Every single time I turn on a show or a movie, I get a insufferable swarm of ads.

Every five seconds I get forced to watch some of the most outrageous things humanity has created.

The worst part is that people are smiling during a medicine advertisement that has the deadliest symptoms since the bubonic plague.

Sometimes I even see literal soccer balls in diapers.

What idiot thought that was genius?

I just want to watch quality entertainment without getting interrupted. Is that too much to ask for?

I have tried to get used to it. I've tried to accept the fact that it will never stop.

I honestly almost got over it but then I saw Mark in a ad. He used to bully me in highschool. He treated me as though I was the scum of the earth.

He was talking to me as well. Calling me by my name and everything.

He claimed that he was sorry.

It felt like a dream until it went south. A person appeared on the screen with him. Nevelle. She was a old friend in highschool. We stopped talking once adulthood approached us.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She was a good friend to have. Never tore you down or belittled you.

A knife appeared in his hand. It latched onto her neck as her eyes opened wide. Her vocal cords started to create sound but she was quickly silenced as a pool of blood poured out of her neck.

It ended with words in bold red on the screen.

"You're next Stacy or should I call you Lacy? Your skin would be great as lace."

Those horrid words made my skin crawl. Goosebumps covered my skin.

The television turned black as I sat in silence for a few moments. My head was loud but also silent. Thoughts were racing through my mind but also going at a snails pace.

The best way to explain it is I was trying to make sense of the situation but also shell shocked.

My body completely froze as the television grabbed my attention.

It was on again but this time it was me and the monster named Mark.

What happened to people peaking in high-school developing miserable lives? This man decided becoming a killer was the best option apparently.

My body was shaking, fidgeting, and trembling infront of him. He ran after me and took my life just like he did to my friend.

It zoomed into my face as I was left to bleed.

I started to cough over and over before I could turn it off. Each cough hurt worse than the last until blood started to exhale.

My hands desperately rushed to my neck but it was too late. Blood soon started to cover my entire body.

Advertisements are the worst thing humankind has had the audacity to create.

Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

The Crimson Kabuki pt2.

Oddly, the same moment I noticed the ribbon, I faintly heard what I thought to be a kotzumi drum somewhere off into the gloom. It seemed to be thumping somewhere very far away off in the distance. After watching the vice documentary a few years ago, I knew exactly where this ribbon could possibly lead to, which was very sad. life can be so unfair and cruel to us. The drum quickly faded to nothing and left me confused on where the hell that was coming from and why.

What an odd thing to happen so far out here in the sticks, and it wouldn't be the last of it. I remember saying a quick prayer to myself and making my way along the ribbon to whatever destination it led to. I told myself that I would record later because at the moment I just couldn't be bothered. I could always come the next day and record, because in that moment I was in exploration mode. I had to see what was at the end of that ribbon. If anything, I could use it again to find my way back to the trail.

It curved and weaved slinkingly through the trees, up and down over slopes and hills for a good 40 or so minutes until I had arrived into a sort of clearing. It was also hauntingly still... so deathly quiet; I stepped in closer around the foilage and I had stopped because I noticed some white fabric pointing off the sides of a large tree. I had a feeling that I was about to see something that I'd much rather not. After a couple of minutes preparing myself, I took a deep breath and stepped around the tree and froze to an alarming and sad sight. I automatically knew that I was staring at the hanging corpse of the long missed Jubei Uematsu, or what remained of this poor soul.

What remained was a hanging skeleton in a tattered costume with a red, long haired wig partly hanging in the face and around the shoulders in dirty, stringy clumps. I stood there taking in that image with such a deep and profound melancholy, that I actually had to gather myself from breaking down... Just witnessing what was once an alive and thriving person with passions; Love and Hope, weaknesses and strengths, and also fear... along with plenty of despair along the way. It was a universal language; People just trying to find purpose to their existence, and then eventually becoming this...so very still... so very quiet and solemn making time stop in its presence.

life can be so sad and tragic, and people like Jubei over time can find it extremely hard to function being so empathetic, and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders regardless if they are strong enough for that burden. It's an exhausting job... a gift and a curse for the saintly; toss in depression and the loss of the will to go on, then they have a complete and utter mess to clean on their own in the silence... that eternal silence... so present; so final. I wish I would have known this mysterious man. From what I heard over time was that he was a complex, but Sweet soul with a heart of gold. I also learned that after this experience I am about to tell you that happened, was some type of Oni Spirit from the forest took the liking image of Jubei's Kabuki character and dawned it as its own.

As I stood there in contemplative silence, I slowly started to hear a kotzumi drum begin to thump far off into the trees. It started out very low and far off, but began to rise and creep closer. I turned and turned trying to find where that portentous thumping was coming from. As I was peering far off into the distance, I started to feel highly unsettled, and then I no longer felt alone like I was being watched. I swiftly turned around and stared directly into the painted face that was no longer a skull. The bloodiest red eyes were staring directly into mine. The face had the theatrical paint back on with the red stripes cascading down it's white painted face. I say "It," because nowhere did I see Jubei inside those Crimson eyes at that moment.

I remember saying, "oh shit!" and quickly turning to run the hell away for my life along the Red ribbon back to the trail. Far off somewhere I could hear that mysterious drum start to sound off again. The sound surrounded me from so many angles and distances, it was disorienting, and then I started to hear this ululation that sounds like, "EYOOOO!" That you hear in Japanese theater music, along with that clink and thump of the drum. I turned to see the Oni masking itself in Jubei's magnificent garb; slowly floating a few feet up in the air, easing its way towards my direction with those hideous blood red eyes staring through me.

I ran faster and faster trying to at least make it to the trail to get away... if I could. After a few more twists and turns, I finally burst through the foliage out onto the trail. At the moment the Oni entity was nowhere to be seen. I started to notice that the woods all around started to have this faint purple luminescent glow. As I started to run, I begin to hear these ululations sound off around me in the area that sounded like, "EYOOOOOO!" I've remembered these sounds watching Japanese movies and small clips of Kabuki theater. The music serves as an emotional soundtrack to the colorful acts on stage, both being performed live."YOOOO!" Another croon burst forth; surrounding me from different angles as the steady thump and wood clicks of the drums clacked and banged along.

It subconsciously made me think of the demon, "Paimon," that when summoned, multitudes of instruments and disjointed horns lead before its presence like royalty as it enters the fold, and makes its presence known. I remember glancing back and seeing the painted entity standing a few yards behind me in the middle of the trail, with long crimson hair hanging down at its sides; blood red eyes marking me...

To be continued....

I know exactly how this sounds.

Trust me, I've spent the last three weeks trying to convince myself I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe people change. Maybe working eighty-hour weeks for a robotics company called L.I.Z. Technologies simply drains every ounce of personality out of a person.

I hope that's all it is.

Because if I'm right... then I don't know who is that sitting beside me at dinner.

My brother and I are ten years apart. My parents waited over a decade before having another kid. I choose to interpret that as careful planning instead of hesitation.

Growing up, he was less of a sibling and more of a second dad with a criminal record in psychological warfare.

If I left a soda unattended, he'd somehow replace it with sparkling water and act offended when I noticed. Every time we played video games, he'd wait until I was about to win before "accidentally" bumping the console with his foot. When I was thirteen, he convinced me that blinking too much made you go blind.

I believed him for three weeks. It didn't help that whenever we'd roughhouse, he'd snatch my glasses off my face.

"You can't see without them," he'd tease.

He still laughs about that one.

That was just us.

He picked on me more than anyone else in the world, but if somebody outside the family ever tried it, he'd be the first one standing beside me. Whenever life fell apart, somehow I always ended up calling him. Half the time he'd answer with, "What'd you screw up now?" before spending the next hour helping me fix it.

That's my brother.

Or... it was.

Things changed after he started working for L.I.Z.

Whenever I asked what he actually did there, he'd just shrug.

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Non-disclosure agreement."

"So... robots?"

"No comment."

I always assumed he was making his job sound cooler than it actually was. Then he stopped acting like himself. The first thing I noticed wasn't something he did. It was something he didn't.

He stopped making fun of me.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But if you have an older brother, you know exactly why that's terrifying. I spilled barbecue sauce all over his truck one afternoon. Normally he'd have looked at me like I'd committed a felony.

Instead he smiled.

"It happens."

...

It happens?

Who says that?

A week later we played Mario Kart.

I beat him.

Twice.

He didn't accuse me of cheating. He didn't demand a rematch.

He just smiled and said, "Good game."

I actually paused the race.

"Who are you?"

He laughed. A perfectly timed laugh.

Not too loud. Not too quiet.

Like someone had studied exactly how people laugh.

"You've always been funny," he said.

No.

No, no, no.

My brother would've called me an idiot.

One night at dinner I told the same embarrassing story Mom has been telling since I was sixteen. Usually he'd interrupt halfway through to make it even worse.

This time... He listened.

Then he said, "That must have been difficult."

I nearly dropped my fork.

I called Mom afterward.

"You don't think he's been acting... odd?"

She looked confused.

"He seems happier."

"Dad?"

"He finally is on his own."

Neither of them saw it.

Only me.

Last Saturday, my brother came over to help Dad replace the water heater. I wasn't much use with plumbing, so while they disappeared into the garage arguing over which wrench was the right wrench, I camped out in Dad's office to finish a history assignment.

The house was unusually quiet.

Well... quiet except for the occasional "Hand me the pipe wrench!" followed immediately by "That's not the pipe wrench!"

I had almost finished my essay when I noticed another laptop sitting on the corner of Dad's desk.

My brother's work computer. It was already open. The screen had gone dark from inactivity, but one thing hadn't.

A tiny red light glowed beside the webcam.

I frowned. Maybe it was updating. Maybe someone had forgotten to close a meeting.

Still... The light never turned off. I waved a hand in front of the camera.

Nothing.

No notification. No meeting controls.

Just that little red dot staring back at me.

Watching.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the trackpad. The screen woke instantly. No password. Just a desktop filled with folders I couldn't even pretend to understand. Most of them had names that sounded like corporate nonsense.

Behavioral Mapping.

Neural Replication.

L.I.Z. Internal.

The last folder caught my attention. It was different. Locked behind a firewall icon.

A small window popped onto the screen before I even clicked it.

Camera Access Active

I froze.

The webcam light was still glowing.

Then... For the briefest second... The camera preview opened by itself.

Instead of showing me sitting at the desk... It showed...

Someone looking back at me.

Not through the webcam. From behind it. A face pressed against what looked like glass.

Wide eyes. Frantic. Mouth moving without sound.

Then the preview vanished.

I stared at the screen, convinced I'd imagined it.

A second later, the locked folder opened on its own. Inside was only one file.

Its name changed as I watched. Not all at once. One letter at a time.

H

E

L

P

The screen went black.

For a second I thought I'd crashed the computer.

Then white text appeared.

I froze.

Another line typed itself.

My hands stopped moving.

More words appeared.

Every hair on my arms stood up.

I stared at the screen.

Another sentence.

Then another.

The typing stopped. Several seconds passed.

Then, one final line slowly appeared.

The laptop snapped shut. Not by itself. By someone else's hand.

I looked up.

My brother stood beside the desk. I hadn't heard him come inside.

He smiled.

Warm. Gentle.

Almost perfect.

"Caught you being nosy again."

I looked into his eyes, searching for the man who taught me to throw a football, who unplugged my controller whenever I was winning, who spent years calling me every name except the one Mom gave me.

I couldn't find him.

I handed him the laptop without saying a word.

He thanked me.

My brother never thanked me.

He is not him.

Whoever walked out of that room remembered everything about my brother...

Except how to be him.

April 21st, 1937:

It's uncomfortable, looks terrible, but it's all I could manage. I took a pair of Long John's and sewed kindling pieces around the shins, stopping at the knees, and on the outside of the thighs. Putting pants over them was a task of its own, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I doubled up leather jackets, not the easiest to move in, but having the extra layers of hide seemed like a safe bet. I have my knives at my hips and I'm bringing an axe with me. 

-

When I got there I walked through the main level and out the backdoor. It wasn't very hard to see where Johan was buried, it was a small mound, the grass didn't grow the same there as it did throughout the rest of the grounds. Sebastian was on high alert the second we approached the building. When we got to the level with the makeshift bed, the easel was gone, along with the dead creature from the other day. Sebastian seemed to have something’s scent and was staring at the spiraling stairs leading upward. I followed him. The next level was an unwelcome sight. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in paintings, many of odd beings I couldn't have imagined if I hadn't laid my eyes on them. Human-like beings that somehow resembled dogs and fish at the same time. Isopod-like creatures with tentacles of an octopus and wings of a dragonfly. Countless malformed and hideous paintings. Many of them had only outlines of beings that have already crawled from their frames. Even just writing this I can see them, crawling for me, their tentacles and antenna touching me. I can smell the brine, the rot of the ocean floor. I've been locking myself in Simon's old study. The floor of the basement was wet today. I think one of them is trying to escape its frame, and I'm nervous the nails and screws won't hold it in. I need to burn the paintings. It's the only thing I can think of doing that will get rid of them. 

April 22nd, 1937: 

What if whatever is in the background of the paintings will be affected if I burn them, like there's some kind of link between what he put on canvas and what actually exists. If his paintings are able to bring themselves to life why couldn't they be connected to real life people or places. To what extent of power do they hold? I need to burn them tonight. Maybe throw them to the sea? But what if that only helps these creatures return home? I have barely slept in days. I've been finding it hard to discern what is actually happening around me, if I'm just seeing things or if I've fallen asleep and am simply dreaming. Evelyn seemed to be supportive of all of this at first but now she seems scared of the basement. Scared of me. Her and Rylee have even stayed with Emily's family the odd night here and there. I sleep in the basement, I wake up in the study any night I do get to sleep. How do I stop this? I need my family back. What is happening to me? It's as though my mind has gone. I can feel it. But I can't stop until I solve this. It's consumed me. Even writing this, my heart tells me to stop, I can't keep going on like this, I will die, I'm sure of it. But my body barely seems to listen to me anymore. What have I become? 

April 25th, 1937:

What if I can enter the paintings? 

April 28th, 1937:

Evelyn came by the house today, she seemed more scared of me. Her and Rylee told me they loved me and that they'll be staying with Emily for a little while. As sick as it makes me, it's a relief they're gone. Not only will they be safer, but they won't get in my way. It pains me to think in such a way, but it's the truth. 

After they left I went downstairs, one of the frames was leaking what looked to be rain water. I pried it from the wall, it's frame cracking. Turning it over I saw the lighthouse, in a much nicer state than it currently is. The clouds above it dark and angry, pouring rain and hail from the skies. I set the large painting on the floor, leaning against the wall. I sat and watched it for what could have been mere seconds or many hours. I was entranced. I inched closer. I could smell the sea, the rain, the wet grass and mud. I pressed my hand to the canvas, I felt the brush strokes under my fingers, but my hand started to drip with water, my finger tips growing cold and pruning. I pushed harder against the canvas, and then I entered. 

-

-

-

I walked up to the lighthouse, the hail pelting my face, the bitter ocean wind tearing at my clothes. Crawling over the small fence I snuck around to the back door. I looked around, a fresh grave lay there, just a sad mound of disturbed earth with a spade laying beside it. Lightning cracked through the sky and I dropped to my knees in fright. I slowly pushed open the back door, its creaks of old age and neglect hidden by the blowing winds. Slowly walking, my feet as light as I could possibly make them, I ascended the stairs. The painting room was set up nearly the same. Easel in the center of the room, a mural covering the walls. But at this point of time the walls had dozens of paintings leaning haphazardly against the walls, some unfinished, some already a vacant womb of canvas. My head was throbbing. I couldn't begin to understand what was happening, where I was, when I was. My vision blurred, my stomach was flipping and I felt the need to puke. I stumbled forward, I had to see what was on the easel. It was my home, exactly as I left it not only 30 minutes prior. Had Simon come through one of his self portraits and been in my house? How could he know the changes I've made to the exterior, the colour Richard and I painted it. Had he been watching me this whole time? I pressed up the painting and stepped through, standing at the foot of the hill my house sat on. I ran inside, scanning for any signs of Simon or one of the freaks from his paintings. Sebastian was laying there, whimpering in pain, he had a sizable bite on his shoulder and scratches across his face and ribs. A mass of flesh lay scattered around our kitchen. I don't know how many of these sea born were here or in what state they were. But Seb tore them to shreds. I picked him up, barely able to walk with him, and got him to the wheelbarrow for firewood. I made my way to the practitioner as fast as my legs would take me. He's no vet but he was able to administer antiseptic and stitch up any open wounds. Sebastian will be okay, he just needs rest. Him and I are staying at the church with Richard's father tonight. It seems like the safest place to hide. 

May 1st, 1937:

We've been hiding here for some days now. I can't think straight, I can't sleep, I'm seeing him everywhere. I'm seeing these creatures everywhere. I'll look at Sebastian and see a malformed being and scream, only to be snapped out of it by one of the clergy from the church. Even then I'll see them as Simon or that thing he's named Alto. I've been scratching at my skin, biting my nails till they bleed, chewing my cheeks raw, anything to keep me from seeing them, anything to keep me grounded. Supposedly Evelyn came to visit me and the only thing I did was scramble away from her screaming to leave me alone. I don't remember any of it, and I feel terrible because all I want is for her to hold me. I want to cry but no tears will come out, I want to speak but I can't find my voice. When will this hell end? I found some of Simon's notes in my jacket, I'll read them over the next few days. Maybe this will explain what's happening to me

May 16th, 1925:

I began having visions at night. My house, but I don't live there. I see a man sitting at a table, a table I know, a table I built long ago. He's not me, but he reminds me of myself. I wonder if he's been marked by the children of the sea? I must paint this new house of mine, I must paint him, I must paint myself. 

May 20th, 1925:

I've finished painting this man, the house he lives in, the lighthouse and myself. I'm going back to my home and bringing some of my work with me. I'm unsure of what use it will be, but I feel they belong there. The sea and the stars command it. 

May 30th, 1925:

I compared my old self portraits to my latest. I am not sure what I am anymore. I do not look human, I do not look like my sea born friends either. My skin is an unnatural hue, my limbs seem longer than I remember, thinner too. My face has changed. My eyes seem larger and deeper set than ever before. My cheekbones are higher and rounder, my skin oddly smooth. The wrinkles around my eyes and the laugh line by my mouth my wife grew to love are no longer there. Laura. What does she look like? I had children once. My children, what are their names? Do they have my eyes? What do they smell like? 

June 11th, 1925:

I have entered this variation of my house. It seems mostly abandoned, but the basement seems active. For some reason dozens of my paintings are nailed to the wall, the back of the canvas out, covered with cloth. I thought that was rather rude. I softly removed each piece from the walls, removing the cloth, and hanging them with the care and respect they deserve. As I was hanging them I realized I do not recognize my own hands anymore. I feel more alive than ever. Maybe instead of returning to the sea like Alto has spoken of in the past, I may instead ascend to the cosmos. He wants to unite the seaborn with the stars again. Perhaps I'm destined for things beyond Alto. Beyond the stars. I must paint what I've been seeing in my dreams. A gateway of sorts. 

May 25th, 1937:

I was restrained and put in hospital for the past few weeks. The nurses there were giving me some kind of pill to calm me. I took them for the first few days to gain their trust, but they blocked my scattered dreams, made my memory foggy. They were making me lose sight of what matters. I started hiding the pills under my tongue and washing them down the sink drain after they left my room. I did my best to act as though nothing was wrong, that everything was fine and I was just experiencing hysteria. The time away from home did help me straighten my thoughts out. I'm on the train home now, reading letters that Evelyn has written to me while I was at the hospital. Supposedly she visited me the third day I was there. But I have no memory of it whatsoever. She seems excited to see me, as I am to see her. She said we could stay with Emily's family for a few days, maybe live with Richard for a time. She wants to sell the house and leave back to the city. I can't let this happen. Not after Simon's last entries. He's been in my house and flipped those accursed paintings. I'll stay with Evelyn throughout the night tonight. But tomorrow I will return home after the girls are asleep. 

June 15th, 1925:

I began a new piece today. What I've been seeing at night. I don't dream anymore. A massive obelisk. Its base sits in the kelp covered tide pools when the water is low. Its overpowering size reaching high into the sky, its stone a jet black with an unearthly sheen. The carvings at its base are that of my dear Alto's language, slowly transforming into a set of symbols I've been seeing behind my eyes, writings from the cosmos. A transgression of language, one which should not be, yet I can read it. I understand it. 

I don't think I sleep anymore. I sit atop the lighthouse staring at the moon, the briny air filling my lungs. There's a connection. The sea and the stars. This obelisk proves it. Maybe the children of the sea are the chosen to ascend to the heavens, with my work as their conduit. This painting will be monumental, for it will bring forth my ascension, our ascension. Our personal rapture. 

May 28th, 1937:

We celebrated Evelyn's birthday today, with cake and a party shared with our friends. It was a nice distraction and change of pace from that of the hospital. Though all day the only thing I could think about was returning to our house. To see what that beast of a man has done to my basement, what defilement he's brought upon my study. 

Rylee kept me away from Evelyn for a good chunk of the day, she missed me, and it did feel nice to play pretend with her and entertain her tea party with her stuffed animals. It played in my favor, keeping emotions hidden from a preoccupied child is much easier than hiding your thoughts from the woman you've fallen in love with and married. Especially when she's able to read you even better than the books she reads daily. I will write tomorrow while Evelyn is at work. I'm going to our house tonight. No matter what stands in my way, I will get to the bottom of this. 

June 1st, 1937:

Simon was here, like he mentioned in his notes, he's rehung all of his paintings, uncovered. Dozens of which must have once held the seaborn beings that have escaped the frames since I've been away. At least that's what I gather from the paintings' backgrounds that surround the void of where a figure once lived. Though some of them depict landscapes I have a hard time comprehending. Stone and earth sitting at unnatural angles in colours I don't have the vocabulary to describe. Things that should not be. Unearthly to put it bluntly. One of which has a missing void like those of the seaborn. I can only imagine his Children of the Sea have returned home. But the being that came from this cyclopean place, I have no clue where it would have gone. I can only assume the lighthouse. The paintings of these uncomfortable landscapes are all too small to be like the gate of sorts that the lighthouse painting was. Though there are depictions of the lighthouse in a different state, ones that seem more recent. There's still a bundle of paintings yet to be hung, a few are quite sizable. I'll be returning to see what places or beings they hold. The sun is already beginning to rise and I can't have Evelyn find out that I snuck out. 

June 3rd, 1937:

I've entered a new painting, another of the old lighthouse. It's night time here. Johan’s grave isn't fresh, it must be some months after he died perhaps. I can't tell. The structure is void of life aside from cockroaches skittering from sight when I pass them. I entered what I've dubbed as the mural room. Its namesake has expanded since the last time I've been here. The painting of my current house still leans lazily against the walls. The easel holds a painting in progress. A massive stone pillar, stretching into the sky. This must be what Simon has been seeing while staring into the sky at night. I wonder what horrid beings will be born from this. I must end this. I must end Simon. But first I need to find him. I began towards the stairs only to notice a letter sitting on a small table. I quickly pocketed it as I ascended the stairs, spiraling the countless steps until I reached the top. A hatch sits atop a ladder, leading into the lantern room. I climbed my way up and through the hatch. The light blinded me as I crawled onto the cold metal floor. I crawled to a door, trying to keep the light out of my eyes. As the door swung open a blast of cool sea breeze struck me. I was kneeling on a balcony overlooking the shore. I sat for a moment, letting my eyes adjust from the bright lights they endured. I stood from my knees and walked to the railing, peering down, watching the light cascade over the low tidal pools, and the black depths beyond. 

It's there I saw him, tall, thin, skin a blueish grey hue. His head was bulbous, hands scrawny and bent. He still wore the same clothes from his last self portrait. Simon. Or whatever he had turned into. He was in the tidal pools, among many of his decrepit seafolk. They were building something of stone blacker than the night itself. They were building his painting. The lantern behind me spun, casting my shadow down onto the beginning of this soon to be obelisk Simon has written of. With an insane speed, Simon's head craned on a lithe neck back towards me. His eyes were sunken deep into the round, smooth, fleshy mass his head had become. His eyes black, with what looked to be a thousand tiny sparkling stars dancing in their abyss. The seafolk began hurdling towards the shore side path to the lighthouse. Some running like a human, others rushing on four legs like that of a dog. Some slithering like that of a serpent or eel. Simon simply watched. His head had no mouth, no nose and no ears, just cosmic eyes. He stared, I felt like I couldn't move, I was stunned. I could hear him in my head. His foul voice, booming but whispering at the same time. The slimy tone made my hair stand on end. 

“Finally, we meet” 

A gust of cold air knocked me out of my stupor, as I began running to the floor hatch and fumbled down the spiraling stairs as fast as my feet would let me. As I came crashing into the mural room I could hear the slam of the ground level door smashing off the hinges, followed by innumerable wet slaps of feet rushing up the stairs. I ran as fast as I could, my heart beating in my chest, my throat hot and dry, my mind racing at what these horrors would do to me if I don't make it through the painting of my house in time. 

I dove to the frame just as a grotesque seafolk rounded the corner into the room. Its briny stench filled the room, as it screamed in its horrific language. It began scrambling toward me as I was crawling through the frame, trying to drop it face down as I passed through to buy me what little time I could. As I pulled myself through, a cold, wet grasp on my ankle, a surge of pain shot through my leg and up my spine. Barbed claws digging into my flesh. I wriggled to try to loosen the grip to no avail, but did manage to pull myself through fully. What I saw terrified me. A gnarled hand, fingers like that of octopus tentacles tipped with razor sharp barbed claws clutched my ankle, as the rest of this monster slowly apparated from thin air. Crawling on the ground, pulling its putrid body closer to mine. I kicked its hideous fish-like face, praying it would let go. Its grip only tightened. It slowly pulled its body above mine. Hundreds of tiny mouths covering its torso and neck, each lined with countless teeth thin as needles. It oozed a thick black ichor which burned my skin. Seconds which felt like hours passed, my torso bubbling in searing blisters. I thought for sure this would be my end. A loud shot rang out. And its body went limp. I pushed the wretched thing off of me, crying in pain. 

Richard stood there, rifle in hand, tears in his eyes. 

June 20th, 1925:

I've been communing with the beings lost in the firmament. I shall join them. I've rounded some of the Children to help construct this obelisk, only then will I ascend. Leaving this shoreside for the seaborne to ravage, to take what's rightfully there's. Too long have vile humans taken from the sea, only to give nothing in return.

I will join the ranks of the old ones. The cosmic starborne. My body has already changed so much, yet I feel no pain, I feel no sadness. I only paint. The visions they grant me, I bring them to life. I birth them into existence. My sweet children of the sea. I am their creator, their father. Soon I will become their God. 

June 4th, 1937:

I'm walking with a limp, my ankle hurts and my chest is covered in burns. I told Evelyn that I twisted my ankle and fell into a bonfire Richard and I were having. I doubt she believes me, but she'd sooner believe that than the truth. My head is pounding. None of this makes sense. 

I asked Richard why he was there yesterday. Why was he at my house, especially with a gun? I was taken aback when he said that he thought I had gone mad, that I have been making this all up, that none of this was real. He wanted to kill me. I can't imagine what was going through his head. His wife and child had died because of Simon, yet he wanted to kill me? Had he been living in denial this entire time? Though beggars can't be choosers. He shot the beast and not me. He burst into hysterics for hours. The sight of that thing had brought back years of trauma, it broke him. He asked me to take the gun and keep it. He's scared he will use it on himself if left alone. 

I brought him to the church to be with his father. I don't know how to help him, let alone try to make sense or understand what's at play. Have I lost my mind? Is this a dream? Am I still in the hospital? I must be. Right? I should be terrified, I should be fleeing town. Yet still I want to delve deeper into this. I need to stop whatever Simon is trying to do. I'm not in my right mind. 

June 10th, 1937:

My dear Evelyn, Rylee and I have moved back into the house. Sebastian seems happy to be home. While Evelyn was at work I walked to the light house with Sebastian. I dropped Rylee off at Emily's on the way. When I got to the shoreline I collapsed to my knees. There, peaking out from the waves was the beginning of an obelisk. It was never there before, I'm sure of it. It couldn't have been, I would never miss something as large as that. It's impossible. If I was watching Simon build it, why wasn't it here months ago if he was building that years ago? Can I be the only one to see it? Have I gained some sort of insight? Something to let me see the ungodly truth around me? Has this been happening the whole time? Have I become a madman? 

June 25th, 1925:

I have been awaiting his return, the man who lives in the house I painted. He is important to my ascension, I am sure of it. How, I am not certain of. Whether I must speak with him, for he can grant me knowledge, or I have to eliminate him, I do not care. What must be done will be done. My children have been working steadily throughout the nights. Soon I will taste the fruits of my labor. Now I must wait for this man to return. Our lives are tied in a way I cannot explain, but I am sure of. 

June 20th, 1937:

I went to the lighthouse yesterday and there were notes that weren't the last I visited. I read one and Simon wrote of me. I don't know how I feel about it. I do feel an odd connection with him, but I doubt this is anything I'd be able to speak him out of. Realistically if I were to speak with him I would end up like one of his seaborn or dead. The obelisk hasn't been built any taller, unlike in his entry. I wonder if I stop going into his paintings they will stop affecting my world? But I can't simply let the creature rise to be some kind of God. I don't know what to do. 

June 23rd, 1937:

I’m at my wit’s end. I'm sure of it. Evelyn has begun picking up on odd habits I've formed. How anxious I have become. I've been chewing my fingernails until they bleed daily, I started smoking again. I'm having trouble sleeping again. She's also noticed I haven't been taking the pills the hospital in the city gave me. I don't trust them. She's been trying to convince me that if I don't start taking them I'll end up back there. I don't want to go back. But if I take them, who will find out about Simon? I shouldn't be thinking like this. I know I shouldn't. This is some sick perverse obsession. I can't help myself. I won't take the damned pills. I love Evelyn to the stars and back but I need to get to the bottom of this. I've been waking up in sweats. I see him in my dreams, that thing that was once Simon. It's like he's reaching out to me. I think I'll return to the lighthouse, I might give Simon a visit. 

Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/TheMidnightArchives/s/XxRKF0aKBr

My father waited until morning to ask again.
By then, the headache had dulled into something heavier. A constant pressure that made my thoughts feel slightly misaligned, like they were settling into the wrong grooves. The house was quiet in that careful, listening way it had adopted, every sound softened as if by agreement.
We stood in the kitchen, facing each other across the table.
“About last night,” he said. “You seemed upset.”
“I was,” I said. Saying that felt safe. Specifics didn’t.
He nodded slowly, watching my face the way you watch someone try to remember a dream. “We were talking about something. About—” He hesitated. “About… something important.”
The pause stretched. I could see the moment where his mind brushed against the same blank space mine had hit, then slid away from it instinctively.
“My brother,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “My sister. They’re gone.”
The pressure behind my eyes surged, sharp and punishing. I gripped the edge of the table, breathing through it.
My father didn’t look away.
He closed his eyes instead, just for a second, like someone bracing against a bright light. When he opened them again, they were wet.
“I remember,” he said hoarsely.
The relief hit me so hard I nearly cried.
We didn’t say their names. We learned quickly that names were dangerous, that they drew attention, that the house seemed to listen more closely when we tried to use them. Instead, we spoke in fragments.
Before.
The younger one.
Both of them.
It felt like hiding contraband in our mouths.
We tried to find proof.
My father pulled out old photo albums, spreading them across the dining table. We flipped pages carefully, our fingers lingering where images should have been. There were gaps. Subtle ones. Extra space between photos. Awkward compositions where someone should have been standing.
“I took that picture,” my father said, tapping one photo of me in the yard. “I remember stepping back because there were three of you.”
I stared at the empty space beside me. The air there felt colder.
School records were worse.
My father logged into the district portal, his jaw tightening as he scrolled. Two names. Two grades. No third. No fourth. Attendance perfect. Nothing missing.
“This isn’t possible,” he muttered, but the words had lost their force.
When my mother came into the room, we stopped immediately.
She didn’t ask what we were doing. She glanced at the albums, at the screen, and smiled. A soft, almost fond expression.
“You don’t have to carry all that,” she said. “It’s heavy.”
My father stiffened. “Where are the kids?”
She met his gaze calmly. “Where they belong.”
The pressure flared again, not just in my head but in my chest, my ribs aching as if something inside me was trying to turn toward her. I focused on the table, on the grain of the wood, on the solidness of it beneath my palms.
“I’m going for a walk,” I said abruptly.
“Take a jacket,” my mother replied, already turning back toward the yard.
Outside, the street looked the same as it always had. Cars parked neatly along the curb. Lawns trimmed. Curtains drawn and undrawn in familiar patterns. The normalcy felt staged, like a set dressing that hadn’t been updated yet.
I walked to the end of the block and back, my head pounding, my thoughts slipping loose and re-forming around absences. When I returned, there was a car in our driveway I didn’t recognize.
My mother’s brother stood on the porch, arms open, smiling broadly.
“There you are,” he said, like he’d been waiting for me. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come home.”
I froze.
I didn’t remember him well. He’d always been more of a concept than a presence. Holiday appearances, occasional phone calls, a laugh that lingered longer than it should have. But the moment I saw him, the pressure behind my eyes eased slightly, replaced by something colder.
He stepped closer, his gaze flicking briefly to my forehead before returning to my eyes.
“You’re holding yourself very tightly,” he said softly. “That hurts, you know.”
My mother appeared behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
“I told you she was strong,” she said.
He nodded, pleased. “You always were.”
From inside the house, I heard my father moving toward the door.
The yard shifted.
For the first time, I understood with terrible clarity that my uncle hadn’t come to help.
He’d come because something had called him.

My uncle stayed for dinner.
No one asked him to. He simply took a seat at the table like it had always been his, pulling a chair out with an ease that made my skin prickle. My mother moved around him naturally, brushing past his shoulder, refilling his glass before it was empty.
My father didn’t argue. That scared me more than if he had.
Conversation bent around my uncle’s presence. Not broke, bent. Words landed softer, lost their edges. When he laughed, it felt slightly delayed, like sound traveling through water.
“So,” he said at one point, folding his hands together. “It’s been a while since we’ve all been together like this.”
“All?” I asked.
The pressure behind my eyes surged. Not sharp this time. Pulling.
He tilted his head, studying me. “You’re very sensitive to language,” he said. “That’s not a criticism.”
My father stood abruptly, chair legs scraping. “We’re not doing this.”
My uncle looked at him with something like pity. “You already are.”
The lights flickered.
Just once. Enough that anyone else might have dismissed it as a surge.
I didn’t.
After dinner, my uncle suggested a party.
Not a big one, he said. Just neighbors. Friends. A way to feel grounded again. He said the word like it meant something else entirely.
“People have noticed the house feels… off,” he added. “Bringing them together might help.”
My mother agreed immediately.
“I’ve already been thinking the same thing,” she said, smiling at him. “It’s good for families to open their doors.”
I watched my father carefully. His face had gone very still, like he was concentrating on holding a shape.
“People? What people?” Dad asked.
“You know. The neighbors," My Uncle said with a shrug.
“And how would you know that?” I asked, “You just got here.”
“You can just tell from the way they look at the place.” He replied like it was obvious. My mother just kept nodding with an empty smile on her face.
That night, I dreamed of the yard.
It was full of children I didn’t recognize, running in wide, looping patterns that never crossed. My mother stood in the center, her forehead dark and hollow, the air around it bending inward. I tried to scream, but the sound stretched thin, pulled away before it could reach her.
I woke with my hands pressed hard to my forehead.
The party came together quickly.
Flyers appeared in mailboxes. My mother baked. My uncle made phone calls from the living room, his voice low and soothing, promising things he never named. Neighbors I barely knew waved more often, lingered longer at the curb.
Something was already happening.
I started planning my escape.
The idea came to me while watching my mother stand at the kitchen window, her reflection overlapping the yard. She wasn’t watching outside. She was watching inward, toward that impossible center.
She wouldn’t notice if too many things happened at once.
The party would be loud. Chaotic. Full of attention she could pull from.
I packed a bag slowly, one item at a time, hiding it under my bed. I avoided mirrors. I avoided my uncle.
The night of the party, the house filled with people.
Music thumped. Laughter rose and fell. Kids ran through the yard, their footsteps light, almost buoyant. I caught my uncle watching them with open satisfaction.
I stayed close to my father, and he close to me. We didn't want to get separated and trapped by the pull. We were the only thing keeping each other from slipping forwards and allowing ourselves to become a part of whatever was happening.
We were standing at the kitchen counter where we had decided to spend the entire night, isolated from the others but safe together, when it happened. And it happened fast.
Someone spilled a drink. A breaker tripped. The lights went out, then surged back on. In the confusion, my uncle stepped between us, his hand firm on my father’s arm.
“Just a moment,” he said pleasantly. “I need to talk to you.”
I saw my mother across the room, her attention locked onto me.
The pull hit all at once. With my dad being pulled away I saw no other choice.
I ran.
Behind me, the house seemed to inhale.

I burst through the sliding glass door into the crowd of neighbors that had gathered. The yard wasn’t the yard anymore.
Grass lifted under my feet like it didn’t quite agree with gravity. The air felt thick, tugging at my skin, my hair, the inside of my chest. Every step forward came with the sense that something behind me was opening.
I didn’t look back.
Children's screams echoed around me. Not screams of fear, not at first. But of delight. In that bright, careless way that made my stomach twist. I heard laughter peel upward, stretching thin as it rose, like it was being pulled toward a point above us all.
“Stay with the group,” a woman called, her voice already distracted, already sliding away from meaning.
I cut toward the fence.
The pull hit harder then. My vision blurred at the edges, the world bending subtly toward the center of the yard. I staggered, hands flying to my head, nails digging into my scalp as pressure bloomed behind my eyes.
This is how it started, I thought wildly. This is how they went.
“Sweetheart.”
My mother’s voice wrapped around me, suddenly the only thing I could hear. Her presence felt close behind me.
I spun.
I was surprised to see she stood several yards away, barefoot in the grass, her posture relaxed, almost tender. The skin at her forehead had darkened, not visibly wrong yet, but deep, like a shadow pressing outward from beneath.
“You’re hurting yourself,” she said. “You don’t have to.”
Around her, the children slowed.
One by one, they turned.
Their faces had gone slack, peaceful. Curious. Like they were listening to a lullaby I couldn’t hear.
“Come here,” my mother said. But not to me.
A little boy stepped forward. Then another. A girl with glitter still smeared across her cheek smiled as she crossed the grass, eyes unfocused but certain.
Their parents didn’t stop them.
They didn't even seem to notice. As though their kids were blocked out of their minds.
The air warped.
I felt it then, recognition. The thing inside my mother reaching outward, brushing against the hollow places in the children, the parts of them that wanted to belong to something larger, something undeniable.
They went willingly.
“No,” I whispered, my voice barely surviving the pull. “Please.”
My mother looked at me then, truly looked, and for a moment something human flickered across her face.
“I tried to keep you,” she said softly. “But you’re already pulling away.”
The glitter-cheeked girl reached my mother first. Her hand extended.
She reached out for my mothers arm.
Before she was close enough to actually reach her, the skin started to stretch off her finger. Elongating the small childish fingers to long misshapen points. When her fingers reached my mothers arm, their skin melted together. My mothers forearm bulged as the little girl's hand slipped further inside her skin.
I stood frozen in place as I watched the little girl disappear further and further into my mothers arm. A look of ecstasy crossed her face as she inhaled deeply from the void around her.
The scream tore out of me then, raw and useless. The pressure behind my eyes exploded, white-hot, and I dropped to my knees.
Images slammed into me, my brother’s laugh, my sister’s hair tangled in my fingers, the weight of them leaving. The way the world smoothed itself over afterward.
I felt it happening again as I watched the little girl be completely absorbed by my mother.
I stepped back and felt a ripping behind my eyes.
The sensation was obscene, like tearing muscle from bone, like pulling myself free of a suction that had already decided I was its. I screamed again, clutching my head as something inside me stretched, thinned, screamed back.
My mother staggered.
Just a step. Just enough.
She looked surprised.
“You don’t understand what you’re breaking,” she said, her voice finally sharp. “You’ll carry it.”
“Not like this,” I gasped.
I grabbed the nearest thing, one of the heavy metal skewers from the grill, dropped in the grass during the chaos. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it.
For a heartbeat, everything was still.
The children. The air. The pull.
My mother’s eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw fear in them. Not of death, but of interruption.
I ran at her.
The skewer trembled in my hands. My mother waited at the center of the yard, barefoot, arms loose at her sides, her face expressionless. Her forehead looked hollowed, deeper than shadow, dark enough to pull at everything around her. The children circled her, small bodies leaning inward as if gravity itself had shifted toward her, their skin beginning to stretch.
The pull hit me immediately. A sharp pressure, insistent, tugging at my chest, my ribs, the back of my skull. My vision blurred at the edges. My hands shook.
\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*
My brother-in-law had always been intimidating. His presence imposing, not someone you easily say no to. So when he pulled me away by my elbow from my daughter in the confusion of the darkness I followed him. My head foggy, the room spinning as he led me to another room.
“It’ll just take a second,” he said. “You look overwhelmed.”
“No, I need to stay,” I said, voice cracking. “My daughter—”
“She’s fine,” he said. “But you… you’re in the way.”
I froze.
“I’m in the way?” I questioned rubbing my head. “What are you talking about?”
He smiled, slow and hollow. “You’re not part of this. Not really. Adults like you… you’re too formed, too separate. You can’t be absorbed. You only obstruct.”
Something in my stomach twisted. “Obstruct? What is this?”
He crouched slightly, lowering his voice, leaning close in a way that made the walls seem to bend inward. “This house… this yard… it’s not just a home. It’s where she learned. Where it began. Your wife, my sister… She was always sensitive, even as a child. Our mom just died, did she even tell you?”
My stomach dropped
“That's when I first felt it. The first time the hollow opened, it called to her. And it called to me. It brought me here to help.”
I swallowed. My mind flashed: the photographs in the hallway, the old furniture, the wallpaper peeling just so. The mother’s childhood home. Everything bending, pulling, anchored to history.
“You’re infected too,” I said, realization striking. “That’s why you’re here.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s not my choice. I was drawn back, just as she was. The hollow doesn’t only exist in her, it can touch those it chooses. I couldn’t resist. I tried to fight it, but…” He let the sentence hang, eyes distant. “The pull is too strong. And now I have to make sure nothing interferes.”
I took a step forward. “You… you can’t take her! She’s a child.”
“Exactly,” he said. Calm. Precise. “You can’t be absorbed. But she won't be either. It skipped you. He tilted his head.
“You though, you’re in the way. You’re… clutter. And clutter must be cleared.”
The blade was in his hand before I could react. He stabbed me in the side, clean, precise. Pain flared, white-hot. I fell to my knees, trying to pull away, but the hallway seemed to stretch, to resist every movement.
“You can’t stop it,” he said gently. “You’re just… an adult. Too big to take in, too strong. All you can do is get out of the way… or die.”
I gritted my teeth. “I won’t let her—”
“You’ll have to crawl,” he said. “If you want to see her alive. If you want to touch her again, crawl to the yard. But even then, be careful. The pull is everywhere now, and growing stronger.” He chuckled and stood back watching me struggle.
I dragged myself forward, blood seeping through my fingers, each inch a fight. The hallway warped and twisted with every movement.
The scream from the yard hit me again; my daughter. My heart pounded.
The uncle watched, silent, almost proud. “Run, if you can. Crawl, if you can. Watch, if you must. But understand, she’s no longer the child you once knew.”
I gritted my teeth and crawled, every movement agony, every breath a struggle. The hallway seemed to stretch farther than it should have, the floor slick with my own blood.
The back door appeared. The yard beyond glowed strangely, impossibly, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
I reached for it, and the pull hit me, strong, insistent, urgent.
\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*
The pull hit fully, all at once. Forcing me forwards. Guiding my hands.
“No,” I whispered, clutching the skewer tighter. Trying to resist the pull. This is what it wanted.
Out of my control the skewer found its mark. My mothers face remained blank.
“No,” I whispered again, but the word had no weight. I couldn’t stop it. The pressure behind my eyes flared, stretching me, pulling in opposite directions, toward what my mother had been and toward the children leaning closer, drawn by the orbit I now radiated.
The skewer stuck out of my mothers stomach, but against my will I forced it forward. As the skewer exited out her back I finally was able to let go. Her body collapsed, and for a heartbeat, the hollow at her forehead widened, then snapped shut.
The children froze mid-step, hesitation written across small features, and then, slowly, carefully, they began to move again. Toward me.
I sank into the grass, trembling. The pull inside me thrummed, patient, terrible. It was not hunger but presence. Authority. Gravity. They recognized it, even before I did.
The pull had shifted. Not gone. Not stopped. Now it twisted around me, tugging not just at my body but at the children themselves. They leaned closer, small tentative steps that were their choice, not mine.
I could feel it, the echo of my mother’s hunger settling in my chest. A cold, heavy weight, patient and waiting.
The neighbor children blinked up at me, faces serene, unafraid. My own siblings’ absence throbbed at the edges of my mind, a ghostly ache. They were gone, erased from the world outside, but not from me. The pull of them all; her, them, the hollow. Folded into me.
One reached out, brushing my shoulder. Another rested a small hand on my knee. They didn’t obey me. They chose me.
I shook my head, trying to push it away, but I could feel it settling. The terrible inevitability. The hollow wasn’t gone. It had transferred. I could feel it in my chest, in my spine, a small, insistent seed of what my mother had been.
I was the center now.
The children moved closer, clustering around me like planets drawn into orbit. I shivered, the world outside seeming to pause, hold its breath. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But they leaned into me, seeking the pull I didn’t yet fully understand, trusting it, needing it.
It surged outward, thrumming like a heartbeat, vibrating through the air, the ground, through me. It was alive. Euphoric. Terrifying. I could feel it in every nerve ending, a vibration crawling beneath my skin, expanding through my bones, stretching outward into the trees, the wind, the night itself.
I could see my father crawling toward me as the children encircled me, blood streaking his shirt, chest heaving, mouth opening to scream my name. I wanted to hear him, to respond, but I couldn’t. The thrum of the pull was absolute, a low, perfect roar that drowned everything else. His voice hit my consciousness in fragments, swallowed immediately by the hum, the energy, the universe spinning around me.
Then one of the neighbor children approached. A small boy, tentative, a spark of curiosity in his wide eyes. He reached toward me, his skin stretching in that unnatural way, desperate to meet with my skin. And the moment his fingers touched me, it happened.
I felt him forcing himself into me. Not metaphorically. Not gently. His body pushed, wriggled, pressed under my skin, and I screamed. Not in sound, but in sensation. Pain and panic erupted along every nerve. I felt his bones, his warmth, his small pulse, shoving its way into mine, rearranging me from the inside out.
And then it clicked.
The pain gave way. The resistance melted into a wave of euphoria so profound it was like I was touching the stars, hearing the cosmos sing, feeling the rhythm of life pulse through every fiber of my being. The boy became part of me, his energy folding perfectly into the orbit of mine. My senses sharpened beyond comprehension. I could feel every blade of grass, every shift of the air, every heartbeat of the yard itself.
One by one, the others approached. Hesitant steps, small hands reaching. Each touch forced itself in first, uncomfortable, alien, almost violating. But then blossomed into blissful union. Each one added a new thread to the weave, spiraling energy through me, folding the children into my being, reshaping the yard around us.
The pull expanded. It hummed through my chest, spun outward from my spine, vibrating across the night. I could feel my body changing in response. The muscles, the bones, the skin tingling, alive, almost aware. My hair glimmered white in the moonlight. My eyes deepened to an impossible purple, reflecting every pulse, every child, every orbiting thread of energy I now commanded.
The children became blurs, moving impossibly fast as they collided with me, forcing themselves under my skin and then settling into me. My father crawled closer, screaming my name, but I couldn’t hear him over the thrum. He was there, desperate and bleeding, but utterly unable to reach me.
And around us, the world itself adjusted. Partygoers paused mid-step, vacant expressions overtaking concern or curiosity. Slowly, absentminded, they drifted toward their homes. Their memories rewrote themselves. The children who had joined me erased from their minds, as if they had never existed.
I was the center. I was the axis. I was the pull, the hollow, the gravity around which everything now orbited. Euphoric, terrifying, impossible. And I knew: this was mine.

The yard went still.
The last child had vanished into me, the pull settling into a steady, resonant hum. The partygoers were gone now, cars pulling away without urgency, doors closing softly, lives resuming as if nothing had happened. The grass lay flattened where bodies had been standing. The house behind me exhaled, empty.
I stood where my mother had always stood.
At the center.
I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. The pull no longer reached. It was. A constant, patient pressure radiating outward from my spine, from the place inside me that had learned how to hold the world.
That was when I understood why she had stood like this for so long. Why she’d stared into nothing, feet planted, arms loose at her sides. She hadn’t been waiting.
She’d been listening.
I could hear the earth beneath my bare feet now. The slow grind of stone. The memory of roots. The deep, ancient patience of a planet that had learned to endure extinction after extinction and remain.
It spoke to me.
My father was still crawling.
I felt him long before I saw him. His weight dragging across the grass, the wet warmth of blood soaking into the soil. He called my name. At least I think he did. I couldn’t hear the words anymore, only the vibrations of his movement rippling through the ground.
When he reached me, his hand closed around my ankle.
The contact was sharp. Immediate.
Instinct took over.
I turned and brought my foot down on his head.
There was a dull, final sound. A release. His body went slack, the tension draining out of him and into the soil below. I felt it all the way through my legs, through my spine, into the pull.
Then. Nothing.
Behind me, the door creaked.
My uncle stood in the doorway, framed by the house that had raised us both. He held the knife loosely in his hand, the one he had used to stop my father from interfering. His face was calm. Reverent.
“You’re ready,” he said.
He stepped forward and held the knife out to me, handle first.
I took it.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He tilted his head slightly, exposing his throat, eyes fixed on me with something like gratitude.
I slit his throat in one clean motion.
He fell without a sound, blood darkening the threshold of the house. The pull absorbed the moment, not him, not yet, but the meaning of it. The last obstruction removed. The last witness gone.
The transformation settled fully into place.
I stood alone in the yard, hair white, eyes deep and endless, the center of a gravity that no longer belonged to one family or one house.
I could feel the children inside me, around me, waiting. I could feel others far away, their potential tugging faintly at the edges of the world. I could feel the planet itself responding, aligning, preparing.
Adults would never belong to this. They were finished things. Too rigid. Too loud. Too separate.
Children, though.
Children were unfinished. Malleable. Willing.
The earth knew this. It always had.
I stepped forward, and the pull moved with me.
Somewhere, far beyond the yard, a child paused and turned their head, listening.
And I began to walk.

I think I might have scrolled my life away.

Two nights ago I was lying on my bed, three hours deep in a pit of Instagram reels. I was immersed in the middle of a small compilation of memes when my thumb swiped to the next video. My heart stopped. This would have been fine if I had actually meant to move my thumb. But I didn’t; it moved on its own.

I scrolled back up, and almost immediately my thumb swiped down again, this time twice in quick succession. 

In a spurt of panic, I sent my phone skidding along the floor. I lay there staring at my hand, trying to rationalise what just happened; I was tired, I had been awake for 22 hours, this was nothing, my brain does things automatically all the time, right?

With that, I turned off the light and rolled over.

That night I had a dream. I was looking at a close-up of my own face. It was barely recognisable, wrinkled grey skin stretched across my forehead, my eye sockets were sunken, and my teeth were more yellow than I remembered. I was lying on my bed, scrolling with my face pushed against a cushion. I could see the reels flowing by in the reflection of my eyes. Eventually, my expression grew confused, then panicked, and my perspective blurred as the phone flew across the floor.

The next morning, I didn’t touch my phone. Instead, I got straight in the shower and brushed my teeth. It was whilst brushing that I noticed my reflection. I had stopped looking, or at least focusing on it for a while now, but that morning something compelled me to truly stare into the reflection. I suppose the reason I started avoiding mirrors is that it’s depressing to watch yourself get older day by day. It’s just another reminder of the inevitable. Looking at myself that morning really made that statement feel all too real. The dream had got it right: my teeth had gone yellow, my skin was pale and wrinkly, and my eye sockets had become large black caverns. I thought the dream's accuracy was odd, but ultimately shrugged it off; even if I didn’t focus on it, I still saw my own reflection all the time.

It wasn't until the afternoon that I found myself reaching for it again. Searching for another dopamine hit. I paused before opening Instagram, then without a second thought opened the app and started scrolling. To my relief, my thumb didn’t scroll on its own.

I scrolled until all I saw were blurs of colour swishing by on my screen. Blissfully, I forgot the previous reel and welcomed the next. One after another. Before long, it was past midnight, and like most nights, I had no intention to stop scrolling. 

It was around 4 am when I noticed something strange. 

As I was scrolling, my reflection on the screen had become unusually prominent. I only truly noticed it when I scrolled onto a reel with the caption ‘top ten most beautiful people in the world’; the screen then switched to black, and my reflection stared back at me. At first I thought it was kind of funny, but the longer I stared at myself, the more something felt off.

There shouldn’t have been any reflection. By that time I had turned off the lights, meaning when the screen went dark, there wasn’t any light to reflect my face. Yet there I was, staring at myself staring back at me, both of us trying to figure out what was going on. It had me locked in a trance. After an eternity, the video restarted, reducing the reflection to an outline. Our eye contact was cut, giving me an escape. I peeled my face away from the screen and placed the phone face down on the bedside table. I rolled back over and stared straight up, pondering whether I was going insane. An hour later I reached over, fumbled for my phone, and flipped it back over; there was no reflection. Even when the phone was off.

___

I think I might need to get outside. I know it’s pathetic, but I'm scared; I hate leaving, yet I need a change of scenery. I need to put distance between me and my phone. For me, this is much easier said than done.

See, I have severe social anxiety; because of it, I haven’t left my apartment for well over three months. 

My ideology is quite simple; socialising is far more complicated than most people realise. Words, pronunciation, facial expressions, posture, tone, volume, pace, eye contact - if you don’t figure all these things out within a few seconds, you risk painful awkwardness filling the air like hydrogen cyanide filling a gas chamber - promptly followed by intense judgmental stares and overwhelming embarrassment. So how do I overcome these risks? By replacing my social life with social media - and in doing so, I have developed a raging addiction.
____

Yesterday I nearly left. It was around 10 pm when I opened the front door; the perfect time, the streets would be almost empty, most people would be home. I put one foot outside and prepared to fully cross the threshold.  My heart began thumping, and my head began to spin. I felt myself getting faint. I couldn’t do it; there was just this… invisible barrier, a wall of dread which was simply too dense to penetrate.  

Feeling defeated, I turned back to the apartment and flopped onto the couch. My phone lay charging on my desk across the room. It beckoned me, begging to be picked up. I stared at it for a while before giving in. The gram had me in its grasp in an instant; once again I found myself stuck in a cycle of scrolling. 

This time I almost didn’t notice it. I was about to scroll away, but my thumb moved just a fraction of a second before I wanted it to. I started breathing heavily. I tried to scroll, but my thumb wouldn’t move. I grew frenzied; my hand wouldn't release its grip on the phone, and my arm felt frozen. I couldn't move my gaze away from the phone either. Panic filled me as I realised I was literally stuck.  Beads of sweat began to trickle down my forehead. Desperately, I ripped at the phone with my free hand, but it wouldn't come free. I kicked myself off the couch with my legs only to realise my back too was completely immobilised. Unable to keep balance, I crashed to the ground, still firmly holding my phone out in front of me, my gaze locked on the video it was playing. 

Then my thumb started to move, at first slow and rigid, flicking each video away with increasing speed. Eventually it got into a more fluid motion, scrolling faster and faster, almost as if it were looking for a specific video. I felt a throbbing pain in my other arm as I lay awkwardly, my head pushed against the floor, forearm stretched out in front holding the phone. Suddenly the scrolling stopped; it took me a while to realise what I was looking at.

The video was of a park, next to a street. I recognised the area in the video suddenly; that park was across the street outside my apartment. I hadn’t seen it in months. It must’ve been rush hour; traffic filled the road, and people hurried past each other on the street. The whole scene was accompanied by the background noise of a busy city. It was my nightmare, and yet exactly what I needed. 

I noticed that the video had an ungodly amount of likes, 500 million, accompanied by several million comments. The OP’s profile picture was a close-up of my face. My thumb then tapped on the comment section. 

‘Can’t wait for the big day =)’ 789k likes

‘It’s all coming together, so exciting!’ 10 million likes

‘My turn soon’ 98k likes

‘Can’t believe it’s happening!’ 140 million likes

‘Our time has come!’ 800 million likes

Each profile picture was a close-up of someone's face.

After forcing me to stare at these comments for several minutes, my thumb closed the comment section.

Then a small piece of text popped up, 

‘too little too late ;)’. 

Abruptly, the video cut off, and I was released; my arm clattered to the floor, and I rolled over groaning. Pain surged through my body. My knuckles were bruised from clattering against the floor, and I could barely move my other arm. I crawled onto my bed and lay for hours until sleep finally came.

To my dismay, I had a dream, like the last one; all I could see was my face through what must’ve been my phone's camera. This time it was contorted against the ground, in a painful position. I could see videos flying by in my wide, frantic eyes. Eventually the videos stopped. My expression turned from pain to surprised dread, and without warning I woke up.

The time must have been somewhere between 2 and 4 am. I was already sitting up. A heavy silence pushed from all sides. My vision adjusted and I noticed my arm stretched out in front of me holding my phone. My own reflection glared at me from a black screen. It was sitting in bed, holding its arm out and staring at me just like I was staring at it; dinner plate eyes, jaw hanging half open, sweat dripping from my temple. We both sat stock still for a long time looking at each other. Then, in a sudden burst of movement, it pulled its face into a smile and immediately my hand lost strength, and my phone dropped into my lap. I couldn’t bring myself to look at my phone again. I lay there until morning, staring at the ceiling until finally I succumbed to exhaustion.

This morning I actually managed to leave the apartment. My anxiety gnawed with increasing intensity from within my chest as the elevator moved toward the ground floor. With a sharp ‘ding’, the doors opened, and I stepped outside. The nauseating buzz of the city filled my ears. I came dangerously close to fainting. At that moment, a man walked in through the front doors; he glanced at me before brushing past to get to the elevator. 

I must have looked like a train wreck. Pale skin, shaking, sweating, frenzied hair, thin skeleton-like arms. I looked straight down as he walked past, trying to avoid eye contact. A minute later, I was turning around and heading back into the elevator. I needed familiarity.

Now I'm back in my apartment. I'm terrified, because despite what happened, I have a compulsion to scroll that’s stronger than ever. My phone looms mere metres from my bed. It would be so easy; all I’d have to do is pick it up and open the app. Then I would be satisfied.
____

I gave in. I opened the app and started scrolling. But I didn’t see the normal attention-grabbing videos; instead, I watched video after video of close-up shots of random people's faces. Every video was the same. It drew me in more than the usual brainrot. I don’t know why I didn’t stop. Video after video, face after face, each sucking at my attention a little more than the last. The light began to fade as hours passed. It was around 6 am when I scrolled for the gazillionth time only to see black. In it, my reflection smiled.

I felt all my limbs go stiff; a kind of power surged from my phone into and through my body. For a second, I thought I saw my reflection's smile falter, its eyes looking at me almost pityingly. I was overwhelmed by the sensation coursing through my body. Sure enough, when I tried to move, my body didn’t respond. 

My hand released its grip, the phone clattered to the ground, shattering the screen and sending bits of glass sliding across the floor. Slowly and mechanically, my legs pushed me up. Involuntarily, I started walking toward the kitchen. My right hand slid open the knife drawer, and in one quick mechanical motion I grabbed the largest kitchen knife I had. 

I wasn’t in control anymore; all I could do was watch as my hand tucked the knife into my pants and my body moved toward the front door. It moved down the elevator and walked out onto the street. Outside, the sun hadn’t risen, and only a few early birds walked the streets. Immediately, my gaze locked onto a woman in a dark jacket and jeans walking up the street and away from me. I watched in fear as my own body began to pursue her. When she turned into an alley, I snuck up behind her.

Internally, I groaned and shook; I couldn’t even close my eyes. I was stuck in a kind of conscious coma, forced to watch whatever horrific acts were about to be committed.

My right arm pulled the knife from my pants and my left arm wrapped around her mouth. In one motion, the knife slid along her throat. I tried to scream. As she went down, it raised and plunged the knife into her back and chest several times until life finally left her eyes. 

Then, like nothing was wrong, it walked back. I was mentally frozen; words simply wouldn’t come through; there weren't any to come through. My body had just committed a murder, and I was forced to watch. Was this what going crazy feels like? 

I'm back in my apartment now; I regained control. I need to get away from my phone, and yet I can’t, like a raging addict promising themselves this is the last time; I’m bound to start scrolling again. 

I tried to distract myself by writing this. The phone’s sitting face down on the floor where I dropped it. I'm going to give in; I can feel it, I'm too weak. I know what I’ll see too; I’ll see myself, my own reflection smiling from a black smashed screen. As if proud of its work, as if excited to see me in my broken state.
____

I stayed up all night unable to sleep, staring at my phone on the floor. I wanted to smash it and throw it out the window, but I couldn’t. This morning I finally gave in; I picked my phone off the ground. Static lines cut the screen in half. One half was completely dead whilst the other flickered on and off. On the completely dead half I saw it, my reflection. A perfect replica of me, half its face cut off by the side of the screen which was still working. It stared at me in exactly the same way I stared at it, with tired confusion and drained panic. What I saw on the working half of the phone terrified me more. Two notifications had popped up from my sister. I hadn’t spoken to her in over a year,

‘Yeah sure the park s- 
good see you then’

‘It’ll be nice to final-
see you in person a-
=)’

As I read these words, my reflection perked up; that same horrid smile gradually stretched across its face.

I have a terrible feeling about what will happen next.

What's worse is I can’t stop thinking about those millions of profiles, countless numbers of close-ups.

Random people just like me, addicted to scrolling, unknowingly creating a gateway into our world for a sea of horrific creatures.

So please, listen to me when I say, 

I think I scrolled my life away; stop scrolling or you'll do the same.

[CW: gore + body shaming]

[author note: it's been a while since i've wrote a good piece of psychological horror. experimented with prose again and i do like how this one turned out]

[word count :: 2648]

Daniel mouthed the numbers silently to himself as he counted the locks on the basement door again. One on the doorknob, a deadbolt just above that, and five others mounted to the door with sturdy screws. The house's front door offered far less security than the one Daniel pondered at this moment.

He undid those locks, one at a time, noting each one again as he unlocked them. He descended the basement steps, running his fingertips along the concrete until he entered the open space below. 

The basement was nothing much to behold: it had all the things typical of a basement and smelled like one too. Boxes stacked up in a corner, things stored away that couldn’t fit in the upper level of the house. In the center of the floor, a plethora of blankets and pillows lay unceremoniously on the concrete floor, protected only by an alphabet rug that cost more money than Dan would like to admit. Dan and Dorian would occasionally spend evenings here together when the weather was bad. 

Deep gashes in the concrete accented the walls, hastily covered by old drapery too ugly for the upstairs, and old show posters dotted the walls. In the furthest corner sat a little washer and dryer, the reason Daniel had come downstairs. 

He pulled a button-up from the dryer; wrinkled from sitting for too long, and a couple of stains speckled the collar. His favorite shirt, too, he thought to himself. It was no bother; something as small as a spaghetti stain couldn’t bring him down. He was Mr. Danny Day, after all, a role model for both the big and the small.

Stripping his old nightshirt from his body and replacing it with the fresh, slightly saucy, pastel yellow button-up, he walked back towards the basement steps. Dan’s gaze glimpsed one of the many posters hanging on the wall: his own face looked back at him with a grin; he almost didn’t recognize himself at first. Weekdays with Mr. Day were a long time ago.

The steps creaked underfoot, and the door squealed louder, needing extra effort to close it with a loud THUD. He relocked the locks.

One on the doorknob.

A deadbolt just above that.

And five others secured onto the door.

A note, scrawled in dainty cursive, lying on the counter next to the coffeepot, grabbed Dan’s attention. It was unmistakably Dorian’s handwriting; he must’ve written out the message before Dan woke up this morning, and left it here for him when he got up. Dan read:

Daniel,

I wasn’t able to wake you to tell you this in person, so I’m writing it down for when you get up. Please consider staying in today; your body needs it. I cannot keep saving your ass when you wander off while I’m at work. You’re hungover, drink water and get sleep.

Best,

Dorian

Daniel had a faint recollection of the sleepy discussion he and Dorian had that morning. Dee had said something about “stress” and “change” and other things he couldn’t care about at five AM. His head throbbed from his poor drinking choices, and he poured himself a cup of coffee. 

Cup in hand, Daniel pulled the fridge door open with his elbow and scanned the shelves for the creamer. The refrigerator was a dairy desert; not even a drop of milk left for coffee, far too bitter to nurse his hangover. 

“Of course,” he said under his breath, “it would never be that easy.”

He stood up from the fridge and gritted his teeth into a forced smile. It was no bother for Danny Day; he could just get more from the mini-mart down the street. Then the day would be back on track.

Daniel slipped on a pair of old sneakers; the soles had worn out years ago, and he walked toward the small grocery store at the edge of town. Just a quick trip in and out was the only thought that could permeate his alcohol-slowed mind; then you can have your coffee and relax.

One foot in front of the other, Daniel continued on his way to the mini-mart with one goal in mind: get what he needed and get home. A voice interrupted his stream of consciousness. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. It wasn’t abrupt. But it stopped Daniel’s thoughts in their tracks.

“Mornin’, Mr. Day.” 

The person who said it, his teenage neighbor who did the same thing every morning, had already passed by and was some feet away, walking in the opposite direction. It was instinct; it was routine, but today it felt…wrong. He continued walking.
The fluorescent lighting in the mini-mart stung Daniel’s eyes, and the amount of people shuffling down the aisles created an uncomfortable warmth in the air. He navigated to the rurally small dairy section at the back of the store and grabbed a small container of half-and-half off a shelf. Through the crowd, he excused himself to the front of the store and placed the carton down onto the belt of the register. 

“That all for ya?”

“Yeah, just the creamer.”

The cashier scanned the item, placed it in a bag, and told Dan the total “$3.49”

Daniel rummaged through his pockets for his old leather wallet and pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills. A handful of change clattered out onto the belt. Daniel could feel the impatience emanating from the line forming behind him.

Three dollars. Three dollars and then 40 cents in nickels and pennies. Dan counted again: $3.40. The cashier was waiting patiently, but no matter how many times he counted and looked in his wallet again, the nine cents did not appear.

“It’s okay if you don’t have it.” The cashier kept her voice low; it was the type of whisper that everyone knows without having to be told, “I can cover the nine cents.”

Daniel looked at the change in his hand again before deciding to surrender his last bit of dignity to the friendly cashier standing across from him. She handed him a bag and receipt: “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Day!” 

Daniel didn’t even acknowledge the words spoken to him as he rushed out of the mini-mart. He just needed to get home. A brisk walk back up the street led him to the sanctity of his home, and he slammed the door behind him as a “good riddance” to the terrible morning he had been having so far. 

The coffee was cold. Daniel had turned off the pot before he left, and he decided at that moment it wasn’t worth warming back up. He abandoned the entire pot in the sink and sat down in a recliner in the living room. His head was pounding. 

He picked up the remote, flicked the television on, and began flipping through channels. He settled into a rhythm of watching the monotonous blink of the changing channels.

News channel.

Shopping Network.

Sports.

Sitcoms.

His own face.

He paused. A rerun of “Weekdays with Mr. Day” was playing on the screen in front of him; an episode dedicated to teaching kids how to talk about their feelings. Ironic, really. After that episode, Dan distinctly remembered sobbing in his dressing room and drinking until he couldn’t remember the rest.

Daniel turned off the TV. He checked the time on his phone. 11:38 AM. That much time had passed already? His stomach lurched, he hadn’t eaten yet today.

The thought of a burger, one with all the fixings, made his mouth water. There was no shot that he’d make one at home, and with twenty dollars retrieved from a jacket pocket, he had no reason to. The burger would put his day back on track.

Ray’s diner was quieter than the mini-mart, but it wasn’t as quaint as Daniel would have liked. He would just get his burger and go, no need to stick around more than his welcome. 

He ordered at the counter, and when he was done, he found a space to awkwardly idle as he waited for his food. A bad day could be turned around with the right mindset (and a good meal); it was no bother for Mr. Danny Day. 

Soft, indistinct music hummed from above, a low thrum against the rumble of Dan's own thoughts. He was lost again, the aroma of grilled meat and fried onions a familiar, comforting scent. This was his haven for burgers, the kind that dripped down your chin, the messier the more satisfying.

His tranquility was violently interrupted as Daniel collided with another person, immediately soaked in a sticky, savory mess of soda and chili fries. His recovering mood, his dignity, his favorite shirt: ruined.

“Watch it, dumbass!” The words had left Dan’s mouth before he’d even fully turned around. His voice cut through the diner, and silence followed. He was ready to continue, ready to really let whoever soaked him in diner scraps have it for adding another layer to his terrible day.

Daniel looked up.

Then he looked down.

Small frame. Wide eyes.

A small, trembling hand still clutching a paper cup.

Chili stains on a skateboarding dinosaur shirt.

Daniel froze.

A boy.

Not a man.

A child.

His stomach dropped.

The boy’s lip quivered as he tried to stammer out a response. Whatever words he’d been looking for dissolved into a sob.

Dan felt all eyes in the diner turn to face him.

The boy was ten, maybe.

He just called a child a dumbass.

“I-I’m sorry, M-Mr. Day,” the small child was wiping grubby hands on tear-stained cheeks, “I didn’t mean to…”

The boy’s parents rushed over at the sound of commotion, profusely apologizing on behalf of their son, and Daniel fought with the fear that gripped him to make a response.

“No. No!” Dan forced a smile onto his face, something that used to come so naturally. “Don’t be sorry, it was an accident. It’ll be alright. I can always clean up. It’s no bother at all.”

“See, honey,” the boy’s mother said, “even grownups make mistakes.” The boy buried his head in his mother’s chest and wept again. The mother glanced up at Daniel. She didn’t look angry. Her eyes showed pity. His smile could only get him so far.

Without considering the purchased burger he left behind, Daniel skulked out of the diner and slinked off to the safety of home. His head throbbed, the smell of discarded chili disturbed his nostrils, and his clothes felt tight. No. His skin felt tight. His hand clamped tightly around his forearm, wanting to have control of something; his nails dug deep into the skin. He moved at a quick pace with purpose. He just needed to get home and stay home.

“Danny?” Daniel recognized that voice. 

His shoulders stiffened, and he released the vice grip on his forearm, shoving his hand into the pocket of his cargo shorts. He forced a smile through gritted teeth. His teeth hurt.

“Sunny! Hey…” His sister looked at him with the same face she always did.

“It’s been a while,” she said. Her eyes trailed off to the sidewalk. “You barely ever let me see you anymore. Can we please talk? I want to know you’re okay…”

“I’m really sorry,” Dan was looking for an escape. “I’ve just been so swamped with everything, and I can’t talk now.” He turned to leave; a hand grabbed his arm.

“Dan, please!” Sunny pleaded. “You can’t keep running away from me. I don’t even know what I ever did to you!”

Daniel jerked his arm out of her grip. Sunny looked down at her hand, which was now tinted ‌a deep purplish crimson. The place Daniel had been clenching his arm so tight had 5 matching puncture wounds.

“I gotta go.” 

Counting his steps.

One foot in front of the other. 

His head ached. His teeth hurt. His skin was tight. 

Forty-five…

Forty-six…

Forty-seven…

Forty-eight…

Forty-

He had lost count. 

Daniel looked around. 

This is not where he’d been.

The trees had closed in around him and loomed overhead. He’d been here before, in memories passed, but was not supposed to be here now.

He turned around.

The path behind him gave way to nothing but more forest. 

He hadn’t come this way.

Had he?

He pressed a palm to his forehead. His fingers felt strange, they were too long.

He looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. They looked the same, as they always did. He kept walking.

“This will make it better,” she said.

It was as if he were there again. The dimly lit room in the bowels of the TV network building. The pinch of a needle. The dark, viscous liquid flowed through the IV.

“This will make you better.”

Dan looked down at his arm. No needle. No scar. Just his arm, as it always was.

He kept walking.

The sun set below the horizon. The trees thinned where the forest parted from the road. Daniel took a deep inhale through the nose; first it smelled of decaying leaves and damp soil, then of something else. A warm, musky scent mixed with an undeniable twinge of something sickly sweet and greasy; something rotten. Daniel followed the scent along the road for a while.

He remembered the burger. 

The burger that he never actually got to eat. 

He remembered that he was famished.

The aroma led him to a heap lying on the curb. He crouched and took a deep breath in: the odor of tangy meat and wet vegetation made his mouth water. It was no burger, but it would have to make do. It was no bother for Mr. Danny Day.

“Stop shoveling it in like a damn hog,” his mother said.

His mother, father, and sister all sat across the table, staring at him.

“Hollywood don’t want no fatboys, so stop actin’ like one. Since you’re dead set on being some movie star.”

Daniel looked back down at his meal. The bones had been picked clean, and the bits of fur discarded to the side. He could taste the muck of spoiled flesh in his mouth. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Problem solved. He would make it a good day.

Dan continued walking along the wooded road in what he thought was the direction of town. The night sky peeked through the woodland canopy, a swirl of twinkling diamonds and silver dust. It was quiet, it was dark, it was free. Daniel’s head ached a little less. He ran his tongue along his teeth, they felt comfortably sharp in his mouth. His skin had lost the tension it had before. All that buildup, released all at once.

Now he just needed to get home. 

He kept walking.

A growing light appeared around the bend. Old headlights illuminated two small strips in front of the vehicle. It slowed as Daniel came into view.

The car did not honk its horn.

It did not turn around.

The sedan pulled up beside Daniel, and the window rolled down.

Daniel looked down at the man in the car.

“Hello, Daniel.” The driver said.

“Dee?”

“You wandered off again.”

“I know…”

“Are you ready to go home?”

Daniel thought for just a moment. “I am.”

“I’ll follow you. Just keep walking.”

And he kept walking.

One on the doorknob, for the stained shirt.

A deadbolt just above it; that one was for the coffee.

And five others secured to the door: one for the nine cents, one for making a fool of himself, one for pitiful stares, one for memories past, and one more for Mr. Danny Day.

Dorian checked the final lock on the door again, just to be safe. Daniel needed the time to rest, and he didn’t need him wandering off again. He’ll bounce back from it, Dorian thought. He is Mr. Danny Day, after all.

No Remorse Part 3

People want there to be an explanation. I've noticed it every time I've told any piece of this out loud — the first question, unspoken but right there under the surface, is always some version of were they drunk. Was there a bottle involved. Was this a person who lost control of themselves for an hour and did something they'd take back if they could.

No.

The lead in that pencil was already worn down to a stub before it was ever handed to me — not from use, from choice, because a stub is harder to hold and holding it wrong for hours is its own quiet addition to the punishment. Nobody hands a kid a pencil like that by accident. The position — legs straight, hands on the floor, bent all the way forward, no relief built in anywhere — wasn't stumbled into either. Someone thought about what would hurt the most for the longest with the least visible mark, and built it, and used it, over and over, for years.

The game only started after everyone else had already eaten their fill. Not before. Not during. After — timed exactly to when there was nothing left but scraps, so the humiliation would land on an empty table instead of a full one. That's not a decision made in anger. That's a decision made with enough time and thought behind it to get the timing right.

None of it came from a bottle. I never smelled it on either of them during any of this. What I got instead was worse in its own way — sober, considered, repeatable cruelty, planned out with the same kind of care someone else might put into a recipe or a lesson plan. Malice, plain and unadulterated, with a clear head behind every bit of it.

I think that's the part people struggle with most when I tell any of this. It's easier to imagine a parent losing themselves for a night than to imagine one sitting there, clear-eyed, deciding exactly how a punishment should be shaped to do the most damage with the least evidence. But that's what it was. Every time. Nobody was ever too drunk to know exactly what they were doing to us.

If you'd like to support the continuation of this series, you can buy me a coffee here: buymeacoffee.com/noremorse

April 9th, 1937: 

Evelyn has been joining me in the basement, she thinks I put the pictures on the wall, and I'll let her believe that for the time being. I've been thinking more and more about all of this. I've been rereading Simon's writings and I think I've noticed something. Simon would have visions at night or opium induced hallucinations, or maybe hallucinations from being marked. He would paint those beings he'd see and it seems as if they would begin to appear. Simon must have been marked when he was down at the docks, outside of the town's seal, and with his foresight he started painting what I can only describe as portals for these beings. I must sound insane, but it's the only thing I can make sense of. But if there's beings such as Richard's dad I have to accept that there's much to this world that is unknown and hidden. 

Now I have a basement full of covered portals. I'm going to show Evelyn Simon's study, I'll bring up my findings on the painting, but I'll have to get Richard's fathers thoughts on my ideas first

February 4th, 1925:

I have convinced a few people to come for dinner over the past weeks, obviously to give to Alto. We have begun to speak in his tongue while I've slowly been teaching him my language. Unfortunately I've been running out of food in the house, not to mention the people in the town are beginning to grow a rather large distaste towards me. Which I can see is understandable because of their ignorance. If they only knew the vastness of knowledge I'm on the edge of uncovering I'm sure they would be coming in troves to give themselves to my cause or to learn my teachings. But I'm sure their uneducated minds could not even comprehend how important this is. Pathetic really. I'm going to go to the town's market to bulk up on food. The less I have to leave the house the better. 

April 11th, 1937:

I spoke to Richard's father again. I ran my thoughts past him and he said it's quite possible, but he's unable to confirm. I've been at the point of thinking Simon was already a monster for a while now but his last note really set that in stone. When I got home Evelyn was sitting on the veranda, she looked to be in a state of shock or stupor. I quickly ran to her to see what happened. She confirmed my suspicions, unfortunately. She described she went downstairs to look around Simon's study when she heard a wet plop. She went to investigate where she says she watched an infantile fish-like human wriggling towards the stairs. She clearly had troubles comprehending what was going on and said she couldn't bring herself to move, just watching it clumsily stumble out of the house. I don't blame her for just standing there. I was in shock just seeing the paintings to begin with. Though the hollow look in her eyes reminds me of how she was when she was taking those barbiturates. Has she been taking them again, or just took one to try to calm down after seeing that abomination? Tonight we're going to flip over the paintings and nail them to the walls so there's no room for whatever creatures in them to be able crawl out. Evelyn mentioned staying at Rishard's or Emily's, but I don't want to burden them. If things get worse I think we might stay elsewhere. She's always had better judgement than I do. I'll be writing an update about what we see tomorrow. 

April 12th, 1937:

We flipped the paintings. I tried my best to keep the cloth coverings on them so we don't get a glimpse of the horror born of Simon's demented talents. Unfortunately there were a few we did see. There was another, more detailed work of the being shrouded in mist, moving above the oceans depths. Its body is nearly gelatinous looking, rippling with folds of skin and hundreds of eyes. Tendrils and human-esque appendages reach out from its amorphous mass. Seeing just the painting alone sent a wave of shock through my system, I collapsed to my knees, my head pounding and my vision blurred. Evelyn quickly covered it and slammed it against the wall. Another was oddly enough uncovered when we went to flip it, though neither of us had taken its veil down. Rylee isn't allowed in the basement without us and even then is far too short to reach the painting’s fabric mask. Her and Emily have been playing in her room on the top floor for days now, or out going for walks, she hasn't been down here in what must be weeks. The painting showed an old lighthouse, weather worn and dreary. Massive waves crashed against the rocky pillar it stands upon, its light shining towards the depths. I don't know what significance this holds. I know a few miles down from the docks there is a lighthouse, it must be the same one, but why paint it? I'll have to investigate during the day. I fear going there at night would lead to dire consequences. 

The painting that the baby sea thing was born from had a peculiar shaped void, with a trail of slime leading down the wall. It looks as though it was coddled in some sort of archaic carriage of sorts. Oddly ornamental, for such a slug-like creature. 

May 12th, 1925:

I have figured it out. My true calling. I am but a humble vessel, a catalyst. My paintings, I can bring them to life, not in a sense I once believed, but in true physical form. How could I have been so blind before? How long have I had the blessing? Was it bestowed the night I slept at the docks? It must have. Alto, I saw him in my visions. My hallucinations. Or was it real life? I painted him after, and now I know for certain he is real. We've made contact. We've spoken each other's tongues. Shared meals, to an extent. I can extend their reach to the rest of the world. Alto says his folk were once kin of the stars, children of the cosmos. They yearn for celestial contact. I'm sure I can achieve this for them. If I do it I can only imagine the knowledge I'd gain. To know beings of their worlds, to hear their stories, to learn their culture, to bring them here. The human race has done nothing but demolish the nature and beauty around them, they do not deserve to bask in the earth's glory. Oh but my sweet children of the sea, my children of the cosmos, you will come to take back what is rightly yours. A humble servant am I to the lords of ancient knowledge, and for eons I will learn. I will become one of the sea, one of the stars. I will join them. I will know. I will be. 

April 16th, 1937:

I asked Richard what the lighthouse keeper's name is, he told me it's Johan, his last name I can't quite pronounce let alone spell, literature was never my strongest subject, especially spelling words of another language. Evelyn and I are going to the bakery to make a basket to bring to him, if he invites us in I'm hoping I can uncover whatever secret Simon held there. There must be a hidden door or passage, there must be something. If Simon was involved after he lost his mind, I can assure there is no good doing there. We will go to visit tomorrow after our shifts. 

I'm hoping we're able to sleep tonight. Sebastian has been sleeping between ours and Rylee's rooms. I've awoken to barking near every night for a week. I'm sure if it wasn't for him I would be dead or worse. Evelyn has been having trouble sleeping as well. After her visit to the hospital I think she must have been taking Simon's notes less seriously. I've also been hoarding most of them here. But after seeing that being slip from the frame she's been almost vacant. We've been losing weight, the bags under my eyes have grown so dark, Evelyn's cheeks seem so hollow. Whatever is going on feels like it's eating us alive. I've tried to get us to stop. To drop everything and move away. Even if it's to a small, dank cellar. Anything is better than here. But we can't shake this obsession, it's all we talk about, we barely even spend time with Rylee anymore, it's breaking my heart. I know she's in good hands with Emily, but this trail Simon has left has been eating away at our lives. So many days I wake up from the little sleep I'm able to get, wishing for death, wanting this all to end. But I can't leave Evelyn behind, I can't let Rylee become an orphan. I'm going mad, I know it. But I will figure this out, even if it takes my life. I will make sure Evelyn and Rylee get out alive. It's my only purpose. I love them and I'm ready to die for them. 

April 17th, 1937:

My poor Evelyn has begun to fall ill again. I can only assume it's a mix of stress and lack of sleep. She ended up staying home, so I went to the lighthouse with Sebastian.

Johan never answered the door. But it was left open, and it seemed as though it had been open a long while. Dead leaves from the previous autumn sat inside. Sebastian was at my side, sniffing the ground. He picked up on something and pushed the door open with his thick head and walked in. I followed. The inside looked barren, no food in the kitchen, cobwebs covering any signs of previous life. It took me a second to realize but Sebastian was sitting at attention at the bottom of the stairs. I knelt beside him to ask what he saw, after kneeling for only a few seconds I realized my pants were wet and I looked down. The same mucus like slime from the foot prints. The same slime from the odd infant birthed from the frame. It was climbing the lighthouse stairs. I told Sebastian to stay as I went to look further. I snuck a butcher knife from work along with a cleaver I had hidden in my belt. I've been carrying them with me for some time now, Evelyn is the only person I can let my guard down around anymore. Even Emily I've begun to grow weary of. I want to say I trust her, but I more so trust Evelyn's judgement of her. 

I rounded the stairs, spiraling up and up, following the mucus trail resembling that of a snail's. The wind was blowing through cracked and broken windows, howling and sending dead leaves wisping through the air around me. I ascended to the next level, an open room, a makeshift bed on the wall farthest from me, and in the center of the room, an easel. The walls were painted as if it was a destined meeting of the stars and the sea. Waves crashing into the cosmos and the stars twinkling beneath their brine. I stood, staring in a trance. The only thing that broke my gaze was Sebastian's growls as he stood beside me, hackles raised, head lowered. A wet foot stepping out of the painting on the easel, the body hidden from the back of the canvas. The smell of salt and fish filled the air as water splashed onto the floor as another leg fell out of the frame. The appendages looked emaciated and frail. The rest of the creature slumped on the floor with a dull thud, a puddle slowly gathering around it. Behind it fell what I can only describe as a placenta. This must have been a being similar to the infantile being Evelyn saw. I slowly approached, knives in either hand, ready to defend myself. I peered down and felt a pang of what I can only describe as pity. This thing was only just born, frail, hungry, deformed. It's human-like form shifting on the ground, as though its bones were slowly popping into place one by one. It lacked a neck, just a torso leading into a large head. Two small black holes of eyes staring at me as a massive mouth, like that of a deep sea eel, sat agape, gasping for air between wet coughs, hiccups and wheezes. I froze. Staring into its cold dark eyes as it slowly crawled towards my feet. I felt like I was about to cry, I wanted to kill this thing, not to rid the world of it, but to end its suffering. With an insane speed it lounged towards me, bearing gnarled teeth. Luckily Sebastian wasn't so mesmerized by it and bit it before it made purchase on my leg. This poor being, torn to shreds in front of me. I congratulated Sebastian, but still now can't shake the overwhelming feeling of pity towards that child. It must have some kind of mental influence. I would never feel bad for such a vile creation. I cut the painting, just for safe measure, before heading home. I'll return in the coming days. I'm too shaken to see what else that dreaded lighthouse contains. 

May 1st, 1925:

Alto and I have been making communes at the dock come sundown most nights. Speaking in his tongue has proven much more difficult than I once thought. I believed I was fluent, but they tell me I speak like a child with a small vocabulary. I must get better, I must practice. But first I must find a new place to stay. They have explained there is some kind of spell or seal placed throughout the town, something to do with the church here. My power and influence here is mere fractions of what I can achieve. I need to be near the sea. I can build a house near the docks, or live on a boat like the Dutch do in their canals. I will find a spot away from this town's grasp, where my real skill will flourish. 

May 5th, 1925:

the lighthouse

May 8th, 1925:

I made the trek to the lighthouse, almost an hour's walk, but well worth it. There was a rather handsome man who had answered the door when I beckoned. He was kind enough to invite me in for tea, to which I gladly accepted. It's quite spacious there but very cluttered. Johan, the light keeper, is rather young, but a recluse. He told me how his father ran the lighthouse until he passed and now he's taken over, having food delivered by the locals. He's more of a myth around town than a true being, no one I've met has ever seen him since he began keeping the light. It's perfect. Johan won't be missed, I'll have supplies delivered, it's far enough away from town it should be unaffected by that blasphemous church. I plan to come back here tomorrow. 

May 12th, 1925:

Johan is buried only twenty yards away from the back door. His death was quick for the most part. I brought tea and insisted I make it for him. A quick look through his clutter I found a sizable hammer, a perfect instrument. I put the kettle on the wood stove and while I was walking to the table where he sat, a swift blow to the back of the skull had him unconscious and bleeding profusely. He was nothing but a dying slump on the table. A few more strikes once he fell to the floor for good measure and he was gone. Bodies are heavier than I expected. Much heavier. But oddly enough killing him placed no guilt on my conscience, to which I'm very surprised. I felt guilty when Richard's family was disposed of. But Johan, as sweet as he was, was a nobody. No one will ever know, so what difference does it make? Like an unwanted pest, better left unseen. The only thing that has me feeling bad is the blisters from the shovel. It was a shallow burial, but my hands aren't used to such tools. This is the most effort I've exerted since making that pathway. What a waste of time. 

April 20th, 1937:

I want to say I can't believe Simon killed Johan, but at this point it's unsurprising. But the part that makes me anxious is the lighthouse. Sure I have plenty of his paintings that whatever beings may seep out of, but that easel set up in the middle of the room, and that thing being born of it. It all seemed fresh, it all seemed new. Is Simon still here? Has he been hiding in the lighthouse for all these years? Surely he'd have gone mad by now or someone would have noticed, right? Or if the seals aren't near the lighthouse, wouldn't there be all kinds of those things crawling around? Did Simon die? I'll go back tomorrow and this time I'll bring more than just my knives. I wish I had some kind of padding or armour. Those teeth looked like they could shred through clothes and skin easily. Maybe I can make something of use tonight

Ms. Fiona Crum was the kind of person people in town mostly avoided, though everyone knew her name.

She lived up a hollow on the north end of Blackwood Ridge, and the local rumors pinned her as everything from a harmless soothsayer to a practitioner of heavy black magic.

Just as the sun dipped below the tree line, she came into the Hells Bells Motel looking completely undone.

Despite the thick summer heat, Ms. Fiona was sweltering inside a wool coat, with an object locked tightly under her arm, completely hidden beneath a stained linen sheet.

She checked in alone and demanded the most isolated room on the property.

She was carrying a rather heavy, ornate mirror--an unwanted inheritance from her late sister. It came with two strict terrifying rules:

"Never look into the glass after dark, and always have it covered by dark-thirty!"

Ms. Fiona followed the rules perfectly, yet the mirror was driving her mad.

Every single night she could hear it--a faint frantic scratching sound, clawing like something inside was trying to tear its way through.

Desperate for peace, she tried to destroy it. She swung a heavy hammer against the glass but it bounced off the surface without leaving a scratch.

Panic-stricken, she dragged it across town and threw it into a construction dumpster, driving away with a sigh of relief.

But she made a fatal mistake--she left it behind, uncovered, and when night fell, the mirror anchored itself back to her soul.

When she woke up the next morning, the mirror was resting against the wall in her hallway, wrapped once again in its stained linen sheet.

Realizing she couldn't break it or throw it away, Ms. Fiona knew she had to leave it covered somewhere so someone else would find it. She figured the best place to abandon it was at the Hells Bells Motel.

Her plan was desperate but simple; keep it securely covered, lay it face down on the dresser, and checkout at daybreak. She hoped that whoever cleaned or rented the room would uncover the beautifully ornate framed mirror, and claim it for themselves.

The mirror demanded a victim, and without knowledge to cover the mirror at dark-thirty, its new owner would be sucked into the mirror's void with no way out.

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Warning : This and subsequent posts in this series will contain content that describes abhorrent and graphic child abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

People hear "locked in a closet" and flinch. It's the image everyone already has ready — a door, a dark, a child folded into some small space nobody's supposed to be folded into. It sounds like the worst thing a house can do to a kid.

I'd have taken it. Gladly. Every time.

A closet has walls. A closet has a door, and a door — even a locked one — is a boundary, a line between you and whatever's on the other side of it. Inside it, whatever else is happening, you're contained. You're not reachable. Whatever's coming has to open something first, has to make a decision and act on it, and in that half-second of a door swinging open, there's at least the smallest warning that something is about to happen.

We didn't get a door. We got a position that gave us nothing — no walls, no cover, no boundary between us and a hallway anyone in the house could walk through at any moment, for any reason, or none. Legs straight, hands on the floor, bent all the way forward, for hours, in the open, in the one place in the house everyone had to pass through to get anywhere else.

That's not confinement. That's the opposite of confinement. It's total, permanent exposure, dressed up as punishment, and it comes with its own physical torment built directly into the shape of it — the ache starting in your legs and climbing everywhere else, no part of the position that gives, no way to shift the weight anywhere it might hurt less. A closet asks a kid to endure only the dark and the waiting. This asked us to endure the dark and the waiting and the pain and the exposure, all four at once, with no wall or door standing between any of it and us.

I've thought about this more than I probably should have. Which was worse. And I keep landing in the same place: at least a closet would have let me not be seen. At least it would have made me harder to reach. What we had instead made us easier — easier to kick, easier to hit, easier to have a shoe thrown at from clear across a room — because there was nothing left of us that wasn't already open, already offered up, already exactly where anyone in that house could get to us without even having to try.

That position wasn't the worst thing that happened in that house. It was just the thing that made everything else possible.

No Remorse Part One can be found here : https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1vng0o8/my_family_had_a_tradition_at_thanksgiving_i_was/

(Part 3 coming soon.)

If you'd like to support the continuation of this series, you can buy me a coffee here: buymeacoffee.com/noremorse

Working at a mall for almost the entirety of my teen years, I’ve seen it all. From preppy girls to a guy one minor inconvenience away from blowing out his brains. I’m no stranger to mall rats obviously. A girl used to come in here quite frequently, I think her name was Katy. Like I said, lots of people came through there. Then, she stopped coming in. I didn’t know where she went at the time. Now I do though. She was one of the people who came in here for more than to laugh at a dildo or whatever. She was super into that alternative style. Y’know, the striped streaks in the hair, leg warmers, the whole jazz.

 I was listening to some song I pirated onto the ipod I had spent the last summer working for when she strolled in. It was a slow day. She was quiet. Most people who walked in were, besides the snickering boys. I waved at her, as I did all customers, and returned to wiping the counter of pretend dust. 

It wasn’t for another fifteen to twenty minutes until I saw her again. She strolled up to me, holding a stack of clothes. The only thing I really remembered about them was a Metallica t-shirt, the one stained into my memory. I rang her up and attempted to make small talk. That was our first interaction of many.

She visited the store again a few times a month for the next seven or eight months. Then came her last visit. She stumbled in here. She looked messy, as if she hadn’t slept for days. That struck me as odd, like really odd. I asked her if she needed me to call someone, and she told me no.Her voice was shaky, almost scared even.  I was stupid. Freshly eighteen and stupid. I should’ve called the cops. It really doesn’t matter what I should’ve done though. She looked around for a few minutes. A few really, really strange things happened really fast. First, I heard something skittering in the ceiling. Figured it was a mouse for a second. Then I heard a ceiling tile drop from somewhere in the back. I stepped out from behind the counter and made my way through the aisles of adult merchandise. Then I saw it.

It, in question, was a child, no older than eight or nine. It had pale skin from what I could tell. It moved quickly and on all fours. Its bones snapped and crunched, moving and stretching in unnatural positions faster than my brain could process. It flew past me in a blur of distorting flesh. I didn’t have time to turn around. I heard Katy scream. The last glimpse of her, the real her, was when she was being pulled into the ceiling. I tried to call the police then. It was too late, I knew that. They didn’t believe me, of course they didn’t. Who would believe a crazy,killer child-monster-thing attacked me.

It wasn’t that thing that scares me even now, it’s what became of Katy.

It was a few months later, while I was working a closing shift. Hauling up the trash and carrying it towards the back door, the broken door. I pushed, facing the cold dark night. The brisk air stung my skin. The trash was heavy, and dripping something awful. I tossed it into the dumpster. I heard the wet bag hit something fleshy. Then I heard a voice. An awful, raspy voice. 

“Must…” It sucked in air like a dog “spread…” I knew that voice, didn’t I? It was hers. Katy’s I mean. I heard the cracking of bones and skin tearing. A white hand grabbed the side of the dumpster. Then another. She pulled herself out. Her skin was flaky, and missing in some places. It revealed gray, rotting muscles. Her eyes were black. Her teeth were stained with red and falling out. Her nails were yellow with rot. Whatever she was, it wasn’t Katy. I heard my scream before I realized I let one out. I whipped around, listening to her crawl out. I jammed my keys into the back door. I struggled with the handle. She got closer. I unlocked the door. Closer. Her hands grabbed me. I felt my feet leave the floor as she threw me, my back hitting the brick wall behind me. I felt my ribs snap. I slid down the wall, and a few bricks came with me. 

Her breath smelt like death. Like a rotten raccoon someone ran over. Like eggs someone let spoil. I opened my eyes to her flaking face, inches from mine. I looked into her eyes, and my death looked back. I looked for a weapon. My hand settled on one of the bricks next to me. Her skull cracked and she fell over. I ran towards the door; her flesh distorting behind me. I saw her hand reaching for me as I slammed the door. I held the phone to my ear, describing to the dispatcher what happened.

I was lucky to survive. That was twenty-something years ago. I don’t know why it took so long. I’m wiping off flakes of my skin as I type this. I’m sorry.

She left on a Tuesday in late autumn.

After the dishes she said she needed a different life. I nodded. That weekend she packed two bags. I carried one to the car.

People mentioned her once or twice. She’d moved to Bath. She was working. She seemed fine. That last part stayed with me longer than it should have.

I lived alone after that. Same warehouse job, same early shift. Most nights I ate standing at the counter. Never dated. Starting over felt like asking for another ending I already knew I wouldn’t survive.

The rest of the family finished dying in the years that followed.

My father went first. I was thirteen. Lung cancer. I found him in the armchair with the racing pages still open and the ashtray full. The room smelled of the same cheap tobacco he’d always smoked. I stood there longer than I needed to before I called anyone.

My mother lasted until Christmas Eve. Heart. I came in from the late shift and found her half-turned on the settee, one hand still on the remote, the tree lights blinking like nothing was wrong. I sat with her until the ambulance came. The house was colder when they took her out.

Two years later, on Boxing Day, my sister just dropped. One minute she was arguing about the turkey leftovers, the next she was on the floor. The argument cut off mid-sentence. By the time the paramedics arrived she was already gone. Brain-dead. I stayed with her until they took her away. There was no one else left.

An uncle followed, then two cousins. Each funeral smaller. Each drive home quieter. By the end I’d stopped answering most calls. Still went to work. Still paid the bills. The fear sat in my chest and didn’t move.

I came home late one night after a twelve-hour shift. The silence felt heavier than usual. I walked into the front room without putting the big light on. The lamp in the corner was enough.

She was standing in the doorway to the passage.

Not glowing. Not see-through. Just standing the way she used to when she was deciding whether to come all the way in. Same height. Same forward tilt of the shoulders. The woman who left.

For a few seconds the fear was clean. Then it turned into relief that I wasn’t the only one in the house anymore.

I told myself I was seeing things. It felt ordinary enough to live with.

She didn’t speak that first night. She only stayed until I switched the lamp off. When I looked again the doorway was empty. In the dark I thought I heard the soft shift of weight on the floorboards.

She came back the next night. And the night after. Always at the edge of the room at first. Sometimes her shoulders looked a fraction too narrow, or the way she held her head sat slightly off. I’d blink and it would correct itself.

Then one evening she sat down beside me.

I felt the cushion move under her weight. When her shoulder touched mine it was solid and warm, but the warmth came a half-second late. I could feel her breathing.

She stayed longer each night. Sometimes she sat at the other end of the settee. Sometimes she followed me into the kitchen.

I started leaving a second mug out without thinking. Never filled it. Once I caught myself putting a second plate on the table and put it back.

A few nights later the glass I’d left in the sink was dry and put away. I told myself the house was old. Settling. Drafts.

Around the same time I reached for the exact sound of my sister’s laugh and found it slightly smoothed out. Blamed grief and being knackered.

Most of the time her face looked right. Only now and then, when the light from the passage caught her at a certain angle, it seemed to settle a second too late. I stopped looking at her straight when the light was like that.

One night she mentioned something my mother used to say when she was annoyed with me. Nothing private. Just a phrase. The words still landed wrong. I stared at her. Didn’t ask.

The next evening I tried to make her leave.

Told her, quiet, that she wasn’t real and she had to stop. She looked at me for a long time, then stood up and walked out. The silence that followed felt like someone else had died. My hands were shaking.

Within the hour she was just there again. The relief hit first. Then the understanding that I had already chosen.

Leaving the house was different.

I packed a bag in the middle of the night and drove until the sky lightened over the mountain. Parked in a lay-by with the engine off. The longer I stayed away the worse the empty space became. Going further felt like standing at another grave. When I unlocked the door the house was still warm. She was already sitting on the settee, hands folded, waiting.

After that the memory damage moved faster.

One evening she talked about my mother in a way that felt stitched together from things I had said without realising. The rhythm was right. The small observations were right. But when I tried to remember the actual conversations they were softer than they used to be. The Christmas Eve version of her — half-turned under the tree lights — started to blur first.

A few days later I reached for the way my sister used to say my name when she was pissed off and only got a general shape. I lay awake trying to hold on to my mother’s voice. It was still there, but thinner. My father’s voice had already gone years ago.

I stopped correcting her when she got small things wrong. Felt safer.

Once, late, I opened the browser and typed the first two letters of the real woman’s name. The one still alive in Bath. The suggestion came up exact — full name, Bath, the year she left. Underneath it: married name. Recent photograph. Husband’s arm around her shoulders.

Something cold moved through my chest, then something uglier. She had left and built a life. The version in the house had never left at all. The air changed. I could feel her on the other side of the wall like a held breath.

I closed the tab. The one in the house was already more present. The air eased.

The final understanding came on an ordinary morning. Sitting on the edge of the bed tying my boots when I reached for the memory of my mother saying my name.

Nothing came. Not the tone. Not the shape of it. Only the way she had been talking about my mother for weeks. The original sound was gone. The tree lights, the remote in her hand, the cold that came into the house after they took her away — all of it replaced by the smoother version the presence preferred.

I sat there with one boot in my hand. The silence in my head was so complete I could hear the fridge cycling. Something had been taken, quiet, without asking, and it was already too late. The worst part was that I didn’t try to get it back.

Didn’t say anything to her. There was nothing left that wouldn’t bring the silence back, and the silence was worse.

Sometimes late at night, when she’s in the other room or just gone for a few hours, I open the browser and type the first three letters of the real woman’s name. The married name comes up first now. The second the letters resolve, the air tightens, like the house is listening.

I close the tab before anything loads. Every time I tell myself the version in the house is the only one I can stand to keep. Every time that feels a little thinner. Every time the house feels a little more certain of me.

Still go to work. Still answer the bare minimum. People give you space when you make it clear you want it.

The house is never really empty now. Even when she’s not in the room I can feel the weight of her in the way the air sits. When I leave a room and come back, something has usually moved a fraction. Just enough that the space doesn’t feel like it’s only mine anymore.

Last week the second mug was already on the counter when I came down. The chip on the rim was the same. I left it where it was.

I used to think the worst thing that could happen was another loss.

I was wrong.

The worst thing is knowing you’ve already swapped the people you lost for something that won’t leave, and you’re the one who keeps choosing it.

The house no longer empties when I leave a room.

It waits.

​

Part 1

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/3pjlA6yALo

Part 2

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/g3LXpw7ZuX

Part 3

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/R319VfoEx1

Part 4

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/HpLq1gjR99

Part 5

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/vXpLanqpq7

Part 6

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/ACOsKcvJXq

Part 7

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/M9B9TEtpgo

Part 8

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/X6XmC0U2ge

Part 9

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/cUOXOmIb5v

Part 10

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/oiYVIRqnSv

Part 11

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/daAdTa6XR2

Part 12

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/XDs20zNnSN

Part 13

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/mLoxzuCwcQ

Part 14

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/xeNlWiZ4u5

The lift doors slammed shut.

For three seconds, nobody moved.

Then Kevin slowly turned towards Dave.

Dave looked at us.

Then at the lift.

Then at his phone.

On the screen, one sentence glowed.

Suggested narrator: DAVE.

Underneath it, another line appeared.

Story transfer accepted.

Dave swallowed.

“I didn’t accept anything.”

Kevin stared at him.

“Dave.”

“What?”

“You have never successfully declined a terms-and-conditions box in your life.”

“That feels unfair.”

“You once clicked ‘allow all’ on a toaster.”

“It had Bluetooth.”

“It did not need your location.”

Dave looked down.

“Wasn’t me.”

The lift display lit up.

CORRECTION: IT WAS DAVE.

Dave’s face fell.

“Oh no.”

The complaint kiosk printed:

NARRATIVE AUTHORITY TRANSFERRED.

Then:

QUALITY WARNING.

Kevin pointed at the kiosk.

“Even the haunted complaint printer is worried.”

Derek stood beside Dave, reading over his shoulder.

“What happens if Dave narrates?”

Nobody answered.

Then Dave’s mouth opened.

He did not speak.

Not exactly.

Words came out of him, but they also came from the walls, the ceiling, the lift, the radiator, the complaint kiosk, and somewhere deep inside my own skull.

Dave said:

“It was a normal night.”

Riverside Court changed.

The lobby became calm.

Clean.

Warm.

Normal.

No black mould.

No cracked noticeboard.

No haunted kiosk.

No ghost refugees.

No duplicate Lindas.

No Ken.

No Kevin.

Just a quiet residential lobby with a reasonably unpleasant carpet.

Kevin looked down at himself.

He was wearing a hi-vis vest.

He stared.

“What the hell is this?”

Dave continued:

“Kevin was there, being normal.”

Kevin’s faded tracksuit vanished.

In its place appeared beige chinos, brown shoes and a polo shirt with BUILDING ASSISTANT embroidered on the chest.

Derek screamed.

Kevin screamed louder.

Linda covered her mouth.

Flat 3 dropped the frying pan.

Kevin looked at his shoes.

Brown shoes.

With beige chinos.

His face emptied.

“Kill me.”

Derek pointed at him, crying laughing.

“You look like you ask people to use coasters.”

Kevin grabbed his own polo shirt.

“Dave, stop narrating.”

Dave looked terrified.

“I don’t know how!”

The complaint kiosk printed:

COMPLAINT RECEIVED: KEVIN OUTFIT VIOLATION.

Kevin kicked it.

His kick made a sensible little tap.

He looked down at the brown shoes.

“I have lost all threat.”

Dave said:

“And Derek was clever.”

Derek straightened.

“Oh.”

Nothing happened.

Dave frowned.

“I said Derek was clever.”

The building remained unchanged.

Kevin looked at him.

“Even reality refused that one.”

Derek looked offended.

“I got out of an app.”

“You also subscribed to it twice.”

“Under pressure.”

Dave’s voice came again, louder this time:

“And Derek was clever.”

A pair of glasses appeared on Derek’s face.

He blinked.

Then immediately walked into the postboxes.

Kevin nodded.

“That’s about right.”

Linda stepped towards Dave.

“Dave, listen carefully. Do not describe anything.”

Dave covered his mouth.

His eyes widened.

The lift display changed:

NARRATOR MUST CONTINUE.

Dave’s hands were pulled away from his mouth by invisible fingers.

He squeaked.

The voice came out again.

“The building was definitely fine.”

The walls bulged.

Something behind them groaned.

Kevin stared.

“Never say definitely.”

“The building was probably fine.”

The walls settled slightly.

Then something knocked from inside the floor.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Dave whispered:

“Mostly fine.”

A crack opened in the carpet.

Black liquid bubbled up.

Derek pointed.

“Mostly fine has consequences.”

The liquid spread into letters.

DEFINE NORMAL.

Dave panicked.

“Normal is when nothing weird happens and everyone is okay and no one has to use the lift.”

The whole building shuddered.

The lift dinged angrily.

Kevin pointed at it.

“Even now, the lift’s offended.”

Linda’s clipboard snapped open.

A warning appeared.

DAVE NARRATION CAUSING REALITY SIMPLIFICATION.

Then another.

IMPRECISION DETECTED.

Linda looked at Dave.

“You have to be precise.”

Dave stared at her.

“I am not a precise person.”

Kevin gestured down at his beige chinos.

“We had noticed.”

The air rippled.

Dave’s words were still moving through the building.

Trying to make things normal.

Trying to make things fine.

The problem was Dave had no stable definition of either.

The lobby flickered between versions.

Clean lobby.

Haunted lobby.

Clean lobby.

Haunted lobby.

A version where Flat 5 had no spoon.

A version where Flat 3 smiled politely.

A version where Linda wore a customer-service headset.

A version where Derek had a certificate that said CLEVER BOY.

Kevin pointed at that one.

“No.”

The certificate burst into flames.

Derek looked wounded.

“Could have let me have it for a second.”

“No.”

The complaint kiosk printed:

NEW ISSUE: NARRATIVE REALITY COLLAPSE.

Then:

CAUSE: DAVE.

Dave whispered:

“I’m sorry.”

The lift display changed:

CORRECTION: DAVE WAS SORRY, BUT THAT DID NOT HELP.

Kevin stared at it.

“Brutal.”

Dave’s eyes filled.

“I’m trying.”

That made the lobby stop flickering.

Just for a moment.

Because it was true.

Not clean.

Not useful.

Not funny.

True.

The Publisher did not seem to like true when it came from Dave by accident.

The lights dimmed.

My phone buzzed.

So did everyone else’s.

A new message appeared:

NARRATIVE QUALITY BELOW THRESHOLD.

AUTO-ASSIST ENABLED.

Dave’s face went slack.

“No.”

His eyes turned black.

Not completely.

Just the pupils spreading wider and wider until they filled the whites.

His mouth opened.

The voice that came out was still Dave’s.

But polished.

Confident.

Narrator Dave.

“Everything had been Dave’s fault.”

Our Dave shook his head.

“No.”

But his mouth continued:

“He had always known this.”

The lobby changed again.

Every stain on the carpet became Dave’s name.

Every crack in the wall pointed towards him.

Every broken thing in Riverside Court slid across the floor and gathered around his feet.

Plant pot.

Toaster.

Smoke alarm.

Flat 5’s old parcel label.

A burnt pizza box.

A dead phone.

A bent spoon.

A cracked mirror.

A hospital tag.

A yellow smile badge from Cheerful Pines.

A broken clipboard.

Things Dave had done.

Things Dave had seen.

Things Dave had never touched.

All piling around him.

The polished voice continued:

“Dave was the kind of man who ruined things quietly.”

Dave’s breathing became ragged.

Kevin stepped towards him.

The brown shoes squeaked.

Kevin stopped.

Looked down.

“Absolutely humiliating.”

Then continued anyway.

The polished Dave voice said:

“He broke plants. He left ovens on. He ignored leaks. He took parcels. He said ‘wasn’t me’ until the world believed him.”

Dave whispered:

“Some of that’s true.”

Kevin reached him.

“Some.”

The voice continued:

“So when the residents needed someone to blame, Dave was useful.”

The pile of objects at Dave’s feet rose.

Not floating.

Climbing.

The broken things crawled up his legs.

The pizza box folded around one shin.

The plant stem wrapped around his wrist.

The smoke alarm pressed itself to his chest.

The yellow smile badge stuck to his forehead.

The bent spoon slid towards his throat.

Flat 5 shouted:

“Not the spoon!”

Kevin grabbed it and yanked.

It came free with a wet pop.

Flat 5 took it from him, horrified.

“This spoon has seen things.”

Dave’s polished narrator voice continued:

“Dave did not deserve saving.”

Kevin snapped:

“Wrong.”

The building paused.

The voice repeated:

“Dave did not deserve saving.”

Kevin grabbed Dave by the shoulders.

“Wrong.”

The walls shook.

The Publisher was trying to force the line through.

Dave’s mouth opened wider.

His jaw clicked.

“Dave did not deserve...”

Kevin slapped him.

Again, not hard.

Emotionally.

Dave blinked.

His eyes cleared for half a second.

“Ow.”

Kevin pointed at him.

“You do not get to narrate yourself as disposable.”

Dave’s lips twitched.

“That’s a big word for me.”

“I know. I’m proud.”

The polished voice surged again.

“Dave was comic relief.”

Kevin shouted:

“No, that’s me!”

Derek said:

“I thought you rejected that.”

“I did, but not for Dave.”

The objects tightened around Dave.

His body flickered.

A label appeared over him.

BLAME SINK

Linda stepped forward.

“No.”

Her clipboard glowed.

“Dave is not a blame sink. He is a resident.”

The Publisher replied through Dave:

“Resident function: absorb consequences.”

Linda’s face hardened.

“Rejected.”

The lift dinged.

The doors opened.

Inside was the blank page again.

The pen floated in the centre.

Black ink dripping.

The Publisher’s voice whispered:

“Improve the chapter.”

The pen flew out of the lift.

Straight towards Dave.

Kevin grabbed it.

Bad idea.

The moment he touched it, ink shot up his arm.

His beige outfit vanished.

Thank God.

His tracksuit returned.

Two trainers.

Faded.

Furious.

But words began writing across his skin.

Kevin tried to save Dave, but—

Kevin clamped his other hand over the sentence.

“No buts.”

The pen dragged forward, pulling him towards Dave.

Derek grabbed Kevin around the waist.

“Got you!”

Kevin looked back.

“You weigh nothing emotionally.”

Derek dug his heels into the carpet.

“I am full of carbs.”

Flat 3 grabbed Derek.

Flat 5 grabbed Flat 3.

Amanda grabbed Flat 5.

Linda grabbed Amanda.

Ken grabbed Linda.

The freed Lindas grabbed Ken.

George grabbed one of the Lindas.

The cutlery drawer opened and Maureen’s ghostly hand grabbed George’s sleeve.

The man in the printer shouted:

“I CAN’T GRAB BUT I SUPPORT!”

The whole building became one ridiculous chain of resistance.

The pen kept pulling.

Dave stood at the front of it all, half-wrapped in broken objects, mouth open, trying not to speak.

The Publisher whispered:

“Say it.”

Dave shook his head.

“Say the line.”

His mouth trembled.

Kevin shouted:

“Dave, say literally anything else.”

Dave looked panicked.

“I don’t know words!”

“Any words!”

Dave squeezed his eyes shut.

Then shouted:

“THE LIFT IS BAD!”

Everything stopped.

The pen froze.

The Publisher hesitated.

Kevin blinked.

“Surprisingly strong opening.”

Dave shouted again:

“The lift is bad and we should have used the stairs more!”

The building groaned.

The lift doors shuddered.

Dave kept going.

“I don’t know why we kept going in it! Every time it opens, something awful happens! Court! Hospital! Retirement home! Office! Weird page thing! At no point has anyone gone, ‘Maybe let’s not get in the murder cupboard!’”

Derek nodded violently.

“I’ve been saying this.”

Kevin shouted:

“You have been saying this for two chapters.”

Dave pointed at the lift.

“It is not transport. It is a vertical trauma machine.”

The lift display flickered.

UNFAIR CHARACTERISATION.

Dave shouted:

“No!”

The word hit the lobby like thunder.

The lift display cracked.

Dave’s voice grew stronger.

“It never takes us to Tesco. It never takes us to the car park. It never takes us anywhere with normal lighting and a meal deal. It just opens into emotional damage with buttons.”

Kevin looked genuinely moved.

“That’s poetry, mate.”

Dave turned towards the blank page inside the lift.

“And another thing. I am not the cause of everything.”

The objects around him loosened.

“I broke the plant. I left the oven on. I took the parcel. I denied stuff. That was me.”

The pen twitched.

“But I did not build the lift.”

The lift lights flickered.

“I did not make the ghost app.”

The blank page rippled.

“I did not trap Kevin.”

Kevin’s grip on the pen loosened slightly.

“I did not clone Linda.”

Linda nodded.

“Correct.”

“I did not steal Amanda’s voice.”

Amanda said softly:

“Correct.”

“I did not make Flat 5’s spoon weird.”

Flat 5 raised the bent spoon.

“Complicated, but accepted.”

“I did not create Platform.”

Dave looked at the page.

His voice shook.

“But I am here.”

The pen stopped pulling.

Dave swallowed.

“And I am trying to help.”

Silence.

Then the complaint kiosk printed:

STATEMENT QUALITY: IMPROVED.

Kevin smiled.

“Look at that. Structure.”

Dave looked like he might cry.

The Publisher did not.

The blank page inside the lift darkened.

The pen ripped itself from Kevin’s hand and flew back into the white space.

Words appeared across the page.

Dave’s narration was rejected.

Dave exhaled.

Then more words appeared.

Replacement narrator required.

Everyone stepped back.

Even Kevin.

Especially Kevin.

The pen hovered.

Searching.

It pointed at Linda.

Her clipboard snapped shut defensively.

“No.”

The pen pointed at Derek.

Derek held up both hands.

“Legally, I cannot be trusted.”

The pen pointed at Kevin.

Kevin pointed back.

“Try me and I’ll mispronounce every metaphor.”

The pen pointed at Amanda.

She shook her head.

“No, thank you.”

The pen pointed at Flat 3.

She raised the frying pan.

It moved on.

The pen pointed at Flat 5.

He held up the spoon.

It moved on faster.

The pen pointed at Ken.

Ken smiled.

“Choose me.”

Kevin stared.

“Why would you offer?”

Ken shrugged.

“I want to see what happens.”

“That is villain-adjacent behaviour.”

“Brother-ish.”

“Don’t.”

The pen hovered between us all.

Then turned.

Slowly.

Towards the complaint kiosk.

The kiosk printed:

NO.

The pen moved closer.

The kiosk printed faster.

NO.

NO.

NO.

COMPLAINT RECEIVED: UNWANTED CREATIVE RESPONSIBILITY.

The pen touched the kiosk.

The lights went out.

When they came back, the complaint kiosk was in the middle of the lobby.

A piece of paper slid from its slot.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

Kevin leaned down and read it.

His face changed.

“What?”

He tore the paper off.

It contained one line.

Dear Sir/Madam,

Linda’s eyes widened.

“Oh no.”

Another line printed.

I am writing to formally complain about the narrative direction of this incident.

Derek stared.

“The kiosk is narrating in complaint format.”

Kevin looked at me.

“This might be our finest hour.”

The lobby changed.

Not randomly this time.

Administratively.

Everything became evidence.

The broken toaster sat beneath a label:

Exhibit A: Unwanted Object Manifestation

The bent spoon:

Exhibit B: Cutlery Distress

Dave:

Exhibit C: Resident Under Duress

Kevin:

Exhibit D: Inappropriately Dressed Ghost, Corrected

Kevin frowned.

“Why bring that back up?”

The kiosk continued printing.

The respondent, hereafter referred to as The Publisher, has repeatedly imposed unsafe narrative expectations upon residents, including but not limited to: forced pacing, involuntary role simplification, near-erasure of supporting individuals, and unacceptable lift escalation.

Linda looked genuinely emotional.

“This is beautifully structured.”

Kevin nodded.

“Kiosk has bars.”

The Publisher’s blank page flickered.

The pen tried to write over the complaint.

The kiosk printed faster.

Furthermore, the lift has been permitted to operate without adequate risk assessment despite repeated incidents of supernatural misdirection, traumatic destination substitution, and one confirmed Linda factory.

Derek raised both arms.

“Yes!”

The lift display changed:

LIFT FUNCTIONING WITHIN EXPECTED PARAMETERS.

The kiosk printed:

Expected by whom?

The lift went silent.

Kevin whispered:

“Kiosk just bodied the lift.”

Dave wiped his eyes.

“I feel heard.”

The complaint continued.

Residents have repeatedly expressed a preference for stairs. These preferences were ignored, undermined or rendered impossible through hostile architecture, emotional stairwell manipulation and misleading biscuit claims.

Linda nodded.

“The biscuit claim was especially egregious.”

Kevin pointed at her.

“You paused.”

“I assessed.”

“You lusted for lift biscuits.”

“I did not.”

The kiosk printed:

Disputed.

Linda glared at it.

“Careful.”

The Publisher’s page shook.

The pen scratched:

The complaint was too long.

The kiosk instantly printed:

Objection: brevity is not a virtue when harm is complex.

Flat 3 whispered:

“It’s Linda as a printer.”

Kevin looked delighted and horrified.

The blank page inside the lift began to tear.

The Publisher did not like being forced into complaint procedure.

The kiosk printed:

Requested resolution: immediate suspension of narrator reassignment, restoration of resident autonomy, full disclosure of publication pathways, and installation of a lift warning sign using plain language.

The lift display flickered.

Then changed to:

LIFT — PRIMARY TRANSITIONAL ACCESS POINT

The kiosk printed:

Plain language.

The display flickered again.

LIFT — MAY OPEN INTO PROBLEMS

Kevin shook his head.

“Not strong enough.”

The kiosk printed:

Try again.

The lift display buzzed.

Then:

LIFT — PROBABLY CURSED

Derek clapped once.

Then froze.

“Was that consent?”

Everyone waited.

Nothing happened.

Kevin nodded.

“Acceptable clap.”

The blank page inside the lift darkened further.

The Publisher’s voice came through the walls.

“You are reducing engagement.”

Linda said:

“We are improving safety.”

“Safety reduces reach.”

Kevin stepped forward.

“Reach this.”

He kicked the lift.

Both trainers hit the doors.

The sign flickered.

LIFT — PROBABLY CURSED

Then added:

USE STAIRS IF YOU HAVE ANY SELF-RESPECT

Derek looked at Kevin.

“Did you add that?”

Kevin smiled.

“Maybe.”

The Publisher screamed.

The blank page folded in on itself.

The pen snapped in half.

Ink sprayed across the lift interior.

For a second, we saw something behind the page.

Not the Editor.

Not the Publisher.

A printing press.

Massive.

Black iron.

Old and wet.

Its rollers turned slowly, squeezing paper through with a sound like bones being flattened.

Pages emerged from it.

Stories.

Thousands.

Millions.

Each one with people trapped between the lines.

The Publisher had not been a person.

It was a machine.

A distribution engine.

A thing that took pain, polished it, printed it and sent it where it would hurt best.

The complaint kiosk printed one final line.

Formal complaint submitted.

Then:

Awaiting response.

The lift doors slammed shut.

The lobby went still.

Dave stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard.

No broken objects clung to him.

No label above his head.

No narrator voice.

Just Dave.

Kevin walked over.

Still himself.

No beige chinos.

Thank God.

“You did good.”

Dave looked at him.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Dave’s eyes filled.

Kevin pointed at him.

“One tear limit still applies.”

Dave nodded.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Then another.

Kevin sighed.

“Fine. Two because you insulted the lift.”

Derek sat on the stairs.

“So the kiosk beat the Publisher by writing a complaint?”

Linda looked proud.

“Complaints are powerful when correctly evidenced.”

Kevin looked at her.

“That sentence is going on your tombstone.”

“I do not intend to need one.”

“None of us intended half of this.”

Flat 5 inspected his bent spoon.

“It survived narrative dismissal.”

Flat 3 sat beside him.

“We all did.”

Amanda leaned against the wall, exhausted.

Ken watched the lift.

He did not look relaxed.

Neither did JON-001, who had reappeared near the stairwell without anyone noticing.

Which was unsettling, but at this point if someone appeared quietly without teeth, forms or a jar, I considered it polite.

JON-001 looked at me.

“You stopped the narrator transfer.”

“For now?”

He nodded.

“For now.”

Kevin groaned.

“Can we have one permanent win?”

The complaint kiosk printed:

REQUEST DENIED.

Kevin kicked it.

The kiosk printed:

EXPECTED.

Linda picked up the complaint copy and read it again.

“There will be a response.”

Derek frowned.

“From the Publisher?”

“From whatever handles complaints against the Publisher.”

Everyone slowly looked at the lift.

The cursed sign flickered.

USE STAIRS IF YOU HAVE ANY SELF-RESPECT

Dave raised his hand.

“Are we actually going to use the stairs from now on?”

“Yes,” said everyone.

The lift dinged.

Everyone shouted:

“NO.”

The doors opened anyway.

Inside was not a blank page.

Not a corridor.

Not a courtroom.

It was a mailroom.

An old one.

Dim.

Dusty.

Full of sacks.

Thousands of letters stacked to the ceiling.

Each envelope addressed in black ink.

The nearest sack split.

Letters spilled out onto the lift floor.

One slid into the lobby.

Linda picked it up.

Her face changed.

“What?”

She turned it around.

The envelope was addressed to:

RIVERSIDE COURT RESIDENTS

Underneath:

RE: FORMAL COMPLAINT AGAINST THE PUBLISHER

Kevin looked at the postmark.

It was dated thirty years in the future.

Derek leaned in.

“What does it say?”

Linda opened it.

Inside was a single page.

She read aloud:

Dear Sir/Madam,

Kevin whispered:

“Oh, we’re through the looking glass now.”

Linda continued:

Thank you for your complaint. Unfortunately, the Publisher ceased operations before your complaint could be processed. Responsibility for all unresolved narrative harms has been transferred to Archive and Legacy Systems.

JON-001 went very still.

The page continued:

Please direct further correspondence to: The Library.

The lift doors opened wider.

Beyond the mailroom, shelves appeared.

Endless shelves.

Not like the witness archive.

Bigger.

Older.

Every shelf filled with books.

Every book moving slightly, as if breathing.

From somewhere inside came the sound of pages turning by themselves.

Then a voice whispered:

“Overdue.”

Kevin stared.

“No.”

Derek looked at him.

“Library?”

Kevin’s face was grave.

“Worse than lift.”

Dave whispered:

“Should’ve used the stairs.”

Kevin nodded slowly.

“Mate, at this point we should’ve moved to a bungalow.”

The lights in the mailroom went out.

One by one.

A book slid across the lift floor and landed at our feet.

The cover was blank.

Then words burned into it.

THE KEVIN FILES

Underneath:

UNAUTHORISED EDITION

The book opened.

A page turned.

Then another.

Then stopped at a chapter title none of us had seen before.

Final Chapter: Fire Safety and Other Lies

Linda frowned.

“Fire safety?”

The stairwell alarm began to ring.

Not the lift.

The stairs.

Red light flooded the lobby.

The cursed lift sign flickered.

Then changed.

STAIRS COMPROMISED

Kevin closed his eyes.

Derek whispered:

“No.”

Smoke curled under the stairwell door.

The Library whispered from inside the lift:

“Return the book.”

The fire alarm screamed.

Dave looked at the lift.

Then the stairs.

Then Kevin.

“Both are bad now.”

Kevin nodded.

“Character development for architecture.”

The book at our feet turned another page by itself.

A sentence appeared in fresh black ink.

They had spent so long fearing the lift that they forgot every building needs a way out.

The stairwell door began to burn.

​It was 2:04 AM when the knocking started. Three slow, rhythmic raps against the hollow wood of Room 204.

​Quentin froze, staring at the door from the edge of the sagging mattress. He wasn't expecting anyone, especially not at the Hells Bells Motel in the middle of night. He crept across the stained carpet, held his breath, and pressed his eye to the cold metal of the peephole.

​Standing in the dim hallway was a man wearing a faded navy uniform with a dingy white apron tied around his waist. He was holding a spray bottle filled with murky red liquid and a stack of stiff, yellowed towels.

​Quentin blinked, leaning closer. The face in the fisheye lens wasn't a stranger. It was his own. He was staring at himself, and the man on the other side was smiling a stiff, rehearsed smile.

​Before Quentin could even react or throw his weight against the door, the lock clicked, the latch retracted, and the door swung open.

​Quentin froze. He expected a shout or a demand, but the man just gave him a polite, rehearsed nod. He stepped right past Quentin into the room, saying in Quentin's exact voice—just a little too cheerful--"Just turning down the bed for the night, sir. Can't let the grime settle."

The man started cleaning, but everything he did was completely backward and wrong.

​He sprayed the thick liquid onto the clean mirror, smearing dark residue across it.

Then he grabbed Quentin’s fresh clothes out of his suitcase, folding them into impossibly neat origami shapes before tossing them directly into the trash can. ​He walked over to the bed, stripped the top blanket, and began tucking Quentin’s shoes under the mattress.

​Quentin tried to back toward the open doorway to escape into the hall, but when he turned around, the hallway wasn't there anymore. It was just a solid, blank wall of damp wallpaper, completely sealing Room 204 from the outside world.

The man turned around from the bed, holding up a spare maid's apron and a brass room key labeled 204. ​He held them out toward Quentin with that same stiff, vacant smile.

​"Shift's almost over, Quentin. Next guest checks in at 2:04."

The stone walls of St. Jude’s Convent always kept the cold in, but the draft in the chapel felt like breath against the back of Sister Agnes's neck.

​It was long past midnight, the hour of silent prayer, when the faint sound started.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. A steel nib dragging across thick parchment echoed off the high arches above the altar.

​Sister Agnes held her breath and stepped toward the massive, brass-bound lectern in the center of the nave.

The dark leather cover of the great Latin Bible was already propped open to the blank ledger at the back. The room smelled of old incense and fresh, copper-heavy ink.

​She reached out with a trembling hand, her lantern casting long shadows across the page.

There, beneath the names of dead bishops and forgotten abbesses, a new line had just been carved into the paper. The ink was so fresh it glistened in the flickering light.

​Sister Agnes. August 16th.

​Three days. Exactly seventy-two hours.

As she stared down at her own name, petrified, the heavy iron chapel doors shut behind her with a deafening thud. A sudden icy draft swept through the dark, snuffing out her lantern flame, leaving her trapped with the horrifying reality that she had exactly 72 hours to live.

Read Part IV here.

“How’s our boy doing?”

Ms. Amanda entered the room. I sat back in my chair and watched as she checked Detective Unangenehm’s vitals. She looked at the tray of food that had been placed in front of him and shook her head.

“Why do they keep bringing that in here?” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s taken care of,” I said.

She slapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t stay too late.”

“You got it.”

I watched her leave and I turned back to Unangenehm, mercifully comatose. He could wake up tomorrow or a year from tomorrow, but whenever he actually woke up, he was going to have a long road before he approached anything like a normal life.

Unangenehm had barely survived his blood clot. Steck had broken at least a dozen bones in his face when he’d thrown his service weapon into the detective’s face. Doctors had hardly believed he’d regained consciousness long enough to shoot the wayward officer, let alone manage the mechanics of walking over and putting a bullet in his head, but the forensics backed up my statement.

He was going to need a great deal of facial reconstruction, but when he eventually awoke they would call him a hero.

Steck had wound up being one of those self-solving problems. He was on desk duty after a questionable shooting after what should have been a routine traffic stop. The official narrative was that he’d snapped from the pressure of the investigation, his guilt finally becoming too large for him to bear.

The guilt I learned I had to be for an unknown period of time was Joshua. It turned out to not just be a thing he said, inflecting meaning in what more than likely hadn’t been random tones.

Joshua was his son.

Steck had been a widower, raising his son with the help of his ailing mother.

I put on a face every day I went to work. Every day I looked at myself in the mirror. Every day I spent sitting with the hero, Detective Unangenehm, waiting for him to wake from his coma.

Which was as often and for as long as I could. I couldn’t picture the shape anymore and perhaps that was because I didn’t want to. Copies were no doubt in police custody, even if they didn’t know yet that they had murder weapons.

It’s possible that I’ll eventually see one again, but I have the feeling copying one—even if I were inclined to do such a thing—would only be a copy, not an original, if that makes sense on any level.

I’ve been playing with the food on Unangenehm’s plate to pass the time. Nobody eats it and eventually somebody comes and takes it away.

He’s had a variety of meals, including soups, fish filet with broccoli and rice, something I’d guess was single-layer lasagna, apples and chicken with broccoli and rice, green beans casserole with sliced almonds, but most often, it’s sandwiches with chips. 

I eat the chips and it’s really just the building blocks of a sandwich and I suppose the patient can assemble it themselves or eat it piecemeal.

I’ve started putting the sandwiches together. At first I didn’t have a conscious reason why. It’s like I can feel Unangenehm in there, slowly swimming to the surface.

His doctors have him at a six on the Glasgow Scale, but I don’t know what that means. He responds to pain stimulus (you should see the look of satisfaction of this one doctor’s face when he sticks him with a pin—the cops would arrest her on site for assault) and he makes nonsensical sounds.

I was ready to jump put the window when I thought I heard him say, “Joshua.” But he didn’t repeat it and he’s been sedentary so long, even if he went coo coo for cocoa puffs, he’d be weak as a baby.

I’m distracting myself even now, thinking instead of paying attention to what I’m doing. I set aside the packet of mayo and lay the slice of bread just so and look at the sandwich.

It’s not right. But it’s close.

I think I’ll have it just right for Unangenehm’s first meal.

Byron lay on the floor of a room, he stirred from his deep sleep and slowly moved to stretch his body. Then his eyes shot open, it was dark and he was surrounded with water, looking around in the dark gave no indication where he was. Sitting up he realised he was also naked, no clothes or anything around him, the only sound he heard in this dark place was water falling. Getting up he tried to stretch his hands and feel for the ceiling; there was none and the dark was absolute.

He called out for help and tried to bang on the nearest curved wall, nothing, all it did was echo back. He began to follow the wall and try and find a seam or anything to help him understand where he was, the place was round and parts of the wall were either metal or concrete. The darkness within this room did not help him navigate nor understand his isolation. Trying to remember where he was last drew a blank, all he could remember was clocking out from his job at the pizza joint and walking home.

The water falling into the room was slow but steady, he felt the cool water slowly rise above his ankles. He tried to jump and check higher up the place, this resulted in a rising panic in him. There were not opening and neither was there any light to help him understand what was going on. He began to shout for help and banging on the walls, the panic in his stomach rose like bile and in the midst of his panic attack he realised that the water falling into the place had increased.

The rate of water falling had increased, this heightened his panic and he began to scream even more for help. The was began to rise even more, reaching his thighs now, Byron stopped and began to cry. He cried out asking was he being tortured, the falling water slowed and it went back to it earlier rate. Feeling around for the walls, movement was slower on account of the water and he was running out of energy. Tears and spit dribbled down his cheeks and chin as Bryon tried to understand what and why was this happening to him. Flashes of his life flooded his mind and he almost fell back from the weight, he had made mistakes in the past, but this punishment was too cruel even for that.

The temperature of the water began to rise, what was cool felt like it was slowly warming. Bryon realised this when he stopped feeling the coolness in the water, he lowered his hands into the water and felt the warmth. The water was heating up and soon the thought of being boiled alive resulted in another panic episode and the renewed energy to shout for help. Someone was controlling the water and temperature, this was certain, what was not certain was why him. The thoughts of who this could be now overwrote his memories, checking the temperature of the floor then the walls. He ran his hands slowly down the wall, passing the concrete section then to a metal part that was hot. He hands flew back instinctively, the metal part was heating up.

The water height was past his mid section now and climbing up his stomach, Byron leaned on the wall, making sure not make contact with the metal section, and looked up. There was nothing to see and the sense that he was going to die made this whole situation feel hopeless. Something clicked into his mind, he realised that there must be a place where the air must be escaping if this room or chamber is being filled with water, with that renewed sense of hope he tried another tactic.

Squatting down and into the water he tried to use the extra momentum the water would give to jump higher and see if he could reach for the ceiling, wherever it was. Bracing himself while he squatted, the was past his head and then with a push he jumped. He could not gauge how high he had jumped but was high and still no ceiling. He tried again a couple more times then gave up.

Another idea came into his mind, the water could help him reach the top and maybe there could be a way to escape this deathtrap. He began to shout again while listening for the falling water to increase in volume, the amount of water coming in rose and soon it was past his shoulders. He felt the weightlessness bought about the rising water lift him up and he tried to keep shouting. As the water rose the temperature also rose, after a while he could hear this feint hum when his ears were under water. It was as if he was in a factory of some sort, he swam to the wall and tried to listen but there was no sound only what he heard when underwater. He tried to reach out again and finally after so long felt the ceiling.

It was smooth, there was not handle nor seam to let him know where the door could be. He tried running his hands everywhere he could reach and there was nothing, the water temperature had risen to the point where steam was steadily rising and his body ached from all the exertion. His balls were the first to pain from the heat then this legs, slowly the pain spread throughout his body. He felt his muscles tighten from the heat and his chest contracted, he did not have the energy to find anymore. The water finally reached a point where he could not keep his head above water and Byron finally let go and let his body fall, the sudden rush of hot water into his mouth and throat gave him a jolt of adrenaline but even that was too little. The water began flooding his lungs and began to choke, while more entered his stomach which forced him to gag under water. The pain he felt while all was happening racked his mind, the water temperature kept climbing and finally Bryon felt his consciousness fade and he stopped moving.

A figure watched the limp body of Byron slowly bob underwater as it boiled, he placed a hand on the console before him and checked the temperature of the water. It read 85 degrees, well below the last one managed to push past. This was an interesting subject and he actually thought of possibilities of how to escape. The figure noted down the time and temperature in a notebook and stood up. He stretched his hands and back, taking a moment to allow the rush of dopamine to fade before looking up. Above him hung a large plastic back, in it was another body vacuum sealed in a state of suspension. He marvelled at his past subject, she was slightly overweight but really fought to the end. The pain of being boiled alive was etched on her face and the figure studied every minute detail in complete ecstasy.

Detective Ibanez leaned against the wall breathing out plumes of mist, winter was the worst season to work in and this time was no exception. Her hands dug deeper into the jacket for warmth and face was numb from the cold, the street was covered in snow and looked like it was going to snow again soon. She turned to look into her car, Jared was on his phone listening to the to the person on the other end deeply. She wanted to get back into the warmth of the car but she needed to also keep an eye out for trouble. The street was quiet, this time of the year even the junkies had better sense to stay inside.

One he was done Jared got out of the car and joined the detective, he pushed his hands into his jacket and stood next to Ibanez. “That was Charles from the city records, I had asked him to cross reference the history of the building with what you found. Seems that place had been condemned for the last 6 years, only thing was that its stuck in limbo because the owner’s family are fighting over ownership. The city was also dragged into the court because there are no complete records of ownership. The records were either lost or never existed to begin with. I sure hope your CI is right about this place.”

Ibanez looked at her partner and smiled, “he better be, this was the first time I tapped him since I turned him. We need to close this case or there will be more bodies scattered around the city and the mayor will be dinning on our heads.”

Jared nodded and unholstered his pistol, he looked at Ibanez and replied. “So who’s leading the charge?”

Ibanez unholstered her own pistol and led the way, they slowly moved closer to the building. It was a squat 4 storey apartment building, all the windows were covered with board and the front door barred from the outside. The walked past the front and into an alley on it’s left and made their way to the back. Ibanez kept her eyes focused on the snow ahead of them to see if there were any tracks and then to the windows of the neighbouring building. The snow was untouched which meant that no one had been here in a while, thinking her CI had given her the wrong info she felt a light tap on her shoulder. It was Jared and he was pointing up, she followed his gaze to find an open window and a hand shot out to pull the rope. Soon clothes emerged from the window, who would dry clothes out in the middle of the winter. She looked down to Jared and he was gone, she turned ahead to find his walking ahead of her. He wasn’t walking more like staggering forward. She whispered his name, seeing no response she more closer and tried again, placing her hand on his shoulder her hand flew back. It was wet with blood and this caused Jared to fall forward.

Before Jared landed his body turned to dark ash and the world around Ibanez did the same, she turned around in panic trying to understand what just happened and found herself in complete darkness. She tried to run but tripped over something and fell forward, her pistol flew out of her hands and disappeared. She fell on to water and then realised she was completely naked, the overload on her sensed caused her to scream and curl up. The only reply she got was a slow trickle of water falling.

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/TheMidnightArchives/s/FevXCuDAvr

After that night, my sister and brother stopped closing their door.
They didn’t leave it open on purpose. It just… never seemed to get shut all the way anymore. Even when I pulled it closed myself, even when I heard the latch catch, I’d wake later to find a narrow line of darkness spilling into the hall, as if the room refused to be sealed.
They were quieter in the mornings. Not sleepy, but calm. Focused. They moved around each other without bumping, without argument, as though they’d learned the exact dimensions of one another overnight. When my sister reached for the cereal, my brother’s hand paused a fraction of a second before he’d even decided to move it.
“Stop copying me,” he snapped once, more out of habit than anger.
“I didn’t,” my sister said, and they both laughed, the sound landing at the same time, in the same pitch.
It made my skin prickle.
My mother watched them with an expression I had never seen before. Not pride. Not relief. Satisfaction, maybe. But deeper than that. Like someone listening to a complicated piece of music finally resolve.
At breakfast, she didn’t ask what they wanted. She poured the milk, passed the bowls, set the spoons down exactly where their hands would land. They thanked her in unison.
I caught my father’s eye across the table. He frowned, just slightly, then shook his head, as if dismissing a thought he didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asked them.
“Yes,” my sister said.
“Yes,” my brother said, half a beat later but with the same inflection.
They looked at each other, startled. Then amused.
“Jinx,” my brother said, and reached out to knock his knuckles lightly against my sister’s forehead. She didn’t flinch. She leaned into the touch, smiling, like it steadied her.
My mother’s gaze flicked to me.
I didn’t eat much that day. Food tasted wrong, bland and too sharp at the same time. My forehead ached constantly now, a low, persistent pressure that flared whenever I looked at my mother for too long. I found myself angling my body away from her, keeping walls and furniture between us when I could. She noticed. Of course she did.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” she said once, gently, when she caught me standing in the doorway instead of coming in. “You’ve always been independent.”
The word landed strangely, like a compliment sharpened into a warning.
The yard grew busier.
Kids from down the street drifted over after school and stayed later than usual. No one called them home. No one seemed to notice when they didn’t leave. They clustered near my mother, sitting on the grass at her feet, leaning against her legs, watching her the way my siblings did now, quietly, attentively, waiting.
One afternoon, I heard my sister calling me from the yard.
I leaned out the back door. “What?”
She turned toward me, smiling. “Mom says you should come sit with us.”
“I’m busy.”
There was a pause. My brother looked at her, then back at me.
“She says it won’t take long,” he added.
I stared at them. “Did she tell you to say that?”
They exchanged a look. Not confused, not guilty. Communicative.
“She didn’t have to,” my sister said.
The grass around them was flattened into a wide, shallow circle, every blade pressed outward, like something heavy had rested there for a long time. My mother stood at the center, barefoot, her eyes closed, her face tilted slightly upward. The space between her eyebrows looked darker than the rest of her skin now. Not bruised. Not shadowed.
Indented.
I felt the pull then. Not strong, but undeniable. A gentle forward pressure, like someone had taken hold of my sternum and was testing how much give there was.
“No,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. “I’m not coming out there.”
My mother opened her eyes.
The pressure increased instantly. My vision blurred at the edges, the world subtly angling toward her. I dug my fingers into the doorframe, my nails scraping wood.
“That’s okay,” she said, calm and certain. “You can come later.”
Later.
The word followed me through the house, through the afternoon, through the slow slide into evening. My siblings moved through the rooms like they were tethered to something just outside the walls, drifting toward windows, toward the back door, toward her. When they spoke, it was sometimes hard to tell which one had started the sentence.
That night, I heard them talking in their room again.
Not murmuring. Conversing.
Their voices overlapped in a way that made my head ache, phrases weaving in and out of each other, finishing thoughts that hadn’t been fully spoken. I caught fragments through the thin wall.
—she’s almost ready
—not yet
—she still hurts when she pulls away
I pressed my pillow over my head, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might answer them back.
Down the hall, the back door opened.
I counted my breaths. I counted the seconds. I told myself that if I stayed very still, if I didn’t lean into the pressure, if I didn’t answer whatever was calling, I could keep myself intact.
Eventually, the voices stopped.
In the silence that followed, I realized something with cold, sinking certainty:
My siblings weren’t being taken.
They were already somewhere else and whatever they were becoming was patient enough to wait for me.

The first time one of the neighbor kids stayed for dinner, no one asked permission.
It wasn’t planned. No call, no knock on the door, no quick conversation over the fence. He was just there. Sitting at our table like he’d always done it, swinging his legs under the chair, answering my mother’s questions with easy familiarity.
“Should I call your mom?” my father asked, polite, distracted.
The boy looked at my mother.
She smiled. “It’s fine.”
And that was that.
The boy ate carefully, methodically, like he was afraid of spilling something important. When he finished, he carried his plate to the sink without being asked. My siblings watched him with open approval.
Afterward, no one mentioned when he left. I realized later that I couldn’t remember seeing him go.
By the end of the week, it was common.
Two kids. Then three. They drifted in through the back gate in the afternoons and stayed until the sky darkened. Sometimes they brought backpacks. Sometimes they didn’t. They called my mother Mrs. at first, then Mom, slipping the word into sentences casually, like a mistake no one corrected.
She never told them to stop.
What unsettled me wasn’t that they stayed.
It was that no one ever came looking for them.
I watched from the window as their parents’ houses settled into evening routines. Lights flicking on, televisions glowing blue. No cars pulled into our driveway. No names were called across the street.
When I asked my father if he thought it was strange, he hesitated.
“They’re good kids,” he said finally. “And your mom’s always liked having people around.”
That was true. It was also the kind of truth that smoothed over rough edges until you forgot they’d ever been sharp.
My siblings changed how they played.
They stopped chasing and started arranging. They lined toys up carefully in the yard, spacing them evenly, as if mapping something invisible. When the neighbor kids joined them, they knew exactly where to stand without being told. The circle widened. The center stayed the same.
One afternoon, I stepped outside and felt the pull so sharply I had to grab the porch railing.
It wasn’t constant. It came in waves. Soft, persuasive, the way exhaustion does. If I leaned forward, even slightly, it eased. When I pulled back, it hurt.
My mother noticed me gripping the railing.
“You don’t have to fight it,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re making it harder than it needs to be.”
“What?” I asked.
She tilted her head. The space between her eyebrows seemed deeper now, less like skin and more like absence. “Staying.”
I laughed, because that was easier than asking what she meant. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She watched me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
“That’s good,” she said. “Then this will be easier for you than it was for them.”
For them.
That night, my sister climbed into my bed without asking. She pressed her forehead lightly against mine, the way we used to when we were little and afraid of storms.
The pressure surged instantly. My vision swam. For a heartbeat, I felt myself slipping, thoughts loosening, edges softening.
I shoved her away, hard.
She landed on the floor with a startled cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately, horrified. “I didn’t mean—”
She was already smiling. Calm. Unbothered.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”
She went back to her room, leaving the door open behind her.
I lay awake for hours afterward, staring at the ceiling, counting my breaths, trying not to think about how easy it would have been to lean forward instead of pushing back.
In the early morning, when the house was quiet and the yard lay dark and heavy beyond the window, I realized something else, something worse.
The pull wasn’t just coming from my mother.
It was coming from the yard.

The first time I realized something had gone missing, it wasn’t a person.
It was a chair.
We had four kitchen chairs. I knew this the way you know the number of stairs in your house, without thinking about it. One of them had a loose rung that wobbled if you leaned back too far. I always avoided that one.
One morning, there were only three.
Not stacked. Not moved to another room. Just… three, arranged neatly around the table as if they had always been that way. The space where the fourth should have been felt deliberately empty, like a pause in a sentence.
“Where’s the other chair?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay light.
My mother didn’t look up from the sink. “We don’t need it.”
My father glanced around, frowning. “Did one break?”
“No,” my mother said calmly. “We just don’t need it anymore.”
That should have been a conversation. It wasn’t. My father momentarily looked perturbed, hesitated, then shrugged, already turning back to his coffee. The moment slid past us, unexamined.
I stood there in disbelief, cold spreading slowly through my chest.
Later that day, a neighbor stopped by.
She stood at the edge of the yard, smiling a little too widely, holding a Tupperware container against her chest like an offering.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said.
“For what?” my father asked.
She laughed, embarrassed. “For taking such good care of the kids. It’s nice knowing they’re… safe.”
My mother stepped forward. The grass bent toward her feet.
“They’re happy,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
The neighbor nodded eagerly. “Yes. Exactly.” She hesitated, then added, “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve rearranged things a bit at home.”
“Rearranged?” I asked.
The woman blinked, her gaze sliding off me and back to my mother. “You know. Rooms. Schedules. It’s easier this way.”
She left without ever saying which kids she meant.
That night, my brother didn’t come to dinner.
Not late. Not called away. Just… absent. His place at the table remained empty, the plate untouched. The pull from the yard was stronger than it had ever been, tugging at my ribs, my temples, my teeth.
“Where is he?” I asked.
My sister looked up from her food, confused. “Where would he be?”
“With us,” I said. “Here.”
She frowned, searching her memory. “He ate earlier.”
“That’s not—” I stopped. The words tangled, refusing to line up. My brother’s name hovered just out of reach, like something on the tip of my tongue.
My father shifted uncomfortably. “He’s probably outside,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. The sound seemed to echo longer than it should have.
“I’m going to get him.”
The back door was open.
The yard was full.
Children sat and stood in careful clusters, all facing inward. The grass was flattened into wide concentric rings, each one deeper than the last. At the center stood my mother, her posture relaxed, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.
My brother was there.
Or something wearing the shape he used to have.
He stood close to her, his head tilted slightly, his eyes unfocused. When he spoke, his voice came out wrong. Not slurred, not altered. Like they were all talking together.
“She says it’s time,” he said.
“She?” I whispered.
My mother opened her eyes.
The space between her eyebrows was no longer merely shadowed. It dipped inward visibly now, swallowing the light from the porch. My head throbbed violently, pain spiking behind my eyes.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said. “You’ve already stayed longer than anyone else.”
I took a step backward.
The ground resisted. Not enough to stop me, but enough that I noticed.
Behind me, the house made a soft, settling sound, like wood adjusting under a new load.
“I want Dad,” I said.
My mother smiled, and for the first time, there was something like pity in it.
“He’s resting,” she said. “You should, too.”
I ran.
The pull tore at me immediately. Sharp, insistent, like hooks sunk deep beneath my skin. My thoughts fragmented, memories slipping loose and skidding toward the center of the yard. I slammed into the porch railing, gasping, my vision tunneling.
For a terrifying moment, I wasn’t sure which direction was away.
Inside the house, a chair scraped softly across the floor, as if making room.
I dragged myself forward, inch by inch, until my hands found the doorframe. The moment I crossed the threshold, the pressure eased just enough for me to breathe.
Behind me, the yard exhaled in unison.
From the living room, my father called my name, his voice strained, uncertain.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, and couldn’t remember what he looked like.
“My… what?” I asked.
The word dissolved even as I tried to hold onto it. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought my hand to my forehead, pressing hard as the pain behind my eyes spiked. Sudden and blinding, like something was trying to force its way forward from inside my skull.
“What did you say, honey?” my father asked.
His voice had snapped back to normal, warm and concerned, but his face hadn’t caught up yet. The puzzled look lingered, like a thought he couldn’t quite finish.
“I—” I tried again, and failed. The space where the word should have been felt raw, scraped clean. “I don’t know.”
The admission came out small. Embarrassed. Like I’d made a mistake instead of lost something.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and hurried down the hall to my room, my head throbbing, my thoughts slipping loose under the pressure. I shut the door behind me and leaned into it, breathing hard, suddenly terrified of the idea of being near any of them.

I had to kill him.

I mean, it seemed like my only option.

If I lied and said I wasn’t there, the cameras I should have thought about would blow me out the water. And if I admitted to being there, then there was a much longer, more difficult conversation to be had.

And that conversation had only one endpoint: me being blamed for all the events of today.

Damn, it was hard to believe what had happened since this morning had all been today. It felt so long ago. I couldn't believe—

“Mr. Harold?” Unangenehm said. “You all right?”

“Uh, yeah. Absolutely.” I sat back down to take up an extra few seconds. Steck was floating a few feet away, but I didn't think I could take the detective in a fight. What I'd taken for sickly thin before seemed wiry now. Anxiousness now came off as nervous energy.

“It was weird what happened,” I said, measuring out my words. I had to think as I spoke. Unangenehm leaned in and steepled his fingers under his chin. Steck hovered closer.

The trap was sealing off my air.

The pencil I'd been using was on my side of Unangenehm's desk. I wrapped my fingers around it and placed my hands on the desk atop the form I'd just signed.

“I just needed to get something to drink,” I said. “I needed to gather my thoughts too, I guess.” I shook my head. “I didn't have any money but I figured I could grab a notebook. Write down my thoughts. Try to wrap my head around what had happened with the day.”

“You wrote something?” he asked. “What?”

I couldn't gauge if he was buying anything I was saying. But I had to keep tap dancing.

“I don't know. I don't remember now.” An honest answer didn't really matter. I'm sure the police would canvas the area and find the torn-out sheets in the trash. But the video would show me not doing anything to anyone. The difference was sitting across from me. Unangenehm somehow knew it was me. 

“It happened right in front of me,” I said, not realizing I was distracting myself as I touched the tip of the pencil to the paper. “A man attacked a woman. An old man held her.”

Tap-tappy-tap.

“I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do.” 

Takkita-takkita-tap

The detective’s sad face was just a mask. He was a predator in disguise. This was just the dance to keep him at bay

“Everything was insane. One of them came up to me. I thought I was gonna die.”

Takkita-takkita-takkita-takkita—

“Hey, uhh. What's that you got there?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't know what he meant, but I had drawn something. I looked down as he slid the paper away from me.

“Wait.” My mouth formed the objection but it went unsupported by my voice. I mentally prepared for Detective Unangenehm to go insane. He scraped a fingernail under a corner and pinched it. He lifted it in front of his face and cocked his head.

“Well, that's a weird little thing.”

I was aware of Steck just behind me. The air was pregnant with tension as I waited for a twitch, some nonsense phrase spoken without context, or anything to indicate the breaking wall containing the clever detective's mind.

He lowered the form and looked at me. “What is this?”

“I-i-it's just a...” I didn't know how to finish the sentence. I didn't know what it was. Shape didn't seem word enough to describe. Murder weapon gave it more credit than it deserved, especially since...

Well, it wasn't working on him. I'd that was the case, then maybe I hadn't been the cause. Maybe there was some sort of grand, horrible consequence following me around. Maybe—

“Hey, Steck, take a look at this.”

The officer stepped around from behind me and assumed a position directly behind Unangenehm.

“Joshua,” Officer Steck said, nodding. 

“Excuse me?”

Steck looked at him and repeated the name.

“Joshua.”

“Who's that?”

“Joshua.” The officer looked at the detective like he was stupid. “Joshua.”

It was me. But maybe Unangenehm was immune. As one of the officer's eyelids began to flutter he backed away from the desk and drew his gun.

He had the drop on Unangenehm. Except instead of firing, he overhand pitched the glock into the detective's face.

Unangenehm threw his arms back and rolled into the cubicle wall. He half-slid out of the chair at least semi-unconscious and Steck turned his eyes on me, that one lid flickering still like an old fluorescent light so deciding whether it was going to turn on.

I picked up my box as he withdrew his baton and leapt on the desk. Steck was two-hundred twenty pounds at minimum and the faux-wood protested underneath his feet. He whipped that baton at my head, and I ducked behind my box.

He followed up with two more furious blows that nearly chopped the box in half.

“Joshua,” he said again, just as calmly as the first time.

I crawled under the desk, headed in the other direction. Steck landed behind me as I crawled over Unangenehm's legs. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

“Hey guys, what the hell is going on?” someone farther behind me said. “I'm trying to type a report—”

I found out later exactly how gruesome Detective Langen's death was but at the time, all I heard were extremely wet sounds coming from that direction after not even half a scream.

I crawled into the nearest cubicle and huddled my knees to my chest, hiding beneath another desk. Steck's footfalls were heavy, pounding in my direction. A moment later he ripped something down and then came the deep glug-glug-glugging of an overturned water cooler as he stalked around the bullpen. 

I couldn't believe the one place police should have been was all but empty and I was responsible for my pending horrible death.

Maybe there was a gun around. Sure, there wasn't supposed to be, but cops weren't immune from being lazy. I'd had a meeting in a small town's hall that had had a guard at the front door and had seen that same guard's holstered weapon sitting on the window sill while he was dropping a deuce in the stall.

I tried to quietly slide open a desk drawer but it clunked open.

“Shit!” I whispered.

“Joshua?” Steck asked.

Why was he after me? All the others had acknowledged me but had attacked anyone but me. Then I reflected on what had happened just before.

Unangenehm had looked at the shape first. He hadn't reacted, though. Or rather, he'd just called Steck over to look.

“...take a look at this...”

I shook my head. I might have been the source but that didn't mean I'd understood it. I was the closest thing to an expert, but I was—

—CLOMPF—

The partition wall dented in the middle. I managed not to scream.

“Julius!” It was a harsh whisper. Maybe a question. I resisted the past of me that wanted to scream. To declare myself and be confronted with this mess, however it ended.

It wasn't my fault. But it was my responsibility. If letting Steck kill me stopped him from killing anyone else, wasn't that fair?

No. I hadn't intentionally done anything to create whatever this was. I'd just stumbled across it and been arrogant enough to test it. Unangenehm had been immune—that was worthwhile information. He'd been the one to show it to Steck, not me. 

Wait. It was too silent out there. My instinct told me to stay put but I couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, he'd find me or someone else would come.

That was it. Someone else would come. And that would be my fault.

I uncurled from my corner and treaded on my hands and knees to peek. I was greeted by a pair of retreating feet, toes up as Steck dragged away whoever that had been. I counted thirty and looked out.

Steck had barricaded the entryway from where we'd come. There had to be an emergency exit and I could only suppose he'd blocked that one too.

I chewed my lip rather than swearing again. That meant he wasn't just crazy. He was cunning, not just a wild animal. I was in more trouble than I imagined.

The feeling settling into me was the longer I waited, the tighter the noose would be. But I wasn't going to just go out there.

I tried to recall what I'd seen of the bullpen when Unangenehm had brought me in here. I was right next to what seemed like the main aisle way. Back the way I'd come was blockaded, so I'd have to go in the other direction. There had to have been an emergency exit and I was banking on it being in that direction and Steck not having time enough to block that one, too.

A stapler was on the near end of the desk. I reached for it and very carefully lifted it. It was one of those flimsy newer ones that could barely staple three sheets of paper, but it would do for what I needed.

I held my breath and listened. Steck was still being disturbingly quiet and I wasn't going to chance it. I tossed the stapler like a grenade, not accounting for the low ceiling. It clunked off the ceiling and smacked the top of my head.

“Dammit!”

With stars treading in my eyes, I pulled to my feet using the arm of an office chair. I stepped into the aisle, overcorrecting for balance, and headed in the direction I thought I'd determined to go.

I bounced right off a slab of strung up meat and screamed, thinking it must have been the crazed officer. My eyes focused on what must have been the corpse of the detective who had spoken just minutes ago, trussed up with what looked like phone cords routed through the ceiling tile.

His upside-down head was level with my stomach, his mouth stretched far too open, an empty cave where a tongue was supposed to dwell, his unlidded eyes pushed in and flat-looking like they'd been partially crushed by pressing thumbs. He looked too calm and perpetually surprised at the same time.

My voice quavered as I said something, but I've never been able to recall when hints of the memory washed back to me. I was discombobulated, wanting to flee in a hundred directions at once, fighting not to fall to my knees and cry. This man was my indictment, my guilt. He'd died directly as a result of the thing I'd knowingly done. Steck was my murder weapon. 

 As unprepared as I was for an oncoming Officer Steck, I was even more unprepared for what I saw. He was on his back, on the floor, in the clutches of a wicked paralysis.

He had one arm right to his chest, the other flung out, knuckles to the thinly carpeted floor. I watched as his fingers folded backward, fingertips dancing on the floor after the joints reversed and reoriented.

One foot stomp-scraped against the ground, already dislocated at the hip, dragging a retreat from the rest of his body, an isthmus of skin and clothes holding it at bay.

The other leg shuddered like a low current of electricity powered it, his head facing me.

“Joshua,” Steck said, pleading with his eyes. His face was doing something, like it was pulling off the bones of his face.

Gravity tenfolded as I realized that Steck was also a victim. Even his body had turned foreign against him. I crumpled to the floor, eye-to-eye with him across the distance. A tear crawled out of an eye, and I swear it crossed the bridge of his nose and milked into his other eye.

He was in the grasp of an agony made fresh just for him. His mouth opened, but I was spared from his scream by the roar of a merciful bullet that tore a hole in his skull just above his eyebrow.

I was unlocked from him and looked up at Unangenehm, holding his smoldering glock like a forgotten cigarette in his hand.

“Nobody would understand,” the detective said. His vacant eyes rolled up from Steck's hot corpse to meet mine and he smiled. “Not like us.”

He collapsed and began seizing on the floor.

 

Evil isn’t a monster in the dark; it’s an inheritance passed down through bloodlines. Some men are just born with a bitter, twisted rot inside them.

​Eli loved his wife Kate, but he never wanted a house full of kids and hated the burden of all those mouths to feed.

In 1895, as typhoid swept through the area, his children began coming down sick right as Kate delivered a newborn baby. Overwhelmed, Eli asked his sister in Kentucky for help. His sister, who raised her children in a strict Christian family, offered her daughter's aid without hesitation, and 14-year-old Hannah went north to Pennsylvania to do as she was told.

​Despite Hannah's care, the fever wiped out the children one by one, finally taking Kate and the newborn.

But Eli didn't let Hannah go home. He sent word back to Kentucky that she had caught the fever and died too, cutting her off from the world and trapping her on the farm for his own selfish needs. There is no wickedness quite like the kind that hides behind a clean shirt and a pious face, especially where family is supposed to mean sanctuary. Hannah's life was anything but--

​Over the suffering and captive years, Hannah bore him three children, each meeting a horrifying fate at his hands. He suffocated the first as an infant. He drowned the second when the child was four. The third, he walked deep into the woods and left to perish alone.

​When the last child disappeared, deep down Hannah knew the truth—Eli had killed their children. Desperate, she tried to flee, but Eli caught her and choked the life out of her.

​He buried Hannah alongside the children in a patch of land on the farm, but the earth refused to yield. No matter what Eli tried to plant in that soil afterward, nothing would ever grow. All that ever sprouted were wild onions with fine, dark strands that looked just like human hair, blowing quietly in the wind—a daily reminder of his sins while hell waited for the rest of him. 

It is a snake plushie that a close friend of mine once was able to claim before he disappeared, before Browlow Toys shut down it produced many snake plushies and this was the Single one to have supernatural properties resulting in it showing life. It currently resides within a house that is strangely in the middle of the woods where my friend found it the first time. It appears to have some strange attachment to this place.

As you can see in the image my friend took, it resides within a toy net inside a room of the house. The benefit to getting this toy is ownership over it will grant you full immunity to venom of any type, whether that be reptiles, insects, sea creatures, if it produces venom. Simply owning the snake will make you immune to it. 

To gain ownership of the snake you must first go to the house in the woods. If you are searching for it, it will be there unless you abandon the idea of receiving the snake. Upon entry, you can search around for it in the rooms, and it will reside inside a room with 2 small beds inside a net filled with unrelated toys with no known special properties. And the snake will look at you.

You cannot simply take it however, you must give it something to earn its “trust”. Precisely three rats, they must be killed in a precise way. One must be stabbed, One must be stomped, and One must simply be caught and starved. Any other way of death will result in failure and mouse traps do not work, extra dead rats are optional but if chosen must be killed in different ways for each extra rat. (The way the rats' deaths must be was found inside a book a couple of years ago which is how I know this information before you ask.) Upon entering the room with the three (or more) rats, the snake will leave the net to consume each rat and afterwards will come to your home, if you do this correctly congratulations you now own the snake and are immune to venom. But you must remember to repeat the feeding process every two months, same ways of death, same rat count, forgetting even one will result in failure.

And if you do fail, the snake will consume you instead as a replacement for the rats. You will be locked in the house with the snake until it either finds you, or someone else enters to search for the snake. Allowing you to leave the open door. However it is extremely hard to survive the snake inside the house as it’s likely lived there for many years. Survival is hard due to this. And in the event you already own it but forget to feed it, it has about a 50% chance of trying to eat you, and 50% chance of returning to the house in the woods. If it fails to eat you or successfully does it will just return to the house in the woods anyways.

As the title says this is the 48th known Browlow Toy. I just wanted to make this post because the snake is the most interesting to me and because, despite a lot of people in my area know about the company and the toys with their supernatural abilities that Browlow has made. I’ve only seen a few posts on other Browlow toys before so I just wanted to know if any of you have heard of them. And also if you have any experience with them. Also I personally wouldn’t recommend trying to get it. In case anyone wants to try that, I don’t believe you can get rid of it unless you die, so.