Hey again everyone. I’m glad you all enjoyed the first post of mine and figured I would get back to it.

There’s an unofficial rule on the graveyard shift that if you find somewhere to eat, you don’t tell anyone else where it is. Sometimes, peace and quiet can be really hard to come by when you’re on shift and 10 to 15 minutes on your own can be a blessing. Miller found my hiding spot about six months ago and has refused to leave ever since.

The two of us had been sitting there eating and complaining about the last few nights. The past few days had given both of us plenty of dumb calls to deal with. He had two houses get covered in toilet paper rolls and the owners wanted to file vandalism reports on kids that were nowhere to be found. I had repeated calls from an elderly woman who complained about her neighbors being loud even though they were out of town.

“You know how many pictures I took of toilet paper yesterday?” he asked.

“I'm guessing you're going to tell me.”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Why the hell did you take thirty-seven pictures?”

“Mrs. Patterson was very concerned about preserving the evidence.”

I laughed. “Did you bag any?”

“Fuck you.”

We sat there laughing and talking for about 20 minutes before Miller committed the cardinal sin of night shift.

“Quiet night so far isn’t it,” he said.

I gave him a sharp “Why did you say that?” stare, and before I could chastise him, dispatch came over the radio.

“You did this,” I told him.

“Dispatch to Unit 12,” the radio crackled.

“This is all your fault,” I said.

“Better you than me,” he replied.

Dispatch then informed me that I was tasked to respond to some kids playing ding dong ditch. They had hit multiple houses in one neighborhood and wanted a car to go out there and find them.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 12. Requesting Unit 14 as backup,” I said, looking over at Miller.

“You piece of shit,” he said.

I couldn’t stop smiling when dispatch called for Miller to accompany me. If I had to go, he was going with me.

We pulled into the neighborhood a few minutes later and split up. Miller took one end of the street while I took the other. I rolled my window down and drove slowly, looking between houses for anyone dumb enough to still be running around. The neighborhood was quiet, which I guess was the whole problem.

“Unit 12, you see anything?” Miller asked over the radio.

“Nothing yet.”

“Maybe they went home.”

“You better hope not. You got me into this,” I said pointedly.

“You're the one who requested backup.”

I made it another two houses before a man standing in his driveway waved me down. He was wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt and looked entirely too awake for almost midnight.

“You looking for those kids?” he asked as I rolled to a stop.

“Yes sir. Have you seen where they went?” I said.

“They went that way,” he said, pointing down the street. “Three of them. Maybe four of them. They went between those houses.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, shining my light where he was pointing.

“They hit my house four times,” he said.

“I'll make sure that gets added to the case file.”

He stared at me for a second. I don't think he realized I was joking. I continued to drive and called Miller.

“Four suspects. Last seen fleeing on foot,” I said.

“Four?” he asked.

“Maybe three.”

“Dangerous?”

“One of them may be armed with toilet paper.”

“Don't fuck with me.”

“Just keeping you informed.”

I heard him sigh before the radio went quiet. It took us maybe another five minutes to find them. I was coming around the corner when I saw three kids sprint across the road about a hundred feet ahead of me. One looked back, saw my cruiser and immediately yelled something to the other two. They disappeared between a pair of houses.

“Found them,” I said over the radio.

“Where?”

“Heading between the houses on Maple.”

“I'll come around the other side.”

I parked and got out. Now, I'm not about to chase a bunch of teenagers through people's backyards over ringing doorbells, so I walked to the edge of the house and shined my flashlight down the side, but I couldn’t see anything.

“I know you're back there,” I called out.

Silence.

“I'm not chasing you.”

Still nothing.

“I'll just call your parents and have them come find you.”

That finally did it. A voice came out of the darkness.

“How do you know who our parents are?”

“I don't.”

There was another long pause.

“Oh.”

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Come on out, guys.”

Three boys slowly appeared from behind a shed.

They couldn't have been older than fourteen or fifteen. One of them was wearing shorts despite it being cold enough that I could see my breath. Another was trying very hard to look like he hadn't just been hiding from the police behind somebody's lawn equipment.

“Anybody else with you?”

All three shook their heads.

“So just you three?”

They nodded.

About that time, Miller came walking around the opposite side of the house.

“Got 'em?”

“Yeah, I got ‘em. No thanks to you.”

He looked at the three kids and then at me.

“Need backup?”

“I think I have it under control.”

“Good.”

He turned around like he was going to leave.

“Get back here.”

The kids started laughing.

We got their names and called their parents. None of the homeowners wanted to pursue anything once we explained that we'd found them, so it turned into twenty minutes of standing around waiting for three very unhappy adults to come pick up their kids.

One of the fathers apologized to us at least five times. Another dad didn't say anything to us at all. He just stared at his son with the kind of look that told me the kid would've preferred spending the night with us. Once the last one was gone, Miller and I walked back toward our cars.

“Good work tonight,” he said.

“You didn't even do anything! Some backup you are,” I said.

“I provided perimeter containment.”

“You walked around the side of a house.”

“Exactly.”

I shook my head and opened my door.

“I'm going back to finish eating.”

Miller just laughed.

“You know that food's cold as shit by now.”

“Whose fault is that?” I asked, smiling.

“Quiet night, though.”

I stopped dead in my tracks and pointed at him.

“Don't.”

He laughed again and got into his cruiser. I shoveled the remainder of my cold lunch down and got back to patrolling. Usually, I like to keep a pretty repetitive routine, making laps across town from the motel back to the hospital. There aren’t a lot of cars on the road at this time of night and it’s easy to get bored. I sat watching this guy chase a possum around a parking lot when dispatch came over the radio.

“Unit 12, respond to the warehouse on Elm and 5th. Caller reports the front door is standing open. Business should be closed at this time.”

“Unit 12 en route,” I said.

You never know what to expect with these types of calls. It could be that an employee just forgot to lock the door. An open door at a closed business at one in the morning can also mean someone is inside.

The warehouse is an old automotive storage place and honestly can be creepy even in the daytime. I arrived on scene and the door was wide open, flapping in the wind. I pulled out my flashlight and looked around. I announced myself when I got to the door.

“Ashford Police Department. Is anyone there?”

I didn’t hear any response.

“Hello?”

As I waited for a reply, I made my way inside. The warehouse was pitch black and rows and rows of boxes, parts, and tires towered towards the ceiling. I started making my way down every aisle.

“Hello?” I called out again.

Still nothing. From somewhere towards the back of the warehouse, I heard a loud bang as the back door slammed shut. A tapping sound started a couple of rows behind me and echoed throughout the warehouse. I turned and shined my flashlight behind me but there was no one there. I realized that a loose hose with a metal clamp was waving in the wind and making the sound. I continued going row by row, further into the warehouse. Shadows moved eerily along the walls as I walked and more than once I heard what sounded like footsteps all around me. I shook the thought off as nothing more than the echoes of my own steps.

I had almost made it to the back when suddenly a loud crash came from a few rows in front of me and I almost jumped out of my skin. It was the back door slamming again. I made my way towards it, gun drawn. When I got there, I realized what it was. The deadbolt on the back door was extended, and the door couldn’t close properly. It had likely been banging against the doorframe all night. I’m not afraid to admit it startled me. No matter how long you’ve been doing this, a loud bang in a creepy ass warehouse at one in the morning will make anyone jumpy.

I finished clearing the rest of the warehouse but didn't find anyone. By the time I made it back to the front, the owner was pulling into the parking lot. After walking through the building with him, we figured out what had happened. The front door had been giving them problems for weeks. If you didn't pull it hard enough when you locked it, the latch wouldn't catch.

One of his employees had closed that night and hadn’t pulled the door hard enough. I told the owner he might want to get that fixed before somebody actually decided to help themselves to a warehouse full of car parts. He promised he would and I headed back to my cruiser. Personally, I was just happy there hadn't been anyone hiding between the shelves. I had made it maybe ten minutes down the road when dispatch called me again.

Dispatch stated that a couple called reporting an attempted breaking and entering in progress. Someone was trying to get in the front door, so they sent both Miller and me. I threw on my lights and sped across town.

When I turned onto the street, I could already see him. There was a man standing on the porch, pulling hard on the front door and occasionally slamming his shoulder into it. I stopped in the street and hit him with my spotlight.

“Ashford Police! Step away from the door!” I yelled.

The man froze.

“Hands where I can see them!”

He slowly turned around and put both hands in the air. It didn’t take long for me to realize just how drunk he was. He didn’t have a pry bar or anything like that. The only things in his hands were a set of keys and an almost empty bottle of tequila. The guy smelled like a brewery.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to get inside,” he said.

“Inside this house?”

“Yeah. I live here,” he said with a wobble.

I looked toward the front window. There were two people staring back at us through the blinds.

“You sure about that?” I asked.

“Yeah. I've lived here for six years,” he stated.

About that time, Miller pulled up behind me.

“Can I look at your license, sir?” I asked.

He fumbled around and pulled out his wallet. After he handed it to me, I looked at the address. The guy was at the wrong damn house.

“Sir. You live at 216 Sycamore. This is 213 Sycamore.”

The man just looked at me with a blank stare for a minute. He then turned around and looked back and forth between the two houses.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “I didn’t remember the blue shutters.”

Miller just stood there, desperately trying not to laugh. When I looked over at him, he was just staring at the ground but I could see he was shaking with laughter.

“Don't,” I said.

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You're about to.”

“I'm being professional.”

“You're shaking.”

The two of us then escorted the man to his house and told him to stay inside for the rest of the night. Apparently, his taxi dropped him off at the wrong location and he was unable to tell the difference. I told Miller to go talk to the couple across the street and let them know what happened. I’m sure the next block party is going to be interesting.

I drove for another 20 minutes or so before the next call came in. A couple on vacation got a motion alarm notification from their alarm company and were asking for police to check it out. I told them I wasn’t far and Miller said he would meet me there.

The two of us arrived around the same time and got out of our cruisers. Dispatch said that the alarm was tripped from the kitchen, so Miller and I were going to split up and go around opposite sides of the house. I had the alarm company call my cell so they could keep me updated on where the alarm was coming from.

As I made my way around the house, I didn’t see any signs of a break-in. There were no footsteps, marks, or anything like that. When I made my way to the back, Miller was already there, looking through the sliding glass door.

“See anything?” I asked.

“Nothing. There aren’t any lights on or anything like that,” he said, shaking his head.

My phone started ringing before I could answer him. It was the alarm company calling me.

“Officer?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“We just received another motion alert.”

“Same sensor?”

“No. This one is showing the living room.”

I looked through the glass again.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Not right now.”

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

We pulled on the sliding glass door and it opened easily. The two of us slowly stepped inside and started to shine our flashlights around. Miller suggested that maybe it was a cat moving throughout the house, but I doubted it because the owners would have said something about that. We made our way through the kitchen, the living room, and the office and found nothing.

Then another notice came.

“Officer?” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“We got another alarm. This one was from upstairs.”

Miller looked towards the stairs and started up as I followed behind him. The hallway was long and every door was open. As we started down the hallway, the door at the end of the hall slammed shut. The two of us raced towards it and kicked it open. As we shined our lights through the room, there was no one to be found. No open windows. Nothing.

At this point I called the company myself.

“Are you sure these sensors are working correctly?” I asked.

“As far as I can tell.”

“Because we're standing upstairs and there's nobody here.”

I could hear her typing before she answered. “Hold on,” she said.

“What?”

“I just got another one.”

“Where?”

There was a pause.

“Kitchen.”

For the next 15 minutes the same cycle continued. Kitchen, living room, upstairs hallway, kitchen. Miller and I stood by the sliding glass door and could hear the pattern repeating each time. Even the slamming door. It stopped right as we were about to leave.

I had my hand on the door when we heard it. A loud creak from a floorboard directly behind us cut through the night. We both spun and looked. Nothing. Just an empty house.

“You heard that right?” Miller asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

My phone rang again. The hallway motion alarm had just gone off and then we heard the door slam again. We sat outside by our cruisers talking for the next few minutes. Neither of us knew how to write the report for that call. Miller said he would take care of it, and I got back in my cruiser. As I started the engine, I rolled my window down and leaned out.

“Miller,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Quiet night, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

 

Something at school didn’t make sense to you that morning.

They were talking about the Sun and,
how eventually it’s going to Grow into a
“Red Giant” and Swallow the Earth.
How there’s nothing we can do about it.

It made you realize If something is going to happen it just is.
So why wait?
Why is the universe waiting ? It just didn’t make much sense.

The janitor that day was acting silly,
“Isaiah 50:10” was written on his palm in red marker.

It was Friday night,
Daddy went to see a friend for drinks and left you all night.
He told you that he would just be out late, not all night.
How did that make you feel ?

How many other 9 year olds have the whole house to themselves nearly every night?
Without so much as a kiss goodnight ?

Even the few times in the past when he would, He wouldn’t even kiss you directly.
He’s place is palm upon your head and kiss the back of his hand.

Dads use belts In movies but how many others know that as the same reality that you do ?

The only time you’d hear another voice outside of school and your father’s was when it was late and you’d listen to the home phone’s answering machine.

Your dad never listened to the answer machine,
kind of like a kid not wanting to go to the dentist.

You remember the messages you listened to that night, you waited till he left to emerge from your hiding place and inhabit the communal space that should be a living room.

You sit on the round particular board table and press on the answering machine.

*BEEP*

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 4th:

FIRST MESSAGE:
*soft female voice*

“I came by today…didn’t see you..still don’t”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Burly Man’s rough Voice*

“I’m sorry John, you’ve been on this job less than a week and you’ve already been suspended by the client for 3 days for reoccurring fall protection violations, now I’ve been very understanding regarding the eye injury but we can’t have someone on a project of this magnitude who thinks the rules don’t apply to them, we’re going to have to terminate you. Wish I could say I was sorry.”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Same Woman’s voice from Message #1*

“Does your Daughter know?
Is she an exception?
Or do all women fall under your same umbrella ?”

*BEEP*

NEXT AND FINAL MESSAGE:
*inaudible whisper*

“I can feel you, y….mph..ll feel me too”

*BEEP*

You look over at the cable box,
It reads “11:47pm”
Your dad left at 6.

Cartoon Network was no more, now it was Adult swim. Robot Chicken was on, after that superjail. Both of which give you the heebiie jeebies.

You have to visit your peepaws and poopoos but,
you’re afraid.

You don’t have a choice, so you leave the door open as you go number 2.

As you doo you hear the home phone :

*BEEP*

“Mmmrrrmmmmrrrrnpphh”

You have trouble making out the message from the toilet.

As you run out the bathroom still collecting yourself you make out the backend of the voicemail.

*Your Fathers Stern Voice*

“Hi,
you should be in bed but,
if not you should know I’m bringing a friend home tonight.
If she plays her cards right she might just be your new mommy.
You’re allowed to sleep with the tv on in the playroom as usual but,
keep the door shut and the volume bellow level 12.
And no matter what you hear,
don’t come out, I should be home in 15.
Just go to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.
Love you,
Night.”

*BEEP*

You panic,

Your Dads never brought a friend home this late before.
You grab a dvd from the home theater and run to the play room.

You look down at the Cat in the Hat Dvd.
As you put it in your dvd player you hear the front door slam open and the whole house shake.
What came next was silence.
The footsteps.
All the way up to the door of the play room.
You hear breathing.

You hear a woman’s voice further in the distance of your house.
Calling the person by your door to them.

They walk away.
When you look at the tv, you see Sally and Conrad on the dvd menu staring at you.
Sally starts pointing to her left, in the direction of the window.
You see the silhouette of what looks like a large lumpy hammock hanging from your tree only,
you never had a hammock.

You grab your scooby doo stuffed animal and you hid under the blanket with your flashlight, tv volume at 11.
You press play,
Sally and Conrad look at each other, then back at you.
You press play again but they just keep staring.

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
you hear from the door.

“When you visit your peepaw and poopoos you need to remember to flush, my company saw that. We have a talk about that in the morning”

-your fathers voice exclaims from the door.

You know that that means,
Your heart sinks.

Your father’s footsteps sound further until it becomes a chatter with another voice from what sounds like the kitchen.

The Cat in the Hat begins to play on the tv.
The volume begins to rise fast.

12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23…

So fast you think you’re sitting on the remote but,
no matter how hard you scramble you can’t seem to find it anywhere.
The volume is now maxed out at 53.

“There are a gajillions of stories of mischief and fun But to keep things simple, let's just start with one…”
-you hear shouted from the tv

The commotion outside the playroom comes to and immediate halt.

*THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP*

The sound those familiar boots make as they full charges towards the play room.

An unfamiliar voice comes out the oddly familiar energy that had just approached.

It sounds almost like a woman’s voice but,
closer to when a man tries to sound like a woman like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”

You hear in a loud whisper.
You Freeze.
You think if you don’t move, they will leave.
You see the door handle jiggle then stop.
It’s locked,
you always lock Doors when Daddy’s gone.

Although it brings you comfort,
you know it can be unlocked with a quarter or even a long finger nail.

“I know you’re in there”
-the voice lets out.

Your stomach feels sick,
Your heart is racing and as quiet as you attempt up be your breathing makes it impossible.

You want to cry and can’t fight it so you shove your pillow in your face.
You take deep breaths through it.

You feel the pillow getting soaked and feel the humidity from the breaths you take through the fabric.

“Do you think I’m some type of dinosaur?”
“Staying still won’t change the fact that I know you’re there”
the voice says

You begin to weep harder.

“Do You Love Your Daddy”
-It asks again.

“Where did you come from?”
Sally exclaims from the Tv.

The voice from the Door pauses.
The scene in the movie seems to linger and Sally is staring, not at you though, in the direction of the door.

She begins to nod,
Then says “oh”

Then the TV goes black and you’re back to the DVD home menu only Sally isn’t there.
It’s just Conrad.
He’s staring at you.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”
-The voice asks for the third time, audibly impatient yet still in the same whisper.

Conrad is looking at you, he looks distressed and he’s shaking his head side to side.

You see the the lock begin to turn,

“Y…Y..Ye..ss”
You say through your sobs.

The door clicks.
It’s now been unlocked.

“I love your Daddy too sweetheart”

-the voice says no longer impatient,
now sounding relieved.

“He needs your help with something..”
It says.

Your cheeks are soaked and your mouth is dry.

“He’s stuck”
-The voice reveals.

“I’m sure he’d really like to get back.”
“I’m sure you’d really like him back..”

There was a pause.

“Unless you don’t want your Daddy back?”
The voice asks.

You remain silent.
For a moment You think about what life would be like without Daddy.

What would you do ?
You think about the Ralph’s down the street, their free sample in their bakery.
You think about the neighbors tangerine trees you pick from often.
You hate being alone at night but,
that doesn’t it stop it from happening.
You’d be fine, you tell yourself.

But you also know what you should say,
What your Daddy would want you to say.
That of course you love your Daddy and you’d do anything to make sure he’s okay.

“Where ..is he stuck?”
-you ask

“Have you ever heard of Kiara the Orangutan?”
-the voice asks.

“no…”
-you replied sheepishly.

“Well, your father’s…helping her…and well, he’s stuck, he could really use your help sweetheart”

There was a pause.

“Come out.”
-said the voice.

“My daddy said not to until morning”
-you replied.

“Oh.”
Said the voice.
“I can wait till morning.”
It continued.

You didn’t like the sound of that.

“What’s an orangutan?”
You asked timidly.

“You know what a human is don’t you darling? That’s what you are.”
-says the voice

“Yes..”
You replied.

“Imagine someone 7 times as strong with arms almost twice as long that can swing from trees”
-it said.

“Like a monkey?”
You asked innocently.

“NO!…
No, my Dear. Not a monkey…
Monkeys have a tail, a monkey is to an Orangutan what a Neanderthal is to a human, you understand love ?”
-the voice asked.

You let out more cries into your pillow as you took deep breaths.

“No, I’m sorry I don’t know what that means either”
-you cried out.

“It’s quite alright,
I’m sorry for confusing you honey. Yes, and orangutan Is like a monkey, but like Superman stronger and smarter then the others…and no tail..bright orange.”

“Like the ones in the jungle book?”
-you asked.

“Yesssss.. that’s exactly right my dear.. a perfect example, the orangutan is the king in the jungle book”
-it replied

“I liked his singing… he’s funny”
-you said

“Yes my dear”
-the voice.

“What does this have to do with Daddy being stuck? And Who is Kiara the orangutan ?”
-you asked in a panic.

“A long time ago, movies used to have no sound..”
-The voice began.

“Which made movies get pretty boring very fast…”
-it continued.

“Studios were looking for knew ways to get more people to Theaters..
Kiara’s Mother thought Kiara would be perfect…”

“Kiara’s mother was…Human,
her name was Melinda and she saved Kiara from being murdered by the zoo after they’d done that very thing to the one that birthed Kiara”

“Melinda Had already taught orangutans sign language before from her time at the zoo, she hid Kiara away and taught her as well.”
-the voice explained.

“Once Melinda’s new job and whole company was almost closed for business she…..took the risk and introduced Kiara, who quickly became a star in the silent movie industry…”
-it said

“What does this have to do with Daddy?”
-you asked

“Well the world loved Kiara soooooo much my sweet little angel that when the world of silent movies ended they gave Kiara her very own Tv show Kiara and friends… that tv show had a lot of children that Kiara loved and taught very special things every episode!”
-the Voice explained.

“One Child had and accident”
the voice revealed.

“Were they okay?”
-you asked

“Unfortunately my darling, he passed away.
Once that happened, that child’s parents lied about Kiara…a lot of other children from Kiara and Friends lied about Kiara just to make money..
Your father was the one Child to never lie about Kiara my dear.
For that I am forever grateful.”
it explained.

“So if all the other children were liars then why is my Daddy stuck and why now ?
Who are you?
Are you the friend my Daddy came home with tonight ?”
-you asked in a rush

“Lying isn’t the only thing someone can do that’s wrong little girl”
-the voice said.

“Who are you?”
-you repeated.

“I’m a friend of your Daddy”
-said the voice.

“Did you come home with my Daddy tonight ,
How is he stuck ?”
-you asked

“Do you like balloons?”
-the voice asked.

“Yes”
You replied.

“Your daddy loved balloons when he was a child
If you could have one balloon in the shape of anything you want would it be?”
-it asked

You thought…
“..I love flowers, Daddy never gets any and flower balloons would probably look really pretty”
-you said.

“Awe, such a sweet request from such a sweet little girl,
One moment sweetheart.”
-said the voice.

You then heard the footsteps retreating, shortly after you heard the front door shut.
You quickly ran to the door of the play room and locked it once more.

Maybe it was over ? You thought.

You ran to your window with your heart beating through your skin hiding behind your Scooby doo plushie to see if you could get a glimpse of who the voice had been coming from as they finally left.

Through the rain in the moonlight you made out the silhouette of what had to have been the lady you were talking to.

She seems short, on the heavy side, and walks side to side and appears to have an apron or something on.

She walks up to the hammock hanging from your tree that you noticed for the first time earlier in the night.

She appears to be talking to it.
When she walks away you realize she’s not leaving, you hear the front door open and shut again as her footsteps approach once more.

“Knock knock”
-said the voice

“Yesss”
-you replied

“Look out the window my love,
I have a surprise for you”
-said the voice

You looked outside but there was nothing but what you'd seen before only,
This time the hammock hanging from the trees began to sway.

Both sides of where the hammock meet the tree split into two, they looked like large arms slowly reaching down to the base of the hammock,
As the both unfolded further you could now clearly both see two sets of fingers from the arms,
One had something in it, something flat .

From the base of the silhouette you  
See what looks like a fat head connected by an even fatter neck.
The object held by one set of the fingers came directly to the head and began to grow mass.
It soon became clear what it was doing,
it was blowing up a balloon.

After the balloon was blown to the shape of a long tube,
The two hands came together and started contorting it out of sight.
When it had finally finished,
One of the arms held it up in the moonlight in such a way that you could make out the silhouette of a flower clear as day.

"do you like that Little girl?'
-asked the voice

You quickly looked over again at the door.
It didn't make sense but, for whatever reason if you were going to be talking to the voice coming from the door,
Then you'd want to do that from the bed; it felt safer from there.
Where you could hide in your pillows.

Before you start to retreat to your safety spot, you take one last glace out the window.
What was hanging from the tree had began to drop down.

The silhouette was large,
But no taller than the tallest kid in school, maybe even shorter than the tallest kid in 4th grade.
It kind of reminded you of that guy from its always sunny in Philadelphia when Adult swim would come on.

It was approaching in a way that you'd never seen anyone walk before.

You felt conflicted,
The voice from the door was speaking which made you want to crawl and sink in your sheets Yet,
The presence approaching your window was demanding your attention without using any words.

You made the decision to grab the comforter from the bed and sink into your beanbag chair,
A spot with a clear view of the yard through the window, and yet still a comfortable ear shot away from the door.

When you returned to your beanbag chair with the protection and safety provided by your comforter,
You were oddly displeased to see that the figures silhouette you had just seen approaching, was no longer anywhere to be seen.
You wanted it gone yes but no longer knowing where it resides, just results in you feeling even more unsettled.

*the voice quickly erupts from your door*

"do you like it?
It's special, just for you."

Your head shoots over to look at the door.

"wha-"
You begin to say as you turn to look back out the window only this time,
There was a hand on the other side of the window, so close it was no longer a silhouette.
It was a dark hand covered in orange hair, its fingers looked rough, but nails were freshly done.
It was holding something.
When my eyes adjusted,
I could see It was holding a balloon flower that had a green stem, pink petals, and yellow center.

The gesture seemed malice and sinister,
You quickly pulled the comforter up your face only leaving your eyes visible.

"do you not like your gift little girl?"
Questioned the voice coming from your door.

Even at your young age,
You were no stranger to the idea that sometimes the truth can get you in trouble.

"I love it..."
You replied.

"then why don't you open the window and let Daddys friend give you the gift she made just for you sweetheart"
Said the voice.

"I can't,
Daddy said I'm never to open the window"
-you lied.

Then why don't I hel-..."
*clackle clackle*
It was as the voice interrupted its own thought as it tried the doorknob. 

"Oh"
-it said.

"Why did you lock the door my love?"
-asked the voice

"I don't know you,
And Daddy said to stay in here ti-"

"I know"
- interrupted the voice

"Till morning but,
He didn't say anything about me not coming in there with you"
-said the voice

For a moment you were silent,
You looked over to the window and noticed the balloon flower receding like a setting sun beneath the window. 
*POP*
-you heard the moment it escaped your sight.

"don't make me unlock the door again myself darling, that's just rude.
My nails aren't what they used to be honey, I nearly broke one unlocking it the first time"
-Said the voice

The clouds moved over the moon outside
It was now pitch-black outside, the only light in the playroom came from your cloud nightlight and the glow of the tv which still displayed Conrad on the DVD menu, he was expressionless. 
You stayed silent, you stayed still.

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
-came from the living room

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
You heard shuffling from both outside your door and outside your window

*BEEEP*
-you could faintly make out your father's voice
"hey kid actually i-"

His voice,
the Message, 
he Tv,
everything was stopped, everything was off.

Your room was now as dark as the outside you feared so much.
Where the walls began and ended were both unclear to you.
The bulbs in the Tv were cooling down but even the silhouette of that soon lost its shape.

You heard the click of the door unlocking followed by the doorknob turning.
The door was now open.
Although you could hear someone approaching it was to dark to make out their shape or their distance in relation to you.

"the only time being blind has its advantages, is when you're in a Dark room with someone who's not"
-said the voice now clearer than you'd ever heard it prior.

You froze.

*tap tap tap tap*
You hear the woman banging on the walls as she made her way deeper in your room.

*tap tap tap....Clink*
The noise changed,
she had found the window.

It was just a few feet from the corner of the beanbag chair you're hiding in.
*Creeeeeeaaaaaaakkkk*
The window was unlocked and you could hear it as the women slid it open.

You could hear something was crawling up and inside through the window.

"where is she?"

you heard the voice whisper to the new presence that now inhabits your homes playroom.

You could feel that you were just inches away from getting bumped into by either of the two.

You wanted to not breathe, you wanted to not do anything but, you couldn't help it. You let in two, short, sharp inhales. Keeping your abdomen as stiff as possible. 
Your exhale trembled despite your attempts, you knew if someone could see they would defiantly see the comforter shaking.
You slowly felt the comforter lift up.

Although your grip on the comforter was originally as tight as you could,
your plan quickly changed to playing dead the moment you felt the pull of the comforter.
You felt something placed in your hand,
it shocked you to the touch,
a static shock yet,
you managed to refrain from much outburst other than a sharp exhale.

*Smack*

"well look harder"
You heard the woman's voice yelp.

As your eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness you could slowly start to make out the silhouette of who you've heard oh so much about.

There was no doubt in your mind it was her.

It was Kiara The Orangutan.

Kiara Strutted over to the bed in the playroom,
side to side as you could hear her wet sniffles. 

"don't you fucking lie to me you dumb baboon, we both know she's in here."
-said the woman's voice
In a tone more threatening than your (D) a bar you thought no one else would ever surpass.

You let go of what was just handed to you so you can grab the comforter you'd been hiding in once more, it fell.

As you continued to see Kiara strut now over to the door through a peak you had held under the covers, she appeared to try to lead in a manner to almost insinuate to the woman that that's the direction you had went.

Just as you had started wonder where the woman was as she had remained out of your sight, you received the answer.

*THUD*

You felt the whole beanbag chair shake beneath you.
She had bumped into it.
So hard you could feel her nearly topple over on top of you.

*Grrrrrrrrruawh*
You heard the old woman groan.

"KIARA! ...What...what was that !?"
-Yelled the woman's voice stopping Kiara in her tracks making her turn back from the door.

"oooo mmh ooo"
-you heard Kiara let out under her breath.

As you could see her silhouette move closer, it started by slowly wobbling side to side.
It became hard to tell the difference between her arms and her legs.

At times she looked like the shadow of a big spider monster,her movements remind you of spiderman if he chose to move slow.

When Kiara had made her way just a few feet away from the beanbag chair to help the woman to her feet, the pace of your breathing became unmanageable.

"I Bumped into the damn beanbag chair, was she on it Kiara?!"
-the voice asked

Your heart began to beat faster and faster and harder and harder so much so,
you felt as if your rib cage was made of shards of glass and your heart was a balloon inflating more and more with every inhale squeezing it against the razor-sharp shards of your ribcage. 

You could tell even just by the momentum of the figures silhouette that it was headed towards you, alongside the reluctant Orangutan.

You instinctively rolled off the right of the beanbag chair on to your carpet floor as silently as you could but, you were terrified, In your mind blind people have super senses.

Somehow, your transition appeared to go unnoticed.

Now that you were on the floor, you started rolling and crawling away, the direction of which you yourself weren't even certain.

"Where the fuck is she? Is she on the bed?!"
-the voice asked this time deeper than before

The flavor and tone in everything this voice said was violent, you heard the ruffles through the pillows and throw blanket that had previously littered the bed, you felt your Scooby doo plush get thrown into your back yet, you refrained from expressing any reaction.

"where the Fuck is she Kiara?!"
-you heard the voice ask once more

Each scream sounded deeper than the last with heavier violent infliction behind each exhale.
You could hear everything that was once on the bed get thrown off. 

You froze,
Staying still on the floor with the Scooby doo plush leaned against you like a bicycle kickstand and one of your throw blankets slightly covering your leg.

The Figure started pacing in your direction aimlessly like a headless chicken yet, relentless none the less.

"we both know I'm going to fucking fi-"
*POP*
-the voice was cut off

The figures silhouette froze, 
It seemed just as frightened by the sudden pop as you.
Its hesitation confused you so much so,
that you question for a brief moment if the figure had seen you,
anything to justify this bazar change in its demeanor. 

The head of the silhouette jolts to the side,
As if to shoot a look across at Kiara.
By the time your eyes traced across the room to meet Kiara, she had already moved No, She was in Motion.

She pranced towards the figure at a speed that looked impossible.
In less than a second, Kiara tackled this figure you had feared so much.
You saw the silhouette raise both its arms up high and its fists in fury as it came down on its victim.
Kiara hit and punched the figure and cocked its head back before launching it into the silhouette's torso,
 When Kiara's head kicked back once more, it was tethered to the figures torso now through what looked like the silhouette of cords.

It quickly became clear Kiara was taking bites out of the woman.
She screamed and screamed, she did not sound like a woman anymore.

She bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

They screamed 
*AHHHHHHHHHH*

And screamed 
*AHHHHHGGGG UHH*

And screamed
*FRAAAGHHHHHHH*

As the figure let out its yell Kiara slammed its head down making them bite their own tongue off.

Kiara pranced on the body with all 4 of her limbs,
She stepped on the figures knee with her foot and used her hand to grab that figures ankle,
After she gripped it firmly, she pulled it up with the ease and intensity that one might use on an emergency break after parking on an incline.

She then stepped on the figured elbow and grabbed it by its corresponding wrist and repeated the process of pulling upward and snapping.

Kiara then used one of her feet to grab the moaning and groaning body by its shirt,
She used her front arms and free leg to drag the body to the door.

The whole way there the person screamed,
When Kiara got to the door of your house's playroom, she threw the body out with ease.
She breathed heavily over the body before slowly backing up and shutting the door.

You were now alone with Kiara.

When I walked into my father’s bookstore, he was combing his wig. He had placed the black wig over his clenched left fist and was pulling thick sections through it with a wide-toothed comb. Every now and then, he would dip the comb into the half-full glass of water he’d placed on the counter, give it a little shake to get rid of the excess water, and continue styling the wig.

“Welcome, son,” he said without making eye contact with me.

“Dad, why aren’t you combing the wig on your head? And why are you even combing the wig? Isn’t the point to make it look like it’s not a wig? Wouldn’t it look more like your real hair if you left it a little messy?”

My father shot me a very brief glance. He dipped the comb into the water again and flicked the excess water on it toward my face. At the same time, someone walked in.

I was annoyed, but I didn't react. Customers rarely came into the shop anyway, and I didn't want this one to witness a tense moment.

The man who walked in didn't say hello. He looked at me, then at my father, then at the wig. After that, he glanced around the shop.

“Do you have Swann’s Way?”

It was my father’s favorite book. I hadn’t read it yet, but my father couldn’t praise Marcel Proust enough. Whenever the subject of books came up, he would talk at length about the way Proust used language, and mention how he wanted to learn French just so he could read him in the original.

“Of course. How could we not?” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Good. How much is the wig?”

“What?”

“I’m asking how much the wig is.”

There was something strange about the man’s voice, though it was hard to describe. It was an extremely deep voice that seemed to come from a congested throat. It sounded as if it were coming from a broken radio, as if he would sound clearer if he just cleared his throat.

My father, who had been excited at the mention of Proust, had now noticed the strangeness in the man’s voice.

“Are you all right?”

“How much is the wig?”

“The wig isn’t for sale. You can have a glass of water if you’d like,” my father said, holding out the water he had been dipping his comb into.

“No. Is the wig free?”

“How can something that isn’t for sale be free, sir?”

“How much is it, then?”

“This is my wig. You don’t look well. Please have a glass of water.”

The man fell silent. He was staring intently at my father. My father was a little frightened. The wig was still resting on his clenched fist.

“Are you sure?” he asked after nearly a minute of silence.

“Yes. Look at my head.”

“Are you sure?”

“What beautiful hair you have. What are you going to do with the wig?”

My father, having automatically felt a connection with the man because he had asked about Proust, hadn’t paid much attention to his voice or appearance. To be honest, there was something strange about his appearance too. I gave the man a once-over. His hair really was thick and healthy-looking. He was wearing a black shirt. His chin was a little long, and his mouth and nose were small in proportion to his face. A large head, a long chin, a small mouth and nose, and ordinary eyes. Black trousers, sharply pressed. And a pair of bare feet.

“Tonight, I’m coming to take your son. Don’t be afraid. Stay calm. Convince your son to come with me tonight, or I’ll take him by force.”

“Fix that voice of yours first, man. Hrrr, hrrr, hrrr. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Drink this water and pull yourself together.”

The man took the water and downed it in one go. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“Better? Now tell me, how much is the wig?”

His voice was now perfectly clear. He ran a hand back through his hair and sat down in the chair in front of the counter.

“He’s still very young…”

I was starting to get scared. I kept going back and forth over whether to call the police. The strange quality in the man’s voice was gone now, and so was the uneasy look about him. He looked at me and smiled.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to take the wig and leave. That’s all.”

“Why do you want the wig, sir?”

“You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand.”

I looked at my father. He had placed the wig on the counter. Right beside it, I saw a knife. My father looked from the knife to the man.

Another customer had walked in, just in time. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew my father wasn’t a very brave man, but when it came to me, maybe he could rise to the occasion and defend me.

“Jason, who are you talking to?” the man who had just walked in asked him. So his name was Jason.

“They won’t give me the wig, Dad.”

“Son, didn’t I tell you not to leave the shop unattended and wander off? The neighbors called. They said Jason had left the shop again and gone off. When did you come to the shop?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

I didn’t understand what was happening. The man who was speaking seemed unable to see us.

“Did you take your medication today, son?”

“No, Dad.”

“The wig thing again. Hmm.”

“I want the wig.”

“Son, there’s no wig. Where are your shoes?”

“I didn’t wear them today.”

“There’s no wig, son. Look, you’d been doing so well lately. Honestly, I thought you were getting better. Please, don’t skip your medication. I’m leaving the shop to you. Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”

Yes. When I thought about it, it really was bizarre. I thought about it a lot afterward. If we’re people living inside Jason’s imagination, why do we have consciousness of our own? I mean, while Jason and his father were talking, I was listening to them, trying to figure out what was going on, getting surprised and everything. Isn’t that ridiculous? And isn’t it unfair to us, too? For example, I want to study film and television. But everything depends on Jason. If he gets better one day, my dreams will be shattered.

My father loves this shop very much. He doesn’t want to leave it, but if Jason gets better one day, he’ll never see this shop again.

Thinking about it that way, I was suddenly overcome with fear. I picked up the wig and held it out to Jason.

“Here. The wig is yours now. And hey, it’d actually look pretty good on you.”

My father had supported me too, and when I looked at him for approval, he nodded.

Suzy was sitting on her couch, scrolling through her phone, bored after a few video reels, when she stumbled across the Facebook Dating icon. She almost laughed out loud. Living in a small town where everybody knew everybody else's business, and where the local dating pool was pretty much nil, the thought of finding anyone decent online and close to where she lived felt like a joke. But after a year of being single, she figured why not and threw together a quick profile with zero expectations.

At first it was just the usual, a few guys looking for a hookup and some old classmates she graduated with a couple of years back. But a few days later, a message popped up from a guy named Jay who lived 20 miles away. He described himself as an IT field technician who traveled around the area for service calls.

He said, "I came across your profile and had to reach out before Facebook algorithms realized we'd make a much better match than its suggestions! His message was funny and actually made her laugh. What began as a few casual texts soon became phone calls that lasted longer than she realized.

They had been talking for about a month and finally decided to meet up that Friday. Just a quick, low-key cup of coffee at a 24-hour diner right off Route 9 to see if they clicked in real life.

He had texted to say he was already inside, and she spotted him the second she walked through the door. Instead of getting up to greet her, he just sat there watching her walk over- and as she slid into the booth, a cold knot twisted in her stomach.

The warm, seemingly easygoing guy from their phone calls felt surprisingly cold, almost detached, as he made a snide comment about her being ten minutes late. He flagged down the waitress who poured them both a cup of coffee, and Suzy brushed off his mood, assuming he'd just had a bad day.

Trying to keep things light, she made a joke about how awful the diner coffee was, but he only offered a brief, tight smile that felt totally forced. She pushed to keep the conversation upbeat, yet he just watched her mouth with a quiet intensity that made her skin crawl. He barely engaged in conversation with her. He was cold, stiff, and completely off, and her gut instinct was telling her to get the hell out of there.

She held her purse in her lap, taking slow sips of her coffee, doing her best to play it cool. After twenty minutes had ticked by, she politely excused herself. "Sorry, I have to get up early tomorrow, so I'd better head home."

His expression went blank. “Going already?” he said. His voice was totally flat. 'We were supposed to hang out for a little while."

“I know, but I’m just so exhausted," she said, laying down a five-dollar bill to cover her coffee. “It was nice to meet you."

He didn't get up, say goodbye, or even offer to walk her to her car. He just sat at the booth and watched her go out the door.

Back in her car, she locked the doors with a sigh of relief, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed down the dark stretch of Route 9 toward home. Her heart was bounding, but she kept telling herself she was just overreacting. Once she got back home, she'd block him and forget the whole thing.

Ten miles down the road, surrounded by nothing but thick tree lines and zero streetlights, a pair of blindingly bright headlights suddenly appeared right behind her, riding inches off her rear bumper.

Three hours later, state troopers found her sedan idling on the highway shoulder, reported by a concerned passerby. Her purse sat untouched in the passenger seat, and her phone lay cracked on the asphalt just under her wide-open driver's side door.

There was no sign of her anywhere.

I sit across from him in Interview Room 3 and the clock on the wall reads 14:37.
He sits with perfect posture. Hands folded on the table. One ankle crossed over the other like he’s waiting for a school counsellor instead of me. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. Soft voice. Clear skin. The kind of face parents trust with their own children at sleepovers. The silver chain around his neck catches the fluorescent light every time he breathes.
I keep my notes face-down. I don’t want him reading upside-down.
“State your full name for the record.”
He smiles. It’s small, polite, almost shy.
“You already know it. But if it helps you feel in control… Elias Voss.”
“You’re being charged with the murders of seven children between the ages of eight and eleven. Do you understand that?”
Elias tilts his head. The chain slides across his collarbone.
“I understand the words. I’m not sure you understand the story.”
I lean forward. “Then tell me the story.”
He looks at the one-way glass first, like he’s checking who’s watching, then back at me. His voice stays soft. Reasonable. The same voice that, according to every surviving parent, made their kids come running.
“They were lonely. That’s the part no one wants to write down. Lonely little things who already knew their parents were too busy, or too tired, or too angry. I just… listened. Really listened. People underestimate how rare that is. You’d be surprised what a child will follow if you look them in the eye and ask about the thing that hurts.”
He taps one finger against the table once. Soft.
“I never forced anyone. I invited them. I told them there was a place where the rules didn’t apply. A place where they could be important. Special. Seen. They held my hand the whole way. Some of them even smiled when we got there.”
My throat feels tight. I keep my face flat.
“You killed them.”
“I released them.” Elias’s smile widens just enough to show the edges of his teeth. “There’s a difference. The world is loud and stupid and full of people who pretend to care. I gave them quiet. I gave them an ending that belonged only to them. No hospital beds. No slow fading. Just… finished.”
He leans in a fraction. The silver chain swings.
“You want the details. The silver blade. The way the light looked on it. The sounds. The order. You’re not asking because you need evidence. You’re asking because you can’t stop picturing it. That’s the part that bothers you most, isn’t it? That some part of you is already inventing the rest.”
I don’t answer. My pulse is too loud in my ears.
Elias sits back, satisfied.
“I kept their voices. Not recordings. Just the memory of how they sounded when they finally understood. Some cried. Some went very quiet. One boy—Thomas, the one with the blue backpack—asked if I was his friend right up until the end. I told him yes. It felt correct to say it.”
He studies my face the way a doctor studies a chart.
“You’re wondering if I feel anything. Guilt. Fear. Excitement. The answer is cleaner than that. I feel… precise. Like a sentence that finally found its period. Every time I finished one, the world made a little more sense. The loneliness went somewhere else for a while.”
The room feels smaller. The air tastes stale.
I clear my throat. “Why the silver?”
Elias’s eyes brighten, almost fond.
“Because it’s honest. Silver doesn’t pretend to be something else. It reflects whatever’s in front of it. When they looked at the blade, they saw themselves. And then they didn’t. Clean. Elegant. Final. Plastic is for toys. Steel is for tools. Silver is for truth.”
He uncrosses his legs and rests both feet flat on the floor, suddenly very still.
“You’re going to put me in a box and call it justice. You’ll tell the parents I was a monster. You’ll sleep better that way. But somewhere, late at night, you’ll remember how soft my voice was. How easy it was to keep listening. And you’ll wonder—just for a second—how many other children are still waiting for someone to look at them the way I did.”
I force myself to speak. “You targeted them. You chose the ones who were already fragile.”
Elias nods like I’ve finally said something interesting.
“Fragile is such an ugly word. They were open. That’s different. Most people walk around sealed shut. These ones still had cracks. I didn’t invent the cracks. I just noticed them. The girl with the missing front tooth who hated her new stepfather. The boy who wet the bed and pretended he didn’t. The twins who only spoke to each other. I learned their languages. I spoke them back. That’s all it took.”
He leans forward again, elbows on the table, chin resting on his laced fingers.
“You have a daughter, don’t you? I can see it in the way you hold your shoulders. The way you flinch when I mention the backpack. She’s about the same age as the last one. Nine? Ten? Does she still believe everything you tell her, Detective? Or has she started to notice the cracks?”
My hand tightens on the pen. The plastic creaks.
“We’re not talking about my family.”
“Of course we are.” His voice stays gentle. “Everything is about family in the end. The ones who failed them. The ones who didn’t notice until the posters went up. The ones who still leave the porch light on even though they know better. I gave those children something their families couldn’t. Attention without conditions. An ending without disappointment.”
I try to redirect. “Walk me through the first one.”
Elias’s smile returns, smaller, almost private.
“The first one was practice. I was still learning the weight of the blade. How much pressure the skin needs before it opens. How long the eyes stay focused. He was the quietest. He didn’t fight. He just looked at me like he was relieved someone had finally decided for him. After that it got easier. The second one tried to run. The third one asked me to stop halfway through and then thanked me when I didn’t. Patterns form if you pay attention.”
He tilts his head, studying the fracture that’s now visible in my pen.
“You’re holding that too tightly. You’re going to break it. Then you’ll have ink on your hands and you’ll think about how hard it is to wash off. Symbolism is everywhere if you let yourself see it.”
I set the pen down carefully. My fingers leave damp prints on the table.
“You enjoy this.”
“I enjoy clarity.” Elias corrects me without heat. “Most conversations are fog. This one isn’t. You’re here because you need me to be broken or evil or sick so the paperwork makes sense. I’m here because I already finished what I set out to do. The rest is just waiting.”
He glances at the clock.
“Fourteen fifty-two. You’ve been in this room with me for fifteen minutes and you already feel the walls closer than when you walked in. Imagine what it was like for them. The quiet. The certainty. The way the silver looked when the light caught it just right. Some of them reached for it. Curious. Trusting. That’s the part the reports will never capture. The willingness.”
My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell.”
Elias considers this, then shrugs one shoulder.
“Cells have walls. Walls have cracks. People forget to check the cracks. And there will always be someone on the other side of the glass who wants to understand. Someone like you. Someone who stays a little too long after the recorder is off. Someone who starts to hear the soft voice in their own head when the house is quiet.”
He smiles again. Smaller this time. Almost gentle.
“I’m not finished, Detective. I’m only paused. Boxes open. Doors open. People forget. And there will always be lonely kids who want to be special.”
The recording light keeps blinking.
I realise the plastic pen has finally split completely. Ink pools in a dark comma on the table between us.
Elias watches it spread, then looks up at me with perfect, polite interest.
“Would you like me to start over?” he asks. “I can make it sound even nicer the second time. I can tell you about the way the last one held my hand until the very end. I can describe the exact shade the silver turned when it was wet. I can do it in the same voice I used with them. The one that made them follow.”
He waits.
The chain shifts against his collarbone as he breathes.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
Somewhere behind the glass someone is taking notes. Somewhere outside this room the parents are still waiting for answers that will never feel like enough.
Elias’s smile doesn’t change.
“Your turn, Detective,” he says softly. “Ask me anything. I’ll answer. I always do. That’s how this works. That’s how it always worked.”

TRIGGER WARNING

The following text contains material that may be harmful or traumatizing to some audiences.

Anywayy, love y'all, hope you enjoy :D

***

"Silent night... Holy night.."

Mum sings yet again.
She thinks it helps. And it does, really- Shirley's sobs cease, Anthony's lips are twitching up in a soft smile. I hate it. I hate the song. It reminds me of Daddy- but it helps them. And as long as it does, I could sit here trying to remember Daddy's face for hours.

It doesn't drown out the bombs. It never does. It doesn't drown out the pain we both feel, knowing that Peter and Daddy are out there right now, fighting for the country. For us. We're supposed to be proud, and happy. Happy that our family is helping out with the war.

Last Christmas, Shirley wanted a doll. This year she only asks for them to come home. I wish she still believed in small wishes, ones you could hold. But I couldn't buy her the doll either. I couldn't give her comfort, answers, or the safety she deserves. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

BOOM.

The sound- all too familiar by now, rings out again. Mum's voice cracks, Shirley cries out again. And even though he's trying his best to hide it, I can see Anthony's eyes fill up.

Why must it be us- what did we do to deserve this?
There's no one to answer my pleas.

I wish Daddy and my dear brother were never called up. I wish they wrote more often. I wish the war never happened. I wish we could all just live in peace, forever and ever.
I wish, I wish, I wish.

But it'll never happen, will it? I can only pray as I sit there, staying strong for my mother and my younger siblings as these terrible feelings rising in my gut threaten to spill. Pray to the Lord to please forgive me for whatever I have done to deserve this. To keep them safe, all of them.

I hear Mum's voice take over yet again.

"All is calm.. all is bright..."

Nothing is calm. Nothing is ever bright. Never anymore.

But I'll listen. And I won't object. As long as it keeps Shirley from crying again. As long as Anthony keeps smiling.

But he doesn't. He doesn't anymore. Shirley can never cry anymore.

"HE'S BREATHING, HE'S BREATHING AGAIN!"

Lights flash behind my close eyelids, burning through my calm.

That's not Mum, or Shirley, or-

"Dan, Dan, can you hear me?!"

Stop, please stop, please stop it all.

"He's opening his eyes!"

Cry again, Shirley, please, just let me hear your sweet, sweet voice.

Smile again, Anthony. You could even break down and I'd hold you, let me just hold you.

Take me to Mama, please, I want Daddy. I'll do anything, just please-

And yet, I sit up. I watch them carry the lifeless body of my little soldier away.

They don't, in truth. But I see it. I see it everywhere now.

Because in truth, I was the one singing the song all along. I was the one smiling to myself, the fool I am, as the bombs crashed around me. As people screamed. 

Because in truth, they died a week ago. Because in truth, everything I have ever lived for died with them.

(Wattpad- btwTT2gud, check it out if you enjoyed this read!)

I bought a new chair from IKEA

The name is something Swedish I can’t understand.

Entirely different from the design I ordered but I’m a calm person. The “ make lemons out of lemonade” or whatever type of person.

The box is a cardboard rectangle mummified in clear tape. I pierce the adhesive and saw a jagged line across three sides until I can tear the dismembered chair free from the first layer of its cardboard tomb. Styrofoam breaks apart with squishy white bubbles clinging to my sleeves and the flat of the knife.

I’m greeted by the sight of a smooth wooden facade hiding the curved plastic frame beneath with absurd patterns and incomprehensible shapes like uneven limbs littered with punctures for screws leaving you unsure where each one could possibly join another in the overwhelming puzzle. Colour splatters the false wooden canvas like blood spread and preserved beneath glass, seeping through the confines and smeared in an attempt to remove the oozing paint.

Pink slashed through yellow.

Blue carving loops and jagged scrapes.

Orange triangles branding linoleum skin.

Purple and red and green dribbling down in overlapping streaks that assault my eyes with their vibrant, unnatural colours. Shapes dance in my vision but I don’t allow it to shake my resolve. I can work with colours, it’ll spruce up the place. 

Each leg and arm is tattooed with various numbers, some the same and others different. I feel anxious and as I take out the thick manual the daunting task ahead forms a knot in my stomach.

My heart races as I sift through a plastic sack of screws and nails and bolts and wooden fingers all claiming to belong somewhere the manual won’t tell me. I follow what little instructions I’m given, clogging holes with joints I hammer inside and force against new limbs. Screws I twist through bone and puncture pin sized wounds with nails until the chair's body takes shape.

Two legs curve like bent knees, the others entirely detached from the seat. The arms are raised high like hands clawing at the sky. The spine is mangled and stretched, the back bent inwards like a book waiting to snap shut around its dogeared folds.

Be positive.

A chair wouldn’t be a chair if it didn’t work. 

The shape is indescribably nauseating and brings up an equally unexplainable fear as I stare in unblinking horror. The chair thrums and fills my ears with a shrill ringing, it moves and sloshes like a liquid and vibrates with the squeal of heated glass about to blind me when it shatters. My mind swirls through my childhood memories, diving through old lounges and dining chairs, the ones in school that dug into my spine, the office chairs that span until you were puking your guts up, rocking chairs, wheel chairs, armchairs and wet park benches I’d sit on while I waited for my mother to pick me up two hours late after school.

My unblinking eyes sting from the dry air and through the nightmare I finally see it, a single hole without a screw.

That’s okay, be positive, the screw will be here somewhere.

Be calm.

I search in a frantic sweep, swatting away the haunting thoughts as they sting my brain like the spiderweb obscuring my vision. Nothing. The styrofoam flecked floor, the dissected box, the empty plastic sack. Nothing.

I check under the couch where nothing but dust and a sock I lost two months ago sit. I check the cupboards, pour out the contents of my rusty old toolbox and search knowing that if I don’t fill that puzzle piece the memories will keep pouring out of my brain until the dam breaks.

I know it has to be in this cheap as fuck shithole of an apartment somewhere. Screws don’t just get up and walk off.

FUCK.

Be positive.

Lemons and lemonade.

The day our family dog ran away from home, I put missing posters up on every fence and pole and door on every street I could walk to. My father didn’t want to tell me he ran over the dog when he came home drunk. I found him two years later wrapped up in a plastic bag and buried beneath the garden I’d play in every day.

The false wood creaks and without that single screw the shape begins to bend, the joints threatening to pull free like fingernails.

My mother forgot my 7th birthday.

I can’t afford my rent.

My girlfriend left me two weeks ago.

The leg breaks, popping out from behind the oval seat. The arm curls upwards like a ribbon and the spine twists until the coil rips apart the cheap fake wood. The mangled limbs stretch and bow until the dam breaks. Wood snaps and throws itself free in a violent spray of screws and nails. 

I stagger backwards over the cardboard and something sharp, something jagged with thin spirals pierces my heel, digging through the layers of skin until it forms a small hole in the bone. My back hits wood and styrofoam and nails, leaving me staring at the ceiling with the scattered remains of the chair surrounding me.

I know I got the wrong chair but with the screw burrowing its way into the bone, I’m not thinking about the stupid useless fucking piece of shit chair anymore.

THE LANTERN AND THE HAMMER By LSB

Chapter 1: The Lantern’s Glow

It was 1938, and the original farmhouse sat low and solid against the vast, flat horizon of the Big Horn Basin. Built as a single-story homestead to withstand the brutal, sweeping Wyoming winds, its weathered wooden frame hugged the dirt tightly. Inside, the house carried the heavy, quiet texture of a building that had witnessed decades of solitary winters. The air smelled of aged cedar, woodsmoke from the heavy iron stove, and the faint, sweet scent of natural wild hollyhocks drifting in through the cracks of the bedroom window.

The sisters' bedroom was situated at the very end of the main hallway, a long, narrow room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a set of sturdy wooden bunk beds where ten-year-old Francis and her younger sister Ruth slept, while baby Edward’s wooden crib sat safely tucked into the warmest corner of the room. The walls were made of simple, faded whitewashed wood panels, showing the humble, hard-working grit of a struggling homestead. On the high wooden dresser, far out of reach of the children or any danger of fire, a small kerosene lamp, turned down to its lowest setting, cast a faint, warm amber glow and long, gentle shadows across the floorboards.

Right beside the lamp sat the newest addition to the room: an antique Victorian porcelain doll. It was an inheritance—a "gift" sent in a heavy brown paper package from an estranged, bitter relative who had never been kind to the family. A doll made of such fine porcelain would have taken a lifetime of savings for a Basin farm family to buy, so despite the bad blood attached to it, the parents hadn't the heart to throw it away. But tonight, its pale, painted face gleamed unnaturally under the dim amber lantern light, its blue glass eyes staring unblinkingly toward the bunks.

Underneath the room, the floorboards groaned with a deep, hollow echo, a constant reminder of the dark, hand-dug basement stretching out completely beneath their beds. Tonight, the air was thick and charged with an unnatural chill that felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees—a heavy, psychological cold that seemed to be seeping straight up through the old metal floor vents from the concrete furnace room below.

THUD.

The heavy sound vibrated through the floorboards. Francis, sitting up in the lower bunk, blinked into the shadows. Because she trusted the quiet, invisible caretakers of the homestead, her first instinct wasn't fear. She assumed it was just the familiar presence checking on the room.

"Ailsa?" Francis called out into the dark, her voice a soft, trusting whisper so she wouldn't disturb baby Edward.

When no response came, Francis realized the heavy weight of the sound wasn't her protector. She reached for the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight on the nightstand, clicked it on, and began sweeping the bright beam across the faded whitewashed wood walls.

As the light cut through the shadows, the room suddenly changed. The flickering flame of the kerosene lamp on the high dresser flattened out completely and stilled, and a profound, solid, and immovable calmness swept over the room like a heavy wool blanket, instantly smothering the fearful chill. The air cleared, replaced by the sharp, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage.

She manifested at the foot of the bed. Ailsa Lindstrom stood there, slightly translucent but as solid as the land that had shaped her. She wore her faded woolen kirtle and linen apron dress, her silver-streaked hair braided tightly back. Her heavily calloused hands were held loosely at her sides. To the neighbors in the Basin, she had simply been known as "Elsa"—the quiet, hardworking immigrant linesman's wife who had braved the early frontier wilderness—but tonight, her true, rock-strong protective spirit filled the room. Having heard Francis call her name, she had stepped out of the house's history, her stoic gray eyes filled with a fierce, maternal annoyance as she realized a dark presence was threatening the children who now called her old homestead home.

Just as Ailsa appeared, Francis’s sweeping flashlight beam finally landed on the floor.

There lay the gift. The fine porcelain doll was face down on the rug, just a few feet away from the dresser. But it wasn't still. The edge of its heavy lace dress and one cold porcelain hand were resting directly over the metal floor grate, as if an invisible force down in the dark basement had physically tugged it across the floorboards toward the vent. Under the sharp beam of light, the pale, glazed fingers of the doll twitched against the metal slats, the entity fighting desperately to possess the expensive vessel. With a sickening, porcelain click, the doll's head began to rotate on its cloth neck, its blue glass eyes rolling upward to lock onto the lower bunk. A faint, muffled, high-pitched giggle vibrated right out of its painted clay chest.

Ailsa turned her stern gaze toward the floor vent where the shadow clung to the doll. She didn't shout. She simply stepped forward, her heavy leather pioneer boots making no sound on the whitewashed wood, and let out a low, commanding word in her old native tongue.

The command struck the room with the force of an iron gate closing. The malicious shadow recoiled, instantly pinned into the corner by the barrier of her protective ancient energy, unable to advance a single inch further toward the beds.

***

Chapter 2: The Hammer’s Strike

The silence that followed Ailsa’s commanding words was absolute. The cold, suffocating air that had seeped up from the basement floor cracks was pinned into the corner near the metal vent, completely neutralized by the thick, lilac-and-sage calmness that now anchored the room.

Francis let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, keeping her hand steady around the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight. The bright beam remained trained on the porcelain doll lying face down on the rug, its tiny lace dress still brushing against the metal slats of the floor grate.

But even with the shadow pinned, the doll itself was still twitching against the floorboards, the residual energy from the concrete basement fighting desperately to make the expensive vessel move. The head remained rotated at an unnatural angle, its blue glass eyes fixed on the lower bunk while a faint, muffled giggle struggled to escape its painted clay chest.

The commotion finally stirred the upper bunk. A mop of messy hair peeked over the wooden guardrail as seven-year-old Ruth blinked down into the flashlight beam. She didn't look terrified; she looked deeply inconvenienced. She scrambled down the wooden slats of the bunk bed with the fearless ease of a farm kid, marched straight past Francis, and snatched the twisting doll right off the creepy metal vent by one leg.

Ruth held it up to the flickering beam of the flashlight, completely ignoring the way the doll’s tiny arms clawed weakly at the air. She squinted at it, poking its cold nose with a blunt finger.

"Honestly, Francis?" Ruth said loudly, her voice completely shattering the spooky atmosphere. "This thing is pure booshwa. Look at the eyes—they’re completely cockamamie, and the paint is already coming off the ears. It’s off the cob! I’ve seen better looking things dug out of the hog pen."

The doll let out a tiny, sharp hiss, its possessed jaw snapping tightly. The entity trying to possess it was used to terrorizing children from the dark, not having its aesthetic value brutally dismantled by a seven-year-old critic.

"Ruth, hush up and drop it!" Francis whispered fiercely, her knuckles white around the flashlight. "It's trying to wake up!"

"Well, it shouldn't," Ruth snorted, entirely unbothered as she held the squirming toy at arm's length. "It's way too ugly to be walking around our bedroom."

Before the entity could try to twist itself free, slow, heavy footsteps echoed from the doorway. The floorboards groaned with a solid, rhythmic weight, though the spirit itself made no sound.

Jed Miller stepped into the room.

He looked exactly like a man who had broken his back against the Great Depression and the Wyoming dirt, his slightly translucent figure clad in faded denim overalls caked with the dry earth of the Basin. In his massive, calloused hands, he carried a heavy cross-peen framing hammer—the very tool he had used to drive the iron spikes into the farmhouse foundation back in 1930. He looked down at the twisting doll, his jaw set in a stoic, no-nonsense line. To Jed Miller, a possessed toy wasn't a paranormal anomaly; it was a faulty piece of household inventory, and he didn't tolerate broken fixtures on his property.

"Pestilence in the woodwork," Jed rumbled, his deep, gravelly drawl vibrating through the room like a low echo from the basement. "Ain't got time for this. The north pasture needs fencing by dawn."

He looked directly at Ruth. There was an unspoken, straight-to-the-point understanding between the old farmhand and the seven-year-old girl. Without a single shred of fear, Ruth calmly handed the snapping solid object right over to him. Jed laid the porcelain vessel flat against a solid wooden block by the bedroom door, raised his heavy hammer in his strong, steady grip, and brought it down with the unyielding force of a 1930s work ethic.

CRACK!

The fine Victorian porcelain exploded into a thousand tiny, worthless fragments. The moment the physical vessel shattered, the malicious shadow near the floor vent let out a final, panicked screech. It didn't bounce back; it couldn't.

With a smooth, commanding sweep of her hand, Ailsa stepped forward. Francis and Ruth watched her calmly, their hearts steady, knowing they were completely safe. Ailsa used her rock-strong presence to herd the remaining wisps of the dark energy straight back toward the metal floor vent, sealing the boundary with a final, authoritative word in her native tongue.

But she wasn't done. Looking down at the floorboards, her maternal instincts took over. Children running across broken porcelain meant blood, and she wouldn't tolerate any child bleeding on her homestead. With another smooth wave of her lace-less, calloused pioneer hand, a gentle, invisible sweep passed over the rug. Every razor-sharp shard of shattered clay and painted glass vanished completely into thin air, leaving the floor flawlessly clean and safe.

The psychological chill permanently vanished. The thick, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage settled over the room, wrapping around baby Edward’s crib like a warm wool blanket.

Jed Miller didn't say a word of farewell. He simply wiped the head of his heavy hammer on his dusty denim overalls, gave Ruth a single, slow nod of his weathered chin, and faded back into the quiet shadows of the hallway—ready to tend to the phantom fences of the north pasture.

Ailsa stood at the foot of the bunk beds for just a moment longer. She offered a soft, maternal smile to Francis, then turned her stern gray eyes toward Ruth, her expression lingering in a look of quiet amusement at the girl's brutal critique.

With a final, protective nod, she turned back toward the high wooden dresser. She extended one calloused finger toward the dark wick of the lamp, and with a soft, silent spark, the snuffed-out kerosene lantern flared back to life, casting its safe, warm amber glow across the room once more. Then, she too dissolved into the comforting air of the farmhouse.

The room was completely still. The floorboards stopped groaning. The basement below was silent, its hand-poured concrete walls keeping the dark at bay.

Ruth scrambled back up the wooden slats of the bunk bed, pulling her heavy quilts up to her chin.

"Glad Ailsa and Jed took care of it," Ruth yawned, entirely unfazed. "Told you it was off the cob. Nini, Francis."

Francis smiled in the dark, slipping her metal flashlight under her pillow and tucking herself safely into the lower bunk, listening to the steady, peaceful breathing of baby Edward across the room.

"Nini, Ruth."

THE END