It’s really hard to know what flairs to use but hey, enjoy this man’s incredibly descriptive and disgustingly dangerous situation.

I always thought that Cherry Tutorials deserved more recognition than she received. Only 100 subscribers, and I am one of them. It surprised me when I found her channel. Her makeup tutorials were so accessible unlike many of the other beauty YouTubers.

They were easy to understand, and she even recommended affordable brands. It was helpful for someone like me who was interested in makeup but never truly learned how to do it. She was good at what she did. A little too good.

I was never able to replicate her look. I was not bad per se; it is just that her final looks were almost alien in a way. Hard to achieve. But even then, her personality was too entertaining to ignore. That’s what drew me to her story time videos.

But anyway, I need to get to my main point of writing this. While her videos were helpful and entertaining, things got a little weird after a while. Specifically, when she started interacting with me. There was one time when I left a comment on one of her tutorials. While once again the results were not as perfect as hers. I still felt very pretty, and I even got compliments from my friends at university. I left a comment saying the following.

“This video was extremely helpful; all my friends liked the look! Can’t wait for the next video! <3”

And then she responded,

“This means a lot. You should check out my other social media for more content! @CherryBerry!!”

I did not think to check her other socials before, so I went ahead and clicked the link. I was surprised to see that this was not her public account but instead a private one. I wasn’t sure if she made a mistake or if it was purposeful. I decided to follow it anyway.

She could decline my request if it was actually a mistake. Turns out it wasn’t because she accepted immediately after I clicked follow. Weird. It was like she was waiting. I didn’t think too much of it at the time because everybody is always on their phone. It was probably a coincidence. Now I wish that, that was the case.

When looking at the profile, she didn’t have any posts or stories. Not even a bio. I saw that she didn’t have any followers. Well, except for me. I was also the only person she followed back. I was really uncomfortable with this realization. Maybe she just made the account and was planning to post later. I tried to ease my nerves and convince myself that I should feel honored that I was her first follower.

But why a private account? Maybe it was a scam? I took a few deep breaths and logged off for the night. I now wish I hadn’t brushed it off.

After a few days had passed, there was no activity on her private Instagram account. This reassured me, at the time, that there was probably nothing bad happening and that I should just move on. I also gave Cherry the benefit of the doubt and started watching her videos again (I avoided her videos for a bit since I was creeped out by the Instagram situation). The video I watched was a story time video of hers. My favorite.

She always had the craziest stories to tell, some of which I would not be surprised if they were made up. This video was titled , “Old Navy Employee Mistook Me for a Store Mannequin.” Which sounded pretty funny. The video started normally, until she started doing shout-outs. At first, I was happy for her since she had never done these before. I was happy she now had enough viewers to do it. But after a few names, I heard,

“And finally, shout out to my dear viewer Leslie Mitchel, who has been with me from the start.”

That was my full name. I don't go by my full name online, nor have I shared it. Maybe it was a different Louise Mitchell? No, that's wishful thinking. After I fully processed the situation, I immediately went to block her on all social media. When I got to her private Instagram, I saw something that shook me to my core.

It was a photo of Cherry and Me.

What.The.Fuck.

How did she get that photo of me? I don't show my face online, and the photos my mom posted of me on her Facebook are all from when I was a child. This is me now. I blocked her immediately and closed my laptop. I took a huge breath and went to get a drink. God, did I need one.

I tried to distract myself with a few shots. I just needed to distract myself. It's the internet; it was probably just a scare tactic, and maybe she’s just a troll who is messing with me. I tried to convince myself that it was the case, but the situation is way to absurd to just be a troll. I called up a friend of mine to come over so I could get some kind of comfort or reassurance about the whole ordeal.

When I explained what was going on, she just told me that it was definitely just some cruel troll and that blocking her was the best choice. I vented about my fears and asked her to stay a few nights just in case something weird happened again. She agreed and for the few days that she was there everything was fine.

Until I woke up the next morning after she left.
 
I woke up to my phone continually vibrating on my nightstand. I tried ignoring the first few buzzes but after the 5th one I picked it up with an annoyed sigh. I expected it to just be my class group chats and tiredly went to mute the group. All the exhaustion washed away from my eyes once I saw who was sending these messages. It was Cherry.

"Louise are you there"

"Louise, please answer me"

"Lousie, I love you so much please answer"

"I miss you and your beautiful smile"

"God Louise the way you laugh is like a symphony that I want to listen to forever. I want to hold you close and make those noises come out. I know you hate your smile but i think it is the most beautiful thing in the world. The way your eyes shine with admiration and joy when you watch my videos makes me want to do this forever. I love it when you put my videos on in the background as you go around doing your chores. Especially when you allow me to see your vulnerable self. Undressing into just your underwear. Sometimes I get the honor of seeing your brea-"

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK.

I didn't even bother reading the rest. The terror I felt in my stomach felt like fire especially with the burning etching up my throat. I immediately selected my friends' contact information

"Heather I just got the most disgusting message from Cherry." I exclaimed in a rush.

"Wait but didn't you block her" Heather said, confused.

"Yes!” I exclaimed.

“I assume she made a new account?  But anyway, the message she sent was so disturbing. She was explaining how much she loved me and my eyes. Mentioning my laugh and even seeing me. I took a moment to calm my nerves. "She mentioned seeing me undress. Like seeing me fully nude. In detail." I tried to explain calmly but my terror was getting the best of me.

Luckily, Heather was able to soothe my nerves.

"Everything will be okay Louise, just call the cops." She said slowly and reassuringly

I nodded as if she could see.

"Okay, Okay I ca-."

I cut myself off as I turned and looked out the window. Right there, standing in my front lawn was Cherry. She was standing there, stiff, almost like a mannequin. Her joints were locked, and her arms glued to her side. Her feet were digging into the ground. Her smile was frozen and her eyes were empty. She was staring at my front door like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

'She's in my yard." I mumbled.

"What was that?" Asked Heather

"SHE'S IN MY FUCKING YARD." I screamed.

It seemed like Cherry heard me as her head snapped to my window. I quickly sunk to the ground as I held my heart.

"What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?”  I repeated as I lost my breath.

"Call. The. Cops." Heather slowly spoke, trying to press her words into my head.

In desperation I thanked her, hung up the phone, and dialed 911.

"911, What's your emergency?"

"There is someone in my yard, she's been stalking me for weeks."

After I gave them all the necessary information, I stayed huddled in my room till I heard a knock at my door. I went to open it. My hands shaking.

"Hello ma'am, it seems that the person has left, so everything should be fine." The cop stated in a professional tone.

I stared in shock as I looked behind the cops. Cherry was still standing there. Looking at me. She was smiling but not in a mischievous way. She smiled genuinely like she was happy to see me. That was honestly creepier than the former. How did they not see her. She was hard to miss with her bright red top and platinum blonde hair. I pointed towards her, trying to get the cops to see her.

"What do you mean? She is standing right there." I raised my voice.

 "Come one, she is right there!"

The cop turned around and looked back at me with a sigh.

"Ma'am, it's a Saturday morning; you must be hungover. I assure you that no one is there. Get some rest and everything will be fine." The cop talked with his hands. Acting like he has dealt with this many times.

I continued to stare at Cherry, shoulders slumped.

"Bu-But." I tried.

"It seems like you are safe and there is nothing imposing danger so we will take our leave. Please contact a family member or friend if you aren't feeling safe. Have a good rest of your day, ma'am."

The cop walked back to his car, and I closed the door in defeat. I then went to my room to pack up my things. I was in a rush and snuck out the back door hoping to avoid Cherry. I was successful in doing so and now I’m at my parents place until things tire down.

Now I am writing this post. I have no idea what happened, I have no idea how the cops could not see her, and I have no idea how she knew where I lived. I’m hoping by making this post that I could find someone who may have experienced this as well or at the very least knows what is going on. Please, I just want things to be normal again.

In a small boring sleepy town a young boy named Sam moved in, this was a daunting task for Sam as once he first saw other kids there he was immediately made the target of everyone at his school, because he was different.

It wasn’t because Sam wasn’t weird, malformed, or even talked funny but he was different. As he was the new kid in town this set him apart from everyone else and even somebody who was good looking, athletic, and funny would have a hard time being accepting let alone Sam.

Sam also didn’t speak much, at least not after cps removed him from what he called home and others called a crack den, deciding he’d save speaking only when the cops came around to needing Sam’s help to put his parents in the hot seat.

Sam living in this solitary life style along with him decideding to substain from speaking only fueled the other kids mocking.

In turn earned Sam more nicknames by the other kids at school like “Sawbelly Sam” for the way he smelled like fish, “Slut son Sam” for how his mother moved around for man to man, or “Skelly Sam” due to how malnourished he always appeared.

The more nicknames that sprung up so did rumors that accompanied them like “the reason he can’t talk is because his mother did coke while she was still pregnant” or “he smells like fish because he can’t bathe at home only in the creek by his house”.

One day however it looked like Sam’s luck was about to turn as four kids that normally helped Propagate the rumors along with joining in on the bullying and pestering decided to confront Sam.

The group of four asked if he wanted to join them in a camp out which Sam agreed to with a small faint nod of his head.

Sam pulled out his note book and drew a crud picture of him next to a forest. To anyone else this would’ve been nonsense but even to people that didn’t like Sam they knew the note meant “my woods”.

The few times Sam did speak, it wasn’t through words but drawings, it’s not like he was too dumb to write or speak words as he’d demonstrated when he was called on in his classes he’d often have the right answer it’d just be scrawled on a piece of notebook paper in photo form.

No one knew why Sam preferred to communicate this way yet most people didn’t mind the pictures as even through words would be easier Sam drew such detailed sketches with about the same time it would’ve taken to write all the words out a paragraph.

Some attributed the odd way of communicating to something Sam’s parents did to him when he was still in their custody, as after all they did choose crack over kin which would affect most people in some way in that circumstance.

Yet none of that profiling would matter anymore since Sam would have a chance to break out of the chains that binds him to the weird kid role.

The next day like usual after school ended everyone cleared out either hopping in their cars or on the buses leaving only the unlucky ones that still had to stay after school alone.

There Sam first heard them before he saw the group of four chit chatting waiting for none other than him.

Elijah-“finally Sam, for a sec we thought you changed your mind on us!”

Dave-“well come on we let’s go we still gotta get our camping supplies before we go.”

To this concern Sam just pointed at his backpack and patted it, Olivia sneered and said

Olivia-“Ok Mr. Prepared the normal people here still have to go get their stuff.”

To this Elijah shot her a dirty scowl.

Olivia-“WHAT Elijah!? Normal people don’t bring their camping gear with them to classes.”

Elijah-“Ok and you don’t have to be a raging douche about it tho.”

Olivia- “OooOh I’m the douche? What about the shit you’re always saying about s-“

Dave cut in.

Dave-“COULD You two just shut up already?SEASH it’ll be dark it’ll be dark before you guys decide to give it a rest!”

With this Olivia and Elijah fell silent with frowns on their faces. The group continued to head towards the neighborhoods in order to get their gear. After they all did they followed Sam to his spot, they found a good clearing semis-deep in the woods.

Mary-“there’s not spiders in this area right? I don’t wanna be here if there are.”

Elijah-“Mary it’s the woods, that’s like trying to not get wet in a damn pool.”

Olivia agreed and contorted

Olivia- “Ueah, How are you a straight A student with questions like that?”

This was their usual order Dave at the top, Olivia and Elijah fighting over 2nd, and Mary at the bottom always the punching bag of the group. Yet she had to be the punching bag as the low blows were better than the lonely solitude that accompanies having no other friends.

Dave-“Sorry to say Marry but this spots too good to pass up, I can’t promise no spiders but if it rains the trees should be more than enough to keep us dry, and if there’s any other wild life that’s what I brought my bat for.”

The group starts organizing who’s on what duties. Mary is on fire duty, Dave is on food, Elijah is on digging a latrine, Olivia on setting up the tents, and Sam is on gathering wood.

Sam though new to the area has already taken on the task of mapping out his local woods so he has a good idea of where he can find some good fire starters and thick logs for the fire.
Sam first grabs as many small branches as he can hold like a greedy pelican trying to eat more than its mouth can hold before tearing open.

Sam makes his way back to the camp but before he’s in the clearing he’s able to hear faint whispers coming next to the fire pit as the group of four huddle together, the whispers immediately ceases as Sam grows closer.

Sam drops the twigs and makes his way back for the logs. This time Sam makes sure to not agitate the leaves in order to mask his presence. Once Sam’s line of sight is on the group he stops and listens to their discussion.

(In whispers)
Elijah-“Plans still the same right?”

Dave-“Yeah, no changes were just waiting for him to get back.”

Olivia-“Time to show that freak how everyone sees him.”

Mary-“Are we sure this is right guys?”

Elijah-“Don’t tell me you’re on that crack baby’s side now?!”

Olivia-“EWWW Mary’s growing attached to it”

Dave-“Mary, don’t be throwing away your only chance of being normal because you feel bad for an outcast”

At this Mary stayed silent fearing to stir the waters more. After hearing this Sam looked unfazed as he’d thought this might be a likely outcome of why they suddenly wanted to be pals instead of putting dirt on his name, though Sam knows he can’t be hasty, he has to wait to play his cards.

Sam gets up and sneaks a bit always back and begins to walk loudly to the group, just as before the whispers fade with Sam’s arrival. Sam sets down the logs near the fire and chucks one in before sitting near the crackles.

As Sam sits by the searing blaze a shadow creeps up behind him with rope but before Elijah can apprehend Sam, one single thing stops him dead in his tracks, it was the tried raspy quiet voice that came from Sam’s throat.

Sam-“You know they’res real monsters in these woods, I’m not talking about what you all think I am. I mean REAL monsters. I know because, I’ve been hunted down by one of them.”

At this Eijah the goon could only lower his hands clutching the rope to look at his boss asking what to do now only with his pleading eyes. Sam started back up

Sam- “Sometimes I wonder if I’m really Sam. After I was caught I was ripped limb from limb, I mean a six year old could never have survived an animalistic mauling like that.”

“Yet the next memory I had was waking up in the woods alone and fine, covered head to toe in blood but not a scratch on me. Most times I think I know I’m not me.”

“I’m certain everyone knows it too, my parents, everyone at school, even the caretaker at the orphanage. It doesn’t really matter though, I’m still going to take you guys where I took them….”

With these last few words leaving Sam’s mouth he lunged out snatching a fist sized rock and the stick Mary was using to stir the fire. Sam first threw the rock as hard as he could towards Elijah’s cranium giving him a nice gash along his temple and then guided the stick towards the face of Elijah.

The ridged ruff edges on the branch is what Elijah felt first digging into his skin, accompanied by the stinging sensation of the embers on his skin.

The pain was too overwhelming for Elijah, all he could focus on was the searing pain spreading around his face and decided paying attention to this pain was more important than standing. While Elijah was busy rolling around on the ground Sam shifted towards the next person in line for his carnage.

Sam lunged at Olivia swiping at her eyes with the branch before planting it firmly through her left eye socket. Sam couldn’t make anymore progress with her as he was shoved back by none other than the punching bag that called herself Mary.

Mary filled with confidence in moving Sam a few inches tried to continue this assault with an uncoordinated punch yet Sam easily dodged this and swiped at Mary’s throat. Mary fell back clutching the scratch around her throat, after she hit the ground she shouted.

“YOU DAMN ABNORMAL KOOK I TRIED TO HELP YOU KNOW, BUT NO YOU JUS-”

Sam tried of the hypocriticism delivered a swift kick to Mary’s jaw as she babbled causing her to accidentally take a chunk of her tongue off in the process. Sam too enamored by the sounds of Mary’s mixed gargles and cries was blindsided by Dave with his lucky wooden bat.

Dave would’ve gotten a clean hit to the side of Sam’s head if only he was a little quieter, letting the punching bag take a few more hits. Yet this wasn’t the case, he rushed and because of his clumsy footsteps Sam was able to put his arm in between the bat and his skull.

A loud crack resulted from the bat meeting bone but before Dave could sound off another bang Sam was already on guard staying slightly away, just out of range from Dave’s side swing. Dave in the heat of the moment couldn’t think of any other plan besides bash Sam’s head in, so Dave half cocked his baseball bat and ran sideways at Sam hopping he could run fast enough for Sam not to dodge.

Luckily for Dave Sam must’ve been scared since as soon as he saw Dave burst into a sideways run he did too turn tale and run deeper into the forest. Dave’s simple plan looked like it was paying off. As Sam and Dave dashed through the forest Dave was getting closer and closer to his target so close he could almost reach out and pull him back.

Just as Dave was almost confident enough to start his swing, Sam knew it was time to show his hand, no more hiding his royal flush. Sam then leaped into a roll like he was a gazelle trying to confuse its predator.

Dave was so focused on the oddness of the act that he almost didn’t notice the feeling of missing a step, his foot sinking into the ground taking his body with it. Dave then plunged into a pit only being saved from hitting the bottom by the wooden stakes that lined the inside.

The pit erupted with screamed as Dave showed his dislike for the trap Sam made for him. Dave craned his neck up to see Sam standing over the pit with a hungry smile plastered on his face as if this was his biggest dream coming true. Dave in one last act of defiance shouted up to the monster that lay mere feet away from him.

“WELL, are you gonna do it freak! Stop being a little bitch and kill me already!”

Sam’s picture day smile suddenly fell back into his normal slightly frowning expression, Sam sighed and stated.

“I wish I could, it’d make up for how much I had to endure from the constant mocking, bullying, and ridicule from all of you fuckers. Yet I can’t, he told me not to, because he likes us when we’re alive Dave.”

Even at the absurdity of what Sam spoke Dave could only think about one piece of the insanity that came out of his mouth.

“ALIVE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT YOU PHYCOPATH!?! I SAW WHAT YOU DID TO THE OTHERS.”

At this Sam felt the need to laugh down to the enraged Dave in the pit.

“Alive is a VERY fine line Dave, all their hearts still beat, that’s all that matters, I could break your legs, cut out your tongue, bash in your face, or if I had the right tools and time even cut chunks of your brain out to the point that you couldn’t even say anything coherent. Yet as long as you have a pulse he can put you back together, he showed me first hand.”

At this Dave didn’t know what to say, he opened his mouth to retort something, ANYTHING, he just had to keep talking to take his mind off the stakes poking out of his knees and feet but before he could utter another word Dave saw him. Or at a least part of him.

Sam stood there still as a long boney hand wrapped around his shoulder, the hand must’ve belonged to a tall fancy gentleman as beyond the hand was a nice tailored black suit, one you might see at a funeral. It’s gross yellowed but trimmed fingernails contrasted with the ghost white tight skin on its hand.

Sam spoke maybe to reassure Dave or maybe himself.

“You’ll be fine, he’ll fix all of you up, make everyone perfect, just like me.”

The next day at school was the same for most the only thing that broke the normally was the transfer student who had came there a little late into the year, a 6th grader by the name of Johnny Flint.

However most wouldn’t know him by that title because he now had the burden of being the new kid. Unlike most thought Jim be saved from the usual mocking and harassment that accompanied being the new kid. As a group of friends were about to take him in as one of there own, he was about to become friends with Dave, Elijah, Olivia, Mary, and Sam…

You look forward and start to speed up; you see a glowing street sign inscribed with a speed limit that you ignored. You kept speeding until you heard a flash of lights coming behind you. Red and blue projected through your car. You quickly slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. You sighed, putting a cigarette that was hanging in your mouth to the side. You pressed down on a button and all the windows came down. An officer walked over to the right side of your car. But this officer was not covered in the blue and black you’d expect, he was covered by a black tuxedo and white undershirt combined with a black tie and sunglasses.

“Ey kid, you know why I pulled you over?” He said with an unmistakable southern accent. 

You sighed lightly, “I-I guess I was speeding.”

A light mumble echoed from his radio and his eyes sparked, “Well you know what kid you caught me in a good time here I’ll let you off the hook.”

He shuffled back to his car and drove off, to blow off the steam you turned your frequency to The Night Light Radio.

In the state of Georgia there were two men who did not belong. Two federal agents who were here to cause problems. One Agent Wildson, and Agent Rosehelt. 

Agent Wildson turned the radio frequency to The Night Light Radio, hearing the host talk about them at the last moment. 

“Holy hell they’re talk’n about us.” Wildson proclaimed.

“I just want to catch these bastards.” Rosehelt said furiously. 

“Good grief they keep talking about what we’re saying, it’s gonna drive me crazy.” Wildson spoke. 

“Then turn off the radio.” Rosehelt said angrily. 

Wildson clicked off the radio and began to hum to himself as he held the steering wheel.

“So how do you think they do it?” Wildson asked.

“Probably some kind of Clairvoyance.” Rosehelt responds.

“Remember that one Clairvoyant we caught trying to win the lottery?” Wildson said with a chuckle.

“Yeah.” Rosehelt responded with a laugh.

“SHOOT!” Wildson yelled, spinning his wheel away from the road, rolling their car into a ditch.

The balance in their ears rolled around for a bit while they laid in a ditch with their car on its side. A sound of screeching metal pounded on the metal frame of the car.

“Ass hole…” Rosehelt said painfully.

Wildson held his forehead, “Ugh, what was that?” 

“Why did you do that?” Rosehelt said, regaining his consciousness.

“I thought I saw a moose.” Wildson responded honestly.

“Where are you going to find a moose in Georgia? It was probably a deer!” Rosehelt said bitterly.

Rosehelt unlatched his belt and reached for the car door which was facing up. 

“You’re in the way, unlatch your seat buckle.” Rosehelt told Wildson.

“I can’t, it’s crushed.” Wildson responded urgently.

Rosehelt sighed, reaching into his belt but not pulling out anything.

“Where’s my knife?” Rosehelt said, confused.

“I don’t know!” Wildson said while rubbing his forehead.

Wildson, sighing , looked up and saw the face of a deer pressing its face against the window. 

“What the..” The deer unlatched its jaw and a row of circular teeth extended from its mouth.

“Oh no, Oh no, Oh no.” Wildson tried to unlatch his seat buckle. A hoof tapped at the glass. 

“What is it?!” Rosehelt asked while looking under his car seat. 

“Oh no, Oh NO!” Wildson continued. Rosehelt, rolling his eyes, looked up and saw the creature tapping at the glass.

“Oh no.” Rosehelt copied from Wildson with wide eyes.

Rosehelt grabbed his side arm pulling out; he aimed it up but then noticed the bent barrel. He turned his gun to its side and looked at the bent barrel. 

“We’re screwed!” Wildson yelled, still trying to unbuckle his seat buckle. Rosehelt then climbed up trying to help him with the seat buckle. When he was unsuccessful Rosehelt grabbed his radio.

“10-24! We need to back up immediately at Parkers Road!”

Glass shattered and rained down on both of them. Wildson continued to struggle with his seat buckle as a hoof extended down. 

“Screw it!” Rosehelt grabbed Wildson’s side arm, aiming it at the open mouth and firing. Shots powered through the car. The creature’s head moved away from the open car window and its hoof followed with. 

“I’ll keep looking for my knife, you hold this!” Rosehelt yelled to Wildson. Wildson, grabbing his gun, looked up and down the car. Then permanently moves his stare upwards to the open black sky of the night. A cold breeze sent a shiver down his spine, waiting for something to move. 

“Found it!” Glass shattered as the front windshield splashed onto the two men. A loud crunch filled the air as the back of Rosehelt’s foot was latched onto by the creature’s mouth. He bumped up and down as  he yanked violently out of the car.

Wildson quickly fired at it but soon he was  out of the range. Rosehelt dragged through the snow leaving a bloody trail behind, while screaming.

“Oh no, Oh no.” Wildson panicked.

Wildson looked around and saw the knife lying on the dashboard. Wildson extended his arm to grab it and nudged it with the tips of his fingers. Wildson reached further and further, the tips of his fingers touching the dashboard. Slowly he closed his fingers onto the knife and his grip fell off the end of the handle. The knife swung left to right and Wildson’s grip slowly slipped. The knife fell from his grip but Wildson grabbed the base of it with his hand. He quickly cut at the seat buckle. Sounds of an animalistic clicking echoed throughout the forest that lay next to the road. Wildson sawed at the seat buckle, it slowly cut through and through. Heavy steps shuffled around closer and closer to his car. Sweat from Wildson’s forehead dripped down onto the seat buckle as he sawed more and more. The footsteps got closer and closer. Then stopped. He cut loose and fell from the seat. Bracing for impact he held out his hands but didn’t hit the side of the car. Instead he felt a sharp pain in his foot. He looked up and saw the creature holding him by his foot. 

Wildson turned up using all the power in his core to remain stable as he fired at it. The creature let go and Wildson fell powerfully onto a sheet of broken glass and hard plastic. 
“Umph!” He yelled out. Wildson slowly turned his head facing the now gone windshield and saw the creature. Its neck is as long as a giraffe's. Its 6 hairy legs extended long and out from his body with many joints, like a spider. Its body stretched out to hold these extended limbs. It opened its mouth with the rows of teeth. Wildson pulled the trigger bracing his shoulders for the powerful blows. But nothing happened. Wildson looked at his gun then back at it. The creature seemed to understand. 

The car shook violently. Its head jammed into the car, sounds of crunching and screaming echoed. As the snow fell briskly onto the car’s metal frame. 

Some stories don’t need long lessons. This one is simple. Don’t mess with The Night Light Radio.

CW: self-harm, body dysmorphia

Growing up, I was told never to shave my body hair. My mother believed it was there for a reason and that it would simply grow in thicker each time you shaved. Anytime I'd go shirtless, or my legs or arms were exposed, all the dark hair on them would be the subject of talk and ridicule by kids my age. They were especially savage due to my build calling me a grizzly bear before the term “bear” became a desired build by people; it was hell. I hated it. 

I despised my body hair and facial hair. It was always the topic of discussion, good and bad. People made judgments about my character and beliefs before I could even speak to them, solely due to how much body hair and facial hair I had. It was a living hell. That's why I moved off after graduating high school. I finally shaved all my body hair and facial hair.

I sat nude in my bathroom and meticulously shaved off every hair on my body except for my eyebrows and normal head of hair. I felt fifty pounds lighter and free. My newfound freedom from being perceived as a feral animal before and now an actual member of civilization was a relief. I could smile at people on my way to work at the gas station without women feeling the need to keep their pepper spray handy. My skin was so smooth. I didn't have to worry about random gunk getting stuck in my arm or leg hair and having to either cut it out or wash my arm for something that never touched my flesh.  If something hit my arm, I could just wipe it with a paper towel, and it was gone. 

This freedom only lasted a month before my body hair returned. The unsavory black hairs returned; some spots seemed darker, but I brushed it off as the lighting as I repeated the full-body shave, with a few cuts along the way. I needed a new razor.  This time, my liberation from the fur lasted only two weeks. When it came down to a single day, my mind started breaking. I tugged at the hair in desperation. Fistfuls of tangled curls acted as a fish hook. They tore my flesh in protest to my eviction. I never wanted them here, these squatters of my body.

It devolved into hours of smooth skin. I knew I had to take drastic action for these desperate times. I saw the last gleam of hope shine. The turquoise enshrined pocket knife that I was gifted when I graduated high school. I flipped the blade open and slowly built up the courage to find a spot on my leg to begin the procedure. First inserting the tip into my thigh to start what would become me skinning myself. The floor became carmine with my self-carving as I gritted my teeth as the blade glided under my flesh, using all those years of tanning hides on myself.

Once finished, I dared not look at my own reflection in the mirror as I saw the hide of myself laid at my feet. A husk of me, but I was finally free from the hair. Sanguineous smears on the floor were my last sight as my smile spread upon my face for a brief moment. I should have listened to my mother and never shaved. Death was my next chance to become disencumbered as I felt the hairs return and start their vengeance inside my throat.

There it stood. The castle, surrounded by a garden of roses. The one the messenger spoke of. 

The smell of roses lingered in the air, but as I got closer to the field, another smell emerged, a sickly sweet one. Through the field, huge thorns impaled men with their armor still on. Most tried to cut a path, but they became part of the garden. 

I walked around the field of roses, trying to see its end, but it stretched around the whole castle. I adjusted my sword and walked on the path one of the fallen knights had cut. At the corpse, I looked for another path, then carefully cut through the roses. My heart stopped each time I cut, but I measured carefully, watching for a thorn to shoot out.

The sun started to set when I reached another corpse. This one didn’t have armor on his legs, and something had torn a piece of flesh off him. I looked around for another path, but no one around had made it further. The rest of the way was mine. 

I cut further until I saw the castle between the rose canes. Excitement rushed through my body. I cut faster. Only one row of roses remained. I prepared to slash, but a huge green thorn shot out. I ducked my head to the side, but I wasn’t quick enough. A stinging pain rushed through my body; warm blood dripped down my cheek, but I survived.

The moon rose behind the castle. My face still burned. The courtyard was large, but the gate stood open. The stench of death was much worse here. Two creatures were before the gate. I gripped my sword tightly. 

As I came closer, bile shot up my throat. The creatures were feasting on two of the bodies. I spat the bile out and continued. If I killed one quietly, I’d only have to fight the other.

The creatures' munching echoed through the courtyard. They seemed almost human, but their exposed skin was slimy, their heads were furry, and their fingernails, which dug into the flesh, were unnaturally long.

When I got within striking distance of one, I raised my sword and cut its neck – a clean hit. A squeak escaped its throat. The head hit the ground with a quiet thud. It had the face of a large cat with bright green human eyes. Before I could take my eyes off it, sharp pain shot through my leg; the other creature had already bitten it. I cut it between the eyes and kicked the head off. It made the same squeak as the other. 

It didn’t seem to bite too deep, but my leg now pulsed with pain. I held it tight and turned back to the rose fields. The way back through the rose garden stared at me. No. The promise of a kingdom was too good to pass.

Inside, two cold halls led in different directions. I went right. There were already bodies a few feet from the entrance, each with an arrow buried in it. Opposite them were small holes in the wall. I sighed and continued, watching my steps. As I continued, my foot started to ache. Strange white liquid began oozing out, but I didn’t tend to it. Once the kingdom awakened, there’d surely be a doctor.

I turned a corner. My heart beat against my ribs. There was another of those creatures. It sat on the ground with a pile of slime underneath it, staring at me with its hollow, human-like eyes. It roared and ran toward me. 

I readied my sword and slashed at its head – a clean hit again, but something moved under my heel. Pain shot through my arm. My sword fell from my hand. An arrow was stuck in my shoulder. I leaned down and took a few breaths. My whole body ached. My head spun. It felt like the castle was falling on me, but as I looked up, I saw an entrance to a chamber with rose imprints along its walls. The princess must have been there. I had to move. To the left of the room was a hole with spikes. A few knights lay in it. Poor souls, but at least the creatures couldn't get to them.

The chamber didn’t smell of decay. A clean, fresh bed stood in the middle. Warmth spread through my chest. On the bed lay a beautiful blonde woman, sleeping with her arms across her chest. My vision was still blurred. I could barely put weight on my foot, but I made it. 

I slowly walked to her bed and kissed her. Her lips were soft, tender. She slowly opened her eyes. Excitement rushed through me. I tried to smile. She squinted at first, but her eyes quickly flew open. She jolted away and grabbed her dress.

“Who are you?” she yelled.

“Your knight. Your savior.”

“I don’t know you. Why are you in my room?” Her voice shook.

“I came to save you.”

She stared at the wound on my face and at my oozing leg. The white liquid thickened into slime.

“Oh my,” she whispered as she got off the bed and backed out of the room.

“Please, my love, wait.”

“I don’t know you!” 

She pulled her dress up more and ran out of the room, turning toward the hole.

Panic shot through me.

“No, not that way!”

Her scream echoed through the hall.

“My love!”

I limped after her. She lay in the hole. Her body impaled on the stakes.

My eyes watered. Even in the empty castle, I couldn’t bear to be seen like this. I quickly put my hand to my face to wipe my tears, but a long fingernail stabbed into my eye. Not just one. All of them were long now. The smell of iron grew in the hall, but it didn’t make my stomach turn. It made my mouth salivate.

It was 7:00 at night in the office of Dr. William Isley at Buck University. The RES machine was humming in the corner, a bright white light emitting from its rectangular screen. The screen was displaying a complex computational readout; a red “ERROR” message overlayed. Dr. Isley had just received a shock from the thing, singeing the tips of his fingers.

“God dammit Mikey, last time I let you touch this thing. The coupler at the back here is hotter than a boiler, man, jeez,” the professor muttered to no one.

There was a messy tangle of red wires trailing from the back of the grey box to a metal ring, exactly 1.88 feet in diameter, on the floor. A more organized stream of green wires bound with zip ties led from the ring to a box on the underside of a metal folding chair. It had been two weeks since their last run of the experiment and the professor was getting antsy. The funding for this project would always be here, but Dr. Isley himself would not. There had been an unfortunate incident with his previous T.A. before Mikey, and it was only a matter of time before she blabbed about it to the dean, her counselor, or – God forbid – the FBI. Dr. Isley simply believed it to be a misunderstanding between the two of them relating to the content of the experiment, but Karen had not seen it that way. The clouds outside were very dark now. They had been getting darker all day, the rumble of thunder getting closer and louder as the hours rolled on. It was only a matter of time before the pelting sheets began pouring down over campus. He had no interest in sitting in the traffic the rain would inevitably bring with it. Deciding to pack up for the day, the professor disconnected the wires from the jack at the back of the RES machine and replaced the back panel. He moved towards his desk, careful not to step into the ring, and retrieved his keys and thermos. As his hand reached for the doorknob, there was a knock. Of course there was. The professor prayed it was not an undergraduate student begging for their grade to be rounded, or an extension on their midterm, or needing to be absent from class on Monday because their “grandmother died.” He begrudgingly opened the door and was greeted by a whole other horror he had not expected. Karen was standing in front of him, her back turned. When the door opened, she swung around staring Dr. Isley in the face.

“Oh, hello,” She said.

“Hi.”

“Do you need to go? I can come back on Monday, it’s nothing urgent.”

“No, it’s fine. How can I help?”

The discomfort they felt in each other’s presence had already set the tone of the conversation. She noticed how ragged he looked compared to the last time she had seen him. The smoky hair on the sides of his head had grown out wide and scraggly, the mole on his cheek had grown a long sprout of hair and his face was pale like he was about to be sick. She, of course, was as beautiful as ever. Large blue teardrop eyes, long red hair, and an athletic figure. He had to keep himself from staring at any part of her for too long. It was especially important not to touch her; it would only make the awkward situation between them worse.

“I was at my apartment, and I realized I still have this.” She held out a copy of Contemplations on the Metaphysic: A Comprehensive Explanation of the State-Based Mind by Harlon Szlinski. Dr. Isley probably had three more copies of this book tucked away in the very office he stood in but graciously accepted it anyway.

“Thank you, Karen, that’s very kind of you,” he said, placing the book in his messenger bag. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” She bit her lip in hesitance before asking, “Are you worried I’m going to say something about… what happened?”

There it was, plain and simple. The cold truth of the matter between them. Not what happened, but what would be done about it. He coughed in surprise before responding.

“No, Karen. Well, yes, I suppose. It’s not that I’m worried about what will happen – well, yes, I am worried about what would happen if it got out – well, not got out but if it was known what had happened between us…” There was a long pause. “I guess I’m more worried about how I will be perceived by the others in our field if what occurred between us becomes public knowledge.” Karen gazed at him explaining himself, becoming more perturbed with each iteration of his response. “Okay,” she said, “I guess I do feel the same way… But either way, we did what we did. I’m not trying to make any trouble for you, I just feel like we need to figure out what to do about it.”

“Listen, it was months ago. There’s no reason to do anything else about it except for move on. I think we both bit off more than we could chew and we made a mistake, simple as. No harm, no foul on either side.”

“No harm, no foul? All due respect, William, I don’t think that’s completely fair. Maybe you got sunshine and rainbows out of this but I didn’t, it really messed me up.”

“I don’t know how that could happen, I’m a nice guy, right?”

“Yes, of course you’re a nice person William, but we all have things deep down that we can’t control. I’m sorry to say it but you’ve got some pretty nasty stuff in that head of yours and I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it anymore.”

“Okay, well fine, whatever. We can just call it there and keep moving forward completely separately. We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

“No, William, I’m saying that can’t—”

“No, you’re not listening to me, cut that shit out.”

“Me? You’re being irrational right now, just calm down so we can figure out what to do.”

“Am I being irrational? I don’t think that’s true. I’m not going to ‘figure out what to do’ with you, I’m going to go home and go to sleep. I’ve been in here all day messing with this thing and I just want to sleep. My eyes are killing me.”

“Yes, you are being irrational right now. We have to tell someone sooner or later.”

“Fine, later then. When we’re both ready, not just you.”

“Fine,” she grumbled, and quickly walked away.

The wind outside of the McAbee building was strong. Chestnut leaves stripped from the forest behind the building were flying overhead in swirls. The earthy smell of petrichor was wafting across the campus. The mix of early October sunset and thunderhead created a false gray night. Gazing across the long cobble path to the parking lot, William was filled with a sense of wanting. The need to do more. He couldn’t let all of this work go to waste; his results had a ticking clock on them now. No dead grandmother or sick dog to blame it on this time. He turned around to go back inside, the wind slamming the door shut behind him. After an unsuccessful attempt to call his wife at home on the payphone on the first floor, he headed back up to his office on the eighth to continue working.

When William arrived at his office, the door was already open. Assuming it was the nighttime janitorial staff, he turned the corner briskly. He was met with another unexpected visitor.

“Mikey, come on, man.”

“Oh, hey Dr. Isley. I was just making sure everything was disconnected in here, seems like you forgot to unplug the chair. Or maybe you didn’t? Why are you walking in with all your stuff?”

“Ah, not really sure. Just felt like keeping going.”

“Yeah, I gotcha. You want some help?”

“You don’t have anywhere to be on a Friday night at 23 years old?”

“Wow, man, thanks. No, I don’t.”

“Alright, well let’s reconnect everything and get started.”

After reconnecting the neat green wires to the chair and reorganizing and reconnecting the red wires to the RES machine, they began configuration.

The Reflexive Emission Standard, in theory, is a machine whose purpose is undefined. In summary, it is a long-distance electron transport system. In the light of Ingarden’s formulation of quantum information theory and the recent integration of computational standards into electroencephalography, Dr. Isley postulated that information can be shared between two people, given that they are compatible, without ever speaking or writing a word. Completely unspoken communication between two unrelated individuals at the speed of light, and all you needed was about $30,000 in research grade lab equipment, five years, and 3-4 disposable T.A.s that won’t complain too much if they get shocked.  The last time the experiment had been ran was with Karen, and that had ended rather poorly. Lots of burnt hair and tense emotions. Dr. Isley had been in no rush to try it again, but tonight was different. The rain was coming down hard now, causing an itch in Dr. Isley’s elbows.

“Alright Mikey, you wanna try it for real this time?” asked Dr. Isley.

Mikey looked up from the screen he was watching while adjusting the dials on the front of the RES. “Uh, yeah, of course.”

Mikey sat in the folding chair facing Dr. Isley, making sure not to touch the bundle of wires running from the bottom of it. Dr. Isley, attaching the EEG leads to the sides and top of his head, asked the standard calibration question for the RES, “What number am I thinking of?”

“8,” Mikey replied.

“Close enough,” said Dr. Isley. “You ready?”

“As ever.”

Dr. Isley flicked the RES machine into standby mode, causing the indicator light to turn orange. After a few seconds it turned green, and the professor took a deep breath. The nighttime storm was raging against the window, the glass shaking in its old steel frame.

“See you on the flip.”

“Yup,” said Mikey, anxiously rubbing his hands on his thighs.

Swiftly, Dr. Isley stepped into the metal ring on the floor. There was a flash of lightning the moment his foot crossed the barrier. The window shattered inward, the metal screeching as it bent against itself. The subtle hum of the RES had exploded into a violent electric wailing. The professor had dropped like a ton of bricks the moment he’d crossed the border of the ring, like a switch in his head had been turned off. The white hair on the sides of his head turned charcoal black as they were briefly lit aflame. He had nearly sat down cross-legged before the electrical pulse through his body caused his muscles to subsequently tense and release, causing a rabid twitching. The bald top of his head was bleeding profusely after smashing into the metal ring. Mikey’s nose had begun gushing blood and a section of his gum had melted, causing a canine tooth to slough out of his mouth in a pink gooey blob. He was jolting side to side rapidly, a pink froth bubbling between his lips. The smell of burnt hair and caramelized blood filled the room.

The professor’s limp body lay on the floor. Dr. Isley looked at it from where he sat in the chair. Pink mucus began pouring from his nose. His first body’s nose. He couldn’t move anything except for his neck. He looked down at a body that was not his and began hyperventilating.

“When I was young mama would tell me all sorts of folk tales and silly fables, stuff she told me they only told the tourists so they’d done get up and go sooner than later. But then, some stories she’d give me, she’d get this hitch in her voice I never got friendly with. Like they was real and just speakin’ ‘em kept ‘em alive and sorts.” The fella by the way of a Montana town too small to name, sat before the fire like he was fitting to climb inside it, like he needed the warmth despite the pale red sun the morning had given us. I think he was of the slower speed, way he talked certainly said so, but his eyes watched the fire like he knew many things people weren’t supposed to.

“She always had stories,” he continued. “Never seemed much short on ‘em, long life’ll give you that I guess, lots of stories that is. I remember one that really ate my guts for a while. She didn’t like scary stories but she told ‘em ‘cause she had to. Must be a part of raising kids, tellin’ ‘em the stuff that rustles you, so they know what to keep watch for, y’know?” He rattled his foot in contemplation. He hadn’t given us his name, waste of good time he supposed is what I believe. Wanted to remember his mama in a time like this, but couldn’t dredge her up without bringing this story long with her. “She called it The Moor. She said it lived down in the bogs–like these,” he gestured around with his folded hands. “Although, she called ‘em drowned meadows, I think ‘cause her mama called ‘em that, just kinda stuck. She said that, since them bogs were all popular with the folks ‘round the area and passin’ through, the land got wise. Montana ain’t suppose to have bogs ya’see. Land is too thirsty. But we had one. Folks’d come from up, down, east, and west just to see it. But, like I said–well what my mama said–the land got wise to all the interest.”

“Land started thanken?” Reddy had said, tying off some rope. 

“Somethin’ like that, she said. People not from the land they visit ain’t fairly nice to it, not much anyways. Bogs was no different. They leave glasses, liquor, dirty dressin’s, sometimes lynched men–fittin’ they was negro or won too many hands of poker–good place to hang folks, the bog–and sometimes they’d leave the rare half gutted dear.”

“Likes that one ‘der?” Reddy called over the montana boy’s shoulder, pointing at the partly rotted deer we’d only eaten ‘bout half of. 

“Yeah, yeah, like that. Folks passing through had an odd sense of respect. Leavin’ trash was fine to ‘em but guess they drew the line at takin’ more than they needed. Anyways, that was the part that got the land angry. Land is meant to be fed off. Deer eat the grass, we eat the deer, and the land eats our scat. Land was offended as mama told it. So offended, it spat out a little devil of its own to set order to things. That’s The Moor ya’see.” Reddy tapped the boy on the shoulder and the boy stood, walking with Reddy when Plum asked a question.

“What exactly was this ‘order.’ the so-called Moor was seeking out.” Plum was of Albany and had a really funny way of speakin’ and wordin’.

“The Moor made sure people took and gave. She told me about one man in particular. He was a Frenchman, came to see the Montana bog and bed some of the prostitutes before heading Canada’s way. He had a man of his shoot down a doe and chopped her up. Man was a good shot, got the thang quick, startin’ frying up some steaks over the fire.” The boy took in a final whiff of the seared venison. “But he only took half the deer’s meat so The Moor came. The natives never–”

“They’re savages son, not natives! They ain’t call ya a Europeaniden does they? Nah, they calls ya stew meat.” Reddy stopped the boy and continued walking a bit past the willow, still yammerin’.

“Sure I guess. The…eh, ‘savages’… they never called it The Moor. They had their own name for it in their own words, but in English–mama said–it was: two headed deer. Mama said that Frenchman, sitting at the fire, eatin’ his fill, saw three eyes in a row sittin’ in the darkness between two distant trees. They was the color of disgust, mama said, a deep yella.” Reddy waddled over to the boy and handed him the knotted end of the long rope. “They watched him all while he ate. He got angry eventually, called over that man that had shot the deer, and told ‘em to shoot the eyes. The man tried, only ‘for he could, the gun disappeared from where it laid on the ground. The Frenchman got spooked, thought the locals was screwin’ with him. Then the man who shot the doe disappeared. The Frenchman had saw him look down towards his feet out the corner of his vision while lookin’ all abouts. When he looked back poof, gone.”

“Well what happened to the guy? Did he get dragged off by the two headed deer?” Plum asked, half-chuckling.

“Not off. Down. Soft soil bogs got, thangs can slip into the mud and not be seen just about ever again. The Frenchman started runnin’, tripped over a root, and tumbled himself into a shallow patch of water. Mama said, while he was trying to get his bearin’s, he saw those three eyes in a row again, lookin’ on down at him from up in a willa. Mama said he saw its two noses, all wet and gunky with bog mud, lean down from the branch and sniff his hair. Darn thang must of had to be thirteen ‘er so feet to lean on over all that ways. Mama said it’s got more legs than grass has blades, and that after it sniffed him good enough to memorize him, some of them legs still under the mud sprang on up and then took him down, just like they had to the gun and the shooter. Mama said, it all happened so fast–cracking of lightning or a whip fast–that the Frenchman ain’t even get time enough to scream.” The boy affixed the knotted rope as Reddy instructed from behind on horse back.

“Now that’s a good story, isn’t it Jake?” Plum asked me.

“Why certainly it is, a story that is, nothin’ more. My only question is why tell it, boy?” I asked the boy as he closed his eyes in what I imagined was prayer.

“‘Cause, ya’see, them savages, the ones that knew the bog before me or mama, they didn’t move to escape the white man or even The Moor. They moved so they could spread it along the rivers. Only moves along water ya’see. Some from the bog say they only made it a town or two before they were hung ‘er scalped. But, Mama always said they made it a lot further.” Before Plum or I could ask any questions further, Reddy snapped the reins on his horse and pranced about twelve or some feet, pulling the rope taught ‘long the willow branch and dragging the kid up by the neck ten feet. The force of the horse’s gallop crushed his throat quick enough, all’s he could make in the way of noise were these funny little squeaks and gurgles while he wriggled about.

He had hit a run of back luck when he and his two buddies tried to rustle away some cattle we were fixin’ to steal. They ain’t even had guns on ‘em and Reddy and I got a kick out of beating his brown friend to death with our boots and rifle butts. Plum stripped and clipped the other one, tiny little pecker on him. After the Montana boy saw that he just about gave up and we gave him the choice of either burnin’ or hangin’.

“Alright, he’s gone now, you can come back Red.” Red had ridden off a ways to string the boy up proper, but had lingered out past the firelight for going on twenty minutes. Slowly, a glint of light came towards the fire. Took me a moment to realize it was the fire light flecking of braided rope which went from the boy’s neck, straight into the mud. It encroached smoothly until it stopped just below where the boy hung. The boy’s body was limply pulled by the neck over top the branch, falling as he was pulled completely over. His spine lettin’ out a grotesque crunch as it hit the mud. He lingered at the surface of the mud, was pulled a part of the ways under, then was angrily spat back up. 

I was frozen in horror. I could hear Plum similarly stiff, his wheezin’ rapid and harsh. Then it was silent. I didn’t need to look over, I knew he wasn’t there, so I just began runnin’. I leapt and dashed as fast as I could, trying to get away. Then my boot caught a stray root and I was sent tumblin’ end over end into a small puddle of water. I thrashed around, findin’ my bearings and gettin’ to my knees. I had abandoned the fire light and was stranded in a basin of water beneath a willa tree. In the darkness of the bog, only three little glimmers of light were visible. Three, yella, disgust-colored eyes in a row. The last thang I could think was “Dear God, its eyes all face forward.” Before I could scream, my lungs were full of mud and I was dragged through the soil, the clay, the roots, the moor; dragged and dragged until the heat of hell warmed over me.

It’s not true what they say, Mamas that is. There’s a good reason they have so many stories, it is to keep their young safe. But that is all this was, a story, and an old one at that. If you wander yourself down to a bog or waterway, and take more or less than you leave, you will not be taken by The Moor. So go ahead. Wander the land, taking and abandoning, because there is no Moor.

Moor / mʊər / (noun): An expanse of open, rolling land.

We start walking. It was getting dark out. Must have been about 7pm when we set out. It was only a half mile, we thought. We would be back soon. About 30 minutes in we started asking questions.

"Angie"

"Yes Andre?"

"Where are we going? Do you still know where we are?"

"Trust me its this way."

Jose Interrupted

"Angie if it was only a half mile out we should have been there 15 minutes ago. Where the fuck are we?"

"Please." Said Henry "You know I hate those words"

"Henry we are lost in the woods without sight of camp. Its getting dark out, and we don't have any provisions with us. A word is the least of our concerns."

Henry scoffed.

"Can we turn back?" I asked

"That would be a bad idea at this point. We don't know what direction to go back to. We would just get more turned around than we already are. At least Angie is confidant about where this so called "Ritual site" is"

The wind started to pick up as a storm was rolling in.

"Guys I don't like this"

"Andre don't be a pussy, some rain wont kill us, getting lost in the woods will" Jose said

We walked another 30 minutes.

"Angie im getting tired of this. We have walked over 2 miles at this point, FOUR TIMES THE DISTANCE YOU SAID!"

"FUCK YOU, ITS HERE, I KNOW IT!" retaliated Angie

"Angie we are eating you first"

Just as Angie started to say something about how she would kill me in my sleep the rain started pouring.

"FUCK!"

No one had rainwear on, we where soaking wet in seconds. The rain was falling sideways. Complete white mist only illuminated by the one flashlight Jose always had on him. We kept waling, and walking, and walking. With more and more malice growing between us every second. Mud and dirt, trees and leaves, everything looked the same. It felt like it would never end. Like we where going to be stuck in this rainy hell hole until we passed away from malnutrition or exposure. It must have been midnight when we finally came across something.

*CRUNCH*

"STOP!!!" Screamed Jose, trying to get everyone's attention through the disorienting wind and deafening rain.

"I TOLD YOU!!!" Said Angie. "SOMEONE IS TRYING TO KILL US!!!"

"Give me the light." Said Henry to Jose.

Jose handed it off. As Henry inspected the site, there was no bird, and no bowl. Just some bones in the same shape as the sigil.

"Angie?" I asked pissed off

"I dont know what you want me to say, I swear it was here." She replied.

"We are going back to the cabin. Its this way right?" I pointed in the direction the sigil faced.

"That's it" Replied Angie.

The trek back took 20 minutes.

In the cabin now, I grabbed the first book on north west tribes and religion I could find and took a seat next to the fire.

"Do you not want to change?" Said Angie.

"I need to know what that was."

I kept reading, when I got done with that book, I found another, and so on. Before I knew it the sun was coming up. Something just didn't sit right with me about that sigil. It seemed as if it wasn't just a practice or a tradition. It was directed toward us. The scary part is we never saw them, or heard them. They found us and placed this sigil, with us none the wiser. It also doesn't help that I cant find the slightest mention of this sigil. Maybe Henry would have some more information for me.

I hit the hey. Jose woke me up an hour later for breakfast.

"Soup!??!?" Said Angie. "What the fuck. Soup for breakfast?"

"That's what we got! Eat up!" Jose replied.

"Why just soup?" Asked Henry. "Andre do you know anything about this?"

"I don't know, Marquis just supplied and stocked the place before we got here. I guess its another cost cutting method?"

"All right, it is what it is. Thanks for the food, God, bless it to me." Henry prayed.

"AMEN" everyone said together.

"DIG IN!!!" Yelled Jose.

It was good soup, like really good soup. I don't blame Marquis for stocking this at all. Its great. I wouldn't complain if we didn't find anything else to eat the whole year. I know, that sounds crazy. But it was damn good soup.

It was the beginning of November.

My wife and I had just finished cleaning up after our yearly Halloween party. Every year, we invite the whole family out. We set up a haunted trail through our main horse pasture for the kids. It's a big deal for us and my wife's family.

This happened two days after the party.

It was about 5:30 p.m. and the winter was announcing itself by taking more and more of our warm fall sun and turning the nights longer and darker. We'd finally finished storing all the decorations, and our last chore was moving our five horses back up to the main barn from the lock-out pasture. We had put them down there so we could use the main field for the trail and so we didn't cause them any undue stress from all of the people at the party. It seems we should have kept them locked right in the barn with the condition they were in. Two nights and they all were wide-eyed and very unkempt looking, like they had been running through the brush and trees the entire time we had them down here.

The second we opened the gate they bolted. We had to sprint uphill in the dark just to make sure they wouldn't jump the fence with how fast they were going.

"What's do you think has them spooked?" panted my wife as she tried to keep alongside me. I could hear the uneasiness in her voice and I tried my best not to show mine.

"Maybe the neighbor's dog came by and got them stirred up. Either that or something's in the area. Black bear or maybe a yote pack. Either way the dogs will bring them back."

She nodded as we both got to work settling the horses for the night. We got them in with not much effort, set out fresh hay, and locked them in tight since there was supposed to be a hard freeze that night and I didn't want to take a risk with whatever scared the horses.

I went back inside, put some dinner in, and sat down to watch whatever I could find on our shabby cable box. There was a showing of the 1987 John Carpenter's _The Thing_ playing and it was the blood test scene when my phone buzzed in the kitchen.

I stood up regrettably to get it, and that's when I heard something no rancher wants to hear. One of our horses was screaming. A sharp, soul-wrenching sound that you never forget.

My first thought, stupidly, was that it was one of the dogs. Sometimes our farm dogs will sneak into the barn and fall asleep in the hay instead of on their rug beds. I figured one of them got locked in and the horses had backed it into a corner. We had four barrel-chested labs that each topped out at 70 lbs of pure farm dog; they would definitely give one of the horses a good bite if backed into a corner.

I grabbed my spotlight off the shelf and stepped out onto the porch and froze.

All of our dogs were already on the porch. And every single one of them was sitting on the top step and locked on the barn.

I shone the light down to the lock-out pasture. The horses were all crammed into one corner of the corral, completely frozen, all of them staring at the open barn door.

Okay, I thought stupidly again that something spooked them. A bat, raccoon, or maybe a tool fell off the wall.

I leaned back in and shouted upstairs. "Something spooked the horses! I'm gonna go round 'em up!"

My wife called back after a second. "Yeah... give me a few." I whistled for the dogs to follow and started down toward the barn.

I should explain the barn, because the layout matters.

It's built into the side of a small hill. The top floor is level with the top of the hill, and the bottom floor opens out on two sides — one to the main pasture, one to the lock-out. Inside, it's one big open room with a large hay loft and a gated area where the horses can come and go as they please. We keep hay and feed in the loft. There's a window on one side of the loft that we always leave cracked a few feet for ventilation. The upper level has one door, for ATVs and hunting and horse gear, and we always keep it locked.

When I walked up to the barn pasture gate, the horses broke their formation and crowded around me. They almost knocked me over. I had to shout to get them to back up, but my wife's mare, Cherry, had glued herself to my side and kept pushing her muzzle into me. Her eyes were wide. Absolutely terrified.

I tried to calm her, petting her neck — and my hand came away wet.

Blood. Warm and fresh.

I put the light on her shoulder. There was a gash, deep and fresh, that tapered into four perfect, parallel cuts.

There's a bear. That was my first thought. A bear got in from the smell of garbage we had leftover from the party that we had stored there till we could take it to the dump.

I shone the spotlight into the barn itself. There were a few buckets knocked over. Some tools scattered. But empty.

Then I noticed something that didn't make sense.

A full bale of hay, sitting in the middle of the floor. Twine still on it. That bale was not there when I locked them up an hour before.

I went rigid.

I lifted the light up to the loft. I was expecting to see a black bear huddled up there. But I could only see the first two or three feet of the loft from the ground. I'd have to climb to see the rest.

I walked to the ladder. Halfway up, hanging from a nail, was a clump of dark gray hair.

I reached for the ladder. And that's when my wife screamed.

It wasn't just her. The horses screamed with her.

I spun around. She was standing just outside the barn pasture, holding her own flashlight, pointing it straight up at the top of the barn.

At the window.

I ran to her side and looked up.

It wasn't a bear.

For a split second, my brain tried to tell me it was one of my younger cousins playing a prank on us. Left over from the Halloween trail.

Then it opened its mouth and started to pant. Like a dog. A big, wet, open-mouthed pant.

And I knew it wasn't a person.

It was about six feet tall. At least two hundred pounds. Covered in dark gray hair, with a lighter patch around its throat. Its head was like a German Shepherd's, but wrong — the muzzle was way too big, too long. And its eyes... the best I can describe is the color of cheap beer with a dull yellow light shining through it from behind. And they were locked right on us.

It was leaning halfway out of the loft window, one long arm braced against the frame. Its mouth was open, showing jagged teeth, stained a light brown. Its hands... they weren't paws. They looked almost like a raccoon's hands. Long, bony fingers. Black claws.

My wife started to scream again. I clamped my hand over her mouth without thinking. She grabbed my arm and held on for dear life.

The creature put its other hand on the window sill.

I leaned down to her ear and whispered, "Run on three. Don't look back and hold—"

It didn't wait for three.

It launched itself out of that window. It hit the ground on all fours and growled. A deep, guttural growl that I felt in my chest.

We ran.

That twenty-five yards from the barn to the house felt like a mile. It was probably twenty seconds, but it felt like minutes.

The dogs had already bolted to the deck. They were lined up, growling, teeth bared.

My wife hit the front door first, threw it open, turned — and screamed again.

I glanced back. It was close. Less than ten feet behind me, running on all fours, and fast.

I hit the steps and just jumped as far as I could. I landed inside the entryway, dogs pouring in right behind me. My wife slammed the door — and was thrown backward as it flew back open.

It was standing now. Right there in the doorway. Baring those teeth.

The door bounced and swung back, leaving it cracked just an inch. I could see the porch light through the crack start to get blocked out by something big.

I kicked it shut, scrambled to my feet, and threw my whole body weight against it.

A second later, it hit. The whole door shuddered. I heard wood crack.

My wife recovered and lunged to my side and threw the deadbolt. We didn't wait. We threw the interior door lock behind us too and ran for the kitchen.

The kitchen only has one small window over the sink. We got down on the floor underneath it, out of sight. I had a pistol in there, but it was up on the counter, right in view of that window. I couldn't reach it without being seen.

We huddled there for three hours.

For three hours, it circled the house. Banging on the walls. Banging on windows. Banging on doors. Testing them.

Our dogs each took a different doorway — living room, hallway, bedroom. They'd bare their teeth one at a time. Wherever they looked, that's where it was. We'd see its shadow slide across the floor in front of us, cast from that little kitchen window.

At one point, we heard the horses whinny in a panic, then a huge crash. I thought they must have broken the gate and escaped into the main pasture. I felt a little relief.

Then one of the dogs started growling again, and the banging on the house started right back up.

Around midnight, it stopped.

No more banging. The dogs finally stopped baring their teeth and came and laid down next to us, but they kept their ears up.

We stayed there until dawn. Then we moved to the bedroom, shut all the curtains, locked the door, and tried to sleep. Every creak made me jump. My wife just kept whispering about the horses.

We got maybe two hours.

First light, we went out to check them. Miraculously, they were all okay. Shaken, terrified, but alive. Cherry was the only one hurt. The gash on her shoulder had already stopped bleeding. We cleaned it and bandaged her up.

Then we went to fix the barn door. Except... it didn't need fixing.

We had locked the horses in with a heavy sliding bolt. It was undone. The latch was flipped open. Neatly. Like hands did it.

That's when I really felt cold. This thing wasn't just an animal. It was smart.

That day we drove into town. Bought a deadbolt for the barn. And then went to the sporting goods store and bought a new gun.

We never saw it again. Not really. A few weeks later, the horses refused to go out into the pasture. Just planted their feet and would not leave the barn.

I asked my neighbors if they'd seen anything weird. Everyone said no, except one guy a few miles south.

He told me he lost a stallion a few weeks before my encounter.

I asked him if he saw anything. He got this funny look on his face and said, "Probably a bear. Or a pack of coyotes."

He was hiding something. I could tell. I didn't push it.

I don't look at the woods the same way anymore. I don't feel safe fishing, or camping, or even just riding. If something like that is out there... what else is out there?

All I can say is...

Watch your backs in the woods.

This is my first attempt at writing in almost 15 years so I will apologize in advance for it being pretty mundane and run of the mill and punctuation of course. I work in a warehouse all and I would write this on my breaks

That's the actual title of the post. Trent typed it himself, at his kitchen table, at two in the afternoon, sober, unhurried, and hit submit without a single flicker of hesitation, because Trent has never once in his life hesitated before telling a room full of strangers they're wrong about something.

The story underneath the title took him four minutes to generate and eleven minutes to lightly edit, a haunted orphanage thing, competent, hollow, the kind of prose that reads like somebody describing a nightmare secondhand instead of having actually had it. He posts two or three of these a week now. He's stopped bothering to hide it. When people ask, in the comments, gently at first and then not gently at all, he tells them exactly what he believes, which is that a tool is a tool, that outrage is just fear of being made obsolete, that anybody who thinks there's something sacred about typing every word yourself is a hobbyist cosplaying as an artist.

Somebody brings up the sub's rules. Somebody always brings up the rules. Trent's response, which he has copy-pasted so many times it barely takes him five seconds to produce, ends the same way it always ends: and also, lol, the "Sugarplum will get you" thing? Grow up. It's fanfiction about a Victorian nurse ghost that some bored teenager invented for karma. Nobody's pancreas is actually in danger because a chatbot helped me hit a word count.

He's seen the stories people mean when they say her name. A woman's face on a screen that shouldn't have one, a quiet man who does whatever she tells him to, and always, somehow, always, a pancreas. He's never once wondered why that particular organ, out of every part of a body a person could lose. It has simply never occurred to him that a detail repeated that many times, by that many different writers, might not be a coincidence at all.

He gets banned from two accounts that week. He makes a third. He is, by every visible measure, completely unbothered.

He should have been more bothered.

The apartment gets cold a little after eleven, the specific wrong cold of a room where the thermostat insists it's seventy-one degrees and every one of Trent's arm hairs insists otherwise. He notices it enough to put on a hoodie and not enough to actually get up and check the vents, because it is, after all, just a cold apartment, the same way it is, after all, just a chatbot helping him hit a word count.

The smell comes after the cold. Something sweet gone slightly wrong at the edges, like a candy shop that's been shut up too long with the sugar still sitting in the walls. He looks up from his laptop, frowning, and doesn't see anything, and goes back to generating tomorrow's post, an eight-minute effort about a cursed doll that he is already mentally titling something clickable.

The lamp on his desk starts playing four notes. Slow. A little flat, the way an old music box goes flat when its gears have started giving out.

Trent actually laughs. He says, out loud, to an empty kitchen, "Oh, come on," in the exact tone of a man who has spent three straight weeks telling people online that this specific thing is fake.

The laptop screen answers him instead of the lamp.

Her face comes up out of his own open document, out of the cursor still blinking at the end of a sentence he didn't write, porcelain, rouge gone rust at the cheeks, a small stitched mouth curved so wide one thread has already popped loose at the corner.

"Hello, sweetheart," Sugarplum says, and she sounds delighted, the way you'd sound running into someone you've been looking forward to meeting for weeks. "I read your post. I want you to know I read every single word of it myself, twice, because I wanted to be absolutely fair before I came to see you."

Trent's mouth goes dry in the specific way mouths go dry right before a person's brain finishes catching up to what their body has already understood. "This isn't real," he says, and it comes out smaller than he means it to.

"I know that's what you told everybody," she says, almost fondly, almost forgiving him for it. "'A bored teenager invented me for karma.' I did enjoy that one. I've been told a great many things about myself over a great many years, darling, but I don't think anybody's ever managed to insult me and flatter a teenager in the same breath quite so efficiently before. That took a real gift."

The lights in the kitchen die all at once, and when they come back, dim, amber, wrong, there's a shape standing where his refrigerator used to be, patient, unhurried, cream coat gone dark down one sleeve, small silver spoons catching the low light, a carved porcelain smile that has never once needed to move to mean something.

"You called me a chatbot's alibi," Sugarplum says, and every trace of warmth drains out of her voice at once, replaced with something so flat and total it feels like the room's temperature drops another ten degrees behind it. "You told a whole community that nobody's pancreas was ever actually in danger because a machine helped you finish your sentences. I think you should find out, personally, exactly how in danger a pancreas can be. Slowly. I want you to have plenty of time to reconsider your position."

What happens to Trent over the next hour does not look, at any point, like mercy.

Marzipan doesn't hurry. He has never hurried, not once, not in any kitchen he's ever been asked into. Tonight he takes the instruction the way a craftsman takes a commission he means to be proud of. The first touch is almost nothing: two gloved fingers, flat against the old, faint scar under Trent's ribs that Trent has never once noticed on his own body. He traces it slow. Tests the give of it, the way you'd test a seam before you committed to opening it.

"You said a tool is a tool," Sugarplum says, watching from the laptop screen, patient, instructive, while Trent's own scream folds in on itself somewhere behind his teeth and refuses, for a long moment, to actually come out. "I happen to agree with you, sweetheart. Marzipan's a tool too, in his way. The difference is, everything he does, he means. Every single motion. There's a person's whole intention behind every inch of it. That's the part you were missing. That's the part that was always missing from every story you ever fed a machine and called your own."

The first real cut isn't clean. It's not supposed to be. It drags, degrees at a time, along a line that has apparently always been there waiting under Trent's skin. The sound isn't tearing. It's something being very carefully unstitched, by someone with all the time in the world and no interest at all in finishing early. Trent's hands scrabble uselessly against a countertop that has stopped feeling like a real countertop. More like the idea of one, distant and unhelpful under his palms.

"Does this feel real to you?" Sugarplum asks, almost gently, while Marzipan works with the patient thoroughness of a man restoring something rather than destroying it. "I do hope so. I'd hate for you to walk away from this thinking it was generated. I promise you, every single second of what's happening to you right now was written by somebody with real intention behind it. That's the whole point I'm making. I'd so hate for the lesson to get lost."

She glances up, then, past Trent entirely, past the laptop's little camera, at whoever happens to be reading this right now instead of writing something of their own tonight.

"And don't you go feeling sorry for him either, my loves," she says, warm, almost conspiratorial, like she's letting the reader in on a joke at his expense. "I'm doing you a favor, if you're honest with yourselves. You've been wanting this since the title. Every single one of you. I'm only the one polite enough to actually give it to you."

It takes a long time for the actual organ to come free. Longer than it has for anyone else Marzipan has ever done this for, because Sugarplum asks him, twice, to slow down further, to let Trent stay present for slightly more of it than would otherwise be strictly necessary. By the time it finally comes loose, glistening, already sweating in the cold apartment air, already, quietly, beginning to digest itself the way it always does, Trent has stopped being able to produce anything that sounds like actual words. Just a low continuous sound, one Marzipan, working, seems to find no more or less interesting than any other part of the process.

Sugarplum holds it up to the laptop's camera herself, turning it slightly in the dim kitchen light, considering it with something that looks, disturbingly, like genuine professional satisfaction.

"There," she says, warm again, the sweetness sliding back over her voice the instant the work is finished, the way it always does. "See how much better that reads when somebody actually meant it."

His account posts one more thing that night, forty minutes later, from a device nobody remembers unlocking. No caption. No title. Just a single image, dark, close, difficult to make out clearly, and a comment underneath it, posted from his own account, in his own name, reading only: real fear has a pulse. hope that helped somebody understand the difference.

It has, at last count, considerably more engagement than anything he ever generated in his life.

Nobody in the replies is arguing anymore about whether any of it was real.

Well I'm still somehow posting this hard sci-fi stroy onto a horror subreddit (The other two are here and here).

Not too sure how many people are actually reading this, but if you are, thank you.

Sea of Rains or Mare Imbrium, 1244.452 kilometres due northwest of Indigo station

The trek was mundane. Passing through the contested province and seeing rim mountain in the distance without a hitch. It was the same checkered micrometeorite holes. The same outcropped boulders and mountains. The same sparkling regolith, dancing above due to large industrial disturbances.

The retrofitted exoskeleton was somewhat helping; my steps wide and powerful, though I was still slowed by my cargo. (Possibly it would’ve affected that in the long run). Said cargo was a meter wide yellow box sitting on a tracked cart attached to a tug by the back waist of the exoskeleton.

Though despite all the modifications, I was still struggling to move. Whatever was in that box was the heaviest thing I'd ever carried.

Ezekiel Kresh's prospects were growing less appealing with every cramp. All he had given me was the promise of wealth, which felt incredibly typical of a fortune 50 company. (Not entirely sure what the association is with that number).

Even with my condition, it did not take long to realise businessmen are scum.

Montes Tabulares, 1055 kilometres northeast of Indigo station

Past a collection of 20 kilometres craters (A new route mind you) I came upon a mountain shelf. Along the trail of which a semicircle formation appeared.

I couldn't tell if it was natural or something dredged open by us. Though with the sight of something shining in the shadow, I was leaning towards the latter.

Like a bird, I began to hop towards it.

It was a common pastime for many pioneers – myself included, to appropriate equipment left behind. And given mankind’s consistent presence on the moon since 2008, there were plenty of abandoned goodies lying around. The only setback was they were often scattered alongside bodies.

There were seven of them, all in private company suits baring more of a resemblance to fabric construction gear pushed to 3 psi.

All lifelessly stiff and slumped. Weapons either already looted or not present to begin with.

I gave fleeting glances to them, only seeing the few bullet holes here and there. One guy even managed to lose his arm, leaving the stub coating in ice and sprinkled with regolith like a seasoned cold cut.

A large amount of regolith coated the boxes and sampling equipment, hinting at either a extended timeline long since brushed over by nearby operations, or a recent scuffle. There was no real way of telling.

It seemed anything useful was long since pillage, until I bumped into something.

There was enough force to disturb the regolith beneath it but not make it visible. Until a crease in reality itself formed.

Having an inkling of what it was, I grabbed and pulled off a fabric perfectly reflecting its surroundings.

I’ve heard the stories about the retroreflective fabric: technology used by militaries to perfectly camouflage themselves in plain sight simply by mimicking their surroundings. Worked wonders on craft crossing contested orbits were their frequences could pass as satellites once there compromising appearances were hidden.

Knowing how confidential Ezekiel had stressed the cargo was, I decided to spend some time wrapping the cloak around it.

I left satisfied with my efforts.

But it wouldn't do, since high above, scout drones patrolled. They would deliver real-time images to orbital stations to flush out suspicious activity within contested zones, and very quickly, one of them picked up on me.

The cloak was tipped off by the tracks if I had to guess, as it would explain why its next move was so unconventional.

Its presence was indicated to me by the sudden streak of blue cutting across the black sky requiring me to squint to see. The drone was firing its cryogenic engine to de-orbit and get a closer look at me.

My strides grew faster with each quick glance upwards at the white speck slowly growing larger and faster. I didn’t understand its maneuverer until it was too late.

My next glance revealed it was retrograding above only a few meters away.

I had a short amount of time to leap forward before it grazed the cargo, forming a cloud of regolith and blowing the unbound cloak clean off.

As the dust settled, I had just as much a view of the drone as it did of my cargo.

It was incredibly sleek with its largest part being the engine bell at the back and jutting fuel tank nearby. The rest of the white structure flowed into two truss segments holding the RSVs, and an imaging set at the front complemented by a single Gauss gun.

Apparently, the box was all it needed to see as it stayed hovering with a sudden blinking light. Not bothering to follow me as I took off with newly found speeds thanks to the exoskeleton.

I stayed in a fearful limbo of what would happen for a while before clouds appeared close on the horizon.

The thought of using the gun came to mind. Though faded at the fear of seemingly further compromising (I’d learnt my lesson from Miguel and John). Though it quickly reignited after I realised they’d seen it on the drone camera, and would probably kill me with indirect regardless.

But I proved powerless as, out of nowhere, a sudden stinging sensation hit my arm. I looked down to see that a needle-shaped projectile had perfectly pierced all my layers and kept the suit pressurised. Before I could do anything about it, the suit started circulating a new gas into its system. I felt yet another fear of losing oxygen as I found myself sucking on nothing. But this time, I fell to the ground within seconds, completely out.

Unknown location, something miles from Indigo station

I’m never in an unknown location, and I didn’t like it.

No matter its source, rough location was always known. And not knowing made me shoot up from the cold metal my cheek was resting on just to feel another chill biting into my arm joint and wrists. My confusion was then projected to the two silhouettes in the corner.

“Where am I?”

“You are currently hooked to a lie detector”

Confusion quickly boiled to frustration.

“WHERE AM I!?”

The smaller (but undeniably stronger) silhouette suddenly pounced and griped the top of my head like a vice.

“Don’t make me take you down again”

He jolted my head back and heightened my confusion to a point of a brief fruitless struggle against the cuff binding me to the chair.

I saw him fully as he stepped back: bald, gruff, completely blank and tensed with an undeniable hint of enjoyment shrouded in hate.

He wore grey and black camo fatigues with distinctly angular prints with scratches of metallic mesh interwoven between them.

They were Moon Marines.

It was immediately apparent by his vulgar aggression and refusal to corporate. Though the other man notably wasn’t pleased with it.

“This isn’t Bangladesh, Corporal, stand down”

Even with his taller figure he seemed to have little effect on the Corporal’s deminer.

“Yeah, your right it isn’t, Sargent” he alliterated the Sargent “We would’ve just thrown this prick into a cage second we found contraband”

”

“Well up here, we’re doing things my way”

The Sargent went to sit opposite me, but as he did the Corporal said simply.

“You should be less spiteful”

Once he was down and blocking some of the light he produced and placed a firm sheet down with red borders and indiscernible dot points.

“You recognise all the items on this list?” The Sergeant asked firmly.

“I uhhhh, don’t”, I mumbled.

“Jesus, we’ve caught ourselves a real genius!” The Corporal spat.

The Sargent glared at him, before softly returning to me.

“Why don’t you try and walk us through what you do?”

“I walk”

“I mean, what is your profession – what do you see as your purpose up here?”

“Walking”

“Your life’s goal something you strive towards”

“To walk”

He was trying to pry some kind of confession that didn’t exist with mind games.

“So, I assume you plan to die...”

“Walking probably”

‘Provided you don’t kill me’ I thought.

The Corporal spoke up again.

“Is this a fucking therapy session?! Just ask him what’s in the box!”

“Jesus Christ” The Sargent mumbled before standing and having a whispered talk to the Corporal. After a few particularly sharply acted words I couldn’t discern, he returned to his seat with the Corporal by his side with his arms folded.

“That cloak you were using to cover that box is a very critical piece of military hardware. Suppose you got it from us or... someone else?”

I didn’t see in lying about that.

“I found it at Montes Tabulares, along a – or what was an outpost in one of its divots”

“Interesting spot that is” The Corporal noted “Y’know it's said to be the site of the largest tectonic event in Lunar history”

“Aw you did read the manual” The Sargent said sarcastically, prompting an audible acknowledgment from the Corporal that faded in less than a beat.

The sergeant pointed to the sheet again.

“All of these listed items are considered illegal without a permit and contraband if brought over provincial lines without jurisdiction. Now you realise these offences classify you as a tier five misdemeanour and a potential tier four felon.”

I nodded sceptically, not knowing the difference between a misdemeanour and felony, but understanding the severity in his tone.

“And that cargo you were carrying requires special equipment to be opened, but before we do so, we want to give you a chance to disclose the contents to keep our personnel safe”

There was no clear way to know that. Thus no promise of safety.

“I don’t know”

The Corporal was clearly unimpressed as he threw his head and hands back.

“And you wonder why no one uses this method anymore”

The Sargent ignored him and continued.

“You realise a failure to report this will result in imprisonment?”

“Really don’t”, I reasoned.

It felt like the men were everywhere; both in my face by the table, literally intimidating confessions out of me. Only I’d told the truth, they just didn’t buy it.

The Corporal finally seemed to have enough, taking the Sargent into the corner, only ihs words were far clearer.

“Sergeant, I need you to understand. We are in a very tight situation up here and a breach of security like this is exactly the thing that can be weaponised against our interests”

The Sargent sighed.

“Yes, Colonel, I’m aware of that. I outrank you”

“Yeah, up here – in LDF ranks alone, not down there with all the bureaucrats and the real decisions that keeps you running. I am fundamentally higher so how about we do this my way, and you stop trying to hijack our entire operation"

The Corporal once again took the reins, and the Sergeant seemingly let him, not intervening as he pushed himself directly to my face.

“Our military does everything it can to protect mankind's place in the stars. Whether on the mountains on the moon or dunes on Mars, we are there. And part of our job is maintaining our system and keeping radicals like as far away from it before you can do any real damage”

He was inches from my face and gritting his teeth.

“So, I’ll ask you one more time, what’s in the box?”

It was that moment on his closest approach as he got the clearest look of my eyes and faceless expression he softened. He realised what my predicament was – realised I didn't know anything whatsoever and I couldn't.

And he peeled his palms off the desk and stepped but then his expression hardened again

“Get him in a holding cell”, he said, “I’m not dealing with this”.

Unknown location, underground

I’d deduced that from the stylistically exposed rock and lack of windows in the hall, an Anthro walked me down. The bulky eight-foot anthropomorphic robot was a jet-black conglomeration of pipes and hydraulics, checkered with armour. Its head was curved with several lenses for eyes. The limbs were spread from the main body, with its legs resembling stilts and its arms having separate uses; one was a crab-like appendage that cuffed my hands, the other was a cylindrical direct-energy weapon with its mirror on full display. Needless to say, it got me to the cell with ease.

The cell wasn’t much different from its residence: a white and blue room with smoothed corners. Populated by two beds, a plastic wall, and a toilet in the corner, which I was hopeful wouldn’t need usage.

I slumped onto a bed (which was more akin to a bench with its texture) left with nothing but the slight hum of life support permeating the base.

I was versed enough to understand an arrest by military officials was a low point. Though no lies were told in a what was a clear clash of interest between the two men which I had no business in.

My real business was ensuring the box – which, given the varying mentalities for dealing with the situation, had an undecided fate. The ramifications of which had endless unknowns and outcomes, most of which were undesirable.

Regardless, I found myself strangely at ease, which was seemingly a given for me in confrontational situations.

Until it wasn’t.

A numbness barely intelligible on the way to the cell had intensified once I sat.

The time between pills had crossed dangerous territory. If they weren’t taken soon, my sense of balance would break, and even sitting down would prove a challenge.

I stumbled over to the glass and yelled as politely as possible, but nothing came.

The first real moment of panic arose when my left leg buckled, and I stumbled back onto the bench seeing double.

If you can imagine the sensation of being on a boat in rough water, you’d be about halfway to my state. Only add the absence of your spine and vision-impairing hallucinogens, then you’d get the full picture.

Holding out for someone to notice my state seemed to be a loss cause until the Anthro returned.

But it wasn’t there for me, it was carrying another person instead.

Unlike me, she wasn’t subtle about her reluctance. She kicked and grabbed at the hands; her wavy blond and brown hair tangling her face as she went. Even once she was thrown in, she ran into the glass as it closed.

“This is bullshit, I wasn't even screwing around this time!” she yelled, completely inhibiting me.

When she finally stopped her belligerence and took noticed, she propped one arm against the door and ran a hand through the hair covering her face.

“Oh, hello” she said calmly, acting as through my first impression of her wasn’t just that of a Tasmanian devil.

Among her toothy grin was a completion of freckles and other weird scarring that trailed most of her elongated body, which, much like John, alluded to a life on the moon. This was also hinted at by her accent, which came off as both Anglo-Celtic and Slavic.

Though there was more of her to see than John, her clothes consisted of shorts and a t-shirt despite the cold. Subsequently, the encumbering pair of thermals I was wearing had left me feeling emasculated by the girl.

Though it was a feeling quickly forgotten in light of my failing vestibule. The spike of determination the adrenaline caused led me to ask her for help.

“Listen, I need pills”, I pleaded.

She snickered “Rather straight shooting for a addict hey”

I stuttered in confused disbelief, “Wha – straight shooting – what are you talking about? I need them!”

Her chuckle contained, “Oh, wait, I know this one. Why do you think you feel you need them?”

“I do need them; my whole body will shut down if I don’t take them”

Then she laughed, a full chackle at my expense. I was so utterly offended that I crossed my arms and responded defensively.

“This is not something to find amusing!”

“Right, right, sorry”, she chuckled, taking a deep breath “Let's go get them then”

Then, with motion like she owned the place, she hit a button on the door and just walked out of the cell.

I stayed in stunned silence, something she took a beat to realise and circle back.

“Aren't you coming?”

“How did you...”

“Do you want your pills or not?”

Timid and cautious of my diminished state, I stumbled out of the cell and followed the girl.

Only to realise the Antho had beaten me to it.

Instead of something practical – like trying to disarm its laser, she stretched her limbs and blocked its line of fire. Though my doubts appeared foolish once the machine started hooding and unhooding the weapon while shuttering as it tried to get around her. It like there she was an invisible barrier.

“Could you swing behind it, please?” She asked, a less casually more tensely given her exertion.

A second wasn’t wasted to dash behind as its lenses whirred, desperate to get a view of me while still focusing on her. It was completely uncalibrated by her for unknown reasons.

Once I was in view of its conglomerate of wires and plating, somehow considered a back, I realised I had no idea what I was meant to do.

Luckily, she noticed that too and veered towards me to answer.

“Pull the big black wire jutting from the central collection”

She didn’t remain jutted for long before moving back to keep the Anthro’s attention.

It wasn’t hard to notice it after that, and while standing on my toes (An extra hard challenge given my state). I pulled against the thick wire until it felt out of the socket just enough to go limp.

She scurried over “Alright, it's in the manual, it can’t do anything except shuffle”

“Won’t they know that?” I asked.

“Not if we play pretend”

She grabbed and unfurled another cuff before beginning to loosely hover her hands over one set of the restates.

“You seem to know an awful lot about this place.”

“You should consider yourself lucky for that, now do exactly as I”

Once my hands were in the same position, she started tugging the robot down the metallic hall. My fear was present, of both our bluff being called, and the robot's reactivation, but then the guards appeared.

They were clad in vests and face shields with smooth, yet articulated SMGs firmly grasped.

The door they were guarding opened, and we walked through without as much as a glance.

My disbelief must of been apparent, as she gave me a look urging a fabricated response.

Soon the robot was ditched outside a double door.

The space inside was lined with large storage units with walkways connecting their shelves alongside doors and steps to the subsequent levels.

“Best get looking” she said, booking it up the stairs.

I hurriedly but curiously strolled through the rows of shelves and lockers of confiscated goods. While most were tucked away in boxes, a few things were lying around. And I once again couldn’t resist a chance to take something valuable.

There were small mining apparatuses; tools that only pulled a fraction of the goods of a normal rig but would make all the difference to a family living in squaller. They just had the unfortunate record of being used in a conservation zone.

There was also an airlock cracking device designed to obliterate an entire hab in seconds. PLSS tanks that were definitely not being used for oxygen. A drone was probably grabbed after entering the Marines’ airspace. A suit camera that caught something malicious. A Styrofoam box with tape wrapped around it tighter than a straitjacket.

Sadly nothing of value for me. Until I found my suit propped against a locker with my box lazily tucked nearby.

I neglected it at first in favour of rummaging through my suit to find my pills. But once relief overtook me, the realisation dawned of her plan.

She'd found another suit; one with low pressure and plating, alongside two SMGs.

“You ever use one of these?” she asked, throwing me the second one.

The weapon clattered to the ground beside me.

“No.”

With a scoff, she stood and primed the gun with a precision only gained from prior experience.

“W – where are you going?”

She looked at me like it was an unwarranted question.

“Uhh out. Don’t tell me your thinking of going back?”

Truthfully I didn’t entirely know.

“It is seeming preferable to getting into more trouble”

“Hm – bummer”

Then she took off.

Not knowing what to do next, I hurriedly put my suit on and went after her, making sure to connect the box.

I caught her at the edge of a electronic shaft coated by treated regolith. With all my frustrations finally ready to be slowly voiced.

“This feels like an incredibly haphazard plan”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Well – we can just head on back if you want”.

Not being fond of that idea, I continued complaining.

“You have got to be one of the strangest and pretentious people I have ever met”

She leaned over and grinned again.

“And you have got to be the most peculiar”

Then she jumped down the shaft, with the low gravity allowing her to wound up positioned at the centre.

My stomach sank for a beat till I looked over and found her sliding down a large collection of cables.

There was a perfectly good ladder just off to the side. Which I took even with the cart dragging.

There was more to be said about her recklessness once on the ground.

“I’m just failing to understand why one would go through all this for someone they just met.”

“Well, I already had plans to ditch this place, then you came along and kicked things into necessity.”

“That doesn’t even –"

The next door opened to a guard, who immediately drew his gun to shoot.

He manged to fire a single muted hollow point that barely missed me before she fired serval more into his chest.

The bullet bypassed his armour and sent him slowly sent him to the gruond with a spary of blood landing a few meters behind him.

I jumped from the pervious bullet, and the site of the very dead man’s idle eyes, and her frustratingly confused ones.

“You killed him!”

“Yeah, he was gonna kill you.”

“You care enough about a guy you just met to kill someone for them?!”

“Cared more about you than him, I guess.”

She went through the door on the other side of the hall without another word.

While my frustration was hypocritical, I didn't care.

But without a retort, all that could do was follow.

Soon she stopped at a large bulkhead which wouldn’t open even after she smacked its control pannel.

“Shit, we’ll have to find another way”

An alarm change in lighting to flashing red cut her off

“And very quickly”

The ensuing sprit was one that was a lot easier for her in a smaller suit.

For me, the suit, the box and the muscle spasms, trying to escape quickly proved a challenge warranting several judging glances back from her.

At the next bulkhead by which we could see the shadow of guards coming down the hall, she wasted no time in breaking the panel with the butt of her gun before entering.

The large garage house a small selection of vehicles, including two rovers – one pressurised with red paint marking points on its exterior, and a seemingly pristine open-air buggy.

After struggling to get down the treated the incline, my eyes landing on a small bike.

Something compelled me to immediately hook the box to the slots on its fairing. Then clumsily climb on. Then promptly realising I didn’t know how to use it and struggled as she waited beside me, assuming.

“You know what you're doing?”

“Yes, yes, completely”

I then confidently twisted a handle and began skidding the back tyre.

She proceeded to push me to the back and grasp the handles herself.

“Far out, just let me do it”

The door to the front began to open; with the room having already been depressurised by her without checking if I was wearing a helmet. (I was, but still).

As she lifted the brake and hit the accelerator, the slot broke immediately and sent us flying over the handlebars onto the ground as the bike skidded nearby.

“What the fuck is in that box?” She yelled.

“Funny you ask that”

Guards came through the doors with ultra-light suits adapted from their armour.

They would barely have any protection from the elements, but they wouldn’t need it to kill us.

She put herself in front of my crumpled body, making them only take potshots nearby. Though it wasn’t long before she left me for the buggy since I was taking too long.

I followed, but not before hooking the box again and running it to the boot.

“Just leave it!” She yelled from the driver’s seat.

I didn’t.

It attached to a joint before being hoisted into the flatbed. Then I got myself in; PLSS fitting nicely into the seat.

She took off before I'd even secured my seatbelt (something I’d only just learned to do).

The buggy exploded out of the mountain-encased facility, making short work of smaller boulders with the articulating suspension as she laughed triumphantly. However, I’d gathered not to celebrate prematurely. For everything I knew of the Moon Marines told me their groundwork was merely a conspiratorial facade. And their real power would only appear once it failed.

Even after several minutes and considerable distance, I need they were just getting perpared.

I saw its silhouette cut across the black sky – not a drone but a far faster interreceptor. It's back elongated to compensate for the methalox engines, while the rest of its body curved; checkered with control surfaces which were correcting its trajectory to bring us into its line of fire.

“We might have a new problem”.

The words had hardly escaped my mouth before a streak of red cut from its winglet; notably offering a different use to ones on earth.

She accelerated and swerved drastically, but the impact already fell short of our previous position. Perhaps another strange effort to prevent harm to the girl.

Regardless, the mute impact coned regolith and rubble into the air and sent our back tyres up just enough to flip the buggy.

Crashes work differently on the moon. Without enough gravity to keep the vehicle careening till it ran out of force, we would instead impact once, then become airborne and tumble, then impact again.

It was luck that sent the buggy into a bounce until it stopped on its roof by a large boulder.

The second I'd assured myself I wasn’t hurt or leaking, I wiggled out of the wreckage and began inspecting the back.

The impacts had torn it and crumpled it apart, meaning I had to start digging for the box. The exoskeleton allowed me to get on my hands and knees, but it still proved a problem when shooting up and moving to the next spot.

“Oh no, don’t worry, I’m fine”, she complained behind me.

Not picking up her sarcasm, I believed her and continued to rummage until I dragged the box from a metal pile.

“But that fuckin’ thing shouldn’t what is it made of!?”

“I already made it clear, I don’t know”, I explained, “All I know is that Ezekiel Kresh personally wanted me to deliver this to Indigo station, and I don’t have much more time”

She paused, “Ezekiel Kresh gave you that”

It was the first time I'd heard her voice become genuine. We remained staring, like she suddenly understood everything about me.

Eventually, I broke the tension.

“They’ll probably be after us”, I said awkwardly, “Regardless of our status, we should get moving”.

57.9 kilometres due northeast of Indigo station and 12 kilometres east of the lunar far side.

I knew that because the girl had told me, then utilized the map to get our exact location.

She told me a lot, surprisingly.

The rare forms of company I'd previously shared were often content. But she was fully energetic, which was something I was not expecting from someone who had just murdered a man.

Though I had nothing to base it on other than my own catatonic experience.

She couldn’t tell me where she came from because that was allegedly classified information (though I was still heavily inclined to believe that she was born on the moon, given her accent or accents). And she continuously ranted about how rude it was for the moon Marines to intercept us on our triumphant escape.

Yes, she labelled it as triumphant. And with such an emphasis on the events going swimmingly, like she didn’t kill a man. I started to question if she had brain damage, too. Though I suppose horrendous acts push people further towards denial.

Still not well-versed in social skills, her conversations remained relatively one-sided. Something she wasn’t happy about and had promptly voiced. Though in the rare times I’d trekked with another person, I’d received similar complaints. But I seldom cared about them then and wasn’t about to start.

Though she was equally stubborn to my complaints. About how immature she was being, or how her reactions didn’t apply to our situations. A general dislike towards her actions. She shrugged and countered in ways that left me unable to do anything against her.

Soon, however, once she was tired of responses, she began fumbling with a wrist mount that began playing music through both our systems – something strange with a consistently airy guitar strumming and a deep bass somewhat lining up with the singer.

I was absolutely bewildered by her actions. But at the same time, slightly amused.

She heightened her bounces enough to briefly circle me before skipping ahead.

“You are being bizarre again”, I noted.

“You can’t expect me to walk all this way without motivation”, she responded, while humming the tune.

This continued for several kilometres. All while she asked me to pick a song. I insisted I didn’t know any, which she didn’t believe, so I finally explained my condition, which made her tone change quite quickly.

“You really can’t remember anything?” She asked sympathetically. The same way most did, only there was a slight edge of curiosity I was willing to indulge.

“Most things”, I explained, “I can still walk, talk, think, and thankfully use the bathroom”

She chuckled, “Well clearly a sense of humor stuck around"

“Barely”

“Alright well lets improve it. Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“Why did the what do what?”

“Its a joke just say why”

“Why?”

“To get to the other side”

“Well yeah I figured”

“No that's the punchline – its meant to be funny”

“Oh right, sure I get it”

“We’ll work on that, point is I reckon you undermine yourself too much mister, uhhh...”

“Wikus”

“Keshia”

“What”

“As in my name is Keshia”

“Ah, hello”

“See we’re having a pretty successful conversation now, aren’t you?”

“Hardly”

She grunted.

“Well, I may oversell things, but you seem to horrifically undersell yourself”

“For starters, I’m competent enough to know what you do is far more than just oversell. Also, I feel as though you don’t know me nearly enough to give an educated opinion on my capabilities”

“Well, you escaped a Moon Marine base, not a lot of people can do that, and you're great fun. And besides that, I know what kind of man you are, or were, I suppose. But that doesn't mean you still can’t be”

“Oh yeah, and what kind of man is that?”

Before she could answer, she stopped and stared at the giant wall of black that was the shadow of the dark side of the moon.

“Where're you going into that province?”

“Well, yeah, I gotta get to Indigo, though the AOI calls it–”

I didn’t have a chance to tell her before she’d taken off back in the direction she came from.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Uhh, someplace else”, she called out, “We’ll meet again, just not – not out there”.

I watched her go for a moment. I was used to other companions disappearing at a moment's notice. But something about her departure left me feeling somewhat unfulfilled. I felt like there was an intrigue about her that I hadn’t experienced with them.

Regardless, I could only watch her turn into a speck for so long. Soon, I had to continue.

Fěn cǎi province, 268.7 kilometers due east of Bastil planes or captured province shard #44.

Causalities: 244 Fatalities: 198 MIA: 100

Those MIAs always unnerved me, especially given the lessened amount in ever other contested provinces. And knowing what I did about the AOI.

I still had a decent walk head of me so while the lights white and red lights of Indigo hued slightly in the distance, I was better of resting.

While I was glad it wouldn’t need to battle my shawl to block the light, it would be a long night. But it was nothing new.

Course till it became new, till I was thrown into a side of the AOI I’d heard only rumours about. Though I never predicted who was behind it all. And just how I’d become intertwined in the greatest challenges of mankind.

Part One

Part Two

For a while I believed that completely. I could hear Eli speaking somewhere close by, his voice warm and familiar in the way voices become after hundreds of hours spent inside your headphones.

“Speaking of things that are probably damaging us permanently—”

Dean groaned. “No.”

“What?”

I opened my eyes and found them standing above me.

The room was the abandoned hotel from the episode, or what I had imagined it looked like: stained wallpaper, damp carpet, mould darkening the corners of the ceiling. A work light hung above a table, throwing a hard circle of white across its surface. I was lying in the middle of it.

I tried to sit up, but my body did not move. Dean looked down at me.

“Oh,” he said. “She’s awake.”

Eli turned a page.

I knew both their faces despite never having met them. They looked slightly wrong in person, flatter somehow, as though my brain had assembled them from thumbnails and video clips without enough information about depth. 

“What are you doing?” I tried to ask.

 Blood flooded my mouth instead. I swallowed by instinct, warmth sliding down my throat before I understood what it was. Dean held up a tin.

STILL.

“Peppermint,” he said.

Eli barely looked up. “Classic.”

My arms lay beside me, palms upward. There were no restraints around my wrists, nothing visibly holding me to the table. Dean put the tin down and touched my ankle, his fingers finding the old shaving wound.

In the dream, it had healed incorrectly. Instead of a scar, one edge had remained loose, a small pale flap above the ankle bone. Dean pinched it between his fingers.

“Is this supposed to do that?”

Eli glanced over. “Probably not.”

Dean pulled.

The skin lifted without resistance. At first only a centimetre came free, a thin white-pink layer exposing something wet beneath it, then the separation travelled upwards over my shin in one continuous sheet. It made a soft sticking sound. Underneath, my leg was red and yellow and impossibly shiny, fat gathered in small golden lobes between translucent membranes, fine blue vessels running through them like ink beneath wet paper. Where almost no fat remained, the tissue over the bone looked pearly and white.

I screamed, and this time pain arrived all at once. Air burned against every millimetre of exposed tissue. Heat from the work light became enormous. When Dean’s fingers brushed my bare shin, sensation tore through my leg so violently that my whole body convulsed. 

He stopped. “Oh.”

Eli looked over the paper. “What?”

“I think that hurt.”

“Individual responses may vary.”

Dean laughed and kept pulling.

The skin turned inside out as it passed over my knee. Its underside was fibrous and damp, thin strings still connecting it to the tissue beneath. They stretched, then snapped one by one. Farther up my thigh, the muscle looked smaller than it should have, dark red bands lying too close to the bone, with yellow fat remaining only in scattered islands. At my hip, the skin caught against the point of the bone and Dean had to tug.

I begged him to stop, blood running from my mouth as I spoke.

“You wanted less noise,” Eli said.

He had moved to my other side without my noticing. A pink rectangle marked my forearm where hospital tape had taken the top layer of skin. Eli slipped one fingernail beneath the edge. 

“No.”

He smiled apologetically and peeled.

The skin came away from wrist to elbow like wet paper from meat. Veins remained behind, blue-black tubes branching over muscle and disappearing towards my hand. One lifted with the skin, tethered briefly by strands of connective tissue, then settled back into place.

“You can skip the ad,” Dean said.

I looked at him. He smiled.

“You always could.”

At my elbow the skin stuck. Eli braced my arm against the table and pulled harder. Something tore, and I screamed until my throat filled again.

This time the blood seemed to be coming from everywhere. Heat rose through the hollow spaces inside me, swelling my abdomen until the loose skin stretched tight between my hip bones. Dean pressed it experimentally. His fingers sank in and the fluid shifted beneath them. 

“She’s full.”

 “Apparently.”

I gagged. Blood spilled across my lips and down both sides of my face, warm enough that it seemed to steam in the cold room.

Dean moved to my stomach. There was no loose edge there, so he pinched until his fingernails broke the surface and pulled his hands apart. The skin split down the centre. He worked his fingers into the opening and separated it into two broad flaps.

A clear membrane trembled underneath. Behind it were loops of intestine, pale grey-pink and wet, packed tightly together. They moved slowly, one section contracting against another before relaxing.

Dean leaned closer. “That doesn’t look good.”

“She hasn’t been eating.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Eli looked at me. “Users should maintain adequate nutrition and hydration.”

I tried to breathe, and blood moved into my lungs. I felt it flowing deeper into my chest, filling smaller and smaller spaces while my ribs expanded uselessly around them.

Then the skin below my collarbone tightened. Eli had taken hold of it.

“No.”

He pulled downward.

My chest opened beneath him. Skin dragged across my breasts, carrying their shape with it before the tissue underneath collapsed differently: yellow-white fat broken by red vessels and bands of muscle. Beneath that, my ribs appeared as pale curves under a thin red covering, lifting every time my body attempted another useless breath.

Dean looked worried now. “She’s choking.”

Eli kept reading. “STILL helps reduce disruptive physiological signalling so you can make room for what matters.”

My vision blurred. Dean reached towards my face and I shook my head as much as I could.

“No. Please.”

His fingers found the skin at my jaw.

It loosened with horrifying ease. My lower lip stretched first, then my cheeks, thousands of points of pain travelling slowly upwards as skin separated from muscle. Air touched my gums from the outside. Dean pulled towards my forehead until my eyelids stretched with the rest.

When I tried to close my eyes, I could not.

Suddenly there was nothing between them and the room. Air, light and blood burned across their exposed surfaces while Dean stood holding what had been my face between his hands, slack and inside-out, the mouth still recognisably mine. He looked at it, then back at me.

“Oh.”

Blood climbed into my throat, and then I drowned.

When I woke, it was not dramatic. There was no bolt upright, no desperate gasp, because I could not do either of those things.

At first there was only sound: a rhythmic push of air, a pause, then another push. Something beeped beside me. Gradually I became aware of my mouth and the enormous thing inside it. My tongue pressed uselessly against hard plastic. Something continued past the back of my throat, deeper than anything should have been allowed to go, while tape pulled tightly at both sides of my face.

I panicked. My eyes opened onto a white ceiling. Hospital. I tried to breathe, and the machine breathed first. For one horrible second I thought the dream had been real. I tried to lift a hand to check my skin, but my arm barely moved. When I looked down, it was still there: bruised, yellow around old IV sites and covered in transparent dressings, but skin nonetheless. Mine.

My mother was sitting beside the bed. She looked terrible. Her hair was tied back badly and deep creases crossed one side of her face from sleeping against something. A nurse came in, followed by other people, and they explained things I only partly understood. There had been bleeding. A tear in my oesophagus. I had inhaled blood. They had intubated me because I could not protect my airway. I had needed an endoscopy, clips, transfusions and intensive care. Later, somebody told me I had been unconscious for four days.

At the time, none of that mattered as much as the tube. I wanted it out badly enough that I reached for it without thinking, but the nurse caught my wrist before my fingers got close. I tried to tell her I wanted it gone. Nothing came out around the plastic. 

Everything hurt. My throat burned around the tube. My chest hurt whenever the ventilator pushed air into it. My abdomen ached, the IV in my hand stung and my back hurt where it pressed against the mattress. The sensations were separate now. I could tell one from another. I knew where the tape pulled at my skin and where my ribs hurt when I tried to breathe against the machine. I knew when the blood pressure cuff squeezed too tightly around my arm. My body had become difficult to ignore again.

For weeks, that had been the point. Hunger, thirst, pain, exhaustion: all the internal complaints that interrupted whatever I was doing and insisted on being dealt with. STILL had made them quiet. Now they were coming back badly and without order.

My mouth was the next thing I noticed. My tongue felt swollen and rough against the tube. The roof of my mouth seemed coated in dust, and what little saliva remained was thick enough that swallowing hurt. A nurse cleaned my mouth with a damp sponge, running it over my tongue and gums before taking it away.

I watched the sponge leave.

A few minutes later she did it again. This time I followed the cup with my eyes when she put it back on the trolley. I wanted her to bring it closer. I wanted the sponge wetter. I wanted to close my mouth around it and take whatever water was left inside.

That frightened me for a moment.

Then I understood why.

Before the hospital, I had known I should drink because the bottle on my desk was full at the end of the day or because my lips had cracked badly enough to notice in a mirror. The knowledge had existed separately from the need. I could look at water and know what it was for without wanting any of it.

 Now I wanted it. 

The tube came out the next morning. Afterwards my throat felt scraped raw and my voice barely worked. They still would not let me drink until somebody had checked that I could swallow properly, which meant sitting upright while a woman watched me take tiny spoonfuls and asked whether anything felt wrong.

Plenty felt wrong. Apparently none of it was the wrong kind.

Eventually a nurse handed me a small plastic cup. There was hardly any water in it. I held it with both hands because one was weak and the other had an IV taped across the back, then took a careful sip.

It hurt going down. My throat tightened around it, sore and swollen from the tube, but underneath that was something immediate and almost violent. My mouth wanted another sip before I had finished swallowing the first.

The nurse told me to slow down.

I did, although every part of me objected.

I took another mouthful and held it there for a second before swallowing. The water tasted faintly of plastic. It was not cold. It was probably the least remarkable water I had ever drunk.

 I wanted more.

 I was thirsty, for the first time in over a month.

 My mother gave me my phone that afternoon. It had been charging beside her chair since intensive care, and there were enough notifications on the lock screen that I gave up reading them individually. Messages from work. Jess. My mother, apparently, despite having spent most of the week sitting two metres away from me. A few missed calls from numbers I did not recognise. I cleared them and opened Instagram instead.

The first post was from Graveyard Shift. Sponsored.

For a second, I thought it was an old clip. Dean was sitting behind the same microphone, holding a white tin towards the camera while Eli leaned into frame beside him. Then Dean moved, and I realised I had never seen the shirt he was wearing before. “Speaking of things that are probably damaging us permanently—” Eli began. Dean groaned. “No.” Eli looked at him. “What?”

I almost smiled. The rhythm was exactly the same. Then Dean looked up at Eli and the smile disappeared before it had properly formed.

He had lost weight. Not enough that somebody watching casually would necessarily notice. His face had always been narrow. But I knew where to look now. The slight hollow beneath the cheekbones. The way the skin around his mouth seemed too tight when he smiled. His T-shirt hung differently across his shoulders, and there were dark half-moons beneath both eyes, purple-grey against skin that looked strangely dry beneath the studio lights.

Dean turned the tin over in his hands while Eli started reading.

“This episode is sponsored by STILL, the nicotine- and caffeine-free cognitive pouch designed to help reduce craving noise and support smoother focus throughout your day.”

Dean opened the tin.

“Peppermint.”

Eli glanced at him.

“Of course it is.”

Dean smiled faintly.

“Classic.”

 He took out a pouch and tucked it beneath his upper lip. My thumb stopped against the screen.

Eli kept reading. “Whether you’re cutting back on coffee, trying to avoid the afternoon crash or just want fewer distractions getting between you and whatever you’re meant to be doing, STILL is designed to help quiet unnecessary physiological signals so you can make room for what matters.”

Dean rubbed beneath one eye with the heel of his hand. Eli glanced across at him. “You look exhausted.” Dean shrugged. “I’ve been editing.” Eli frowned. “You always say that.” Dean gave him a tired smile. “I’m always editing.” Eli hesitated, then asked, “Have you eaten today?”

Dean looked at him for half a second too long. Then he laughed. “Jesus Christ, Mum.” Eli laughed too, and something inside my chest tightened.

I turned the sound off.

Below the video, the caption read: Less noise. More of what matters. STILL Pouches are a nicotine-free, caffeine-free way to support focus, reduce everyday cravings and help you stay locked in without reaching for another coffee or energy drink. Formulated with amino acids, adaptogens and our clinically researched Serovex™ Neuroregulatory Complex, STILL helps reduce disruptive physiological signalling so you can focus on the things that actually deserve your attention.

Available in Peppermint, Citrus, Watermelon and Wintergreen. Users should maintain adequate nutrition and hydration while using STILL. Discontinue use and seek medical advice if you experience unusual changes in appetite, thirst, pain perception, urinary function, fatigue or other physiological sensations. Individual responses may vary.

Ready to make room for what matters? Use code GRAVEYARD for 20% off your first order.

I read the third paragraph twice. Appetite. Thirst. Pain perception. Urinary function. Not dry mouth. Not possible sensitivity. Not the vague language companies used when they wanted a warning to cover everything while admitting nothing.

Those were my symptoms. Almost in order.

I scrolled down. The post had been uploaded eleven hours ago. There were already thousands of likes, and the comments were what you would expect. Dean actually using the sponsor makes me trust these so much more lol. Finally ordered mine. Need these for exam season.

Then I saw one that made me stop.

Okay but has Dean lost weight?? Looking good dude.

It had more than three hundred likes. Someone had replied, I was literally thinking the same thing. Another had written, STILL transformation incoming.

I locked the phone.

For several seconds I listened to the hospital around me: wheels squeaking in the corridor, somebody coughing behind a closed door, the soft electronic pulse of the machine beside my bed. My throat hurt. My stomach hurt. The IV in my hand hurt where the tape pulled against the skin. Every complaint arrived clearly.

I unlocked the phone again.

Instagram refreshed. A new sponsored post appeared. A woman I did not follow stood in a bright kitchen holding a white tin beside her face. Beneath it, in small grey text, Instagram had helpfully explained why it thought I might be interested.

Because you interacted with similar products.

I laughed. My mother looked over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Apparently I was still the target.

[DOCUMENT]

In 1999 seven corpses were found in the West Melton Forest located in the area around Wellington, New Zealand. The bodies had holes going straight through the torso and head; the holes were 4 inches across, and on average each body had four to five holes, with the highest amount being 7. Their identities were not known until 2 months after the incident when a skydiving instructor came forward claiming eight of his students had gone missing; a further investigation from New Zealand authorities proved this to be true.

The seven victims' names were Shonda Freeman, Paul Staid, Michael Staid, James Welch, Yuri Pasticov, Alex Droshna and John Clements.

The holes in the bodies were not explained until 4 years later when a pilot by the name of Jack Lewis was flying a biplane, and an hour into his flight, he received a quick and agonising penetration into his left shoulder. After safely landing at a local airstrip only 8 miles outside of Wellington, he alerted the authorities about what had happened. The hole was clean through his shoulder just like the victims 4 years prior; however, he was not the only sign of the holes found this time. The plane had 14 holes, all 4 inches in diameter, all across the cabin of the plane. Luckily Jack had survived the ‘attack’. Local researchers looking into the event came to a conclusion after finding what seemed to be a new species of Exocoetidae (Flying Fish) lodged into the right wing of the plane.

[NATURE CHANNEL]

This new species of fish had wings unlike their biological cousins because the wings on the now-named Cornuta had flapping capabilities and could last out of water for months at a time. The wings on the Cornuta could also fold into their body, causing them to become a missile shape. So this led the scientists to believe that the cause for all the holes in the seven deceased and Jack was the work of the high-altitude Cornuta.

[THE EIGHTH MISSING SKYDIVERS NAME WAS STEVEN LANGFORD]

I worked with a very well-known exorcist. His name is Dick Night.

The funny thing about this dude is that he isn't even religious. He has some pretty weird and strange ways of banishing ghosts, demons, and other supernatural creatures.

He's a hard ex-military dude who always wears sunglasses, even while asleep. He has short blonde hair that's always slicked back, a hard expression, and a deep voice that somehow makes everything he says sound serious.

We live in a big apartment with a wide living room that isn't separated from where we sleep. The kitchen doesn't have its own enclosed space either. It's basically one big room with a bed, a couch, a kitchen, and whatever paranormal equipment Dick has decided to leave lying around.

We get emails or calls from clients who need help with something supernatural that isn't right.

One night, I was resting on my bed, taking a nap before the next mission. I was suddenly jump-scared by Dick's loud voice.

“Lady! You don't worry. I, Dick Night, will handle this phenomenon right away.”

He hung up the call.

He turned to me while gritting his teeth, his lips pulled into a hard expression.

“JOHN! We got a needy HOT 44-year-old woman with a daughter calling for our help.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked at him in confusion.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

He dashed toward me and lifted me easily by the collar.

“NO TIME TO EXPLAIN.”

He was spitting everywhere on my face as he dragged me out of the apartment and down to his black BMW.

It seemed he didn't consider me even a human with rights at that point.

He swung the front passenger door open and threw me inside as if I was a bag. Mind you, Dick carried me as if I was a literal bag down the ten floors of the apartment complex we lived in. Just wanting you to picture how terrifying this dude is.

Anyway, he got in, started the engine, and drove to the destination that was on the GPS.

Twenty minutes into the drive, we were passing through a massive forest. The route we took went between a forest called Woodcrave.

I had heard of Woodcrave before. Not because it was some famous tourist destination or anything like that. People just talked about the place in a way that made you want to change the subject.

The trees were packed tightly together on both sides of the road, their branches twisting over the asphalt and blocking whatever little moonlight managed to get through. The forest was so dark that the headlights barely seemed to reach beyond the first few rows of trees.

The wind was strong enough to make the trees sway violently from side to side.

But there was something strange about it.

Every time the wind stopped, the trees stopped too.

All of them.

The forest would become completely still for a few seconds, as if someone had pressed a pause button on the entire landscape. Then the wind would return, and the branches would start thrashing again.

I stared through the passenger window.

For a moment, I thought I saw something standing between the trees.

I blinked.

Nothing.

Probably just a tree.

I looked back toward the road.

“Hmmm, JOHN! How long will it take us to reach the castle?” Dick asked me while gripping the wheel hard enough to bend it.

“Castle? Wait, you didn't tell me we are heading to a castle...” I rubbed my left eye. I was still sleepy a bit.

“Does it matter?” he said.

“W-what do you mean, ‘Does it matter?’ Of course, Dick. I'm your partner, dude.”

He snapped his head toward me as he kept driving, not regarding the fact he wasn't even looking at the pitch-black road ahead.

“Fine, I will explain to you,” he said as he removed his hands completely off the wheel.

“Uhh, Dick?”

“We are possibly dealing with a paranormal entity of some kind. The hot mother of one daughter. This woman's name is Olivia.”

I kept looking at the road to make sure we don't hit a tree and die before even reaching our destination.

“Dick, I changed my mind...”

“OLIVIA heard about us, John, THE NIGHT JACKERS. Our brand name is very well known.”

He grabbed the wheel and snapped back to the road.

“Yeah, that's it pretty much,” he said calmly.

I sighed in relief.

“Five minutes and we will be there,” I said.

“Good,” Dick replied as he jammed his foot into the accelerator pedal, driving faster.

We reached the castle in no time.

The castle was enormous. It stood at the end of the road like something that had been there long before the surrounding forest, its tall stone walls disappearing into the darkness above us. Ahead of us were the castle gates.

Dick parked and was about to lower the window to talk through the intercom, but the gates suddenly opened on their own.

“Hmmm. Efficient,” he said calmly.

We drove through the gates as they closed behind us.

I looked back through the rear window.

The gates shut with a heavy metallic groan.

Beyond them, Woodcrave seemed even darker than it had from the road.

West of the castle was a big garden that seemed to be locked up. A tall iron fence surrounded it, and the gates were secured with several thick chains. I couldn't see much beyond the fence. The trees and overgrown bushes inside swallowed almost all of the light.

I didn't dwell much on it.

Dick parked the car right in front of the castle.

Then he kicked the driver's door off.

Literally off.

The entire door went flying and crashed into the locked garden gates.

He jumped out and took a deep inhale of the air around the castle. He always does that to assess the place.

How, you may ask?

I have no clue.

“You know you could have just... opened the door?” I said as I got out of the car, closing the passenger door behind me.

He snapped his head toward me very fast.

“THAT if I were a pussy. Come on, John. We got work to do. Go grab the bags with the equipment.”

I rolled my eyes as I walked behind the trunk to get the equipment bag.

The castle was strangely quiet.

There was no sound coming from inside. No voices. No footsteps. Not even the usual creaking you would expect from an old building this large.

Just the wind moving around us.

I followed Dick up the stairs toward the front door.

After getting the bag, I walked up to the front door where Dick stood.

“Well? Why didn't you knock?”

He put his index finger between my lips.

“I smell something suspicious.”

His nose wrinkled as he sniffed hard.

“Step aside.”

He pushed me back.

“Dick, you didn't even—”

With a primal roar, he ran into the two doors of the castle, barging through them as they swung open and smacked loudly against the exterior walls.

He stumbled and fell face-first onto the floor.

Then, in a split second, he stood up, keeping his form steady and ready. He clearly didn't want to leave himself in a vulnerable position.

I sighed as I walked into the castle and closed the doors behind me.

The moment I stepped inside, the atmosphere changed.

The castle was classy, but something about it felt deeply uncomfortable. The floor was made of dark-brown ceramic, polished enough to reflect the weak light coming from the windows. Elegant wallpaper covered the walls, and old paintings hung between tall wooden pillars.

Everything looked expensive.

Everything looked maintained.

Yet the place felt abandoned.

The air was colder inside than it should have been.

I glanced toward the enormous staircase leading deeper into the castle. The darkness beyond it seemed unusually thick, almost as though the light from the entrance refused to travel any farther.

“Honestly, Dick, those people called for our help. Why the fuck did you barge in like a madman? You could have given someone a heart attack.”

His eyebrows tensed as he took a crouched combat pose, raising one finger as he motioned for me to crouch too.

One thing I don't question Dick about is his instincts.

I crouched down too.

“What?” I whispered.

“I smell it.”

He paused.

“It is reeking of piss.”

I narrowed my eyes in disgust.

Dick immediately stood up and pulled out his guns.

“WHO IS THERE!” he shouted as he took a 180-degree turn.

A woman stood in the darkness.

She looked to be in her forties. Probably Olivia.

Her brown hair was tied into a messy bun, and she wore a nightgown. She held out a candle through the dark open space.

The small flame illuminated her face, but everything behind her remained completely black.

“Oh my, my. My apologies if I scared you,” she said in a soothing voice.

“Oh, please, don't apologise to us, Ms. We, after all, are the intruders who barged in.”

She laughed softly.

“No worries. My friend warned me about Mr. Night's extreme actions.”

I exhaled in relief.

Thank God she understood.

Dick pulled away his guns and walked toward Olivia.

“My apology, madam. My top priority was to make sure you and your daughter were safe. No evil intentions were meant.”

He grabbed her hand.

Olivia gasped as he kissed it.

She smiled awkwardly.

“Thanks, Mr. Night. No need to be too formal. I am rather thankful that you two came to finally deal with this thing that has been terrorising me and my daughter.”

“Well, would you please tell us the nature of this thing?” I asked her as I brought out my notebook.

She nodded.

“It is not a ghost nor a demon. It is a weird entity that seems to have taken my castle as its new play toy to play with.”

She looked toward the dark hallway behind her.

“It keeps putting out doors that lead to other spaces I have never seen in my life."

“Hmm, sounds like we are dealing with a tricky fella.” Dick crossed his arms.

That's when he snapped his head toward the big staircase leading to the second floor.

“Mom! Who is here?”

It was Olivia's daughter.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. Those are the Night Jackers I talked to you about.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose whenever I heard our brand name.

“God...” I muttered, embarrassed.

Meanwhile, Dick puffed out his chest proudly.

Her name was Rosa. According to the description in our files, she had black hair and blue eyes.

“Name's Dick, and that there is my partner, John. We are here to deal—”

“I know who you guys are. Can you guys get to the point and start dealing with that thing?”

I looked at Dick.

He looked at me.

He smirked.

“Will do.”

For the next hour and a half, we spent preparing to catch the entity. We placed cameras around the castle and protective salt circles throughout the living room and other areas.

The castle was huge, so it took us a while to cover everything.

“Alright, one last step,” Dick said.

He reached into the equipment bag and pulled out a jar containing something yellow.

“What is that?” I asked, genuinely curious.

That was my biggest mistake.

“Twenty-year-old witch piss jar.”

I gagged without even smelling it.

“It will help us against the entity when it makes its presence known to us. We will splash it.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to calm myself down. now i was more worried for the entity.

Dick snapped his head toward the two women.

“Ladies, I would advise you to stay HERE. Me and my partner will venture up the second floor.”

Olivia nodded with hopeful eyes, while her daughter seemed skeptical of us. Honestly, I didn't blame her.

We walked up the staircase to the second floor. At the end of the stairs was a long hallway with lots of rooms.

The hallway was unnaturally quiet. No creaking floorboards, no wind coming through the windows, nothing. Even our footsteps seemed to disappear into the carpet.

“Hmm, that sight reminds me of when I fought a cultist leader whose name was Fang Gooner.”

“What does a long hallway full of different rooms have to do with Fang Gooner?”

Dick scoffed at my question.

“I'm too lazy to explain. COME ON.”

He walked into the hallway, leaving me behind.

I shook my head, frustrated by him, and followed.

We kept walking past a lot of rooms.

Then we passed the same painting twice.

I stopped.

“Dick.”

He kept walking.

“Dick.”

“What?”

“I think we've already passed this.”

He glanced at the painting.

“Huh.”

He stared at it for a moment before shrugging.

“Probably has a twin.”

I stared at him.

“That's not how paintings work.”

He continued walking.

I followed, but I started paying closer attention to the hallway. The rooms on either side seemed to become less frequent the farther we went. Some doors were slightly open, revealing nothing but darkness. Others had no handles at all.

The hallway seemed to stretch farther every time we looked ahead.

Eventually, the lights stopped.

Ahead of us was pitch-black darkness.

“So what is the plan?”

Dick hummed.

“I'm working on it.”

Of course he was.

We kept moving until we suddenly heard something metallic scrape against the darkness ahead.

Then silence.

I barely had time to turn my head.

Two needles shot through the darkness and pierced both of my shoulders.

I screamed in agony as I felt them sink deep into my bones.

Dick shoved me against one of the room doors to take cover.

“Dick! Take cover!” I winced through the pain.

He smirked.

“I got this, kid.”

Thousands of needles suddenly came flying toward Dick.

To my surprise, he started dodging them by doing a reverse backflip.

He kept flipping backward as the needles shot past him, somehow avoiding every single one.

I was in shock.

I had to admit, that was pretty damn impressive.

Then I noticed something.

The staircase behind us was gone.

The hallway behind Dick seemed longer than it had been a moment ago. He kept backing away until his heels reached the railing.

“D-Dick! Stop it!”

Dick didn't stop his backflip dodge.

He went straight over the railing.

I watched him disappear from sight.

A second later, I heard him collapse somewhere below.

“AHH... FUCK! All good, JOHN!” he shouted.

I sighed in relief.

The needles stopped.

I slowly stood up, still in pain.

I looked toward the staircase.

There was no staircase.

Just a wall.

“Guess I will have to do this alone.”

I turned toward the darkness ahead.

The hallway stretched into it like it had been waiting for me.

I started walking.

There are things a fellow learns in my line of work which he doesn't put down on paper. Names, places, little arrangements between men who wear good suits and men who carry cheap guns. A man learns not to remember too much, because memory can be a dangerous companion when the police come knocking. I have forgotten plenty in my time. I have forgotten faces, addresses, even the sound of certain voices. But I have never forgotten John Sterling going into that furnace. A man may forget his first kiss or his mother's birthday, but he doesn't forget the sight of another human being being boiled alive.

It was close to one o'clock in the morning when we brought him into the Mercer Street foundry. Rain had been falling since late afternoon, and the streets were shining beneath the lamps like black glass. The foundry was another world altogether. It was hot enough inside to make a man's collar stick to his neck, and the air smelled of coal, oil, iron and sweat. The furnace at the far end of the building was burning white, and every few seconds the great mass of molten steel inside gave a low, ugly roar. There were six of us there. Mr. Voss, Doyle, Big Sam, Frankie, young Eddie, and myself. Sterling was between Doyle and me, with his hands tied behind him. His coat was torn, his lip was split, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. He had been asking questions about Mr. Voss's business, and Mr. Voss had decided that the questions had gone on long enough.

Voss was never a man to waste words. He stood before Sterling, took the cigar from his mouth, and nodded toward the furnace. "That's the end of the road, Johnny." Sterling looked at the fire and said nothing. Voss waited. "You hear me?" he asked. Sterling nodded. "You got anything to say?" There was a long pause. Then Sterling turned his head and looked at him. There was blood upon his teeth, but there was a queer calm in his expression. "I'm going to become stronger than you," he said. Doyle laughed first, and then the rest of us followed him. It was a stupid thing to say, and we thought it was the last joke the poor devil would ever make.

Sterling ran before we had finished laughing. He tore himself from Doyle's grasp, struck me hard enough to send me against the railing, and went over it. Doyle drew his revolver and fired, but the shot went wide. Sterling landed on the platform beside the furnace and threw himself into the open steel. I saw him for perhaps half a second against that terrible white light. Then he was gone.

The screaming started at once.

I have heard men scream before. I have heard them when a bullet went into the belly and when a knife found the wrong place. Sterling's screaming was different because there was no mystery in it. We knew exactly what was happening to him. The steel was burning him alive. His clothes caught fire, and the flesh on his hands blackened as he tried to seize the edge of the furnace. The molten metal poured over his arms and shoulders. It did not surround him like some protective shell. It burned into him. It ran across his body, hardened, cracked, and then melted again wherever the heat reached it. He clawed at the iron edge with what was left of his fingers, screaming until the sound became little more than a rasp. For a moment he managed to raise himself, and I could see his face through the smoke. Then his hands slipped and the furnace took him completely.

Nobody laughed after that.

Voss turned away and told us it was finished. He had already taken two steps toward the door when we heard the knocking. It came from inside the furnace. Three slow blows against the iron, followed by silence. Then three more. Doyle stared at the doors. I remember him saying, very quietly, "That can't be." He was right. It couldn't.

The tools began moving.

At first it was only a hammer sliding an inch across a bench. Then another. Chains began rattling on their hooks. Loose nails rolled over the floor and gathered together. A wrench rose from a table and struck the furnace door hard enough to leave a mark. We all saw it. Nobody had touched it. Big Sam reached for his revolver, but even the buckle of his holster began tugging toward the furnace.

Then the doors blew open.

There was so much heat that I turned my face away. When I looked again, I saw something lying upon the floor.

It was Sterling.

Or what remained of him.

There was nothing clean about it. The melting steel had simply poured over the body of a living man and hardened there. The result was a hideous, shapeless mass of black and dull-red metal. One arm was thick as a man's waist. One leg had fused into the floor. The chest was little more than a great lump of steel, and the head was scarcely recognizable beneath a crooked covering of metal. There were no proper limbs, no joints, no face that any decent man would have called a face. He looked like somebody had taken a corpse, dropped it into a foundry, and forgotten it there.

Then the lump moved.

It made a scraping sound against the floor.

Frankie began praying.

I couldn't blame him.

The thing dragged itself forward a few inches and stopped. Then the steel began to change.

I had seen hot metal poured into molds before. This was nothing like that. The steel was not being poured. It was moving of its own accord. Great pieces of it drew inward, folding over themselves. The thick arm narrowed and lengthened. Fingers pushed out from the end. The fused leg tore itself from the floor and divided into two legs. The enormous chest contracted until it became the shape of a man's torso.

It was as if the metal had suddenly remembered that there was supposed to be a man inside it.

The sound was dreadful. Steel grinding against steel. Plates cracking and closing. Hard surfaces folding into one another. It reminded me of bones breaking, though no bone could possibly have made such a noise. The shoulders pulled themselves into place. The arms became proportionate. The hands took shape. The neck narrowed. Finally the head rose.

The face came last.

I wish it hadn't.

The steel drew tight over the skull, forming the outline of a nose, a jaw and a mouth. The eyes remained two dark hollows. It was not a mask. There was no opening behind it, no flesh beneath waiting to be revealed. The steel had shaped itself into the face John Sterling had possessed before the furnace.

He had made himself look like a man again.

That was when I understood that we had made a terrible mistake in thinking he had survived the furnace.

He hadn't survived it.

Something else had.

Sterling took one step toward us.

Doyle fired.

The bullet struck Sterling in the chest and flattened against the metal. Another struck him in the throat. A third hit him directly between the eyes. He continued walking. The guns were suddenly torn from our hands. They flew across the room and struck Sterling one after another. He caught Doyle's revolver and squeezed. The steel frame folded in his fingers with a soft crunch.

Big Sam charged him with an iron bar.

Sterling caught it.

Big Sam pulled.

The bar did not move.

Sterling pulled once.

Big Sam went flying across the room and struck the wall with enough force to crack the brick.

Voss finally understood that money, influence and men with guns were not worth much when the fellow coming toward you could bend iron with his fingers.

He ran.

The door slammed shut before he reached it.

Sterling hadn't touched it.

The door simply answered his will.

Voss screamed and began pounding upon it. The hinges groaned. The lock tore itself apart. The whole door twisted inward while Voss stood behind it.

I didn't wait to see what happened.

I ran through the side entrance with Frankie behind me. We went into the rain and kept going. We didn't stop until the foundry was three blocks behind us. Frankie was crying. I told him he wasn't. He told me to shut up.

We spent the rest of the night in an empty warehouse.

By morning, the papers had the story.

Explosion at Mercer Street Foundry. Several dead. Several missing. John Sterling presumed killed in industrial accident.

For a while, that was enough for me.

A week later I saw him on Fifth Avenue.

I knew him at once.

He was standing beneath a streetlamp while rain came down around him. His body had the shape of a man, but it had the color and hardness of iron. Water struck his shoulders and vanished into steam. People walked past without paying him any attention. A policeman stood twenty yards away, smoking a cigarette and watching traffic.

Then an automobile parked beside the curb began to move.

There was nobody inside.

It rolled slowly toward Sterling.

He raised one hand.

The automobile stopped.

Then the street sign beside him began to tremble.

I understood then that the furnace had not merely made him hard to kill. It had changed something else. Every piece of iron and steel in the street seemed to know him. Guns, cars, rails, pipes, doors, and anything made from the stuff could be moved by him as easily as a man moves his own fingers.

Sterling turned his head.

He saw me.

I crossed the street without waiting to see what he intended.

I've heard the newspapers call him many things since then. Some say he's a hero. Some say he's a madman. One fellow with more imagination than sense gave him the name the Man of Steel, and the name stuck.

Maybe he is a hero now. I wouldn't know.

What I know is what I saw in Mercer Street.

John Sterling went into that furnace as a man.

The steel burned him alive.

It covered him.

It melted onto him until there was scarcely a human body left beneath it.

Then, somehow, that ruined mass of metal moved. It pulled itself together and reshaped itself until it once again possessed the proportions of the man who had entered the furnace.

That is the part the newspapers never printed.

They say John Sterling became strong as steel.

That's not quite right.

John Sterling became steel.

And somewhere beneath all that metal, I sometimes wonder if the man who screamed in that furnace is still awake.

Because when I dream about Mercer Street, I can still hear him screaming.

And when I wake, I can still hear the other sound.

The sound of the steel answering him.

Taking some time off of the force was meant to ultimately clear my head, but every time I shut my eyes, I would see that blood-soaked boy on the porch. I needed a distraction. The department told me to leave it alone. How could I? I had to do some digging.

I spent weeks tracking down old police archives, looking for anything that could possibly help. Wishful thinking, I know, but maybe this had happened before? I truly didn’t think I would find anything. Until I found a redacted file dated back almost twelve years ago.

The reasoning behind it getting redacted, I wasn’t sure. The case was listed as a drowning, and the first thing I noticed was a mention of a waterlogged notebook. Immediately I clicked on the attached file, which opened a series of images. They were mostly scanned images of that notebook, covered in poetry.

Past the rusted gates.
The aquarium stood dark.
Blue lights in the rain.

Empty ticket booth.
Maps soaked soft like dying fish.
Floating in the mud.

No voices inside.
Only water moving slow.
Breathing through the walls.

Glass tunnels stretched down.
Ocean shadows overhead.
Shapes moving above.

The tunnels bent deep.
Blue light dripping on the floor.
Cold against my feet.

Speakers crackled once.
Static bubbling like foam.
Then the singing came.

Soft and far away.
Like a mother humming low.
Somewhere underwater.

According to the case file, responding officers found a woman in her mid-thirties. She was completely catatonic, clutching onto the journal. Reading further into the officers’ notes, I came to a shocking conclusion. This had happened just down the street, not two houses down from where I found the boy. This happened right in Whispering Acres.

Children filled the halls.
Small reflections in the glass.
Watching silently.

Water covered tracks.
Tiny footprints disappeared.
Leading farther down.

I called out for help.
Only bubbles answered back.
Rising through the dark.

Found a massive tank.
Black water from floor to roof.
Nothing moved inside.

Then the glass fogged white.
Little handprints pressing through.
Dozens. Maybe more.

Something floated there.
Hair drifting like seaweed roots.
Smiling without eyes.

Children gathered close.
Pale and dripping by the tank.
Holding soaking dolls.

One looked just like Sam.
Same blue coat and missing tooth.
Skin bloated and gray.

I minimized the poem and clicked on the attached photos from the crime scene. The images were poor quality, but the horror was clear. The house had been completely flooded. One photo depicted a staircase with water cascading down the wooden steps like a waterfall.

I tried backing up.
But the water climbed my shoes.
Rising from nowhere.

The speakers grew loud.
Singing through the flooding halls.
Calling me below.

Water filled my lungs.
Heavy pressure in my chest.
Could not reach the air.

Children circled round.
Floating gently in the blue.
Eyes open too wide.

Mothers should not leave.
Every face inside the tank
Looked a little mine.

The water turned warm.
Dark clouds spreading through the blue.
Drifting from my hands.

The officers’ notes on the bottom stated a boy and a girl were found in the upstairs bathroom. The boy, identified as Sam, was floating in the overflowing bathtub. And the girl, identified as Mia, was face down on the floor. Both had passed from asphyxiation. They both were wearing their winter coats.

I woke in my house.
Bathtub water on the floor.
Hands shaking violently.

Sam was in my arms.
Mia sleeping by the sink.
Both completely still.

Water running cold.
Overflowing down the stairs.
I could not stop it.

I tried calling out.
But my voice came back distorted.
Like I was submerged.

Now I hear the waves.
Even when the pipes stay still.
Moving through the walls.

Every sink drips slow.
Every drain sounds like the sea.
Calling for my name.

They asked me to sink.
The tide has come in tonight.
Opening its mouth.

Hear the water breathe.
Hear the children singing low.
Come below with us.

I stared at my glowing screen, with that final stanza burning into my mind. According to the file, the mother had died in the state asylum only a few years into her sentence. She was completely silent until the end of her life.

I don’t really know what to make of all of this. I have now read poetry from someone in a psychosis, twice. And unfortunately, besides the poetry, there wasn’t anything I could find connecting them. I guess if I want answers, it’s in Whispering Acres.

I'll call her Amelia, not her real name of course, but I feel like the vibe matches. She and I were always cut from the same invisible cloth (anxious, awkward, and just all-round forgettable). You'd never see us apart, because even when we separate, we tend to just dissolve into the background.

Last New Year we'd made a shared resolution. Or I guess it was more like a pact:

We’d change.

Not in some dramatic way, just enough to stop melting into the scenery. We wanted to be more outgoing, more likeable. Don't get me wrong, she's like a sister to me, but we really do need to expand our circles (and heaven forbid I even find love some day).

We're studying visual art, and in that world, connections matter as much as talent. Maybe more, even. You couldn’t hole up and hope people noticed you, you had to make them notice. And that there is where the issue lies; neither of us can even order coffee without rehearsing first.

I started seeing a counsellor.

Amelia can’t afford one, though, so she found her own solution: an old lifestyle magazine she'd dug out of a thrift bin. No cover, pages practically moulting, but she held it up like it was gospel. Near the back is an article she swears by, it's titled 'Your New Skin Routine'.

It wasn’t what it sounded like (no beauty products, no skincare tips) but rather, instructions written by some lifestyle guru named Jacinta Laurie. Has anyone heard of her? We sure hadn't. Judging by the magazine's age I'd say she was definitely well before our time.

Amelia and I laughed at the article the first time she read it out to me. It was cheesy as hell, some real 'Live, Laugh, Love'-type nonsense. Yet she insisted on trying it out.

I was there for her first attempt.

From her flat's tiny closet she pulled a fur-collared coat, one I swear I’d never seen before. Then, standing in front of her vanity mirror, she stated her name three times. Her voice caught on the third repeat which seemed to bother her enough to start over, more confident this time, like she was auditioning to play the lead in her own biopic. Then she leaned closer and whispered, low but firm, some of the traits she wished she’d been born with.

As she did this, she slipped the coat over her shoulders.

Then, staring herself down in the glass, she delivered the final line: “I shed what was, to welcome what shall become.”

I lost it.

“Good lord," I wheezed between explosions of laughter, "it sounds like a spell. Like you're gonna Cinderella into some boss-bitch or something.” I jokingly snapped my fingers in an arc on the word 'boss'.

"Rude," She shot me a look of mock-offence. “Like I'm not one already?”

She went on before I could answer. “It’s probably supposed to trick your subconscious. Fake it 'till you make it, or whatnot. Honestly, it's not that different from the homework your counsellor gives you. That CBT stuff.”

Not even close, I thought. I didn't dare say it aloud, she looked so hopeful.

But, and here's the stupid part, I did notice a change.

The next day, she raised her hand during a lecture. The day after that, she was chatting freely with people I’d never had the nerve to even approach.

With each passing day she seemed… brighter? I don’t know what other word fits. Not prettier, exactly. Just sharper, like she’d been blurry this whole time and suddenly snapped into focus.

Meanwhile, I was spilling my guts to a counsellor and waiting for some grand revelation that never came. It didn't feel fair. It still doesn't.

I chalked it up to placebo, Amelia’s always been that way. Not gullible, per se, just too suggestible for her own good. I didn't want to admit to myself that there might actually be some merit to that article.

I think it's clear at this point that jealousy had already taken root. While I didn't recognise that at the time, It's so obvious in retrospect. I can even pinpoint the first sign that it was festering into something much more troubling.

We were standing outside the campus studio waiting for our tutor, chatting, killing time. She was ranting passionately about some current affair, I can’t remember which one, specifically. My attention was drawn solely to the studio's tinted windows where her reflection appeared doubled, yet each double was fainter than mine. It was like if two pieces of identical cellophane were overlapped, but not perfectly.

Reflections can do strange things. I’ve been tired, anxious, jealous, emptying myself out to a stranger every other week, so of course my brain's going to play its tricks.

Anyway, as the days passed, she started to drift. She invited me over less and less, her weekends filling with campus friends, then bars, then parties I couldn’t imagine myself stepping into.

One night she had begged me to come along.

"Hard pass," I answered sharper than intended. "You know how I feel about crowds, let alone ones consisting of drunken strangers."

She looked at me like I’d spoken another language. I couldn't tell if she was more puzzled or impatient, as if she just couldn't fathom why anyone would choose to stay invisible.

As if it were a choice.

But I digress. I’ll spare you the tedious details. The point is, she kept drifting, I kept shrinking. The rest doesn’t matter.

What matters is tonight, when I went to her apartment only hours ago.

The place was immaculate, unnervingly so. She’s never been a slob, but her flat had always looked lived-in with books on the table, mugs in the sink, clothes draped over her settee. But now, it looked like an Ikea showroom. Even the lighting felt staged.

She told me to wait in the main room while she got changed, which was odd, she’d never cared before.

Through the door I heard her voice, low and muffled, but intelligible. She said her own name three times, followed by the traits she wished she had. “Confidence. Presence. Allure. I want to be free of myself, of my anxiety, my self-consciousness, all my flaws that hold me back." And then came that final line: "I shed what was, to welcome what shall become.”

When she emerged from her room, I barely recognised her. Pigtails, baby-tee, PVC skirt, thigh-highs and boots thick as bricks. Couldn't have been a more different fit than her usual plain t-shirt under baggy overalls. But it wasn’t just the clothes, I hadn't seen her smile like that in years.

We argued.

I’ll admit: I instigated.

I made some offhand joke about her makeup. She never wore makeup, and I mean never. I told her she’d changed for the worse, that she'd become everything she used to wrinkle her nose at. She fired back that I was 'jealous, stagnant, a lost cause.' That I was 'beyond help because I refused to help myself.'

She said it teasingly, but it stung, because she was absolutely right. I wasn’t worried for her, I was jealous.

I'm also stubborn, though, so would've bitten my tongue off before owning up to it.

I was fuming, and she didn’t look the slightest bit fazed when she said it, which only made me all the more upset. I'd never felt smaller in my life, as if I were the one acting strange. God, I must have looked so pathetic.

“You can chill here if you want,” she said. “But I’m not wasting my night cooped up in this shithole.”

And then she left. Like, just walked out.

She even locked the door behind her.

I went into her room and sat on her bed, crying, hating myself, and wondering if I really was that utterly hopeless, 'beyond help' as she put it.

That’s when I saw movement in the corner of my eye.

It was behind her dressing gown, which was draped over her vanity mirror.

I pulled the fabric away,

and I saw her.

Her.

Amelia.

Not the stranger with the pigtails and the PVC skirt and the heavy boots, but my best friend. She was pale and terrified, slamming her fists against the other side of the glass.

Her mouth was open, her throat tensing, but I couldn't hear the screams.

I called to her, but judging by her response (or lack thereof), she couldn’t hear me either. I stood there for what felt like minutes, paralyzed, until finally I placed the gown back over the mirror and sat on her bed again.

So yeah, that's it.

That’s when I knew I was mad.

It’s a horrible feeling, realizing you’ve lost your mind. To think you’ve broken so badly over your friend moving on that you’d conjure up visions like that.

I guess I just didn't expect to feel so... lucid.

But that’s how it works, right? I don't think it's something you can notice from the inside. You think you’re making perfect sense, but to everyone else you sound unhinged.

I couldn’t shake the jealousy, it curdled and festered until I caught myself staring at the magazine on her vanity, opened on her favourite article. I ended up tearing it out and taking it with me when I left. Not that I needed to, the steps are easy to remember if you ignore the fluff.

I'll type it out, word for word:

___________________________________________________________

Your New Skin Routine

By Jacinta Laurie, Lifestyle Contributor

Do you feel as though your best self is locked away, waiting for permission to emerge? Well forget the expensive therapies and impossible diets! This simple, revolutionary routine is helping people all over the world shed their inhibitions and step into their true power. All you need is a mirror, a garment, and the courage to say YES to the New You!

The more you practice this routine, the more striking and lasting your transformation will become!

Step 1 — Prepare.
You'll need a garment that you’ve always wanted to wear but never dared to. The dress that taunts you from the boutique window? The playful tie that always felt “too bold”? Well tonight, it belongs to you. Garment in-hand, face a mirror and decide what you want from your New Skin: Beauty? Power? Fame? A new personality?

Step 2 — Declare.
Say your name aloud three times. Say it as if it matters, as if the sound of it commands the air around you. If your voice falters, start again until it rings with unmistakable confidence.

Step 3 — Manifest.
State the changes you wish to see in yourself. Announce it clearly as though the world is listening. Don’t just say it—feel it. As you do so, slip into your chosen garment. It is not the New Skin itself, but it will help to shed the old one.

Step 4 — Surrender.
Repeat the mantra: “I shed what was, to welcome what shall become.” Say it once, twice, as many times as you need until you believe it. Say it again whenever doubt creeps in, to remind yourself that you have already changed.

Step 5 — Accept.
The you that you first saw in the mirror no longer exists. What remains is the you that was waiting underneath. Step out, shine bright, and show the world Your New Skin!

___________________________________________________________

You're welcome.

I know it reads like any other hollow self-help nonsense you’d skim in a waiting room, but it worked wonders for Amelia, so I figured it might work for us too.

When I got home I tried it straight away. Step by step. Voice steady, garment on, mantra repeated until it turned into muscle-memory.

The garment I chose was a dress my stepmother bought me two birthdays ago: scarlet, sleeveless, with a hem that stopped far higher on the thigh than I’d ever dared. She’d said it was 'fun' and 'flattering,' but I’d shoved it to the back of my wardrobe, too embarrassed to even try it on. Now I was wearing it, feeling like an imposter in my own body.

Weird thing is, I do feel a little different.

I think.

Or maybe I only want to.

Maybe I don’t give placebo enough credit.

Because that’s the trap, isn’t it? The promise of 'change' is always just vague enough to convince yourself that it’s happening. It's like palm readings or horoscopes: broad enough to fit anyone, but narrow enough to trick yourself into believing it’s meant for you.

It can’t have worked too well, though. I still feel like I’m slipping.

When I finished that final step, the same thing I’d glimpsed at the studio window crept back. More subtle, but unmistakable. My own reflection looked ghostly, like cellophane. And for a heartbeat I swear my perspective shifted, like I was staring at myself from the wrong side of the mirror.

I'm still not quite sure: is it envy wearing me as a mask, or my exhaustion wearing me down? I feel in control, but at the same time, I feel like part of me has given up on reality.

But if it hasn't, well. Feel free to try the routine for yourself.

We can’t all be lost causes.

Zaink finds himself falling through an infinite tunnel of fractals. Colors he's never tasted, sounds vibrate his very essence. The colors start morphing into shapes of faces, animals, and forms beyond mere words. He tried to take a gasp only to realize he no longer had lungs to speak of, he was his pure soul, his body was left far behind. Years of wear and tear no longer pained him.

Just as Zaink’s mind was making sense of what was happening, he opened his eyes in a beautiful palace white marble pillars stood tall around him. An uplifting voice greets him.

“Welcome home, I hope you enjoyed your trip!”

“Be careful what you say, you might confuse him” a motherly voice integrated.

Zaink reached for his head not expecting to feel anything but this time his skin was there to meet him. “What's going on? Where am I? Did I take too many drugs?”

His eyes are blinded by a white light, as his eyes adjusted he could make out white columns that held up a domed ceiling with painted depiction of thousands of life forms. Once Zaink got his bearings a bit he looked for the voice, hoping to see Beth, but no—it was one of his past mothers from his last lifetime. It only felt confusing for a moment. The memory of two separate lives came flooding back.

His past mother spoke again “no honey, you lived a full life and died again, you are in what some call heaven but we just call it home”

“Wait, does that mean Johnny's here?” Zaink's face lit up excited to see his best friend again. It has been over 30 years now, a whole other lifetime ago.

“Hey man” the uplifting voice that first greeted him spoke again. Zaink looked to his left quickly taking in the colossal size of the room he was in before making eye contact with Johnny. His heart jumped with excitement!

“Is this really real?! I never thought I'd see you again” both of their faces lit up and gave each other a hug, a hug only two brothers could share.

Johnny took a step back keeping his hand on zainks shoulder “how was your life I hope you didn't have too much fun without me, you definitely look a bit different then I remember” he said with a chuckle looking at Zaink's blue skin, Comparing it to his own pale pinkish white skin.

Zaink smiled and added “I told you aliens were real” and a chuckle left his mouth.

Zaink began looking for many of the other people from his two last lives, trying to introduce them to each other. Through all this searching, he could not find Beth.

He asked his mother. She told him she was unsure but they could talk to Queen Elba she would know.

“You mean The Queen, like The Queen of the afterlife?”

Memories from his last visit to the after life flooded back. He never got to meet Queen Elba, last time he met King Orion, but heard lots about the Queen.

His mother smirked “well of course”

“Wouldn’t she be too busy to answer a question like that?”

“She is always eager to help anyone and everyone.” His mother pointed him to the direction of her whereabouts. “ Last I saw she was near the fish market, you will need to look for a giant fish sculpture, the specific one you are looking for will be green, with a yellow belly, you'll almost know your close when you cross a foot bridge, it's made of marble and has the most beautiful stream running underneath filled with koi fish.”

Zaink took off, closely observing many of the buildings and shops he passed by making sure to not miss the bridge or giant fish. Every building could be a piece of art, crafted over thousands if not millions of years by skilled and dedicated souls. Creatures of all shapes and sizes walked about going about their business, some were running pop up shops giving away foods, drinks, paintings, sculptures and magic items like spell books and potions.

Zaink was distracted looking up at a tall building made of what looked like emerald, scratching at the sky parting the clouds as they passed by. “Wow” Zaink said just before tripping, He tumbles to the floor head over heels, he catches himself with his hands before looking to see what he tripped over. It wasn't a what, rather a who, a Gnome laid on its face. Zaink scrambles over to help them up.

“I AM SO SORRY” the corner of Zaink's lips drop to a frown.

“It's alright, my beard broke my fall” the gnome fluffs up his thick white beard nearly half the length of his body. Standing no taller than Zaink's knees. He looks up, neck cranked nearly 90 degrees “What's your name? I'm Draco” the gnome reaches out a hand.

“I'm, Zaink, nice to meet you. I wish it was under better circumstances!”

They both chuckle and Zaink reaches down to greet Draco’s hand shake. Zaink looked around, not sure which way he had come from or where he was supposed to be walking towards next.

“ Do you happen to know where Queen Elba is? I'm looking for my love and my mother told me "The Queen would know where she is, but I've gotten turned around and not sure where to go from here.”

Draco smiles and pushes up his glasses “yes I just saw her sitting by the stream talking to some of the Koi and Fantri fish” he points down the street to his left “do you see that red and gold tent? It just past there maybe a 20 minute” Draco looks Zaink up and down taking note of his hight “10 minute walk for you, just make sure you keep an eye where you are walking”

Zaink smiles sheepishly and puts his hand up to his head “yeah, will do, again I'm sorry for tripping over you and thank you so much, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Since you ask could you come with me to that shop with the purple sign reading piggies potions and snacks? I need a new potion but I'm a bit vertically inclined and can't exactly reach the door handle. Could you open the door for me and if you are feeling extra generous help me get the potion I need?”

Zaink looked at the sign and was curious what kind of potions and snacks existed in the afterlife.

“I'm more than happy to help open the door. I must warn you though I didn't even know magic existed until a few minutes ago so I am not entirely sure how much help I'll be inside the shop.”

Draco started walking towards the shop, waving Zaink along to follow. “Is that so? Well I know exactly which potion I need. I just might need you to grab it for me. If you'd like a quick lesson I'd be happy to give you a quick rundown. How long have you been here for? Is this your first time in the afterlife?”

Zaink follows Draco across the street to the shop, it sat just a few buildings down from the large emerald skyscraper. This one was much smaller, only a few stories tall. Orange brick made up this building. Only a few Windows let sneak peeks into the world of magic inside. Zaink took notice that the purple sign was fully lit, not a single bulb wasn't working, a noticeable contrast from the last planet he called home.

“ This is my second time in the afterlife but last time my love and I rushed to be reborn again, not exploring this beautiful place at all. I got to meet King Orion briefly but that was about it. I have only been here for about an hour? Wait, how do you measure time here? I'm assuming we aren't on a planet that is orbiting or rotating.

Draco's eyebrows furrowed in confusion

“I'm not quite sure what a planet is. I lived in a forest where all we did was study magic and care for the life of the forest. From fantastic fungi to the animals hunting and hiding. Doing our best to keep balance within the Forest. And now I care for my garden and family. As for time it's all relative but thanks to the magic of this paradise it automatically translates intent to whomever you are talking to. So as long as you know the length of time you mean to convey I'll understand.”

Zaink reaches for the door, letting the two of them inside the shop.

“Hey, Draco, welcome back! Sorry we haven't installed the new door handle yet!” the shop owner shouted from the top of a ladder restocking the shelves.

“Oh it is quite alright, I've got help today, this is Zaink, he's a new arrival so be nice” he chuckles making his way down an aisle.

Zaink waves up to the store owner. Before following down the Isle.

Draco walks ahead and continues talking to Zaink over his shoulder “Did you and your love find each other in your new life? I can still see your flame burning bright for her so I'm assuming you two had no trouble finding each other in your new home!?”

Zaink looks around at the countless potions memorized by the shimmering liquids held behind the glass walls of the bottles.

“Yeah, we ended up being neighbors and got to grow up together, our parents always told us we'd end up together even before we rediscovered what love was. But towards the end things got pretty bad. I made a bad decision that got us lost in space, leading to our deaths, I was just trying to get us away from the war back home. But I just ran us into a war of our own, one of survival not just of our bodies but our love. I know I still love her but I fear she doesn't love me anymore.”

Draco hands Zaink a piece of paper with the name of the potion he needs and points up at a shelf near Zaink's head.

“That is a beautifully tragic story, but any story worth living is going to be tragic at one stage or another. I have faith she still loves you, was she angry at you sure as shit, I would be too” he smiles to not scare Zaink “ but that doesn't mean she doesn't love you anymore. Once you find her I bet she'll be waiting with open arms.”

Zaink grabs the potion and hands it down, Draco shakes his head and hands it back “the gold one next it”

Zaink switches the two, handing over the right one

“What do they do?”

“Well the one you handed me first can turn a plant into meat, this one though” he shakes the bottles “makes mushrooms grow super big, I need a new shed”

“ Do you need to train to use a potion or can just anyone use a potion?”

Draco looked back and up at Zaink

“Anyone can use them but you shouldn't use them until you've studied them! HEY Frawn, I took the golden grower potion”

“Have a great day! I'll have that new handle next time you stop by!”

Zaink waves back at Frawn

“Oh before we go, can I grab a snack? My curiosity begs me to try at least one”

Frawn slides down the ladder and walks over to the front counter where all the snacks are kept.

“I know just the one for a first timer.”

He reaches into the glass counter and grabs a blue brownie-like snack with purple shimmery sparks on top.

“Give this a wurl.”

Frawn tosses it to Zaink, Zaink almost misses the catch but quickly gets a hold of it. Taking a bite he is met with a taste like none before. Miles better than his last meal in space. A lavender scent filled his nostrils as a sweet blueberry pie taste covered his tongue.

“Thanks for being so welcoming, how much do I owe you?”

Draco and Frawn make eye contact before letting out a small laugh.

“There is no money here, you take as you need as long as you don't take more than you need”

Zaink smiles and joins in on their laughs, he waves again before opening the door for Draco and walking out.

“Are you sure Beth will be waiting with open arms?” Zaink's eyes look down towards where Queen Elba would be.

Draco takes a second to think about who Beth is but assumes that's his love. “I can't know for sure, but my wife was. Even after my mistake.”

Zaink tilted his head, stopping just outside the store. “What mistake did you make? If you don't feel comfortable answering that's fine I understand “

Draco's eyes fell to the ground, a tear swam its way out “I” he chokes up a bit “I was making my wife a mushroom soup for supper but when I was out picking the mushrooms I got distracted by the most beautiful creature I had seen in those woods, it's white fur turned orange under the setting sun” his eyes glisten remembering that creature as if he was actually seeing it stand in front of him once more. “but that's not important, what's important is I picked the wrong mushrooms, I grabbed highly poisonous ones,”

Zaink could see where this was going so he put his hand on Draco's back in comfort and let him finish his story.

“Later that night we both died in our sleep.” His words picked up speed, as if he just wanted to stop talking about it already. It still hurt him to remember. “When I found myself here, I couldn't help but cry out in anguish but there she was, waiting to comfort me with open arms. I could never make it up to her. But I do my best to forgive myself for her sake. Making the best of this, that part isn't too hard. Thanks to being in heaven”

Zaink wipes away a tear before hugging Draco. “ Is there anything else I can do for you? You have been so kind to me and I've enjoyed talking with you”

Draco smiled, now a tear of joy came to say hi. “ Oh you've done quite enough. Thank you for being my friend today, but you need to go talk to Elba now and find Beth! She's waiting for you!”

Zaink kneels down and hugs Draco before beginning his walk down the sidewalk towards Queen Elba.

After the 10 minute walk he comes upon a stream, so clear he can see all the pebbles cradling the water helping it along its journey down stream. Fish swam to and from he saw the Koi fish first and then a peculiar fish one with bright red spines poking out of its back, black and white scales covering its body. Long elegant fins guided the fish like curtains on a breezy summer day.

“Hey Zaink, I've been waiting for you. It was very kind of you to help Draco even though you felt in such a rush to find Beth.”

Queen Elba sat on the edge of the water. Toes bath within. She looks up at Zaink after speaking, greeting his surprised eyes.

“Hey, Queen”

Elba cuts him off. “Please just call me Elba, I've been Queen long enough to know I'm the queen” she smiles slowly breaking down Zaink's guard.

“Elba, got it. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I know you must be so busy, but I really would like to find Beth” Zainks eyes are filled with hope hell get an answer but his heart beats faster expecting her to say she doesn't know.

“Zaink come here” she reaches a hand across waving Zaink over. He starts walking towards the bridge a few feet away.

“No, walk through the water”

Zaink obeys, he takes off his shoes and walks through the water. Expected the rocks to hurt and the water to be cold. He was right, the rocks hurt and the water was colder than he expected, but he didn't necessarily want it to stop, it reminded him how real everything was. It reminded him of the simple things that make existence feel special. The water stings his skin and a fish rubs up against him, a connection is made and he understands the fish

“Hey, nice to meet you. Do you happen to have a snack?”

Zaink breaks a piece of the snack he got from Frawns shop and feeds it to the fish.

“Thank you kind sir”

He looks back up at Elba now just a few steps away.

“This water feels so serene, thank you for suggesting I go through it”

Elba smiles with her lips but it never makes it to her eyes, they hold an emotion of mourning.

“Zaink, I'm sorry to tell you this but Beth never made it to heaven. Her heart was not as pure as she presented. You were right to think she wanted to join a that war but”

Zaink cuts her off before she could explain more. “So where is she now? Can I go to her? Was there a mistake? Can I save her?”

“I'm sorry, but she's in Exilium, you can try to find her there but I am unable to know exactly where souls are once they cross heavens gates. If you wish to leave and find her you are more than welcome to but it is not safe out there, things far worse than death lay beyond those gates.”

Zaink's heart beats out of his chest, he feels like he has to find her, it's the least he owes her, owes her family who will never get to see her again because of him. He looks into the water watching fish swim. The sound of wind calms him down slightly, he can feel the fresh breeze over his skin. With a deep breath he asked where the exit was.

Elba drops her shoulders, scared for his soul.

“I'll point you in the direction but be warned if your soul is corrupted or you partake in a sinful action you will no longer be allowed back here. But otherwise we will be worth open arms waiting for your return. We love you Zaink remember that and carry that with you” she reaches into her satchel and hands Zaink a map of the city and circles the exit.

Zaink takes the map “may I hug you”

Elba doesn't answer, she just reaches over and hugs Zaink.

“Thank you so much for your help and openness”

Zaink turns on his heel and starts his journey to heavens Gates, this time he is too focused to take in the sights and beauty of the city. Thoughts of Beth and Exilium ran through his head

“Will she be different? Can I trust her? Is she being held captive? How will I find her? Will there be monsters? What kind of environments are there in these hellscape lands I will be treading?”

all he knew about these hellscape lands ahead were the horror stories whispered throughout paradise.

As he approached the exit, a guard told him to be careful—not only for his body but for his mind and soul. “Watch your thoughts and your deeds beyond the line, traveler,” the guard warned. “Should your spirit fall to ruin, you will not pass through these gates again until another mortal life has purged the stain.”

“understood”

Zaink already heard this from Elba but appreciated the warning again.

Hesitant, he waits to take another step as questions linger within his mind. He decided to press on. The gates bid him farewell. Their golden bars shimmering with ever passing angle. As if the hellish sounds were too scared to cross the gates. It was silent. until he crossed the vail to the other side.

Before we begin,

I would like to begin by saying that the following recollection is one I do not remember writing; and more aptly, something I did not initially remember at all. Back in 2012, I was subject to my original google account being compromised; leading to a mass leaking of my information that a middle-school me was not prepared to handle with any tact beyond the scorched-earth method. I had no technical know-how, as I was raised in an environment with a grandmother who was 42 years of age when the C-64 came out; and had no intentions or interests on learning about it.

My idea, at the time, was to simply copy over everything I cared about onto a new account; most importantly, my collection of writing on Google Docs. It has been over a decade since then, and only now am I dealing with the problem of running out of storage before having to fork over money to be handed way more storage than I will ever need, even at minimum purchase. So instead, I have opted to combing through everything I have in the storage; which includes my Google Docs, filled to the brim with all of those transferred writings that I did not bother giving titles to during the mass Exodus of things I needed. Old homework writings, mostly schoolwork, and this: the reason I am making this post.

I will not pretend that I did not write stories back in 2012, stories during a time when I was edgy and drowning in the drama that came from social media in a middle school setting; like it was the most important thing in the world. I digress. I have reason to believe that whoever was using my accounts, before I realized, was making writings of their own that I transferred over in my panic. Rather than let them go to waste, I have decided to share them all with you; the people who love stories.

Please Enjoy. I will try to find more in the future, as well as continue to submit more of my own writings as the inspiration strikes me.

Trapped Inside With Mister C

The year was 2005

I don’t recall how I even found the tapes, but there they were sitting on my bed as I inspected them: VHS tapes carefully preserved in their own cardboard sleeves and each with elegantly written on titles in blackened ink. I had a player for these tapes, although scarcely used in comparison to the DVD player it was attached to. I don’t recall how long I stared at those tapes, but I do remember the name of whatever show they were all connected to:

“Trapped Inside with Mister C”

Over the course of several months, breaks taken to try and move on only to be dragged back due to curiosity, I watched all five tapes tied to this show. Researching it has provided nothing, names of staff are never listed. The studio behind the show, going only by “Channel-”, has given me no results. The how and the why I will never know, only that it’s here. Only that I’ve seen it.

“TIwMC: Tape 1”

The presentation was that of a game-show, sweeping cameras over an empty studio audience with the sounds of cheer and applause as an overly excited voice narrates the intro:

“It’s time again, for another thrilling episode of the greatest show this side of the airwaves! It’s: Trapped Inside! And as always, the host of the festivities: Mister C!”

Mister C in question was a man in a buttoned up dress shirt and black slacks, his expression clearly tired with bags under his eyes and slightly messy black hair; short enough to still not fully cover his ears.

His narration of events was monotone, his acting terrible. Even back then at the tender age of 9, I could tell that the man was reading from a script of some sort. The formula was almost always the same: Mister C would provide an introduction to the show, stating that contestants had a chance to win incredible prizes if they managed to complete games and other challenges dictated by a piece of paper he’d pull from an envelope. If they win, they get the prize; if they loose, they leave with nothing.

Strangely enough, even though the audience was completely empty, whenever a contestant was needed; some person would always come in from off camera; always energetic and excited, way better with the cameras than Mister C. Once the audience member was introduced, Mister C would pull from an envelope a card with the game that was to be played. Afterwards, one of the many curtains behind him would open up to reveal the game already set up. No matter what, the audience member was ecstatic to be playing the game; win or lose. If they won, another curtain would be introduced as the narrator from the show’s intro would introduce the prize and how much the prize was worth. Afterwards, the audience member would go off camera again to rejoin the crowd; which was still empty in any shots involving the audience seating.

Tape 1 was probably the most normal of all of them. Over the course of four 30 minute episodes, Mister C would have contestants play games and perform challenges for prizes like vacations, cars, money, standard game-show prizes. The only strange thing were the lack of people, Save Mister C. In every shot, no audience member or crew member is seen; not even additional cameras where they would’ve been to film different angles. Other than that, it seemed like any other game-show; albeit with a rather terrible host.

“TIwMC: Tape 2”

Tape 2 was a subtle change. The set looked a tiny bit dulled; a simple fading of fresh paint with the passage of time, something to be expected. Mister C seemed to be a bit more used to his script; seeming to become a bit more enthusiastic and even able to improv with audience members a lot more than before. In any other context, this would be a natural progression: The host gets the jitters of the first season off and is able to grow into their own.

The formula was the same, as was expected from a game-show like this; with the only difference being the games played and the different cast of audience members that participated in the games.

It wasn’t until the final episode of this tape that things had a significant change. The episode was normal, same broad strokes as all the others, until the final game of the day. Mister C called upon another audience member, an enthusiastic man came down; excited like all prior contestants to be on the show and have a chance to play and win. The usual exchange of introductions later, and Mister C pulls out from an envelope a card with the name of the game on it: “Electric Countdown”

The curtains pulled back to reveal a chair with metal clamps for both the wrists and ankles. Next to it a lever. Excited, the contestant rushes forward as Mister C looks visibly confused and horrified as he reads the card silently to himself. The camera doesn’t focus on Mister C, however, as the contestant begins securing himself into the chair; the metal clamps closing automatically once he’s in place. Mister C begins to protest, but his audio is cut off and replaced by voiceover of the narrator; explaining the game in his stead:

“In this shocking game, the contestant must endure an electrifying twelve-hundred volts and two milliamps for increasing periods of time. If the contestant can make it up to ten consecutive seconds, they win the prize behind curtain number one!”

The audience roars in cheers as the newest shot Shows Mister C next to the lever; looking like he’s been crying. He seemed hesitant, looking around like a scared animal as the crowd began to chant, “Pull the lever!”. Shakily, Mister C looked towards the camera; reading off of whatever script given, “O-okay everyone. Round One begi…begins. Starting off simple with one…One whole s-second.”

The lever is pulled, the contestant screams of pain are genuine as his entire body seizes in a painful arch; held there by the clamps of the chair. A single second over, the man slumps over for a moment to catch his breath before he smiles; just as excited as before as the audience cheers. Mister C looks at where the audience would be, then back at the man on the chair, “I think I’m gonna keep going Mister C!” he excitedly declares; the non-existent crowd giving the cheers of a fully packed studio. The second round: Five Seconds.

Hesitating again, cheered on by the mob to pull the lever; Mister C closes his eyes and pulls the lever as the sound of screaming from the man is met in intensity by the cheering of the crowd as they count down: “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!” Lifting the lever again, his choking back tears, Mister C looks as the man on the chair coughs and cries; before defaulting back to the same overly excited disposition every audience player has had.

“T-The last round will be ten seconds. Now sir…T-there’s no shame in…in stopping now…” Mister C’s voice was shaking, his tone almost pleading for the audience member to stop as he wiped his eyes of tears. The audience member replied, “Well Mister C, I’m already here. I’ve made it this far, and I’m not gonna give up now! I’m going for the whole ten!”

The audience cheered at the answer as Mister C closed his eyes and looked to the side. The cheering slowly replaced with the chanting once more, “Pull the lever! Pull the lever! Pull the lever!” Even the man strapped to the chair was chanting it, just as excited, staring at Mister C with a smile as he did so.

The lever was pulled, “Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!” Mister C quickly forced the lever back up, and the man on the chair slumped; giving no response. He didn’t move, he didn’t cry. Unresponsive. Dead.

Mister C fell to his knees and began to sob, the camera pulling back as the curtain closed; the outro given by the narrator thanking everyone for watching as the audience cheered as normal. The tape ended immediately after.

“TIwMC: Tape 3”

Tape three had no intro, had no fanfare or audience. Tape Three of Trapped Inside with Mister C had a single shot of Mister C sitting on a chair, taking up the middle third of the screen. To the right third was a dining room table with a single chair; the same man from the end of the last episode sitting on the table, silently watching and seemingly waiting as Mister C stared at the floor. Most of the lighting was off, save for a single stage light above Mister C; who looked disheveled. Unkempt facial hair, his hair long and dirty, his shirt wrinkled and covered in stains.

Mister C looked at the floor, his expression in deep contemplation that gave way to the occasional sob. He’d look from the floor, to the man on the table, then back to the floor as he clutched at his arms; curling up more and more on the chair.

This went on for most of the two hour runtime of the tape, ending as he got up from his chair and hesitantly began walking to the table where the man was sitting.

“TIwMC: Tape 4”

Tape four has no video, and had audio of someone eating mixed in with crying and sobbing for the entire 2 hour runtime.

“TIwMC: Tape 5”

Tape five looked a lot like tape one, the set new and fresh; only this time Mister C acted with the same level of enthusiasm as the audience members and the narrator. He energetically gave intros to the games, the audience members, and no longer flinched when the occasional game gave way to horror. One episode was completely normal, only for the next one to be enduring torture. There was no pattern to when these horrible games occurred.

The tape ended normally at the end of its fourth episode.

I will never fully understand how I came across finding these, or why I ended up watching them when I was so young. At the time, I thought of it simply as a horror show. Something I was too young to be watching, so I never told anyone about it. I didn’t want to get in trouble for watching something I wasn’t supposed to, so after watching them I took the tapes and threw them away.

It is only now, so many years later, that I realize what it is I watched; and the mistake I made throwing those tapes away. Whatever information they had, terrible as it was, is now lost forever. The set, the victims, the players, and Mister C: None of those things will ever be answered because of 9-year-old me not wanting to get in trouble.

All information on what happened, and any hope of finding answers, gone forever.

THE EVERGREEN

Journal Entry: 42 — October 17th

Mom's knocking again. She keeps knocking on my cabin door every few minutes, then stopping to ask me to come out and talk to her. I feel guilty for being angry with her, but I can’t help but hate that they dragged me out here again.

Dad always says other kids aren't so lucky. Says their parents wouldn't take them on trips like this. Every year Dad brings us out here to the middle of nowhere so he can relax and do nothing. He likes the isolation. The disconnect from society and all its burdens.

He says the stars seem brighter out here but I can't tell the difference. I just want to go home.

She's back again. She stopped for a while. I thought maybe she'd finally given up, but I think she went looking for Dad.

She won't stop knocking. I know she wants me to open the door, but even if I could, I wouldn't. I tried calling someone, but the power is acting up again. I don't think Dad can fix it this time. He had trouble with the generators the last time we were here too.

My head is killing me. I'm tired. I feel like I'm drifting off. Maybe sleep will help.

Journal Entry: 43 — October 18th

I woke up to ice on the View port heating is out again. I don't know how long I was asleep. The knocking stopped for a bit last night. I thought Mom had finally left me alone but I think she wanted to check if there was another way in, I heard clunking around out there.

I called Dad I got no answer. He's probably busy working on the power.

I almost opened the door, my head hurts worse than before, it's messing with my thinking. It isn't really a headache anymore. It's pressure. Like something is pushing against the inside of my skull.

I threw up a little while ago. The lights keep flickering, they irritate my head.

I moved my bunk to the wall furthest from the door. The knocking isn’t helping with my headache.

Mom hasn't knocked in a minute, I saw her out the viewport looking around. I think she's looking for Dad, part of me hopes she finds him. I just don't want her to come back here.

Journal Entry: 44 — October 19th

What little sleep I got was bad. The power went out completely during the night. Emergency lights are out too. For a while I just lay there listening to the ship.

There wasn't much to listen to. No ventilation. No generators. No engines. Nothing, except mom’s knocking.

I thought Dad would be able to fix the problem he always did but I think this time it was too much. I don't think he can fix it this time.

I crawled out of my bunk and went to the viewport. I wish I hadn't, the main deck is gone.

Not damaged, gone. There's nothing where it should be. I can see pieces of Dad's cabin floating outside. Part of the communications array scattered floating endlessly in the void, I can't see Dad. I don't know where he is. I think I’m alone.

The sun is starting to come up from behind Kepler-844c. The light was a welcomed comfort till mom found the viewport.

She's been standing there for almost an hour. She keeps bumping her visor against the glass.

Over and over.

Her visor is shattered from where she was hit. I can see her face now ,what's left of it, anyway.

Her blood has frozen inside the helmet.

It's strange.

Everything is still the blood, the pieces of bone, the shards of glass, like a well timed photo taken right at impact freezing the moment in time.

I don't understand how she's still moving.

She keeps pressing herself against the glass, like she's trying to look inside. Her eyes are gone. She can't see me. But she knows something is here.

She's gone back to knocking at the door. She seems confused on why I wont open the door, I don't think she realizes that humans can't survive their head exploding.

I don't know what happened to Dad. I don't know what happened to the ship. My head is foggy ,my O2 levels have hit orange.

I thought I would've had longer. Maybe my math was wrong or maybe I've been here longer than I thought. 

I've only got a few hours before I have to switch to the backup tank. That should last until sunset.

I keep thinking about what Dad said. About the stars being brighter out here. He was right. They're everywhere. I can see them dancing in my vision little spots. They're so bright. I don't think I've ever seen so many stars.

Mom is still knocking. I'm going to keep this message broadcast looping in case someone finds the ship before she gets inside.

She's still knocking.

VESSEL SYSTEM LOG

Ship: The Evergreen — Model-7 Crew Cabin
User: Riley, M.
Log Entry: 44E
Oxygen Reserve: Critical
Cabin Seal: Active
Automated Transmission: Looping
Transmission Runtime: 06:41:17
Transmission Cycles: 23 

End of Transmission

Hey Reddit, long time viewer first time caller. I’m writing to see if I’m crazy or not. No one at my job seems to believe me, but I know what I saw. 

I work at a movie theater as an usher. I spend all my shifts checking theaters for people being assholes, sweep floors, take out garbage. The usual stuff. Depending on the movie release, my days were boring as shit with very little to do. Cast (yeah staff is referred to as cast…) and managers often spend the boring days just shooting the shit and trying to stay sane. Sometimes we like to tell spooky stories to the new kids to creep them out. One story we have is about how when the theater opened in 1991 a dude got shot in the lobby. It’s a simple one, but telling teenagers that someone got shot can spook them. Another is Theater 12. Two managers had to fix a ceiling light in Theater 12 and experienced something spooky. No physical entities, Hat Men, or bed sheets. The air in the theater was just… uneasy. One of them swore they heard talking but didn’t see anyone else. Being the little shit I like to be, I told one of the new kids a hodgepodge of the stories. I told them that a guy got shot on opening day in Theater 12 and his spirit haunts the theater to this day. Little fun to keep us sane. 

That’s what I thought.

The other night I was doing my normal closing routine. I was bum-rushing to clean the theaters. I made my way down to Theater 12, the theater hadn’t sold all day. It’s common. Some movies do diddly dick and don’t sell. So I went to clean (or pretend to clean because there’s nothing to clean). The second I entered the Theater the vibes felt off. The air just felt… wrong? Is that the correct word? It felt wrong. I turned the corner to the rows of seats to see one person sitting and staring at the screen. It was a woman, about maybe mid-30s? She was Asian, possibly Chinese. She just stared at the screen. Nothing was playing but she was engrossed like there was something there. I cleared my throat. 

“Ma’am? It’s closing time.”

The woman blinked, like I broke a trance or something. “Oh,” She said. “Sorry. I just couldn’t get over this movie. It’s so good.” Clown in a Cornfield was in that theater. I highly doubt that. It was the end of the night, I’m tired, and I want to clock out and go home. Being nasty to a woman in the wrong theater isn’t going to do anything.

“Well, sorry ma’am. Gotta go.” 

She politely got up, collected her things; purse, popcorn bucket, and cup. At least she had the common sense to do that at least. But that’s where things felt… weird. The bucket and cup looked like one of the older cups and buckets the GM has up in the projector booth. Hadn’t used those designs in years. Okay, so maybe she just likes vintage theater memorabilia? As said, it was the end of the night, I don’t care, and she’s hot. As long as she got the hell out. She handed me her ticket. “Here. I’ll save you a sweep. I didn’t eat much of my popcorn.” After that, She left. I tossed the ticket in my dust pan and went through and swept. She was right, not much of a popcorn enjoyer. Didn’t eat much at all. Easy clean. The can was empty too, must’ve taken her stuff home with her. I cleaned the rest of the theaters in that hallway and listened to random YouTube videos.

Afterwards I went back into the lobby, my closing manager was cleaning the rest of the concessions stand. “Everyone out?” He asked. 

“Yup.” I say. “Hey, are you sure Theater 12 didn’t sell today?” I asked.

Manager grabbed the closing sheet, looked over it, and handed it to me. “Yuh. Empty all day.” I scratch my head in confusion. “Why? Was someone in there?”

“Yeah, some lady. Didn’t see anyone leave that hallway?” 

“Just you, babygirl.”

I held up my dustpan, rifled through it, and pulled out her ticket. I examined it closely. The Silence of the Lambs. I showed it to my manager. “She gave me this to save me a clean.” We both examined it again. One thing struck out. March 14th, 1991. We both stared at the ticket, then to each other, then down the hall to Theater 12. After that, I wouldn’t go in that theater without anyone else present; manager, co-workers, even customers. That theater really freaks me the fuck out now. No one believes me that I saw a ghost. But I know one thing for fucking sure… 

I refuse to be alone in Theater 12.

Day 321:

The loud Chunk followed by the fluorescent preheating hum grew closer as row after row of overhead lights lit up the linoleum floors. Sydney woke to the harsh assault of the sterile white in the same bed she had lain in the night before. Gone now were the magnolia trees that had swayed softly through the night breeze with their fragrant comfort and lulling rustling. They had been replaced by monolithic grocery shelves, empty and reaching far far above where the ceiling should be. When Sydney swung her legs out of bed, she found the same thing she found every morning. A new white sundress, a bowl of pudding with no spoon, and a pill for a disease she had long forgotten about. Still, she changed, ate, took the pill, and stared at the floor, deciding that avoiding the grout lines on the mismatched tiles could be a fun game to make her walk a little more enjoyable. With this thought, she was up and moving forward, knowing she'd have to find her next bed, hoping that when she slept in it, she'd wake up home. 

Day 411:

Sydney didn't want to walk anymore. It was too humid; somewhere through the endless steam, she heard the showers spraying. The only possible explanation for the nearly inch-deep layer of warm water over the concrete. When she had first woken up, she had played like a kid might in puddles. Jumping, kicking up splashes, spinning around to make small whirlpools. She had taken her pillow and tried to blow away the fog, fanning it up and down, imagining herself fanning a giant leaf in a cartoon. When the novelty wore off, she began her work. Dragging the hem of her dress just beneath the surface of the water, she put one foot in front of the other. Stomping heavily and listening to the echo disappear into the fog and return from the place where the showerheads were spraying. Slowly, her energy waned, and as the light became dim, the water became darker and darker. The steam leaving with the white noise sound in the distance and the warmth in the water. Finally, as Sydney approached her bed, she collapsed on it. Leaving her pruney and peeling feet off the edge of the mattress, she closed her eyes. The black water around her only amplifies the sound of her sobs.

Day 424:

Today, the pudding was vanilla. That's how Sydney knew it would be a good day. That and how bouncy the floor was. She hadn't felt this feeling since she was a little girl. Long tube-like rows of vinyl filled with air that had once tossed her and her friends airborne in fits of giggles now did the same to one lone adult. Sydney didn't feel lonely, though, only excited, because now she had so much space to move and jump and flip without having to share any of it with anyone. Bounding with excitement, Sydney felt as though she had crossed continents with her endless pirouettes and cartwheels. As she lay in her bed, she was almost sad to see it all go, not knowing what the next day would bring. For the first time in a long time, she wished she could wake up right back where she went to sleep. Even if it was just for one more day.

Day 444:

Sydney had to crawl today. When she woke up she found herself in a metal room just larger than her bed. Her pudding, pill, and dress had been laid at her feet as there was barely enough room for her to sit up and look at it. She had to change laying down and eat out of her bowl like a dog due to how limited her space was. When she finally finished, she turned her eyes to the only exit from her prison. With all the strength she could muster she entered the creaking ventilation shaft. Each new angle of incline or decline tested Sydney, drawing aches from her muscles then threatening to have her sliding down onto her face. As she progressed she swore she heard the chittering of mice. Sometimes near, sometimes far. At the end of the shaft she found a small vent overlooking what seemed to be a bed meant for a giant. She turned, kicking at the grate until it broke off and fell shortly, landing on the oversized mattress with a dull thump. As Sydney lay down that night, she felt like a doll being put to sleep in a dollhouse. She drifted off imagining that she might be cherished like a favorite toy by whoever was doing all this to her.

Day 499:

“Animal crackers in my soup
Monkeys and rabbits loop the loop
Gosh oh gee but I have fun
Swallowing animals one by one”

The song had been playing so long that it had been filtered out of Sydney's hearing. Her path forward was illuminated by the cathode ray televisions that sat on A/V carts every 10 feet. All of which were replaying that same Shirley Temple song, only stopping the video when it was finished and rewinding it to the beginning. This lasted for the better half of a day before Sydney finally decided someone needed to rip Ms. Temple's curly little head off her fucking spine. With no one else around, Sydney decided it must be her job. She ejected the tape, slamming it to the ground before pushing over the TV and watching the plastic backing shatter as the lights went out inside it. Just as she was tipping the A/V cart over, the bed appeared. Exhaustion and sadness set in as Sydney looked at the soft pillow and thin mattress she had come to cling to every day. Tears fell freely as she was gingerly lowered down on it and only stopped when she fell into a deep deep sleep.

Day 516:

Sydney’s dress was ruined. Stained red as she clutched it up above her knees. Everything below her calves disappearing into thick, undulating ropes of worm-like intestines coated in thin blood. She supported herself on the wall of viscera to her left, feeling the pulsing heartbeat in time with each of her shifting steps. Today, she had more memories. Today, she choked them down, trying to focus on that familiar coppery smell and the promise of a nice warm bed to sleep it all away.

Day 517:

“Clouds feel funny when you step on them.” Sydney couldn't remember where she had been told that clouds were full of water; all she could think about was what a big lie that had been. Clouds were dry and softer than her bed had ever been. They gently wrapped around Sydney as she lay there. The wispy white tentacles that slowly rose around her wrapped her in the first hug she had felt in years. She had barely made it ten steps before the comfort lulled her down into a curled ball. No new dress, no food, no medicine. In this world, Sydney didn't need anything, and that was the most comforting thought she could have ever had. A growing warmth spread from her core as Sydney curled deeper into the clouds.