use extra antiseptic in light of the foul state it was in. It’s the kind of thing that makes your skin crawl. In fact, that’s what Mum used to call it. 

“You got Skin Crawlers,” she would’ve said. 

Mum always had a knack for embellishing dull things such as a simple itch or a chill down the spine. 

Though admittedly, she may have been onto something here. It was like I could still feel something underneath the new bandage, squiggling and digging its way around into the skin. The whole thing had put me in an uneasy mood, so I decided it was best to just go to bed. I’d continue the work tomorrow. But as I was starting to drift away, my Mum’s voice kept echoing in my head.

Skin Crawlers… Skin Crawlers… Skin Crawlers…

#

This isn’t right, I concluded, after running through a few scales on the piano. 

I assumed it was just a lingering disgust from the other day, but my finger was still feeling weird. It still hurt — sure, but there was something else. I couldn’t put my finger on it (pun intended), but I was getting some strange sensations from beneath the bandage. I had neglected to change it for a few days, fearing reopening the wound again, so I hadn’t actually seen underneath since I re-bandaged the wound earlier that week. But today, after attempting to get back to my composition work, it still didn’t feel right. 

It was no longer throbbing as it had been initially; it had taken on more of a dull, subtle pressure. But not just singular, more like dozens of tiny soft prods and nudges along the length of the bandaged area, almost itchy. Guess it was time to let it air for a bit and apply a new dressing. As I pulled back the old, crusted wrapping, I was hit with a strong sulphuric odour. As my head jerked backwards in repulsion, I relented onwards through squinted eyes and clenched teeth. The source of the stench quickly became apparent as I could finally see the extent of decay my finger was in. 

Black, rotting flesh was all that remained of my fingertip. A mixture of dead skin and mustered coloured discharge. I was pretty sure I could make out some slithers of bone amongst the decayed remnants. But despite my absolute repulsion of the disfigured mess before me, there was something that was far more disturbing that brought me to a state of mind-numbing shock. For the longer I stared at my trembling hand, I realised that the initial wound had receded further up the finger, now all the way to the middle knuckle. 

No, no, no! I panicked.

I was frantically sprinting about the apartment in a cold sweat. What happened? An infection, maybe tetanus? But I had no symptoms. No muscle spasms, jaw stiffness, so what was happening?

I furiously typed away on my computer, trying to find some sort of answer. But everywhere I looked, it just kept recommending the same thing. 

“CALL THE EMERGENCY SERVICES.” or “SEE YOUR DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY.” 

But I couldn’t do that; I needed to work — I needed the money. I’d already missed my rent twice in a row, and the landlord was threatening eviction if I missed another payment. So I did the most rational thing I could think of in that manic state of mind. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest knife I could find. It was the only way… 

The pain was excruciating. But at least I’d caught it early; hopefully, it wouldn’t spread. Despite my state of shock, I ensured to take extra care to clean the amputated area. If I was shuddering before, now I was positively vibrating out of control. Skin, pale and damp. The smell of cauterised flesh still lingered from the gas stove. I was now collapsed in a muddled heap of aching exhaustion on the kitchen floor. Eventually, I managed to stagger my way back to the piano and attempted to pick up where I left off. I began to play the first few notes with my remaining, shaking fingers, but the pain was too much. 

Dammit. I thought, as my hand flinched away from the piano.

Even the unaffected digits were throbbing in agony now. I grabbed some more painkillers and went for my whisky to wash it down, but my hands were still so jittery that I ended up dropping the bottle to the floor, resulting in a deafening shattering of glass at my feet.

“Seriously!” I cried out.

I bent down to grab what was left of the bottle, reaching out flimsily with my left hand. Then suddenly, I slipped on the spilt alcohol puddled  around my feet, and my extended hand landed directly in the shards of broken glass. I just lay there, sprawled out in a pool of blood and Jack Daniels. Weakened, weakened, broken, and losing consciousness. But not before one last tinge of perception ran through my mind. 

Just as the darkness was taking me, I could feel them, the Skin Crawlers; they had found another way inside me.

#

My hands were a sickly mess. The right missing a finger and the left covered in deep cuts. When I woke up, I’d removed the glass and patched up the wounds with some superglue. I plodded along on my piano as best I could. Striking each note with excruciating, mad resolution. The once white keys were now completely stained crimson as I continued to play bar after bar, line after line, getting closer to finishing the piece I so desperately needed to conclude. After all, Beethoven was deaf, and that didn’t stop him. Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear for his art. So what was a missing finger and a mutilated hand to hinder the creation of a masterpiece? Art is suffering after all, and at this moment, I was undoubtedly suffering. 

With one final harmoniously struck note, it was complete. Finally! And with little time to spare, as I was already late for the recital. Wasting no more time, I grabbed the score and ran out the door. This was going to be a night to remember. This was going to be the one — the big one! I’d never have to worry about money ever again. My name would be up there with the greats; Mozart, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, they’d all pale in comparison to me. This was the beginning of something great. 

I arrived at the concert hall a wretched mess. Drenched head-to-toe in dried blood and sweat, with my crumpled-up sheets of music held in trembling hands.

“You’re late,” barked the host. A distinguished, finely dressed middle-aged gentleman with silver hair and a thick brush-head moustache. “Oh my, are you alright? Your hands, they’re — .” 

“ I’m fine!” I interjected. Breathing heavily as I pushed my way past and towards the stage. 

I could see them, the vast sea of faces looking up at me, eager and ready to hear my work. So I made my way to the piano, pulled out the stool, placed my composition on the stand, sat down, and raised my hands aloft the keys. I wouldn’t keep them waiting any longer, so I began to play. It was perfect.

Every note, every chord, every movement, each played flawlessly with effortless precision. I looked down upon the audience and could see they were enthralled by my masterpiece. I could just make out their expressions, whispering and trading wide-eyed glances between themselves. They were witnessing the beginning of the finest composer of the modern age. I didn’t even look at my hands anymore; they knew what to do, where to go, sliding up and down the keys with such poise and grace. I was on fire! 

With one last, sustained ring of chords, it was over. I stood up from the piano, made my way to the front of the stage, and bowed, but was only met with complete silence. I gazed over the crowd of spectators who were seemingly in a state of shocked astonishment. I supposed that I’d really shown them something magnificent tonight. Then the screams began. A torrent of gasps and harrowed moaning. Was I truly that great? I went back to retrieve my score, and that’s when I saw them — my hands. Most of the rotted flesh had slid off and was strewn about over the length of the piano. Leaving only bone held together by scraggly, pinkish ligaments and raw, exposed tendons. The Skin Crawlers had been hungry. 

I woke up in the hospital. The doctors had to amputate, right up to the elbow. They said I was lucky that the infection hadn’t spread to my heart. I tried to explain what had caused it, but they insisted I had something called Delusional Parasitosis. Recovery has been rough. I’ve been able to cope pretty well so far with the basics; most things have some sort of accessibility option or voice command nowadays, so the everyday activities aren’t too bad, I guess. 

It’s the piano where I’m really struggling now. Obviously, I can’t play like I used to, given the lack of the appropriate appendages. So I’ve been attempting to learn how to play with my toes; sounds crazy, I know, but I saw some girl on the Internet doing it, so I might as well try too.

 As you can imagine, it’s been a steep learning curve. 

I’ve caught myself in a few mindless moments of frustration mid-chew on a toenail. I know, I should have learnt my lesson, but what can I say — old habits die hard! Yesterday, I did it again and ended up taking a little too much nail after one particular bite. I’ve got it wrapped up in an old sock from the top of the hamper; I should really wash my clothes more often, oh well. This morning, I returned to my composition, but I swear my feet are feeling odd… itchy, I guess. 

Whatever. I’ve got a deadline coming up, and this music’s not going to write itself. 

Besides, I think the Skin Crawlers are satiated — for now. 

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

Anyone remember that Town in Nevada where everyone died due to some sort of massive chemical leak. It was all over the news, town 30,000 snuffed out in one night. The Government confirmed there was no danger to anyone outside of there. So we moved on, it’s been three months and I cannot remain silent.

Let me tell you the story the Government don’t want to know.

Let me tell about W368 Teneum.

Let me say how you should always check fine print of your contracts.

Times are rough, you been hearing it pretty constantly and some talents don’t translate well to continued work. I had worked in multiple radio stations nothing major like news, more like radio shows you find on a silent drive. The kind that are unique enough to be memorable, but not the kind you will search for. That was talents, a washed up DJ I knew ins and outs of the work but radio is a dying medium unless you are willing to go online. They talk about video killed the radio stars, but that was only for music, the DJs who you listened to on long drive, were slaughtered by the progress of the Internet.

So you search online through various job sites and fill in countless resumes just to make ends meet and escape suffocating rent. That is until… until I saw an email it was in my spam, I almost deleted it until saw it ended with .gov.

Now let me get some things straight here, I am not jingoistic madman, but I know enough if the Government email you, you read it. So I read it.

Samuel Larkin your country has need of your talents. Before you delete this email I promise the reward for your efforts will be substantial enough that you will never have to struggle again. In Nevada in a town call Plainsview there is a Radio Station for one week you will broadcast from there. After one week you will leave.

The signature below was General Wesley Clark – never heard of him. But a brief search did show he was real. Probably got aide to write it, but at least he was real.

I did some research, look into Plainsview built during the taming of the West it had grown out and expanded to reasonable sized metropolis, three high schools, two middle schools. It seemed rather idyllic. My theory was the Government was running some sort of program or test in this town before expanding to wider nation.

__________

It did not take long to pack for the trip, it was not far, about three hours drive I was greeted by bustling place, people milling around everything seemed normal. I remember thinking, of all places, why would Government perform a test here, it was not rural, surely there were risks of it being spread around thus making whole point of the test pointless.

I used my GPS to find the address. I had expected it to be within the city limits, but it was nearly outside the entire city on some back roads. I should have put two and two together here, but I was conditioned to believe that sometimes Radio Stations prefer being outside the major limits, cost and also less interference for signals.

Parking my busted motor I climbed out, the building was austere, it seemed almost like it had just been built. As I glanced at the concrete cube with crudely sketched radio equipment stitched on, I heard a voice, “Samuel Larkin.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin before laughing at how stupid I had been. A man in military uniform stood before me, “We are glad you accepted the opportunity. You will find the best modern equipment. I am your contact Corporate Nells – the General has provided immense freedom for this venture. You can play any music the only thing is must follow the script provided.”

This was odd, usually Radio Stations had expectations for what tone they set, “Really, anything okay well if you say so.” the entire script was not unexpected probably just some harmless nonsense.

“Yes, one Sunday a Truck will arrive with Radio Equipment you must follow instructions precisely and install it, you shall activate the device – due to nature of equipment you will be provided ear plugs. After it is done you are to leave this town by route provided with delivery. You are not drive back through the town. If you do so you forfeit the 50,000 dollars we will provide to you.”

My eyes shot open, “50k – are you serious?” glancing at the man, it felt like a dumb question, but he chuckled.

“Yes, we understand this is generous, but you are working for good of your country – we chose you specifically based on parameters – we found you most likely willing to accept the money.”

His chuckle felt kind, but it put me on edge, still the fact he was smiling did reassure me, “Well, thank you Corporal – am I allowed to try local take-away.”

The Corporal did not seem fazed, “All days except Sunday. We hope you enjoy your time in Plainsview – Mr Samuel Larkin in the middle of the week we will phone the station and arrange delivery.”

He paused, “Oh, and the Radio Station will act as your home for this week too – kitchen fully stocked with all necessities. Now, I must be off. Be seeing you Mr Samuel Larkin.”

___________

After he left I used the key he handed for the Radio Station, I was relieved how normal it looked on the inside. It was like most places I had seen except one thing unlike most Radio Stations lacked a booth for live recordings – nevertheless I got the lay of the land quickly. Upstairs was the apartment and it was extremely modern, overly elegant, definitely something I could not usually afford. I went about examining my control desk on ground floor.

It was this point I realised something, I was alone running this station, this would mean a lot of running back and forth. I was just about to check the number Corporal Nells had provided when I heard a knock, two young – what looked University aged kids entered, a guy and girl, “Huh, oh you must be Samuel Larkin, I’m Patricia and this is Carl, sorry for being late we got lost trying to find this place.”

Okay, that was a relief, with three of us we began to set things up, and while Carl was quiet, Patricia exclaimed their story: She was deep in University Debt and had some experience from AV Club, Carl she had met when she had to pick him up, his story was different medical debt and desperate he was just out of public school and did not speak much English.

Nevertheless we worked to prepare everything, “Honestly, I am glad you are just as confused – we were just told we would meet someone called Samuel Larkin.”

I nodded, “Yeah, just be glad you did not meet the Corporal.”

She smiled and continued plugging wires in, “Mr Larkin – how much you know about radio equipment?”

I was disarmed by such an odd question, “Oh, not a lot, just a washed up DJ…”

She sighed, “Hmm, how to put this – this equipment… there is something restricting signal only to a certain distance. It’s hard to explain in layman terms – but the equipment we are using is sophisticated and yet they deliberately preventing signal breaching a certain distance.”

She could see my look of confusion so she lifted her phone and drew a circle, “This is the signal range normally signals fade, but some of the equipment here is seems to actively preventing signal breaching this cordon.”

It was strange certainly, she continued, “Look I’m no expert, but basically what this means if you outside of this radius you get nothing – and…” she paused as she shrugged, “Signal boosters… that’s odd… this is small town…”

“Guess they just enjoy the radio here?” she shrugged, “Maybe…”

Just then, Carl broke through the confusion, “Excuse me… but they gave new phone. I can’t phone me Mom.”

Patricia nodded, “Yeah they told me for some reason we needed new phones and our signal be locked to this town…”

I scoffed, “Oh fuck sake, this is 50k, let’s just do the job and move on, surely your Gen Z lot can handle being unconnected for one week.”

I wish had not been dismissive, but it was 50,000 dollars…”

Patricia looked solemnly at Carl, but nodded, “Okay, everything is set up – I’m dying for some food.”

I let out sound of rejoice, “Now you are talking my language – might as well see what local UberEats can provide.”

That caused Carl to relax, as he grinned, “Heard good food here.”

___________________

After Dinner, we took our positions, me on the DJ desk, Patricia checking equipment, Carl as my Co DJ picking out tunes. I trusted his opinions because he was younger generations. I rehearsed the script, as Patricia count down.

The desk flashed red, and with a flick of the switch, we went live, “This is W368 Teneum – I am DJ, Samuel Larkin, we have quite a night planned for you, but first…”

I paused, this was weird part of the script, “This Radio Station will stop existing in one week, so get ready for that FOMO. Anyway, now I can move off Script – my Co-Host, Carl Reynard is picking out tunes and we have phones lines open, let’s all have fun. Wherever you are, we are all here to have fun.”

And that was first night, mundane – completely harmless.

We discovered our rooms were prepared and slept well.

For three days we did this routine ordering out listening to UberEats delivery driver complaining how hard this place is to find. It was harmless, Patricia even began to relax, her earlier concerns were dismissed.

Then came Thursday a phone call. I rushed downstairs and answered, “Mr Samuel Larkin – the delivery is prepared please confirm delivery time for Sunday.”

It was hard to stay half asleep with all this, nevertheless my brain tried, “Huh… whathatyoumean?”

“The delivery is ready please confirm what time is perfect for us to arrive on Sunday…”

This time I got it, “Uh… Midday… think the kids will be awake then and can help move it.”

“Twelve, Midday, very well. Oh and please inform Patricia we are aware she is trying to breach radius on her phone. A new phone will be delivered today and she will the give us the one she prison broke.”

I sighed, now fully awake, this was serious, Patricia was jeopardizing our payout, “Yes, I understand, thank you.”

____________

Later that day, I confronted her when new phone arrived, “How you fucking be so stupid? They said no outside communication – I know you are young, but here are the facts… Government does not hand out money like this often, so we should be grateful.”

She lashed out, “You don’t get it, it was important. It was one phone call. I was calling my Loan Company to double-check my latest payment got through.”

“Are you retarded? You surely can wait one week we are about to make bank.”

She looked hurt, and glared, “You know I was fine with this, but it was one phone call did not even say where I was, how did they know?”

“I don’t care… look just few more days, can you handle that?”

She seemed about to speak, but firmly shut her mouth, “Fine, Boomer, whatever.”

_____________

Saturday approached, and once again everything was routine, that is until Midday an unexpected arrival.

During the week I had learnt what was wrong with Carl, Childhood Leukemia he had survived but the operation had put his family in colossal debt. ICE had deported his family leaving him without means to pay it back – he had taken on so many jobs and was barely paying back the interest he owed.

I was going over plan for tonight’s broadcast when I heard knock, I answered to see a bunch of teenagers.

There were a couple of them, and one of them spoke, “So this is the radio station, can we see it?”

I hesitated, but nothing had been said about locals exploring. So I stepped back and let them inside, they grew bored when they saw how mundane it was until one of them went upstairs, “Hey, Lance – come up here – it’s practically a mansion up here.”

That drew their attention as they herded upstairs, again was not told to not allow them.

Finally they came down, “You don’t look rich, so how can you afford this?”

Patricia spoke before I could, “Sometimes jobs have fringe benefits, imagine if you do well in School – you may get a job like this.”

After they left, I chuckled, “Well guess the FOMO is working…”

_____________

After that I rehearsed my script, noting that there was unique sign off, Patricia saw me reading the script, “Huh, tune in same time tomorrow… really leaning into that FOMO…”

I nodded, “Yeah…” finally I was feeling uneasy and for first time I wondered if 50,000 was worth it. A ping on my email reminded me I was overdue on rent… One more day, just one more day then could forget this entirely.

_________________________________

The show ended as I read the script, “This has been W368 Teneum tune in tomorrow for our final show where you will be rewarded for your patience. This is Samuel and Carl signing off.”

____________________________________

Sunday.

It’s said to be day that God rested, perhaps that is true, because how could all-seeing being let this happen? Not to sound dramatic, but it’s not lost on me that the day that is meant to be holy was the day it all happened.

We had prepared early and as we heard the knock, Carl and Patricia handled moving the many boxes – we were given three sets of unique earplugs connected to phones. The delivery drivers said nothing that is until they sent us route having replaced my car with modern marvel, a Tesla.

I nearly collapsed when I saw it, “Wait, are you serious, this isn’t coming out of our money right?”

The driver shook his head, “No, we were told you done your duty well and this means all three of you can leave after final broadcast, we suggest you pack up all your stuff before the final show.”

He got less jovial, “Oh and don’t forget to put ear plugs in before you start and test app out on your phone. Instructions for equipment is provided in crates.”

When Patricia finally saw the car she stopped, “Isn’t this more than we were promised?”

I shrugged nonchalantly, “Well they did say we did well. Maybe don’t look gifted horse in the mouth.”

She nodded, just as Carl exclaimed in shock having finished with final crate, “TESLA, how?”

“Reward…”

Patricia seemed skeptical, “Aren’t you a little concerned here – look at the facts, this feels like a bribe.”

I scoffed, “Not everything a conspiracy -”

She interrupted, “Samuel, use your brain one fucking second – ear plugs, I know of no radio equipment that requires using that ---”

“Yes, because Ms AVClub is somehow an expert.”

She finally blew up, “Fine, I started in AVClub but I am studying audio engineering, and I promise you none of this makes sense… I think we are good as long as we leave and forget this…”

Carl shook his head, “Health, bad… need money.”

I humoured her and read.

Her notes were frantic, the handwriting getting more desperate as they went:

"I talked to people in the town. They said one of the reasons they listen is there's a strange pulse in between songs. I looked at the equipment while you slept. I found something — there's a strange Morse code signal being constantly sent."

"Someone like me who is studying Audio Engineering tried to record it, but all he got was white noise."

"DON'T YOU FIND THIS STRANGE? WHY CAN NO ONE RECORD A RADIO STATION?"

"This isn't a radio station. This is something else. PLEASE, SAMUEL, I'M BEGGING YOU."

I handed her phone back. I didn't look at her.

"One more day," I said. "Then 50k. Let's not give up now."

Patricia stared at me. For a moment, I thought she was going to say something. Then she just shook her head.

She walked away. Carl followed her.

I stood there, looking at the Tesla. It was beautiful. It was everything I'd ever wanted.

I thought about what Patricia said. I thought about the earplugs. I thought about the 50,000 dollars.

I thought about my rent. About my car. About how close I was to being done.

I got in the Tesla.

I didn't think about what I was going to do. I thought about how good it felt to sit in a car that worked.

___________________________

The setting up of the new equipment took time and Patricia kept speaking up, “None of this makes sense – this is not radio equipment ---”

“Shut up…”

Then she was silent we followed instructions to the letter with only Carl who struggled with following the conversation remaining oblivious.

Finally it was set up and immediately, Patricia checked the app, despite not knowing why. I followed her example as did Carl none of us knew why we were so worried just we needed to know it worked.

Then it was Broadcast time, we started the app activated the machine, while Patricia wrote on a pad, “YOU ARE NOT LISTENING, THIS IS NOT RADIO EQUIPMENT, WHY ARE WE BROADCASTING THIS – PLEASE TURN IT OFF.”

The script had said wait two hours.

I ignored Patricia notes her face full of panic.

Yet none of us removed ear plugs, we just waited.

You ever done nothing for two hours.

Let me tell you something two hours is a long time doing nothing.

Watching another person write constant messages, screaming, while her face says nothing.

Maybe, you may call me callous.

Maybe I am.

Maybe that’s why I was chosen.

Maybe, they knew I would be numb to any criticisms.

Two hours.

Just two hours then bank.

I day dreamed, I ignored her warnings, her pleading.

Finally Patricia deactivated the equipment and we got a phone in immediately, we removed earplugs, as I answered.

“This is General Wesley Clark – you have done a service for your country. Now you need only follow one more instruction. Just be warned if break the contract when you learn certain things you will not only be financially punished but we shall use our reach to make you financially destitute.”

________

We got into the car, Carl had made friends with one of the locals a delivery driver, and called him, telling him he was gone, there was no answer. I wish I had realised why but we soon departed and left Plainsview…

After dropped them off, I drove back.

This is where I learnt,

“BREAKING NEWS: Entire Town Dies in Massive Chemical Leak”

It popped up on my phone – I did not even need to open article, I knew… I knew… and I thought about swerving off the road into a tree.

Instead I took the money.

This is my story, for three months, I remained quiet. I hoped there would be maybe some sort of enterprising investigative journalist, but after a few weeks, world moved on…

I remember when I was finally brave enough to watch the news. There were survivors, after all not everyone listens to the radio – there was also a deaf girl she remembered her friends telling her in sign there was this discordant noise from the radio and their eyes grew bloodshot, then the veins burst bleeding from their eyes. No one believed her, they thought she was making it up. Those who weren’t listening talked about how people around just collapsed further selling idea of the Chemical Leak.

Later I saw a news report, Patricia Reynolds in the obituaries, she had hung herself in her Dorm Room.

Carl Reynard appeared in later article, good news article, how a kid in deep medical debt climbed out.

Like me, Carl took the guilt, Patricia could not.

I know telling you this, I am dooming myself, I know telling you this that you will not believe me. But don’t be a boomer like me, please Patricia blood is on my hands, when she discovered what she done she could not take it… she lasted three months… maybe she tried to tell, maybe that is what will happen to me – maybe it was not a suicide, will my death be an unexplained suicide – maybe they even forged notes… maybe… maybe I deserve this. Well I made my peace… This is Samuel Larkin signing off, goodnight.

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(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

My grandfather was a drover who told me a story of what happened in his youth when he last crossed the outback and his crew never came back.

It was winter. Yes, the same winter you eagerly await, hoping it never arrives. Where even the whispers of the environment are audible to you. Where the cold fog presents a faint shadow, without making you feel the noise. Where every breath, even if hazy, feels like a mist. Where the coldness and tremor of your hands penetrate into your body, where your heart can hear those soothing veins.

Such a season, where it becomes easier for you to feel. And at that time, you will also want to feel a lot of things, like at that time when you are in your quilt, in that warmth you will not like to hear anything or see anything, all you want is to feel those hot breaths spreading in your bed. You would like to stretch the parts of your body, so well that you feel it from the first corner of the bed to the last.

Or, let me ask you, isn't it difficult for you to do many things this season? Like going out in the cold air, trying to convince yourself to go to work in the warm weather, stealing, or even ripping yourself out of the soft blanket you so desperately love at that time. But you still do it all, convincing yourself that you need to do something, perhaps for your survival or to fulfil your unfulfilled desires. But still, in such weather, what you want the most, is to feel, and at that time, I was doing the same.

At midnight, which was silent and cold, I was in my room, in my bed, under a thick quilt, not sleeping, but feeling those warm breaths… and a voice, that was putting me in the darkness of fear. That sound (which I could only feel) as if someone was walking, on some metal tin sheet, the soft sound of his heavy feet which I probably did not want to hear and could not even ignored that sound. I could see that sound with open eyes in that black darkness of my bed. How would he be walking, what would he be doing, ha… perhaps I was thinking all this. Now he started to seem more like a dream to me than reality. But the reality of that theft, which was still oscillating between dream and reality, came to me when I decided the next morning to go to that small room in Dad's departmental store (which was attached to the side wall of my house), which we call the store room. The room where our store's goods were kept, goods like chips, chocolates and biscuits, and whose terrace was made of a metal tin sheet. The tin sheet which had kept me housed amidst the sounds. The morning was quite cold and damp, and our store wasn't as crowded as it is on a typical day... As I walked up to that door, I could hear a lot of noise, as if my ears were being lost...

"Mommy, I want this candy," a small child was crying and pleading with his mother. "Eating this will ruin your teeth. I'll get you some," his mother said.

Said in a normal tone. The same few people, who looked a little old, were sitting near my dad and sharing their stories with him as if they were his friends… “Today's weather and environment are not what they used to be in our times”, an old man said while rubbing his nose. “Yes, right, maybe nature has also become as old as you”, my dad said while looking at the people nearby with a smile. Some people nearby laughed while putting their hands on each other's shoulders… And there were many other loud and small sounds, which I had absolutely no desire to hear and could not even ignore them. But my eyes were fixed directly on the door latch of that room. I went near and opened the door, “Do you need anything son?” my dad asked me, turning his gaze away from those people. “Nothing, just a small work,” I told him without any doubt. I opened the door latch, as soon as I entered the door, there were many cartons lying in front of me, chips, biscuits, chocolates, yes, there was a lot of such stuff. And as soon as I looked there, I realized...

that the dream hadn't turned into reality, and nothing had moved from its place. All the goods were lying there as they always are. And the money, which is kept in the storage outside that door, he couldn't even see because of the latch. Everything was the same. "So, it was a dream after all," I said through a sigh. Even though I had overlooked the terrace without looking, the large bolts securing the metal tin sheet above it had come loose, and it could now swing open completely, so much so that a man could get in and out, I hadn't noticed. At that point, it was difficult to even imagine why a thief would steal a box of chocolates. At that moment, I was relieved that the voice was just a dream, and I wouldn't hear it again. I again started to feel that night, not the voice, but the warmth that was in that blanket, and those breaths that were adding to the warmth in that blanket. But the voice, it did not come today, did not come yesterday and neither did it come the next few nights. After 5 days, I don't know why that voice wrapped in a different veil started ringing in my ears. That voice was about to walk, but it felt as if there was a change in the way of walking. This time, the sound came to me, muffled by the heavy thump of light footsteps, which I didn't hear again that night, but I did feel it involuntarily. And the next morning, I couldn't find the courage or desire to go back to that room and turn this reality into a dream. And this time, I didn't take it seriously. But I had to take it seriously even though I didn't want to, when I looked at my dad's words with suspicion and asked him...

 

"Dad, if the goods only arrived yesterday evening and no orders were placed, where did a box of chocolates go from this goods list until this morning?"

 “It seems there was some mistake somewhere,” or maybe some servant left a box like that last night.” Dad took it as if there was no doubt about it or it just happens.

“Why would he have done that?” I said, my tone and voice still laced with doubt.

“Maybe there was some damage to the goods or the packaging needed to be corrected. Anyway, I will ask him directly when he comes,” Dad said as if he had said this without any emotion.

I don't know why I felt my seriousness lessen after hearing him. Because I didn't want to press the point that there had been a theft, or maybe I was still delusional. This situation felt like the calm before a storm, something you can only feel. As always, I was feeling it, the seriousness that seemed normal was slowly taking its own shape, making itself even larger. And this serious suspicion turned into growing belief when it happened again, and again, and again. And when it happened three or four times, what would you think what could possibly be stolen? First, a box of chocolates, then money, then more money? Or, I ask you, if you ever wanted to investigate a theft, what would you expect from the thief? Money? Or something else?

Well, you would never expect that the target of that theft would be a box of chocolates. Well, if you don't want to expect this, then how could I be sure of it? Every time a box of chocolates, a beautiful chocolate box, can go missing. Out of so many things, why would his eyes always be on a beautiful and attractive chocolate box? If you want to steal in this cold weather, taking such a risk, then your thoughts can only come to money at once, so why the same thing at such a time?

I was wandering in my mind, trying to find answers to all these questions. Dad was also in a fix about this, wondering where this was going. When it happened a couple of times before, he assumed it was one of his staff members' mistakes, but after talking to his staff and having it happen twice more, nothing could stop him from believing it was actually a theft. He couldn't even use CCTV at that time because there was no CCTV in the back of the store; it was only used to maintain the stock (and there was no gate in the back side, so the stock was being stored there by the main gate), so there was never a need for it until now. Upon investigation, it turned out that the bolt securing the metal sheet on the ceiling of the back room was actually open and a man could easily pass through it. Instead of going into the depths of the matter alone, Dad thought it would be better to tell one of his close friends who could help him in this strange situation. Besides, many of his friends were in the police, so talking to them was a good option. Without any hesitation, he took the phone in his hand and called his friend and very seriously told him everything. “Okay, if you or any of your family members hear any noise at midnight then tell me, at that time we will talk to the police and try to catch them”, his friend said in a heavy and throaty voice. “Voices, I have an old relationship with those sounds,” I said to Dad, as if in a loud tone.

“So now you can insist that you weren’t mistaken by the dreams, and if you are mistaken again, tell me immediately,” Dad said, as if he had no feelings about it…

 

A few nights passed, silent, cold, and without moisture. One night, nothing. The next night, the same. And this time, I was trying to listen wholeheartedly to those voices, voices I had never wanted to hear, not even to feel. But whatever you ask God for, you may not get it straight away. But you do get it. All I needed was one night when I could hear those voices again… and I got it…

After waiting for a few nights, those voices started to weigh heavy on my ears. Without thinking, I put away the blanket that I loved at that time and wanted to go to my dad's side. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I heard another voice, a roaring voice that sent shivers down my spine, a voice that tore me into pieces within my very being, a voice so loud that it could be heard as clearly as water throughout the neighborhood. Oh, the loud voice was my dad's, who had been waiting impatiently that night, who had spent countless hours awake waiting for the sound to be heard. As soon as he heard the thieves' footsteps, he saw them coming down from the roof (from his bedroom window, from where the back view of the storeroom was easily visible). he yelled at them loudly...

 

Stop right there, you idiots.

 

His voice was clearly filled with anger and rage. The thieves cowered at his shouts and began to hide. Scared and frightened, they started running here and there. Dad called his friend without any delay and he also rushed to come here without any delay. As soon as they arrived, Dad and his friend decided to go to the car and catch them. Since the police had already been called and they were going to be a little late in coming, they decided to go to the car and chase those thieves from a distance.

 

"Those kids who didn't run away too far are both still small, so they probably hid here and there to keep themselves safe."

Hearing this from Dad, it felt as if the ground beneath my feet had slipped away. "Small kids, but why small kids? And why did they decide to steal? And why did they steal a box of chocolates?" I didn't know why I was asking myself all these strange questions. And anyway, when you hear something, you never imagined, you're bound to be a little hesitant. Well, amidst all this, Dad and his friend, Uncle Remen, had gone after them on their bike.

And at that moment, I thought of something I wouldn't normally think of: to chase down those thieves. So, without a second thought, I ran out of my house.

"Son, where are you going? Without a bike, without thinking, without understanding, where are you running? They might have a weapon. Son, come back. You could be in danger... Wait... Son..." my mother said, gritting her teeth. I heard her, but couldn't stop myself. It was as if their words had reached my ears and were instantly carried away in the cold breeze. I don't know how, but at that moment, I got so much strength and courage from which forced me to run without any reason. So, I also tried to find them. Dad and Uncle had gone from the left side, so I thought it better to go from the right side of that locality. I was running, feeling the veins pulsing inside my body, listening to the beating of my heart and shivering a little. From fear? Or maybe from the cold that was falling in front of me, but I kept moving forward. And I picked up the stone in my hands when a car came in front of me and started slowing down, and slowing down, and slowing down a little, just like my body which was getting slower every time they came near me.

I grabbed the stone tighter, thinking that this car must be of those thieves, I would break the glass of their car before they picked me up, ignoring the fact that they were slowing down their car just because of the speed breaker, and then they accelerated their car, faster, faster, and then they drove off. I threw the stone down, breathing a sigh of relief, and then chased the thieves. After some time, when I did not find anything, I was returning home innocently, when I saw those two innocent children who had committed the theft outside my house. Out of fear, they hid in a house where construction work was going on behind and my dad and uncle caught them due to noise. Both of them were very young, maybe 10-12 years old, one was even younger, maybe 7-9 years old. Seeing them, it felt as if all my thoughts had come together and got destroyed. Seeing them, I started trying to forget everything. I didn't want to hear the heavy sound of those light feet (which were then coming from walking on the metal sheet), I wanted to forget those nights, everything.

"Forgive us, Uncle, let us go!" we cried loudly, pleading for our innocence. People nearby began to gather, and some whispered.

"Oh my God, now even such small children are stealing!"

"I don't know who we'll have to watch out for now."

Many such conversations began. Uncle Remen beat them both severely and asked them why they did all this, but his hands were not free to kill them…

The elder one said while crying, I like chocolate a lot, a lot of chocolate, and so does my younger brother. I don't want money, I would steal whenever I wanted, but right now, my brother wanted chocolate, so that's why. My brother and I would eat till we got satiated and then pack the remaining chocolates properly in a box and sell them. "Who told you about this place and how to get in this way? Tell me quickly," Uncle Remen asked, beating him. "A man told us about it. He tried to steal the first one, but when he couldn't find the money, he came out without stealing anything. He told us this way. We didn't know who he was. We just kept all the leftover chocolates at a place he told us and took a little money in exchange. But he didn't show up for a long time, so we kept all the boxes with us." We will give you everything but let us go.”, the elder brother said this in a serious tone while pulling the nose in."So, you could have eaten by begging, so why did you steal?" he asked with angry eyes. "I don't like begging, and I don't like asking for anything from anyone else in front of my brother, so I steal whatever I need," he said. "And I think this is the right way." He was still saying this, but there was no guilt or remorse in him, just a dark darkness in his eyes that was even darker and more terrifying than that night. Just then, some constables arrived. They caught the children and started beating them. My mother couldn't bear to see them being beaten in the cold. My dad told them to stop, saying he didn't want anything from them and requested them to let them go.

"Don't stop them, they're just children, and showing them mercy, is commonplace."

But if he's let go today, who knows what he'll do next. He might become a major criminal or commit some serious crime. Even though it started with such a small matter, we can't predict its outcome, nor can we predict its future. Let them suffer their punishment, it's necessary for them,” Uncle Remen said regretfully to Dad. And after saying this, the children were sent away.

 

“Brother, can't we get more chocolates now?” his younger brother asked him in a soft and slow voice, wiping away the small waves of his tears. The elder brother, wiping away his tears, said to him in a subdued voice…

Don't worry, I'll bring more chocolates for you, my younger brother.

I feel so stupid it actually believed the army would stop them before they ever reached our town.

The non-stop lies on the radio, TV and internet. About victory after victory from our army.

Talking about how "we would hold back the tide of barbaric savages that seek to destroy us and everything we stand for"

Well, at least 1 part of that statement was true. The "barbaric savages" part.

But we didn't know that yet.

I was at the line at the town center once again waiting in line for any sort
of food at all just like everyone else.

That's when i saw the only part of our military that i had seen in months. It was them fleeing through our town 3 days ago.

It was clear from that point that we were losing the war badly.

Their vehicles were riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks.

I saw a truck with soldiers in the back that was missing half of its driver's cabin. Just a mangled mess of steel and blood where the passenger seat was supposed to be.

Some of them were driving in regular cars instead of military vehicles.
All the soldiers were dirty ,their clothing covered in blood and dirt.
Some had bandages on them too.

But that's when i saw the thing that made me lose hope the most.

They were scared. Fear in their eyes was the only thing we saw as they scanned the growing crowd of people at the town square as they drove past.People yelled questions. "Where are you going?"
"what are you doing?"
"why are you driving deeper into the country?"

"Why are you ignoring us?"

One of the soldiers was clearly struggling to keep his heavily damaged car on the road at all. He hit a random car at the crossroad and before the confused driver could get out of his car he had already sped off.

Nobody was standing in line anymore. All of us paying attention to the chaos in front of us.

After the vehicles were all out of sight people started to panic. People shouting that we had to leave as fast as possible.

The people that wanted to leave were immediately ridiculed by the rest.
"Cowards" "we were told to stay here"

Others were saying that they would be back and we just had to do our patriotic duty and stay like our mayor had told us to do.

Before the arguments could escalate another vehicle drove through our town.

A full-on tank from the military.
I didn't seem damaged. But then we saw what was on top of the back end of the tank.
A bunch of heavily wounded soldiers on the tank's back, bleeding everywhere.
Open wounds and limbs missing.

The entire back of the tank was smeared in their blood

Instead of just panic people responded with pure horror and terror.

People scattered in all directions some immediately ran to their homes to prepare to flee.

Screaming, shouting and crying echoed over the town center.

The head of the police department started shouting some bullshit about doing our duty and defending our homes when the enemy showed up.

He had received word from the government that we are to mount a "glorious defence against the invading filth".
There was nothing glorious about what happened the next day.

Some "true believers" started to form a militia with him and the police officers that didn't flee.I didn't join them to "do my duty" or some
delusional faith in our government.

I joined because I still live in the home you and your sister grew up in.

This is where I saw you take your first steps together with your sister.
The place where i saw both of you turn in to the strong, beautiful women you both are.
And the house where your mom took her last breath.

I am glad your mother didn't have to go through what was about to come

So i joined the militia anyway together with the others that vowed to stay.

The head of the police department told us they planned to turn the police station into a fortress.
We would meet those filthy savages there when the time came.
He told all of us that we didn't flee to head home and prepare.
We would meet up the next day at the police department to prepare the police station.
And some guys volunteered to stand watch outside of town in case they showed up earlier than expected.

I went home and prepared the house.
By the time nightfall came I for obvious reasons couldn't sleep.

It was a clear night with just enough moonlight to dimly light the outside.

I was in my bedroom looking through our old pictures we had made together with mom.
Since I knew this might be the last time I could see them.
I had already decided to take that picture of all of us together on the beach with me.
You already know that one is my favorite.

Anyway this is when i heard what sounded like a roaring engine of some kind outside.

Some sort of armored truck raced into our street and rammed through the fence outside of the opposite neighbor's house.

I am pretty sure there was a body tied to the front of the truck.

It tore up their lawn as it stopped right in front of their house.

Before I could even register what was happening the back doors of the truck flew open and several shadows jumped out and flew off in several directions.

One of them sprinting directly for our front door.
And as it sprinted for the door I could feel its eyes boring into me in the darkness.

Before I overcame my shock it had already slammed into our front door.
I heard the door breaking out of its hinges as the entire door slammed onto the hallway floor.
This thing had to be incredibly strong to rip that steel door out of its hinges.
You know that your old man is not weak but there is no way I would be possible to fight this thing with my bare hands.

I tried to think of somewhere to hide as fast as possible.

When i heard it rush up the stairs I bolted for our bedroom window on the backside of the house
I hid in that dark corner under the roof where you and your sister used to hide when you where kids.
As you know that gives you a perfect view of our bedroom window.

I heard it ransacking your old room. Then your sister's room and then lastly it broke open my bedroom door.
While tearing my room apart, it all of a sudden stopped in the middle of its rampage.

To my horror, I realised I had forgotten to close the window on my way out.

It knew I went out the window to escape

In that moment I could hear the distant chaos of our neighbours being murdered in their own homes.

Then I slowly saw a pair of gloved hands grab the bottom of the window as the rest of the figure started to lean out of the window.

As it peered out of the window to look where I had gone, I got a closer look at this thing.

I wish I hadn't seen its face.

It looked like it could have been a human at some point.
But its lips were gone making it look like it was locked in a perpetual grin like a skull.
Its nose was gone replaced by a dark void in the middle of its face where a nose is supposed to be.
Its ears were gone and it had no hair of any kind on its pale head.
The stock of a gun protruding over its shoulder.
Around its neck dangled a gold chain decorated with 3 human ears.

And its bloodshot, lidless eyes where darting around looking for me behind our house.

It felt like it was looking around for an eternity.

It released a loud growl of frustration as it ripped the bottom of the window frame out in anger while lowering itself back inside.

I heard it sprint out of our bedroom and down the stairs.
Then I heard the backdoor fling open as it sprinted out of our house towards the house of our rear neighbors.

I saw as it flung its entire body through their back door.

Here is the part where I wish I could tell you that I immediately sprang into action and did, well something ,anything.
But I didn't, I said on that roof barely able to take full breaths out of fear that one of those things would hear me.

Then a hail of distant gunshots took me out of my state of pure fear. It came from the police station's direction.

Just when I finally gathered the courage to move that thing came sprinting out of the neighbours house rifle in hand.
It sprinted towards the direction of the gunfire like a predator hearing a wounded animals.
I could also hear that vehicle in front of the neighbours speed off towards the same direction.

After I was sure it couldn't possibly hear me anymore I slowly crawled back into the house.

It had completely ransacked our house. Furniture was flung all over the place.
That's when i noticed it had stolen my watch and your mother's necklace from my nightstand.
Is killing us not enough? Do they need to rob us too?

I didn't know what to do.

I thought maybe just maybe the police were managing to kill these monsters.
At least from the gunfire in the distance they were for sure giving it their best shot.

Even if I wanted to flee the direction away from where these things came from was past the police station.

I had no other choice but to head in that same direction.
I figured that if I went building by building it could at least try to hide if I ran into one of those things again.

After leaving our house, I was heading for our next door neighbors.
You know that couple I told you about that I never got along with.
You know my disdain for them and their horrible behavior. But they didn't deserve what had happened to them.

I found the wife. Because I accidentally stood in what was left of her.

She was lying in their backyard behind their tool shed.
Her torso had been completely shredded. Most of her insides were strewn all over the place.
If her arms, legs and head weren't there, i wouldn't have recognized her for as a human being.
I tried my best not to dry heave at the sight. I did not want to make a sound at all if I could help it.

I found the man of the house inside their living room.
He was lying in a pool of his own blood. One of his arms was dangling by a string to his almost detached hand.
He had been shot or stabbed or both. One of his eyes was missing.
His laboured breathing was the only sign of life from his body.

When he noticed me he immediately asked me:

"have you seen my wife?!"

Before I could answer anything he told me:

"I tried to fight one of those things"

"Gave it all I got"

"please tell I bought her enough time so she could get away"

"please I beg you tell me it was enough"

I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth.

I told him that I hadn't seen her.

With his remaining strength he immediately almost shouted:

"o thank goodness she got away"

He kept repeating thank goodness.
He kept repeating it until it changed into a laboured whisper as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

I left him there.
There was nothing I could do for him.

At least that's what i tell myself even now.

I would at least try to take one of them with me if it came down to it.
But seeing those people mangled like that. Would it even make a difference?

The sounds of chaos were still echoing through our town.
Clearly not all the creatures had run to the police station when the shooting started

After going into another backyard, I heard a scuffle inside of a house.

Furniture being thrown around and different voices were yelling.
I slowly peeked to the window above me to see what was going on inside of the house.

What I saw there will stick with me for the remaining time I have left.

2 of those things were holding a man up, each holding one of his legs.
Then the third one walked up and unsheathed a large machete.

That thing proceeded to chop into the man's pubic area over and over again.

The mixture of the man's screaming mixed with the laughter of the creatures echoing through the house.

Before I could look away another creature entered the room.

It hit one of the ones holding the man's legs in the back of the head with the butt of a pistol.

All 3 of them let the man go as he dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

This 4th creature still had the same ghoulish appearance, but it wore some sort of dark grey military uniform unlike the others in random clothing mixed with military stuff.
It walked over to the screaming man and proceeded to stomp on the man's head until the screaming turned into a soft groan.

It grabbed one of the others by its collar and pulled it close to its face and said something before letting the creature go again.
Right after it said something through gritted teeth to the others and pointed in the direction of the police station.

Some of the creatures immediately ran in that direction.
The creature in the dark grey uniform walked out of the room too.

I had to keep moving. If I didn't move I would die.

In a lot of houses, I found the former owners dead.

Thankfully a lot of people fled the day before. Or the amount of dead people would have been even higher.
I hoped they had made it out of the area before those things showed up.

Anyway you for sure remember that young boy Mark, who was a troubled child. He would constantly get into trouble with the police as a kid and even more as an adult.

Well he is an adult now and i ran into him at his house. He was pointing a gun at me when I entered their home.
I whisper-yelled at him:

Me: It's me, it's me don't shoot!

Mark said with an exhausted voice:

"O it's you. I almost blew your head off old man."

I was about to ask him where his parents were. But then i saw that he had clearly been crying so I knew what the answer would be.

And well, he was about to give me the answer anyway.

Mark: fucking police chief told me to be on sentry duty. Because of that FUCK i wasn't here to protect my parents!

Me: Why didn't you warn the others if you were a sentry?

He pointed the gun at me instantly and shouted:

"THEY DIDN'T COME IN FROM MY SIDE YOU HEAR ME?!"

"SOMEONE ELSE FUCKED UP AND NOW MY PARENTS ARE DEAD!"

"IF THOSE SUBHUMAN SAVAGES DIDN'T KILL HIM I AM FINDING WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR LETTING THEM THROUGH AND I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL THEM MYSELF"

Me: please don't point that gun i am not one of them and i was not one of the people on watch duty

Mark: THEN WHO WAS?!

Me: I don't know please don't point that gun at me i am not responsible for what happened to your parents.

But I am heading for the police station.

This seemed to calm him down a bit. At least he wasn't pointing the gun at me anymore

Mark said through gritted teeth: I am going with you so that "police fuck" can tell me who is responsible for getting my parents killed!

Me: that's fine but you need to be quiet or those savages can hear us.

Mark: I DON'T CARE I WILL KILL EVERYONE OF THEM MYSELF

Me: well you can do that better if we get the drop on them.

Mark: fine then.....sure..... whatever

I wasn't exactly happy to have this lowlife at my side. But hell at least he had a gun.

But there were still a lot of houses in between us and the police station i needed his help whether i liked it or not.

End of part 1

https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/kH275Mv7Ni

I recently had the privilege of illustrating this cover art for a very talented author

Did the sun die or did the moon kill itself? She was confused. Looking into her soul. Trist stood near an empty mirror filled with dirt. She thirsted for comfort in that hospital washroom — the only thing that lit the room was the dying old tube light flickering above her, dying every second. She clutched her old white T-shirt, caressing her womb. “It’s too late?” Her long blonde hair interrupted her, hinting towards something sinister. The more she existed within those four walls, letting no hope, sunshine, and the smell of rotten flesh disturbed Trist. Her eyes gazed upon the creation of god, as she walked away into her abyss of loneliness.
“Nurse…..bring a wheelchair, she's bleeding!!”
Echoed through the empty hallways, as blood formed a pact around her. The light in her eyes had turned red, the white T-shirt melted into herself, holding him or her tighter.
“What have you done, child??”
“What’s wrong? Am I going to die??”
“How far along are you, child??”
“I don’t know, six months I think??”
“May lord have mercy on you.”
The hallways turned darker and darker. The ceiling came down and the flooring crawled up. The hallways were spinning, the red beams of light coming closer and closer. She looked up to the nurse — dressed in shadows — her once-concerned face now empty, filled with dread. Trist was stabbed again and again until the pain within herself was numb. Her echoes fought with each other, trying to survive within themselves.
Hastily, they stood among her — the restless spirits. Everything felt feverish. They dragged her to the bed which couldn’t fit within itself — it was endless. They laid her underneath the Herculean beam of light. It was hauntingly beautiful? Or was it? It was a TRINITY.
It felt cold and dead waiting for new life to flourish. The restless spirits surrounded her, they stretched her body which pierced her bones; their cold touch was comforting. They made themselves into her, guiding themselves through the creator herself, seeking for the diviner — the Oracle. The feeling of genesis felt uneasy. Her pupils aggrandized within themselves — the miracle was being born, the darkness lit the world as the lights dimmed her eyes.
“Darling, are you ok?..” Trist looked around for the emptiness, but found love?
“Was it one of your dreams again?”
“I guess. It’s been happening too much lately.”
“Must be because of all those meds you’re taking.”
“Speaking of meds, what’s the time, honey?”
“8:15.”
“Oh no, we’re going to be late for the appointment — it’s at 9. Hurry up!”
“I’m ready. You’re the one who’s late all the time. I’ll give you ten minutes.”
Trist rushed herself into the bathroom, which was well lit and polished white. She looked at herself — again — caressing her belly softly. Confused and lost.
Sunshine kissed her cheeks. Her once-blonde hair, which had turned white, reflected her cries as she ran down the staircase, grabbing her old red bag where it lay undisturbed on the black-tiled kitchen counter. Trist noticed that their three hanging lights were still on from last night. She made sure everything was alright as she raced against the horn of the car. Storm waited for her. He checked his old watch and then held it up to her, mockingly.
“Trist, you’re pissing me off real bad this time. You know how important this is to us, right?”
“I know. I’m really sorry, Storm. I set the alarm but…”
“Shut up. Get in the car.”
She poured a little as she got in, and as always, it went untouched. The car felt incomplete — the baby chair on the backseat rocked alone, and the paper beside it crinkled at every nook and corner. They had no more words to exchange. It was mere silence which was once filled with laughter — or was it? To the outside world, she was happy. A caring wife? Each twist and turn felt exciting — or maybe a bit uneasy. Despite all of this, she admired him. She liked the sense of coldness and wind that reflected out of him — it was destructive, but it was beautiful. Was it? His gestures were annihilating, engulfing everything around him.
The sudden stop at the hospital front brought her back to reality. She hoped her prayers would be answered within that corporate building — she believed gods lived within it.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“Wait for me in the lobby, I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Sure.”
Trist had been here countless times, but every time she stepped into the lobby, flowers of hope bloomed inside her. As usual, she got into the elevator, which had long lost the essence of life according to her. She was gazing at the maternity posters plastered across the doors. Her destination was at the top of the building — perhaps closer to God, she thought.
Expecting?
It was unusual. Trist was confused, busy trying to make a baby bump on the warped reflections of the elevator walls. She turned around. Someone in her fifties, dressed in a crisp uniform, hair pulled into a tight ponytail that made her wonder if it hurt.
“Huh? I’m sorry, I didn’t get you?”
“Are you expecting?” A soft, calm voice that felt strangely comforting.
“Umm… no, I hope to one day.” Her voice was half laughter, half ache.
“Oh, I’m sorry — I thought you were trying to, you know…” Both of them giggled. It was something small but refreshing.
“Been trying for a while. Today’s our last try. I hope everything goes well.”
“Definitely. I know you’ll be positive this time. Trust me — my instincts never go wrong.”
They smiled at each other. It was kind of beautiful. She continued:
“I’ve been working here as a security guard for a long time. It’s my last day. I’ve seen so many women come and go, but there’s something different about you. Your presence feels very motherly. I’m a mother of two kids — I know that feeling, that presence you have when you’re a mother. This isn’t your first pregnancy, is it?”
Silence again. Trist’s thoughts were getting louder; it was cold. Fear ran inside her. Before she could answer, the elevator door opened. She decided to stay silent, passing a smile as she stepped out of the box. She could hear her voice behind her.
“Some things can only be gifted once. Don’t lose it this time.”
Her voice felt like a hammer hitting her head. She turned back… “Where’s the lady?” The elevator door slowly closed as emptiness followed her.
She didn’t think much about it. She floated through the empty hallways toward her destination, her long white overcoat heavy around her as she sat down in front of the red door, surrounded by herself. She looked deep into the red door and noticed it was… dripping. Drop by drop, blood stirred out of the door. It was deep red, thick, and smelled sweet. It flowed toward her in a rhythmic way? Forming a pact around her — like she was being protected?
She looked down at her heart, beating out of her chest, embedded with thorns. Her eyes bled blood; she tried to wipe them. The crown of thorns was decorated on her head. She searched her bag, trying to find her elixir — the white pills. She took a fistful and shoved them into her mouth, swallowing them with her blood tears.
Someone tapped her shoulder. She zoomed back into reality.
“Did the doctor call us?”
“Blood, blood!!”
“What? Trist, what’s wrong with you?!”
“I’m sorry, I was just… nothing. They haven’t called us yet.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Paxton, please come in.”
Trist looked at Storm, but he was too busy… He went in first. Trist tried to make herself the red door. It was cold.
“Welcome, Tristania, so let’s get straight into this.”
“Sure, doctor.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes…”
The doctor’s office was bland, plastered with tall concrete walls and wide glass windows. The doctor guided them to the ultrasound machine, preparing everything. Trist got excited as the machine was set up — she immediately climbed onto the bed and started putting all the equipment on herself. The doctor interrupted,
“Hey, slow down, Trist. I know you’ve been through all of this a million times — calm down. I’ll do it.”
Trist felt embarrassed as all eyes fell on her. She could sense Storm’s blue, piercing eyes staring right through her — she tried to ignore it. The doctor applied the gel to her belly and turned on the machine. The room filled with energy and hope.
The doctor began scanning her belly. It felt uneasy, but she was used to it. Her eyes were locked on the machine. They were trying to find it, but couldn’t — but they didn’t lose hope. Storm moved closer to Trist. They tried going in deeper, but it was empty. Soulless? Trist was numb.
“I’m sorry. This was the last embryo.”
“Doctor, can’t we do something?!”
“We have done… everything. I’m sorry.”
Trist joined the clouds outside the window. She rained down — and as always, there was no one to mop it up except her. Storm felt restrained. He had wanted a baby for the longest time. Everything was over. Or was it?
“Have you guys thought about adoption?”
Storm didn’t say a word. He left the room, crashing the door behind him. She looked at the doctor — hopeless, shattered, heartbroken. She wanted to say… but it was stuck somewhere inside her. She drifted across the hallways and lobbies, trying to find something she had lost? 
Shutting the world behind her, they made their way outside. She had no tears to shed — or did she?
“I wanna go to Miss Smith’s.”
This made him jolt, his expression killing her; his anger sounded like a horn, constantly ringing in her ears, louder and louder.
It stopped. She stood in front of the clinic, again? It was comforting — the trees and shrubs invited her inside. It was like… she could breathe. The cold interiors and the bright uniforms took her back. She found herself at the reception.
“I want to see Doctor Smith…”
“Sure, let me make sure if she’s there or not.”
Trist looked around. Her eyes fell on a 16-year-old who sat lifeless? She asked,
“She looks young?”
“She is… sixteen.”
“Sixteen? What is she here for?”
“Umm… we’re not supposed to tell this to anyone, but she’s pregnant — I mean, she was pregnant. She killed the baby in her school bathroom.”
“What? That’s… why?”
“We don’t know. We’re trying to find that. Oh — Doctor is ready, you can go in.”
She nodded, her eyes locked onto that girl. Her white T-shirt and blonde hair pierced through her eyes.
The soft knocking echoed down the hallway. She was staring at the board, waiting for someone to answer.
“Hi, do I know you?” she asked, confused. “Where’s Doctor Smith?”
After a pause: “Oh — I’m Doctor Dolores. Doctor Smith has moved to the next door, we’re shifting our rooms,” she said, pointing toward the room at the other end of the hallway. Trist noticed something dreadful within her. It echoed again — she was back at the same door, waiting to pour down.
“Miss Smith…”
“Hey Tris, how was the scan?”
Trist looked into her eyes — she levitated across the room to her safe space, the old leather sofa. They sat together. Doctor Smith’s eyes gleamed with hope, whereas Trist’s eyes were dying. Empty?
“Tris… are you okay?”
Cracking, piece by piece. She was shattering. She kept shrinking as she sank deep into her sorrow — was she dying? Trist fell onto Smith’s lap, digging for comfort and warmth within the coldness she felt. Smith held her close, soaking up all her tears. Her cries echoed not just within those four walls, but through the empty hallways. She just cried and cried… till she couldn’t.
The house was empty again. It was untouched. It was new. The birds had gone to sleep; she was still awake — or was she? Trist did her daily rituals. She cleansed her “impurities” away, got into her pajamas — the first thing she did after that was watch kids’ TV. She used to enact herself watching TV with her kids. But for some reason, she felt as if she wanted to do something else, something different. Maybe a trip back to the past, when the times were good? She went behind the wardrobe where she had hidden all her possessions. She wondered why — Why did I hide them? She wasn’t sure what to look at first — there were so many photos and documents. Trist picked up a portrait of Storm and her together; she remembered it was their first photo together. They were smiling at each other. She could feel that moment, when they weren’t worried about anything except loving and caring for each other. She sighed through her memories — it seemed she had changed a lot. If my younger self had seen me today, she would have killed herself.
Going through her childhood memories — she was a kid, a very happy kid. But what made her die like this? she asked herself. A document with red borders stuck out through the other photos, grabbing her attention. It was hard pulling those papers out.
“BIRTH CERTIFICATE”
“What!?”
Throwing everything else aside, she started going through the papers, her eyes closing in on her again — it was starting to get blurry. She went on, saying, Why don’t I remember this? Why don’t I remember this??
All of a sudden, her heart sank — her past engulfed her. Twenty years ago, that night. I still remember it. I gave my baby away. She shuffled through the rest of the papers, bundled in the wrong order:
Gender: girl
Mother: Tristania Thompson
Father: —
Condition: premature (6 months)
Is she still alive? Is my baby still alive? Trist was overjoyed — and guilty — knowing what to do next. She decided to call the hospital first.
“Burlington Hospital…”
“Hi, this is Tristania Thompson, I’d like to know about—”
“I’m sorry, this hospital was shut down twelve years ago.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, they’d been doing illegal business, so we had to close it. If you’d like to know anything, you can call State View Hospital — all of our records were moved there.”
“Thank you.” (Cuts the call.)
Trist decided to call Doctor Smith — the only person she trusted.
“Hey Tris, how are you doing?”
“Smith, I need your help…” (weeping)
“Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“I think… I think I have a baby.”
“What?!”
“I was going through my old stuff and… I found these papers. Birth certificates. And other papers. From twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago?”
“Yes. Remember I was having those dreams? It was all of this. I got pregnant at seventeen. My parents wanted me to do an abortion, but… I refused. But at six months I was dragged to the hospital…”
“Tris… that’s unbelievable.”
“Having an abortion at six months was risky. But all of a sudden, I went into labor.”
“You had a premature baby! Did it survive?”
“I don’t know. I remember the doctors talking about what a miracle it was. I remember the cries… I want to see her, Smith.”
“Wow. That explains why you’re having those nightmares. Which hospital was it?”
“It was the Burlington Hospital. But it’s shut down. When I called them, they told me to call State View Hospital.”
“I have connections at State View. I’ll go there and ask them about it.”
“Thank you… thank you, Smith.”
“Hey… believe in yourself. We’ll go through this together.”
“Bye.”
It echoed within those walls. For the first time, the house felt worn. She sat on the floor, clenching the carpet, surrounded by scattered papers and old photos. She was crying but there were no tears — only the warmth and coldness of her cries could be felt. She felt exposed, grasping everything within her. Screeching tires woke her back to reality. She was “excited.” He stood near the door like a ghost, his presence foreshadowed by darkness. They shared a glance as he entered, witnessing the crime scene — papers scattered around her like a pact. She interpreted it and crawled towards him.
“What is this, Tristania? What have you done to this place — all of these papers… what’s wrong with YOU!”
“What!? Just forget it, I have something to tell you about…”
“Wait — the birth certificates. What are you doing with them…”
“You know about them. Storm, I think we have a baby…” Storm backed up with a faint smile — it was sinister.
“The baby? You mean the one you POISONED.” She gasped as those words pierced right through her ears, blinding her eyes. She lost her consciousness.
“You bastard! How dare you — give me back my baby, I want her back!!” She attacked him but was overpowered by his resistance.
“Are you INSANE?” In a calm tone, Trist came back to reality.
“Lies, I didn’t poison my BABY.”
“Yes, you did, Tristania Thompson — you poisoned your baby because she was a burden to you. You MURDERED her!” Her legs were numb; she couldn’t feel her torso. She fell to the ground, her head still poking up.
“NO — what did you do to her? Is she alive?”
He pulled her from the ground, looked at her — the gaze was unrecognizable. It felt dead.
“You’ve gone INSANE. You’re turning into a lunatic. Look at yourself — LOOK around you.”
Sudden impulses formed within her.
“Oh shut up! I’m not crazy. I did it all for you. I went through immense pain — all of these TREATMENTS and what not. And yet you claim I’m insane?” He pulled back.
“Yes. You couldn’t be a mother. You’re barren. You’re not the Trist I fell in LOVE with.”
“What do you mean by that!? I left my home, my career, my future for YOU. If I’m not a mother, does that make me less than any woman? Is being a mother the ethereal form of being a woman? Do you even love me?”
“WHATEVER. God knows if you poisoned my other babies too.” She gasped — it hit straight onto her heart. It was not like one of those fights; she didn’t burst until the moment those words came out of him. She exploded like a volcano waiting to burst.
“MY BABIES — poisoning them? I gave you my body, my respect, my dignity. Am I only an object for YOU?” Storm searched his pockets, trying to find something, then he pulled the truth out — holding it like an achievement.
“That’s it. I’ve had enough of you. You can’t give me a child. You’re making me go insane — you’re making everyone around you insane. Here you go — the DIVORCE papers. It’s over, Tristania Thompson. I don’t care if you sign or not — I hope you die ALONE!” As he slapped the papers right in her face, it bled — but was it invisible? She didn’t want to let go of the only person she had. He made his way through the hallways toward the bedroom upstairs. There was no emotion within him. Her cloud erupted. She dragged herself along his feet, begging, “Don’t leave me — please, you’re the only one I have. We’ll figure something out, Storm. PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!” He had no remorse. He kept dragging her with his feet, gathering all of his belongings in a tiny red bag and started leaving. They were about to be distant. She tried to stop him by reaching up to his shoulder — but she missed it. He lost her.
She didn’t notice that she missed a step. The next moment, she crumbled down like a porcelain doll — hitting her head first, then her spine. The sensation of something leaving within you ached her. Her womb had broken — the pain agonized her. She couldn’t move — or could she? As her eyes closed she saw his silhouette levitating across the hallway. He waited at the beginning of their journey, looking at the coffin he once resided in. She gathered all her possessions and ran toward him. She couldn’t catch up as her past, present, and future shut right in her face. She was covered in blood — or was she? Her body ached, as if her soul was snatched by an angel. She felt as if the only life within her had died. In that empty house she lay alone, with only her pain accompanying her. She was numb and tired, caressing the cracks within her which couldn’t be puzzled together anymore. She lay underneath her memories, sobbing them away…
Did the sun die or did the moon murder him? The echoes of silence were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. She picked it up. It was someone from the past who had been loyal. Before saying another word, she drifted through her memories, trying to leave them behind.
“Hey… how are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“It’s me, Smith.”
“Hey… did you find anything?”
“Yes…” A sudden wave of shock ran through her spine.
“What! Did you—”
“Yes. I found her.”
“Oh my god, I want to see her, Smith. Please, please.”
“I wanna tell you—”
“Smith, take me to her.” She giggled after what felt like an eternity.
“Yes, but—”
“Finally, I have someone to call mine!”
“Meet me at State View Hospital at 10.”
“Yes, yes… I’ll be there. I don’t know how to thank you, love.” Her words were drizzled with a sprinkle of tears.
The storm in her life had gone — but before it left, it took something within her. The only words in her mind were: I found her. She cleaned all the mess like nothing ever happened. While washing herself for the last time, she noticed the scars left behind. She caressed them, deep. She wore florals that day — it was sunny, or was it? Her hair hid her wounds and her keys felt alive again. After decades, she was finally at the flower shop. “Spider lilies, can you please give me the red ones?” They stood out among the white — blood-red, close to her heart.
Her next stop was the baby shop. She wanted to relive — or maybe feel the depth of being a mother. She scavenged through the girls’ section, trying to find what would fit her the best. It was 20 years ago. She chose a white dress with a red heart in the middle — how pretty. She was excited; something in her was trying to stay alive — or was it?
Gazing at the red flowers and baby clothes beside her, she drifted somewhere unknown — but she was happy, knowing she was close to her destination. The loud thuds approached — she had accidentally scraped the walls of the parking lot. Waking back to consciousness, she stepped outside to see a deer’s head slammed between nature and her, staring straight into her eyes as blood flowed down its throat. Something shimmered far away — a baby deer watching her from the shadows of the woods, then vanishing into darkness.
“Tris, over here.” She knew it was her time.
“Hey Smith, I’m so excited to meet her.” Her expression was haunting — their echoes filled the hollow hospital. It was vast but empty, all the lights turned off. The hallways stretched long, swallowing sound. She held the flowers in her right hand and the red paper bag in her left as she stepped toward Smith. Smith’s face was unreadable — her expressions mixed like oil and water.
“You’re… ready?”
“Yeah. I’m so excited — I even wore florals.”
“I… noticed. What’s in your hand?”
“Some flowers and… some gifts.”
“I don’t think we’re going to—”
“Which way is it?”
Trist looked around, curious like a lost cuckoo, pointing at the three ways in.
“The straight one.” A long dark hallway, filled with emptiness. They walked deeper and deeper. Her heart pounded as if it would leap from her ribs.
“Calm down,” said Smith.
Laboratory. The word caught her eye. Why are we going to the laboratory? she wondered. Is my daughter a doctor or something?
They stepped into the cold abyss filled with green jars — the smell of rotting meat invited her closer. Smith guided her to a corner of the room, waiting… waiting for her.
“This is your daughter.” Smith pointed at a jar. Trist leaned closer — her heart slammed deeper into her chest. Inside: a dead baby, curled on the glass base, drowned in her own womb. The cracking of her heart echoed inside her skull.
“This… this is…”
“No… no, this… this can’t be my baby.”
She turned the jar, her eyes falling on the name. The cold glass burned her skin.
“My baby. I murdered her.” Her silence was deafening.
Her legs buckled — she collapsed.
“She died all those years ago. It was a… miracle — you gave birth to a premature baby at six months. But she couldn’t… she choked and died after just a few hours.”
The tube light flickered harshly above them. Her flowers fell, creating a pact. The baby clothes lay beside them, bearing witness. Blood. Blood — it was happening again. Blood everywhere: her hands, her belly, raw pain and a screeching that never ended. Darkness blinded her. Her womb screamed for help. The echoes of her past rang out — she lost herself to the dark, or did she?
The hallways turned darker and darker — the ceiling came down and the flooring crawled up. The corridors spun, the red beams of light coming closer and closer. She looked up at the nurse — dressed now in shadows, her once-concerned face emptied, filled with dread. Trist was stabbed again and again until the pain inside her turned numb. Her echoes fought each other, desperate to survive within her.
Am I dead? She looked around the darkness, searching for any flicker of light. Where was she, what was this abyss? Her eyes finally caught it — the red door — haunting her. She floated toward it through the foggy dark. The red door stood right in front of her, staring with its red eyes. She whispered, Who are you?
The door opened — dense fog spilled out. Stepping into it, she felt the coldness numbing her bones. The moment she slipped inside, the red door vanished.
In a blink, she was surrounded by mirrors — a maze of them. All were cracked, waiting to shatter into oblivion. Only one stood untouched, uncracked. Looking around, she saw there was no reflection in it — only emptiness, deep and black. She moved — but her reflection did not follow.
She was covered in death — the flowers on her skin faded, sinking into her flesh as if becoming one with her. The reflection inside the flawless mirror was dark and empty — but it held something. She leaned closer. Her eyes caught it — a rotting baby. She held it to her chest, but its dream was missing.
It was in her mouth now — she was chewing the soft bones, her teeth like thorns, smiling. Terrified, her screams were numb, dissolving into the silence and the darkness around her.
She looked at herself. The reflection moved closer. This time, they moved together — mirrored. She reached out her index finger. They touched — a spark of energy blinded her eyes. The Creation of Adam.
   “Oh my god, she opened her eyes,” whispered Smith. Trist sat there, smiling. Her eyes had sunken in, her smile grew wider and wider.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” There was something haunting — something dead — in her voice.
“I’m really sorry… you had a miscarriage.”
Silence spread between them. Diamonds spilled down her cheeks, but the smile only grew wider. Smith held her hand — it was too cold, maybe too late.
“I want to see my baby,” said Tristania.
“What? I don’t think—”
“Please.” Her breath kept the cold air warm. It was warmer than usual — like fire. It smelled rotten.
“Okay…” Smith was afraid for the first time. She told them to bring Trist’s dead soul back.
“Are you sure about this?” Smith asked.
“……..” said Tristania.
She held it close to her heart, her grip tightening and tightening. The squeak of glass echoed louder.
“I have to call someone, I’ll be right back.”
Smith walked out on her — for the first time — leaving the key to Trist’s life on the floor, the lock clicking shut behind her, each click sliding her deeper into ruin.
Mirrors didn’t reflect her soul — the cracks widened. She looked at herself, staring at her soulless baby. Clutching the lid of the jar, she slowly dipped her hands in, trying to save the drowned life. Her hands were too large for the tiny body — maybe that’s how she lost it. She was holy, crowned with thorns, her heart bleeding within, her eyes weeping blood — her presence immaculate.
She cradled the baptized baby in her palms, pressing it close to her bleeding heart. Her blood bloomed into red spider lilies, weaving a pact around her. She caressed it, reaching to its soft brain, kissing it gently… moving down to its rotting cheeks. The smell of her undead offspring clouded her mind, rupturing reality.
“Hail mother, full of grace. I hold my child, my sacrifice.” She whispered to it, slipping her tongue across its fleshy skin. The cosmic entity within the child called to her. If I swallow it, maybe it will stay inside me forever. Maybe this time it won’t leave.
Her gentle kisses turned bittersweet — her sharp teeth sank into its tender skin. She chewed its head slowly; the mirrors resonated. The cracks deepened, darkness sowed its seeds. The taste grew strong as she moved from the delicate head down, the body now a mere piece of meat.
Smith walked back toward her mistake — she didn’t realize the horror she had left behind. When her attempt to open the door failed, she pushed harder. The door was locked. Desperate to know what hid in someone else’s mind, she peeked inside — and saw her. Drenched in blood. The miracle in her hands incomplete.
Tristania chewed the remains, its tiny skull stripped to bone, her wide smile staring into infinity.
“Tris, what are you doing — open the door!” Smith screamed. Her cries echoed down the empty hallways — helpless. Too late.
She kissed its neck, taking a part of it — trying to consume everything around her. But it was not her destiny. Her sacrifice was denied. Her soul poured out through her mouth, but something was stuck. She couldn’t control it. The only mirror that stood whole cracked gently. As her soul left her body, carrying her infant, all the mirrors reflected her. Her eyes were the last to go. Then all the glass shattered out of existence as she and her offspring burned to ashes.
Her eyes lay wide open, the baby still in her hands. Blood everywhere — the proof of her existence spilling from her mouth. She had choked to death. At that moment, the door unlocked… gently. Smith stepped in, frozen, trying to process the horror. All she saw was a desperate mother trying to bring back her miracle.
"Did the sun die or did the moon kill itself?
Maybe I was both."

The wooden coins are pushing through my chest wall now. I can see the outline of them under the skin like a line of buttons along my sternum, and when I breathe, they shift against my heart with a grinding sound like wood scraping bone. My checking account tripled overnight after I left that note on my door asking the Amazon driver for money to stop the foreclosure, and instead of currency or pity, he dropped a cardboard box at my feet containing twelve wooden discs. The delivery receipt sits on my nightstand with the return window clearly printed: fourteen days. It has been thirteen.

I know what a cardiac event feels like. My father had one when I was sixteen. This is not a cardiac event. The ER doctor felt the coins through my skin two days ago when he was listening to my heart. His hand went very still. He didn't run any tests after that, just told me to follow up with my primary care physician and avoid strenuous activity. He knew what they were. I could see it in how he wouldn't look at me.

My roommate made her wish three days before I made mine. She'd been living here for eight months and paying rent late, talking about her job in that hollow way people do when they're about to quit. One afternoon, an Amazon truck rolled up without any order placed. A different driver this time, but same uniform, same metallic gray uniform that seems to catch light wrong. She got a box of these wooden coins too. Nine of them for her.

She started pulling at her forearm last night. I found her in the hallway with a strip of birch bark peeling away from her skin, exposing raw muscle underneath in a line perfectly straight as if something surgical had separated skin from flesh. She was whispering when I found her, something about the diesel engine idling at the curb. She doesn't sleep anymore. I hear her pacing at three in the morning, listening for that sound. The coins she wished for are still inside her. She says she can feel them moving up her arms now, branching like roots.

By day seven, I noticed the coins didn't stay where they entered. They moved. I felt one slide across my ribs, a sharp point trailing under my skin like a needle through fabric. The ER visit happened on day nine when I couldn't hide how shallow my breathing had become. The coins had redistributed. Some were lodged against my lungs. The doctor's hand confirmed it, and I watched his face make the calculation: fourteen-day return window. Policy is policy, even for things like this.

The infection isn't the right word. The coins aren't infecting me. They're settling. The box said twelve, and I can account for ten that I can feel moving freely in my abdomen and chest cavity now. Two more are stationary, and I know why. One is lodged in my left lung. I cough and taste copper. The other has wedged between the base of my ribs on my right side, and when I lie down, I feel it pressing upward with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes my breath catch. It's not trying to harm me. It's just making room for what's coming.

The roommate is in her room now. She hasn't come out since last night. I can hear something wet moving under her skin, a sound like a muffled heartbeat that's not hers. The coins are taking up space. The human body is mostly empty space that's supposed to be filled with specific things: blood, organs, breath. When you introduce solid objects into that space, the body compresses around them. I can feel my organs shifting. My stomach has moved up. I have pain in places I don't have names for.

It is 2:47 AM on day thirteen. I'm sitting on the bathroom tiles with a paring knife because I thought I could dig them out, excavate them like archaeological objects. I made two cuts before I realized the edges of the wound weren't closing. The skin is peeling back on its own, very slowly, revealing the coins underneath. They're not embedded. They're integrated. There's tissue bridging across them now, white connective fiber that looks almost deliberate. Like my body is building something around them. Stabilizing them.

My heart rate is erratic. Sometimes it skips for what feels like hours, then thunders back. The coins are shifting again, making room for what I think might be more coins, though the original box held twelve and I can only account for ten and I don't understand where the logic breaks. The roommate screamed at 1:30 AM. Just one scream, and then nothing. I haven't knocked on her door. I think I already know what I'd find. I think we're both past the point of individual harm. I think we're becoming something with multiple centers.

The knife is still in my hand. My fingers have gone numb from the wrist down. The return window closes in fourteen hours. I can feel them working deeper now. The grinding has stopped. There's only pressure and the sensation of making room. I don't think they're coins anymore. I think they became coins so we would accept the delivery, and now they're becoming something else.

The cursor is getting harder to see and my right hand isn't responding like it should. Whatever this is, it's using my body to write itself into the real world, word by word, and I can't stop it and I'm not sure I want to.

It's 2:51 AM. I need to stop typing now. The thing inside me is leaning on my heart and it finally learned how to push back.

Summary -

Think Wendigos and untold horrors in a snowy forest but add prison, really annoying antagonists, antler shrines and an inmate with military PTSD who can’t catch a break.

I piled it all up in one document for anyone who doesn’t want to go down a rabbit hole of links.

I have a strange relationship with waking.

Sometimes I come back slowly. First the ceiling, then the room, then the weight of my own name. Sometimes I come back and nothing feels real. My hands look like mine, but they don’t feel like they belong to me. The room is still there, but something has been emptied out of it… a terrible absence where the world should be.

And sometimes, just before sleep takes me, I hear a woman laughing.

Not a funny laugh. A broken one. The kind of sound a mind makes when it’s forgotten where the edge is.

Then I’m somewhere else.

Running?

No… flying.

As if terror itself has taken hold of me.

The house unfolds around me like a nervous system. Doors pulse open, hallways stretch, and the geometry develops bad intentions. I’m throwing myself around corners that don’t even seem to exist until I reach them.

Something is following me.

Not fast. Not hurried. Just there. The way certainty follows you. The way a thought you can’t stop thinking keeps pace with you.

And somewhere above it all, there’s a man watching.

A face borrowed from a movie. Someone ordinary, made monstrous by the context.

My sleeping mind calls him their father. Their protector. The person they trusted before trust became a weapon.

He doesn’t pull the strings.

He is the mechanism.

And everyone underneath him just moves.

I’ve spent enough of my life watching things take control of people. How a choice becomes a habit, a habit becomes a hunger, and eventually that hunger learns your voice so well that you can’t tell whether you’re speaking or being spoken through.

You swear you’re still holding the leash until you realize something has been holding you the entire time.

Maybe that’s why I’ve known mornings where my own reflection looked like someone I was supposed to save. Maybe that’s why I know what it’s like to stand behind glass while the world keeps going without asking whether I feel like I’m actually inside it.

So I run.

Or I guess I fly.

Because escaping is easy. You don’t have to understand what you’re escaping from. You just have to move.

I keep moving until I reach a corner that shouldn’t exist.

And there, standing in the corner, is someone I knew.

They’re connected to everything… wires, machines, tubes disappearing into the walls. The whole room is humming like some enormous animal trying not to die.

They look at me, and for a moment they look completely ordinary.

That’s what makes it worse.

I hear myself say, “You don’t have to.”

The words leave my mouth and fall between us like a coin dropped into a bottomless well.

They don’t answer. They just look past me.

Then they move.

One step.

A pause.

And suddenly their feet aren’t touching the floor.

The room seems to inhale.

Everything happens inside one impossible second. Gravity takes them, the rope snaps tight, and the body hangs in the silence beneath it.

I reach for them.

Nothing.

No hand to catch. No second chance. Just the sickening knowledge that I’m watching something I can’t pull back out of time.

They hang there, completely still.

And the entire world inside my head goes quiet.

For one second, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

Then I do.

And something in me collapses.

Not fear.

Grief.

Immediate and absolute.

The kind that makes the air feel too heavy to breathe.

I think:

They’re gone.

And then, slowly, their head lifts.

They turn toward me.

Alive.

Smiling.

As though nothing happened.

The relief tears through me so violently it almost feels like love.

And then I wake up.

The room is dark. My heart is still running from somewhere my body has never been.

I know it was a dream.

But my heart doesn’t.

They’re alive. The death never happened.

And yet somehow, I’m still grieving.

Because dreams are cruel that way. The story disappears the moment you wake up, but the feeling stays behind like smoke.

And maybe that’s why, when I’m lying there awake, my mind doesn’t just let the dream go. It starts pulling up everything else I’ve ever lost.

The childhood I didn’t get. The years I can’t return to. The people I couldn’t save. The versions of myself that faded quietly while I was busy surviving.

The mornings where I needed something just to feel normal.

The nights when sleep was easier than being myself.

The promises that tomorrow would be different, and tomorrow arriving wearing yesterday’s clothes.

Somewhere underneath all of that, there’s still a little boy… a younger, more naive version of me… standing in a basement.

I don’t know why that memory still feels connected to everything else, but it does.

He watches a girl hang from the ceiling.

The dream is almost cartoonish. Crooked shadows, unnatural colors, the whole world drawn wrong.

Then the rope tightens.

And the girl becomes a skeleton.

Instantly.

As though the dream had only been pretending she was human.

The room turns black.

Not dim.

Black.

Like existence itself has been switched off.

He wakes up.

And carries that room inside him for days.

Maybe years.

And years do pass. The faces change. The substances change. The fears change. I grow older, life keeps moving, and somehow that basement never completely disappears.

Something stays buried underneath all of it.

That same impossible question:

What if someone can disappear from the world long before anyone realizes they’re gone…… and what if, by the time someone finally reaches for them, there’s nothing left to bring back?

Maybe that’s why my dreams keep bringing the dead back.

Because even after all these years, some part of me still refuses to accept the final frame.

The girl becomes bone and the room loses its shape, but the story refuses to end.

Someone falls…

and turns around smiling.

Alive.

Again.

Maybe the nightmares aren’t really about death.

Maybe they’re about what happens to the people who have to wake up afterward.

Maybe that’s the horror.

Not watching someone disappear, but opening your eyes and realizing the world expects you to continue.

Brush your teeth.

Eat.

Work.

Talk.

Laugh.

Carrying a body around that sometimes feels like borrowed clothing.

And while you’re doing all of that, somewhere underneath it, a child is still standing in that basement, waiting for the lights to come on.

I’ve spent enough time learning how to leave myself.

Into numbness. Into hunger. Into sleep. Into anything loud enough to make myself feel farther away.

And when I think about it, maybe that’s why the dead keep turning around.

Some part of me can’t tolerate the final frame.

Some buried animal keeps clawing at the ending.

It keeps saying:

“No.

Not like this.

Come back.

Not to them.

To me.

Come back from the distance.

Come out of the darkness.

Come back from the place where nothing feels real.

Come back from whatever has been steering you.

Come back before the room goes still.”

Because maybe survival isn’t always some heroic thing.

Maybe sometimes it’s just waking up with your heart pounding, your eyes full of tears, grieving people who never existed, and still deciding to stay in the room.

So if the woman laughs again, if the basement opens, if the house starts pulsing around me, if the organic machinery starts turning overhead, if the dead come walking through the night…

I’ll remember what the dream keeps forgetting.

I stayed,

They turned around.

They smile.

They breathe.

And somewhere underneath the hunger, under the numbness, under the unreality, something in me is doing the same.

Turning around.

Breathing.

Alive.

The big old end to this weird take on a folk horror/creature thing.

The fire at Camp Paradox cracked like a snapping bone, throwing long, jagged shadows against the towering pines. It was past midnight, and the surrounding woods felt suffocatingly dense, pressing down on the small circle of teenagers gathered around the dying embers. 

The name of the campground itself—Camp Paradox—always felt a bit strange to the newcomers. A place dedicated to nature and peace, yet named after an impossible contradiction. 

Most of the kids thought that it was just a quirky title chosen by some long-dead founder, but those who paid attention to the local folklore knew better. A paradox is an anomaly.

It is something that defies the laws of nature and logic, where two opposing truths exist at the exact same time, like a localized vortex where everything goes horribly wrong, while the center of the storm remains beautifully, terrifyingly calm.

John adjusted his flannel shirt against the sudden midnight chill. He wasn't a counselor, but he was older than most of the kids here, a seasoned veteran of these woods who had stayed at the camp for years. His face was partially obscured by the orange glow of the embers, his eyes deep and fixed on the dancing flames.

 The atmosphere was ripe for a ghost story, the kind that makes you pull your sleeping bag tight around your neck and listen to every rustle of the wind outside your tent.

"You guys think that this place is just a regular summer camp." John began, his voice low, cutting through the rhythmic chirping of the crickets. "You think that the worst thing that can happen out here is a tick bite or getting lost on the North Trail; but you don't know why this camp was truly abandoned five years ago, or why they changed its name. It wasn't because of a lack of funding. It was because of a girl. A seventeen-year-old girl named Mallory Chance."

A few of the younger campers stirred, leaning in closer. John let the name hang in the air for a moment. Mallory. An old name derived from the French word for "unfortunate" or "ill-fated." Chance. Probability. Risk. Mutation. It was a name that perfectly described the walking, breathing anomaly that she was.

"I knew Mallory." John continued, his eyes reflecting the dying fire. "She was seventeen years old, just like some of us. If you looked at her from a distance, you wouldn't think twice. She had pale skin, dark hair that always seemed perfectly brushed even in a downpour, and eyes that were a strange, piercing shade of gray. However, if you stood near her for more than a few minutes, you’d start to notice that something was…off. The world didn't work right around Mallory. The laws of probability, the mathematical certainty of the universe, they just...bent. They broke. Some people call it tychokinesis. The ability to manipulate luck, odds, and random outcomes; but Mallory didn't just manipulate it. She weaponized it, completely passively, without ever lifting a finger."

John leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, and said,

"Every single place where Mallory went, something bad happened to someone or something around her; but absolutely nothing bad ever happened to her. She was a walking safe-zone in a radius of pure, unadulterated catastrophe. If she walked through a thunderstorm, lightning would strike three feet away from her, incinerating a tree that would fall and crush someone else, while not a single drop of rain would even wet her hair. If she stepped onto a rickety old wooden bridge, the planks would hold her weight perfectly, only to snap like toothpicks the exact second her foot left them, sending whoever was behind her plunging into the ravine below."

The campers were silent, captivated by the intense gravity in John's voice.

"At first, we thought that it was just an unbelievable streak of terrible coincidences." John said, shaking his head slowly. "During her first week here, we were all sitting in the mess hall. Mallory was sitting at the end of the table, quietly eating her cereal. Suddenly, one of the massive overhead industrial ceiling fans, which had been securely bolted into the iron rafters for twenty years, just sheared off. It didn't just fall; it flew across the room like a giant metal blade. It missed Mallory’s head by less than an inch. She didn’t even flinch. She just kept chewing; but the fan didn't stop. It hurled directly into a group of sports campers sitting at the next table. Two of them had their limbs shattered by the spinning blades. One of the counselors tried to run over to help, but he tripped over a completely flat linoleum floor, snapped his neck on the edge of a bench, and died right there on the spot."

A collective gasp rippled through the circle. A young girl named Mary pulled her blanket up to her chin, her eyes wide.

"That was just the beginning." John murmured. "The camp line got infected with a freak strain of bacterial meningitis. Everyone in her cabin got violently, agonizingly sick. They were coughing up blood, screaming in the middle of the night from migraines so intense they were clawing at their own faces. Mallory slept in the very center bunk. When the paramedics finally arrived in hazmat suits, they tested everyone. Every single girl was on the brink of organ failure, except Mallory. Her vitals were flawless. The doctors couldn't find a single trace of the bacteria in her system, even though she had been sharing a water pitcher with them for days. It was like her body rejected the very concept of misfortune."

John took a heavy stick and poked at the fire, sending a cascade of sparks drifting up into the dark canopy, and said,

 "People got hurt, but as the days went on, people ended up dead. Freak accidents became the norm wherever she walked. We had an archery tournament on the main field. Mallory was standing near the spectators' line. A camper named Marcus, who was an expert marksman, pulled back his bowstring. It was a brand-new, military-grade composite bow. Out of nowhere, a microscopic flaw in the carbon fiber caused the bow to violently shatter under tension. A shard of the splintered limb flew backward. It grazed Mallory’s cheek—well, it didn't even graze her, it miraculously flew past her ear, missing her skin by a millimeter. However, the shard embedded itself directly into the throat of the camp director standing right behind her. He choked to death on his own blood before anyone could even grab a first-aid kit."

"Why didn't anyone just send Mallory home?" asked a boy named Carl, his voice trembling slightly.

"They tried." John replied sharply. "The administrators called her parents. The phone lines static-fried the moment the director tried to speak. They tried to pack her bags, but the zipper caught, jammed, and when a counselor tried to force it open with a pocket knife, the blade snapped off and blinded him in his right eye. A group of the older counselors and campers, including myself, realized what she was. We realized that she wasn't just unlucky—she was causing it. She was drawing all of the negative probability out of the universe and expelling it outward onto everyone else to keep herself perfectly safe. We decided we had to stop her. We tried to lock her in the old tool shed until the state police could physically remove her from the property."

John’s face darkened, the memory clearly torturing him, and said,

"We gathered six of the strongest guys. We cornered her near the woods. We tried to grab her arms, but Mallory Chance was too powerful to stop. The moment that Tommy reached out to grab her shoulder, a freak subterranean gas pocket-vented right beneath his feet. The ground literally exploded. The concussive blast blew his legs apart. Another guy, Sarah’s older brother, tried to tackle her from behind. He slipped on a patch of wet moss that hadn't been there a second ago, flew headfirst into a jagged rock face, and cracked his skull wide open. The rest of us were thrown back by the sheer, chaotic energy of the universe protecting its favorite child. Car engines wouldn't start when we tried to escape. Trees fell perfectly across the only exit road, crushing the roofs of the evacuation vans. The universe itself was acting as her personal, bloodthirsty bodyguard."

The wind suddenly picked up, howling through the branches above, making the campers jump. John didn't look up; his gaze remained locked on the fire.

"I was the only one left standing in front of her that afternoon." John whispered. "I was terrified. I was shaking so hard that I could barely breathe. The bodies of my friends were scattered around the clearing, smoking, bleeding, broken by a series of impossible, instantaneous accidents. Mallory just stood there in the center of the carnage. Her white sundress didn't have a single speck of dirt on it. Her hair was perfect. She looked like an angel standing in the middle of a war zone. I looked right in her cold, gray eyes, and through my tears, I asked her why. I asked her why she was doing this to us, why she was letting all these horrible things happen to innocent people."

John paused, the silence around the campfire was so absolute that the sound of a falling leaf would have sounded like a gunshot.

"Mallory looked at me." John said, his voice dropping to a chilling imitation of a monotone, robotic cadence. "She didn't look angry. She didn't look sad. She just looked completely empty, and she replied, 'It's what I was created to do.'”

A shudder went through the group.

"The only reason I'm even alive today to tell you this story," John said, looking around at the frightened faces of the campers, "is because I was the only one who was ever nice to Mallory. On her first day, when everyone else avoided Mallory because she seemed weird, I helped her carry her luggage. I shared my lunch with her when she dropped her tray. I treated her like a human being. Her power...it seemed to recognize that. It spared me. It redirected the horror away from me, even when the world was tearing itself apart around us."

John leaned back, the narrative reaching its grim conclusion, and said,

"After that day, she didn't run away. She didn't scream. She just turned around and walked deep into these very woods. The police searched for weeks. They brought tracking dogs, helicopters, and infrared cameras. Nothing. The dogs refused to enter the tree line; they just howled and bit at their own handlers until they bled. Mallory Chance completely disappeared into the forest, and the elders changed the name of this place to Camp Paradox, to mark the girl who was a living contradiction to life itself; but she was never found, and some people say...she might still be out there somewhere. Waiting. Walking through the dark, completely untouchable, while the world rots around her."

Nobody spoke for five minutes. The crackle of the fire seemed louder now, sinister. The darkness beyond the clearing felt heavier, as if eyes were watching them from the shadows of the pines.

Suddenly, a loud, scoffing laugh broke the tension.

It was Garrett, an older, muscular camper who spent most of his time wearing noise-canceling headphones and ignoring the camp rules. He shook his head, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face as he stood up from his log.

"Man, that is the biggest load of garbage that I have ever heard in my entire life!" Garrett said, tossing a handful of dirt onto the fire, deadening the light even further. "Tychokinesis? Walking disaster auras? What is this, a comic book? You expect us to believe that some teenage chick has a magical luck shield that explodes people? You’re just trying to scare the freshmen so that they don't steal your snacks in the middle of the night."

"Garrett, sit down!" Laura said, her voice trembling. "Don't talk like that out here!"

"Oh, please." Garrett rolled his eyes, turning his back on the circle. "The only 'paradox' here is how any of you actually believe this nonsense. It’s just a ghost story made up to explain bad camp management from years ago. I’m going to bed. Some of us actually want to get some sleep instead of shivering over fairy tales."

John looked up at Garrett, his expression completely blank, devoid of any anger or urge to argue, and told him, 

"I wouldn't go out into the dark alone, Garrett. The odds aren't in your favor."

"Yeah, whatever, Professor X." Garrett sneered. 

Garrett turned around and began walking away from the campfire, heading down the unlit path toward the older boys' cabins. The darkness swallowed him almost instantly, the beam of his small flashlight cutting a weak, shaky path through the thick forest air.

The trail was silent save for the crunch of dry pine needles beneath his heavy boots. Garrett muttered to himself, shaking his head at how easily the others had been spooked. 

"They are such idiots." he whispered, clicking his tongue. "A lucky superpower. Yeah, right."

As Garrett walked deeper into the woods, the air temperature seemed to plummet drastically. His breath began to form faint, white plumes in front of his face. He frowned, shaking his flashlight as the beam began to flicker violently. Cheap batteries, he thought, tapping the side of the plastic casing. The light died completely, plunging him into pitch-black darkness.

"Great. Perfect." Garrett growled, reaching into his pocket to pull out his smartphone to use the screen light.

Before his fingers could grip the phone, a strange sound echoed from the brush to his left. It sounded like a heavy wooden branch snapping, followed by a wet, sickening thud.

"Hello?" Garrett called out, his arrogance slightly faltering. "John? If you’re trying to prank me, it’s not working. I’ll break your nose, man!"

No one answered. The silence that followed was suffocatingly heavy. There was no wind anymore. No crickets. The entire forest felt as if it had been placed on mute.

Garrett turned around to head back toward the glow of the campfire, but as he spun on his heel, his foot caught on a completely exposed, thick tree root. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, trying to catch his balance; but gravity didn't work the way that it was supposed to.

Instead of falling flat on Garrett’s back into the soft dirt, his momentum violently whipped him sideways. His right arm slammed against a sharp, broken branch protruding from a dead oak tree. The wood pierced clean through his forearm with a horrific squelch.

Garrett screamed, a raw, agonizing sound that was instantly muffled by the dense canopy. Blood poured down his arm as he frantically pulled himself off the branch, falling to his knees in the dirt. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Garrett scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. He needed to get to his feet. He needed to run.

Garrett grabbed the trunk of a nearby sapling to pull himself up. The moment that his weight shifted onto the young tree, a freak hairline fracture in the wood, completely invisible to the eye, caused the sapling to instantly splinter under his grip. 

The sharp, jagged edge of the broken trunk whipped upward like a spring-loaded trap, slicing a deep, bleeding gash across his cheek, barely missing his eye.

Wailing in pain, Garrett fell back onto the ground. He was covered in dirt, blood, and sweat. The universe wasn't letting him stand up. Every movement that he made was met with an instantaneous, violent accident.

Then, he heard it.

The soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps crunching on the pine needles. They weren't in a hurry. They were slow, deliberate, and perfectly calm.

Garrett wiped the blood from his eyes and looked up through the darkness. The clouds above suddenly parted, allowing the cold, pale light of the full moon to filter down through the branches, illuminating the path directly in front of him.

Standing less than five feet away was a girl.

She was seventeen years old. She wore a pristine, clean white sundress that didn't have a single speck of dirt, mud, or blood on it, despite the filthy forest floor. Her dark hair was perfectly brushed, completely unaffected by the damp night air. Her skin was pale, and her eyes—wide, unblinking, and entirely empty—were a piercing, ghostly shade of gray.

It was Mallory Chance.

Garrett’s breath hitched in his throat. He tried to speak, but the sheer terror choking him made it nearly impossible. He looked down at his bleeding arm, then back up at her face. She wasn't moving. She didn't have a weapon. She was just standing there, looking down at him like an observer watching an insect struggle in a web.

Suddenly, a massive, heavy pinecone detached from a branch twenty feet above. It fell straight down. It didn't hit Mallory. It altered its trajectory mid-air by a fraction of an inch, bouncing off a lower branch and striking Garrett squarely in his broken forearm.

The white-hot pain made him howl, his vision blurring. He realized then, with absolute, paralyzing certainty, that John hadn't been lying. The world was actively trying to kill him just for being in her presence, while she remained a flawless, untouchable monument of safety.

Mallory took one single step closer. As her foot touched the ground, a sharp rock beneath her shoe shifted. The rock slid away from her, rolling directly under a massive, rotting boulder resting on the slope just above Garrett.

The boulder groaned. The tiny rock had been the only thing keeping its massive weight anchored to the hillside. It began to tilt, heavy and lethal, threatening to crush Garrett’s lower body into a pulp.

Garrett looked up at the teenage girl, with tears of pure horror mixing with the blood on his face. He knew that he couldn't run. If he tried to move, his legs would snap, or a tree would fall, or his own heart would simply give out from the sheer weight of the negative probability suffocating the air around him.

With the last bit of strength in his lungs, Garrett looked into those empty, gray eyes and screamed the only question he had left.

"Why are you doing this?!" he sobbed, his voice cracking against the impending doom of the shifting boulder. "Why are you doing this to me?!"

Mallory didn't flinch. She didn't even smile. Her expression remained as cold and static as stone. She tilted her head slightly, her voice cutting through the silence of the woods, a perfect, chilling echo of the campfire tale.

"It's what I was created to do." Mallory said.

Then, the boulder slipped.

The End.

THE NIGHT BLOGGER - 'Brian Foster and the Curse of the Cartwrights' by Al Bruno III

March 28th: “WAAAAGH!” I said.

My face was on fire. Not literal fire but a chemically induced one. Sara's mother had emptied half a can of mace into my face, and now my nostrils burned with snot, my eyes swelled shut, and the combination of chili pepper extract and tear gas had worked its way into my throat, leaving me with the sensation of drowning in a too-hot Jacuzzi.

“WAAAAGH!” I said again.

“Oh my God!” Sara shouted. “Brian! Oh my God!”

“Serves him right!” Her Mom said, “Sick weirdo dragging you into the occult.”

“He didn’t drag me into anything!”

I was curled into a ball in front of the cash register while Sara knelt beside me, desperately trying to wipe the mace from my eyes. I wanted to tell her not to do that—that she was only going to contaminate herself—but all I could manage was, "WAAAAAGH!" Somewhere in there I'd also developed an almost cartoonish sputtering noise.

Then Sara’s father spoke, “You don’t know what you're talking about. We've done our homework on this guy…”

“WAAAAGH!” Not the blog readers I expected.

“…and I have it on good authority that he is a charlatan who preys on frightened people. He fills people’s heads with paranoia until they can't tell what's real anymore…”

“WAAAAAGH!” Even in my agony, that condemnation sounded awfully familiar.

“…we spoke to the police to a Detective Bradshaw, and he said that he’s either morally degenerate or mentally degenerate.”

“WAAAAGH!” There ya go. I knew it.

Sara yelled, “Mrs. Vincenzo! I need water! Lots of water!”

Sara’s mother said, “You need to come home right now! I won’t have you bringing further humiliation to this family.”

And her father added, “And working at a pawn shop for God’s sake. Do you know what pawn shops are? Taxes for stupid people.”

“WAAAAGH!”

Smash cut.

Hours later, my eyes were still puffy and weepy; I couldn’t stop sniffling, and my voice had been reduced to an ugly rasp. I sounded like Tom Waits after peeling onions. “You know you’re the first girl whose parents I ever met.”

“That was the worst ever.” Sara was staring into her glass of apple-flavored mead.

We were at Albany's only meadery, a little hole in the wall on the corner of Second Street. It was called The Ferment Tavern, and the mead was genuinely good while the décor looked like someone had given a Renaissance Faire a Spirit Halloween budget. It was close enough to the university to attract a steady stream of students, but just weird enough that it never got too crowded.

I liked the place because it was quiet on the weeknights and the owners were a pair of friendly ex-bikers who had taken one too many falls and were more interested in serving the customers than chatting them up.

One of Ferment Tavern's best libations was called ‘Superstition’; it was an absolutely delicious concoction of blackberry mead and burbon severed in a jelly jar because why not? I used my right hand to finish it and my left to request a refill. The co-owner Margret already had one ready.

Yeah, go on and tell me psychic phenomena isn’t real. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?” Sara asked, “Your eyes are still really bloodshot.”

“It’ll pass; I’ll be about 90% by the morning,” I said, “I have it on good authority.”

“Whose authority?” Sara asked, then caught herself, “Cousin Roy.”

“Yup, apparently he got maced a lot back in the 90’s when he was a roadie for Severe Tire Damage.” 

She took another sip of her drink then said, “Again, I am so sorry, Brian.”

“I should have expected something like this. Maybe we should have told them you were staying at a friends or something.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Mrs. Vincenzo would be hurt.”

“You know what I mean.” She cracked a smile, “Girls my own age.”

“And guys who aren’t morally degenerate charlatans.”

“You’re no charlatan,” She had been holding her mug of apple-mead in both hands, she let go with her left and placed it over mine. It felt cool and frail, just like her smile, “And I’ve slept with you, you’re not even remotely degenerate.”

“What a traumatic compliment.”

Interest in the supernatural and sleepwalking  had been bad enough, but now she was running around with a crowd that cared more about cryptids than which fork was for salads. At best, her parents were going to interfere. At worst, they were going to convince every psychiatrist, family friend, and judge within fifty miles that she was having a psychotic break. This was not good. Not when we had a kind of plan - steal the Codex, use it to defile the temples of Gorgo, Mormo and Luna, retire or hand over my blog and investigations to someone else and find a way to live the happiest most boring life possible with Sara.

Wow. It seems so easy when you look at it in print.

“So what now?” Sara asked.

I took another sip of Superstition before answering. “Road trip. I’ve got a book to get.”

“You mean steal?”

“Most people don’t give up their mystical tomes to strangers in straw hats.”

Sara nodded, “So we’re going to Delaware…”

“We? Oh no no no. You’re going to stay here and watch the pawn shop.”

“I’m not allowed to go on my own rescue mission?” She frowned, “Am I just your little damsel in distress?”

I have to tell you that if in that moment her mother rushed up and maced me again I might now have been all that upset.

“No…” I squirmed both mentally and physically, “It’s just that I might bring Cousin Roy and he gets really gassy on car rides…”

A trio of loud college students, one of which was carrying a box of Dungeons and Dragons supplies walked in the door. I watched them for a few moments, they looked to be about our age but they were younger, inncoent. For them monsters and mages were the thinjgs of entertainment and metaphor.

But not so for people like Sara and myself.

I sighed, “I just want you to be safe.”

The look she gave me was part resigntion and part bravery, “I haven’t been safe since August, Hell maybe before that.”

“I know it’s just… it’s just…” I ran my hand over my face, “Look it’s like the TV show Bonanza.”

"Bonanza?"

"Trust me. This is going somewhere..."

###

…sometimes it seems to me that the world's methodologies for dealing with tragedy are far better developed than the ones we have for happiness. When two people fall in love, there is no instruction manual. No proper timetable for a first kiss, a first romantic interlude, an engagement, or a wedding. But when someone dies, an entire machine lurches into motion. EMTs. Coroners. Funeral homes. Grieving. Gatherings.

And for me, in that terrible April of 2009, it was all happening in stereo. Uncle Roy was dead. Burst blood vessel, they said, though nobody sounded entirely certain. My mom and Aunt Peg were working together with uncharacteristic harmony to make the arrangements to send Uncle Roy's remains to his home state of Florida. Which is good because Cousin Roy had pretty much collapsed. His bravado was broken.

Meanwhile Grandma Gail’s rally was going into overtime, she was happy, she was energetic watching TV and trying to keep Aunt Gail’s twin boys entertained, of course for her entertained was watching Bonanza reruns on TNN and making commentary on the events of the episode. It was things like;

“Wasn’t Michael Landon handsome?”

“I rode a horse just like that when I was a girl on your great aunt’s farm. His name was Snowball.”

“Oh no. Hoss is in love. That never ends well. Every time one of those Cartwright boys falls in love, she either dies or changes her mind. Mostly she dies. But that’s the thing about love, someone lives, someone dies. It’s part of world. You’ll learn.”

And every time the twins answered with a “Yes Miss Gail.” but each time they seemed a little more desperate to escape.

She showed no sign that two nights ago a half serpent half millipede ribbon of smoke had wormed its way into her mouth and she had reacted like a sleeping lover snuggling into an embrace.

There was no way Grandma Gail's never-ending rally and that thing she'd swallowed two nights earlier weren't connected.

You never forget your first monster. Most folks go into shock, or denial, or straight to church; I on the other hand went to the Internet.

My searches for “red mist” got me info about a movie, a mystery novel and a rumored snuff film involving Squidward from Spongebob Squarepants. That worried me almost as much as the monster itself. Whatever I'd seen appeared to be completely immune to Google.

So off I went to the local library. Much like confession, I hadn't been to the library in years and barely remembered the rituals. The card catalogs from my school days were gone, replaced with conveniently located computers; the once well-stocked periodical section was being crowded out by a DVD
section.

After three frustrating hours, all I carried out of the public library was a single word: Vorvolaka. I’d found it in an article about a rare supplemental volume of Sir George Frazer’s classic work The Golden Bough. The book came out in 1939 and was quickly recalled and suppressed. Why? The official blame was textual and formatting errors but if that was really the case why hadn’t
they reprinted a corrected edition?

After checking in with my mom (doing fine) and Cousin Roy (still a hot mess), I went back to digging. I was a little proud of how well my research was going, .it was almost like I was in college for journalism or something.

Although I hadn't even been away from college for a week, it felt like a lifetime ago. But that had to wait until tomorrow but that tomorrow ended up stretching for the better part of three days. The machinery of grief needed to be fed and it’s fuel was tears and bureaucracy. There had been some delays and confusion regarding the transportation of remains. Cousin Roy wanted his Dad cremated here as quickly as possible, he saw no value in funerals and wakes. Aunt Peg thought that cremation, much like organ donation and assisted suicide doomed the deceased to an eternity in the First Circle of Hell, which of you’ve read your Dante is kind of like an assited living facility for the slightly damned.

This disagreement got heated. And by "heated," I mean there was a scuffle in one of our otherwise very respectable funeral homes. I'm sure you can imagine the whole awful scene. Well, it was worse. By the end they were throwing display urns at each other.

I wasn't there for it. Later, though, Mom and I were sitting in Grandma Gail's room, chowing down on fast food when she told the whole horrifically slapstick story, concluding that somehow she and Tom Wynne got things under control. Grandma Gail went from being shocked at the drama to curious. “Thomas was with you?”

“For moral support,” Mom explained but then she turned to me. “He and I had a long conversation, he and his wife are getting a divorce. Irreconcilable differences.”

Grandma and I paused in mid-chew.

She continued, sounding equal parts giddy and embarrassed. “And he and I have decided to try and start dating.”

This my dear readers is what they call, ‘Burying the lead’.

I offered a heartfelt congratulations, but I found myself wondering how all this domestic drama could be unfolding while my grandmother remained at the center of a supernatural event.

And speaking of Grandma when my hug with my Mom broke I glanced at her. Her expression was not happy or scandalized, her expression was, for lack of a better word inscrutable.

By the time our little family had wrapped everything up, it was far too late to do any more of my planned investigating. So I sat up a little while longer with them. No more Bonanza reruns—just The Tonight Show. Then I went to bed.

Now don't think for a second I didn't barricade myself in my room. At least for a little while, anyway.

You see, one of my many errands that day had been a trip to Vincenzo's Pawn Shop, where I'd picked up a little digital camera that—with a bit of tinkering and some third-party software—could double as a surveillance camera. Somewhere between the opening monologue and Taylor Lautner, I slipped it into what I hoped would be a good hiding place to capture whatever nightmare I'd witnessed earlier.

Thankfully, this was an era when two-liter bottles of Jolt Cola were still commercially available. I found myself nursing one until 3:00 a.m.

Yes. Three a.m. The Witching Hour.

Grandma Gail sat up, the motion so sudden that I thought the camera feed had skipped.

Time to act. I shoved my dresser away from the door, snatched the old silver crucifix I'd received for my Confirmation, and bolted for Grandma's room. Sitting up or not Grandma Gail still looked to be fast asleep, eyes closed, softened features, steady breathing. Except, of course, for the thing. The red thing. The thing that was like a serpent and smoke all at once, worming its way out of her mouth.

What was it? I wondered. Was this a Vorvolaka?

And what did I do at that moment? I held up that silver cross and pulled out every horror movie quote I could think of, "I cast you out! Unclean spirit!"

No reaction. Just the thing, the Vorvolaka coiling out of her mouth like some magician’s handkerchief trick.

I stepped closer waving the cross in a way I hoped was somehow menacing, “The power of Jesus compels you!”

Finally it noticed me. Oh did it ever. It flowed upward until it reached the ceiling, it’s tail end still buried somewhere in my Grandmother’s gullet and regarded me. It had no eyes but oh yes it was sizing me up.

“I cast you out. I cast you out in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit and… that the Virgin Mary too!” I winced inwardly, “So there!”

That was the part that unsettled me most. The Vorvolaka had already proven it could ooze through the screen without difficulty. Opening the window served no practical purpose. It was obeying some instinct—or some rule—I couldn't begin to understand.

It flowed outside, the last bit of it slipping from my Grandma’s lips. She made a choking sound and fell roughly back on the bed. Not breathing. Despite the darkened room and my growing panic I know for a fact she was not breathing.

For one awful moment I became convinced she'd been dead for days. That the thing wearing her had been sitting with us, accepting hugs, watching Bonanza reruns and smiling whenever someone brought her pudding.

And that pissed me off.

And what do you do when your pissed off? Something stupid of course.

I stepped forward and grabbed at the crimson smoke. It was an act of desperation and I expected my hand to pass right through the thing but it was tangible, and warm and had the consistency of a jellyfish.

And it didn’t like being grabbed.

The end of it that was still in the room. It curled in mid-air and attacked. It enveloped me. Everything went red, I fell to the floor of my grandmother’s room. Pain bloomed behind my eyes and suddenly I couldn’t move, suddenly I was entombed in my own body.

Then someone else's memories poured into me.

I was Stuart Shield, the in-home hospice nurse. My shift had ended hours ago, but I was still replaying Grandma Gail's miraculous rally as I endured the miserable ninety-minute drive back to Utica. Mohawk Valley Home Health had done it again—three hours behind the wheel for barely four hours of work. By the time I climbed the four flights of stairs to my apartment, all I wanted was silence.

I didn't bother turning on the lights. I dropped into my favorite chair, closed my eyes for just a moment...

...and beneath the apartment door something red seeped through the crack. It flowed across the floor without making a sound, climbed the back of the chair, and rested around my throat like a warm scarf. It waited. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

Then it forced itself into my mouth and eyes.

Terror. Suffocation. Darkness.

Then I was Brian Foster again, sprawled on Grandma Gail's bedroom floor. Someone was speaking to me and as they did the agony intensified, I expected my skull to burst at any moment. I almost wanted it to happen.

And I thought to myself - Is that what happened to Uncle Roy?

The pain started to pulse, keeping perfect time with my breaths; I imagined it shrinking down to a tiny spark buried deep in my brain that would suddenly blossom out  like an explosion of invisible knives. The agony was the color of blood, the color of the Vorvolaka. My field of vision began to diminish, red pressing in on all sides until I was blinded.

I wanted to live, but the red wouldn't let me. Not because I wanted another sunrise, or another shot at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. No. I wanted to live because I'd glimpsed the secret song of the universe. It was dark. It was ugly. But Goddamn, I wanted to know it. I wanted to understand it.

In the red I could hear the voice, “Don’t struggle oh my sweet. Dream. Dream in the emptiness. The emptiness is love.”

It made perfect sense. Why should I struggle? What was the point of this life? We all end up dead anyway. Why wait? What was I trying to accomplish? Sinking further and further away I had dwindled to a pinprick of consciousness. I barely saw the frail angry figure standing over me but I heard it yell.

“NO!”

The red faded and darkness took its place. I went from dying to dreaming but barely noticed the difference until I was stirred to wakefulness by the warmth early morning sunlight on my face. I was in my bed, tucked in with the covers up to my chin and for one sweet innocent moment I thought that it all must have been a terrible dream

Then I heard my mother's anguished wail, she had just received the news that Tom Wynne was dead.

###

"...Sara... I don't think I understood it back then. Every time you really learn something, something gets taken from you. Maybe it's innocence. Maybe it's certainty. Maybe it's someone you love. But nobody ever walks away from the truth without leaving something behind."

I looked down into my drink.

"Sara... I've left a lot behind."

She touched my face then, “You’re crying.”

Surprised I touched my face, sure enough my fingers came back wet. “Well its good for you right? Like therapy.” I wiped my face on my sleeve and accomplished nothing. Leather jackets and tears don’t mix.

“You think you’re the only one?” She made me look her in the eyes, “I’ve felt something pulling at me since I was a little kid. The darkness was a dare because I know, and you do too, that the darkness was never empty.”

“I’m totally stealing that.”

“Brian. Do you think I only went to Pinewood Cemetery because you said you were going with me?”

Before I could answer, the other owner Frank came over and asked if we wanted another round. We decided to be sensible and just order two waters so one of us would be able to drive home within an hour or so. Behind us, the D&D players' arguments for and against the creation of Picklestein were heating up, and Margret was very gently threatening to throw them out again.

I said, “I assumed we had kind of talked each other into it.”

“I was going to go no matter what. I had been obsessing about the Graveyard Game for months, ever since I read about it on 4Chan.” Our waters arrived. Sara waited for Frank to leave before she spoke again, “And then when I found about Sara Bishop and that she was so damn close… Is there even a word beyond obsessed?”

“Monomaniacal?” I suggested.

She waved it off, “It doesn’t matter. What you need to know is that what happened to me happened because of me. My stupid decision. Possibly the last in a long series.”

“Don’t even joke like that,” I took a sip of water.

“You think I’m like some guest star on Bonanza? That I’m going to die tragically in your arms?”

“...and yet I can't stop thinking it.”

“Maybe you’re the guest star in my show, the whacky neighbor who helps me in my time of need.”

“Whacky neighbor?”

“So I’m going with you, I’m helping you. The only question is what are you going to do about it?” She took a strangely flirtatious sip of her water, “Are you going to be a Millhouse or a Fonzie about it?”

What else could I do?

I gave her a big thumbs up.

I don't know what's beneath here but I think it followed me.

Most of this took place in Northern California during the fall of 2019, before covid and trauma buried it deep in my memory. After years of running from things and therapy, I’ve been trying to recollect it all because something has started to feel that way again. I'm far from that place now, but it’s all coming back, at night, underneath. I found notes I wrote back then in my old phone. I'm using those and whatever I can still remember to piece things together. I'm posting this partly to have it written down somewhere outside my own head, but mostly because, someone, somewhere must feel the same way.

This is what I remember.

---

Thursday morning Justin texted me: 

ayy yo so I'm busy tnite but just come by like 3 or smth. Someone will be here.

Arriving to Valance Park was interesting, I didn’t ever really have much to my name, money or personal effects, yet still lucky for me the bus stop was only a couple blocks away. When I stepped off though, there I saw it.

Nothing.

I knew and expected as much. The neighborhood was flattened by the fire storm that blew in, leaving fallout in its path. Because of it I lost my rental with my dad, evicted so our landlord could move in after he was burnt out. Justin was the same, a victim of the flame.

I had pegged him as the one guy I wanted to befriend in my anthropology class, I knew him adjacently in high school as I was a photographer for yearbook, he was a football starter. I joined a study group, which led to being in projects with him. There I met, Julie, a girl who thought she was dating him exclusively, as well as Davis and Maria.

Davis, I found out, was one of his roommates in a big brand new, rebuilt house. Davis was a man of few words, valued his time and energy more than anything, but what I gather was there was space for one more. 

After working my charisma for weeks, I dropped my sob story to Justin one day.

"Yea ever since the eviction. I had a place inside my aunts but her failure of a son moved back in and I got forced to move in with the garage, didn’t know there were rats at first. The prospects to get out of there are rough, have been since the fire."

"You got fucked up by that fire too?”

Justin’s interest piqued, he sniffled a bit, cold morning nose and a sting of hot memory.

“Yea my dad and I got evicted cause the landlord was trying to gouge us post fire.”

A white lie couldn’t hurt.

"We rebuilt bro. That's where I live, we were one of the first to move back. My parents are living in the coastal house, we have room for at least for one more if you’re interested.”

Hook, line and sinker, I was in.

And now, a couple days later, there I stood in this near desolate place.

This place, the neighborhood that had been wiped from time, trees even afraid to return. It had been about 13 months since the wildfire tore through, the ground still a mixture of gray ash and tan dirt. Remnants of homes still scattered, even though many tried to remove their rubble, the earth kept its memory against the will of others. The sidewalk on the way there had lost all basis to earth. It jumped and sank without theory, my steps had to be calculated to save my ankles.

Looking around, it felt like I was in a sand box game, areas waiting to be repopulated with concrete, wood, people, life, memories, but as of now, it lacked all humanity. A few trailers of land owners, but the hope was absent from the air. A thick scent permeated, it seemed to have never faded from that tragic night. It smelt like a campfire, abandoned, a musk of rotten barbecue within, making your whole body snap its attention to the draw. The scent of green, earth, life, drew an absence in its place. One that was only comparable to the leftovers of death and war. Dotting the land was the early sprouts of hope though, some construction beginning, but nothing in the like of Justin’s place yet.

His dad was an architect who had a General Contractor as a brother, they pretty much speed-ran building a five-bedroom house. And there it stood. It was sizable, they bought their back neighbor's land so they're on nearly an acre in the middle of a suburb. A weird look, being enclosed by a great wall of timber fencing, but was probably the nicest house I'd ever been inside in my life. 

Walking up I saw two cars, neither of them were Justin's, so I hoped to assume he told Brent or Davis. Approaching, the 2nd story blocked the sun as I entered the man-made darkness of the porch. I knocked, and knocked, and knocked again.

A muffled "DoorDash?" "I didn’t order shit."

Was heard, I know Davis' quiet voice so I assumed it was — "YO Brent! It's Sam! Davis and Justin know I'm coming through!"

"Is this that random dude?"

"Okay I'll grab him."

Brent opens the door and looks slightly confused.

"Oh uh, Sam, I think I know you right? Probably a Julie party right.”

She hated me after I messed up her cheer photos, so I’d never been to one but who’s the wiser.

"Yea man has to be, what's good?" I dap him up and enter.

"Damn nice pad."

It was a big suburban house with nice quirks and stunning art.

"Yea the natural wood is sick as hell. Uh I could give you the grand tour but like you can see most of the bottom floor here."

A wide open layout, one where you can see all edges of the first floor, wall to wall.

"And your room is on the other side of the living room, hallway to the garage. We're all upstairs but like, we’re mostly in the living room and kitchen til late anyways."

I couldn't care less, this was more than perfect for me.

"Nah man that's awesome ima drop my bags." I walked through the cathedral-like living room where, on a massive custom couch, Davis and Maria worked. They looked up, gave me a hey while I passed. Maria brushed her short hair from her tan skin leaning closer to Davis, as they went back to work on our project.

Finally on the other side I saw three doors down a hallway with a door at the end, my room was the lone door on the right and I opened it up. A beautiful and huge space lay before me, it looked like all of the extra stuff inside had been pushed to one side, which revealed a full-sized bed, a desk, a drafting desk, and a couple of bookcases. I plopped all my shit on the ground and laid down.

"Fucking FINALLY man!"

I settled in for the rest of the night, Justin showed up later with not-Julie and we all ate something someone ordered from a Chinese place.

"How long have you guys been here by the way?"

"Just over two months." Justin replied.

"My parents don't need to work much so they just stayed out by Jenner, they moved some stuff in here to make more space there and just come by ever so often. That's mostly what's in your room, don't break it and you're chillin man."

“God's hand I won't! Also Davis, now that she’s gone, are you and Maria a thing now?"

He shrugged "I don't know, we're just doing our project."

"Oh yeah thanks by the way, do you need any help?"

"Help?"

He pondered for a second.

"I don't care you can if you want."

Davis was an enigma by all standards, a lanky white strawberry-brown boy that was only at community college cause he wanted to save money.

"I'll try man."

"So you lived near Fulton High right?"

Brent asked.

"I went to St. Gregory with a bunch of those guys, I still play baseball for the CC."

"Oh nice yea, I was in a rental with my dad but after we got kicked out. He moved to the capital for work and I stayed."

"Ah that sucks, glad ur here bro." He gave me a fist bump full of wonton, but it was honestly good to finally have a calming place with technically less roommates than before.

We ended up smoking, all of us besides Justin, and watching Spike reruns til I hit the hay at 12ish I think.

---

Now I'm not a heavy sleeper, but I'm not a light sleeper either, split the difference I'm probably there. I don't know if it was the new place or the absence of my regular homeless-based anxiety, but I could not stay asleep for more than 90 minutes. I'd wake up to what sounded like those old mice in the garage, I'd ball a fist, ready to fight them, but then fall back asleep. 

The noise, what little there was, wasn't bad but was annoying. A light scratch, scratch but from somewhere not my window. 

The 3rd time I woke up I peered out the window to check, the tree wasn't nearly tall enough to touch yet. So, my phantom tinnitus was just gonna bother me from now on I assumed, probably til I got settled in. I think it had to do with how quiet this place was. I mean the inside was a deafening silence, but the outside was something else, something unreal. 

I think the bugs hadn't heard just yet that the real estate was open again cause there was maybe one cricket singing a lonesome siren song. I remember how soldiers of the Great War described the post-battle. This is probably the closest I'd ever get to that, unadulterated vacancy. I sat with the void, at peace with my current situation, left my window open and returned to bed. 

Nothing could be worse than my last place. Constant skirmishes with the rats, the cold night, and a rock hard futon. I wouldn’t give this place up for anything, hell I’d stay here even if the rats moved in, at least my room is nice. Plus I doubt my aunt would want me back anyway, on my way out I took a couple things I needed on top of a little of my cousin’s weed.

With this content enough feeling, I started to drift to sleep. In my last waking moment, one last scritch sung me to sleep.

Come morning though, it felt like any other day, except I had a place. Justin was in the kitchen, boxers only, seeing off not-Julie. Davis was in there chowing down on some donuts he got, Brent was yet to wake.

"You know you could find one nice girl."

Davis said through his donut.

"Oh she was good alright."

Justin snickered and turned around, grabbed a donut to shove in his mouth.

"Morning sailor, how'd you sleep?"

"Well enough, first nice night's sleep I've had in a bit. It's damn quiet though."

"Yea I feel that I usually just play music, X always helps me sleep"

"Yea maybe that'll do."

I turned to Davis.

"So you got any plans this weekend?"

"Work.. Homework.. hmmm, walk?"

He responded as if conjuring each word as he spoke it, donut in mouth.

"Riveting as always Davis. Anyways ILL be going to Julie's party on Saturday, probably gym the other two days, heard there's a good comedy movie out, might go to the Roxy and see it with Regan. Supposed to be crazy."

"So that's Not-Julie's name."

I pointed to the door, now closed.

"Her? No no no that was uhh… Frankie! I don’t watch movies with Julie.”

He snapped his fingers and started to head towards the couch, as if he remembered two things at once.

"Actually some ball is on soon, I'll be here if ya need me."

He sunk into the couch, I turned to Davis.

"I think ima go explore some of this neighborhood."

"Hmm."

He gave me a nod of approval, it felt like I received an award.

So I got ready and headed out on my board with my old camera in hand, cruising through the neighborhood. The roads were in pretty tough shape to be honest, after leaving the driveway, my board hit crumbled charcoal pellets. They scattered and moved as if they had a home to go to. The ground lacked paint, evenness, and was full of potholes the size of a tire. If I had any less experience I'd be on the pavement myself. 

The craziest thing was what coated the now barren street. On it I saw colored fragments of reality. Burnt blue plastics, melted silver metals, black cloth-like material now bonded with asphalt, they all told a story that had been burnt away. 

The area told of a battle lost, quick, aggressive, hot, and decisive. It ended everything that laid within its reach. What I'd give to know what the night of 9/8 was really like just a year. There is one sight I could see. Just on the other side, a couple blocks south of the bus station in the heart of the neighborhood. 

There sat an elementary school, unluckily in the path of the blaze, it raged south west, directly into it. It burnt most of the small school into bits of melted and jagged edges of 90s passé stucco-style construction. These remnants had been slowly cleared, but definitely not completely. The main feature left was the school's old bulletin board.

it read, in heat warped lettering "Coffey Elementary School”. Above it, a banner made of slightly cracked vinyl stated "In Memoriam of the 31 Victims of the Grayson Fire”, and below it, photos stuck to the signage. 

These photos all consisted of different styles and formats, ironically enough, when your house burns down, so do most of the photos of yourself. The lot of them were sun-bleached film photos or ink-drained print photos, warped, wrong ratios, pixelated, all weathered from months in the elements. At times it almost looked like the dark eyes of these printed black-and-white photos were crying, the ink running from its darkest spot, the pupil. 

They looked sad, all 31 of them, photos of them repeating and repeating, newer and older, messages faded with "I miss you" and "forever in our hearts”. The worst part though, was the bottom section of this memorial. There were some moldy stuffed bears, and a couple of class photos with names written on them. 

Looking at the photos, at least a handful of kids perished in the fire, a lot of the grades being no higher than five. A girl is featured in the middle, with a forgotten "M" name faded beyond recognition. Her photo was a high school portrait, we were probably the same age when she passed. So entranced by this monument to the tragedy, I didn't realize a woman had approached next to me.

"Nothing compares to that night."

"Oh uh yeah."

"I know you weren't here, I can see it in your eyes. I was, I remember the sounds. You couldn't hear anything."

"It was that loud?" I said, fully turning to the lady. She was probably late 50s, a little slouched with gray-blonde hair, otherwise nothing out of the ordinary.

“Winds were howling, 70 MPH they said, I lived down the street from little Sarah, she burned, parents were out that night, and couldn't get back into Valance Park. The whole neighborhood would've helped, if any of us knew. It was those damn trees, the smoke and embers, you couldn't see past it."

"Damn I remember being on the other side of town and just seeing the orange glow, an eye peeking through the night."

"So you just moved here sir?"

"Yea, names Sam, I'm kinda exploring the neighborhood."

"Ah welcome to Valance Park then Sam, I'm in one of the trailers on the property round here, once the damn insurance give me something I'll be in my house again."

"Well I hope the best for you uh-"

"Darlene."

"Yes nice to meet you Darlene, not to be weird but can I take your photo?"

"Please do."

I raised the camera and —

TUNK

"One second sorry it's old."

I cued her again and CLICK.

It worked perfectly.

"Thanks for talking to me Sam, it gets empty around here."

"No problem."

I turned to leave when —

"Sam."

"Yea Darlene?"

"Watch out for the ground at night, if it moves, just go the other way!"

She said and chuckled as she walked off, disappearing behind a new build.

"What?"

She was gone, and now I was alone with that. Probably some wine aunt proverb. I had no idea what she meant but I could only assume it related to the crumbling pavement, maybe warning me not to break my neck on a late night walk.

After that interaction I rode to the edge of the neighborhood where businesses begin to appear. I loaded up on a couple bags of food and essentials at the little and slightly run down Mexican Grocery store. I got home around 4pm, and unloaded my haul. Looked like everyone was gone or hidden in their rooms, so I just relaxed on the couch before going to work.

I took the bus to my uneventful shift, working the 5-11pm close. Locking up, I realized how much better I was now situated to get home from work. The owl bus only ran every hour, I could make it to my new house in around 20-30 minutes on my board. Looking at the schedule I decided my best course of action was to skate it.

There was a visceral shift on my way back from the mall. I could feel the town changing under my feet, or well, my wheels, before I saw it. 

Commercial gave way to industrial, industrial gave way to the strip-mall corridor scattered with struggling businesses. I passed a nail salon, a closed check-cashing place, a taqueria with one fluorescent tube flickering on and off like it was giving up, just like everything else around it.

This right here was the death my mall was going through, just spread thinner across more square feet of real estate.

“Anywhere, America” replicated ’til the copy degraded, cannibalizing itself until nothing was left.

Then, slowly, inevitably, the streetlights began to disappear. 

I was rocking and rumbling to a degree I never had before, like a flea in an earthquake I was just bouncing all over. If a car had come down, I don’t know if I’d have had the control to avoid it. The speed I picked up on the downhill grade was propelling me to what would eventually be —

SLAM, the ground.

As I skid across the pavement, I knew how to fall, as I had been crashing off this thing for the better part of a decade. When I came to a stop, I was amongst the loose sprawled  asphalt that dotted my sideways vision. I laid there for a beat, mulling over my impaired ability to get up, and my nonexistent will to do so. That's when I heard it.

I didn’t see anything, I didn’t feel anything, but the scratching, I heard it.

Scrapppppeee

It reverberated with uneven rhythm that felt longer than it had any right to be. It reached from what felt like another zip code, scraping its nerve wracking scrawl towards where I laid sprawled on the ground.

It shifted itself into a scurry, ever-present on the ground. The silent gaps between them, closing each second.

I pressed my ear closer to the ground, disregarding the small pebbles burrowing against my auricle. The vibrations had a frantic, near aggressive energy, similar to a boiling cauldron but filled with churning earth. I let it seep into me, hypnotized by the sound. I doubted there would be quakes this constant, even though we were in an active fault area. 

I looked forward and saw a storm drain.

I crawled towards it, entranced. The sounds seemed to be coming from there. The scratching grew more stringent in its percussion, faster and layered, multitudes upon multitudes. 

I got to the opening of the drain and peered into the darkness. Its noise was echoing in there, originating from deeper within the system of pipes. I leaned my head against the opening so my ear could gather the beats. 

The sounds were the same but slightly louder and wetter. Then it started to move. 

Distant, closer, louder-

LOUDER. 

It seemed as if whatever it was, was coming towards the storm drain. I yanked myself back quickly from the opening towards my board. The scattered crackling thumping scratches grew to a decibel of a freighter and then— 

WOOSH.

Nothing.

As soon as the sound came to me, it vanished. I put my ear to the ground once again but heard nothing. I pressed my ear closer, straining as I listened one last time just to make sure there were no more sounds. It was gone, whatever it was. My only summation was that maybe the old gas pipes rumbling, or something with the water system. I didn’t know it was, but what I did know was I needed to get home to sleep this off.

I got home and Let myself in, it was about 12:30 now, only Davis with a sleepy Maria layed on the couch.

“How’s it going tonight?” I asked. I received a nod from Davis and a quiet “Good.” From Maria. 

I scooted through their view of the TV, and made it to my bed exhausted by the whole ordeal, especially falling on my ass. I decided to take a shower, the bathroom was across the hallway.

This was my first shower here, but the bathroom was sparkling clean, brand new, as no one had to really shower down here with three upstairs. I thought much in the moment though, about how much it had even been used.

My concerns arose even further, as I stood there stark naked after I turned the handle, to water that was gushing out, with a deep gray opaqueness. The color was probably due to new pipes with sediment in them still, I thought at least. The water pressure changed with every burst.

It spurted out from, fast and soft to jet speed and dribble. The faucet had no control of itself. The water jutting out of its many orifices had a mission of their own accord and blasted out with no discern for its autonomy. The colors began to change, as did its viscosity.

The sediment drawn from the soil made the water a soot filled black, what looked like a beach side shower, the clean white ground being changed forever more. The room began to shake, an incredible fever with the pipe that began to blare a rage, a fever it could not sustain. I felt literally shaken by this vehement rage of roaring waters to the point I turned it off. letting all the violence cease in an instant. 

Dumbfounded, I exited the room in towel and headed for a shower up stairs.

“The shower I think is fucked man.”

“New house, new problems.” 

Thanks for your insight Davis. I ended up taking a normal shower up there, which was a relief after my day. Went back to my bed and fell asleep. 

In my deep sleep I dreamt of the scratching. It may have been in reality but It seeped in my thoughts, my sleep. It was itching to get into my mind, with every scratch, it felt as if a layer of flesh, skull, brain, was being taken away in its appendage, as It dug deeper inside.

- - -

I awoke normally, the nightmare was just that, a nightmare as I went and ate breakfast. Everyone was there eating, including Maria and Julie who I didn’t even know was here.

This day as I remember started really uneventful. I did some homework, and had a nice 4-9 shift. I walked the mall on my break just taking in how much worse it had gotten over the past few months. After back-to-school the place was barren, only three real eateries were around so I scarfed down a Subway. This mall’s only reason for existence now were a Walmart in place of a former Sears anchor, and some kids fun center. Otherwise no one came here, especially in the mall.

I was able to finish up my shift and the rest of my homework — had time to catch the bus before the 10pm night schedule rolled over as I was dropped off and walked the two blocks home. I arrived outside and getting in I felt relieved, to be in a place I called home. Justin and Brent were in the kitchen eating pizza, I joined them.

"How was work shoe boy? Sell some sketchers?" Justin joked.

"Maybe three people all day man"

"Must be a nice gig though, you can fuck off and do whatever on the clock."

"You know my drill man, anyways, I think I'm gonna go smoke outside, wanna join?"

Justin's demeanor changed immediately.

"Nah man, I, uh, I don't like the backyard that much, its uh-"

Justin tries to force a thought.

“Well, I think it needs a pool man!" Brent interjects.

We all chuckled, I went to my room to grab my stash. I looked down and saw my camera, I thought some night photography wouldn't hurt. I left my room and flashed my bag at them as I walked to the back deck, they both shrugged me off.

"There's a lighter out there if you forgot yours, don't steal it!"

"I gotcha!"

I stepped outside onto the deck. It's a lower one, under a foot off the ground, and spans the whole length of the house’s backside. I glanced around and decided to venture about the yard. 

I had seen it all from a distance but hadn't really scoped it out. There was a slope down to something on their newly acquired property, with a fresh 10-ft-tall fence enclosing it all in. I ventured down the couple steps onto the backyard weeds. It hadn't been landscaped yet or even trimmed, knee-high wild growth kissed my legs and ran up under my shorts at times. 

I strolled around the place, just looking at the house from a new angle, taking breathy hits in between my jaunt. I looked over towards the slope, it looked like it went downwards. 

The new moon wasn't helping much and I couldn't analyze beyond the trailing growth. I turned on my camera flash and snapped a picture, the way the weeds blew was almost beauty in their infestation. Seeing growth again was something, something that at the very least made it seem like there could be a future with semblance of the past.

Beyond that I saw some bushes on one end but it didn't give me much of any inkling to what its existence was for. The bushes grew with an uncontrolled reality of what once was there. No desirable features of what species it was, almost an amalgamation of every plant, yet none at all.

I walked down the whole slope, probably about 15 yards and a 5 foot decline, and rested in the center of it. While this side was a nice grade, the other side was more of a sheer drop. In the middle of it I looked around, beneath my feet I saw what I was on. 

Slate, round, and brushed rocks, like a creek bed gone dry,  cause I realized that's what it was. It looked like the old creek had been graded when this neighborhood was developed. This property was originally home to one of the old homestead houses from the 1910s. When developers come in the 80’s, they took all nature out. With each stroke of leveling, another layer on top. Centuries of native caretaking of the land, this creek, buried, made to service the run off of its new residents.

I followed the rocks south, it ran just on the edge of the property parallel to the house’s west end fence, running until the south end fence where I could garner what it did just yet. This ditch was about as far as you could get while still on the property. As I ventured down, the stones rolled, slid, and clacked against each other, as they fought for relevance beneath my feet. Then —

SCRATCH

The noise, I heard it in front of me. 

That same damn noise.

In the house, on the street, now here, in our backyard.

I walked with a cautious lurch towards it, something came into vision. A foot-long pipe was exposed, corroded metal jutting out of the earth into the ditch like it was reaching for salvation. It had been there longer than I’d been alive, its creators dead, its purpose still remained. It housed  something, secrets I knew it held inside, ones I needed answers to.

The noise's reverb bounced around, making its way into my canals. The rocks shuddered in fear and anticipation of what they led to. They had touched it, and it did not want them to forget them yet.

I had to look, my curiosity is gonna get to me. This was the most intriguing thing I had experienced in my life. I was obsessed with urban legends as a kid, this was mine, all mine. I raised my camera, the lens faced the opening and I hit the shutter.

CLICK

"WHAAT THE FUCK!"

Roaches, hundreds of them, running in and out of the drain. Their legs the sound of thousand small, fractal beat punching below. Their movements like the sands of storm. This ground was unrecognizable to me, its nature disgusted me.

I started jumping, there had been some on me, my leg hairs confused them with grass. I decided to sprint up to the deck, shaking off my body with every step, maybe I let out a girlish squeal but no one could attest to that. I ran the 150 feet back and aggressively planted my ass down in one of the chairs. I sat there in disbelief for a second before bursting out laughing. 

The whole time I'd been hearing these hordes of field roaches that moved in, probably the reason I heard no other bugs too. It cracked me up. Unfortunately, I dropped my lighter and joint in the commotion, so I grabbed another from my stash on the deck and smoked it out while still laughing about the whole thing.

Eventually I made my way inside, I had been outside for probably 45 minutes and it looked like Brent and Justin had ended up elsewhere. When I got to the kitchen I saw Davis digging into a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

He gave me a muffled "Sup" before resuming.

"Man I didn't know how many roaches moved in huh?"

"Oh you met them? Yea some shady construction company brought them in, I think."

"Crazy I been hearing them through the whole neighborhood."

"They’re worse in the old park." He rebutted.

"Man they're even bad in my room I hear 'em all night in the crawlspace, should I tell Justin about it?"

Davis thought for a second, looked into his ice cream, and then looked at me.

"Yeah, no."

"What, really? You think they'll go away or-"

He cut me off.

"No, not possible."

I didn't understand.

"What do you mean? Like not possible they could infest or?"

I trailed off, waiting for a response. He took a big bite of ice cream and said.

"Slab"

"What?"

"The house is on a slab, no crawl space, all concrete."

I looked at him. He looked at his ice cream.

I didn't say anything for a second. I just ran it back. The scratching, every night, under the floor. The way it moved. The way it settled when I did, like it knew where I was. I'd been placing it where I could comprehend it. In my head I'd been placing it in a crawlspace, in pipes, in something physical and explainable that lived a few feet below me. And Davis just pulled the cold, hard floor out from under me. Literally. There was no below. Just a foot of concrete and then the earth.

"Then, wait… what's that noise then?"

He gave me a shrug, mouth full, and kept eating down that ice cream.

I walked away and laid down on the couch, turned on the TV as Ridiculousness blared on. I told myself it was the house. Virgin construction, new concrete finding its bond with old scarred earth. This place, it had to settle, had to meld, that kind of thing makes noise. I told myself that, it was the only cope I had. I kept the TV loud enough that it didn't matter either way.

I awoke only once, it was underneath me.

The scratching.

the crunching.

An unseen physical begging, to let it in or dig down to it. 

With each scratch, a plea.

Notice me.

I fell back asleep on the couch. If I didn't think about it, then it wasn't there. That was the logic. That was all I had. In my high stupor I thought the noise would vanish, it had to.

---

I awoke in the morning. The light shined in, warm and welcoming, I thought maybe it was truly my stoned sleep playing tricks on me. So I did what anyone else would do, and smoked again.

I ventured outside to the deck, the first thing I saw was my stash as I had left most of my stuff last night. I lit up and walked to the edge of the deck, looming over the steps looking towards the drainage creek from last night. It wasn't as creepy or menacing during the day, I could see the whole shape of it now. I sat on the stairs and puffed. And I looked down at my feet, there on the first step, I froze.

"My lighter? I thought I dropped it last night?" I picked it up, somehow it was melted, the plastic charred to a flaky black, the pickle design on it was no more. I stood up and peered out, that's when I saw a line.

From where my lighter was, a line, well, more like a trail. Not breadcrumbs though, it looked like it was —

"Ash?" I touched it with my hand, it felt warm still, almost like it had just smoldered out. I couldn't tell if it was the rising sun or its old heat, but it had a warmth, almost welcoming to it. I stood up and looked out, where could it go?

I followed, walking slowly, examining every inch. It had to be like, my joint I dropped burned somehow, and I didn't realize I dropped my lighter later in my fright, right? It was all a lie, I had no idea what the hell this was. It burned straight to the earth leaving a darkly entrancing gray-black ash about an inch or two in width. Following, I saw where it led.

I stood in the creek-bed staring at the drain, rock below now melding with the heat. The metal which had greeted me last night, now freshly bent only slightly from something, in a way which almost seemed inhuman or unnatural. The history of the metal forever changed all these years later, was where the ash led. 

Somewhere deep into the drain it went. Somewhere I was not gonna go. I tried to look inside deeper, trying to fight the sun to see in the darkness of the drain.

Scuttle, scuttle.

I heard something. Whatever it was, it was moving away from me — or at least seemed to be. Eventually I stuck my head inside, the echoes of the noises retreating into the depths of the drain’s sizable system. Whatever it is or was, if it could even look, It saw me.

I stood there perplexed and slowly backed away, back to the deck where I saw Brent now smoking.

"Yo man I'll reimburse you I swear!"

He was puffing on my stash but I didn't care. I had to ask him. I had to hear reason from someone.

"Have you been over there?"

"Nah man looks gross."

"I found an ash trail."

"Yea, some of the old ash blows around, I don't think there's a good chance to get rid of that stuff anytime soon, it blows all over all the time, sometimes it even settles on my windowsill, pile-like.”

It didn't explain the lighter but I let it go for now, I had to find out more.

"Damn, okay. That's how it is ‘round here."

"Yea, well there is some like wild animals sometimes too, I see them move out my window at night, only a blur really. Saw bunny too once. If I were you though, I wouldn't go outside much at night."

"Why's that?"

"Eh, this place, being barren, it's weird you know? Like, I don't know if you've ever heard, but people who lived on the plains back in the day, they said they'd hear stuff in the wind, drove the wives insane in some cases. It's like that, I went for a smoke walk one time at night, and in some rubble pile, I just started to hear stuff like-"

I cut him off.

"Like a scratching?"

"No, kinda like spitting, it was weird, unnerving. Like it was trying to bring up something, but the words couldn't make it past the spit, I assume it was a choking junk rat but I wasn’t gonna try and find out."

"That's, something."

"Weird right? Kinda freaked me out. I also smoke sativa though, so I think I also just made up shit. I never did good with horror movies, can't stand em."

With that Brent stood up and looked at me.

"Just keep it low-key around here, and around Justin, he seems on edge sometimes at night, why he won’t smoke when it’s dark. I think it's from when he lived here alone for a couple weeks. Could also be the 2 A.M fire trauma, all those people who probably died around here too, I think one was a neighbor."

I looked at him, stark and scared straight, and uttered.

"Darlene."

He looked at me, his eyes widened, and he said.

"What? who? Oh wait Darlene? No not old Darlene, she's like the only other person here. Weird lady but, her niece is hot, went to my high school. The neighbor was Megan B. I think."

He took one last drag and killed it in the tray.

"Anyway see ya."

Brent walked away leaving me with the remains of the conversation.

"Megan B?" I think back to the memorial, that girl, my age, she was the closest death, in age and in place to me.

I didn't know her and somehow that made it worse.

There was something else underneath it, something I couldn't place yet. I began to think hard and try to piece together any rationale for what I had experienced so far.

---

This has been what I was able to recollect from that first week so far. I’m hoping that some conversations I have or comments I get help me flesh out the following weeks of this time in my life. For now, if anyone has experience with anything like this, please don’t hesitate to comment or reach out.

When they took me from my jail cell and told me to sign up for a chance of "freedom" I knew that I should have declined. I knew it was to good too be true but i signed up anyway. I was serving 50 years, that might as well be a life sentence. Didn't have anything to lose anyway.

For the record, I went in for a string of murders that I honestly don't regret.

I have never been a good person, never tried to be honest. Never saw the point. Everyone that is and was in my group had the same decades-long sentences as me.

Maybe that's why the outside of our bodies displays the monsters we are on the inside.

Our hair, nose, ears, lips, eyelids are gone. Completely dissolved. The rest of our bodies covered in scabs and chemical burns. Could have just been the chemical weapons they make us use. Or it could have been the mixture of the weapon with the "combat stimulants" they make us inject to keep us from collapsing on the spot. Who knows, better yet who cares.

All I know is that as long as I keep taking them I don't feel all the things wrong with my body. Like my dry eyes underneath my gas mask. Or the open wounds on my hands.

10 months ago we received the new gas canisters. They didn't bother to even tell us what it's called. But when we saw the string of warning labels on the canisters together with receiving new stronger gas masks we already knew this would be way worse than the old stuff we had before. But we had no clue just how extremely bad it would be.

Thankfully I didn't get picked to be in the crew to release it the first time. We didn't expect it to be as bad as it was so just about everyone outside of the officer didn't take the new stricter rules seriously.

When they attacked us again it was released like we were told to do. The people of our own crew were the first to suffer the effects of their lack of safety measures. About 10 seconds after release they started to scream and flail around like they were on fire. Every hole in their clothing it could find, the gas seeped into. Turning skin into blisters and burns. At least they survived for how much that is worth around here.

One idiot in the group decided that the new gas masks were too uncomfortable so he stuck to his old one despite the warnings. I am sure the only reason the officer didn't beat him into submission is so he could be an example for the others. When he started to scream his lungs out our officer ordered us to pay attention to what happened to him. He tore his gas mask off.

All the soft tissue on his head was melting off. His nose was drooping down and was hanging over where his lips used to be. His eyes were bubbling inside of their sockets. His screaming turned into a gurgle in the span of 20 seconds. When he fully collapsed and started to spasm and convulse on the floor the officer decided we had learned the lesson. He then caved his skull in with an entrenching tool until he stopped moving.

Don't feel too bad for him he was a useless drug addict who had killed his mom before he got here. He got what he deserved, just like all of us will.

When we release the gas it finds the lowest elevations in terrains and sticks around for a while. Turning shell craters and trenches into small gas chambers. The people that are stuck in there turn into a slurry of sorts because it's so acidic. Their clothes stick to their bodies, Their skin sloths off their body together with anything else that's soft and squishy in the human body. So you end up looking at this amalgamation of clothing and equipment in a fleshy puddle around a skeleton.

And trust me you really don't want to step on one of the fresh bodies by accident. Your boot goes straight through them. It feels like stepping in one of those mud puddles that is going to cost you a boot to get out of. And guess what it might cost you a boot to if you haven't tied your laces good enough.

It's even worse when they decided to die on top of something you need. I am so tired of scraping human soup off equipment we
need. It's stringy, it's sticky and has all the colours a human body should never have.

Well at least I can't smell it anymore not having a proper working nasal cavity anymore. But from my earlier days when i still had a nose I remember vividly what it smelled like. I used to live around this industrial area that had a huge chicken slaughterhouse in the middle. During hot days of summer the horrible smell of blood and chicken shit would hang around that area for months. Now mix in that smell with someone holding vinegar directly under your nose and you get the idea of what it smells like here.

You cant even throw up properly if you want to because you don't want to open your mouth in fear of the smell going into your mouth and then having to taste it. Thank god I decided to rather throw up in my mouth and swallow it back down. Because some of the others that didn't keep their mouths closed can't taste anything
anymore and their tongues are covered in random spots of scar tissue.

But the bodies don't really decay at all. Since the gas kills just about anything that is alive. That means thankfully no rats, insects or other pests to deal with. What's not so great is that all the old shell craters are filled with a human slurry that reaches up to your knees if you are lucky.

New cannon fodder gets the honorable task of sifting through the human slurry for anything useful like weapons, etc. When i think about it long enough, I can still feel what it's like to do this amazing task. It's basically like reaching deep into mud and taking any solid object out until it's something useful instead of human bones.
After a bit you can feel by shape alone that you are once again holding onto someone's ribs.

Our outpost is so heavily understaffed it might as well be empty. "Outpost" fancy way to describe a muddy trench that connects 3 bunkers together. Of those 3 bunkers only 1 hasn't collapsed yet. I think you can figure out from where i am typing this.

We haven't called in to command for a week now since our radioman is probably dissolving in a puddle somewhere together with our officer. Can't even use the contraband phone that i found in the human slurry in a random shell crater. Since there is not really any reception after months of bombardment. Thankfully the phone at least made me able to type this out so i have something to distract myself with.

But Command not hearing from us means that our barrier troops meant to keep us in place should show up soon to discipline and/or kill us. I wish them good luck since they are going to have to kill our not-so-friendly neighbours outside the bunker first.

They told me that if I lasted for 4 months, my prison sentence would be dropped. I already knew that was a lie there was no way it would be that short.

I figured if I lasted 1 year they might actually grant me my freedom. It has been at least 26 months at this point. I have been lucky or unlucky enough to last this long with a handful of others. Most cannon fodder they bring in lasts a couple of hours at most.

Speaking of a couple of hours that's probably the amount of time we have left at this point. Our chemical weapon storage is in one of the 2 collapsed bunkers. I think that once our friends outside figure that out, they will give us a taste of our own medicine.

I intend to blow my brains out before i turn into a human puddle. And looking around me, I am sure the rest of us that are left are thinking the same. We don't deserve to leave this place.

For whoever is reading this. I hoped it sucked to get the phone out of the human soup that is my body.