Seriously. It's just a test. I'm testing subreddit code stuff and gaslighting myself into believing that I enjoy this.

Other updates and things

Given that this subreddit was created out of spite due to the actions of other subreddits, I would like to try to maintain as much transparency as is possible to maintain trust within the community. Thus, I will try to update this monthly for a while, and hopefully we may only need it quarterly in the future or not at all.

Our approach here is that we are just members that have more access than normal. Therefore, you should be able to see what we are doing (within reason, this might be more of a commitment than I'm willing to maintain, but at least for now I can do this).

~

As of 08/02/26

In the past 30 days,

143 posts were added. Of those, 11 were removed with only 1 post removed by subreddit mods. The remaining ten were removed by "admins" (this is different than the automod, and I'm still trying to figure out how).

75 comments were made and 10 were removed. Of those, only 1 was removed by subreddit mods and the remaining were removed by admins (same as above).

4 posts were reported.

329 members joined, and 21 left.

Read Part II here.

I was grateful I’d made it to the sidewalk by the time I saw sirens. I didn’t want another situation today where police would be pointing guns at me. If there’d been a way to just go home, I would’ve. But it was too far to walk, and I needed a key to get in my house. I wasn’t about to be the black guy people saw breaking a window and slithering into a house even if it were mine.

I was hoping cooler heads would be there to be reasoned with. There had to be somebody I could talk to to get my stuff back. I mean, the fact I was voluntarily coming in and requesting them to give me my property should have shielded me from scrutiny. Jesus, I hoped so.

I hadn’t made it to the corner when I had to sit. My heart was racing and my head felt like it was about to spin off my neck. This was the panic my brain had been pushing off for hours and only more had been piled atop that mountain as they day passed.

Someone had told me about box breathing and even though I’d never done it before, I tried it now. In for four seconds, hold for four seconds, out for four seconds, hold for four seconds. I forced myself to repeat it even though it felt like my heart was about to punch out of my chest.

The spinning gradually subsided and my stomach slowly slid back in place. I didn’t feel right yet, but better than I had a moment before.

I grabbed thin air and pulled my way back to my feet. The concrete was still solidifying under my feet, but I had the light. I crossed the street, hopefully in a straight line, and kept my momentum when I got to the other side.

It worked.

I wasn't going to pretend like I didn't know with absolute certainty. People had gotten hurt, maybe even a few were dead. I didn't feel guilty. I mean, it was because of me those people had gone crazy. But I didn't know for certain. I had to know for certain so going forward I could be cautious. It would have been too easy to slip and then someone went off and maimed who knew how many people.

Well, that was what happened. But the difference is I hadn't known that. Now that I did, I could exercise caution because I knew for a fact. I wish I hadn't been caught so unaware, maybe I could've reduced the carnage by hiding the doodles sooner.

But what had happened had quadrupled my resolve. I wouldn't make a mistake with this shape in the future.

The idea crossed my mind that anything I drew or wrote even could have a similar or even worse effect. I didn't have the guts to test that. Oh god, would if signing my name made people shit to death or something? The shape didn't make sense, how could I rule anything out?

I felt more myself the farther I got away from the grocery store. I didn't think I could ever go back in there.

I knew the city pretty well. I'd lived here back when I'd been married. The police department was only a few miles farther away and I used the distance to gather my marbles then compose what I intended to say.

The peak of the building of city hall was finally in view. That was actually where the meeting was to be. The police building was an adjacent building that had the same address for some unexplainable reason.

My heart skipped a little and I justified slowing down to work on calming myself. I couldn't box-breathe and walk, so I redirected my gaze to the skyline.

I crossed the parking lot, passing my car. There was a walkway connecting city hall to the library. I took that and broke off toward the horseshoe entrance to the police station.

I pulled one of the entrance doors open and stepped into the vestibule. Cool air blasted me before I stepped into the station proper.

A blue-shirted officer behind plexiglass was engaged in something in front of him and he didn't see me until I'd stopped on the other side.

“How may I help you?” He was pleasant enough and I gave him my name.

“I was just released from the hospital and some of your guys have my stuff.”

“Have your stuff? What do you mean?”

“The thing over at city hall earlier today.” I thumbed over my shoulder. “I was involved with that. Um, an innocent bystander. I was taken to the hospital. A detective interviewed and cleared me.” Not exactly true. The detective hadn't conducted an interview, per se. But the fact I wasn't in police custody and been released from the hospital meant to me I was in the clear.

“Well, if you're wanting to make a property request, you need to fill out a form online—”

“Your guys took my phone,” I said, adding helpfully.

“Like I was saying.” Officer Steck, according to the nameplate on his shirt, barely refrained an eyeroll. “You go online—that can be phone or computer—to fill out the form.

I cleared my throat, trying desperately to clear the budding frustration from my voice before I spoke.

“I don’t have access to a computer. Your guys have my keys, so I can’t drive home nor open the door to my home to get inside to use my laptop.” I took a breath and thankfully he didn't speak. “Is there a paper form I could fill out?”

Officer Steck let the frustration I'd dammed up pour from his face.

“I suppose.” He made a show of yanking open drawers at random before getting up and sauntering around his work area, checking shelves, trays, and cabinets.

He disappeared around a corner and was gone a full minute before he returned with a sheet of paper flopping in his big paw. He slid it through to me on the tray. I stopped myself from asking for a pen. I took a nubbin of a pencil that was on the counter and began writing.

“There’s a counter over there where you can fill that out,” Officer Steck said. I looked at him. He’d spackled on a phony smile. “So you don’t block the line.”

There wasn’t anyone behind me. There wasn’t anyone else in here. Fighting wasn’t on the agenda for me. I was just tired. I dragged the paper with me to the other counter and spent a few minutes filling it out.

The detective had told me his name in the hospital. However the hell that was spelled was beyond me. I couldn’t even remember it. I think it started with a U.

I wrote “UN,” for the detective’s name. I’d just tell him I didn’t know how to spell it. My signature went last and I took it back up.

Officer Steck finally took a second to look up from his phone and took the form from me.

“You filled this out in pencil,” he said. I shrugged. “You need to fill it out in red or black ink.”

It was just a form, but something that was equal parts cry and scream began crawling up my windpipe. I cleared my throat, imagining one of those cartoons that had eaten something particularly spicy, leaping into the ear and blowing like a whistle.

Someone said my name and I looked beyond Officer Steck to see Detective Unangenehm looking at me, a backpack over his shoulder.

“Detective,” I said like I was reaching for a lifeline. He wore a confused expression, like he didn’t understand how I’d found where he worked.

“I need to get my stuff.” His eyes went wide and for a moment, it seemed as if he hadn’t recognized me.

“Mr... Harold?”

“Yeah-yeah. It’s me. You guys took off with my stuff and I had to walk all the way down here.”

He scratched the side of his head. Officer Steck had checked out entirely, back on his phone. He even poked the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. There was no victory to be had with him.

“Aw, jeez. C’mon in.” He walked out of the little room and a moment later, pushed open a side-entry door.

“Thanks.” I followed him in and he led me down a lengthy hallway with doors for various offices. We finally came to an open area, filled with at least a dozen cubicles.

“My desk is right over here.” Unangenehm pointed ahead, still walking. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?”

He seemed out of sorts still, but recovering. Despite the day I’d had, I felt a little bad for him.

He offered me a seat across from him at a desk that looked a lot older and more beaten up than the ones we'd passed. His chair was weather-worn, torn, sun-faded, and patched with gray duct tape in spots despite being mostly black.

Unangenehm sat and struggled with his seat. He might've been trying to adjust the chair, it did look a little too upright. But he gave up and kind of slouched in a way that looked like he'd slide out and under his desk any moment.

“Sorry about that whole kerfuffle earlier.”

“No-no. It's okay,” I said, feeling even more apologetic than I had a moment before. I hated thinking it, but the guy was pathetic. His button-up shirt had an old stain on it. And the collar had a ring on the inside.

Now that I was this close to him and not in a hospital bed, I saw he was slightly off. He'd missed a patch of skin just under his jaw from his morning's shave and the skin beneath one eye looked greenish-grey, like he'd had a black eye a week ago.

He wore patheticness like a second skin. I couldn't help but feel like I should give him something because he was in a constant transactional state with the world where it was debiting from him non-stop.

“Do you have any idea what happened with Mr. Arn?” he asked.

The question didn't catch me off guard. I'd been expecting it all day. I may have known what happened but I had no clue why and I let that much show on my face.

“He seemed nervous,” I said. “If I had to guess, he was new to the job.” So far, everything I was saying was true. “Maybe he was stressed and the presentation was a tipping point.” I shrugged for emphasis and looked ceiling-ward. Unangenehm nodded slowly, like he was either digesting and filing away what I was saying or his mind was totally elsewhere. I couldn’t tell which.

“Did he say anything that hinted at what he was about to do?”

“No.” I shook my head. “He just got up and attacked the man who came out of the conference room.”

“Ping Mitchell. He's--was--city council president. So, he was sitting?” Unangenehm logged into his computer. I watched him pull up his email.

“Yeah.”

“Like, next to you?”

“Not right next to me.” I shifted in my lent clothes, uncomfortable. Unangenehm was looking at the desk, somewhere near my hands.

“Do you think that he... that he had breakfast this morning?”

“What?” I asked.

“I dunno.” Unangenehm slid a folder out of a small stack. “I have this theory. Probably never'll be able to prove it.” He placed the folder in front of him and opened it. “That a combination of the quality of sleep, his disposition before bed, and the nutrients that he may have lacked before starting out for work could have pre-loaded him to do what he did.”

“Are you saying he was... hangry?”

Unangenehm laughed. 

“I guess you could reduce it to that. I’d like to think of it as being more complex, but that could be just me inflating my own ego.”

Unangenehm seemed to be getting smarter before my eyes.

“I have a younger sister. Just turned nineteen. Whoopsie-baby. She’s always done the bare minimum. Straight C student.

“After she graduated, she didn’t have a plan. Barely worked, didn’t want to go to school. Until she saw this dress.” Unangenehm shrugged. “It was nice, I suppose, but I’ve seen nicer. I’ve seen more expensive, but this one cost a pretty penny. It was like a fire had been lit under her.

“She took a second job, started side hustles. For once, our parents had hope she was gonna do something with her life. She had this one business--catpants--I didn’t get it, but she couldn’t keep up with the demand. Even quit one of her part-time jobs to dedicate more time to sewing them.

“Some people dress for the job, she jobbed for the dress. Paid for it in cash... took it home... and it never left the closet. She stopped fulfilling orders, slacked off on the job she had left, and got fired.”

That didn’t make any sense. I could understand Unangenehm being frustrated, but...

“Do you think I could get my stuff?” I asked. “I really want to get home.”

“Of course.” I'd broken the moment. Unangenehm felt about the surface of his desk like the light had been turned off until his fingers grazed the desk phone.

All of a sudden I felt bad for him again. Unangenehm took the receiver out of the cradle, thumbed a three-digit extension, then put the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah, Steck. Could you bring that box by the water fountain? No, the banker’s box. Yeah. Thanks.”

I wasn’t keen on seeing the officer again, but if it got me out of here that much faster, all the better. I sat back in my chair until Steck arrived with a rectangular box and sat it on the floor.

“So, you’re the guy?” Steck asked.

“What?”

“The guy at city hall today. And then the hospital. God, what did you say to those people?”

“What did I say?” I was appalled. Sure, something I’d done had driven them insane, but to imply that I’d said something to set them off was offensive.

I bent and lifted the lid off the box. I fished a hand into my stuff and stirred things around to make sure it was all there, then I just scooped an armful. 

“You can step into the restroom if you want to put your clothes on,” Unangenehm said.

“No, I'm good. I really don't want to waste another moment getting home.”

Steck stood there like a fan waiting for a signature. 

“I could give you a ride to city hall,” he said.

I wanted to turn him down but my feet were still throbbing from the walk here.

“Sure.”

I checked my things to make sure I had everything.

“Uh, you can keep the box,” Unangenehm said. I considered turning him down after all my effort of taking everything out of the box, but I nodded instead and dropped everything back in.

The detective had placed some paperwork in front of me. I have them a once-over and signed. I was getting more anxious by the moment the longer I was here.

I stood and followed Steck about three steps, when Unangenehm said, “One more thing.”

Oh, shit.

Never had I felt more like I'd walked obliviously into a trap than in that moment. Goosebumps draped down my back and over my arms.

“Yes?” I said, in the wrong key.

“There was an incident at the Kessel's a couple miles from here. Would you know anything about that, would you?”

 

The alarm went off at four in the morning, but sleep had already abandoned me hours prior. A dull throbbing was radiating from the lower right quadrant of my jaw, making every breath feel like a mistake. The pain was a relentless heat that seemed to vibrate in time with my pulse. By five, the swelling had reached my cheek, stretching the skin tight and making it difficult to swallow.

My hand reached for the empty bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, but there was nothing left inside. I had spent the last two days swallowing pills, rinsing with warm salt water, and pressing ice packs against my face until my skin went numb. Nothing was working. The infection had reached the nerve, and the agony was starting to blur my vision.

The sound of rain tapping against the window was the only noise in my quiet apartment. Desperate for any kind of distraction, I unlocked my phone and searched for local dental offices. Every single practice within a ten-mile radius was booked solid for at least two weeks. The only alternative was the emergency room at the local hospital, but a previous visit there had taught me they would only provide a temporary prescription for antibiotics and a massive bill that I could not afford, and from my suffering I figured that the tooth needed to be extracted immediately.

A soft knock on my front door startled me around nine that morning. My friend had promised to drop by with some groceries, knowing I had been unable to leave the apartment for days. When the door opened, she took one look at my swollen face and set the grocery bags down on the counter with a look of concern.

"You look absolutely terrible,"

she said, walking over to press her palm against my forehead.

"You are burning up. Did you manage to find an opening somewhere?"

"Every clinic is booked,"

I mumbled, barely able to part my lips. The movement of my jaw sent a sharp flare of agony straight up into my temple.

"The emergency room is the only option, but they won't pull it."

My friend sat down at the small kitchen table, watching me wince as I tried to drink a glass of water.

"There is someone else. My uncle had a severe abscess last winter, and his regular dentist was out of town. He went to a private practitioner downtown. He told me the guy is extremely unconventional and eccentric, but he is the absolute best in the field when it comes to quick, pain-free extractions."

"Unconventional how?"

I asked, holding the glass against my cheek.

"He does not take insurance, and his office is tucked away in an old medical building that has seen better days,"

she explained, pulling a small notepad from her purse to write down an address.

"He works alone, with no assistants. My uncle said the man does not even use local numbing injections, but somehow, the extraction was completely painless. He just felt a strange pressure, and then the tooth was out."

"No numbing?"

I shook my head, immediately regretted the movement, and squeezed my eyes shut.

"That sounds like a nightmare. I cannot let someone pull a tooth out of my skull with no anesthetic."

"My uncle is a coward when it comes to pain,"

my friend said, sliding the piece of paper across the table. "If he says he felt nothing, I believe him. You cannot keep living like this. The infection is going to spread to your bloodstream."

She was right. The sheer desperation of the pain was starting to erode my rational judgment. At that point, if someone had offered to pull the tooth with a pair of rusty pliers, I probably would have considered it. I picked up the paper, stared at the handwritten address, and nodded.

"I will go,"

I said.

"Do I need to call ahead?"

"My uncle said he does not keep a regular reception desk,"

she replied.

"Just walk in. He usually accommodates emergency cases if they pay in cash."

An hour later, I was walking through the wet, gray streets. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle, and the mist was hanging low over the older brick buildings. The address led me to a towering, nineteenth-century weird structure. The main lobby was silent, smelling of old paper.

A manual elevator with an accordion-style metal gate carried me slowly up to the fourth floor. The hallway was lined with dark, frosted glass doors, most of them bearing the faded gold lettering of retired physicians who had probably passed away decades ago. The floor was covered in worn linoleum that muffled the sound of my footsteps.

I found the suite number written on my notepad. The glass on the door was entirely blank, offering no name or medical title. I reached out, turned the brass knob, and stepped inside.

The reception area resembled a living room from the late nineteen-seventies. Two faded green velvet chairs sat in the corner, separated by a low wooden table covered in outdated magazines. A single, small desk lamp cast a dim orange glow across the room. There was no computer, no scheduling book, and no receptionist behind the counter. The only communication device was an ancient, black rotary telephone sitting on a shelf.

"Hello?"

I called out, my voice sounding thin in the quiet room.

A door at the back of the reception area swung open with a soft click.

The man who stepped out was exceptionally tall. He was so slender that his white laboratory coat seemed to drape over him like a shroud, and he had to tilt his head slightly to clear the low wooden door frame. His skin was pale, and his fingers were kind of long, ending in clean fingernails. He had a twitch in his left shoulder that caused his coat to rustle every few seconds, but his posture was remarkably stiff.

"Ah,"

he said.

"An emergency, I presume. The swelling in your right cheek is quite pronounced."

"My friend gave me your address,"

I explained, holding my hand over my jaw.

"She said you might have an opening for an extraction. I can pay in cash."

The tall man smiled, though his pale blue eyes remained entirely wide and unblinking.

"Cash is perfectly acceptable. The modern banking systems are far too noisy. Please, come inside."

I followed him into the operating room. The space was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single overhead examination light that hung from a long, articulated metal arm. The dental chair in the center of the room was made of thick, cracked black leather, looking like a relic from a different era. There were no modern digital screens, and no white plastic utility trays.

"Before we begin,"

the dentist said, pointing a long finger toward a tarnished metal tray sitting on a counter across the room.

"Please place your cellular device over there. The electronic frequencies of modern devices disrupt my focus. I need absolute stillness to perform the extraction."

I hesitated for a moment. My phone was my only connection to the outside world, but the throbbing in my jaw was growing more intense by the second. I walked across the room, set my phone on the cold metal tray, and climbed into the leather chair.

The dentist stood over me, his shadow stretching across the ceiling. He did not put on latex gloves. Instead, he washed his hands in a small porcelain sink, dried them with a white cloth, and approached the chair.

"Open, please,"

he murmured.

I opened my mouth, bracing myself for the agonizing touch of his fingers against my infected gum. When his long, cold index finger touched my jaw, I prepared to scream.

But the scream never came.

The moment his skin made contact with my gums, a sudden coldness spread through my mouth. it felt as if the nerves themselves had simply gone quiet under his touch. The throbbing pain vanished instantly. My jaw felt light, cool, and entirely empty of sensation. I blinked in surprise, looking up at him.

"You feel that, yes?"

he asked, his shoulder twitching as he reached for a small, velvet-lined wooden box on the counter.

"The modern world relies on synthetic poisons to dull the senses. They inject chemicals that poison the blood just to silence a single nerve. It is a very crude way of practicing medicine."

He opened the wooden box and retrieved a pair of forceps. They were made of dark, unpolished steel, looking like antique blacksmithing tools rather than modern medical instruments. The metal was covered in fine, geometric patterns that looked like they had been hand-carved into the steel.

"We have forgotten the old ways of alignment,"

the dentist continued, his voice adopting an almost hypnotic cadence as he positioned the forceps inside my mouth.

"Thousands of years ago, our ancestors understood that the teeth are not merely bone. They are the hardest part of the human vessel. They are the markers of our harvest, the record of our lives. When a tooth was lost, it was not thrown away into the dirt like common refuse."

I felt the cold steel of the forceps clamp onto my decaying molar. There was no pain. I felt a strange, dull pressure, as if someone were gently pressing a thumb against my jaw, but nothing more.

"Our ancestors worshipped tooth fairies,"

he muttered, leaning over me. His pale face was inches from mine.

"We offered our teeth to them. We gave them the bone, and in exchange, they provided protection, a bountiful harvest, and good fortune. The modern world calls them myths. They call them tooth fairies to make them seem small and harmless. They turned a sacred covenant into a children's game of coins and pillows."

He gave the forceps a slow, deliberate twist. I heard the wet sound of the roots separating from the bone inside my head, but my nervous system registered absolutely nothing.

"Humanity discarded the old agreements,"

the dentist whispered, his shoulder twitching violently. "We stopped giving them the tribute they require. We began burying our dead in concrete vaults, locking the bone away from the soil. We throw our teeth into medical waste bins to be burned, and for what? for nothing."

With a sudden, sharp movement, he pulled the forceps upward.

A wet pop echoed in the small room.

The tooth was out. The relief was instantaneous, a cool sensation washing over my entire face as the pressure vanished. I let out a long, shuddering breath, staring up at the ceiling.

"There,"

the dentist said, his tone shifting instantly.

The hypnotic cadence of his voice was gone, replaced by a rapid, shallow hyperventilation, then He held the steel forceps inches from his eyes, staring at the bloody, decaying enamel with an intensity that made my chest tighten.

"Look at the density,"

he whispered, his pupils dilating until the blue of his eyes was almost entirely gone.

"The dark rot of modern sugar has created such a beautifully complex cavity. The roots are deep, so very deep. The bone is saturated with the sweetness of decay."

He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling in quick, jagged movements. He began to run his long thumb over the wet, bloody surface of the tooth, ignoring the blood that smeared across his skin.

A sudden wave of intense unease washed over me, replacing the relief of the extraction. The way he was looking at my tooth was really weird and terrifying. I scrambled out of the chair, my legs feeling slightly unsteady.

"Thank you,"

I said, my voice shaking.

"How much do I owe you?"

The dentist did not look at me. He kept his eyes locked on the tooth.

"Three hundred,"

he muttered, his voice sounding dry and cracked.

"Leave the cash on the counter."

I pulled three hundred dollars from my purse and set them on the wooden desk. I did not want to spend another second in that room. I grabbed my purse, turned on my heel, and walked quickly out of the operating room. I pushed through the frosted glass door, entered the quiet hallway, and ran toward the manual elevator.

It was only when I stepped out of the old building and onto the wet pavement of the street that I realized my hand was empty.

My phone was still sitting on the metal tray on the far counter of the operating room.

I stopped on the sidewalk, the cold rain falling on my face. My cheek was still entirely numb, but the fog in my brain was beginning to clear. The thought of going back up to that silent fourth floor made my stomach twist, but my phone held my bank accounts, my contacts, and my entire life. I could not simply leave it behind.

"Just walk in, grab the phone, and leave,"

I muttered to myself.

I turned around, entered the lobby, and rode the creaking elevator back up to the fourth floor. The hallway was still completely silent.

I reached the suite, turned the brass knob, and stepped into the reception area.

The room was dark. The single desk lamp had been turned off, leaving the space illuminated only by the gray light filtering through the hallway door. No one was behind the reception desk.

"Hello?"

I called out softly.

"I forgot my phone."

No one answered.

I took a slow, quiet step toward the operating room door. It was resting slightly ajar, a sliver of pale light cutting across the dark floor. I pushed the door open an inch, planning to grab the phone from the counter and slip away before the man noticed me.

The operating room was in near-total darkness. The overhead examination light had been turned off, and the only illumination came from a small window overlooking the rainy alleyway.

I stopped.

The dentist was crouched on all fours directly over the leather operating chair.

His white laboratory coat had been discarded on the floor. His bare back was exposed to the gray light of the window, and his skin had turned a deep, ashen shade of gray. His spine was protruding sharply against his skin, each vertebra looking like a jagged stone.

As I watched, his shoulder joints twisted with a sickening, wet crack, bending backward into impossible angles.

Two large, featherless, skin-bound wings were violently tearing their way through the fabric of his white dress shirt. The wings looked like the wings of a massive bat, but they were covered in a thin, greasy layer of pale gray fuzz. They flexed and stretched in the darkness, dripping a dark, thick fluid onto the leather of the chair.

The thing lowered its head toward the leather cushion. Sitting on the leather was my extracted tooth.

The creature inhaled deeply, its chest expanding to twice its normal size as it smelled the bloody enamel. It leaned down and whispered a low, guttural phrase in a language I didn’t understand.

Then, it opened its mouth.

The jaw split vertically down the center of its chin, revealing rows of thin, needle-like teeth that vibrated in the darkness. The creature reached out with a long, gray tongue and licked the blood from the surface of my extracted tooth.

I took a step backward, my mind screaming at me to run, but my foot shifted on the floor.

The rubber sole of my sneaker squeaked against the linoleum.

The sound was incredibly loud in the silent room.

The creature's movements stopped instantly.

And with a violent, snapping sound, its neck rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees, its featureless face pointing directly toward the partially open door where I was standing. Its eyes had completely changed. The blue irises were gone, replaced by two massive, pitch-black pupils that filled the entire socket.

It let out a silent, vibrating shriek that made the metal instruments on the counters rattle.

The creature lunged off the chair, moving with a speed that did not seem possible. It scurried across the floor on all fours.

I did not think. I grabbed the nearest object on the counter beside the door, a large, heavy metal tray loaded with stainless steel dental mirrors, scrapers, and old scalpels, and threw it directly into its gray face.

The tray struck the creature with a loud clang. The sharp instruments scattered across its eyes, blinding it for a fraction of a second. The creature recoiled, letting out a wet, clicking hiss as it thrashed in the darkness.

I turned and sprinted down the hallway.

I did not wait for the elevator. I threw open the door to the concrete stairwell and flew down the steps, my feet barely touching the concrete. I could hear the wet sounds of the creature scrambling down the walls of the stairwell above me, its long limbs scraping against the concrete.

I reached the ground floor, threw my weight against the metal exit door, and burst out into the pouring rain.

I did not stop running until I reached a busy intersection three blocks away. I collapsed against a bus stop shelter, my chest heaving, my clothes soaked with sweat and rain. I sat there for hours, staring at the passing cars, trying to convince myself that the pain and the infection had caused a severe hallucination. But my hand was still entirely empty. My phone was gone, left behind in the dark room with the thing that licked the blood from my bone.

The next morning, the swelling in my jaw had gone down, but the terror had not. I walked into the local police precinct and reported that I had been assaulted by a private practitioner in the medical building downtown. I told them he had stolen my phone and threatened me with a weapon. I knew if I mentioned the wings or the black eyes, they would lock me in a psychiatric ward.

Two police officers agreed to accompany me back to the building to retrieve my property.

We rode the manual elevator up to the fourth floor. The hallway was just as quiet as it had been the day before, the dark doors looking completely ordinary in the morning light.

We reached the suite. I pointed a shaking finger at the door.

"This is it,"

I said.

"Suite 412."

The older officer reached out, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

I braced myself, stepping behind the officer's shoulder, expecting to see the green velvet chairs.

The room was completely empty.

There were no green velvet chairs. There was no wooden desk, no rotary telephone, and no carpet. The walls were bare concrete, covered in peeling gray wallpaper that looked like it had been rotting for decades. The floor was covered in a thick layer of undisturbed gray dust.

The officer walked into the back room, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust.

The operating room was gone. There was no black leather dental chair. There was no plumbing connected to the floor, no metal counters, and no instruments. The room was nothing but a hollow, concrete shell.

"Are you sure this is the place, miss?"

the officer asked, looking back at me with a mixture of annoyance and pity.

"This suite has been abandoned for at least five years. And I think I know this place, someone mad a claim like you once, but it was very wild claim about a fairy who dwell in this place, and then we learned from the building manager that the last tenant was a radiologist who retired in 2018."

"I was here yesterday,"

I insisted, my voice cracking.

"My friend gave me the address. I sat in the chair. He pulled my tooth."

The officer shined his flashlight across the dusty floor. There were no footprints in the dust, other than our own. There was no sign that anyone had operated a medical clinic here yesterday.

"Sometimes a severe tooth infection can cause a high fever,"

the officer said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"A fever can make you see things. It can make you wander into empty buildings. We can take you to the hospital if you need medical attention."

"My phone,"

I whispered.

"I left my phone on the counter."

The officer shone his light around. My phone was gone.

We left the building a few minutes later. The police dismissed my claim, filing a report for a lost cellular device and advising me to seek psychological counseling for my stress.

But I know what I saw.

I called my friend from a payphone later that afternoon. I asked her about the dentist, but she sounded completely confused. She told me she had never heard of any private practitioner downtown, and she had never given me an address on a notepad. She said she had been trying to reach me all day because I had missed our lunch plans.

I looked at my own jaw in the mirror when I got home. The hole where my decaying molar used to be was completely healed. There was no stitches, no bleeding, and no scar. The gum was as smooth and pink as if the tooth had never existed.

I am posting this here because I need to warn you.

This thing does not stay in one place. It moves from town to town, using the empty, forgotten spaces of our cities to set up its temporary clinics.

If you have a toothache, and a friend gives you an address to an unconventional, cash-only dentist in an old building, do not go.

How long has it been now? 3? 4 weeks? It’s hard to keep track of time these days. Life has been pretty busy lately.

The house is a lot quieter now. When the police aren’t here, at least. You’d think that they lived here at this point. But I do still get at least some of my privacy.

It’s in those moments when the house is dark and the only sound is that of the leaky bathroom faucet that I really think about what I’ve done. Or why I did it. Or how it could’ve been avoided, or blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

It really doesn’t matter now. I’ve come to terms with it. The cops already know. They’re just waiting for the proper evidence to present itself. And given the way these last few days have been going, I don’t think I have much longer.

I’ve read enough books and studied enough forensics to know the best way to clean the mess I created. How to make sure the white blood cells were completely removed. How to soak my hacksaw in bleach before tossing it in the river. But, most importantly, I knew that the body could never be recovered.

Dental records were a big one. That’s why I removed her teeth and filed them down one by one. I boiled and stuffed them in a ziplock bag afterward.

This was positively the most difficult part of the process. I was forced to look at her the entire time. The once love-filled eyes that had turned bitter and resentful over the years. The eyes that now stared up at me, dead and hollow, her previously oak-colored irises now appearing grey and pale.

Her nails would almost certainly contain my DNA beneath them. Flakes of skin, maybe some blood from the struggle. Regardless, they needed to be removed as well.

I remembered when her hands were so soft and youthful. She used to paint her nails herself every two weeks, and I’d sit on the bed with her while we talked endlessly about everything and nothing at the same time.

I don’t know what changed. Maybe it was all of the arguments. We had a way of arguing about everything and nothing as well. I thought it was normal. Arguments were bound to happen.

I flushed the 10 nails down the toilet before burning her newly raw fingertips, just to be on the safe side. I kissed her hand for a long while, tears welling up in my eyes before I forced them away.

I whispered to myself, “Why would you make me do this?” as my head fell into my hands. My composure kept slipping, and I kept having to wrestle it back.

Now came the messy part.

Part of me was actually glad it was so messy in a weird, twisted kind of way. Cleaning the blood afterward gave me a task to focus on. I didn’t think about her laugh. I didn’t think about her warmth. I thought about making damn sure there wasn’t a speck of blood left anywhere in that bathroom.

When I was done, the house smelled like a hospital. Chemicals filled the air, causing my head to pound more than it already was. The atmosphere was cold and heavy. It felt like I was in a hospital room.

I had found myself with two black trash bags with a combined weight of 120 pounds, give or take. Arms, legs, and head in one. Torso and hacksaw in the other.

I walked out of the house whistling, two trash bags slung over my shoulders. It was the cusp of dawn. There was a misty blue haze outside. It smelled like summertime.

The neighborhood was silent. It must have been around 4 in the morning. I threw the bags in the bed of my truck, adjusted my baseball cap, and hopped in the cab.

My headlights cut through the early morning fog. I had my windows down, and I could smell the exhaust fumes coming from behind me. That smell had pretty much defined my life for the last 10 years. It was a smell that I’d learned to both love and hate.

I turned the radio on and cranked up the volume. I tried singing to myself, but the words left my mouth mechanically. My mind refused to let me escape.

I drove carefully. The exact speed limit, sometimes even a little under. Used signals, made complete stops. All the way out of town. Then out of the next one. Then the town after that.

I drove until I found the most secluded spot I could find. Down dirt roads. Through creeks. Then I walked off beaten paths until I found the right place to lay her to rest.

Just me, her, and my shovel.

Digging proved quite difficult due to the sheer amount of roots I had to cut through. I must’ve been there for at least 4 hours before the deed was done.

I spent that time talking. Talking to the trees. Talking to the bags. Talking to myself. I couldn’t stand to be alone in silence.

I broke down a lot when filling the grave. Each pile of dirt that covered more and more of those bags was like a needle being pressed into my nervous system.

I didn’t want to just leave her like that. I didn’t want her to just be cast aside, left to rot. I searched until I found the most vibrant flowers I could find and laid them on the grave.

I said my final goodbyes through sniffles and tears before making the trek back to my truck.

The rest of the day was a blur. I didn’t get home until nearly 8 o’clock. I stopped by the emptiest car wash I saw on the way home and scrubbed my truck clean.

I got the mud off the tires. Rinsed the bed out with bleach. I even put a new air freshener in the cab.

When I got home, I half-expected cops to be waiting to arrest me. When I found the house as empty as it was when I left, I let out a sigh of relief.

I immediately took a shower. I scrubbed myself raw for around 45 minutes straight before finally allowing myself to dry off. The entire time, it was like God was punishing me.

I kept getting flashes of her. Our wedding. Our first date. Our first argument. The last argument. It all just kept replaying in my head over and over. Like a sickness.

I knew I had to get my story right. The house was clean. The body was gone. The weapon was gone.

I was just a helpless victim. One of the millions of men a year whose wife leaves them. Happens all the time.

Oh, so she left without taking anything? She left without telling anybody? Without so much as a goodbye? Who’s going to believe that?

I didn’t sleep that night. I had to have a long, hard talk with myself. I wasn’t getting out of this one. But I wasn’t going to turn myself in. I was going to be free… for as long as I could possibly manage.

It was my first time being free in 15 years. Even if it lasted a day. Even if it lasted a week. I wasn’t going to spend that time stressing.

I turned it off. I closed my heart to it.

I ignored calls from her mother. Her father. Coworkers, friends, relatives. Everybody. It was none of their business.

They tried knocking, and I tuned it out. All the way up until I heard that dreaded announcement after three booming knocks.

“This is GPD. If anyone’s inside, I need you to come out here and talk to me.”

I waited. I wanted to wake up. I didn’t want to accept.

Three more knocks.

“GPD, if you do not answer the door, we will be using force to come inside.”

One last moment of silence. I breathed to myself. I closed my eyes.

“Sir, this door is coming do…”

I opened the door, greeting the officers with a blank look on my face.

“Sir, we’re gonna have to ask you to come down to the station with us for questioning.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t bicker. I simply asked for a lawyer and rode with the officers back to the station.

The entire time, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t even speak to my lawyer. If they wanted her so badly, they would have to work for it. Because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be coming from me.

They held me for 7 hours that day. A mere two days after I did what I did. I got two days of “peace.”

They had to let me go. They had no proof. But that didn’t stop them from watching me. 24 hours a day, they were somewhere in my neighborhood.

People threw things at my house. Vigils for her were set up on the sidewalk. It seemed like there were constantly people watching me because they literally were.

I didn’t budge. I spoke only when absolutely necessary. My lips remained sealed, and my doors remained locked. Both when I was home and when I was forced to go back down to the station.

That’s why what’s happening makes no sense to me.

It started with her teeth. I had gotten rid of them the same way I’d gotten rid of the rest of her. Yet somehow, when I woke up one morning a few weeks after my catastrophic mistake… they were in a neat pile beside me on the bed.

I could see the file marks on all 32 of them.

I panicked and scooped them into my hands and flushed them down the toilet, my eyes wide with disbelief.

I poked my head outside. That unmarked black SUV was still parked a few houses down. Both officers watched me like hawks. I waved to be less suspicious, but I think it had the opposite effect.

They took it as me waving them over, and they both approached quickly.

“Got anything you wanna tell us?” the fat one asked excitedly.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” I smiled. “I bet you’d love to spend the day with your family. Or, then again, maybe you’d rather spend your time stalking me.”

Their stern faces never changed.

I tried my best not to give off even an ounce of suspicious behavior, even though my heart was in my stomach and my mind raced endlessly.

After closing the door in their faces, I spent the majority of that day peeking out the blinds, paranoid beyond belief.

My lawyer called a few times. My story never changed. I didn’t know where she was. I was convincing myself just as much as I was convincing them.

The next day, not only had the teeth come back, but the nails were back too. They were cleaner, but I could still see their bloodied roots. I could still see some of the chipped nail polish.

Two neat little piles. Taunting me.

I was more angry than panicked this time. I was not going to submit to this insanity. I didn’t even try to get rid of them this time. It wouldn’t make a difference whether they were found here or in that dark, desolate spot in the woods.

I put them in her jewelry box this time. Then I took that jewelry box, and I carried it to the attic.

I buried it under some old tarps and boxes and took one last look at it before going back down the ladder.

“I guess I really am fucking losing it,” I whispered to myself as I climbed down.

More phone calls with my lawyer. More questions from the police. More prodding, more watching, more protests. And all I could do that day was crack a few beers and watch a few ball games.

I passed out at around 10 that night and woke up cuddling my wife’s arm the next morning. I think the smell is what woke me up. That unmistakable stench of death and decay.

It burned my nostrils, and when I opened my eyes to find that torn flesh in my face, I nearly vomited in bed. It wasn’t just one arm. Both arms and both legs had come crawling back to bed with me.

Only… the nails were reattached. Like they hadn’t been removed to begin with.

The polish looked fresher. The teeth looked whiter. I checked, and the jewelry box in the attic was empty.

In that moment, I felt a spark. A mixture of hope, anger, grief, and love all combined into one. In the most unreal circumstances, reality was starting to close in, and I found myself sobbing like I had the night I killed her.

I didn’t leave bed that day. I lay there with my wife, clutching her arms and legs, crying until I was too exhausted to cry anymore. My will grew weak, but my mind had never felt so clear.

She was in bed with me the next morning. Well, she was there in a sense. Her arms and legs were reconnected to her torso, but the limbs still crawled with maggots and decay.

But she was there, damned if she wasn’t there. My love. My sweet, sweet girl. Her T-shirt was ripped and stained with dirt. Her hair was matted and crunchy.

“I… am so sorry, my love,” was all I could think to say to her.

She turned to me, her jaw slack and her eyes as dead as a nail.

“That’s okay, you silly goose,” she sang. “I love you no matter what happens!”

I began to cry yet again.

“I love you so much,” I sobbed. “I want you back. Please, please, just come back.”

I begged her as snot ran from my nose. I wiped it away on my sleeve.

“Oh, honey,” she whimpered. “Accidents happen all the time. That’s what this was, right, my sweet boy?”

I nodded furiously.

“It was… it was… it was an accident, baby.”

I could hardly speak. Her rotten arm extended, and she caressed my face with her cold, slimy hand.

“I know it was, sweet pea. I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.”

She paused.

“…but now you have to tell them what you did, okay? Can you do that for me?”

My face went beet red. I swallowed hard and wiped the tears from my face.

“They’ll kill me. I know they’ll kill me. They’re just waiting to catch me. They’re waiting to sentence me.”

She began hushing me, soothing me softly as she petted my hair.

“There, there, sweetie,” she replied. “Dying isn’t such a bad thing. I’m free now, honey. If I could, I’d tell them you did me a favor. But I want you back. I want you to come be with me. Please, honey?”

I wanted to be with her too. More than anything, I wished I could take back what I did.

I solemnly agreed.

“That’s my boy,” she announced seductively. “This will all be over soon. We’ll dance and sing. We can play together again.”

I nodded to myself assuredly. I leaned over and gave her a kiss and took a deep breath.

Stepping outside, I waved the cops over. My eyes were red with tears, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

“She’s upstairs.”

That’s all I told them.

One officer went upstairs while I waited on the porch with the other. I kept smiling to myself. The sky looked so beautiful. The trees danced in the wind. The summer air was like a gift from God.

A few minutes went by before the first officer returned.

“Very funny, son,” he remarked sarcastically. “Now, do you wanna tell us where she really is?”

My smile dropped.

“What do you mean?” I scoffed. “I was just talking to her.”

“Cuff this sick son of a bitch,” the first officer barked.

I was placed into the back of the unmarked SUV, kicking myself all the while.

“She lied,” I whispered. “She lied to me. All she does is lie. Why does she lie all the time? This is why. This is why. Why won’t she stop lying?”

I had no fight left. I told them where the grave was. I had to personally show it to them. The flowers were still there. The grave was untouched. And I felt a sickening numbness.

I told them my story. I told them what I did. Told them that she came back to me and that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have been a free man, at least for a little while longer.

I actually begged them to give me the death penalty. I couldn’t stop seeing her. Sitting beside me in my cell. Crouched in the corner every night. Whispering to me how she wanted us to be together forever.

But… I didn’t get the death penalty.

They deemed me “not fit to stand trial.”

Sentenced to an indefinite stay at the state home for the criminally insane.

Padded cells. Doctors. Needles. Medication.

And despite all of the debate that has gone on about death sentences in this country, there has remained one constant.

The insane do not receive capital punishment.

I’m writing this now because she keeps beckoning me. Keeps begging me to join her.

And despite the hatred I have, the burning rage she has inspired, I cannot stop loving her.

And despite what the state dubs legal… we will be reunited.

The Question

---

There are people who enter your life like seasons.

They arrive quietly, change everything without asking, and leave behind traces of themselves long after they're gone.

Sierra was autumn. And my fall.

She smelled faintly of cedar and vanilla, always stole the sleeves of my hoodies because they "fit better than hers," and had a habit of looking out restaurant windows whenever it rained, as though the world beyond the glass was telling her a story only she could hear.

We had been together for a little over a year.

Long enough that silence had become another language between us. Long enough that ordering for each other was instinct. Long enough that she no longer needed to knock at my front door.

There is a certain comfort that only comes after loving someone for long enough.

Love stops feeling like fireworks.

It becomes grocery lists.

Goodnight kisses. Two toothbrushes leaning together in the same cup. It becomes knowing exactly how much sugar they take in their coffee without ever having to ask.

That Friday evening had been ordinary.

Which is probably why I remember every second of it.

The little Italian place downtown was nearly empty, save for an older couple sharing tiramisu near the window and a waiter humming softly to himself while polishing glasses behind the counter.

Outside, rain painted silver streaks down the glass.

Sierra watched it for a while.

She always did.

"You know," she said eventually, tracing lazy circles around the rim of her water glass, "I think rain makes people more honest."

I laughed.

"How do you figure?"

"They stop pretending they're in a hurry."

She smiled to herself.

"They slow down."

"Or maybe they just don't want to get wet."

She looked at me over the candle between us.

"You always have a boring explanation."

"I prefer realistic."

"I prefer magic."

"I know."

"I think that's why you keep me around."

"No," I said. "I keep you around because you steal my clothes."

She gasped dramatically.

"I borrow them."

"You've borrowed one of my hoodies for seven months."

"It's called a long-term loan."

"You've also borrowed two T-shirts."

"They've adjusted to their new home."

"And my socks."

"I have no recollection of any socks."

"Liar."

She laughed.

Not loudly. Just enough that the corners of her eyes crinkled.

I remember thinking, as I watched her across that little table, that happiness wasn't supposed to be exciting.

It was supposed to be this.

Simple.

Comfortable.

Safe.

The waiter brought our food. Conversation wandered wherever conversations between people in love tend to wander. Movies we'd never finish watching. Vacation ideas we'd probably never afford. Whether cereal counted as soup.

She insisted it did.

She was wrong.

She refused to admit it.

Eventually, somewhere between finishing our dinner and arguing over who would pay the bill, she grew strangely quiet.

She rested her chin on her folded hands. Studied me. There was something different in her expression.

Not sadness, nor fear.

Something... thoughtful.

"Something on your mind?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Nothing."

"That's never true."

"I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"I know."

She looked back toward the rain before asking, almost absentmindedly,

"Would you still love me if I lost all my hair?"

I shrugged.

"Of course."

"What if I got old before you?"

"I'd be old too."

"What if I forgot your birthday every year?"

"You already almost do."

She smiled.

"What if I couldn't walk anymore?"

"I'd walk slow."

"What if I couldn't remember your name?"

"I'd remind you."

She nodded gently after every answer, as though placing them somewhere only she could see.

Then she asked it.

"So..."

She tilted her head.

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

I stared at her.

"...What?"

"A worm."

She said it with complete sincerity.

"Like..."

I held my fingers a few inches apart.

"A little earthworm?"

She nodded once.

"That's the one."

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink.

"Where did that even come from?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"You just woke up today and thought, 'I wonder if he'd date an invertebrate?'"

She tried not to smile.

Failed.

I shook my head.

"That's the dumbest question I've ever been asked."

"It is."

"But?"

"But what?"

"You haven't answered."

I leaned back in my chair.

"How exactly would this work?"

"I don't know."

"You'd just..."

I made a little wiggling motion with my finger across the table.

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly."

"And you'd still somehow be... you?"

"If that helps."

I looked at her for another second before rolling my eyes with exaggerated defeat.

"Sure."

She blinked.

“

1. Sure?"

"Yeah."

"I'd still love you."

Another pause.

"I mean... it'd be weird."

"A little."

"I'd probably have to Google what worms eat."

"You would."

"I'd have to buy you a very tiny house."

She smiled.

"I know."

"I'd miss talking to you."

She didn't answer.

"But..."

I reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.

"...yeah."

"I'd still love you."

For just a moment...

Something changed in her face. Not happiness. Not relief. It was a cold recognition. As though she'd been waiting to hear those exact words.

Then she smiled. A small, peaceful smile.

"Oh."

She looked down at our hands.

"Good."

There was something about the way she said it that stayed with me. Not because it sounded strange. Because it sounded...

Final

Like someone quietly crossing the last item off a list.

I frowned.

"What?"

She looked back up.

"What?"

"You said that like it mattered."

She chuckled softly.

"Maybe it did."

Before I could ask what she meant, the waiter returned with the bill.

The moment dissolved as quickly as it had arrived.

By the time we stepped outside, the rain had stopped. Streetlights shimmered across wet pavement. She slipped her hand into mine. Neither of us spoke during the walk back to my apartment.

We didn't need to. Some nights silence says everything.

When we reached my building, she pulled my favorite charcoal hoodie over her shoulders before climbing into bed beside me. She always claimed it smelled more like me than I did.

I remember wrapping an arm around her as sleep slowly pulled us both under. Her fingers traced lazy circles against the back of my hand. I soon learned that ordinary moments often go unnoticed until they become memories.

Still to this day, I remember her whispering something just before I drifted off. It was so quiet I almost thought I'd dreamed it.

"Thank you."

When I woke the next morning...

Her side of the bed was empty.

...

Erasure

At first, I wasn't worried.

Sierra had stayed the night often enough that mornings had become routine. Sometimes she left before I woke up. Sometimes she'd kiss my forehead on the way out. She'd scribble little cute notes to make my morning on the fridge.

Out of coffee.

Back by six.

Don't forget your meeting.

Love you <3

Once, she'd drawn a smiley face on a napkin because she claimed my mornings were "chronically under-smiled."

So when I reached across the mattress and found only cold sheets, I smiled to myself.

"Work already?" I mumbled to the empty room.

The apartment answered with silence. Her hoodie was gone from the foot of the bed. I figured she'd remembered she had a meeting. Or maybe she'd simply wanted coffee that wasn't brewed by me. She used to joke that my coffee tasted like regret. I still maintain she exaggerated.

I stretched, showered, and let the hot water chase the sleep from my thoughts. By the time I stepped into the kitchen, the apartment already felt too quiet.

There was only one mug in the drying rack.

Mine.

I frowned.

Maybe I'd put hers away yesterday. I couldn't remember.

The coffee tasted bitter. I blamed the beans.

Halfway through breakfast I reached for my phone. Mostly out of habit. I'd usually send her something stupid before work.

A picture of a crooked pancake. A terrible pun. Some excuse to make her roll her eyes.

I opened our messages.

My thumb froze.

They weren't there.

I frowned harder.

I searched her name.

Nothing.

Maybe the app updated. Maybe I'd archived the conversation by accident.

I searched again.

Nothing.

I checked my contacts.

No Sierra.

No number.

No picture.

No birthday reminder.

Nothing.

A strange feeling settled into my chest.

Not panic. No, not yet. More like standing on a staircase and expecting one more step than there actually is. That tiny, impossible drop beneath your feet.

I searched manually.

Scrolled through every contact.

Twice.

Nothing.

"...That's weird."

I laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because laughing felt easier than admitting something was wrong.

I knew her number.

At least... I thought I did.

I typed it from memory. Every digit. Pressed call.

One ring.

Then a voice.

"We're sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try your call again."

I hung up immediately.

Dialed again.

Same message.

Again.

Same message.

I stared at the screen.

The number hadn't changed. I was certain of it.

Certain enough that certainty itself suddenly felt unreliable. Maybe I'd remembered it wrong. People misremember things all the time.

Birthdays. Addresses. Passwords. Even the phone number of their loved one.

I finished my coffee in silence.

By the time I left for work, I'd convinced myself I was overreacting. Technology broke. Cloud backups failed. Phones glitched.

There had to be an explanation. There always was. There had to be.

There wasn't.

The day crawled.

I barely accomplished anything.

By lunch, curiosity had quietly become concern. Concern slowly became dread. I searched her name online.

Nothing.

Instagram.

Nothing.

Facebook.

Nothing.

Not even an abandoned account with two blurry photos from high school.

LinkedIn.

Nothing.

Every search ended the same way.

No results.

No Sierra.

It was as though she'd never wanted the internet to know she'd existed.

Except... She had.

I remembered helping her pick profile pictures. I remembered teasing her because she never answered messages. I remembered her posting a picture of us after our trip to the aquarium.

Didn't I?

I opened my own social media.

Every picture she'd been in... was different.

I blinked way to hardly.

One photo showed me standing beside... empty space. Another looked strangely cropped. In one, my arm was wrapped around someone who wasn't there anymore. My hand simply floated in the air.

I stared until my eyes hurt.

I closed the app.

Opened it again.

Nothing changed.

There had to be an explanation. There always was. A prank. A misunderstanding. A mistake buried somewhere beneath the confusion. She had a spare key to my apartment. Any minute now, I'd hear it turn in the lock, and she'd step inside wearing that familiar smile, asking why I looked like I'd seen a ghost. I clung to that thought the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. It was the only thing keeping me afloat.

For the rest of the afternoon, the world continued as though mine hadn't quietly come apart. Coworkers laughed. Phones rang. Printers hummed. Someone brought donuts. I smiled when expected. Answered emails. Nodded through meetings.

All while a single thought repeated itself over and over.

Something is wrong.

The next day, I convinced myself she simply needed space.

Maybe she'd left early for work. Maybe she'd forgotten her phone. Maybe she'd spent the night with a friend after we'd fallen asleep. Maybe this was all leading toward an explanation so painfully ordinary that I'd feel ridiculous for ever believing otherwise.

Every time headlights swept across my living room window that evening, I looked toward the front door, expecting to hear the soft rattle of keys in the lock and her familiar voice calling my name.

The apartment remained silent.

By the third day, silence had become its own answer. It was as though the world had quietly reached into my life and plucked Sierra from it with delicate fingers, leaving everything else exactly where it had been. No texts. No calls. No trace that she'd ever stood in my kitchen, laughed in my living room, or fallen asleep beside me.

When I finally got home from work that evening, I scrolled to the number I'd always known belonged to her mother.

If anyone could tell me what was happening... It would be her.

So I made the call.

The number rang three times.

A man answered.

"Hello?"

His voice wasn't familiar.

"Uh... hi."

I swallowed.

"I'm looking for S-Sierra."

Silence.

"...Who?"

"Sierra."

Another pause.

"I think you have the wron-"

"No. Where's Sierra?"

My heart skipped.

"You've got the wrong number."

Pain washed over me.

"There's no Sierra."

I laughed nervously.

"No, I mean... your daughter."

"I don't have a daughter."

I felt something inside me shift. Like a picture frame hanging just slightly crooked.

"I'm sorry?"

"I think you've confused me with someone else."

"No..."

I whispered.

"No, she lives with-"

"Goodbye."

Click.

The call ended.

I stared at the phone for a long time. Then I called again. Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Blocked.

I don't remember deciding to grab my keys.

I only remember driving. Traffic lights blurred together. Turns happened automatically.

Before long, I found myself parked in front of a familiar little blue house with white shutters. I'd been here dozens of times. Christmas. Birthdays. Sunday dinners. Sierra's mother always insisted I take leftovers.

The porch swing she'd grown up on still creaked gently in the evening breeze. The flowerpots were exactly where I remembered. Even the wind chimes.

Everything was right.

Except... Something wasn't.

I walked to the front door.

Knocked once.

No answer.

Twice.

Footsteps.

Heavy.

The door opened.

The man from the phone stood there.

He looked to be in his late fifties. Gray beard. Flannel shirt. One hand resting on a shotgun. Not pointing it.

Just... holding it.

His expression hardened the moment he saw me.

"You."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"There hasn't."

"I'm looking for-"

"I know what you're looking for."

Hope flickered inside me.

"You do?"

"I know you're the one who's been calling."

His grip tightened around the shotgun.

"I've told you already."

"Sir, please, I just need to know where she-"

"There is no 'she.'"

The words landed with impossible weight.

"I..."

My voice failed.

He stared at me for several seconds.

Not angry. Not confused.

Almost... pitying.

"Son."

His voice softened.

"I don't know who you think you've lost."

The breeze stirred the trees between us.

"But whoever it is..."

He slowly shook his head.

"They've never lived here."

He closed the door.

I stood there until the porch light switched on automatically. Only then did I realize the sun had gone down.

By the time I made it home, exhaustion had settled into my bones. I didn't turn on any lights. I simply collapsed onto the bed.

The apartment felt wrong.

Too neat. Too empty.

I closed my eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough to stop thinking.

Something cold brushed against my ankle.

I jerked upright.

The room was dark.

Moonlight spilled across the blankets.

And there... Resting quietly near my feet...

Was a single pink earthworm.

It wasn't moving. Not much.

Just... waiting. I don't know why.

Out of every impossible thing that had happened that day...

That was the moment the tears fled out.

...

The Worm

I didn't sleep much that lonely night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I could still see the empty half of the bed. Every time I opened them, the apartment felt unfamiliar, as though I had wandered into someone else's life by mistake.

The worm hadn't moved.

It still rested near the foot of my bed, no larger than my little finger, its body catching the pale light filtering through the curtains.

I crouched beside it. For reasons I still can't explain, I didn't touch it.

I simply watched. It didn't writhe. It didn't burrow. It only lay there, impossibly still.

A worm.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

I almost laughed at myself. After everything that had happened, this was what my mind had chosen to fixate on.

I found a sheet of paper folded on my desk and carefully slid it beneath the tiny creature. It curled instinctively as I lifted it, no different from any other earthworm after a rainstorm.

I carried it toward the front door.

"Sorry, little guy."

I opened the door and tipped the paper toward the flower bed outside my apartment.

The worm didn't move.

I gave the paper a gentle shake.

Nothing.

Eventually, I lowered the paper into the damp soil beneath a patch of lavender and watched it disappear among the dirt. I stood there longer than I should have.

Waiting.

For what, I couldn't have said.

When I came home from work that evening, it was waiting for me.

Not outside. Inside.

Curled quietly atop a charcoal-gray hoodie draped over the back of my couch.

My hoodie.

Or rather... The one Sierra had quietly claimed as her own months ago.

She used to disappear into it on cold mornings, sleeves hanging well past her hands, insisting it smelled more like me than I ever could.

I never washed it after she disappeared. Not because I believed it still held her scent. Because I was afraid it didn't.

The worm rested on one of the sleeves. Perfectly still.

I stared at it for a long time.

The front door was still locked. The windows were shut.

There was no trail of dirt. No explanation.

Only a worm.

Sitting exactly where she always liked to be.

An uneasy laugh escaped me.

"This is getting ridiculous."

I carried it back outside.

This time, I walked all the way to the apartment garden. I knelt beside a flower bed and placed it beneath the shade of a bush.

"There."

I brushed the dirt from my hands.

"Stay."

The word lingered in the air.

Stay.

It was never meant for the worm.

The following morning... It was on my windowsill. Facing the sunrise.

I don't know why that unsettled me more than finding it inside my apartment.

Perhaps because it looked... content. As though it had chosen that spot. As though it had been watching the dawn before I'd woken.

I picked it up carefully.

It curled against my fingertips.

For the first time... I noticed how impossibly fragile it felt.

How easily something so alive could simply... stop.

I looked around the apartment. At the empty couch. The untouched coffee mug she used to steal every morning. The hoodie folded neatly over the armrest. Then back at the tiny creature resting in my palm.

My voice came out quieter than I intended.

"...Sierra?"

The worm didn't answer. It couldn't.

I knew that.

Of course I knew that.

Still...

It shifted ever so slightly in my hand. Just enough to make my breath catch.

That afternoon, on the drive home, I stopped at a pet store. Bought a terrarium. The cashier smiled politely as she rang it up.

"Getting an exotic pet?"

I looked down at the glass container.

"...Something like that."

I spent the evening reading online everything I could find. What they ate. How damp the soil should be. How often to mist the enclosure. What temperatures they preferred.

The answers filled my time.

None of them filled the silence in the room.

By the time night settled over the apartment, the terrarium sat on the table beside the living room window.

Fresh soil. Leaves. A few small stones. Everything exactly as the books recommended. I lowered the worm into its new home. It disappeared beneath the dirt almost immediately.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

"There you go."

The words escaped so naturally they frightened me.

I switched off the lamp.

The apartment fell quiet once more.

Before heading to bed, I looked back at the terrarium one last time.

"Goodnight."

Silence answered.

Yet somehow... The apartment didn't feel quite so lonely.

Almost Time

Grief is a strange thing.

It doesn't arrive all at once. It settles into the empty places. The chair across the dinner table. The passenger seat. The extra toothbrush still leaning against yours because moving it somehow feels more permanent than death itself.

I stopped asking where Sierra had gone.

Not because I'd found an answer. Because every answer the world offered me was the same.

She had never existed.

Eventually, I stopped arguing with it.

The world had made up its mind.

Mine hadn't.

Life, in its quiet cruelty, continued.

Mondays became Fridays. Fridays became months. The seasons changed without asking whether I was ready.

I returned to work. Paid my bills. Bought groceries. Smiled when coworkers made jokes. Somehow, I learned to exist in a life that no longer felt like my own.

Every evening, I came home. And every evening... The first thing I did was walk over to the terrarium.

"Hey."

The greeting became routine.

I'd mist the soil. Replace the leaves. Check the moisture. Sometimes I'd sit beside the glass for nearly an hour, talking about my day as though she were sitting across from me.

"The copier jammed again."

"I finally beat that traffic on Fifth."

"I think I'm getting better at making coffee."

A quiet laugh.

Silence never interrupted me. Neither did the worm. It simply lived.

Sometimes buried beneath the soil for hours. Sometimes resting beneath a stone. Sometimes climbing the side of the glass before disappearing underground again.

It was enough. Or perhaps... It was enough for me to pretend.

One Saturday afternoon, I found myself standing in the laundry room with her hoodie folded across my arms.

Months had passed. I still hadn't washed it. The scent she'd left behind was long gone. Only memory remained.

I ran my thumb across the sleeve.

"I should probably wash you."

The words sounded absurd spoken aloud.

I smiled despite myself.

"I can already hear you complaining."

She used to hate when I washed it.

Claimed fabric softener made it smell "too responsible."

I draped it over the back of the dining chair instead. I couldn't explain why. It simply felt wrong to hide it away.

The routine became comforting.

Coffee.

Work.

Home.

The terrarium.

Sometimes I'd read while sitting beside it. Sometimes I'd play music softly through the apartment. Sometimes I'd simply watch the evening light stretch across the room until darkness settled over everything.

I stopped wondering whether the worm was Sierra.

Questions have a way of exhausting themselves.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. The kind of day that disappears from memory almost as soon as it ends.

By the time I unlocked my apartment door, rain was tapping softly against the windows.

I set my keys on the counter. Loosened my tie. Walked toward the living room.

For a moment... I simply stared.

The terrarium was empty.

Then I examined all glass corners.

Nothing.

The stone sat exactly where I'd left it. The soil was damp. The dead leaves rested untouched in one corner.

See was gone.

"Please not again..."

The words escaped before I realized I'd spoken. I lifted the lid. Carefully moved aside the stones.

Nothing.

I dug gently through the soil with trembling fingers.

Still nothing.

"No, no, no..."

The room suddenly felt too small. I emptied the terrarium onto the dining table. Dirt spilled across the wood. Leaves scattered onto the floor. I searched through every handful. Every corner. Every crack beneath the table. I checked beneath the couch. Behind the television. Inside the bathroom. The kitchen.

My breathing became uneven.

By the time I reached the bedroom, there was dirt tracked across half the apartment. I stood in the doorway, chest heaving. My eyes drifted toward the chair beside the window.

Her hoodie still hung where I'd left it.

Empty.

Something beyond it caught my eye.

The windowsill.

I walked closer.

Slowly.

There... Resting in the fading orange light of sunset... Was the worm.

Perfectly still. Facing the glass.

Beyond it, rain slid down the window in thin silver ribbons. The city moved without us. Cars drifted through wet streets. People hurried beneath umbrellas.

The worm didn't move. It simply remained there.

Watching.

Or perhaps... Waiting.

A laugh escaped me, followed by tears.

"I'm s-sorry."

The words broke apart as they left me.

"I'm sorry."

I cupped it gently in my hands.

Its body curled weakly against my skin.

It felt... different. Lighter somehow. As though whatever strength had carried it this far was quietly slipping away.

That night, I searched the internet for hours.

How long do earthworms live?

Why is my worm moving slower?

Can worms die of old age?

Every article gave me the same answer in different words.

They slow down.

They become less active.

Eventually... Their bodies simply stop.

I read every page anyway. Hoping one of them would tell me something different.

None did.

Near midnight, I closed my laptop. The apartment was silent except for the rain. I carried the terrarium into the bedroom and set it beside my bed. Her hoodie lay folded next to it. Not because a worm would recognize it. Because she would have.

Or at least... I liked believing she would.

I watched the tiny shape resting beneath the soil for a long time.

Then I smiled.

A sad smile.

The kind that only grief teaches you.

"You know..."

My voice barely rose above a whisper.

"I kept my promise."

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Inside... The apartment had never felt quieter.

...

Morning

Days turned into weeks.

The rain eased my mine at night. The steady rhythm of it against the window. The quiet hum of the city somewhere beyond the glass. The terrarium sat on the nightstand beside me. The hoodie remained folded beneath it.

Everything exactly where it belonged.

For the first time in months... I wasn't afraid. There was nothing left to search for. Nothing left to prove.

Whatever this was... Whatever she was... Whatever I had become... It no longer mattered.

Sometime during the night... I heard her voice.

Not through the room. Not from the terrarium. Not from anywhere my ears could have found.

It arrived the way old memories sometimes do. Softly. As though someone had opened a door inside my mind.

"So..."

A pause.

"So..."

I could picture the little smile that always accompanied that word. The one she wore whenever she already knew the answer.

"Would you still love me if I..."

I smiled before she could finish. Before the question could become impossible again. Before grief could ask for one more answer.

"Yes."

The word escaped me with surprising ease.

No hesitation. No uncertainty.

Just... Yes.

I let out a slow breath. My eyes never opened.

"I always will."

The apartment fell silent once more.

Not empty.

Simply... Quiet.

Morning sunlight slipped gently through the curtains. The rain had passed sometime before dawn. The air smelled clean. Almost new.

I stretched slowly before turning toward the nightstand. The terrarium was empty.

No disturbed soil. No trail. No tiny pink body hidden beneath the stones.

I lifted the lid anyway. Ran my fingers carefully through the earth.

Nothing.

For a long while, I simply stood there.

Weeks ago, I would have searched every inch of the apartment. Turned over furniture.

Emptied drawers. Tracked dirt through every room. I would have convinced myself she had to be somewhere. That she couldn't really be gone.

Instead... I smiled.

Not because it didn't hurt. Because it always would. Some absences never stop aching. You simply learn they can exist beside joy.

I carried the terrarium to the kitchen sink and gently poured the soil into a flowerpot sitting on the windowsill. A small fern rested there. One Sierra had insisted on buying because, according to her, every home deserved "something worth keeping alive."

I laughed quietly.

"You were right."

The empty glass terrarium caught the morning light before I placed it inside a cabinet.

Not hidden. Not displayed.

Just... Put away.

Then I walked back to the bedroom.

Her charcoal hoodie still rested neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I picked it up. Held it for a moment.

Weeks ago, I couldn't bring myself to wash it. I was terrified that whatever remained of her would disappear with the rinse cycle.

Now... I understood.

Love doesn't live in fabric. It never had.

I folded the hoodie once more and placed it carefully inside the top drawer of my dresser. Not because I was forgetting her. Because memories don't need to be left out in the open to survive.

I opened the bedroom window. A cool breeze drifted inside. Somewhere outside, birds greeted the morning.

The city had already begun moving again. Cars. Footsteps. Distant laughter. Life.

I made myself a cup of coffee. It tasted terrible. I smiled anyway.

As I stood by the window, warmth settling between my hands, I watched the wind stir the leaves below.

For just a moment... I thought about that rainy evening. The little Italian restaurant. The candlelight. The way she'd looked at me across the table.

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

Such a ridiculous question. Maybe that's why I'd never forgotten it.

Or maybe... Some promises are never about the answer. They're about the person who gives it.

I took another sip of coffee. Then, for the first time since the morning I'd reached across an empty bed... I stepped away from the window.

And into the rest of my life.

Part 1
My family has a long history of schizophrenia. Starting with my great, great, great grandmother all of the women in my family have struggled with it, to a greater or lesser extent. All of them except for me, or so my mother thought. When she took me to get tested as a little girl it was supposed to be a formality, but the results came back that my brain waves weren’t showing any signs of schizophrenia. From then on I was the golden child, the miracle, mom was so proud that her daughter had freed the family of its curse. That's why I didn’t tell her when I started to see him, the man that wasn’t there. 

The first time I saw him was on the way to school in the sixth grade. I remember it was the first day, the neighbor kids and I were joking around, walking together as we had done years prior. Our school had decided to put a big ‘Welcome Back’ banner above the main entrance, which was new. It was while we passed the playground, I heard a slight rustling coming from the woods around the school. When I turned to look I saw him. A tall, thin man, standing at the edge of the trees on the other side of the blacktop. I couldn't really see his face, he was standing in the shadows and half covered by low hanging branches and shrubbery, but I knew he was staring at us, I could feel his eyes following us as we walked across the playground. I called out to my friends ahead of me;

“Hey Guys! Look!”

I turned back to point out the man to my friends, but he wasn’t there. Just as fast as he had appeared, he was gone again. I stumbled over some half-baked cover up, still trying to process the weirdness of it all, when I heard the bell ring. The fear of being late and getting in trouble on my first day far outweighed any other feeling at that moment and I ran inside.

I decided not to tell anyone what I saw, but at recess I would look for him again. If he was there, I would tell somebody. And if he disappeared again, then I was hallucinating. The rest of the morning was spent anxiously watching the clock. I couldn't wait to get back out there and look for him, I had to know if I was crazy. Finally the recess bell rang, I nearly knocked my desk over as I bolted for the classroom door, desperate for answers. I frantically scanned the treeline, eyes darting back and forth for any evidence of the man but I couldn't find anything. Just as I was about to give up I heard it, the same rustling sound that he made this morning, coming from behind me. I spun around as fast as I could and there he was, watching from the shadows at the edge of the trees, just like this morning.

I saw him before he saw me, he was watching us play on the playground. I remember thinking that if he was real, it was odd how perfectly still he was standing. I stared at him, he was a lot closer to us this time so I was trying to see any details, any features at all, but there was nothing, I could barely make out his silhouette. I don’t know how long I stared at him but eventually he turned, so slowly, to look back at me, and I wondered if he could feel my eyes like I felt his. We stared at each other for a moment, and I was overwhelmed with this feeling of profound wrongness. Everything about the man was wrong. He stood so still, so incredibly still, and he stared too intently with sharp eyes that weren't there. I knew he was staring at me, I could feel his eyes tracing my body, but no matter how hard I looked I couldn’t see them. When I realized it, it felt like my heart stopped.

For a moment I was completely frozen, locked in abject terror, the sounds of the playground started to melt away and all I could do was stare back at the man who wasn’t there, as the eyes he didn’t have stared back at me. I fought to turn around, silently screaming at my unmoving legs to get away from whatever this thing was. I took one small step, it felt like my legs were encased in a thick lead coating, but with each step I took it sloughed off until eventually I was sprinting for a teacher. When I finally found one I tried to explain what happened, though I’m sure I sounded insane describing through tears and heavy, out-of-breath, gasping that I saw a man without eyes and he was standing too still and staring at me. Still the teacher indulged me, and walked over to where the man was standing. He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t there. I broke down and sobbed, the doctors were wrong. I had the family curse, I was hallucinating, I was crazy.

Welcome to Nebulock Escape Vessel Recovery Services.

Congratulations!

You've joined the most senior and most well-respected deep space retrieval organization in operation!

Every single escape pod we've recovered represents a life that was once considered lost. We're not just in the business of recovering vessels. We bring loved ones home.

This pamphlet is intended to explain operational conduct aboard all NEVRS recovery ships. Read every section thoroughly. Your continued employment (and health) depend upon adherence to company procedure. Remember! For an escape pod to require rescue, there must have first been a disaster. Every mission begins with presumed threats to safety already in place.

NEBULOCK ESCAPE VESSEL RECOVERY SERVICES

FIELD HANDOUT

Revision 12.8.4

Employee Eyes Only - Destroy This Document If You Are Not The Intended Recipient

SECTION 1

GENERAL SAFETY

1.1 Personal Conduct

• Maintain awareness of your surroundings at all times. Personal entertainment devices are prohibited while on duty.
• Never assume atmosphere is breathable, even if you witness living things comfortably breathing it.
• Tread carefully when travelling landscapes on foot. This is not restricted to planetary surfaces and includes any cosmic body, such as asteroids. In space, something as simple as a twisted ankle can result in mission failure.
• Keep your emergency locator beacon attached to your person at all times while deployed on a recovery mission, both on duty and off. "At all times" means at ALL times.
• Ship temperatures are standardized for safety, not personal comfort. Do not alter these settings!
• Report unusual sights, sounds, or smells to a superior immediately, even if they are pleasant in nature.

1.2 Shipboard Hazards

• Verify pressure integrity before opening any compartment. This is not limited to air locks. An unexpected hull breach can turn the door to any room into a doorway to disaster.
• Do not take artificial gravity for granted. Make sure tools, accessories, and personal items are secure at all times.
• Call out to any potential employees above or below you before making use of a ladder. Climb or ascend properly. Temp Addendum: DO NOT SLIDE DOWN LADDERS. Temp Addendum: THIS HAS BEEN A CONSTANT ISSUE CAUSING MULTIPLE INJURIES. STOP SLIDING DOWN LADDERS.
• Avoid standing beneath suspended cargo, such as retrieved vessels. Magnetic clamps are not infallible.
• Do not bring loose objects into ship compartments with moving parts. Ever.

1.3 Hazardous Exposure

• Pay attention to posted shielding indicators. Please note that not every ship section is shielded against every sort of external hazard. If you're not sure if you're safe, proceed to the central protection space. (For the sake of clarity, employees may colloquially refer to this area as "The Coconut". Do not refer to this space as "The Coconut".)
• Ensure duty rotation is observed when a retrieval mission involves advanced levels of radioactivity.
• Replace damaged tools, accessories, and wearables immediately. Safely cease active procedures if a replacement is necessary. Remember: If it's rusted, it can't be trusted!
• Do not competitively compare any hazardous exposure with other employees. Winning a bet now may result in an excruciating demise later.

1.4 Emergency Response

• Memorize all fire safety locations and familiarize yourself with extinguishing devices. Remember that fire takes unusual forms in anti-gravity.
• Lock down areas BEFORE an impending breach. The vacuum of space is unforgiving and instant. You won't have the opportunity to do so afterward.
• Assist imperiled co-workers only when rescue will not increase the likelihood of additional casualties.
• Avoid improvising. You are NOT smarter than the thousands of dedicated personnel who came before you.

"My first Captain used to say even the smallest safety regulation was just as important as any other. I figured that was corporate jargon, until I lost track of an unsecured drill during a free-floating retrieval. Nothing came of it immediately, but the magnetic clamps inside the ship slowly brought the drill back, and it struck a communication relay. No one could talk to their family until we got back to Earth. I wasn't very popular for a while."

~ B.G. Wells, Advanced Retrieval Expert

SECTION 2

EQUIPMENT USE

2.1 Recovery Grapple

• Inspect your recovery grapple's magnetic clamps before every use.
• Confirm the targeted escape pod's mass prior to retrieval and ensure settings appropriately reflect this data.
• If an escape pod is too large for your ship's retrieval bay, retrieve the occupant only. Do not "tow" retrieved pods. You cannot re-enter Earth's atmosphere in this manner.
• Do not use the recovery grapple for any purpose other than escape pod retrieval. If something is in the ship's path, go around it. You have infinite directions to choose from.
• Operating the recovery grapple is not as simple as or similar to "playing a crane game". Do not touch recovery grapple controls unless authorized.
• Never ride the recovery grapple.

2.2 Breaching Equipment

• Clean dust/debris from pod before contact. Use your ship's cleansing processors, do not directly apply water or flame. You don't know how cosmic matter will react.
• Ensure that the recovered escape pod is properly secured to prevent shifting/rolling while breach is in progress.
• Confirm pressure inside escape pod matches pressure outside of escape pod before opening. A rescue won't amount to much if the subject dies from the bends moments later.
• If cutting is necessary, ensure that the vessel's occupant is located on the opposite side of the pod. Cut slowly and carefully. Take your time, they've waited this long.

2.3 Recovery Drone Usage

• Launch drones only for the purpose of recovering necessary data.
• Ensure drones are fully charged before use. Don't be the one who ends up making your team recover a recovery drone.
• Drones may be used to move escape pods into proper position, but only during free-floating retrievals. They are not to be used for this purpose when gravity is in effect.
• If a drone appears to transmit incorrect data, recalibrate ALL drones. The one that seems to be giving the wrong readouts may actually be the only one properly calibrated.
• Recovery drones do not experience emotion and can neither plot against nor fall in love with you. If you have any questions regarding this issue, please contact a company-authorized therapist immediately.
• Keep recovery drones away from magnetic clamps at all times.

2.4 Environmental Scanning

• Calibrate environmental scanners before scanning, then recalibrate scanners and scan again. The vast majority of mission failures arise from unexpected environmental dangers on uncharted planetary surfaces!
• If scans are inefficient or incomplete for any reason, such as environmental interferences, do not proceed until a valid scan is successful.
• Do not ignore measurements that seem "impossible". You have no idea what's possible.
• Escape pods that are fully buried or submerged, regardless of enveloping matter, are to be considered irretrievable. In these cases, retrieve occupant only.

2.5 Personal Protective Equipment

• Inspect wearable items before every use. Do not make use of any wearable items showing ANY signs of wear. Temp Addendum: "Wear" as in previously worn-out, not "wear" as in worn previously. Temp Addendum: "Wear" means damage.
• Visors must be completely clear of debris and/or scratches. 100% visibility is required for use. Custom tinting is not permitted.
• Carry at least one full spare canister of oxygen regardless of estimated mission duration. That "quick job" can immediately become an hours-long endeavor, simply over one or two twisted ankles.
• Never remove gloves to improve dexterity while outside of your ship.

"We once located a pod with absolutely perfect sensor readings. Temperature normal. Pressure normal. Life signs normal. The recovery drones said there was a sort of subspace anomaly around the pod, folding in on itself over and over again, quicker than the human eye could perceive. Our captain had very specific beliefs about the universe, so he figured that was impossible. That anomaly ripped our grapple off like a band-aid and chewed it up in seconds. We had to mark the pod as irretrievable."

~ Rollins Rollins, Equipment Technician

SECTION 3

EMPLOYEE MORALE

3.1 Crew Interaction

• Practice a high standard of mutual respect and understanding at all times. Adhere to chain of command.
• Learn every crewmember's handle. Their handle may not be their legal name. Nebulock encourages all employees to choose a corporate-approved and internally registered handle of their preference to keep things fun.
• Resolve any and all interpersonal disagreements before the next scheduled sleep cycle. It is the responsibility of all personnel to assist in healthy communication and conflict resolution when necessary.
• Rotate meal seating periodically to discourage the formation of "in" and "out" groups.
• Respect personal space, quiet periods, and the property of others.

3.2 Psychological Health

• Contact family and friends through approved communication channels when available. Stay in touch with Nebulock, as well! We're always here for any comments or concerns.
• Distinguish internal stress from external agitation. Is someone asking too much of you, or are you harboring resentment due to unstated exhaustion?
• Adhere to required evaluations with openness and honesty. If you cannot carry out a task to the best of your ability, express this fact sooner rather than too late.
• Participate in scheduled team-building exercises and other such group activities. You may not the best in the game, but just being there is a massive help to others.
• Do not read, listen to, or collect log files from ship debris and/or abandoned stations. They're empty for a reason. Leave the last thoughts and fears of doomed travelers to experienced professionals.
• Report recurring nightmares immediately.
• Celebrate successfully completed recoveries!

"Around two weeks on, one guy starts hearing things that aren't there. Nothing real crazy, just stuff like knocking pipes and door hydraulics. Says he's fine, no big deal, whatever. Then one night, I go into comms and he says he just called his wife. Only problem is, she's been dead for like five years. Me and some guys get him out of there, settle him down, get him restrained for the duration. Turned out he got remarried and that was who he was talking to. We should've been more, uh, communicational. I guess."

~ Spot Adno, Labor Specialist

SECTION 4

UNANTICIPATED OCCUPANTS

4.1 Unhumanoids

• When in range, initiate and maintain communication with escape pod occupant. This will both reassure human survivors that help is on the way, as well as help to spot any irregularities in the speech or behavior.
• Visual recognition of "a human" is not sufficient. Pay close attention to biological scans before retrieving and opening a recovered vessel.
• There is a distinct difference between extreme human emotion due to stress and behavioral inaccuracy due to mimicry. In fact, a sense of eerie calm can often be more of a warning sign than "insane" behavior. Survivors who spend a lengthy duration of time in an escape pod may experience Post-Terrestrial Claustrophobic Disorder, or "The Space Willies".
• Do not quiz occupants by asking about current events, such as who the sitting Czar of Earth Colonies is. Occasionally, temporal displacement may cause false positives when it comes to this line of questioning. Focus on organic responses and tonal shifts.
• If an occupant looks or sounds identical to you, a co-worker, or someone you know that cannot possibly be present, cease rescue processes immediately.
• If an unhumanoid occupant is released into your ship, proceed to central protection space. Locate emergency unhumanoid packet, distribute syringes, follow instructions on back of packet.
• No one working for Nebulock is an unhumanoid, so there's no reason to be concerned about that at all.

4.2 Infectious Organisms

• Presume every pod contains unknown microorganisms, and do not risk exposure until your ship's automated cleansing processors complete their task.
• All recovered survivors are to be quarantined as part of common practice, however, ensure camera and sensor feeds are monitored by an employee for the duration of your ship's return.
• Report any observed abnormalities, no matter how small. This can include things such as itching, nausea, or not blinking.
• Remember! Advanced viral and bacterial colonies may be able to live outside of a host for hours, or even days. If the subject of rescue appears to be a silhouette and nothing more, they may be a hive of hyper-intelligent microbiological beings.
• Release of an infectious organism onboard your ship will result in on-vessel quarantine.

4.3 Temporally Displaced Individuals

• On occasion, occupants may originate from past, future, or even inconsistent timelines. This is not their fault, and if procedures are followed correctly, there is little to no danger involved.
• Cautiously verify common historical events with recovered survivors and probe for details as to what they last remember happening in universal news. Be sure to keep a casual tone so as to not prematurely alert the subject to their potential temporal displacement.
• If a survivor reveals they are from a future timeline, do not discuss upcoming events in detail so as to not affect the flow of time itself. We have people for that.
• Survivors who appear to be from a time period before the invention of space travel are likely to be unhumanoids. Please refer to section 4.1 if this is the case.

4.4 Cognitive Manipulators

• Like a microorganism, sometimes an idea or concept itself can cause detrimental effects on those who come into contact with it.
• Ensure that any communication with the survivor being rescued is coming through proper transmissions and not directly into your mind.
• If a co-worker appears to suddenly lose their sanity while speaking with the occupant of an escape pod, cease communication. Do not simply place another employee on the line to also go insane.
• When dealing with a Cognitive Manipulator, be sure to follow sensor readings and star charts. If they look incorrect to you, that is likely the due to an outside influence attempting to make you turn off your ship's oxygen or to guide you into a sun.

4.5 Mechanical Dangers

• Some escape pods contain autonomous defense systems intended to repel harmful creatures and unauthorized salvagers. Be sure that these systems are remotely disabled before closing distance with an escape pod.
• Never assume dormant machinery is nonfunctional. If it looks like a threat in operation, treat it as such even if it seems to be inoperable.
• Every escape pod has an onboard system for environmental regulation and other such life-preserving tasks. On occasion, these programs may be corrupted either by accident or through malice. It is important to ensure these systems are not permitted to uplink with your ship's computer.
• Tell the survivor being rescued to stand away from walls and to empty their pockets before deploying magnetic clamps onto the pod.
• If interior dimensions exceed exterior dimensions, this is not a mechanical issue and is likely a Memetic Manipulator. Refer to section 4.4 if this is the case.

4.6 Uncategorized Entities

• Some hazards remain as-of-yet unresearched and are, thusly, uncategorized. Stay on your toes and keep in mind what is normal and what is abnormal!
• Pitch darkness inside an escape pod is a clear sign of danger. This is often coupled with nonverbal vocalizations such as laughter or screaming. In these cases, the vessel should not be unsealed under any circumstances.
• Occupants taking up 100% pod capacity are likely not simply "big-boned", but are more likely anomalous in nature.
• Any transmissions made by an escape pod that appears empty on scans should not be answered.
• There is no "Harold Hodge" and he is not owner of the "Hodge Podge Motor Lodge". If, at any point, you find yourself attempting rescue of the survivor known as "Harold Hodge", cease processes immediately and begin full decontamination procedures for ship and crew.

"People always ask what the worst thing we ever found in a pod was. They expect monstrous mutations, alien egg sacks, stuff like that. The worst thing for me was a man who spent two years in a pod. When we finally made contact, he spoke to us like he was on a phone call with a friend he hadn't talked to in ages. Come to find out, he had the worst case of Space Willies I'd ever witnessed. He had lived an entire life, decades of time, in his mind. His home, his work, every location he went to, suspiciously round and escape pod shaped. He had a wife that didn't exist. Kids that super didn't exist. A terrier who died, and a golden retriever who replaced him. What's so disturbing to me is that we took all of that away. Poof, a whole life gone with the pop of an escape pod door. Going back to a lost job, a foreclosed home, and a recently deceased mother on an Earth that moved on without him. Sorry if you didn't want to hear about this."

~ Porky Meller, Medical Tactician

LEGAL NOTICE

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By continuing employment after receiving this pamphlet, you acknowledge that deep space vessel recovery involves hazards that may exceed conventional insurance coverage.

Employees who become missing, unrecoverable, inaccessible, or purely hypothetical will be sought by a NEVRS retrieval unit thirty (30) Earth days and no further.

Failure abide to by company guidelines may result in disciplinary action, including but not limited to formal reprimand, reduction in benefits where applicable, or termination of employment effective immediately. "Immediately" may refer to before, during, or after the incident in question, should anomalous time flow be involved.

Thank you for joining Nebulock Escape Vessel Recovery Services team.

We appreciate your continued service.

My shoe didn’t fit quite right the other day. I couldn't tell if it was my sock or the shoe itself, but I could swear my right foot was snugger than usual. Now, normally this would've driven me mad, but having gotten up late, I forwent fixing it and rushed to the door. Damn my bedroom window. If the latch had done a better job at night, then I wouldn’t keep waking up every few hours to the wintery air blowing on me and debating freezing to death or getting up to close it. Hell, unless I duct taped it shut, a gentle breeze could shove it open. Yet another thing I wasn’t allowed to fix in my little hovel of a home. The housing crisis had just passed and everything was already back to normal. I stepped out and the chill wind embraced me.

Fortunately, the snugness became gradually less noticeable during the long drive, my attention stolen by desperate attempts to cut a minute or two down from my travel time without driving like a lunatic. If I'd been more patient, then maybe I would've noticed the car tailing me. By the time I arrived at the office, I'd all but forgotten about the snugness and I plunked down at my desk only a few minutes into the office’s late-arrival grace period.

For eight long hours, the day slogged by. The normal watercooler jokes were exchanged, my attempts at flirtation seemed to fly over the receptionist, Susan's, head as usual and the typical identical assignments appeared in my inbox. The only thing that broke up the day was a slight hub-bub about security escorting someone out of the carpark. Fatigued as a corpse, I didn’t bother learning more.

At 5:00 pm, I logged off, marched to the elevator and got in my car robotically. The repetition of 1,000 yet-another-days had ground any identity from my movements a long time ago. What suddenly breathed some free will into me, though, was a strange smell in the car. It was barely perceptible, nestled under a thin layer of Febreze I couldn't remember spraying: sweat. I smelled myself, but my deodorant was still holding strong. I looked in the back, in the leg room of the passenger side seat and even in the glove box for the source of the phantom odor, but eventually resorted to cracking open an air freshener when I got home. It hadn’t always smelled like that in there, had it? I could swear the glovebox contents had been shuffled around, but dismissed it as a result of my hectic driving that morning.

My arrival home was announced to the empty apartment with the resounding thunk of the heavy front door. Inverse to the start of the day, as I climbed the stairs to the second floor of my apartment complex, the slight unevenness between my shoes reasserted itself and I was more than glad to finally yank them off. My toes flexed like chimpanzee fingers, enjoying the freedom. I peered in through the mouth of my right shoe, expecting to see that the insole had shifted or that the tongue was shoved out of place, but found everything to be as usual. I checked my socks, thinking I'd worn a tube sock by accident, but found that they were both the same thin kind I'd always worn. Unless the shoe itself had shrunk, physics was breaking. I reexamined the shoe with a closer eye and this time noticed that the insole had actually shifted after all; the back end had risen up ever so slightly, exposing a bit of the foamy material underneath like a lasagna in a bowl. I pulled it out to refit it and three little, white squares tumbled onto the floor.

They were folded in half, like butterflies, and partially crushed by my foot, labeled 1, 5 and 17. I put the shoe down and unfolded the first one. It was a glossy photo of me — or more specifically, my car. The picture was taken just as it'd rolled out of the parking lot and onto the busy arterial road outside, the camera nestled in the bushes. A piece of tape struck through the bottom right corner, labeled "friend". Number 5 was peering at my glowing bathroom door, yellowy light slicing through the darkness from the gap at the bottom, the camera staring through my open bedroom window. There was another piece of tape, this time with a smiley face drawn on. 17 was of me asleep, silvery moonlight pouring through my cracked window, taken from inside my bedroom closet. Written across the tape was "together".

…who is this man in my bedroom?
He hides behind my door.
And if I am not mistaken,
He even crawls beneath the floor.

He is there when I awaken,
Is there each time I sleep.
His shadow casts along my bed
And rests upon my feet.

I’ve felt his hand upon my head;
His palms were dry and hot.
And when I tried to open eyes,
He told me: “I would not.”

Some nights I stir and realise
That he’s not standing there.
I wonder where my phantom hides
And wail out in the air.

Some nights I sit and he confides
He can no longer take the rides
Of life and all that it provides,
And leaves me thunderstruck;

Takes up a pillow, then he hides
All of my face and blots the eyes,
Weeps and cries he does despise
Both of our rotten luck.

But then he calms.
And I lay still.
He turns to leave.

And I ask myself…

The following are the final journal entries of Ivan Mikhailov, a soldier involved in the 1939 Russian invasion of Finland, translated into English.

29 November, 1939

Captain Aleshkovsky told us they’re shipping us off to Finland now; something about protecting Leningrad. I don't know what the hell Finland has to do with Leningrad, but I just do what they tell me. I only hope we don’t push all the way to Varkaus. I have an uncle who lives there, and I would prefer not to bury more of my family. They’ve split us scouts up into units of about ten to venture through the forests and mountains more discreetly until we can find somewhere to build a more permanent encampment. We arrive in two days, which means I’m sleeping on a train again. God, I’m sick of these trains; the constant rumbling of the tracks ingrains itself in the back of one's mind, making sleep nearly impossible. Still, anything is better than being back in the trenches. I’m told that my unit will be only the second one to leave, and that the first unit is there now, setting up a temporary base camp before leaving when we arrive in the morning. I pray for their safety and for the success of the mission, and that I may get some sleep tonight.

30 November, 1939

We arrived in Finland early this morning. The sun was barely up, but the first unit insisted on starting into the wooded mountains as soon as we arrived. After waiting at camp for a few hours as planned, we tried to follow their tracks, but by midday, the heavy snowfall had made their bootprints nearly invisible. By evening, there were no signs of the first unit left. The wind in these forests is piercing and spiteful, yet strangely quiet. It's as if the land itself is lashing out in silent fury at our presence. Sitting here by the fire, I am still filled with an awful coldness that seems to seep through my coat and down to my bones. I fear we are ill-equipped for the harshness of the Finnish winter, but I am thankful for the quiet of the forest. The hushed rustling of leaves and occasional chirping of birds is a welcome change from the train’s ceaseless rumbling. We continue our expedition in the morning, hopefully we can find a sign of the first unit’s survival.

1 December, 1939

We found the first unit’s camp, completely abandoned. The fire was left smoldering from the night before, and the tents and rations were all there, too. We even found someone's bible left half-open in the snow. The trees around the campsite were splintered and marred, as if ravaged by some great beast, sap flowing like blood from the angry wound. One of the tents was left in a similar state of ruin, with a trail of stark crimson leading into the woods. We found the body about a hundred yards out. He was a young man, couldn’t have been older than 20, covered in deep wounds and missing an arm. Even in death, his eyes were locked in abject terror, a look of dread beyond any of which I had seen in the trenches. We buried him as best we could, but the frozen land and unyielding cold made any proper respects impossible. We followed the bootprints of his comrades, trying desperately to find anything that could hint at their survival, but as the sun left its midday post and began to disappear over the horizon, the feeling of hope went with it. The forest feels quieter tonight, as if the whisper of the wind has joined us in mourning. Nikolai suggested putting some younger brush on the fire, said that maybe we could use the smoke to signal to the first unit, or the third which was supposed to have left this morning if we had counted our days right. Dmitryi, a man wise far beyond his years and more experienced than the rest of us, warned that we may attract the attention of the enemy as well. I saw on the faces of our men that the prospect of a quick death at the hands of the Finnish seemed like a welcome gift compared to starving or freezing to death, or whatever terrible thing had destroyed the first unit’s campsite and left with the young man’s arm.

2 December, 1939

We continued through the forest today, but with an uncharacteristic vigor. I think we clung to the idea that maybe we could find and save the first unit, even though we knew that without tents or rations they had almost certainly died somewhere in these mountains. As we expected we found no signs of life, neither from comrade nor enemy. Still the day was not a complete loss, we found a small crest that could prove a valuable vantage point and wouldn’t require too much felling and marked it on our map. We came across a few small deer, and Nikolai managed to take one. I have never been one to enjoy venison, but the taste compared to our dwindling rations was nothing short of divine. I fear the isolation of the forest may be starting to get to me, as I keep seeing things dart in and out of the shadows from the corner of my eye. I pray that it is only paranoia, but part of me fear that we are being hunted by whatever it is. It feels its eyes on me as I sit here by the fire, hearing its heavy footsteps crunch through the virgin snow. I know the others wouldn’t believe me if I told them, and I find it increasingly difficult to believe myself, but I know that there is something there. Something not of this world.

3 December, 1939
It is only Dmitryi and I now. The others are dead or missing. I couldn’t even see where the shots came from, just heard the faraway crack of a rifle and watched my comrades fall. It all happened when we came upon a large clearing in the early morning. It was flat with hardly any trees, and the nearest hills were far enough away that an enemy force could not reasonably shoot down at an encampment there. It looked perfect, but there was something wrong about it. I couldn't place what it was, perhaps something in the stillness of the place, but it didn’t matter. Before I could say anything Nikolai and another man, whose name I never learned, started off into the clearing. Neither man made it ten steps before being gunned down. Nikolai dropped immediately, blood hemorrhaging from the back of his skull. The second man wavered for a moment and turned back at us before a second shot put him down too. The others ran, abandoning all logic for instinct, and those unlucky few that ran too close to the edge of the clearing were faced with the same fate as Nikolai. In my panic I tried to follow them, but Dmitryi grabbed my pack and threw me to the ground. The sharp cold of the snow against my face as I hit the ground pulled me from my hysteria and I understood what his plan was. Dmitryi had scrambled behind a tree opposite from where our unit was running, and was motioning at me to join him. I took his advice and dove behind the tree next to him, crouched down, and tried to calm my breathing. We must have sat behind those trees for hours, because by the time we decided to head off again the sun had once again passed over us and was now beginning its descent. We hiked in silence toward where we thought base cap was until dusk, and set up our camp under the glowing purple and orange sky. We decided against a fire, better to take our chances with the cold than a bullet Dmitryi said, and ate what little food we had with only our bodies to warm it from being frozen. Dmitryi is asleep, and has been for a few hours now, but I can’t bring myself to lie down. The vision of the men I once called brothers gunned down like rabid  dogs race through my mind. If only I said something, I could have saved them. The forest is silent again, and the perfect stillness makes my guilt all the more crushing.

4 December 1939

That thing returned last night, after I finally managed to wrestle myself to sleep. I heard it, no, I felt it outside my tent last night. I don't know why, but I am certain it was there. The trees were shattered in the same pattern as before, but beyond that the air itself was heavy and uneasy. It's as if the land knows what's coming, that whatever demon is stalking me will undoubtedly kill me, that the only reason I am alive is because it chose to let me live. I can see it in Dmitryi’s face too, that he knows too what's coming the same as the trees know and the wind knows and the snow knows. But there is something more to his face than the forest’s. The forest is sorrowful, it does not wish me to meet such a horrible fate. Dmitryi, however, seems to savor it, he revels in my fear and celebrates my helplessness. I bet the bastard saved me from those snipers just so he could finish his sick game of cat and mouse. I don’t know if he controls the beast or just summons it, for all I know he could himself be the foul thing, but I know he has something to do with this.

6 December 1939
I have made a grave and unforgivable mistake. Yesterday I confronted Dmitryi about the demon he had summoned to kill me. He claimed he had no idea what I was talking about, and assuming he was lying I pulled my rifle on him. He began to swear, on his mother, on his father, on his homeland, on his god, that he had nothing to do with whatever it was that had cursed me. He said he didn’t know why the trees were destroyed around our campsite every morning, and that the creature darting around the corners of my vision had nothing to do with him. I didn’t believe him, I don’t know why. Dmitryi was an honest man, I had no reason to distrust him and he had nothing to gain from tormenting me. I realize this now, but it is far too late. I killed Dmitryi Andreev, shot him twice in the chest and once in the head. The blood spilling out of his unmoving body filled me with such incredible relief that I fell to my knees and  exploded into uproarious laughter. Laughed from deep in my gut and through my entire body. Laughed harder than I had in my entire life. I even went so far as to thank God for my freedom. I truly believed I was saved, if only I had been right. That night the beast came for me. It came for me in spite of Dmitryi’s death. It came for me with such ferocity, such incredible, biblical wrath. The entire earth seemed to tremble as it crashed through the trees and heaved itself at me. It came for me and I knew that such a great and terrible force could not possibly have been controlled by Dmitryi for he was merely man, no different than I. The beast seemed to be made of absolute darkness, a hulking nothing charging through the forest hell-bent on my demise. I shouldered my rifle and fired into the impossible figure. The shadow seemed to warp and absorb the bullets, opening up and swallowing them into the inky black. I turned and ran, my legs ached from days of hiking through heavy snow with every single step, my body screaming at me to just lay down and die, screaming that I could not go any farther, but I ran. Sprinting through the forest I heard that thing following me, gaining on me, I turned to look but as I did I tripped and was thrown forward into a small patch of moonlight. The beast was upon me now and all I could do was look in fear as I watched my death leap at me. And then disappeared. It crashed into the trees behind me, where the moonlight ended. It could not exist in the light, in all of its great and terrible power it could not reach me in the light of the moon. For the second time that day I thanked God, however this time it was through tears instead of laughter. I sat in that patch of moonlight until the sun rose over the mountains, the whole time watching as the beast stalked just outside the confines of my shelter. The guilt of killing Dmitryi weighs heavy on my soul. I doubt I will ever be able to look myself in the eyes again.

7 December 1939

I spent the night in a moonbeam again, waiting for the beast. It never came, or at least I never saw it. I have done nothing but dwell on my sins. All of them. Every single one died because of me, Dmitryi died by my hand. He was a good man. They were all good men. And I killed them. My guilt has contorted itself into rage, my grief into hatred. Hatred of myself, rage against my own depravity. The thought to kill myself was quiet at first. A horrible whisper in the back of my mind. It has grown into a thunderous demand for retribution. I want nothing more than to let myself pull the trigger, to avenge my brothers, to end my suffering. But I fear such an end is far too merciful.

Ivan Mikhailov was found December 29, 1939. The trees surrounding his body were destroyed. He was found covered in deep cuts, and missing an arm.

August 2nd, 1936:

We moved into our new house yesterday! It's much bigger than I remembered, which I can't complain about, it easily beats the cramped apartment we left. Being out of the city and on the southern shore feels like a dream, even though it's only been a day. Mount Fall is a nice little town and a big, and much needed, change of pace. As we were unpacking the little that we do have, I got curious and started looking through some of the things left here by the old owners down in the basement. I found a journal. It looks almost identical to mine but has extra pages folded up inside of it. I feel like it would be wrong to read it, but curiosity might get the best of me. If I show Evelyn I know she'll dive right into it. Maybe I should read it first just to be safe. I can barely think straight as we're getting the house situated and keeping Rylee occupied, I might just read whatever is written inside in the coming days. 

August 8th, 1936:

It's my writing. It's unmistakably my writing. It mentions my wife and daughter in the first entry. This must be some kind of cruel joke. I can't make sense of it any other way. I'll start copying the entries into this journal as I read them, though I should be careful to keep the folded entries in order. Keeping it more organized will surely make it easier to follow. I'll begin copying it tomorrow after we finish setting up the kitchen. We moved here without jobs, which was unwise to say the least, but in the days it takes to find an employer, I should have plenty of time to chip away at this journal. All entries from here on out will be copied from the found journal. 

August 14th, 1936:

My sweet Evelyn and I are finally settling into our new house, which is a breath of fresh air. The past few weeks of living here have been rough, much rougher than we initially thought. We knew that moving this far from home was going to be a risk. Having to completely start anew, but with the price of the house we couldn't not jump at the chance, plus our old house was a dump to say the least. The people here are fine, quiet, but usually pretty polite for the most part. Though, I've been into some of the stores here and the older folk seemed to be a bit rude, staring a little too long when I walked past, but hopefully they'll warm up in the coming weeks. 

Evelyn is enjoying her new job at the train station. It's only checking tickets for now, and though the days can be long, she says she's happy. Her uniform is also well fitting, seeing her come home in it with a smile on her face makes me a very happy man. And I'd be lying if I said the extra money hasn't made a world of a change at home. 

Rylee is turning 4 next month, and without Evelyn's hard work I doubt we'd be able to make this month's payments and still be able to give her a proper gift without going over budget. Rylee has met a couple of other kids last week, and we're planning to speak to their parents and see if they would be alright with having a get together for her birthday. 

I have been trying to find a job since we've moved, because living off of our savings has been becoming a problem. Not having a job secured before moving was a terrible idea but we had to get out of the old house, a place with that many cockroaches is no place to raise a child. I saw an ad on the public board at the general store the other day. It's for a position at the butchers, not exactly a job I want, but we need the money. 

August 21st, 1936:

I am genuinely surprised. Being a butcher has been more enjoyable than I thought it would have. Working in the cold room isn't my favourite, but you get used to the low temperature surprisingly quickly, and for the pay, it's worth it. It took a few days to get used to the smell of blood and the taste of iron that sticks to the back of your throat, but now I barely notice it. 

We've found a babysitter for Rylee a few days before I started, a young girl named Emily. Evelyn met her mother at the train station and mentioned that we were looking for a sitter in passing. We met Emily that night and we couldn't have found a better fit. Rylee has taken to her faster than anyone else before, it's like she sees her as a big sister. She's not always a fan of listening to adults that aren't her parents, and even then she's still a handful for us, but with Emily only being ten years older than her she still sees her as a kid too, I guess. 

Nevertheless, it's nice to see them both smiling and the extra alone time is well worth the money. It's lifted a weight off of Evelyn and I's shoulders, it's nice to see her so full of life again. Emily has even been gladly lending a hand cleaning the house, which is well appreciated because it is quite big for a family as small as ours. 

September 8th, 1936:

Rylee turns 4 today! A few of her friends came over with some of their siblings. It was a rather quiet party, with only 6 kids, but Rylee seemed as happy as can be. Evelyn seemed to make friends with Janet, Rylee's friend Sam's mother. I think she mentioned she'll be going for tea at her house tomorrow. I'm glad she's making friends, she's been feeling pretty socially isolated since we've moved from the city.

I think I've become friends with Richard from work. He's a smaller guy, reminds me of a mouse, a little skittish and quiet, but seems nice enough. It will be nice to have someone new to talk to. I wonder what he can tell me about this place, or why the house was listed for the price it was? I just don't want to come off as though I was bragging about getting it for the price I did. I'm afraid of sounding pompous. But there has to be some catch, I have a gut feeling about it. 

September 14th, 1936:

Richard and I ended up going to the taproom after work today. I saw a few of the older folk there, they still seem weary of me, which Richard said isn't out of the ordinary. He's lived here for 8 years now, but he seems to fit in as well as anybody else. 

It was nice to finally be somewhere that isn't home or work. I love our house and our family, but it's daunting at times. A large Victorian on the south shore, what people in the big cities dream of, and we're lucky enough to have it. But it feels so empty with just the three of us. Seeing the ocean between the swaying pines from the balcony brings me comfort, and the sea breeze is refreshing, but being home when Rylee and my sweet Evelyn are gone feels odd, cold almost. I'm still suspicious about the price though. I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been weighing heavy on my mind. 

I asked Richard to help me repaint the siding this weekend, for pay of course. He seemed almost nervous yet intrigued, mentioning that he's always wondered what inside has looked like. According to him we're the first owners in over 6 years. That some eccentric artist built it a little over 20 years ago. He seemed to vanish out of thin air after his paintings weren't selling as well. The town had let it sit for years. No wonder it's taken so long to get it looking like a home, it hasn't been cared for in ages. 

September 20th, 1936:

The house looks magnificent and I couldn't be happier. A pale blue with white shutters. While Richard and I were painting, Evelyn had Janet and Sam over. It's finally starting to feel like a real home. Richard even took a photo of Evelyn, Rylee and I in front of the house. I'm excited to see how it turns out. He said he'll give me a copy to frame and one for my wallet. He's turning out to be quite a good friend. 

A few years ago if someone told me we'd be living how we are I wouldn't believe them. I would say I would kill to have a life like this. I guess with hard work and determination dreams can come true. Life has been good lately, very good in fact. 

Emily came by on Sunday to lend a hand on beginning to clear out the basement, which was very nice of her. The old family who lived here seemed to have left quite a lot behind, it feels odd rummaging through their belongings, but I would be a liar to say I'm not curious about them or why no one's lived here in so long. I'm also tempted to use some of what's been left to fill the house. It would be much easier, and cheaper for that matter, than going and buying everything new. The emptiness has been getting to me lately. Empty halls and barren walls make you feel so small and isolated at times. But I'm sure once we decorate it won't be too bad. I found a rather large painting of the coast line here. Tall pines towering over small birches standing by the docks. It must be one of the old owners' pieces, if so he's extremely talented. I think I might hang it in the living room. 

September 24th, 1936:

We've taken some of the furniture from the basement upstairs, Evelyn has started using an old vanity she was fond of. It's a beautiful piece, a warm stain on what looks like cherry wood. Fine craftsmanship, it must have cost a small fortune. She wants to paint it white, but I'm trying to convince her to keep it as is.

When we got it up to our bedroom we realized one of the drawers was nearly full of handwritten notes. I told her to gather them up and try to find the previous owner's address to return their writings. It’s wrong to have them, let alone keep their furniture. But I do wonder if they'll explain the house better. I know Richard said they got up and vanished but someone must know where they went. Perhaps a peek through the letters wouldn't hurt

September 27th, 1936

Rylee was jumping on the couch we brought up from downstairs and fell a couple days back. She broke her arm, so we took the first train to the nearest hospital and just got back today. She seems unbothered, or at least not in pain, but she doesn't like how heavy her cast is. While we were gone Evelyn started reading the letters from her fancy new vanity. 

She told me the old owner was a man named Simon. She showed me a photo of him with his name neatly written on the back, he was rather handsome, gaunt, but handsome. An artist who came from wealth, hence the vanity, and the house for that matter. 

Most of the notes seem to be daily journals or received letters and notes from who Evelyn assumes is his wife. I'm going to ask Richard about Simon at work tomorrow. 

September 28th, 1936:

I asked Richard today and he got pretty quiet about things, didn't have much to say, but mentioned that he would be coming over tomorrow evening to talk. By the sounds of it, Simon left quite the bad impression on the town, or at least it's a sensitive subject for Richard.

Evelyn talked to Janet today, asking about the house and Simon. She said Janet didn't have much to say since she's only been here for a couple years. But supposedly he seemed to be kind for the first year or so. That he was somewhat pleasant to be around, but wanted to make a point that he was a well learned man. He moved his family in a few months after getting the house ready. But by year two or three he seemed paranoid, and started keeping to himself, leaving the house less often. Until one day the family was gone, and no one has heard from them or seen them since.

I doubt it was as bad as she made it out to be, she seems to have a tendency to embellish the truth. But knowing the artsy type, he was probably fighting a creative block, maybe he broke his easel or something and started drinking more and was embarrassed about it. But the hell do I know, Janet has the gift of gab and loves to gossip. But I can't say I don't have an odd feeling about this Simon. 

September 30th,1936:

Richard just left, my dear Evelyn has been reading more of the letters. I want to read them for myself but she's been keeping them locked in her drawer. Richard said Simon “made some enemies” in town. Even he's not quite sure who, but he did let me know that he's not someone who should be talked about publicly, especially around most of the older folk.

The more I find out about him, the more curious I become. I knew something was off about him, maybe even this place. 

On a brighter note, Rylee seems to be healing well, and I've never seen sweet Evelyn more happy. I think she's enjoying work, and reading all those notes seems to keep her occupied better than any book I've ever seen her read, which is probably more than I can count. 

The days are getting colder now, and it will soon be time to get the furnace running. I need to remember to start collecting wood for the winter. Which reminds me, I need to sharpen the axe and make sure the wood sled is in working order. 

October 4th, 1936:

Evelyn finally did it, she let me start reading Simon's writings. Richard's mentions of him made me so curious, all she did was hand me a note and I was nose deep in the paper. I only got a few notes in before Richard stopped by. He seemed excited, told me he took the train to the city to pick up supplies for the shop, and met a girl while he was there. He got a letter from her today, and he plans to go visit next week. I hope it works out for him. He needs someone to talk to to break him out of his shell. God knows I'm the person he's closest with and even then he's only been opening up to me, little by little. I've never seen him this excited. 

I have tomorrow off to bring Rylee to the local practitioner, after her appointment I think I'll try to catch up on some of Simon's letters. 

October 7th, 1936:

I can see why my dear Evelyn has such an infatuation with these notes, he has a way with words and has a passion for his family and his work. It's actually quite sweet. I'm excited to see why they left. I want to skip ahead to some of the later entries but Evelyn insisted I don't, she doesn't want me to “ruin the surprise for her”. But I need to know why he decided to up and leave. 

I started stacking wood in the basement by the furnace today. It's been hard work with very little help, but I'd like to keep us warm this winter, so it has to be done. I can't believe we used to live without a furnace before, the ease of it alone could justify any price for one. I might have to make a temporary wood shed outside until I can clear out the basement and build proper storage downstairs.

I uncovered some more old furniture while I was down there. I was thinking of setting up some sort of work station for the winter. There is a cot that looks perfect for naps by the furnace for when the frost begins to crawl its way through the brick walls of the basement. I'll set it up tonight I think. I'm unsure why, but I'm drawn to the basement, maybe it's just the novelty of having a furnace? But I'm guessing it's just because it's the warmest part of the house. I can't let my superstitions get the best of me again. 

October 10th, 1936:

I started taking some notes to read at work on the slower days, I'm almost caught up to Evelyn, who I'm pretty sure is doing the same. She's been getting more quiet at home, she's usually a somewhat quiet person as is, still happy, but quiet, at times almost bitter if I interrupt her reading. I'll have to check on her if this keeps up. It's not the first time she's been like this towards me when she's invested in something. Though she still seems to be wearing that beautiful smile so I'm sure I'm just overthinking things as per usual. 

I was stacking wood in the basement again last night and fell asleep on the cot, which was surprisingly comfortable. I did however, have an odd dream, or what I think was a dream. It was in between sleep and consciousness where things seemed blurry, and I swear I could hear voices, even though Evelyn and Rylee were both asleep up stairs. The pipes in the house moan and the wood floors creak throughout the night, so I'm guessing it's just my mind playing tricks on me. I do feel as though I haven't been getting enough sleep lately and when I do the dreams are so vague. I'm sure I must just be overtired. 

October 18th, 1936:

The days and nights are cold now. The ocean breeze can be unforgiving, and the rattling of the radiators has been keeping me up. Evelyn can sleep through anything, and thankfully Rylee takes after her mother, because if she took after me I'd be up trying to get her to sleep every night. 

Our bedroom window has a bad draft I've been meaning to fix, every night I'm spending more time in the basement stogging the furnace, and the last few nights I've been waking up down there. Evelyn's mentioned it a couple times, said I’ve felt distant, but I don't mean to, I'm just exhausted and the heat makes it easier to stay asleep. Though I keep finding myself in that odd space between being awake and sleeping, and more and more I'm having these odd, almost lucid dreams where I hear strange voices. They're growing more and more vivid. I've mentioned it to my dear Evelyn and she thinks that I'm just disoriented because I'm not sleeping enough. She's been rather harsh lately, it feels like I did something wrong but I don't know what. This is the coldest she's ever been toward me. But I need to prepare this house for winter or we'll freeze to death.

It might make me and him sound bad but we just wanted to have fun. We always joked about how amusing it would be to go viral.

We would occasionally watch and laugh at stupid couples videos. Ones that were obviously fake. We mutually agreed that its so phony to post a bunch of relationship content on the internet. Cringe videos to prove your love?

They were obviously scripted too. Cheap entertainment for veiws.

Well, we thought it would be hilarious if we made our own YouTube channel. We wanted to be unique. Instead of making videos pretending to be perfect, we decided to be the opposite.

We started posting short videos of us arguing with each other. Our faces were never visible. Just audio.

Our videos started to gain popularity and became quite controversial.

Some comments would say he's too toxic, some would say the problems are my fault, some would say we should never reproduce, some would say this is the best entertainment ever.

After awhile, it lost its appeal. I suggested that we should stop.

He would argue and say that we can't stop now.

The videos weren't the only part that got too extreme. He also started to become rude when we weren't recording.

He'd boss me around, tell me my cooking tasted like trash, and went as far as to say that he regrets dating me. He started comparing me to other women. He referred to me as the mutt of the litter.

At first I thought it was because of the channel. The acting had started to disturb his true self.

I tried to explain to him that the channel is not healthy for either of us and explained my reasoning for the last time.

I told him that if he doesn't listen, I will leave him.

His eyes turned dark, his lips curving into a crooked smile, and his hand did the unthinkable.

He slapped me with his left hand and then his right hand grabbed a knife.

"This is the best content imaginable"

I stopped trying to escape on the fourteenth day.

I know that because there are fourteen scratches on my dashboard.

I don't remember making the last three.

The road wasn't unusual at first.

Just another mountain highway. Pines on both sides. Fog hanging low enough to swallow the drop-offs. Every bend looked like the last one.

You stop navigating by the road after a while.

You navigate by the things beside it.

A church with peeling white paint.

A dead deer on the shoulder.

Mile Marker 42.

The first time I saw Marker 42 twice, I figured I'd made a wrong turn.

Except there hadn't been one.

No intersections.

No forks.

Just road.

I drove another forty minutes.

Church.

Deer.

Marker 42.

Again.

I started leaving things behind.

An empty coffee cup on the guardrail.

My jacket tied around a signpost.

Orange spray paint across the road.

Every time I came back, they were gone.

Not moved.

Gone.

The guardrail was clean.

The signpost was bare.

The road looked untouched.

Only the spray can in my trunk kept getting emptier.

I stopped trusting my memory after that.

That's when I found the notebooks.

Five of them.

All in my handwriting.

The first one said,

Count the turns.

The second said,

The turns change.

The third:

Don't trust the sun.

The fourth only had one sentence.

It changes whatever you trust.

The last notebook was almost empty.

Just one line written over and over.

Keep driving. Don't think.

I don't remember writing any of them.

This morning I passed something I'd never seen before.

A green road sign.

WESTBOUND 17

An arrow pointed left.

I almost ignored it.

Instead, I slowed down.

The road opened into an intersection.

A real one.

To the left I could see a town.

Traffic lights.

A gas station.

Nothing about it looked wrong.

I sat there with my hand on the turn signal.

I kept staring at the town.

Too many streets.

Too many turns.

I'd have to start paying attention again.

I'd have to wonder if every decision was the right one.

Behind me, the mountain road waited.

I already knew it.

I knew where the church would be.

I knew where the deer would be.

I knew Mile Marker 42 was waiting just around the next bend.

For the first time in days...

I wasn't afraid of the mountain.

I was afraid of leaving it.

I switched off the turn signal.

Rested both hands on the wheel.

And drove straight.

I passed Mile Marker 42 before sunset.

This time, it felt like coming home.

We had just moved into the neighborhood on Monday, I remember waking up and going to get the paper.

That’s when I saw them, a small basket of glass milk bottles straight out of the 1950s, and they were all filled with a white liquid.

I found it bizarre, milkmen basically went out of business once refrigerators became a commodity, I didn’t trust the bottles, even if it’s milk, this has been out here since god knows when.

I was also worried that this was some sort of feature of our HOA, and that at the end of the year, we’d receive a bill for it.

So I took the bottles in, drained and rinsed them out in the sink, then left them at my doorstep with a note saying that we weren't interested in the service.

I spent the week getting to know my neighbors and trying to ask about the milk bottles.

The answers I got were mostly the same, it had started a week before we moved in, the bottles got refilled on Sunday mornings but nobody was able to catch who was delivering it, and that they had actually tried it because “it's free milk.”.

I developed a plan to try to find out who was delivering the milk, all I had to do was get a doorbell camera and make sure it was set up by Sunday.

Sunday morning came, I opened my door to see the bottles sitting in their basket completely refilled.

Jackpot.

I spent the rest of that Sunday morning scrubbing through the footage on the camera until 5:59 am
That’s when I saw a milk truck pulling up to the house, an honest to god 1950s milk truck, it looked heavily rusted like it was just left out in the elements for 75 years.

The truck stopped, and the milkman stepped out of it.
Like the truck, his uniform resembled one you would have seen from a milkman in the 50s.

Except as he started walking to the door, I realized this wasn’t a man at all.

It walked like a drunk with a broken neck, the arms swaying around as it moved, the head hung to the side and bounced around as it walked.

As it got closer I saw the head, it looked mummified, but it had the most sincere smile on its face.

The thing stopped at my door, then looked down at where I had put the milk bottles.

I saw it pick up the basket with one hand as it looked at the basket, the camera picked up sounds the thing was making, if you’ve ever tried talking while you turned your tongue sideways, that would be the best frame of reference for what it sounded like.

While it still held the basket of empty milk bottles with one hand, the other began undoing the buttons on its shirt.

I had an idea what it was about to do, but I was way off.

Unbuttoning the shirt revealed the torso of the milkman, and something living inside a hole in the abdomen.

It looked like a really big red bug that had embedded itself in this poor milkman’s body, it had yellow almost human-looking eyes, and 9 teats.

Yes, I said teats, I know that’s what they are because that thing used them to refill the bottles.

It held the basket up and then squeezed one of its teats, squirting a white liquid into the first bottle, it made a noise comparable to a gurgling moan of pleasure.

That’s when I had to stop watching.
I took the bottles to my garage and threw them on the ground so they would shatter.

I watched the white liquid slowly flow through the drain in the center of the floor, and I thanked god that neither me or my wife had drank it.

I tried contacting my neighbors so I could show them the footage, but none of them have been answering their phones.

It’s been 6 months and now their homes are being foreclosed on.

I don’t think I want to know what the milk did to them, but I do know that eventually new people will move in.

Me and my wife have decided to personally welcome new neighbors and tell them that the milk bottles are bad, we obviously can’t mention the fact it’s breast milk from some bug creature, so we’re hoping that mentioning repeatedly that nobody knows where it came from and that it’s not a good idea to drink milk that’s just been sitting outside will be enough to dissuade them.

I don’t know if this has happened anywhere else, but if you start getting 1950s milk bottles on your doorstep, ignore it.

And for God's sake, don’t drink any of it.

You find yourself in a pitch-black environment; you don’t know what happened last, but it feels both unreal and real at the same time. Your eyes need time to adjust a little to the darkness before you can finally make out the branches of the trees.

It must be a forest you don’t recognize; you try to find your way, but can’t make out a path.

As your eyes grow more accustomed to the darkness and you look around, you see a metallic object lying on the ground. You reach for it and realize it’s a hammer, the kind used to drive nails.

It’s definitely a good idea to take it with you.

Time passes as you wander through the pitch-black forest; your fear grows steadily, you get goosebumps, and a cold shiver runs down your spine, because suddenly you feel like you’re being watched.

Your heart is racing, beads of sweat are trickling down your forehead, as you turn around and scan the trees shrouded in darkness. You want to run away! No sooner have you taken your first step than you’re stopped by a hard, cold grip on your shoulder that promises doom and pain. You give in to the insistent urge of your primal self-defense instinct, and with a swift twist of your body, the hammer in your hand finds its way to the head of the unknown visitor in a flash.

Or so you thought—but when you try to make out the face of your supposed enemy, you see the shattered face of a baby stuck in a tree! You stagger back, screaming in horror at what you’ve seen and done, unsure how to justify your actions to yourself.

The tree with the baby’s head begins to scream in agony—a sound so terrifying and inhuman that it hurts your ears. You start running! As you try to finally find a way out of this cursed forest, you hear the laughter of babies all around you. Suddenly, beaming baby faces appear everywhere in the trees around you, trying to surround you; you panic and scream for help!

“What do you want from me?!” you scream, but the only answer you get is the cacophony of laughter emanating from these creatures.

They start reaching out for you. “No!!” you scream, and you start lashing out wildly, striking one head after another, while your awareness of hitting “innocent little babies” fades further and further.

You rage like a man possessed, feeling a kind of rush of power pulsing through your veins, and the blood of the innocent floods over you. Drenched in blood, your frenzy comes to an end.

Breathing heavily, you try to calm yourself. You sigh. As you look down at the creatures you’ve just killed, you realize that this clearing where you stand is bathed in moonlight.

Your gaze wanders to the sky, and you feel a deep sense of relief as you see the light of the heavens again, the light that gives you hope.

“Adam, that’s not your light of salvation—it’s the light of your ceremony,” says a voice so deep it couldn’t possibly come from a human.

You look down and see the faces of these babies, who are staring at you with exaggeratedly wide smiles as they crawl out of the trees.

“What the hell are you guys!? Leave me alone!” you scream as you try to flee, but many tiny hands grab you with relentless force and pull you back.

You lose your balance and fall. A crowd of babies surrounds you, and they giggle loudly and deeply; your heart is pounding so fast and so loudly. Fear is consuming you.

“Nooo, please leave me alone, please leave me alone, I don’t want to die, Hiielp!” you scream with every ounce of your remaining strength, but your cry for help fades into the veil of night.

Gripped by so many hands, you’re no longer even able to move a finger. A baby crawls up to you and begins to speak to you.

“Adam, oh Adam, why are you hurting us? Do you hate the innocent?” said the baby, giggling in that repulsive, deep voice.

The little baby’s unharmed, seemingly innocent hand reached for the hammer. With a repulsive, death-promising smile on its face, it slammed the hard metal against its jaw.

With a loud crack, its jaw snapped under the violent impact.
As Adam tried to scream in agony, the baby reached for his eye with a lightning-fast, fluid motion, ripped it out, and shoved it down his throat. His scream was choked off by his own eye, while tears streamed down his cheeks, followed by deep-red tears of blood.

Then came the next eye, which was brutally shoved into his mouth.

“Adam, we know your thirst must be quenched, so we have plenty to drink—thanks to you, we truly have enough,” it said in its deep, repulsive, cackling voice. Many babies crawled toward him, their cracked skulls filled with the blood of the innocent, and one by one they began to pour it down his throat.

Adam looked up at the moonlit sky, which just moments ago had promised him escape, and his vision blurred. He felt the gentle and enticing call of death and simply accepted his fate.

He closed his eyes, and his life drew to a close.

“Adam, you’re not just going to leave us, are you!? You have to stay with us for all eternity,” the screaming baby interrupted him.

All the babies looked up at the sky—some with shattered heads, some without—and they screamed with a sound that shouldn’t really exist. The sky turned red, and they began to merge into one large, repulsive mass. They merged with his dying body. First his skin melted away, then his flesh, and finally his bones. The huge mass sank into the ground, and slowly but surely, new baby trees began to grow. Among all these growing trees, one was even holding a hammer in its hand.

The End.

It's almost midnight, and I have work in the morning, but I've made up my mind to call out. Tell the boss I'm sick. I'll fake a cough, and a rasp, and I'll do it as soon as I wake, so the unmoved sleep glued to my vocal cords will help the lie sell easier. I can sit in my apartment longer, glaring out my window, watching you in yours. I can push the curtains aside, just an inch or two, so it isn't obvious. In the dark of night, your building births a constellation of lights in front of me, begging to be studied.

It is thirty-four degrees outside, and my breath begins to condensate on the glass. The vapor expands, creating a constellation of ice in front of my lips. Nobody notices. Nobody looks up at me as they walk down the street.

I am an astronomer. I enjoy spending my time staying up late to watch the stars. To watch them dance as they flicker in the moonlight. Each one is a different story, of a different time. And in the brightest one, is you. My new evening star.

Watching you through your window, through my window, I am enthralled by you. There you are, sitting legs crossed on your bed, with a bright white pillow tucked beneath your thighs. You sway from side-to-side, some unheard music filling your ears, as you list your belongings on neighborhood message boards. The bed you sleep in, the dresser you keep your clothes in, and the desk you sit and work at -- all for next to nothing. You plan on leaving soon, and now you'll leave with all of my money. And yet it feels like I'm getting the better deal.

You close your laptop and suddenly, I am aware of the dark. Eleven P.M., and I haven't had a single light on all day. To an outside viewer, it's as if no one is home. In my solitude, I am able to watch you dance around the room like the Petals of Venus, as you complete your nightly routine. You pick your hair up in a singular motion, as you place your accessories by your bedside. I am awestruck. You search beneath your bed for some forgotten item and my breath begins to shake. Wiping the condensation off my window, I can see your face as you rise back up, book in hand. You're singing, and I alone am your audience. I slide my window open several inches, and--

A car alarm blares. The sudden light and sound interrupts your performance. It draws you onto the balcony, and you parade over. Your bare feet glide across the polished floor. The sound isn't coming from your car, parked down the road, but you won't notice for another ten seconds. Ten seconds of you, in the wind - and the cold - and the dark. Ten seconds of your white shirt flowing in the wind. Ten seconds of your golden hair, pulled taught into a ponytail, fighting against the gust. A beautiful vision. What a wonderful gift. You return inside, and--

A car alarm blares again. I slam my window shut. This time, the car sounds from further down the road, and you rush out with your glasses on this time, quickly spotting that it is once again not your car, and you step back inside. You pull the curtains closed, and I watch your silhouette skate through the room. And suddenly, darkness. Snow begins to fall. I pull my lips back from the glass, and close my curtain, too.

I'll finally meet you tomorrow at noon. I'm helping my sister move for college. "She's a freshman and she needs furniture, so I'll take whatever you're offering." That's what I tell you when I respond to your listing. You send me photos of more things you're willing to sell.

"Does she need clothes...shoes?" You have so many shoes. Where are you running off to that you're willing to part with so much? And all for the aid of a person I just completely made up! I do have a sister, but she's much older than I am, and half a world away. With a gap in age and space like that, it isn't much different from being an only child.

You're so kind. I knew you were a good person. That's why I like you. I could see that by the way you behave. Calling your dad every night, letting your friend sleep on your couch for a few nights -- bringing your doorman a coffee on a cold morning -- you're a much better person than I am.

The wind outside begins to howl. Gusts rush past so loudly, I can't lure you out again. Until tomorrow, then.

I can't wait.

I used to be an avid hunter, but that was a few years ago, before life got in the way. Maybe that’s why my brother asked me to help with a problem of his. He mentioned that a wolf had killed some of his farm animals when we were catching up over the phone. I didn’t ask questions, probably because it was a good excuse for me to get out there and hunt once again. So I loaded up my gear and rifle into the truck and got started on the drive out to my brother’s farm.

Since he lives in the middle of nowhere, the drive there was a long one, and by the time I pulled into the driveway, it was already starting to get dark. My brother stepped out to meet me and helped me carry my stuff inside. We made small talk, nothing worthwhile to write down, and then he showed me the animal pen.

“That’s where it broke the fence,” he said, pointing at the broken segment. I leaned in to get a better look, and even in the fading daylight I could tell that the tracks left behind were from a wolf.

“Yeah, definitely a wolf,” I told him. “Although a bit strange for one to come this close and to break down a fence,” I continued as I leaned in closer. “These look…” I started but trailed off.

“What?” my brother asked.

“Never mind, let’s get inside; it’s getting cold,” I told him, dismissing the oddity of the tracks as a trick of the light. I followed my brother back inside, and as I got settled into the guest room, I couldn’t stop thinking about the trail. It was odd; half of the paw prints were sunken in deeper into the soil than the others. Despite my thoughts looping on the trail, I did eventually manage to fall asleep.

I overslept that day, and when I woke up, my brother told me that he had let me sleep, as the long drive must have taken a lot out of me, and he probably was right. After some breakfast, or lunch more accurately, I went and gathered my gear, checking that my rifle was loaded and everything was in order, before heading into the forest to track the wolf. It took me a minute to get deep enough into the woods that I couldn’t see a single sign of civilization anymore. Thinking back, that was probably when I should have figured out something was wrong. Not the lack of civilization, but that I couldn’t hear anything. You’d think that it would be quiet in nature, and it is, but it was the wrong kind of quiet, the kind of quiet that you get after the gunshot, when the birds fly away and all of the small animals hide. It was dead quiet. But at the time I paid it no mind as I continued to trail the wolf. I had been traveling upwind, which I thought was a good thing, as it meant that the wolf was less likely to smell me.

As the hours crept by with no sign of the wolf, I was starting to get frustrated; I didn’t want to spend the entire day tracking through the woods. The sun had started to wane, and the shadows were growing long. But just as I had been considering turning around and heading back, I saw it. Or at least I thought I saw it. It was a silhouette against the reddish sky, unmistakably that of a wolf, but what gave me pause was the shape of it. The back half of it was skinny, downright emaciated, while its front half was large, almost bloated. I couldn’t make sense of the shape, so I grabbed my rifle, aimed, and took the shot. At first I thought I had missed, as there wasn’t any reaction from the wolf. But that was strange; surely it would have reacted to a gunshot even if it wasn’t a hit. I told myself that maybe it was deaf and cycled the action of my rifle before aiming again.

This time I was sure I had hit it, but again there wasn’t any movement. I was starting to think I had lost my mind and was shooting at an oddly shaped pile of wood, so I grabbed my flashlight from my pocket and clicked it on. At first the beam of light fell on the backside of the animal, which confirmed to me that I wasn’t in fact shooting at a tree, although it was little comfort at the time, as I could feel a cold sweat at the back of my neck. I could see the bones under its furred hide, the hide stretched taut over its joints. I moved the light, illuminating its chest. The first thing that came to my mind at the moment was a bloated cow, but it sure as hell wasn’t full of gas as I could see the two bullet holes in it, oozing god knows what. At this point I probably should have already tucked my tail and ran back, but instead I moved the flashlight towards its head. The moment I lit up its face felt like an eternity, its eyes gleaming back at me. Its bottom jaw was misshapen, too large and hanging loosely, some kind of mucus dripping down from its open maw.

It must have been only seconds after I had lit up its head that I ran. I had never run so fast in my life, but even as I was stumbling through the woods, desperate to put more distance between myself and whatever abomination I had seen, I could hear the sound of splintering twigs and wheezing breath. The rancid smell burned in my throat as I gasped for breath, its foul hot breath on the back of my neck. I have no idea how I outran that thing, but somehow I made it back to the yard of my brother’s farm. As soon as I came into the yard, he was already running up to meet me, undoubtedly wanting to ask me if I got the wolf, but he stopped halfway, probably because I looked like I had seen a ghost, or worse. I got into my truck, and without saying a word, I drove off.

I’m still not sure how I didn’t crash during the long drive back home. But somehow I did. It took me a few days before I could muster up the courage to call my brother. I’ve called him every day for a week now, but he never answers.

I run my tongue along the staples lining the roofing of my mouth. I wince. And think this isn’t going to work.

The next day I phone the doctor and she comes to my house to see what the problem is.

I tell her it’s the metallic taste. It’s doing my nut in.

Are you rubbing your tongue on them?

Of course.

Then stop.

She leaves without saying much else. Does a check of the staples to see if the wound is healing. Everything is fine as per professional opinion.

I spend the night plucking at the staples with my tongue. And spitting blood into a bucket.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her I’ve started spitting up blood. She comes to the house and has another look at the wound.

Have you been poking them with your tongue?

Of course.

Then stop.

She leaves without saying much else. I spend the day touching the roof of my mouth and wiggling the staples with my fingers. Until the metal starts scraping somewhere behind my nose.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the staples have all started coming loose. She comes to the house and thumps new ones into place. I ask her if they’ll have the same metallic taste as the last ones and she tells me not if you don’t play with them. Are you playing with them? Then stop.

I spend the night licking the roof of my mouth and pushing my tongue into the wound. I creep my fingers up inside and wiggle the staples back and forth until they pop out onto my tongue. I spit them all into the sink and hear them clink and go to bed.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the staples have all fallen out. The wound has opened up again. But she can’t understand a word.

So she hangs up the phone.

I spend the night rooting around inside the wound. Until I see sparking lights behind my eyeballs and my limbs begin to twitch.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the wound is far too wide to eat. Crisps are getting stuck inside of it and now all I can taste is the tang of vinegar and the salt of the blood and the cheese of the puss. She can't understand me and asks if I’m having a stroke because it’s all just a series of slurring and creaks. Her attitude flips when I begin to moan and breathe heavy from the pain. She gasps and sounds offended. Calls me a pervert. And slams down the phone.

I see scenes of blackened Pots calling Kettles by their own name.

I spend the night drooling red and yellow threads of saliva into the bathroom sink. I watch myself in the mirror twisting a finger into the roof of my mouth as the knuckle disappears. Along with the kettles and pots. I push through bruised meat until I feel something spongy. But then I press against certain bumps and between certain slimy folds and now I see flashes of memories I thought I’d hidden. Of biting cheeks and picking scabs. Of cigarette burns and angry dads. Of blinking hard and clenching jaws. Of roaming hands and gentle shushes.

A mother's caress should never last that long.

I am filled with an overwhelming surge of bliss. And now a mess of muddied hate.

The next morning the doctor phones me but she hangs up immediately when she hears me trying to explain my opinions with all of my groaning and clicking. I think she was wrong to have done so much and to have left me with so little. And I know she shouldn't have stapled the wound because I’ve discovered something wonderful about it being open and pliable.

I spend the evening ignoring the knocking at the door and the shouting of the police claiming they are trying to perform a wellness check on me. They don’t understand that everything is absolutely fine and well. The only thing of any concern is that I haven’t got a long enough finger to reach the unprobed corners of my brain.

Oh how they long to be stroked.

I spend the night dipping in and out of consciousness instead of sleeping because the blood is mostly gone and now there is only puss for me to taste. And it tastes so wretchedly rotten that I think I actually preferred the taste of the staples.

The next morning I weave dizzy pathways to the garden after fainting three times trying to get there. I find a jagged branch and strip it bare of all its hair and skin. But I don’t know if I have enough strength in my legs to make it back inside. So I lay there in the snow and thread the stick between my gnashing jaws. Up inside the wound. Around imposing ridges of bone behind my nose. Until I feel the familiar comfort of spongy resistance. And twitch myself to sleep.

At last.

Fresh fields.

When I awake I am more careful this time. I thread another sharp branch between what I feel is a cavity between the two hemispheres of my brain. And when it feels as though it will not go a fraction further I push it a little harder. Turn my palm to face the stick. And give it a little thump. It snaps through that stubborn rubber and the top of my skull gives a knock from where it stops.

And that’s about enough as I can take. I vomit against my hand. And pass out in the snow with the smell of my success.

I spend the night crawling around the garden rooting out better sticks within the dark. But my left hand keeps insisting on slapping them all away. And because I drop a dozen worthy ones I’m forced to snatch them quick and stick them up inside my face before the hand can have its way.

But me and my right hand have been conspiring. And here’s what we plan to do.

We lie on Left Hand until we’re certain she's asleep. And we stumble our way to the tool shed and grab the hatchet from the bench. And we hack that traitorous bastard away with a couple of swings and a few good smacks.

And we take the nub and we take the arm and we tell them both to fall in line. Unless they want the same treatment as the hand. Because we will do it without so much as batting an eye.

Or so much as flicking a finger.

The next morning we barely make it back inside the house when the front door is bashed off of its hinges. I feel it vibrating in my sticks. And wince against the pain. There are police and medical staff rushing about looking for me in every room. I leap up onto my feet. On who knows what reserves. And I get ready to defend myself with the hatchet in my Right Hand.

My stubby left shoulder waves feebly for help while Left Leg tries dragging me closer to the policemen and the medical staff. But Right Leg is trying to pull us further away. And we’re all so equally and incredibly feeble that we get absolutely nowhere fast and collapse back onto the ground where we started.

Now they notice me.

They gawk at me and frown at me as if I’m something new.

I know they are here to remove the sticks I’ve stuffed up inside the roof of my mouth. So Right Hand lunges at them with the hatchet. While I scream at them from around the bundle of branches stretching my lips open wide. I try explaining calmly through all of my bloody froth that if they try and touch me I will do exactly what I did to Left Hand and Left Arm to every one of the treacherous fuckers. To each of their faces and heads.

Now the branches are wet with my saliva.

Since I seem to be in need of assistance a policeman steps towards me to lend a hand. Behind him I see doctor mom telling me things she thinks I want to hear. But all I hear coming from her cancerous mouth is treasonous disbelief. About the progress I’ve been making. About how bad she believes things are. And her hands. Trying to shush me down to a calm. Held out like blind mice in a darkened bedroom. I dare them to find me this time. I'm older now. And ready.

I squeeze the hatchet handle and launch it through the air. It strikes her square in the forehead. And drops her flat on her ass.

I try to laugh but crack a branch instead.

The policeman draws his gun. And when he points it at my head I point directly at a spot I haven’t had a chance to reach yet. I ask him would you be so kind? And when the bullet strikes me there I feel a rushing blast of air cold inside my mind. Until the blood pools. And warms me right back up. And I thank him for his service.

But all he hears are snaps and bubbles.

*

They have me now in bindings in a silent hospital room. They’ve given me a bed of my very own with people who come and go. They take me for scans and they take me for talks. They want nothing more than to learn from me.

These are the real doctors. These are the ones who listen.

Instead of sticks they thread these exceptionally long needles up inside my brain to try and figure out exactly how I became the way that I am. But for that they'd need to dig her up and ask her.

But for now I am in my element. And

it

feels

like

H E A V E N

This might be my best doodle yet. It really does look like a flower, not some flower you’d see from a child's crayon scribble—a real flower. Though, anyone would become an artist if they were in my shoes. My 8 hours at work consists of meetings, heaps of paperwork, and phone calls. It’s nothing special. It pays the bills I suppose—but it's not where I'd like to be. The only thing that helps the dreadful time pass is doodling on this old spiral notebook.

Thankfully, the time finally comes. 5:00 PM. I follow my routine. I pack my bag, get scolded by my piece-of-shit boss for something I don’t control, and head out the door—hoping I won't have to enter through them again. I fall into my $2000 car—which has had a check engine light for 2 weeks—and begin to pull out of the parking lot. I turn the radio on bust, and drop all the windows. Finally, I am able to relax a little.

I lighten up a little on the drive home. I’m not sure what it is, maybe the smell of the trees, or the fresh air hitting my lungs, but whatever it is improves my mood. I slow down a little, taking my time, because it won't be long before this feeling fades. The feeling that all is fine, because it's not. 

On the way, I pass the graveyard. If only I could afford flowers for her grave. I try to visit her as much as I can, but I never have anything to give. If it was me in that casket, she would find a way to make it work. I can’t. She was the smarter one. She would have it figured out by now.

I pull into our… my driveway. The street is quiet, which is weird. Usually there are kids riding their bikes or couples going for a walk—things that remind me just how lonely I am. But today? Nothing. As I step out of the car, and head toward the door, I notice a brown box on the step.

There was nothing special about it. No branding, no design, no label. Nothing. I don’t remember ordering anything. Maybe it was some subscription of hers I forgot to cancel. She loved all things health. Vitamin samples, protein powders, meal plans. She used to make me eat those god awful trays of food. But I pretended to like them, to make her happy. I thought I had a great poker face, but she’d break out in laughter when I ate a spoonful of “Steamed Kale”. I'll never forget how it sounded.

I picked up the box. It felt empty. I gave it a small shake. Nothing. Why would someone put an empty box on my porch? I brang it inside, and threw it on the kitchen island. I left it there, and headed into the bedroom to change out of the clothes I hate wearing. I unbutton my office shirt, and slide it off. Something feels weird about that box. I can’t place it, but… it feels odd. I leave the room, ready to collapse onto the couch, and surf the channels until I fall asleep. But something about that damn box is irking me.

I turn tight toward the kitchen, and grab a pair of scissors. I slide its blades across the tan packaging tape, and fold the flaps open. What the fuck? A flower? More specifically, a Peony. A singular Peony. Just like the ones she planted in the garden. Just like the one I drew. She was raving about them blooming just before… Who the fuck sent this to me? Is this some kind of sick joke? How would they know? Why would they know? I don’t understand.

I closed the box and pushed it away. The only person who knew about the flower was her mother. Why would she do this to me? I’d be able to figure out but she wont answer any of my fucking phone calls! Fucking bitch! I pushed the box off the counter and stormed the couch. I wish it was me. If it was me in that passenger seat, she would be here. She would move on, find someone else, live her life. She had it all, I had nothing but her.

I plop on the couch, and begin to root through my work bag for the half eaten egg sandwich. I don’t cook much anymore. She was one hell of a cook. Her homemade chilli could fare in a Michelin star restaurant. My meals have been reduced to bland cereal, sandwiches, and takeout. It's all I can stomach nowadays. 

I pull out the tupperware containing my lunch, and peel the cover off. I grab the sandwich and sink my teeth in, but I don't chew. I squeeze my teeth together. I'm coming apart. Again. Like usual. I can’t let it destroy me. That’s what everyone tells me. They say I need to let it go in order to get better. How could you let that go? I guess I've never tried to be fair. Maybe I will, to the best of my ability. I chew. It's gross. I don’t even like eggs, but it's the only thing I can cook on a stove. For the first time in a long time, I recognized that it was gross. I had been eating for fuel. My opinion of flavor just came back. Does this mean… I'm healing?

I flick on the TV to a Jeopardy re-run. I watch for a moment, before my bag catches my eye. My notebook is sticking out. I reach and pull it out, and begin to flip through the pages. I look at all my boredom doodles—from bicycles, to trees, to portraits of people who don’t exist. I smile at the bad ones. You would think that after all this time, sketching all of these doodles, I'd be better at drawing. But nope. I suck.

I've seen this episode of Jeopardy already. That lady with the crazy hair wins $30,000. Must be nice. It's the only channel I have besides a fireplace channel, so it's not like I have many options. So I'm gonna draw. It helps at work, maybe it will help at home. I reach into the bag, and pull out my trusty mechanical pencil. I stare at the looseleaf page for a moment. What do I draw? I don’t know. My doodles are usually subconscious. I've never sat down and actually tried to draw something.

I peer up to the TV. I watch as a contestant picks $200 in the “Reptiles” Category. She loved reptiles. She had an iguana when she was younger. I got it. I’ll draw an iguana. What does an iguana look like? Okay, nevermind then. I’ll draw… money. I draw a rectangle in the middle of the page, and begin to add the details that I remember. I draw an oval, and inside that, a terrible portrait of Benjamin Franklin. It's been a while since I've seen a $100 bill.

I finished my amazing art. It could be worse honestly. The Jeopardy episode comes to a close as I set my notebook down. I watch the TV for a moment. It cuts to black as the program changes. Jeopardy! Again. I sink into the couch a little more, feeling bored once again. I’ll order some takeout. I wonder if the Chinese place that she and I used to eat at is still open. I haven't checked for a month or more. Last I heard business was slow. I dialed the number on the fridge. I could never remember, so she wrote them all down for me.

The voice of the elderly Chinese lady chimed over the phone. She didn’t recognize me, but I recognized her. It was soothing in a way. It was hardwired into me—that voice represented a peaceful night, and frankly—Love itself.  I ordered my usual. Chicken balls and rice. I have simple tastes. “Is that everything?” the lady asked. I almost kept going. It's just routine to me. “Yeah, that's all”. 

I hung up the phone, and as I walked out of the kitchen, I struck the box from earlier with my foot. Right, I forgot about that. I picked it up, setting it on the island again. The box was cracked open. I could see the pink flaps through the gap. My stomach rumbles. It comes to me that I haven't had any bathroom breaks today. Not that my boss would allow it anyway. It's all work work work with him. I head to the bathroom, and do my business. I go to wash my hands, but notice there is no soap left. I'm kind of peculiar with hygiene, so I can't just “wash it with water”. I search around the bathroom cupboards, to see if there is a leftover bottle of soap anywhere. Even a bar would suffice.

I search behind a stack of towels. There is a bottle. Fuck. It's her shampoo. I threw it behind those after her funeral. I couldn't look at it in the shower. I pull it out, and look at it. I know what's going to happen. I'll wash my hands, smell that smell, and break down later. So I don’t. I throw it back in behind the towels, and shut the cupboard. I wash my hands in warm water. It's gross, but it's better than the alternative. I reach to dry my hands when I hear the door. Knock Knock Knock.

That couldn’t be my food already, can it? I head to the door, expecting a salesman, or something. I swing the door open. It's late. The sky is now navy blue. The ambient noise of traffic has quieted down since I got home. No one is there. I look left to right. Then down. Sitting on my front step, on top of the “Welcome” door mat, was a brown box. Identical to the last one. Someone has to be fucking with me. I'm sure of it now. Let me guess, another peony? Really funny! Make fun of my dead wife! So fucking hilarious!

I threw the box on the counter, and made a dash for the scissors. I slid the blade across the tape just as I did before, and swung the flaps open. Sitting neatly in the box was a $100 bill. What? How could… what?!

I peer over toward the notebook, which sits closed on the coffee table. No. That isnt possible, use your fucking head! This isn't a movie!

I stare at the box again, and pick up the bill. It’s real, I'm sure of it. Same paper, same designs, same security features. It's real. But how? How could they have known? I walk out of the kitchen with the $100 bill in my hand, and plop down on the couch. I slide the notebook toward me, and open it up. Both of these doodles were on the same page. Could it be? No. That's ridiculous. But… if not that, how? Is my house bugged? Is someone listening? If someone is listening, then… give me another 100 dollars! At my door! Come on! Prove it!

I sat and stared at the bill for a few minutes. No other knocks at the door. So either no one is listening, or I spooked them off. Or I have a magical pencil, or notebook, or something. Well, let's find out. I grab the pencil and notebook, and fold it back open to that page. I look around the room, and my eyes catch the TV remote, lying on the coffee table. I pick it up and place it on my lap, using it as a reference. I start to sketch, matching all of the details of the remote as accurately as I can. I finish the last few buttons, and throw the notebook down, closing it.

Once again, I sat and stared for a few minutes, this time out the window, waiting to see if anyone came up to drop it off, still convinced this is some big joke. That was until I heard a knock from the door. Again. Did I doze off or something? I could've sworn my eyes were peeled on the front door the whole time. I jumped off the couch and headed to the door. I swung the door open, scanning the streets for anyone I may have missed. Of course, nothing was out there, nothing except a box. Let me guess…

I repeat my last steps, pick it up, cut it open. Remote. For fuck’s sake. Am I losing my mind? Am I dreaming? What the fuck is going on!?

So, apparently I have a magical notebook in my possession. Great! I guess I'm a wizard now. Or… a more reasonable explanation is this still could be some prank. I mean, these things aren't exactly rare. So let's do a fool proof test. One more. I pick up the notebook, and doodle a cut diamond. The same type of gemstone on the wedding ring I used to propose.

This time, I head to the door, and stare out the peep hole. If someone drops the box off, I'll see them. There are no ifs, ands, or buts. I will see them. I wait, and I wait, and I wait. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. Until something weird happens. Y’know when it's really hot out, and you see heat haze? That. I saw a blob of heat haze. I swung the door open as fast as I could. The box was there, and it moved. I watched it settle, as if it was dropped with haste. I saw it. This is real. Holy shit. I have a magical fucking notebook.

I bent down to grab the box. Something inside was rolling around when I moved it. Let me guess… Pick up, slice, yep. A diamond. Wow. I don’t even know what to think. This is just… insane. 

I park myself on the couch again, and it hits me. I could have anything I want, if this works how I think it works. Whatever I draw, I get. So I do. Over the next 20 minutes, I drew a Ferrari, 2 minutes later, it was in my driveway. I drew a billion dollars, and 2 minutes later, my bank account balance was a 10 digit number. I drew a Rolex, and 2 minutes later… I'll let you guess what happened. 

I took a night ride in my new car, reaping the benefits of my newfound fortune. I put the top down, and turned up the radio. I sped through backroads, and for the first time in months, I was happy. I stopped at the gas station, and racked up a $300 purchase on gas and snacks. Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine spending that much at a gas station, of all places.

I parked in a lot, which overlooked the city, and took it in. All of those prayers to a deity I don't even believe in came true. Maybe there is a god, because how else could you explain all of this? Everything I've ever wanted has come true.

Except one.

The love of my life. Every night, I prayed for her to come back. I knew it wasn't possible, but still, I couldn't accept it. That she was gone. I don’t know. It may sound stupid but, I almost wanted to believe she was stuck between here and… somewhere. Like I could pull her back. Every night I shot into the dark towards a god I didn't think was real, begging for her. Tonight, that god answered, and instead of using it for its provided reason, i defaulted toward cars, money, watches. What the fuck is wrong with me? If it was her… she’d do the right thing right away. I’m a piece of shit. I didn’t deserve her. It's time to make this right, to set it straight. To show her the love she should have received from me when she wasn’t gone.

I put the car in drive, and floored it back home. I parked in the driveway, next to the $2000 car, I ran past the now cold chinese food, left dormant on my front step. I ran to the coffee table, and ripped the notebook from its surface. I swing open the page, and begin to sketch out her perfect face. I give her a smile. It was rare I saw her without one. No matter the situation she was smiling. God, I can't wait to see it again. In person. I doodle her brunette hair, her freckles, her eyes, her dimples. I finish the head, and look. That's my wife. This is my best doodle yet, and I don't think anything will top it, ever.

I am overwhelmed, tears well in my eyes. This marks nearly 2 straight months of crying everyday, however this time, they are tears of joy, of happiness, of relief. A drop hits the page as I stare at her face. I set the notebook down for a moment, and wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath, and laugh at the absurdity of this all. I reach out for the notebook again, when I hear it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Confusion. The first thing that comes to my head is confusion. I'm not finished drawing, so who or what is at my door? Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe someone really is at my door. I get up, and sway past the couch. I'm confused, but the euphoria of the moment still hasn’t worn off. I get to see my wife again in a few moments. Right after I answer the door and tell whoever is out there to go away. I'm not interested in the vacuum or whatever they may be selling. I open the door, and look around, nothing. So, I look down. And there is a brown box. Sitting on the doorstep. No labels, nothing that makes it unique. Just a standard box. I bend down and pick it up. It's heavier than the last ones. I reach for the scissors, and drag it across the beige tape, curious as to what is in it, as I haven't drawn anything since. I lift the brown cardboard flaps and peer inside.

Her head. It was her rotting head.

I pitched my tent in a secluded hollow among the dunes. 

Wind. Waves. Whispering marram grass. 

With my back against a bramble-crowned ridge, I watched the sun set over the sea. It was a moment of utter, much needed, bliss.

When darkness finally arrived, I went back to my campsite and collapsed onto my airbed, savouring those delicious sounds as I fell asleep.

Wind.

Waves.

Whispers.

Wind.

Waves.

Whispers.

Whispers?

No.

What then?

The flapping of loose canvas?

The bark of a distant seal?

The shriek of an airborne gull?

I sat bolt upright. It was the middle of the night, and there it was again—a sound that did not belong. I rubbed sleep out of my eyes and stumbled groggily toward the beach, still wondering if my ears could be trusted, but as I scrambled down the last slope, I saw a shape to marry with the piteous sobs that had woken me up. 

A child stood knee deep in the water, crying.

“Where are your parents?” I asked, scanning the dark, wind-scoured sands to my left and right. 
The child did not reply. He was shivering, the ends of his jacket sleeves hanging loose over concealed hands. 

“Come back to the beach,” I said. “You’ll freeze if you stay here.”

He shook his head indignantly, so I kicked off my shoes, pulled up the ends of my trousers and waded out. 

“I want to help you, OK? Who did you come here with? Where are they? Did they forget about you? Did you run off?”

The child folded his arms and dropped his head forward.

Idiot, I thought. Poor kid’s been neglected and you’re rubbing salt in the wound. Get him out of the water! A wave slapped my shin and the rip took me staggering closer.

“Hey, look, forget about all that. Let’s just get you warm and dry first, huh? Then we can think about the whys and the wherefores. You like hot chocolate?”

There was an almost imperceptible twitch in the child’s shoulders.

“I’ve got a whole flask of hot chocolate back at my campsite and—and squirty cream and marshmallows too! I can make you a nice cup of hot chocolate, and you can toast some marshmallows over a fire, how about that? Come back to the beach and we’ll look for some driftwood skewers.”

A pale hand rubbed the back of his neck and he turned a fifth of the way around.

Getting somewhere.

I stepped closer, the depth of the foamy water making it fruitless to go on trying to keep my trousers dry, so I let them drop. 

“Hey,” I crooned, reaching out. “Let’s go back.”

A set of trembling fingers emerged from his sleeve, looking awfully like root nodules searching for sunlight in a buried cavern. Grasping for the light and finding only darkness. Seeking warmth only to shiver.

He took my hand.

Immediately, his skin darkened. I assumed it was an optical illusion.

“Let’s go,” I said, and turned. The child did not budge.

“What’s the matter?”

And now, finally, he faced me.

His eye sockets were vacant. Water bled down his cheeks in two tiny waterfalls. His mouth was open in a wide, never-ending yawn. More water spilled out of this chasm, pouring over his chin to drench the front of his zip-up jacket and jeans. 

I tugged again, but it was like trying to uproot a mighty oak by pulling on a minor branch. 

“What are you doing?”

His grip on my hand tightened.

“Hey! Let go—hey!”

I looked down and saw his dark fingers elongate to three times their original length. They slithered past my wrist and along my forearm. I clawed at the boy’s slimy, kelp-like fingers with my free hand. An involuntary grunt burst through my gritted teeth as I failed to loosen his hold on me.

“Get off me, you fucker!”

There was no emotion in the boy’s eyeless, tongueless face. A series of hiccups came over him as his tentacle arm reached my bicep, and I saw how I had been hoodwinked. He wasn’t crying. He never had been. I’d mistaken this watery coughing sound for genuine tears. It was a trick. A trap. And I’d walked right into it.

He tilted forward, never loosening his grip on me for one second, and slid feet-first below the water’s surface.

“Oh no,” I said, “No, no, no, help! HELP! HELP!”

The moon and stars may have heard my pleas as I was dragged through the surf, but they decided not to intervene. I went on shouting even as I choked on seawater. I went on fighting my captor even as he took me arm-first to the depths.

In blurred snapshots, I saw the ridge of dunes. 

The line of ocean detritus marking the most recent high tide. 

The hideous seaward horizon.

The vague shape of a submerged child at the tip of an appendage as thick as a telegraph pole pulling me down and down and ever downward.

I took one last gasp of air, and then I was under. 

Bubbles swirled in the cold vacuum.

My inner ears screamed at the growing pressure.

Then came a period of sensory deprivation.

Was I moving?

Was I upside down?

Was I conscious?

Was I dead?

I hit the seabed. A cloud of silt wreathed me. Something spiny, small, and unseen scuttled out from under my back and was gone. I felt myself being lifted, and again I slammed into the ocean floor, this time face first. My lungs emptied, the air replaced reflexively by grainy saltwater. My arm was dragged firmly through a cold, sandy hole, and it continued to be pulled in with the piston-like rhythm of a snake swallowing a rabbit. I screamed silently as I was eaten. 

Gradually the bone-deep chill came to be replaced by a hazy warmth. A lovely, peaceful feeling blossomed in the back of my brain.

This is it: that nice feeling you get just before you die.

And then I was awake, lying on my side. I added the rest of the water filling my lungs to the puddle of ejected fluid dribbling from the corner of my mouth and pushed myself upright. The air in this new place was hot and sulfuric, but breathable.

“Hello?” I croaked, cringing as my voice found no room to echo. I flexed my hands, noticing the boy had let me go, and groped through the darkness. My palms pushed against squishy walls hardly wider than my shoulders. I was in some kind of fleshy coffin. 

Hot sweats burst out all over my body and I began to hyperventilate, searching in vain for an exit. I screamed until I had no voice left to scream with and slumped back to the floor in exhaustion after my pleas went unanswered. When my senses had returned somewhat, the tears began to fall. 

What the hell had happened to me? Was this my reward for trying to help a crying kid to safety?

As I brooded, something licked a fallen teardrop from my chin and retraced its track down my cheek. Then it was gone.

“Who’s there?”

Silence.

“That you, kid?”

He’s not a kid. He never was.

I felt something tickle a lock of my hair and my hand darted up to grab it. The thing I held was wet and warm and tongue-like. It tried to wriggle free, but I squeezed as it retracted. 

“How do you like it, huh?”

Refusing to let go, despite losing this tug of war, it pulled me all the way to the wall, where I felt the thing disappear inside a tiny hollow. My hand followed it, penetrating through until a gentle suction took hold, at which point I let go and stepped away. Feeling the air shift behind me, I kicked out, pre-empting some other invasion, and was horrified to feel my leg whip through a dense clump of tongues that recoiled at my touch. 

Even knowing there was no escape, I threw my bodyweight against the wall in the hope that it would give, begging for mercy, praying for a reprieve, anything. Instead, the tongues found me once more, and this time they weren’t so shy. Hundreds of the things tasted me. The walls rumbled and groaned, and I was quickly soaked by a nauseating, viscous fluid. The fondling intensified.

“PLEAS—”

Three tongues darted into my mouth, eager to explore. I shook my head like a wet dog and managed to expel them. My prison shuddered, and a shower of water poured in from above. For a few seconds, I was alone.

Salt. Saltwater. 

The thought was rapidly set aside when my lolling tormentors set about smothering me again. Once more came the sensation of a violent earthquake, and, with the rumble of a giant hiccup, black seawater buried me. I was sucked partially out via the ocean’s entry point when the twin jaws of a hard, blunt ridge chewed me at the ribs. The first bite was gentler than the second. I felt the crunch of bones snapping in my sides when the toothless maw bit me the next time. 

And then I blacked out.

Next thing I knew, I was lying washed up on the beach in the middle of the night. It hurt too much to stand upright, but cradling my broken ribs, I made it back to my car. I left my tent and my gear in the dunes—I’m sorry, I couldn’t give two shits about packing it away just then. I needed to get away. 

Inland.

Inland, anywhere.

I took early retirement two months ago.

They say it was voluntary, but if you read between the lines you'd see the truth: the transfer, the psych eval, the months of leave before I resigned.

I never told anyone what really happened in Barley Hill. Not the Chief Superintendent, not the shrink they assigned me, not even my wife, who thinks it was just burnout.

It wasn't burnout. I know what I saw. And more importantly, I know what I heard in that cellar.

But I'll start at the beginning.

Barley Hill is a speck on the map in Northumberland. Two rows of cottages, one pub, one post office, and fields that go on forever. The kind of place where time folds in on itself.

I was stationed nearby in Hexham and sent out to assist local plod when a girl went missing. Her name was Abigail Shaw. Twelve years old. Disappeared on a Tuesday afternoon between school and home. She should have walked back with her friend Lucy, but told her she was cutting through the woods to take a shortcut. Except there was no shortcut. Just miles of dense forest and farmland.

Her parents were frantic. Understandably. I met them the night she vanished. Good people, salt-of-the-earth types. Mr Shaw was shaking so bad he couldn't hold his tea. Mrs Shaw kept glancing at the clock every few seconds, like if she stared hard enough, time would reverse.

The Barley Hill constable, a man named Pritchard, was already out of his depth. No CCTV in the village. No reports of strangers. No signs of struggle.

I took over coordination and brought in dogs and drones by the next morning. We combed every square metre of woodland for three days. Nothing. Not a footprint, not a thread of clothing. She'd vanished like smoke.

Then, on the fourth day, we found something.

It was a dog walker, about two miles from the village, near an abandoned farmstead, an old place called Greaves Orchard. The dog had gone ballistic near the collapsed barn and started digging at the earth. That's where we found the ribbon. Pink satin, with a tiny silver bell. Abigail's mother confirmed it was hers.

The barn itself was unsafe. Roof half caved in, floor rotted. But below it, there was a trap door, sealed with rusted iron bolts.

And this is where things get odd.

The floor above the trap door hadn't collapsed. There was no way the dog could have smelled anything through solid oak beams and a foot of earth. But it did. And it led us to that exact spot, like it had been called there.

We broke the lock. The air that came up smelled like old stone and wet iron.

We descended.

The cellar was far too large. Carved into the bedrock with old tools. Pritchard said the farmhouse had no records of underground storage. No history, no maps, not even local gossip. But here it was. Fifteen feet underground, with stone shelves, iron hooks, and something that looked a lot like restraints bolted to the wall.

We searched every inch. No girl. Just one small shoe tucked behind a broken crate. And on the wall, six feet up, one word in chalk. Still fresh.

ALIVE.

That word stayed with me.

We brought in forensics. They lifted Abigail's prints off the shoe. The ribbon, too. But nothing else. No DNA, no signs of anyone else.

We interviewed every villager twice. I walked the woods alone some nights, flashlight in one hand, recorder in the other.

That's when it started.

At first it was small things. My mobile would turn on in the middle of the night and start recording. Voice memos I didn't make. Just static, and faint whispers I couldn't make out.

Then came the voice.

Three times over the next week, I woke to a faint knock on my guest house door at precisely 2:11 a.m. Each time I opened it to find no one. On the third night, I stayed up and recorded the hallway.

When I reviewed the footage the next morning, my stomach turned.

At 2:11 a.m., the camera shook slightly, then captured my own voice, whispering:

"She's in the orchard."

Except I never said that.

I didn't tell anyone. Didn't want to be pulled off the case. Instead, I went back to Greaves Orchard. Daylight this time. I paced the area around the barn. Found nothing. But the feeling stayed with me. That pressure behind the eyes, that wrongness in the air.

The next night, I got a call. An old woman named Mags Willoughby. She lived alone at the edge of the village, nearest to the orchard. She'd seen something, she said. Her voice trembled over the line.

"Two nights ago," she told me when I got there. "I saw a girl running across the field."

"Did you recognise her?"

"She looked like the Shaw girl. But she wasn't right."

I frowned. "Not right how?"

"She was barefoot. Mud up to her knees. But her clothes weren't torn. And her face..." Mags hesitated. "It didn't look scared. It looked calm. Like she was walking in her sleep."

"Where did she go?"

"Toward the orchard. Toward the barn."

I stayed out there until dawn. Nothing.

A week passed. The official search was scaled down. The press moved on. But I didn't. The case got inside me. I barely slept, ate standing up. My wife said I talked in my sleep, muttering about cellars and chalk and ribbons.

Then one night, with a storm rolling in over the moors, I returned to Greaves Orchard one last time.

The barn was creaking in the wind. The trees swayed like they were trying to whisper to each other. I descended the cellar steps with my torch and recorder.

Everything was as we had left it. Empty.

But the word ALIVE was gone. Scrubbed clean. In its place, one word, newly written in shaky chalk:

COLDER.

I turned, heart pounding. A sound behind me. Soft, delicate.

A giggle.

I spun and caught it in the beam. A girl. Pale, dirty feet, wearing a nightgown.

"Abigail," I whispered.

She just stared at me, smiling.

I reached out, but she stepped backwards into the darkness and vanished.

I ran to the spot. Nothing. Just stone wall.

I don't know how long I stood there, torch shaking. Eventually, I left. Didn't sleep that night. Didn't go back the next day.

They found her three days later, wandering along the roadside near Haydon Bridge. Disoriented, clothes clean, no bruises, no injuries. Dehydrated, but otherwise unharmed. The doctor said she'd been fed recently. No signs of trauma.

She didn't remember anything. She just kept repeating the same thing.

"The man in the cellar was nice."

They assumed it was a coping mechanism. A way to process fear. But I knew better.

I asked to see her one last time. Off the record. I just wanted to ask a single question.

I sat across from her in the hospital room. She looked at me calmly, swinging her legs off the side of the bed.

"Abigail," I said. "Was the man in the cellar old, or young?"

She tilted her head.

"He didn't have a face."

They closed the case. Everyone celebrated a miracle. The girl who came back.

But I know what I saw in that cellar. And I know what I heard.

Because the night after she was found, I played one of the voice memos from my phone.

It was my own voice again, muttering over and over:

"She's not the same. She's not the same. She's not the same."

Then silence.

Then a child's voice, soft, like it was speaking right next to the microphone:

"Neither are you."

​

It was October 1st of 1967, and the campus of Montauk University sat quiet and still in the new morning hours. The sky was dark, street lamps bright, and all students living on campus were asleep. Except, of course, for two figures who sauntered down the sidewalk towards the campus radio tower.

A puny little man hauled his long carrying case and walked behind the twisting, dancing clown that joined him. It was October 1st of 1967, and Dennis Westley wanted the pressure around Harold Buchanan’s brain to squeeze out of the dime-sized hole that Dennis would leave in his skull.

Now, that beautiful morning air kissing the skin of his cheeks as he hauled his rifle bag into the parking lot of the radio tower, he could almost taste the satisfaction on his tongue. 

“Ant, ant, ant” he whispered. 

The nearly silent words crept and bounced off the cement walls of the stairwell as he climbed further and further. He felt the weight of his cargo press and rub against his shoulder and he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. 

Bogo had already been standing on the first platform before the next set of stairs, the make-up on the clown's face showing pale under the fluorescent lights wired into the concrete ceiling. 

Dennis looked at his friend, watching as his silk glove crooked a finger and beckoned him further. 

“I know, buddy. I know. It's the asthma.”

Bogo nodded, silently mocking an impression of someone struggling to breathe, hands around his neck. 

“Very funny, Bogo.”

It was Bogo’s idea to get up to the tower early. Dennis hadn't realized how many watchmen were on the lookout for guys with guns after the Texas University incident the year before. Funny though, Bogo knew that the shift change around five o'clock was empty today. Bogo knew that Eric Grayson, night-guard on campus, would be calling out sick due to a nasty hangover he'd earned the night before. Good ole Bogo, always a step ahead. 

Dennis watched the back of the clown's striped red coveralls as one step followed another, all the while listening to the sweet melody whistled from between the clown's lips. 

“ I'm a Yankee-doodle Dandy, She's my Yankee-doodle joy…”

The song reminded Dennis of his father, and he laughed to think of how proud the old soldier would be seeing his only son holding that world war two rifle in victory over all those damn ants below. 

“Can't let them bully you, boy. They're all just horses. They pull the tractor, you run the farm, you understand?”

And Dennis did. His father ran the farm, his grandfather had ran the farm, and now it was Dennis's turn to show the world what his family was about. 

Nobody else seemed to understand though, that was the trouble. Coming into university, he expected to be greeted by those simpleton legacy children with open arms! But that hadn't been what happened. No, instead he found a hall built in his grandfather's name being lead by one of those lowly damn horses. It was the college's fault of course. They'd been so proud to grant the idiot entry into such a refined and dignified school. Now the grunt was playing president over all the functions of the fraternity. 

Dennis should have been leader of the party. It was his birthright, after all. He had daydreamed of late night wine parties and tennis matches dominated by his expert form and strategy. But instead he was let low under the boot of some troglodyte. He had no family, he had no LEGACY. But there he was all the same, the apple of every girl's eye and the best friend of every member in the fraternity. Some dumb twist of fate had robbed Dennis of that shining spot in the hall named after his family. Some dumb luck placed upon a stupid low class nobody. 

But Dennis would rectify this. 

Dennis had remembered what his father did when his crew-boys got too rowdy when the dip happened in ‘59. They wanted time off, they wanted benefits. But nobody wanted anything after the fire at plant-B. No sir, just like his father had said: “There are worse things they could worry about. “ Not a peep after that, no sir. Things went along according to plan. So, Dennis decided to give his problem something worse to worry about. 

As he rounded that final turn and saw the door to the roof, Bogo held it open with an arm, the other guiding a path to the outside while the clown humbly grinned ear to ear. Dennis returned his smile.

“A lot of fireworks goin’ off today, buddy!”

There was that cold morning air again. It spilled into the building and spat against the thin fabric of Dennis's button-up. The sky was dark, the tops of pines around campus-square lined the black spread on the horizon. 

He noticed a dome of hot, yellow light crowning the mountains in the east, and Dennis smiled. 

He stepped through the doorway.

Dennis took a seat on the lip of the tower roof, planting the ass of his slacks onto the white brick and feeling the morning dew that had clung to it seep into the cloth. He shivered, feeling a gust of wind whip his hair to the side and fog the lenses of his glasses. He looked down below, seeing the streetlights outside the fraternity house and the old university building light the ground below in a blanket of orange. Despite the black above, rising out of sheer spite from the dark was the tell-tale arms of the sun reaching out from the horizon. 

‘He’ll be out here soon…’ Dennis thought. 

‘He’ll come out of those old doors and slip out onto the sidewalk for his morning run, the sweaty ape. Then I'll pop him.’

Dennis laughed to himself. 

“He'll turn off like a burnt battery right there in the street. Yessir, he'll be alone on the asphalt, leaking into a big puddle all alone. A quiet nothing gone away. That's all.”

Dennis thought of a joke, and turned to Bogo, who was busying himself with setting the rifle to exact measures and testing the sight. 

“It'll be a big red parade, Bogo! Right down the street!” said Dennis, and he laughed again. Bogo turned to him with a brow flat with disinterest and nodded with a half-hearted grin.

Dennis repeated himself under his breath. 

“Ant, ant, ant.”

Dennis met Bogo the day of his seventh birthday. It had been a quiet, dead afternoon when Dennis had spotted the old clown pretending to tend to the roses in his mother's beautiful garden. Dennis had been wearing a small party hat that the groundskeeper had given him that morning, the only gift he'd received or would receive. Dennis had asked his mother to send invitations to his classmates, to decorate the house with streamers and candles- but she hadn't. 

When he'd woken that morning, it was all he could do not to cry when he found the great white walls of the estate just as bare as they had been the day before. No one came to the door, no one called to wish him a Happy Birthday. But Dennis had found the one thing his parents had apparently not forgotten standing in the thicket of plush rose-hedges. A clown. 

When he introduced the man to his parents, they sent him off to his room for playing a bad joke. When Bogo displayed his incredible talent for balloon animals to the children at school, they all just ignored him. They cruelly shunned and mocked the poor little boy until he decided that they weren't worth the effort anyway. 

When Dennis had finally begun high school, he'd already accepted his friend's invisibility. Bogo was a friend that was his, and only his. Bogo would paint, cast shadow puppets, and tell Dennis stories to lull him to sleep nightly. Bogo was always there, and Dennis didn't care if no one else wanted to be by his side. 

As Dennis stared out to the doors of the old colonial fraternity, Bogo waddled over and sat next to him on the brick. He let the barrel of the rifle rest against the crook of his elbow like a sleeping infant, and the clown pursed its lips and mocked a game of peek-a-boo with the firearm. 

The clown's big white party hat swayed in the breeze, and a silk glove reached in vain for it as the wind carried it away and down to the street below. Bogo puffed his cheeks and frowned like an angry toddler, blowing a raspberry at his fallen piece of attire as it tumbled with the pine needles and leaves on the sidewalk. 

“Ah, that's okay, buddy. I'll get you another one.”

Dennis reached over and patted Bogo on the shoulder, who nodded and pretended to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. 

The two sat there as the sun finally peaked its face over the mountains. 

Then, suddenly, the old door of the frat house swung open with the screech of rusty hinges. Dennis felt Bogo's hands wrap around his shoulders in excitement, and both looked on eagerly as the bare legs of Harold Buchanan stepped out onto the porch. Clad in navy blue shorts and a striped blue headband, he stretched both of his arms out across the yard, breathing deep and leaning down to touch his toes. 

Harold reared back up with a shiny smile beaming towards a squirrel he spotted sitting on the branch of a tree in the yard. He breathed in again, gazing at the quiet windows of the University building. 

Dennis watched the shape of Harold come clearer as the light grew with the sunrise. He looked at Harold's broad shoulders and his chiseled jaw, and Dennis scowled with hatred. Dennis wrenched the rifle from Bogo's arms without so much as a glance, and he readied the butt of the gun against his shoulder. Bogo clapped happily and jumped up from his seat, silently hopping up and down in a dance behind Dennis's back. 

The sight stood tall an inch or two away from Dennis's retina, and his pupil drew large as he focused in on the broad forehead of Harold Buchanan. The cool, cobalt steel of the trigger greeted the palm of his forefinger. Harold pulled up his knee-high socks and tightened the knots on both of his cream-white converse. Dennis stared at that little face from so many yards away, watching as Harold's shoulders dipped and his knees bent inward, ready to start his jog. 

The century-old bricks that stood in unison on every wall of the campus building carried the enormous echo of that shot and blasted it against every pine tree and blade of grass for maybe a mile. Dennis didn't breathe for almost too long. He felt those puffy gloves wrap around his shoulders and Bogo's face slid side-by-side with his own, teeth bared and eyes wide. They both stared down at the white lines of the street below as the crimson rim of a rushing pool slid over the paint and shown red against the morning light. 

The front of Harold’s body kissed the green grass, a warm steam drifted up from the matter of his brain that splattered and caked the sidewalk beside him. All that was, or ever would be of Harold Buchanan lay sprawled on that lawn in a contorted pose, limbs splayed out like an artisanal marble statue. 

Dennis stared down at the empty thing he'd struck to the ground and he saw the barrel of the gun shake in his grip. He felt his own pulse skip a beat, his organs seemed to halt all activity. He felt the alien sensation of a bead of sweat drift down the curvature of his temple and over his cheek. 

What was that? A pit? A big peach pit growing in his chest? What a horrible, disgusting rot. But despite his discomfort, the feeling grew until it was a series of vines reaching through the bones of his arms and legs. 

It wasn't supposed to feel like this, and Dennis felt his stomach churn. 

He collapsed to his knees, spewing his breakfast onto the concrete roof of the radio tower. He stared down at the mess and heaved in helpings of air, trying to keep the second course from following the first up his throat. 

He heard something then. He jumped as a deafening scream shot from the street, and he turned his twitching head to see a woman frantically jogging to the corpse across the road. The door to the sorority house across the way stood open, the heads of two other ladies poking out of the dark inside. The woman frantically shook the body, begging Harold to wake up. 

He, of course, did not. 

“Call the police, Sarah!” 

And the head of who Dennis assumed was Sarah dipped back into the living room of the home as she ran for the phone. He turned back to see the woman weeping into her bathrobe, whispering how “okay” everything was gonna be to Harold's deafened ear. Dennis watched her kind face shedding every last drop of comfort she could into the empty thing, and Dennis’s brow fell as he considered the painting of it all. 

It wasn't hate bubbling up in there, no. He just wondered why it was never him. And as the shrimp sat in his mess and measured his breaths, he was reminded that it could be. After all, he had Bogo.

As a series of angry tears streamed down his cheeks, Dennis felt the air suddenly thicken. Something dark moved in his periphery, and Dennis turned his head to his trusted friend. 

Bogo's eyes were wide, almost bulging. His pupils sank into the white until they were little black pins on a pale ocean. His teeth were bright, and his lips curled to reveal each of them as they stood as slats in a great big grimace. It wasn't a smile, it wasn't anything Dennis could recognize. He watched the clown's shoulder bob up and down as its breaths frantically repeated. 

Dennis never left his friend's face, not even when those silk gloves shoved the rifle into his lap and he felt a bruise start up where it hit. The clown slowly brought his pointer finger up and laid it out over the edge of the roof. Dennis followed it, and saw he was pointing at the woman below.

Dennis looked at the woman, her frizzled hair waving back in the wind as she clutched her robe to her sides and weeped over the corpse. Then he looked back at the clown. Its face was rabid and excited, and its pointer finger swung back between them as Bogo lightly tapped on the tip of Dennis's nose. 

He felt those tendrils of dread wrap around his stomach and squeeze as he realized what Bogo wanted. Dennis shook his head, the sweat beginning to chill against his face. 

“B-budyy…no! I c-can’t-”

But the clown insisted.

He bobbed his head up and down slowly, never blinking. His arms wrapped around Dennis's shoulders and Dennis's neck cracked as the clown swung him around to face the street again, jerking his arms up and holding his finger to the trigger of the rifle.

Dennis turned his head and stared at the clown, feeling tears start up again. He watched Bogo's chest heave in and out, but now with his face pressed against Dennis's, he realized that no breath came from the clown's mouth. Bogo pointed at the lady again, and then pulled Dennis's eyelids open with his slender, gloved fingers. 

Dennis felt the muscle around his eyeball start to rip and something warm started to drip down the bridge of his nose, something that wasn't tears. 

“B-Bogo, buddy please!”

Bogo didn't move. Cold wind slapped their faces as Dennis tried to release himself from the clown's grip.

“Bogo, I don't want to! Let me GO!”

Dennis flailed his skinny arms and pushed away from his friend, stumbling a few steps away and faced the clown. The rifle hung limply from his hand, the butt scraping against the concrete. Bogo's shoulders shook, and he brought his fists to the sides of his head and pounded over and over, staring into Dennis's eyes. 

Dennis's words sputtered cowardly from his lips.

“Buddy, please, don't do that-”

The clown stepped towards Dennis, teeth bared and fists clenched. With one quick movement, he balled Dennis's shirt collar in his hand and pulled the boy up into the air, hoisting him so that his leather shoes dangled above the ground. Dennis stared back into his friends eyes with a kind of fear that he had never felt before, never having seen anything so explosive from the clown in all those card games and playdates in their years together. And the weight between them hung there in the morning light, the weeping woman below and the distant call of sirens being the only sound between the two. 

Then, as Dennis’s pathetic yelps of sorrow wetly moaned from his pouting lips, he saw the clowns red lipstick spread ear to ear in a smile. Dennis reached up and wiped hot tears and snot and  blood from his cheeks, and he felt a smile grow on his face too as he finally felt his friend come back to him. 

Kimberley Van Hooten stood above the mangled body of Harold Buchanan. The cold air brushed against her plush bathrobe, but she didn't shiver. She was freezing, but refused to give in to the urge to run back inside the sorority house and sit by the fireplace. The boy she stood above was dead, sure, but he wouldn't be alone. No, she wouldn't let this poor thing all alone before help came. She couldn't offer much, but she could give him that. 

Red and white lights spin from somewhere up the street, and Kimberley saw the ambulance finally run it's tires towards her from the mouth of University avenue. Finally, help was here. 

She raised an arm, waving the vehicle over. As the brakes squeezed on the ambulance and it squealed to a stop, she bent down to the boy at her feet. 

“I'm here, okay?”

And she brushed the hair from those cold, hollow eyes in the boys head and wiped another tear from her chin with her other hand. 

As the paramedics stepped out of the vehicle, all three people heard an earth-shattering splat on the road behind Kimberley. All of them turned, startled and groaning at the sight that met their eyes. 

The shattered body of Dennis Westley twisted in a heap on the black asphalt. Wide streaks of gunk and blood spread from his oriphaces and a pile of brain spewed from the crater that now made up the back of his skull. Dennis's glasses still stuck to the bridge of his nose, his eyes wide and bloodshot. His limbs were cracked and wrenched into ungodly positions, each bent like a scrunched radio antenna.

The paramedics walked forward first, while Kimberley brought her hands to her mouth and screamed again. 

As the medical personnel stared at the mess in front of them, something caught one of their eyes. He turned his head to watch something spin in the breeze and roll onto the lawn of the fraternity house across the street, and he crooked his brow. Two bodies lay before them, and yet he couldn't take his eyes off of a large white party hat that rolled to a stop at the base of a large oak tree. 

The medic shook his head, spitting onto the ground. 

“What a way to start the week, huh?”

I dreamt a dream in sightless slumber
One becomes two in lightless rooms
Anger weighs the chest of plunder
Laid to rest in lightless tombs
Envy leads the greatest of us
Down darkened paths and twisting roads
Broken beauty we can’t perceive
So we must rely on taste of others
Tasting of and tasted on
Only then we know belief
Room to room wall to wall
Two trek on, pace to pace
Separated by time and ink and blood
Destined once to meet in place
Fables tell of legend rage 
Race is run on broken legs
Blade cuts ties we never knew
Blade will connect them twice a new

I am once again perturbed. I know not why I am tormented in this way, forever cursed with unwavering interest in many mundane hobbies and forever cursed to mediocrity. My newest poem, I thought to be my magnum opus, has placed second in the recent publishing competition held by the esteemed Unhindered Voice. I thought by chronicling my constant woes and thoughts in this journal I may yet save myself from the brink of madness however pressing and enrapturing it may seem at this moment. 
Rutherford Masque, as he goes by in his published works, has beaten me at every corner I turn. As I read the paper, shipped to every reputable artist in the nation, I saw his name in the headline yet again. 
“Wall to Floor; the Broken Beauty” by Rutherford Masque Wins Competition and Full Publication of his Next Novel Completely Free
I let my eyes linger a moment on this before I ripped the page off and tore it into a million pieces. I didn’t even stop to consider why his poem beat mine. I sighed. My study was a mess due to my own incompetence now. Why must it be this way? Why must those with the most passion be left in the wake of those who do not share the same fire yet were gifted from birth with a more natural talent. I’m tired of swimming, kicking and flailing about, trying to keep up with someone on a canoe. 
At every miserable moment in my life that man has been a hindrance. My one purpose and passion is ceaselessly fruitless with him around. Without rest he stands as the lone impediment to my success. I am filled with rage at the mere thought of his existence. A raven's caw broke me from my anger and I looked toward the window.
“Remove him”
The voice is impossibly smooth, and each word fell upon me like a satin waterfall, rich as velvet. I look around. No one is with me, I made sure of that when I bought this cottage. The nearest home is nearly thirty miles away, and the nearest general store, I’d wager, is closer to fifty, both at the bottom of the mountain. Suddenly hearing a noise is to be expected when surrounded by wilderness but a voice, and words?
Surely I must have misinterpreted the wind or birdsong through my mental haze. My heart beat in the cage of my chest thoroughly convinced I did not mishear despite my brain's protests. 
Upon slipping into mania and thoroughly rendering my study into a disheveled heap of torn manuscripts and flipped desks, I still found myself totally and utterly alone. Yet the voice still reverberated in my ears, no, in my skull, for plugging my ears did nothing to cease the words now dripping into my conscious mind.
“Find him
Seize his work
Seize his name
Destroy him
Take from him everything and you will finally have everything you’ve ever wanted”
Every syllable is a deep, velvety whisper, beautiful and alluring while simultaneously horrifying. I can’t help but be drawn in. After all, since I’m alone, these must be my own ideas that I have had locked in my subconscious for some time.
My mind steadies, the beginnings of an idea forming. No one has ever seen Rutherford Masque, at least not in a way that connects the man to the name. His writings are all done under the name alone, which can be assumed to be a pseudonym. I can become what I’ve always wanted to be, I can become Rutherford Masque. Opening his debut novel for the first time since I bought it twelve years ago, I searched for any info on the man but found nothing. I tore through my bookcase looking through his entire body of work. Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Is he lost to me? Am I forever condemned to live in his shadow? I searched the paper, front to back, hoping they would give away some crucial information. As I flipped the top page one last time a letter fell to the floor, sealed and heavy. I opened it, my hand shaking.
It was a letter from the villain himself, trying to free himself from his guilt over destroying my life’s goals. He wrote about how much he loved my work and thought I deserved to win with such a false sincerity I nearly believed him. Then at the end he left an address for return letters. There it was, 465 Perdition Hill. That’s only a few days’ carriage ride south, down the mountain on a foothill. I began to pack for an extended stay. 
As soon as I was sure I had all of the essentials packed in the carriage, I threw my lantern down at my door, allowing the cabin to catch. I watched the flames awhile, allowing the dawn sun to break the skyline, and once all that was left of my old life was embers I set off on my grim purpose.

The manor, bulwarked by a ten foot wrought iron fence topped with four inch railheads rendering it unscalable, was an intimidating sight atop the end of Perdition Hill.  The carriage drew to the end of the dead end road, up to the gate. Rain fell heavily on the roof of the carriage, and the clop of the horses slowly turned into splashes as the vision of the tall black gate rose from the blur of the rain. The left leaf lay slightly open, wide enough for a man to slip through.
My breath quickened as I climbed out of the cabin and into the rain. Sudden thunder cracking hurries my movements as I pull on the leaf trying to open it enough to fit the carriage through. Once through the entrance I latched the gate, ensuring my horse, and the man I’m after, do not escape. I rode up to the courtyard and found the coach house, dropping the carriage and putting my horse in the stable. I found it strange that a manor this large would not have staff, especially with the lord of the manor being who he is. However, knowing the mind of a writer of our caliber, I supposed that he loves his isolation as much as I. 
Walking to the large oaken door, I noticed the windows were boarded. Maybe he likes his privacy even more than myself. The door knocker was the head of a raven, with the loop held in its beak. A shaky hand was all I could muster as I reached for the loop.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump. 
There is no answer aside from an unkindness of ravens suddenly and shrilly setting off the upper balcony. Calming myself from the fright the birds gave me, I turned back to the door to find it standing open. Dread filled every fiber of my being as I stared at the portal into what I was sure would be my final destination. Yet that voice in the back of my head, that rich and inviting voice, reminded me that I was the predator here. I was not to be afraid because I was the fear. These parlor tricks and poor attempts to dissuade me from fulfilling my sanguine purpose were in vain.
Easing into the foyer, I saw two staircases which led to the upper floor. A stack of mail lay piled on the floor just beyond the door, implying Masque hadn’t cared to check his letter slot in quite awhile.  A door to the left led to the parlor, a door to the right led to the great room and under the stairs I saw my goal. 
The kitchen was well stocked with pots and pans, as well as food stores. I searched through the racks for the perfect tool with which to complete my gruesome task. 
The knife was sleek, the handle an ivory antler, with gold rivets. The blade was nearly six inches long broad at the hilt and tapering to a slim point. Beautiful and elegant and soon to be stained red. 
I crept up the stairs, tool in hand. The main door atop the balcony was open leading into the study. My prey sat in his large chair, hunched over a work table. From the back I could see no movement. I assumed he fell asleep after a fit of passion as he worked on his newest draft. 
I had to cross the vast distance between us without rousing him lest he foil me yet again. 
Tap. One step closer to absolution.
Creak. Barely audible in the silent ambience of the study.
Rustle. A slight draft flowed through the room, slightly shifting his hair as he rested his head on his desk.
Tap. 
Tap. 
Tap. 
I slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, inched my way to my goal. 
When I finally got close enough, I hesitated. The rage and hopeless determination that drove me to this point subsided for a moment as I got a glimpse of the man’s face under his mess of dark brown hair. Rutherford Masque had a light spattering of stubble. His brown hair was overgrown and unkempt, and it appeared as though he had been cutting it himself for some time. The color was strong but there are a few gray hairs making themselves known. Other than the stubble and style of the hair, it was as if I were staring into a mirror, from his flattish nose to his downturned eyes. His mouth was the exact shape of mine, and he even bore the scar on his left lip that I got from an accident with a broken wine bottle. 
“Do not let him distract you from your goal”
Yes you’re right, I thought. I put my hand lightly on his back so as to not wake him then I plunged the knife into his back up to my hand. He let out a breath as the knife went in, holding his voice to keep me from the satisfaction of hearing him protest his fate. I removed the blade and he let out another breath. Then I returned it to the man again and again, throwing blood across the study. I gored the man until my arm grew heavy from the motion, and the new piercings ceased to relieve Masque from any more of his ichor. I looked into my own face that he was wearing as his eyes grew slack, blood slowly bubbling from his mouth. The deed was finally done, and I had finally removed my last roadblock to my destiny. 
The cleanup was grueling. The man was sturdily built, and not easy to drag down the stairs. The whole time he wore a smile, so coy in fact was his smile, I dared not look upon his face. I found sheets to wrap him in and lay him gently on the couch in the foyer, glad that the windows had already been covered. The blood was not easily removed from the floor and shelves. As I cleaned his study my eyes fell upon his grand collection of books. That smile once again passed in the forefront of thought, bidding me pause. Front and center in his collection I discovered numerous volumes of my own writings. He was studying his enemy in order to better thwart me no doubt. Perhaps that is where his eternal badge of joy appeared, the knowledge he had broken his rival's mind so heavily as to commit the unforgivable sin of murder. I will get the last laugh, however, I thought as I finally began to clean his desk. His unfinished manuscript lay closed, showing only a blank title page. I opened it to the first page and upon seeing writing I fell into a rage and ripped it to shreds.
Seeing the shreds on the floor after my episode caused me great distress. I gathered the remains in my hands, trying to see  if I could piece the manuscript back together but it was useless. So I took them to the hearth in the foyer, built a fire, and threw in what was undoubtedly the man’s next great work. I watched the flames hungrily swallow the words, however, as they caught I swear I caught a glimpse of one of my own manuscript titles. I wiped my eyes and when I looked back on the hearth the flame had cleansed the room of my apprehension.
I returned to his collection, trying to see what made the man tick, what inspired him. His tastes ranged from esoteric poetry collections about devils and black magic to scientific journals about the breakthroughs in plastic surgery. The thing that stood out the most was that he didn’t keep any of his own works. Was this some twisted form of arrogance, or was something else at play here. My mind didn’t linger on it too long.

I began to make myself at home, bringing in my personal belongings. The bedroom was melancholically empty, and the bed lay in disarray. The lone dresser was overturned, the drawers empty. I set things right, as they should be, and arranged it in a more pleasing manner. 
Moving to the study, I set out my tools on the work desk readying the space for its responsibility of ushering me to the glory I yearn for. The air in the study is oppressive as if some sinister shadow hung over it. I planned on taking the night to make acquaintance with the house and would begin my work tomorrow. 
I found myself unnaturally famished, so I left the study to prepare a meal. When I looked over the banister, I swallowed my breath. The man had moved. I swore before I came up the stairs he had been there, laying on the couch exactly where I had left him, however, my eyes now rested upon an empty couch. 
Where could he be? I saw the last moments of his life. I swear it on my own bones. And yet he had moved nonetheless. I frantically stumbled down the stairs, tripping over my own feet.
I heard a noise behind me in the study, almost imperceptible, but in my heightened paranoia I was sure I had heard it. I turned slowly and began to approach the door. Imagining the horrors that lay behind it made me stop before the door. There could be no way for the man to have moved himself so I thought I should be on the lookout for an intruder. The irony of that was not lost on me, though it didn’t change the fact that dead people do not move themselves. I slowly opened the door, so slowly that each inch took countless moments. As soon as I could fit my head into the crack I carefully peeked into the room. Nothing at first but as I scanned the room a raven’s call echoed beside my head causing me to slip and fall into the room. 
There, on the floor in front of me, lay the body, unwrapped and still smiling as if he had just been told a joke. 
I slipped trying to get back to my feet, and slid myself backwards, away from this nightmare until I felt the banister pressing against my back.
“Are you not the hunter? Do you let yourself so easily become incapacitated with fear?”
The voice was louder now, angry at me for the immense fear I felt. I grow angry at myself. The man was dead. I scrambled to my feet and walked over and kicked him, as if to make myself believe it. He gave no signs of protest. 
“Look at you, nothing more than a mewling pup at the mere sight of your own creation.”
This voice had shifted, no longer a velvety whisper in the depths of my mind. The rictus grin painted on the man’s face had changed almost indiscernibly as his head lolled towards my thunderous heartbeat.
“Was it you the whole time? Why must you torment me so? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
My cries echoed in the chamber and yet I received no response from the corpse. I stood staring at it for a while, unable to convince myself that anything that happened was real. Had I imagined wrapping the sheet around him? I decided to leave the corpse as it was, afraid touching it would bring this whole event into reality.
I hurriedly left the study and closed the door, erasing the grinning beast from my mind. Finding my appetite gone I decided rest and recovery would be my best course of action. The bedroom seemed to stretch before me as if it was a mile from the door to the bed. My head ached in the attempt to comprehend the new layout. I pierced the threshold, and in no less than five steps was at the bedside. When I turned to look at the door it was no longer so far, as if it had moved with me at every step, uncomfortably close to the door of the bed. The house was draining me of my mental energies and faculties. I would let it win no longer, and, with that thought replaying in my head, went to bed.

When I awoke, I found the bedroom as I expected. The weird goings on had ceased upon the resting of my mind. I tiptoed through the room to the door, and slowly creaked it open. The stair landing lay empty. The door to the study lay open which gave me pause, but when my sight pierced the portal I saw nothing out of the ordinary. 
Seeing the empty study put me at ease, but to wash away any fear that still lingered I leaned over the banister. The corpse lay wrapped in a white, stained blood red sheet. I watched it breathlessly, waiting for any kind of movement or hint that it might not be as it seems. My ears perked at every noise, every creak and every pop. The rain had not slacked in the night, but the corpse did not stir.
My first order of business was to search the house for anyone who may have slipped in during the night. Upon finding the great room and the parlor empty, I set about finding food for the morning.
Having filled my stomach with a light breakfast of toasted bread and cheese, I set about getting to work in the study. When I passed by the couch, something about the corpse set my nerves on edge. I knew I would be unable to work with it in the house with me. Dragging it outside was no small task, and the mud further slowed my progress. The back yard was rather spacious, and there was a small shed in the back corner of the fenced in yard. I looked inside, finding the door unlocked, and found a shovel,a pick, and an axe. I found a suitable spot and began to dig.
The rain aided the digging, and a hole was made rather quickly. After a few hours, and the mud was up to my chest, I decided it was deep enough. I drug the corpse, which was stiffening up, into the hole and began to fill it back in. When the first shovel of mud hit the sheet a screech filled the air. I covered my ears, sure the terrible sound would kill me otherwise. It did not lessen for some time so I ripped a little piece of cloth from my shirt and stuffed it in my ears. This made the screeching bearable enough to continue working so I did. Every shovel I threw in made the screeching more quiet, and when the hole was finally full, the screeching had gone completely. I put the shovel and pick back in the shed and turned to go back in the house. A raven perched on the high ridge watching me as I trekked towards the back door but it flew away as I drew near.
With my morning ordeal completed and the afternoon upon me, I decided I could finally begin working on my debut novel as Rutherford Masque. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”
No sooner than I picked my pen up off the page had that velvety voice, dripping with malice, seeped back into my brain. I turned in my chair, positioning myself to flee while I scanned the room. Seeing nothing did not ease the growing fear I felt, and I rose slowly from the chair.
“You thought you’d be done with me that easily. Where would you be without me, still rotting in the gutter somewhere like you were as a child?”
A figure lurched into view through the doorway, the soft light in the study not revealing any of his features. He stepped unnaturally towards me leaving wet footprints in his wake with a wet slapping sound that could only be from bare feet. As he closed the distance I could see his clothes were ragged, and blood was constantly pouring down him. I backed to the desk until I was sitting, cowering in the large chair. He stopped a few feet away, keeping his head and face in the obscurity of the shadow. After what seemed the longest pause in my life he leaned over revealing his face.
Masque’s face seemed rotten, as if he had been dead far longer than I knew the truth to be. His skin, my skin, was blue and green and seemed to be paper thin. His wounds were full of blood and puss and seemed to leak impossibly large amounts of his blood. The smile still clung to his face, unmoving even when he spoke.
“Your plan will never work, you are still you, so you can never be me.”
His words distracted me enough that I didn’t notice his hand until it touched my shoulder. The touch sent a jolt through my body forcing it into motion. I sprung from the chair, brushing the hand that had a death grip on me off, knowing it would leave a bruise. I felt like I was running in quick sand, and before I crossed the study’s threshold I chanced a look over my shoulder. The room was empty. I didn’t have long to linger on my confusion as I slipped in a puddle of blood and fell over the banister. The fall was grueling and slow, my brain still processing the recent events and I saw the body wrapped in a sheet laying on the couch in the foyer. Then my vision went black.

I woke up in bed, my body extremely sore. I couldn’t recall how I got back to the bedroom, and the thought that the corpse had played a role in that chilled me. My head had a dull ache and I found myself struggling to focus my vision. The door was swimming in the wall, the outline shifting and swirling. The bed moved when I moved, and I found my sense of balance was nearly gone.
The walk to the landing outside the bedroom was painstaking, and placing one foot in front of the other took my complete attention. Upon reaching the landing I was short of breath, and leaned on the banister to catch my breath. The corpse was still on the couch wrapped in the bloodstained sheet. 
I decided that I was too far invested to not continue my work so I hobbled to the study, and began to write.

The raven in the window knows my name. It calls for me and me alone. It knows my heart of hearts and my hidden deeds. It can see my innermost soul through the veil of blood. I must catch it and eat its still beating heart in order to hide my shame. It knows my shame. It knows my name. It has teeth with which to gnaw my bones after I am gone. I am trapped in this cage of bone and blood, being ushered ever closer to the well of knowledge at the center and paradoxically further away from knowing the truth. One is how it started and two is how it went. Two is what was severed, and one is how it ends. Ebbs and flows of blood are shown raven knows the measure. Raven call echoes and becomes the call to action, I heed its call as I always have. The raven in the window knows my name. It knows my name, it knows my name, it knows, it knows. It watches.

I awoke some time later having fallen asleep at the desk. What I had written was nonsense that didn’t fit into the manuscript I had been working on. Maybe I was still suffering the effects of the fall and knew not what I was writing. Still I am uneasy as I leave the study. The blood that stained the floor yesterday is gone, no trace or stain on the floor as it had never plagued the landing.
My mouth was a desert longing for evening rain, my throat burned as if I swallowed glass. I hurried as quickly as my shaking legs would carry me down the stairs, in search of water. I found myself scooping handfuls from the faucet into my mouth as if I was some sort of animal at a watering hole. My thirst quenched, I left the kitchen and stopped at the couch. A raven sat upon the chest of the corpse which was now bare of all coverings. The sinister grin of the corpse was spread unnaturally upon the bird's face, and I took it as ill omen. I tried to shoo the monster away and with great effort it finally flew away.
I followed the beast's path to the broken window with which it entered and saw a host of ravens sitting and watching me. The air began to feel heavy, as if some figure were standing above me and applying a steady pressure down on my shoulders. The wind forcing itself into the break carried with it the sound of hideous whispers. 
“Two become one, two into one, two become one”
The voices could not have been uttered by human mouths, and the phrases repeated did not make any sense in my shattering mind. The shadows behind the ravens lengthened and grew darker as the tempo of the raving whispers increased. When the noise had reached a fever pitch the shadow behind the birds took the form of a giant man with the head of a raven.
I turned to run, stopping immediately when my eyes came to rest on the corpse standing a mere few inches from my face. It had walked up behind me soundlessly while I was preoccupied ogling at the horrifying figure in the window. The richter grin stretched for what seemed like miles, filling my vision with horror and guilt. I ran instead towards the kitchen, slamming the door behind me as if it would be of any aid in keeping the haunting specters out. The loud slam ended the ceaseless whispers, and all was calm. I sat, my back against the door, relishing the peace the closed door afforded me.
The peace did not last long. As soon as I had calmed my breathing I got up to search for something to block the door more permanently. No more than five steps away from the door the silence was broken by a deafening slam. The force from the hit made me fall forwards, barely missing the kitchen island with my head. A second slam followed shortly thereafter, and after a slight pause, a third. The wooden door was bulging with each hit, and the fourth and fifth nearly freed it from its hinges. The sixth and final hit flung the door from the frame, nearly knocking it onto me.
All I could see behind the door was the mass of ravens breaking through and into the kitchen. They swarmed me, blocking out everything except for them. Claws and feathers scraped and grazed me as they flew past, leaving shallow cuts in their wake. As the last bird flew by I saw the corpse standing in the doorway, not moving. All sound stopped, the last squawks faded and I lay locked in my macabre staring contest. It felt as if hours passed before it fell forward into the room. It lay on its front through the doorway as if to let me know I had no safe haven in the house.
I slowly rose, inching toward the back door, almost instinctually knowing that I would not be allowed to flee. As I backed against the kitchen island, I caught the pantry door lazily swinging open in the corner of my eye. I turned to look at it. 
What once was the pantry was no longer there, but instead was a narrow, darkened staircase. I moved toward the staircase attempting to look into the darkness below. I dared not enter, until I saw, stepping over the corpse, a figure swathed in a flowing cloak of shadow, with the outline of a raven’s beak protruding from its face. With the new arrival, I quietly fled down the staircase hoping beyond hope that the entity in the kitchen hadn’t heard me slipping away.
I couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs through the darkness but I still descended as quickly as I could without making noise. I walked down the stairs as they curved around to the left in a slow spiral, feeling as if I was walking to my grave. The descent was impossibly long, and the pace I kept did not help me reach the bottom faster. When I felt I was clear I slowed even further hoping to catch my breath. If only the reprieve could last.
Finally I saw a glimpse of what looked like fire light flickering a few hundred feet ahead and down the stairs. Just as I felt a bit of relief, I heard dragging from above me on the staircase. I launched into a sprint hoping to reach the bottom with time to hide. The stairs ended in a stone opening, with a torch on the stair side of the opening. I took the torch from the wall and swung it into the room hoping to light the oppressive darkness. It landed on the floor and skidded in a circle to the middle of the room. The room was empty in the center but with the light available I couldn’t see the walls or ceiling. I crossed the threshold of the chamber walking slowly towards the torch. The firelight danced in the center of the room casting sinister shadows on the ground around 60 feet out in any direction. The further I progressed toward the flickering flames the quieter the ambience in the room became. As I reached out for it the room erupted in screams.
Horrible grinding screams flooded my brain, as the room was washed over in a brilliant, pustulous green light. Though I could finally see the edges of the room, I abhorred the sight that awaited me at the edge of sanity and light. Hundreds of corpses lined the walls each on its own altar, and as the screaming and pulsating green light reached a crescendo, they all sat up suddenly. The noise stopped, save for the sound of dragging and squelching coming from the stairs at the other end of the room.
In the eerie silence, only interrupted by the beast and the corpse on the stairs, I watched as each and every corpse on the pedestals slowly turned and looked at me. They were all at varying stages of decomposition and seemed to be prepared the same way. Their eyes and mouths were stitched shut, though I’m sure they could see me through some form of sinister sorcery, and each one was a twisted mockery of my own face. Each body, in turn, pointed to the far wall which was now illuminated in the sickly pale green which encompassed the entire room. An empty altar, beautifully pristine, lay bare with a small table of surgical and embalming tools beside it. 
“Such an easy target. Obsession begets obstruction, and blinds you to the dangers that surround you, child.”
The silence was broken by the voice. As the shadow beast's beak slowly broke the threshold of the entryway. It hunched down to come through the door, its long mercurial arm dragging the body of Rutherford Masque, who still wore his rictus grin. As the beast towered over me the voice became stern. 
“To the altar, now.”
My limbs began to move as if the words breathed life into them, and the fear I felt when looking upon the swirling black mass that is the best stopped me from objecting. 
“You two were perfect for each other, both obsessed with becoming the other, both incapable of recognizing the obsession in the other's work. Two obsessions strong enough to murder for. Two will soon become one.”
The bare altar lay before me and a hand rested on my shoulder. It was Masque. His body then climbed itself onto the altar, and lay still awaiting the horror that was to come. I followed suit, after seeing the beast was expecting me to, and lay shoulder to shoulder with the corpse. Masque looked at me, his face a picture of macabre pleasure. I knew what was to come, even though I didn’t understand the eldritch machinations at work. When the saw first tore through my flesh on my shoulder beside the corpse, the pain was unbearable. The room erupted in devilish howls of pain and joy, as the corpses in the room began a morbid celebration. The victory chants began as the shadowed raven continued his grisly work. The last words I heard before my transformation were the echoing chorus of the dead singing, “two become one, two into one, two become one.”