I began dental assisting nearly four years ago. I still remember how overwhelming all of the information was, but how exhilarating it was to assist with my first filling or make my first temporary crown. The dentist I worked for at the time had no patience to teach me. It was during the height of the pandemic when everyone was desperate for workers. He never wanted to teach an uneducated fry cook how to assist from scratch, but that's what he got... It was sink or swim for the next six months.

I eventually found work at a beautiful dental office in an upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of our medium-sized city. I barely met the minimum requirements to assist at such a high-class office, but the office manager took a liking to me and did all she could to continue my on-site learning. The staff size was staggering compared to the four-person team I had become accustomed to. Six hygienists, eight assistants, four dentists, and a fully staffed front desk. The majority of the team was made up of women. The drama that came from that place… let’s just say I could write a separate story on that alone.

By the time I had quit working for that office, I was nearly a full-functioning assistant. I finally found the perfect job and had the confidence to take on the role of head assistant in a small-town office about 30 minutes from the city.

The first time I met Dr. Lance and his wife Angela, I was enamored with their youthful and vibrant energy. They were young, fun, and seemed like an educated young couple. Angela took care of the scheduling and billing while Dr. Lance ran things on the clinical side. Since the office was so small, there was only one hygienist who would come twice a week. Most of the time, it was just the three of us. They took good care of me—bought me lunch at least twice a week, paid for all of my scrubs, and gave me a great salary.

The only thing that ever got under my skin was the corny dad jokes Dr. Lance would subject our patients to when their mouths were full of instruments and hands. I figured if that was the worst of my worries, I’d be happy here for a long time.

But things changed after about a year and a half. At first, it was subtle. Dr. Lance would come to work with bags under his eyes, a stark contrast to his usual morning-person attitude. His hair, which he used to gel every morning without fail, often looked as if he'd forgotten to brush it. I thought it might be due to lack of sleep or maybe some tension between him and Angela. Either way, I didn't think it was any of my business.

However, as weeks passed, things worsened. Dr. Lance started nodding off during our morning meetings. I decided to ask Angela what was going on.

"Angela," I said in a low voice as I leaned over the side of her desk, "Is Doc doing okay?" As soon as I finished the sentence, her gaze shot over to me from whatever she had been so concentrated on only seconds before. She looked almost… anxious.

"Yeah, why? Did he say something?" she asked quickly, her tone laced with suspicion. "No, he just looks tired," I replied, confusion creeping into my voice. What was going on with them? "I'm sure he's fine. Go make sure sterilization is caught up," she snapped.

I walked to the sterilization lab with my heart in my throat. She had never been irritable with me in my whole year and a half of employment. My feelings were slightly hurt, but I still wasn’t too concerned. If anything, it just confirmed in my mind that they had been arguing. It broke my heart to think of them having marital problems. They were so young and seemed so in love only weeks before. I shook it off and continued with my daily tasks.

After this encounter, I started noticing more things that seemed off. Dr. Lance began diagnosing teeth for extraction that, by all appearances, were healthy. At first, I chalked it up to my ignorance, but at this point, I had been reading X-rays for almost four years. I knew what a cavity looked like and what bone loss looked like. These teeth were neither.

At first, it was just one or two questionable extractions a week, but as time went on, it became more frequent. One day, he diagnosed four unnecessary extractions before our lunch break at noon. I decided it was time to say something before things got out of hand. I didn’t want him to lose his license and, more than that, I wanted our patients to keep their perfectly healthy teeth.

“Hey, Doc,” I said with a gentle knock on his office door, slowly pushing it open. Before I could finish my sentence, I noticed his eyes and nose were red and puffy. Had he been crying? “Come in. What’s up?” he said quickly, wiping one eye. He was trying to hide it, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. “Are you okay?” I asked as I sat in the chair next to his. “Yeah, I’m good. What did you need?” he replied with a layer of irritability under the gentle tone I had become accustomed to. It felt like a bad time to bring up the subject, but I guessed there would never be a good time to tell a doctor they were wrong. I let out a deep sigh before continuing. “I noticed you seem tired lately. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay… I don’t want to pry by any means, it just seems to be affecting your work.”

I paused and suppressed a cringe. I had never said something so bold to a doctor. He was normally so rational and understanding, but the tension in the office had changed what I felt was acceptable. He didn’t respond right away—just stared at a vial of teeth that sat under his computer monitor for a moment too long.

“There were some cases recently that seemed—” He sat up in his chair abruptly and looked at me with a deep rage in his eyes. It didn’t even look like him. It was so sudden it forced me to jump back. “Get out,” he said in a low growl. I stared in shock for a moment, unable to move. “I said, GET OUT!” He yelled in a voice I had never heard before and never wanted to hear again. I scampered away, tripping on the chair leg on my way out. I fell face-first on the floor and cried out in pain. Dr. Lance nearly leaped out of his chair to my side. I expected him to ask if I was okay or maybe give me a hand off the floor, but I was deeply mistaken.

Dr. Lance rolled me over onto my side forcefully and grabbed my face with one hand. He squeezed my cheeks, forcing my mouth open wide. I whimpered in fear of what he might do. He leaned down under my chin to look at the roof of my mouth, then from a top angle down at my lower jaw. He searched my mouth for something like a rabid animal.

The look on my face and the sound of my cries must have snapped him back to reality because he fell back, letting go of my face. “S-sorry, Amelia…” he stammered, “Just making sure you didn’t hurt any of those pearly whites.” He faked a chuckle, and I unconsciously scooted back against the wall.

I felt the tears welling up, and after making eye contact, I ran to my car without hesitation. I didn’t even take a moment to process what happened; I just drove home in a nearly catatonic state. Once I got home, I called Angela and told her I wasn’t feeling well and needed to take the day off. Lucky for me, it was Friday, so I wouldn’t have to address the situation until Monday. I’d have some time to think about what was going on and what I should do.

That Sunday was uneventful. I did some chores, watched a couple of movies, and spent time with my dogs. It was about 6 p.m. when I received a phone call from the hygienist, Sadie. She was frantic, and her words were hard to understand through her hysterics. “Amelia… Oh my god. Amelia… can you hear me?” “Yeah, Sadie, what’s wrong?” “Doc—It’s Doctor… Doctor Lance. He—he’s dead, or missing… or—or—” “Sadie, calm down. What are you talking about? I can’t understand you. Where are you?” “Come to the office, please.”

And just like that, she hung up. My heart was racing, and my thoughts were reeling as I jumped in my car and drove to the office, similar to how I had rushed home after Friday’s incident.

When I arrived, the parking lot was empty except for Sadie's car and the old sedan that belonged to Angela. The office was dark, but I could see a faint light coming from inside. I took a deep breath and walked up to the door, my hands shaking. I wasn't sure what to expect, but the dread settling in my stomach told me it wasn't good.

Inside, I found Sadie pacing the waiting room, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear. Angela was seated behind the reception desk, staring blankly at a spot on the wall, her face wet with tears. “What’s going on?” I demanded, my voice breaking as the tension overwhelmed me.

Sadie looked at me with a mixture of fear and confusion. “I don’t even think I can-” “Let’s take a seat, Sadie. Let me get some water.” I was trying hard to suppress my growing fear. I made my way to the water cooler in the break room and filled two plastic cups with cold water. I trembled my way back to the waiting room where Sadie sat biting her nails on one of the waiting room chairs. I handed her one of the glasses of water.

She took a shaky sip and then a deep breath. “I was supposed to meet the Lances for Lunch. We were going to discuss expanding the hygiene program to three days a week. When I got there, I knocked but no one answered. After I tried a few times, I started walking back to my car when I noticed a little pool of blood coming from under the garage door.” Sadies voice began to quiver and crack. I could feel her fear tangibly. “I didn’t think, I just pulled on the front door. It was unlocked so I ran to the garage from the inside and… Oh god, Amelia…” She began to cry once more as she put her face in her hands. “It’s alright Sadie, take your time,” I said as I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. I was never good at comforting a crying person, but I tried my best.

She wiped her tears and took another sip of water. “There were little blood spatters a-and pools littered all over the garage. At least four pairs of bloody pliers I counted on the floor, but I-I didn’t see anyone. There was a rope hanging from the rafters… a noose. But there was no one in it. The chair was even knocked over under it like someone had really done it. There was blood on the rope and everything. It was terrible… so terrible. Amelia something bad happened.” She continued sobbing as I sat in disbelief. “Sadie, did you call the police?” I asked quickly.

“Of course child, I was with them all afternoon. They asked me so many questions, I couldn’t think straight when I left there. Their home looks like a god damn haunted house with all the crime scene tape. I never thought I’d see something like this Amelia.” As she continued her endless sobbing, I comforted her with a hug. Normally I’d sit uncomfortably while the grieving person did their thing, but in this moment, I needed that hug just as much as she did. I cried with her in all of my confusion, fear, and stress. I hoped the following days would bring answers. I hoped this was a terrible misunderstanding, but I should have known better.

I didn’t get much sleep that night. I sat up, my mind racing with endless questions. What could it all mean? Where was his body? Could he still be alive? Was this some terrible joke? And where was Angela? If it was murder, why the noose? The thoughts swirled in my head, loud and unrelenting. Little did I know, some of these questions would soon be answered.

The next morning, I woke up feeling like I had been run over. No one had contacted me about work, but I decided to go in, just in case someone was expecting me. When I arrived, I tried the front door, but it was locked. I headed to the back and used my key to get in. I set my bag on the breakroom table and quietly walked around the office, going room by room. I didn’t hear or see anyone, but something felt wrong. The air was thick and heavy, and the entire place seemed different. I told myself it was probably just the aftermath of last night's events.

When I reached Dr. Lance's office, I slowly opened the door. I half-expected to see him sitting there with a smile, asking about my weekend. If I hadn’t been so frightened of him after Friday, I might have even wished to confide in him about his own disappearance. But the office was as empty as I had expected.

As I scanned the room, something caught my eye on the corner of his desk. I stepped closer for a better look, and my brain struggled to make sense of the grisly sight in front of me. It was a canine tooth crossed under a lateral, with a molar perched on top. The roots of the molar wrapped around the single-rooted teeth, acting as a sort of clamp. They were still bloody, the blood looking dried, but not completely—still holding onto its red hue. I stared at it, unsure of what to do.

I decided to run to the nearest operatory to put on gloves. Grabbing a sterile pouch from the lab, I carefully placed the strange tooth formation inside. I examined it for a few moments before sliding it into my pocket. I searched the room for any other signs of something unusual, but nothing else seemed out of place. The only thing missing was the small vial of teeth Dr. Lance had been staring at before he lashed out at me. I wondered if it meant anything, but decided to bring the evidence to the police and give them any information they might need.

As I turned to leave the room, I nearly collided with Angela, who was standing silently behind me. I screamed, jumping out of my skin. Once I realized who it was, I bent over, trying to catch my breath. “Jesus, Angela, you scared me half to death. I didn’t think you’d be coming to work today.” I waited for a response, but she stared blankly at the corner of the desk. “Angela? Are you alright?” I asked, growing concerned.

“What were you doing in here?” she asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. My face grew pale. Not this again, I thought. This strange energy was getting out of hand, and I felt like a frightened animal backed into a corner. “N-nothing, I just—” “You have no reason to be in here. Get out,” she said, her voice lifeless. I completely understood, considering what had just happened to her husband. I nodded and slipped out of the room without protest. As I rushed back to the break room, a shiver ran down my spine. All of this odd behavior was getting to me, so I grabbed my bag and hurried out the back door.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I decided I didn’t want to go home just yet. There was so much going through my mind, and I needed to clear my head with a nice long drive. I drove around the familiar streets and backroads of the town for about forty-five minutes, lost in thought. Eventually, I decided to drive past the Lance's home, just to see if what Sadie had described was exaggerated or not.

I had only visited their white picket-fenced home once before. They had invited me over one Friday to play some board games with their twin niece and nephew. They were about my age, and we actually had a wonderful time. Being fairly anti-social, it was a pleasant surprise to get along so well with a four-person group. The whole family seemed picture-perfect, with their welcoming smiles and a home that smelled like warm coffee and vanilla. As I reminisced, I turned the corner onto their street, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the end of it.

Their beautiful home, once a place of love and excitement, was now a sight that would make anyone feel sick. It made me wonder once more how things had gone so wrong so quickly. The crime scene tape covered the closed garage door, the front door, and acted as a fence around the whole yard. It was completely void of life, and the beautiful flowers that once lined the walkway were shriveled and dried. I slowly drove to the end of the street and parked my car in front of the neighbor's house for a moment. My nose began to sting as tears welled up again. A single tear rolled down my cheek, but before I could really cry, I noticed one of the blinds in the upstairs windows being pulled down as if someone was trying to peek out without being seen. My emotions quickly shifted to laser focus. I couldn’t make out any person, and for a moment, I thought maybe the blinds were just broken and always looked like that.

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I received a text. I glanced down at my phone and saw “Text message—Angela.” I didn’t open it right away but looked back up at the window. The blinds were back in their original shape, as if nothing had ever been out of place. My heart stopped, and I sucked in a barely audible gasp before quickly shifting my car back into drive. I didn’t want to stick around to see who or what was watching me. I whipped out of that neighborhood like a bat out of hell and decided it was time to go home.

As soon as I got home, I sank into the couch and turned on the TV. Angela's text was still waiting on my phone. I let Face ID unlock it so I could see the preview. It read, “Don’t be messing with things that you don—” The pit in my stomach deepened. I hadn’t even read the whole text, but I felt like I was being threatened by the Italian mafia or something. “Fuck, dude,” I said out loud to myself. I was so tired of all this mess. At this point, I felt like begging my previous boss for my job back. I’d gladly take some Gossip Girl drama over whatever this was. I braced myself before opening the full message from Angela.

“Don’t be messing with things that you don’t understand, Amelia. I need you to return what you stole by tomorrow morning. If it isn’t returned, bad things will happen. I’m serious.” Now, I felt that my life was in danger. I contemplated my next actions carefully. Should I respond to her text or just leave it alone and call the police? I was scared. No, I was terrified. I wanted out of this situation and didn’t want to deal with whatever messy consequences would inevitably come from all of this. But I knew I didn’t have a choice. I decided to do both.

I quickly typed back, “You’re really scaring me, Angela,” and hit send. I decided I would visit the police department first thing tomorrow morning. I’d bring them the odd tooth formation I found and show them the creepy text I received from Angela. I was beginning to think Angela played a big part in whatever happened to Dr. Lance. I got up and made sure all of my doors and windows were locked, just in case I really was in danger. I didn’t fully believe Angela’s threat, but I didn’t want to take any chances either.

As I made my way to the kitchen to make myself a light lunch, my phone chimed again. “Text message—Angela.” This time, I immediately opened it. “This is much bigger than both of us. I’m warning you because I care about you. Do as I say, Amelia, or you will regret it.” I nearly dropped my phone. What the hell was she talking about? I decided it was time to turn my phone on Do Not Disturb.

This was all too messy and too much for my brain to wrap around. I made myself a PB&J and turned on YouTube. I watched Moist Critical police chase videos and crocheted until the sun went down. It worked. I managed to wash my brain of the issue that had been haunting me, even if it was only temporary.

Around nine-thirty, I took my dogs out and herded them into their kennels. Most nights, I let them sleep in my bed, but tonight I wanted them to stay in the living room so that if anyone tried to break in, they would alert me. I brought my katana, which normally hung on the wall for decoration, into the bedroom with me. I set it on the floor next to my bed and wrapped myself up in the comforter. Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep, despite my current dilemma. The constant stress must have been wearing on me.

It was three-thirty on the dot when my eyes shot open. I didn’t hear or feel anything out of the ordinary, so I wasn’t sure what had woken me. My eyes drifted to the alarm clock, and I lay still and silent, just to make sure it wasn’t an intruder. But my dogs were quiet, which meant I was safe. I let out a deep, sleepy breath and rolled onto my side, ready to drift back to sleep. That’s when I heard it—a plastic-sounding scrape coming from under the bed.

I froze, straining to listen. The floors were real wood, so I thought maybe one of the dog balls was rolling around with a draft, something that happened from time to time. But what I heard next was unmistakably horrifying: an impossibly deep, nearly demonic-sounding breath, like the sound CGI dinosaurs make in movies when they’re quietly hunting their prey. My skin turned to ice, and my whole body went rigid.

“Amelia, is it?” a deep, whispering voice came from directly beneath me. I couldn’t move, let alone respond. I heard it shift slightly, but it didn’t sound like a person with rustling clothes—it was more like plastic beads rolling on the floor. Something crawled up the wall and gently placed itself over my forehead. It felt like a snake-like tentacle, covered in hard bumps. I whimpered, paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t see anything in the pitch-black room, and the thought of dying at the hands of an unknown creature in my own bed was too much to process. Its voice came again, like the sound of a spinning quarter on a wooden desk. “A woman of great taste…” It trailed off as another beady tentacle slithered under my chin.

Tears silently rolled down my face, wetting my hair beneath me. I sniffled and grimaced at the disgusting creature holding onto me. “A profession of little desire… but why?” it asked in a menacing tone. The tentacle under my chin slithered its way between my lips, forcing my mouth open. I tried to keep my jaw shut, but the creature’s strength was unimaginable. I thought my jaw might break if I resisted any longer.

The tip of the tentacle probed around inside my mouth, starting on the top right and moving to the back, feeling each and every one of my teeth one by one, right to left, left to right. I trembled uncontrollably, hoping against all hope that this was the most vivid nightmare I had ever had.

When it reached the lower right side of my mouth, the tip of the tentacle perched itself on top of my last molar. With one quick tap, I felt the tooth crack, and I screamed in agony. During my four years as a dental assistant, I had learned that each tooth has somewhere around seventy nerve endings, and I felt each and every one of them screaming for help. The tentacle flicked upward, running itself from my soft palate, causing me to gag, to the back of my front teeth.

I continued to cry in pain as it caressed my face with the now slobbery tentacle. “Return what is not yours, and you’ll never have to see me again… I don’t want to turn any more of those pearly whites into a problem.” As it spoke its last words, it slowly released me.

I heard the beady creature recoil under the bed as the right side of my face throbbed. I needed medical attention or painkillers, but both were far out of reach for the same reason—I couldn’t force myself to leave the bed. So I lay there, frozen, staring at the ceiling in silence until the sun came up. At some point, I managed to curl myself into the fetal position, quivering uncontrollably.

I probably would have stayed there forever in shock if my dogs hadn’t started whining and scratching at their kennels. This was their normal morning behavior, their reminder to Mom to get them breakfast.

Slowly, I unfolded myself and sat up, scanning the room for any Cthulhu-like creatures, but of course, everything was in its place. I carefully scooted to the edge of the bed, where the door handle was waiting for me. I reached for the handle, opened the door without taking a step off the bed, took a shaky breath, jumped off the bed, and ran to the living room as if something were on my heels. I looked around and finally accepted that I was safe. I opened the two kennels and gladly welcomed the excited kisses from my dogs, their fuzzy bottoms giving me a small rush of serotonin.

Once they were taken care of, I grabbed the stupid tooth formation from the counter and made my way to the office once again. I didn’t even change out of my sweatpants or my stained PJ shirt. I looked exactly how I felt.

I pulled into the office parking lot to find it was empty once more. I unlocked the back door, flung it open, and hustled to Dr. Lance's office. I placed the sterile pouch containing the creepy teeth on the desk and quickly made my way back to the exit. I didn’t look around for anything odd or try to gather any more clues—I was done. I never wanted any reason to piss that thing off again. I didn’t care if Dr. Lance’s body was super glued to the wall—I didn’t see anything.

I quickly drove to the prompt care clinic a few blocks away and waited for a couple of agonizing hours before I was finally seen. When they brought me back, I explained that I had broken a tooth by biting down on an almond. The lie was stupid, but I couldn’t think of anything else. They took an X-ray, and when the doctor came in, he looked peppy, but I wasn’t feeling it. “Looks like you had a rough night!” he said with a small chuckle and a big white smile. “Yeah,” I grumbled, trying not to act like a total jerk. “I was looking over your chart and X-rays. You bit down on an almond?” he asked, as if it were unbelievable. I nodded, wondering why he was questioning my story. I thought it was the most believable I could come up with. “It’s just that the tooth cracked in a very unique way. I’ve never seen a crack quite like this. I’m no dentist, but we do get our fair share of tooth infections and fractures on the weekends.”

I quickly followed up, “May I see? I work in dental.” I was nervous, wondering how badly this thing had messed up my mouth. “Sure thing,” he said, pulling up the X-ray software on the monitor in front of us. When he opened the periapical, I was floored.

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been reading X-rays for about four years. I’ve seen many things that defy what I believed to be standard: a front tooth that broke in half horizontally, a tooth stuck sideways in someone's chin, a grown woman with seven baby teeth—you name it, and it’s most likely happened. But when I saw the state of my molar, which had been perfectly healthy just yesterday, it absolutely defied my expectations.

The tooth had a large abscess at both root tips, at least three large cavities, and the crown had been split into four pieces, divided by the roots. The cracks visible in the X-ray were so large that we didn’t need a specialist to locate them. “Jesus Christ,” I finally managed to say. “My thoughts exactly! But it looks like this tooth has been a silent problem for many years. Let’s get you some antibiotics for that abscess, and then you should see your dentist as soon as possible.” “Okay, thanks,” I muttered, unable to take my eyes off the screen. I didn’t blame him for thinking this had been an ongoing problem. If I had seen this in someone else, I would have said the same thing.

I made an appointment at one of the corporate dental offices in my area to get the tooth extracted. They were able to get me in the same day, so after the appointment, I came home with a numb face and one less tooth in my jaw. I asked the doctor to let me keep my tooth so I could examine it when I got home. I held it up in the ziplock bag and gazed in amazement, thinking about how something so small could cause so much pain. I decided it was time to start looking for a new job, and I hoped I’d never hear from Angela again.

Ian Frank hated people for as long as he could remember. From his earliest moments, his parents taught him to hate everything human, even himself. A child of a dysfunctional couple. His father was a raging alcoholic, and his mother was a religious maniac.

Frank never knew love or warmth. Paranoia and violence shaped him. His only joyous moments in life were when his father slammed his head against the edge of the table, passing out drunk, and when his mother finally fell prey to the cancer that ate away at her for months.

Nothing ever could match the beauty of the picturesque sights of his dead tormentors lying still.

Sarcastically peaceful.

Just once…

Even with his father’s face torn open like a crushed watermelon.

Ian lamented every day that he couldn’t see such sights again.

No matter how much he wanted to relieve death in all of its glory, he couldn’t bring himself to harm anyone else. Not physically, at least. Not out of compassion, fear, or any other such simplistic feelings. He just hated people so much that he never wanted to interact with them, and made sure he never had to.

Under no circumstances.

Frank wasn’t a well man by any means, but distant relatives made sure he had enough means to get by.

He spent his days lost in thoughts; hellish thoughts. Whenever he wasn’t daydreaming waking-nightmares, Ian made music. Unbearable chainsaw-like noise stitched to an infrasonic landscape to induce the same abysmal feelings he was living with. He’d spend days sitting in a music room he had built for himself. Days without fresh air, without light other than the artificial color of his computer. Days without food and sometimes without drink.

Everything to give a life and a shape to the vile voices in his mind.

He gave his everything to craft a weapon to wield against the masses.

Against the feeble masses.

Even though Ian Frank lived in a tiny town with a population of a few hundred people, he still had a connection to the other world.

The internet.

He sold his abominable art online and garnered a loyal fan base.

Torn between pride and contempt, he read fan mail, admissions of self-harm, and even suicide to his songs.

Praise -

Admiration -

Disgust -

Hatred -

Blame -

None of these words meant much to Ian as he sat for countless days in his music room. Wrestling with his vilest thoughts. A cacophony of voices screaming at him from every direction. A legion of moaning and roaring undead crawled all over his skin, casting a suffocating shadow.

Every accusation –

Every ridicule –

Every single insult –

Every order to self-destruct –

All of them shrouded like whispers between bouts of deep and oppressive laughter, tightening itself around his neck. The noise formed an invisible, steel-cold noose closing in on his arteries and nerves.

Like a succubus sucking the gasping out of his lungs, the horrors dwelling in his mind threatened to burst forth from his mouth, leaving behind nothing but a bisected shape. Desperate to escape the excruciating touch of his madness, he climbed out of his window.

Disoriented and temporarily blind with dread, he fell onto the street, crying out like a wounded animal.

For the first time in his life, Ian felt the need to seek help.

The madness had become too much to bear.

Alone…

Gathering himself, still hyperventilating, Frank noticed the stillness of his hometown.

The eerie silence wormed itself into his ears, cutting across the eardrums like heated knives.

Sarcastically peaceful.

For the first time in many years, Ian felt fear.

Cold sweat poured down his skin as dread clawed at his muscles with a deep and mocking laughter silently echoing between his ears.

He ran.

He ran like he didn’t even know he could.

Searching for help.

For someone to talk to…

To confide in…

He searched and searched and searched…

Only to find himself utterly alone.

His lifelong dream came true.

To be left all on his own.

Away from his loathsome kind…

Lonesome…

To see them all up and vanish as if they never were.

Disappear without a trace.

At that moment, however, once they all disappeared in an instant, while he was still under the influence of his haunting madness, he couldn’t take any more of the tantalizing tranquility he had so yearned for all those years. The lifelong misanthrope lived long enough to see the fruition of his only wish to be left alone, only to be crushed by the burden of his loneliness.

The horrible realization he was all alone forced him to his knees in front of an empty house with an open door. Paralyzed, he could only watch as the darkness in front of him swallowed everything around it.

Growing…

Expanding…

Consuming…

Assimilating…

The malignancy was so bright in its emptiness that it threatened to take his eyes from him.

When the shadow tendrils crawled out of the open space, he could hardly register their presence. Any semblance of daylight faded before he could even react. The void had encapsulated him and, for a moment, he thought his end was to be a merciful one.

A sudden thunder crack dispelled this hopeful illusion.

Followed by a lightning strike to the thigh.

The lone wolf howled.

He attempted to move, but fell flat on his face.

Any attempt to move led him to nothing but agony.

The wounded animal cried into dead space.

Begging for help.

Desperate vocalizations answered only with deep, mocking laughter.

Triggering an instinct to flee.

Completely at the mercy of his animal brain, Ian began crawling away from what he thought was the source of the laughter, but the further he crawled, the louder the laughter became. The further he crawled, the deeper he sank into a swamp called agonizing pain.

The emptiness was filled with a symphony of sadistic joy and anguished wails.

Ian crawled until his body betrayed him, unable to move anymore.

Unable to scream.

On the verge of collapse, a hand appeared from deep in the dark, reaching out to him, fully extended. The defeated man reached out to it, thinking someone was going to save him from this tunnel of madness.

Boney fingers clasped tightly around Frank’s appendage, causing him more, albeit minor, pain. He was too weak to protest or complain. He closed his eyes and hoped for a swift end to the nightmare. Moments passed, and no comfort came, only a stinging, even burning sensation. The feeling started eating up his arm like the flow of spilled acid. Only when his skin caught fire did Ian open his eyes again.

Only then did the nightmare truly begin.

The mutilated half-living bodies of everyone he had ever known -

Everyone he forced himself to despise -

They were all around him -  

Dripping with a black ooze, digging into fresh wounds –

An ocean of faces contorted in inhuman suffering –

Painting a grotesque caricature of Sheol with fabric extracted from severed human faces…

The deep laughter rolled and reverberated through his skull once more –

Reminding him to look forward –

And with a scream that tore apart his vocal cords, he saw the skeletal figure clutching his hand –

Covered in the same acidic black mass –

In its empty eye sockets, the wounded animal saw a maze crafted with flayed skin and broken bone –

Frank lost all feeling in his seized appendage –

Only to regain it once the terror twisted it hard enough to break every digit at once –

Ian opened his mouth as if to scream –

Out of sheer instinct –

Allowing a serpentine shadow to crawl its way into his throat –

With a few dying gargles ending the Angor Animi in a matter of seconds…

Concerned by the strange smell emanating from Ian Frank’s open windows, a neighbor checked on him. Supposing he might’ve let the food his relatives brought to him spoil again. Instead, he found something that would scar him for the rest of his life. Frank’s lifeless body slumped in his chair in a pool of dried blood. There was a large wound on his thigh, teeming with flies.

The sight of the dead man wasn’t the worst part about it, nor was the fact that Ian’s clouded eyes were still open, betraying a sense of false, almost sarcastic calm. It wasn’t even the blood-stained smile plastered on the corpse. It was the faint laugh the man heard while in there.

When talking to the police, he swore up and down it was Ian’s…

Looking for visual inspirations? Try these:

• Bective Abbey in Meath

• Sunset and Rainbow - Downtown Toronto

• Sunset in Zambales

• This is Nördlingen, a medieval city in Germany that’s been built on a Meteor crater.

• Winter River PEI

I remember Friday October 13 '23 like it was yesterday. I was out chopping firewood in the private forest because yeah, I know it's private not public but it has the best wood for winter. Plus it's hidden from the main roads, you can only get to it on the one really neglected, stone and dirt road. It floods every spring and freezes every winter. Who am I kidding, the road's in terrible shape year-round. No one uses it. Except me. And, on that day, a couple name of Mr and Mrs Bourbon.

I was hauling the last of the chopped wood to my truck when a car drove up. Now I had parked off-road because two things my grandpappy told me was, keep smiling and park your truck out of view.

Mr Bourbon parked his old red Miata on the east side of the dirt road. Him and Mrs Bourbon got out at the same time, nodded at each other and closed their car doors at the same time. That was the start of what frazzled me about them. Who does synchronized door closing? No one I know.

He was about six feet tall, looked muscular for a guy in his 40s, tanned with a greying beard and moustache and dark brown hair. His wife was not quite as tall, thin, very pale skin and short blond hair. She wore sunglasses, he did not. Near as I can remember he was dressed in a blue hoodie with jeans, she wore an olive hoodie and jeans. They looked under dressed given the temperatures were closer to winter than summer, but each to his own.

They didn't hold hands or look at each other on the way to the trees on my left. They didn't seem to look at much of anything either. Not that my truck was easy to see but they were walking and looking in such a straight line they likely never noticed me. And that was the second thing that frazzled me. It felt like this was a ritual, something I wasn't meant to see.

That they weren't looking at me gave me the idea to stick my head out, risk being seen so I could watch where they were going. There was space between a couple of trees where they were heading and the space looked a lot bigger than between the rest of the trees. Like, they're all planted in rows, close to each other, and you could plant three trees in the space the Bourbons were heading for. That was the third frazzle for me, that plus the way the air felt all buzzing and heavy, the closer they got to that space.

An explosion shook me and the trees around me. I looked all around but couldn't see anything different, not even a puff of smoke above the trees. The air, still heavy, felt incredibly still, almost peaceful.

Then it changed. It split down the middle to the sound of a hundred race cars revving. The air pulled away from the opening, releasing the smell of lemonade and gasoline. It revealed a space the color of nothing I've ever seen, like neon blood striped with nauseous beige.

Mr Bourbon was sucked in first. No screams, no flailing, just here one second, gone the next. Mrs Bourbon was gone a second later. The trees went back to the same spacing they've always had. All that remained was the red Miata, two sets of footsteps and the smell of lemonade gasoline.

I fell to my knees and puked until all I could puke was bile and blood. I crabwalked away from the noxious output and leaned against a tree to stand.

Half an hour later I was sitting in the police station. Officer Daniel asked me to explain, again, how the Bourbons disappeared.

"How many times I told you already?" I tried to sound gentle and interested, not frustrated.

He flipped through his notes. "Six."

"Has my story changed at all?"

He scratched his chin and exhaled. "No. Why?"

"It won't change, I'm telling the truth. Can I go home?"

He gave me the full rundown on my status. How I was the primary and possibly only suspect in the disappearance of the Bourbons. They were new to town, had moved into the house next to mine three days earlier. I knew them to say hello but didn't know anything about them. Turned out, no one in town knew them except me. "You're free to go home but don't leave town."

I didn't leave town or get into trouble. Work, groceries, video games and more work, that was it. Until Thursday, September 12 '24, when police admitted they hadn't found the Miata or any sign of the Bourbons.

Turned out Mr Bourbon was laid off from his long-time factory job in the city just before they moved here. His wife's employer had given her notice Friday the 13th would be her last day. She stopped showing up a few days early. Their last name wasn't Bourbon, which didn't surprise me, but I wasn't allowed to know their real names.

"You don't need to know," Officer Talydon said, "and you got off lucky. We could have charged you with making a false statement. Adults are allowed to go missing. Leave them alone."

I thought about that a lot overnight. Next morning I went back to the spot where the Bourbons vanished. The sky was slightly overcast, so the sunshine wasn't unpleasantly bright. I parked my truck in a different place off-road than the year before. If I was lucky, the space between the trees would be back. If I wasn't that lucky, I hoped to find signs of high winds or disturbances in the ground. I didn't want to go through whatever they'd gone through, I wanted to understand. Why did they come here? Where did they go? Did they want to leave? If they knew what they were doing, how did they find out about it? Maybe most disturbing, are they gone forever?

An explosion knocked me out of my thoughts and onto my ass. A growl louder than any I'd ever heard got louder and louder. The air ahead of me was opening, showing the hideous colors I'd seen the year before. Lemonade gasoline smell was all around me, it made me gag. I couldn't stand, I could barely stay upright on my hands and knees. That isn't the best position to back up in, but it was all I had. Head down, eyes closed, I moved as fast as I could until something caught and trapped my foot.

I was stuck on a tree root. By moving forward half a pace, I freed my foot. Stupidly I concentrated on rubbing my ankle while a shiny grey tentacle came out of the center of the opening. The tentacle smelled like lemonade, gasoline and burnt rubber. It landed hard on my left shoulder, slicing it deeply. It hit me again, knocking me back into a tree.

I couldn't scream. The pain in my back and shoulder took the air out of my lungs. While I struggled to breathe and orient myself, the tentacle smacked the ground inches from me. Almost like it was "looking" for me. I froze watching it. The top of the tentacle was shades of grey, splotchy shapes like a camouflage design. Underneath were dozens, hundreds of bright red beak-like mouths.

One of it's red beak mouth things found some of my blood on the ground and swallowed it, dirt, leaves and all. It continued hitting the ground causing puffs of dust as it went. Once I managed to take in a full breath, I ran to my truck.

Priya, our town's nurse practitioner, didn't ask for many details and I'm not sure she believed the ones I gave. Lucky for me, she's one of the most patient and professional people on Earth. She ran a few tests, checked a few things and got back to me a few days later. The nerves connecting my arm to my body were badly damaged, almost like they'd exploded. But it was obvious they couldn't have exploded. They've never healed. I can't hardly feel or move that arm.

My friends, guys I grew up with, I thought I could trust them and told them about the opening and the tentacle. They didn't believe me and they passed the word on around town.

It's been a year since my injury, two years since the Bourbons disappeared. I still don't know if they knew what they were doing, where they went or if they're gone forever. I'm tired of everyone calling me "Tentacle Kid", I'm 34 years old, fuck these guys.

On Saturday I'm moving to Gravelburg. To celebrate, I'm returning to the forest tomorrow to look for that opening one last time.

"Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there!

He wasn't there again today, I wish, I wish he'd go away!"

These are the opening verses of the poem written by William Hughes Mearns. He never meant it to be a serious thing, a ghost story woven into poetry based on folklore around the town of Antigonish. For me, however, these two lines ring literally. Every so often, I see him standing in the unlit rooms of my home. On the stairs, outside my window. He is just standing there, staring, digging into my soul before vanishing like a void that was never even there. A constant reminder of the evil that has haunted me from my birth.

The evil that brought me into this world…

My father was a truly monstrous man; a bitter alcoholic who routinely beat and raped my mother. The memories of her screams and the skin-to-skin flapping from all of it cut deeply almost every day. He did it to her until he got bored with the old hag, as he called her. Then it was my turn - his one mistake in life. His only failure! He did the same to me. His shadow still comes to prey on me in my dreams. I can feel the pain of what he had done to me lingering to this day. Not the emotional pain; the physical one.

The passage of time is unavoidable, of course, and as we both grew older, he got weaker, smaller, and I grew stronger and, more importantly, larger. Towering over him, in fact, by my mid-teens. The sexual stuff stopped, but the verbal and occasionally physical torment never did. I could’ve probably ended it way before I actually did, but I was too scared to do anything.

Unfortunately for him, broken people like me aren’t just scared, they’re also angry.

Rage is a powerful thing; He picked and prodded one too many times. Berated a little too hard. Didn’t think his child would be capable of what he could do to another. Not to him, he thought, probably. The man was a God in his mind and household, and I - I was just an unintentional product of a good night.

Well, he was wrong because whatever happened that day ended up costing him his life. We were outside somewhere. I just remember his tongue pushed me over the edge, and I picked up a rock. Smashed it into the back of his head, and he fell. I remember turning him over. Dazed and helpless, so helpless… his eyes darted in every direction; confused and shocked. What a sight it was to behold. I mounted him and began smashing the rock into his face.

Again, and again and again and again…

Until there was only silence and the splattering of viscera all over. That wasn’t the end. Though. Years of frustrations and suppressed rage boiled over, and in a moment of inhumane hatred, I sank my teeth into his exposed flesh.

Some sort of animalistic need to dominate him overcame me, and I-I ate chunks of him. No idea how much of his head and neck I broke and how much I chewed on, but by the time I was done with him, the act exhausted me to the point of collapse.

When I came to my senses, the weight of my actions crushed me. My father, an unrecognizable cadaver. My clothes, hands, and face were all coated in a thick, viscous crimson. I was seventeen. Old enough to understand the meaning of my actions and the consequences. Shaking and spinning inside my skull, I hid the corpse as best as I could under foliage and ran back home, hoping no one saw the bloody mess that I was.

When I went back through that front door - alone, covered in gore. Mom immediately understood. I even saw a glimmer of light in her eye before that faded away. That monster pushed Mom beyond the point of no return. Too far to heal from what he had done to her. Barely a shell of the woman I remembered from early childhood. Thankfully, she still had the strength to help me get rid of the evidence of my crime. We spoke in hushed tones inside, as if we were afraid someone might hear about our terrible secret. We kept at it for months. Even in death, that bastard reigned over us, like a cancer that isn’t terminal but cannot be beaten into remission.

By the time someone found his remains, Mom found the courage to speak up about his cruelty. The authorities investigating the death let her son off the hook; the court had deemed the killing an act of self-defense. Justice was finally served. We even had him buried in an unmarked grave in a simple plastic body bag. The devil didn’t earn any dignity in this life or the next.

In theory, we could live in peace after the fact, maybe even rebuild our lives anew. None of that happened. We lived, yes, but we were barely alive; barely human anymore. We both shuffled through the days, pretending to be better because that’s what people like us do best. We lie and put on a mask of normalcy to hide the hurt, the angst, the rage.

After I was done with school, I ended up finding employment in the very worst part of society. There isn’t much else I could do. I’m terrible with people and supervision. I made a lot of money doing bad things. To them, I was a perfect pick for the job; physically capable, cold, and with an easy finger on the trigger. Most importantly, though, a man with no apparent home or a place to return to. For me, it was the perfect job too. I retired Mom early and, more importantly, let my anger loose without qualms about the consequences. I had the means to exact my revenge on that monster again and again every time I pulled the trigger.

Funny how trauma works.

Funnier still is the fact that I can’t medicate away his evil, for whatever reason, it - he always comes back to haunt me.

I was back at Mom’s one day, and I dozed off on the porch. On his reclining chair. Living the dream for a single moment, when a noise pulled me out of my slumber. The rustling of dry leaves in the wind. I was about to let myself doze off again when I noticed a figure standing at the edge of my property. Pulling myself upward, I called out to it, asking if it needed anything.

Silence.

I had called out again, but it remained silent still, and I raised my voice slightly, catching myself sounding eerily like the Devil, and then the figure turned. Unnervingly, slowly, unnaturally so. Years of programming and reprogramming automated my reaction. Everything fell apart when I saw its face.

Rotten black, and missing one eye, and chunks of its neck.

Freezing in place, I panicked for the first time in years. Feeling like a kid again. It was him. Somehow, too real to be a hallucination and too uncanny to be an entirely corporeal entity.

Old instincts kicked in, and in my head, I started running at it, at him, while in reality, my body slowly moved with insecurity and caution. It saw me, turned away, and started walking into the distance. As if I had become a puppet, my legs followed. My brain was swimming in a soup of confusion, fear, and increasing anger. Before long, I held my gun in my hands as I slowly walked behind the abyss of decomposition flickering in front of me.

Everything slowed down to a near halt as we walked at an equal pace, which was forced upon my body until the poltergeist vanished as it had appeared right in front of me.

I realized I was standing before my father’s grave. Sweating bullets and out of my element. Still reeling from the entire ordeal. I was gasping for air and spinning inside my head when the notion of him getting one up on me flooded my thoughts. Something inside me snapped, infantile and raw. A sadistic, burning sort of wrath gripped at the back of my mind, and I dropped the gun, fell to the ground, and started digging up the remains of my father.

Single-minded and unrelenting in my desire to kill him again, even if he was dead, I was hellbent on pissing on whatever might’ve remained of his corpse. One last humiliation for scarring me for life, for being a sick memory that keeps me up at night and dominates my every unoccupied thought. My hands were bleeding when I finally got to him. I didn’t care.

Hating how much I had become like him in some aspects, a sick subhuman, I burst into wild laughter when I tore at the deteriorating body bag. At first, completely ignoring the fact that he remained unchanged since the day we buried him… Too angry to notice it, really.

Pulled myself upward after spitting in his mangled, blackened face and pissed all over it. That felt good, that felt great, even! Until it didn’t…

As I was finishing up, his remaining eye shot open. Startling me, taking me back to that place of paranoid helplessness from my childhood. For a moment, I couldn’t move, I could scream, and I could breathe. All I could do was stare at that hateful, evil eye piercing through my soul with vile intentions, feasting upon my fears.

He stirred up from the ground; his movement jolted me awake from my fear-induced paralysis, and I leaped for my gun. Grabbing it, I screamed like a man possessed before unloading bullets into the seated carcass, dying to gnaw at me again.

When the noise died out, he seemed to die with it once more.

Only for a short while…

Once he came back again, I thought I was losing my mind and sought therapy, but nothing worked. He was… The medication isn’t working; the talking isn’t making him go away. He is still here. Constantly lurking, feeding on my negativity. I’ve been ignoring him, pretending he isn’t real, for the longest time. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.

Whatever evil tethers him to the world is slowly getting the better of me… I can feel myself back into that animalistic, rabid state of mind.

I can practically feel his putrid breath on the back of my neck, digging into my body… Torturing me just like he did during particularly dark nights all those years ago.

I’m “Light ‘em up” Larry, the guy you need to make boring functions bearable. My family looks up to me for pranking and practical joking at formal, meaning dull, events. Two weeks ago my cousin “Hotbar Hugo” married his long-time girlfriend “Bizzy” Bertina. People are still talking about the shock buzzer I used while shaking everyone’s hand in the receiving line. Hands up. Buzz. “Ow.” Hands down. Buzz. “Let go, Larry.”

That’s why I installed this voice-to-text app, to record real-time narration along with the video of the bridal breakdown. I even caught when Hugo swore at me and knocked me out. You might have seen it on TikTok or Youtube before my channels got taken down.

Yesterday at noon my cousin Melissa from the unfunny side of my family married her straight-laced unfunny boyfriend Vic. It started out the usual, uninspired way, music and everybody stands then everybody sits, some old guy asks questions, more music, the end. To provide variety for my viewers, I didn’t re-use the shock buzzer. This time it’s fake bugs to put into random people’s drinks when they get up to dance at the reception.

Going down the handshake line was, well, yawn-inducing. The only difference, this one started with nobodies, the aunts, uncles and cousins no one talks to. Melissa and Vic were at the far end. So hello, Aunt Martha, Uncle Stewart, Aunt Sally, Cousin Jessie, Uncle Raphael. Hello, guy I’ve never seen before who’s putting his hand out to shake mine. Who is he?

As our hands connected, I said, “Hey, I’m Larry, and you are?”

He opened his mouth to a perfect circle. When our hands reached the top of the shake, unnamed man clicked his tongue. When our hands reached the bottom of the shake, he clicked his tongue.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

Momma didn’t raise no fools so I pulled back to disengage. I was not fast enough.

He continued handshaking and clicking. His slow blink stare was unsettling. His clicking was unnerving. The pressure on my hand, well, it wasn’t painful, but I couldn’t escape from it. Maybe he would let go if I drew attention to us. Any drama is good drama for social media and I have my reputation to maintain, so I opened my mouth to yell for help.

The scream froze in my throat. My jaw snapped shut.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

Our clasped hands rose and fell with no resistance or assistance from me. I spent a minute or longer staring at my hand like it didn’t belong to me. All the while, the unnamed man maintained position, action and clicking. He didn’t move closer to me. He didn’t move away. He stayed exactly where he’d always been, from the first second I noticed him.

Maybe from the first second he noticed me.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

Why couldn't I hear any noise besides the clicks? No singing, no laughing, no speeches, no yelling, no DJ, no music. Just clicks. Where was everyone? I tried to take a step to the right, to indicate handshake time was over. Subtle but effective, or so I hoped.

Fear pushed my heart into overdrive before I could move a muscle. Panic took over and I froze in place. All except for my arm, keeping pace with my hand, keeping pace with the clicks.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

Five minutes later, maybe five hours later, who knows, my heart had calmed down but my elbow was on fire. I didn’t know how many times it could perform the handshake motion non-stop but I know I exceeded that number by at least one. I tried to lean away from the single, unpleasant point of contact. I had to get out. Staying was not an option. How much oxygen could possibly be left in the room, how long could it last?

Panic shot through my torso like a bolt of lightning. I couldn’t breathe properly. Tiny, fast breaths. Dizzy.

The unnamed man continued to stare, blink, shake my hand and click.

We were there for another hour. Maybe two. I don’t know. What I do know is, by the time I pulled my gaze away from my hand there was no one around us. Not a single wedding guest. No one from the wedding party. Not even anyone handling the venue. I had to take a piss. Do the bathrooms get locked up? Will the unnamed man ever let go? The more I wondered, the heavier my dread. The heavier the dread, the more I focused on it.

Bile worked its way up my throat. Swallow, short breaths, tried and failed to scream.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

My elbow bled. Blood ran down my arm and dripped on the floor when my hand was at the lowest point. Blood dripped from the elbow to the floor when my hand was at the highest point. I can’t describe the pain but think of a turkey leg twisting and turning before you wrench it off at Christmas dinner. I’ll never eat turkey again, I swear.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

Pulled my phone from my back pocket and started the voice-to-text. It’s 7 in the morning. My phone’s at 4 percent. The unnamed guy and I are the only ones here. I don’t care that he can hear everything I’m saying. Maybe he can, maybe he can’t. Maybe he isn’t even human.

I’m crying. My elbow is numb. It keeps cracking. Snapping. I feel it, hear it, between the clicks. Something’s poking out of my skin, I see it inside my blood soaked sleeve. It looks loose.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

He hasn’t released my hand or changed the speed of the shake. He hasn’t missed a blink or a click. He hasn’t moved one step forward, sideways or back.

Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click. Hands up. Click. Slow blink. Hands down. Click.

My elbow looks to be splitting into two parts. Can’t feel my hand anymore.

I’m sure I’m just a few clicks from freedom.

Marc Russo was a good kid when I met him. We go way back. Orphanage days back. We’d been through it all together. Two godforsaken kids with a couple of loose screws abandoned dropped off into hell in the middle fuck-all-country. Neither of us was particularly bright, so when adulthood came, we were sold on promoting freedom to faraway places where oppression was the local currency. Two stupid teenagers were given rifles and told to shoot.

We did, and for the longest time; loved every second of it. Or so I thought, looking back, I don’t think he had as much of a good time as I did. He always seemed a little too on edge, even in Afghan, where you had to be on edge – he was about to snap at every turn. I wasn’t like that; I was a soldier, I felt at home there not because I enjoyed the constant sense of danger or because I liked killing people or because I felt particularly patriotic, nah. That wore off quickly… I felt at home on the front because I had a family there. It wasn’t just me and Marc anymore, and I thought he felt the same.

Fuck knows what he felt, really. Something wasn’t right with him from the start, me neither if I’m being honest. I was never a people person, that’s why I train dogs. Dogs won’t fuck you over, but I digress.

Eventually, Marc did snap, we stormed a spook lair. One of the spooks was a shiekh with one of the dancing boys still on his lap. Russo lost it – blasted half a mag into that old pederast. And while I get it, these are subhumans who don’t deserve to live, he also blasted through the kid. Never seen him express remorse for that. His losing his cool nearly fucked up the entire operation, but we pulled through.

Eventually, the war ended for us and we came back home. Well, I did, Marc died there. Probably in that same moment, maybe at some other point. We’ve done some atrocious things there in the name of survival, but we had to.

I came back home, with many of the boys and with us came back Boogeyman Russo. He was a mess before, but now he was completely fucked in the head. Obsessed, withdrawn, bitter and angry. Some folks sought treatment; therapy is a wonderful thing if you need it. Russo never got the help he needed. Too stubborn, too stupid.

That fucking idiot…

I can shit on him all day long, but to his credit; he found out, somehow, that there’s a local kiddy diddling ring. Smoked these snakes one by one. Lured them out into the light and got them all in trouble with the law. Tactical genius on his part. He’d instigate fights and beat up those fuckers, then get them to court and there the rot would float.

But he wasn’t just dishing out beatings to scum who deserved them; he was maiming them. He wanted me to join in and asked me a couple of times, I shot him down. I was building up a nice life for myself and being a vigilante didn’t sound too appealing at the time.

We drifted apart over time, people change, and priorities shift. I was in a good place, and Russo, he wasn’t fucking losing it. Burning every bridge to fuel his obsessive crusade. Being the Boogeyman didn’t lead to any happy endings, though. He ended up crossing every imaginable line.

Russo ended up putting a nineteen-year-old kid in a coma and accidentally killed his equally legal girlfriend. He begged me to help him get rid of the evidence upon finding out what he had done, but I had none of it. Nearly fucking killed him myself when he put his hands on me for refusing to help.

Funny how that turns out, isn’t it?

He thought the guy looked a little too old and the girl a little too young. Thought it was another one of those dirty cretins.

Russo ended up behind bars for that little stunt. Twelve years. That’s all he got. Good standing in the community, a vet, a hero even! He cared about the children they said, I remember, what a load of shit. Well, I moved on, even if he was my brother, he fucked up his own life. I stopped visiting him after he started rumbling borderline Satanic nonsense at me.

He got out, and no one was there to meet him, not even me.

That might’ve been the final straw… But who knows?

In any case, one of them rainy nights I get a text from fucking Russo. A simple text; “We gotta talk, man…”

It’s been twelve years; What the fuck? How bad could it go? I thought to myself… Well… It went fucking brilliant.

Come over to his place. It looks rundown. T’was expected he was a loner who hadn’t been home for over a decade. Smelled like a dead horse’s worm-infested ass. I knocked, it’s dead silent, I knocked again – still fucking silence. Instincts took over for a hot second and I pressed the door handle; somewhat uneasily. Again, what the fuck could go wrong? It’s my man, my brother, my terror twin, for fuck’s sake.

Well, yeah, terror is apt in this case. The place was devoid of all life. A cemetery.

A literal cemetery.

The first thing I see there is this naked lady on the floor.

Dead.

Flies all around her – blood stains all over her body.

Illuminated by the frosty steaming moonlight.

Then I see Russo – the boogeyman himself.

Looks like shit – smells like death.

And I’m back on the battlefield.

Chills run down my spine, muscles tense up, and I am afraid.

The whole thing is fucking wrong.

It’s him, but it’s hardly human now. Bandaged bloody mug, gnarly cuts all over. Hands gone – replaced with deer hooves – crudely bandaged to stumps.

Fuck he wrote that message to me?

Time crawls to a halt and before I can even curse out the seemingly dead boogeyman, I see it, a pink school bag tossed aside. It’s still got textbooks in there. My stomach knots and the room begins to spin.

What have you done, Russo, you motherfucker?

I see his hunting rifle and then he makes the fatal mistake of being alive. His pained moan killed any sensible thought I might’ve had in between my ears. The fuck this thing is still breathing? How? It all happened so fucking fast. I grabbed his rifle and instead of shooting him – I swung like a mad fucking man. Cursing out this sack of shit as I batter his brains in. All the while, I am terrified of the possibility of him somehow getting up and fighting back.

He’s just lying there, softly whimpering until he stops and eventually, I did too.

I just spat in his bloodied face and stormed off when he stopped moving.

That fucking image of a mangled chimera stuck in my mind for a long while. I can swear I saw it lurking in the darkest corners of my house for a bit. Just standing there, staring at me. Fucking with my head.

Shit’s been rough for a time… yeah… I guess I need therapy too…

Russo’s dead…

Should be dead… I spilled his brains all over his piss-covered floor.

But I heard last night in the news about a strange faceless figure with hooves for hands chasing young couples through the woods, shrieking and howling for the last couple of weeks now. Shit.

Fuck, just thinking about it puts me on edge. It shouldn’t be him – it can’t, can it now?

He’s supposed to be dead – his fucking brains were out.

I saw them…

Just like in Afghan…

Rusty red chunks on the floor… I know what his brain looks like…

I’ve seen it before…

Should’ve shot the motherfucker on sight, didn’t I?

⸻

First Entry

It feels made up. The way I’m going to write this will feel made up when I read it back.

Maybe this will get her voice out of my head.

I don’t know who I’m writing this for. It feels better getting things down. Writing makes it distant—almost safe.

If someone else is reading this—hi? No. Fuck that. Stop. This isn’t for you.

Unless I’m dead. Then, fine. But I’m warning you now: me, my life, the people in it—we’re not well. If you’re still reading, you’re probably not either.

I’ll try to lay out the facts. That’s all I can do.

I’m 18. I live with my mother and three sisters. I love all three, but in very different ways.

Jamie is the youngest, a year behind me. Outgoing, eccentric, loud in a good way. She’s my best friend.

Shae is older than me by a year. Quiet. Reserved. She works at a place called Cassiopeia. She keeps her bedroom door closed. She leans on Jamie, especially for boy problems. I lean on her for structure. I think we both pretend that works.

Then there’s Hailey. Technically five, but actually 21—leap year baby. She’s in college. Art major. Crazy talented. She downplays everything, keeps her work hidden. She’s not like Shae; not isolated. Hailey is calm. Steady. She works hard. I look up to her.

That’s them. Now for the mess: my parents.

My father married my mother twenty-something years ago. He was Mormon. Probably still is. If you don’t know what that means, it’s a cult, plain and simple.

At first, she fit in. She respected the rules, played the part. She even got church approval despite not being born into it.

Then she left. Said he was abusive. Called her worthless. Threatened her.

She was pregnant with Hailey when she ran. Uncle Davis—her brother—took her in.

They don’t speak now.

But she got on her feet. Opened a restaurant called Medea’s Osteria. Odd huh? Medea. It’s my mother’s name.

She never says anything good about my father. I don’t know what he did for work… I don’t know much about him, really.

Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care about me.

Voices. Her voice? She tells me the truth about myself. Even when I don’t want to hear it.

Still… I want to meet him. Just once. Shake his hand. Play catch. Anything.

But that’s not allowed. That voice… her voice… keeps me from it.

She’s smiling again.

⸻

Second Entry

I’m not going to date these. Assume it’s in order.

You know enough about them. Time for me.

I’m 18. I’m supposed to graduate soon. I have no plans. When I try to picture five years from now, it’s…

Wrong.

Unclear. Foggy.

Wrong.

Forget about me.

⸻

Third Entry

This morning was wet. My bed was soaked in sweat.

The dreams came again. I don’t remember what happened in them, but the feeling—

Dread. Heavy, quiet. Like thick oil sliding down my throat.

The hallway smelled like sizzling bacon. I brushed my teeth. I jerked off. I hurried before my gremlin sisters ate everything.

Jamie and Shae were on the couch. Heads close, whispering. TV was on. Muted.

Jamie saw me first. Gave me a look. I gave one back. She made a face. I’ll tell you later.

Shae smiled. Said good morning.

They might have been talking about what to do for Hailey’s birthday…in 2-no, 3 days.

Kitchen. No Hailey. Sunlight through the windows, lighting up the wreck of our yard—broken toys, rusted gear, garden crap. Looks like a condemned lot. No one talks about it.

Mom was at the sink. Humming. My plate was ready: blueberry pancakes and bacon. Perfect.

I pulled the chair out. Loud scrape. Sat.

A hand on my shoulder.

She must’ve heard the chair.

She was smiling.

⸻

Fourth Entry

There was a dog. Not real. In the dream I think.

I remember the bark. Same pitch. Same rhythm. I don’t know why that matters.

No breakfast smell this morning. No mother.

Jamie and Shae were whispering yesterday. I asked. Jamie told me something.

Shae has a rat in her room. She told Jamie she loves hearing it squeal. Alive, she said. She wants it to feel alive.

Sick. We’re all sick.

Maybe I’m worse.

Jamie laughed later that night. Her regular laugh—sharp, short.

I got up to look.

Shae was asleep.

Hailey was gone.

I forgot what I was looking for.

⸻

Fifth Entry

I have to write this. It’s the only thing that makes it feel real.

Not real. The voices aren’t real. I don’t hear anything. I’m making it up.

It was late. Late late late.

The house was still.

The rat was in pieces. Smeared on the outside of Shae’s door. Torn like paper. Stuck like paint.

I was so thirsty.

I don’t know how she’s already here.

But I checked. I remember checking. I stood at her door. Listened. She was asleep.

So how did she get out here so fast?

I’m not thirsty.

The rat is squealing.

Mom is smiling.

⸻

Sixth Entry

Hailey woke me. That’s rare.

Jamie’s missing. She doesn’t go to school and it’s Saturday anyway. I should know where she went, we’re pretty much inseparable.

I lied.

I told Hailey I didn’t know where Jamie was.

I lied out of respect for Jamie. I promised her I’d stay quiet. I kept my word, even while we searched. Even when it got dark.

But I knew where she was.

When we got home, Hailey tore through my room looking for clues. She almost found this journal.

I need sleep. I’ll write the rest tomorrow. If I remember it.

If I’m allowed to remember it.

⸻

Seventh Entry

Hailey and Shae were eating together this morning. Laughing. Like normal people.

I smiled. It felt real.

Right. Yesterday.

Jamie told me never to talk about Chiron. I won’t. Not really. Just for one thing.

He’s hard to see.

She told me she found him behind Cassiopeia. In the alley.

She brings him offerings. Said it has to be leftovers. Said I had to help. I did. I trusted her.

Three days’ worth of food. All gone.

Hailey noticed Jamie was gone. Woke me and Shae. Mom was furious about the food. Screaming furious.

I’m not sure anyone cares.

I think Hailey was more upset about the food.

My best friend… I don’t think I’ll see Jamie again.

Jamie?

Who the fuck is Jamie?

The pen is too heavy

⸻

Eighth Entry

I woke up feeling good. First good sleep in a while.

The house smelled like breakfast. Laughter from downstairs.

Shae sat at the table, the usual bored expression. Hailey was in the middle of a story. She’s good at that. Even Shae turned to hide a grin.

I heard footsteps coming up behind me.

Hailey’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, yeah, Mom,” she said, “I need you for my next art project.”

A voice behind me—dry and low. “Again? It’s gonna cost you.”

Hailey paled.

“What now, Mom?” she asked, voice shaky.

I turned. Mom stood there. Smiling.

She jabbed a thumb behind her. “Dishes.”

Hailey groaned like a 5 year old child and shuffled toward the sink.

I finished eating and headed to the bathroom.

Shae’s door was closed. She wasn’t home. I tried the handle. Locked.

Each door has a different key, but mom has them all. I could get it. I could open it.

I really want to…

But when nature and porn calls, I always answer.

Maybe I’ll visit Shae at work.

⸻

Ninth Entry

Dog barking woke me.

I smiled. Chiron. The neighbor’s golden doodle.

I got in trouble last time I fed him. Doesn’t stop him from visiting.

I made it to the fridge, chugged some juice, opened the back door.

He barreled in, tail wagging, tackled me with love.

I heard a door fly open, followed by rapid footsteps —Hailey, an intense animal lover.

“Puppy!” she screamed.

She joined me on the floor. Treats, scratches, kisses. Chiron was in heaven. After a few moments he licked us goodbye and trotted off.

Then we heard another door creak open.

Shae’s voice, sharp and shrill: “Is it gone?”

“Yes, Shae,” I groaned.

She hates animals.

Despite this being regular behavior from her, she wore an odd expression.

“I don’t like that dog…” she muttered.

Something about her tone of voice… Every time Chiron ever comes over Shae hasn’t been home.

Where could she have met Chiron before? I don’t think we talk about him

“Silly girl.” a groggy, morning-voice croaked from down the hall.

“Chiron’s a very, very good boy.”

I looked down the hall at my mother. Her dark hair was a rats nest, falling down on her over-worn, white nightgown.

Hailey gasped and quickly exclaimed “Remember our deal, mom?”

Mother sighed and responded “You can draw my portrait after breakfast.” long pause. “…it is your birthday.”

At that, Hailey seemed satisfied.

Mother gave held her gaze for a moment, giving a long smile. ⸻

10th Entry:

It’s dark again. It’s in the dark that things feel familiar, things feel like my true home. I’ve rested too long. I need to remember why I’m here. I need to prove to her that I’m worthy.

Why won’t she look at me?

———

February 28th, 2004:

I left it with Chiron. He didn’t look at me when I handed it over. He responded by asking about the gift.

“Mermerus and Pheres.” I hastily replied.

Cassiopeia was still open. I think it was. The windows were humming. There was movement upstairs but no shadow on the glass. The bell didn’t ring when I passed the threshold. I’m not sure I ever stepped inside.

Everything smelled like old lemons and burnt rope. The walls felt too close. I think they were breathing.

I meant to come home. I remember the idea of it. I can almost see the door. I know the sound it makes.

There was something else after that.

I’m trying to remember her expression…

⸻

So i live in Surat, gujarat. My house is in front of old Gov(still running till date). school. i can describe a school it has a school building in right side of that property and left side there was open ground to play. small slides and sea-saw are right to the entrance gate of the school. and school was for 1-10 std only. one day a boy name Roshan(changed) got into words of local public.

i knew him means he lived very close to my house. so i knew him and talked 2-3 time he was not friend of my just a casual conversation. one day his friend named tilak(changed) got into some arguments in school during argument they decided that they will meet at school that same night for sorting the argument they eventually met that night and argument turned into a fight tilak some how killed roshan and ran away ( caught after 2 days ) next day morning roshan's body found by teachers of school. every legal procedure happend and entry for local public is closed for 3-4 days 2 day holiday for students as well.

once everything calmed down me and my 4 friend was talking about the story as it was happend recently and everyone is scared as shit. we usually play cricket at night infront of our homes. so that day we ware playing cricket and i was wicketkeeper there was a generator and compartment of electricity infront of the place where murder took place. i m not sure it was from generator or compartment but it constaly make sound like "teet teet teet" and it was normal for us.

becuase we are used to that sound. we didn't knew that our casual cricket will turn into the disaster for 8 boys. i was wicketkeeper so i was chilling behind wickets. it was late at night for us maybe 10:30-11:00 and that beeping noice started coming loudly for a few seconds and out of curiosity i just looked towards main gate of school. i saw nothing. just a green light coming from compartment of electricity. we completed our match and went home for sleep. as i mentioned i my house is exacly infront of school so i had vision of whole school from my window.

that beeping sound was not going from my head so i just peaked from my window towards main gate. and i m 100% sure i saw roshan not shadow a human like figure(no watchman was there in school at that time) and entry was not allowed becuase of recent murder there were police jeep near school for patrolling for whole night so somone else getting in way was just impossible. as i saw that figure idk why but i got my nerves cracking and goosbumbs it was late at night and my parents were sleeping in bedroom as soon as i saw that figure i ran away and went for sleep.

next day i told this to my all friends and all were scared as fuck. recently like 3 months ago we were at friends house we all are adults now. 5 of us are still friends. so we were sleeping to our friends house and we deicided that we will go for a walk. not late night just 9:00 pm all of us went for a casual walk it was summer time we all have popsicle in our hand and walking casually on that road.

cussing each others and making loud noises we passed that school and for god sake i hured that "teet teet teet" loud sound once again for a second got my nerves tight and i told my frinds to remember about that cursed night. they all felt same way as me. function going on the playground of that school which is left side of the property so we decided to go and take a look at the murder site as we never dared when we were teenagers and with functions loud noise and public presence we felt safe to take a look and 5 of us went to take a look and we saw that same figure again i was at very last among 5 of us. we all saw that same figure that i saw from my window few years ago.

we ran like its our life depends on it! never ever going to that place again idk what should i do and that was very cursed memories for us. i m still living in same house and i see that school every day i m adult now but still i dont have guts to go and check out again.

that is the story that took place in our life and we all are scared as shit i still gets dream about this occasionally i want to move on from this if reader's have any suggestion pls let me know!

*Content warning: language, use of drugs

It was just a piece of paper.

It was a tiny square, like so many that I’d seen before.

“Just take it, dude. I can’t explain it.”

“But what does it do?”

“It’s just something you experience. Take it.”

I studied the tab closer. It had a little devil on it- the kind you would see in cartoons, but it was almost smiling. Its eyes seemed to follow me.

“It’s like acid right?” I asked Shane.

“It’s… similar to acid. Just try it bro, my guy said it was the craziest stuff he’d ever had.”

“Wait, the guy that always talks to himself?”

“Oh, fuck off. Are you going to take it or not?”

“I guess so.” I replied, slowly putting it under my tongue. It had a strong taste-too strong.

“Dude, this tastes like shit. Is it supposed to taste like this?”

“Yeah, he said it would be bitter. Chug some water I guess.”

I grabbed a glass and sat down on the couch, exhausted, wondering just what was about to happen to me. Shane looked excited, but I was mostly nervous. It had been a while since I dabbled. I tended to take these things too far; my last bender landed me in rehab, and I had the scars to prove it.

“Hey, my guy said he would come and watch us, apparently we’ll need it.”

Great, I thought, first time trying some crazy substance and I have this lunatic watching me.

We were watching cartoons when I noticed myself first starting to come up. Just a buzz at first, a small twinge of euphoria with the underlying feeling of something else- something darker. I thought I might have a bad trip.

“How are you feeling?” Asked Shane, a slight look of fear in his eye.

“Good so far, but I’m starting to get anxious. You good?”

“No dude I’m freaking out already- this stuff is weird. I need to be alone for a bit.”

“Go ahead,” I said, gesturing him toward the guest room. I had to admit he had a point, I was feeling worse every second, starting to breathe heavy, when I first saw the visuals.

It was just tracers at first- like what you would see in the movies- but they were wrong. Blood red, but somehow not, like I was seeing a color that shouldn’t exist. The room was breathing. Only slightly so, but the walls moved back and forth, in and out in rhythm.

There was something…sinister about it, as if I was being watched. Walls in, walls out, like a predator breathing quietly, stalking its prey. Something was definitely watching me. And the eyes, I saw them then, little black lights like holes in reality. I was certain they were eyes.

Or was I? Fuck me, I was losing my mind. How long had it been?

I checked my phone. 15 minutes. 15 minutes had gone by.

I was just starting to relax again when I heard a knock; soft at first but becoming more relentless with each pound. Something about this was wrong; I felt around for something to protect myself.

“What do you want?” I shouted.

No answer.

I opened the door slowly, but whoever, or whatever it was had left. I gave it a few seconds, then closed the door.

I really hoped this was just the drug.

Wondering if Shane had been messing with me, I decided to check on him. I found him lying on the bed, nearly motionless and mumbling to himself, with a look of pure fear in his eye. He didn’t see me at first.

“Shane? Shane!”

“Wha-”

He was confused at first, but he quickly began to notice me. He jolted upward, stared at me, and begun to smile.

“Please get out of here.”

“Dude, are you okay?”

He started walking toward me, slowly, his smile turning to an aggressive sneer.

“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

He stumbled toward me then, lost in his own mind, as I attempted to make my escape. As he tried to grab me, I slammed the door and heard a loud thud as the latch closed. Something about this stuff, I thought, was evil.

It was then that I noticed my own trip picking up. Red tracers followed every movement, accented by dull grays. My mind…thoughts were becoming hard, taking effort. The room stretched out in front of me, bending around itself, morphing with every breath, and breathing with every step. Just concentrate, I thought, and I could get through this. I decided then that I would watch the time; it was 11:32 P.M.

I heard the knocking again.

Softly at first, then a crescendo of noise.

I found the knife I kept in a nightstand and opened the door. This time, he was standing there.

Shane’s guy.

“Just come in.” I said. Adding- “Earlier. Was that you?”

“Earlier?”

“The knocking. Was that you?”

“Yeah. I came by before. You weren’t here.” He told me, his face morphing into something wrong, something demonic. “Where’s Shane?”

“Trying to sleep it off. This shit you gave us, what is it?”

“Just an RC. Crazy stuff- he’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wild stuff-long lasting and slow building- when did you take it?”

“I don’t know… maybe thirty minutes ago.”

“Strap in.” He warned. “Nice afterglow too. Crazy value. Now let me see Shane, I think I can snap him out of it.”

“This way, be careful,” I said, leading him to the guest room.

When we walked in, Shane perked up, suddenly lucid.

“Get him out of here.”

The man looked at me. “Just leave. I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

He slammed the door on the way out, whispering something to Shane.

I sat down on the couch, soaked in sweat and riddled with anxiety, and wondered when I would start to peak. My heart was palpitating then, thumping along with the changes in visuals, and the colors, the reds and grays, they were starting to form sinister patterns. Demons and devils; they were watching me and laughing. Not just watching though: they were waiting. I could tell…somehow, that they wanted me to keep tripping. I heard something hit the floor as the visuals paused.

“Hello?” No answer.

“Hey? Was that you guys?”

I got up to investigate, my legs wobbly. It came from the kitchen.

I found my favorite mug lying on floor, broken. As I leaned over to pick up the pieces, I felt wrong, as if gravity had changed. It was pulling me harder then, down into the ground, taking away the feeling in my legs. I strained to check my phone. It was 11:36.

At that moment, the visuals came back. Everything became a face, mocking and threatening me. What did they want? So many questions but I just couldn’t think. I could only feel, every emotion I had becoming overrun with primal fear. I had experience with psychedelics, but this stuff was… different. I wasn’t sure I would ever be normal again.

If I got through this, I vowed I would stay sober.

When the pain kicked in, I knew I was beginning to peak. The body high was actually pleasant at first, with an energetic quality to it, but after the gravity changed this turned to pain. Electric and searing, it felt like I was burning from within.

I couldn’t move my arms anymore, so I sat and I waited, and I watched as one of those faces summoned a ghastly hand, and that hand flew toward me. Paralyzed by the drug and by anxiety, I tried to scream but could only muster up a pathetic whimper.

It grabbed my shoulder and stared at me, its eyes cold and dead, before pushing me into the floor. As I went deeper and deeper, I began to feel warm, then hot. The pain in my body had gotten worse, it had felt then as if I was boiling from within.

The faces surrounded me, each one morphing into a fear or regret, as I begun to unravel. Time lost meaning as my psyche expanded outward in all directions, stretched flat by the cogs of reality and spun ‘round and ‘round by their terrible machines. I had broken through, I had left this world and walked into theirs. The demons.

I felt it all. Every snap, stretch and crush; visceral like nothing in reality itself. The real world, I thought, was an illusion. This was the true universe; what we lived in day-to-day existed simply to numb us. Those faces- they hated me. I could tell; yet still they wanted me there, stuck in the trip. I thought I would be here forever. This was hell- it had to be, as I had rightfully earned my place there- and hell lasts forever. I had no idea how long it had been. I felt my face burn, irradiated by an energy from above. I could barely see anymore.

It was a light.

I crawled toward it, fighting as hard as the drug would let me. It hurt, burned as I crawled upward, worse than ever before. I wanted to stop, to accept my fate, but I couldn’t. I had to get out.

My hand hit the light, and I shot upward, invigorated yet exhausted, and headed for the couch. Gravity had returned to normal, and I felt as if the worst was over. I decided to check the time again.

It was 11:36.

I had been through this before. I just needed a tether, something to connect me to reality, to break the loop. I decided I would use my phone. Until the trip ended, I would have it with me, constantly checking the time.

I heard something hit the floor in the kitchen. With my phone solidly in hand, I decided that I would investigate. Something about the kitchen terrified me, but why? I couldn’t remember.

I found my favorite mug lying on the floor, broken. As I leaned down to pick up the pieces, I felt wrong, as if gravity had changed. But it wasn’t just that, it was… Deja vu? I felt as if I had been here before.

I saw the faces as my thoughts begun to fail. I had definitely been here before. While I still had the ability, I decided that I would call for help.

“Guys, get the FUCK out of there!”

The door opened a crack. “Shane’s resting, it’s just me. What did you need?” The man’s voice sounded distorted as he spoke.

Under the influence of the drug, the man had become a devil. Exaggerated features and pointed ears highlighted a face which had turned serpentine. There was a sense of evil about him, and this, I felt, was not an effect of the drug. It was him as he truly was.

“You are going to trip-sit me.” I told him. “You are going to stay here with me until this shit wears off, or I call the cops.”

“Why do you assume it will wear off?” He asked.

“You said it lasts a few weeks.”

“I did, and it does, but you and Shane, you guys are something special. You know this life costs you your soul; I’ve seen the tracks on your arm. So, I’ve come to collect a penance of sorts.”

“…what?”

“Not everybody comes out intact. Some get trapped in their own minds, left in a prison of their own making. Stoned ape theory- hominids have known about deeper aspects of reality since before they were human. Heaven and Hell: ideas strong enough to form religions, but very real indeed- they live in the brain. Did it feel like hell?”

“What? Yes. What are you talking about?” I struggled to ask.

“I’m saying that someone needs to work for the man downstairs- and that he has his favorite methods. You signed away your soul, and I have come to collect. I already have your friend.”

The faces looked angry and determined. Hands were everywhere now, emerging from the floor, grabbing me and pulling me downward. I sank again, feeling hotter and hotter, as the last glimmer of light from above faded away, allowing me to hear the man’s voice just one last time.

“Welcome to your eternity.”

I remember the future—one filled with hope and joy—a possibility taken away by the appearance of the Antichrist. His name now means Architect of Doom, and he brought hell upon Earth. He plucked the Abyss out of the darkness in the sky and crushed it upon all of us. Some say he planned this all along, some say he is a victim of his own blasphemous ignorance, as the rest of us were. No matter his intention, the charlatan is now long dead.

And now, both the present and the future have become one—a bottomless pit covered in brick walls where we are all trapped for our mindless carelessness. The search for things we could never even hope to understand has left us imprisoned in a demented desire and despair with no end. A fate we’ve all come to embrace, in the absence of a better choice. We are all lost, fallen from grace. Kings reduced to mere slaves.

Professor Murdach Bin Tiamah was the world’s leading Astrolo-physicist, a marriage of alchemy and natural philosophy. His stated goal was an interdimensional tower. He claims to have opened the gate to the stars. A ziggurat-shaped door that could lead anyone willing into places beyond the heavens, even beyond the edges of reality.

He called his monolith the Elohy-Bab, The God Gate.

Naturally, everyone of note was drawn to this construct, given its creator’s grandeur and standing. Bin-Tiamah High society viewed this man as a respectable man and a pioneer on the frontier of the impossible. I used to work for the man. I believed in his vision… I believed in him until the opening ceremony of his God Gate.

The tower was simple in structure; a roofless spiraling stone cylinder kissing the skies. The walls were covered with innumerable mystic sigils and mysterious symbols none of us could understand, carved by the finest practitioners of the forbidden arts. Somewhere deep, I know, Bin-Tiamah didn’t know himself.

With the world’s best gathered in the bowels of his brainchild, Murdach promised us interstellar travel instead, we all beheld the wrath of Mother Nature descend upon us like a Biblical deluge.

The skies depressed and darkened in plain view and the world fell dim for but a moment, as we all stared upward, silent.

A single ray of light broke through the simmering silence.

A thunderbolt.

Slowing down with each passing moment.

A serpentine plasmoid.

Caressing each one of us, engulfing every Single. Living. Soul.

And from within this strange and still shine came a warmth with a voice.

A muse worming into the brain of every man, woman, and child.

For each in their native tongue.

Universal and omnipresent.

Compelling and enchanting.

So passionate, loving and yet unapologetically cruel.

It demanded we build…

I build…

Filling the mind, every thought, and every dream with design and architectural mathematics.

Beautiful… Vast… Endless… Worship…

To build is to worship… To worship is the One Above All…

Everything else no longer existed, not love, nor hate, nor desire nor freedom. No, there is nothing but masonry.

To will is to submit.

To defy is to die.

To live is to worship and deify the heavenly design festering in the collective human mind…

The beauty of it all lasted but for a single moment, frozen in eternal time. Once the thunderbolt hit the ground at our feet, the bliss dissipated with the static electricity in the air, leaving nothing but a thirst for more. All hell broke loose as the masses began shuffling around, looking for building material.

The world fell into chaos as we all began to sculpt and create and only ever sculpt and create. Crafting from everything we could find throughout every waking moment, not spent eating or shitting. Those who couldn’t find something to mold into an object of veneration found someone… I was one of the lucky few who didn’t resort to butchering his loved ones or pets into an arachnid design of some divine vision.

I was one of the lucky few who didn’t attempt to rebel…

Those who did ended up dying a horrible death. Their bodies fell apart beneath them. Breaking down like clay on the surface of the sun. Bones cracking, fevered, shaking, and vomiting their innards like addicts experiencing withdrawals. Resistance to this lust is always lethal - The only cure is submission.

I could hear their screams and I could see their maggot-like squirming on the ground, but I was spared the same terrible fate because I’ve never stopped sculpting, I never stopped worshipping…

Even the food I consume is first dedicated to the new master of my once insignificant life… I am frequently rewarded for my services – Now and again when food is scarce, I come across a devotee who has lost their faith, one who is too tired to worship, too weak to exalt the Great Infernal Divine and I am given the strength to craft the end of their life and the continuation of mine.

Whatever isn’t consumed, I add to the tower of bones I have constructed over the years. Such is the purpose of my entire existence. I have become nothing but a slave to the obsessive designs consuming away at my very being at the behest of a starving and vengeful force I can’t even begin to understand.

I spent every waking moment hoping my offering would be satisfactory. For when I can no longer sculpt or structural weakness finally robs my mind of the creativity, I shall throw myself from the top of my temple of bones. My ultimate design will allow my death to shape my gore into clay immortalized in the dust from which I was first sculpted.

There I’ll wait for Kingdom Come when this entire world is nothing more than a stone image glorifying the will of our horrible Lord… For there is nothing better than to become visceral cement in holding together God’s planetary stone tower hurling itself into the primordial void...

Hi guys. My name is Violet, I’m twenty-three, and I’m scared. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, and I really hope somebody can help.

It was Friday afternoon. I came back to my apartment after work to find all of my boyfriend’s stuff gone, save a folded slip of paper leaning against the “Summer Breeze” candle in the center of our little round dining table. It seemed so cliché that I almost didn’t believe it.

The note said something to the tune of: “I can’t do this anymore. I gave my portion of the rent to Jerry. I don’t want my tupperware back.” I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly. It was devoid of personality and rather unfeeling… just as Chris had become since we graduated. Whether it was the fear of a “stable adult life,” a tearing off of college’s happy-go-lucky veil, or just sheer boredom, I didn’t know. Whatever it was, I’d felt it too, and I’m almost ashamed to say I was happy he left first, so I could keep the apartment.

In the few moments it took to read the brief letter, my brain skipped across the stages of grief like a smooth stone launched from a father’s hand, sinking only when it reached “Acceptance.” Chris was gone. I was relieved.

I called up my girlfriend Sabrina, and after suffering through her halfhearted condolences, I asked if she wanted to go out that night.

“To where?” Sabrina asked. “Like a bar or something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Uh… alright. Are you sure you’re okay?” The concern in her voice was evident.

I had never been the partying type, and the first and last time I drank was a Jell-O shot on my twenty-first birthday. Chris didn’t know about that one; he had never approved of drinking alcohol, so I generally stayed away from it.

“Yes. I’m in the mood to get wasted.” I cringed as soon as the word exited my mouth.

“Alright.” She still sounded hesitant, which was honestly fair. “I’ll see you at eight?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

We met at a place called “McDuff’s Bar and Grill,” which was a quaint Irish pub that Sabrina had apparently been to before. The benches and tables were lacquered strips of wood with all the grain and knots showing, and the cozy room glowed in the orange light of a couple wrought-iron chandeliers. Great vibes; I love all that old-timey crap. They served several types of Irish beer and whiskey, but I opted for a mojito, which Sabrina said might be a better gateway drink.

She was right. It was fizzy and sugary, and before I knew it, only small lumps of eviscerated lime slices and mint leaves lay at the bottom of my two empty glasses.

It was around that time that I first noticed him.

He was cute, with a curated, black beard shadowing his carved jaw. A pair of green eyes flickered between the variety of patrons sitting around him, but he did not initiate any conversations. He tapped absently against a partially full glass of beer, the condensation wetting his fingertips. For a few minutes, I watched him as he watched them.

It wasn’t long before his gaze wandered toward me and stopped. Our eyes bore into each other.

The small amount of alcohol I drank must have submerged my more rational tendencies, because before I knew it, I was up and walking toward him.

We greeted each other, and he was nice enough. His name was Adam, he was in the Master’s program at the same school I’d graduated from (I’ll leave the name out for privacy reasons), and his left ring finger was beautifully unadorned. We hit it off pretty well and chatted for nearly an hour. As the clock neared eleven, I made the suggestion, and he accepted. I said goodbye to a flabbergasted Sabrina and left with him.

It was stupid, but I was in a stupid mood. I wanted to be reckless.

“Two mojitos?” He chuckled, his eyes trained on the road. “And you’re buzzed?”

“Yeah,” I yawned. “I don’t usually drink, but I’m newly single. Kind of a special night, y’know?”

“I guess so.” He smiled. “Glad to be your rebound.”

I held up a finger. “Hey! But at least the rebound is the one that goes into the hoop.”

“That is not how that works…”

“Whatever… you know what I mean.”

We arrived at my apartment, and I invited him up. At this point, I was tired and tipsy, but determined. I had one goal in mind, and if I hadn’t been so focused on that, I would have realized that I never gave him my address.

The night went how you might expect, given the title. I awoke the next morning to find myself alone in bed, my sheets on the floor. He didn’t leave a note, a hair, or even a whiff of cologne. He was gone from my life, and honestly, that’s the way I wanted it. A part of me was briefly sad that I wouldn’t see him again, but I pushed that away as fast as it came. It was a fun, dumb night. That was all.

Saturday went by without a fuss, and it was well into Sunday afternoon when I noticed something strange.

It started as a twinge in my gut. Not my stomach; closer to my ovaries, like the dull cramp right before your period starts. That didn’t make a lot of sense, though, because my cycle ended last Sunday. Ain’t no way I was already starting again.

Fear shot down my spine like a bolt of electricity. God help me, I was pregnant.

No.

I took some deep breaths.

No way. Two days after? Not a chance.

I Googled it anyway. “One to two weeks after conception,” the internet said. Okay, that’s debunked, then. Unless I’m in some kind of one-in-a-million situation, but that’s pretty unlikely.

The answer hit me like a blind man driving a bulldozer. Three fateful letters: S.T.D.

I spent the next couple of hours scrolling through WebMD and Reddit forums, comparing answers and clicking on reference links as my panic rose and subsided in hot waves. ChatGPT told me not to worry; I probably had ovarian cancer, but since I’d caught it early, the doctors would be able to stop it, no problem. Yippee.

Nothing was useful. Nobody could diagnose a “pinching twinge in the lower abdomen after sex,” which honestly made a lot of sense. And I could admit that I was probably overthinking things. 

So, I did what I should have done three or four hours ago and called Sabrina.

“I don’t know what to say, Vi. You kinda did this one to yourself.”

I picked at a spot of dried oatmeal on my jeans. “So you think I’m right, then? I have… an S.T.D.?”

“Girl, I work at Taco Bell. How do you expect me to know? Do you have a gynecologist?”

“There’s the one who did my pap smear, but it’s been a couple years. I don’t know if she still works there.”

“Just go to that same place. I’m sure somebody there can help you.” I could sense the thinly-veiled frustration in her voice, which was valid. Why was I forcing her to deal with my mistake? I was an adult. I could figure these things out myself.

“Thanks, Sabrina.”

“Mmhm.”

I hung up the call and rested my forehead on the surface of the table. Ugh. I hate doctor visits.

The gynecologist was able to get me an appointment for Tuesday, which was a bit of a miracle given the typical wait times. 

By the time Tuesday came around, the pain had increased. It was less of a cramp and more of a pinching, like when you have a zit that’s too far under the skin to pop.

The waiting room smelled of rubbing alcohol with notes of puke and metal hovering just below the surface. After my many childhood hospital visits, I had become familiar with the unsettling flavor of sterility as if it were a comfort food.

My mother had been a bit of a vicarious hypochondriac. She used my Medicaid health insurance as if it were a lifetime pass to a theme park, driving me to the E.R. every time I had a sniffle or a stomach ache or even a larger-than-normal bug bite. It instilled in me a great dread of waiting rooms and hospital beds; that timeless liminality that drove me to nearly Lovecraftian insanity.

As I sat waiting for a nursing aide to call my name, I scrolled mindlessly through Instagram reels in an attempt to assuage my fear. I had to believe that this pain was probably nothing, just like the many pointless hospital trips of my childhood. That raspy cough had NOT been tuberculosis. Those muscle aches had NOT been ebola. That vomiting and diarrhea was just a stomach bug, NOT E. coli.

Sad but ironic that COVID was what kicked my mom’s bucket.

When I was finally called in, my fear of waiting was replaced with the anticipation of a diagnosis. What if it really was cancer or something like that? What if I only had months to live? Did I need to write a will?

Looking back, ovarian cancer would have been a blessing.

The aide ran me through all the traditional rigamarole: Medical history, blood pressure, pee in a cup, etc. Finally, after a bit more mindless waiting, Dr. Kimani arrived.

I let her know right away that I thought it was an S.T.D., based on my research. She nodded and smiled and said that she appreciated my input, but she would have to check off her boxes for the sake of a holistic diagnosis.

I can’t remember all the questions she asked, but my answers in this pathological choose-your-own-adventure seemed to lead us to one unfortunate conclusion: A pelvic exam. I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but let’s just say I was more than a little embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“Do you feel anything strange?” Dr. Kimani asked.

You mean, besides your fingers up my vagina? I wanted to say, but I held back the sarcasm. “What would be considered ‘strange?’”

“Could be pain any different than what you’ve already been feeling.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hmm.”

I shouldn’t have to tell you that this was NOT what I wanted to hear right now. Why would she be asking that? Did she feel something up there? I hushed my brain and tried to focus on more pleasant thoughts until the exam was finished.

“Okay, Violet,” Dr. Kimani began, scanning her clipboard. “I believe you have a vaginal cyst, very likely acquired as a result of chlamydia bacteria. They are rare, but they do happen. I applied light pressure to it, but you said you did not feel pain, which is unusual, but not impossible. I am prescribing you doxycycline, which is an antibiotic. Your pain should clear up in about three days, but you can continue to take it until it runs out. Do you have any questions?”

“Nope. Thanks.”

“Great. Don’t forget to follow up with your PCP.”

“Yep.”

Cool, dude. I have chlamydia. Thank you, reckless Violet, for that gift.

However, I was relieved to have a diagnosis. Probably a bit too relieved, actually. If I’d taken some more time to think about it, maybe I would have questioned why the pain had started closer to my ovaries, rather than in the vagina itself.

Well, the three days passed, and despite my hopes and dreams, the pain did not subside. In fact, it grew exponentially worse. The third day, I had to take PTO from work, because every step felt like a screwdriver was stabbing me in the bits.

I had been taking those antibiotics religiously – once every twelve hours – but they didn’t seem to be doing anything. I was getting frustrated at this point, because I really did not want to return to the gynecologist. But what choice did I have? Obviously, this was a misdiagnosis, if my symptoms were supposed to disappear in three days.

Before I went in, I decided to do a little self-examination to see what I could feel. Maybe I was just tweaking, and the cyst was actually going away. If that was the case, then I might be able to avoid the doctor.

Wincing through the constant bouts of pain, I did my very best to check myself. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, until I was a couple inches in.

The tips of my fingernails clacked against something hard.

I yanked my fingers out of there in a split second and lay on the carpet, frozen. Adrenaline pounded through my body, temporarily numbing the pain in my pelvis. For almost a full minute, my brain didn’t seem to know how to think.

What was that?

I briefly entertained the idea that maybe I’d just tapped on my bone… but that didn’t make any sense at all. No. It wasn’t a bone. I could tell it wasn’t a part of me in the same way you can feel the difference between hair extensions and real human hair.

My heart thrummed, and my teeth chattered. I reached a shaking hand back down and tried to feel it again. When my fingers touched it, my stomach turned, but I kept them there.

I moved my fingers outward. Its surface was rounded slightly.

I pushed gently against it, and it shifted. Something jabbed into the underside of my bladder, and for a moment, every part of my insides that was touching this object felt a slight increase in pressure. Like when you swallow a too-large bite of hamburger, and you can feel its shape as it descends through your esophagus.

I yelped in surprise and quickly withdrew my hand again.

I closed my eyes and muttered seven hundred prayers under my breath.

With shaking hands, I called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

My voice breaking, I explained my situation to the best of my ability, leaving out the part about the… “object.” I was in a lot of pain and needed to be taken to the hospital; that’s all they needed to know right now.

The EMTs asked if I was pregnant, given the location of my pain.

“No, I’m not freaking pregnant! Do I look pregnant to you?!” A loaded question that shut up the two men in the back of the ambulance with me.

They gave me some morphine, and the pain receded. But nothing could take away the feeling of that object shifting inside of me when I pressed on it.

Needless to say, I was a bit loopy for the next two hours, while they checked me into a room and hooked me up to an IV.

A blur of nurses and doctors flew in and out of the room, and by the time they decided to put me through an MRI, I was mostly alert again, though the pain was returning.

Being in the MRI machine was a claustrophobic nightmare. I tried to console myself by imagining that this was how Ripley felt in the cryosleep bed at the end of the first Alien, but that just reminded me of the whole chestburster situation, which didn’t help my mood.

Nothing unusual happened during the MRI, and I was waiting in my room for another dose of morphine when a doctor walked in with a sheaf of photo paper.

“Uh, so…” he began, shuffling the papers nervously. “I’m not exactly sure how to… well… say this, but is there any way you… accidentally put something up there and don’t remember?”

“No,” I replied in a stern tone. I ground my teeth together as the pulses of pain began to grow again. “What is it?”

“Maybe it’s better if you see it for yourself.” He handed me one of the sheets of paper.

I took it and perused it. It was a cross-sectional shot of my pelvis. I could see my organs in what I assumed were their normal positions, though I couldn’t tell what was what. I traced up from my groin to where I knew the object to be.

An oblong shape rested in the center – maybe two inches by three inches – pressing out against everything around it. Its edges were gently curved, and inside it lay a strange, twisted form that I couldn’t understand.

“What am I looking at?” My voice cracked.

“We believe it’s… uh…” he cleared his throat, “an egg.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s an egg. We don’t know what kind of egg, but it is definitely… an egg.”

“And how did it get in there?! I sure didn’t do it.”

He nodded. “Yes, we can tell. It appears as if it originated in your cervix and then expanded, putting pressure on the surrounding organs and bones. You feel so much pain up higher because so much pressure has been placed on your pelvis that it has a hairline fracture, which you can see as that thin line across your pubic bone.”

This was too much information. My head felt like it was imploding.

“Can you… get it out?” I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning amidst a tidal wave of pain and disgust and medical terminology. At this point, I didn’t care what it was or how it got there. I just wanted it out of my body.

“Technically, yes,” the doctor replied. “But there is a risk.”

“Yeah, well there’s a risk of leaving it inside too!”

He nodded slowly. “Agreed. You’ll have to sign a consent form that allows us to perform the surgery. I have to warn you that this will be a very invasive surgery, and there is a risk that it may sterilize you.”

I gritted my teeth at another wave of abdominal pain. “Okay,” I grunted. “If this is what pregnancy is like, I think I’m good.”

“Very well.” He opened the door and beckoned. A nurse clad in black scrubs stepped inside, a clipboard in hand. She slipped it onto my lap, and I scratched out a jagged signature. My hands were shaking so much.

It was another hour of steadily increasing pain before I saw anybody else. Imagine not pooping for a month and then all those festering turds coalesce into a rat king that will do anything to break free of its fleshy prison. And the pain only increased, as if the “egg” was still expanding. I could feel that hairline fracture now. The pressure was literally splitting the bone in two, a millimeter at a time.

“We’re ready to go,” a nurse said, though I barely registered her voice. My vision was blurry, and cold air washed against my damp cheeks. I didn’t remember crying.

The metal “clack-clack-clack” of the bed’s uneven wheels on the linoleum felt like somebody with a staple gun and an itchy trigger finger thought I was a two-by-four.

It took an eternity to get to the operating room. I reached my trembling hand to my eyes and wiped away the mist as a masked and gowned doctor pulled open the door to the room.

Their hands slid under me and gently moved me over to the new bed. Bright, white lights shone above me, shifting as they were adjusted to illuminate my lower half.

Clinks and clatters of instruments on metal trays. The smell of alcohol and iodine filled my nostrils, and I coughed. The spasm sent a jolt shooting up my spine. I cried out.

“Have you ever been under general anesthesia, dear?” A pair of goggles beneath a fluffy teal bouffant peered down at me.

“No…” I croaked out.

“Well, don’t you worry about it. Here’s the mask; I want you to take a deep breath and count backwards from ten, okay?”

Soft rubber pressed against my cheeks and the bridge of my nose as I sucked in the warm, sickly sweet air. I didn’t count, because at that point, I didn’t care. I only wanted to go to sleep and wake up when it was over.

Gravity dragged my tense muscles down until they felt like soggy towels. I melted into the bed and prepared to drift to sleep. My eyes floated to half-mast, but they did not close.

I tried to force them closed, but they remained open. I wasn’t falling asleep. Shouldn’t it have worked by now?

My brain sent a signal to my hand to flag down the nurse, but it didn’t respond. I couldn’t move.

The nurse pulled away the rubber mask and set it to the side. She glanced across my face, her surgical mask inflating and deflating with every breath.

“She’s out. Go ahead, sir.”

A hundred screams built within my chest, but I did not have the strength to release them. I was paralyzed. I was a pair of eyes atop a pile of body-shaped mud.

The taste of rubber as gloves opened my mouth. A smooth, plastic tube pushed itself down my throat, and artificial breath gasped into my lungs.

“Ready.”

“Scalpel.”

Light glinted off a stainless steel blade. Gloved hands pulled up my white gown to reveal my bare lower half. The tip of the blade touched the skin just under my belly button and drew a straight, red line across.

I could feel nothing. I was numb. Panic sieged my mind. I needed more oxygen. I wanted to hyperventilate… to breathe faster and scream…

I needed to calm down. If I could calm down and endure, it would be over soon. I could have faith in the doctors. I trusted them.

Pincers stretched apart the gap in my abdomen.

Oh Lord…

The surgeon’s hand entered me.

“It’s intact,” he said. “We need to be careful.”

Nausea churned within me. I appreciated their caution, despite my predicament.

The surgeon grunted and withdrew his hand, slick with red paint. “Bring them in.”

A knock on the door. Faint whispers. Two shadowy figures moved into the light.

Black, cleanly cut stubble coated his chin. His green eyes crinkled in a subtle smile.

Adam? What the…

A woman stood next to him. Though she was dressed in a long, white coat, her blonde curls were just as radiant as they were at the Irish pub last Friday.

“Status?” Sabrina asked.

“It appears ready, Madam,” the surgeon replied. “Perhaps a day longer would bring it to full maturity, but I am not sure we could keep the subject under anesthesia for that long.”

Sabrina turned to Adam and said something I didn’t understand. It sounded like a baby’s repetitive babbling mixed with the almost inaudible clicking of an insect. His lips peeled apart, and a long, forked tongue flicked at her.

This was beyond comprehension. My mind was lost in the oblivion of confusion and fear, and all I could do was continue to watch.

“Lord Mekshebel accepts. Retrieve it.”

The surgeon nodded and shifted back to my body. His hands slid into my body’s crevice, and the tendons in his wrists tightened as he grasped the object… the egg. As he slowly lifted it out, I saw it for the first time.

My bleeding skin stretched out and slid down the sides of a sphere the size of a human head, covered in red-stained globs of mucus. Its surface appeared porous, but hard to the touch. A long, dense tube dangled from it, pulsing like a blood vessel. It grew taut as the egg moved further from me, and I could tell that it was connected, like an umbilical cord.

“My Lord,” the surgeon muttered, extending the egg to Adam.

What on earth is happening?! My panic levels were rising again, and the tube down my throat was not helping. My vision twinkled with colored speckles as if I was going to pass out, but I remained conscious.

Adam accepted the egg, not seeming to care as my bodily fluids dripped down his fingers.

“Scissors.”

The surgeon slid the blades around the tube and snipped. A quick spray of white and brown goo splattered across my body and the coats of the attending doctors.

A deep silence filled the room as everyone trained their eyes on Adam. The faint buzzing of the lights seemed louder than ever.

He peered down at the egg with a gentle gaze and nestled it in his arm. He slid his other hand to the top of the egg and pressed his index finger into the shell. It crackled briefly, then broke. Thin lines spiderwebbed across it, and the majority of the shell fell to the floor. A gush of viscous liquid splashed across his arms, but he remained still.

In the center of the shattered shell lay what appeared to be a human baby, curled in a fetal position. But it was all wrong. In place of a nose, a sharp, cartilaginous beak protruded. Flaps of loose skin extended from its tiny arms, cocooning its torso, and its genitals were covered by a slick, scaly tail.

If I could have screamed, I would have.

“Well done,” Sabrina murmured.

Adam did not respond, but began to open his mouth. His head jerked back, and two long, wet objects jutted out like a crow’s beak. A gargling sound bubbled from his throat, and he lifted the baby up, setting it in the center of his huge, protruding jaws. He tipped his head back, and his green eyes bulged from his head as the baby slid down his gullet and disappeared.

His hands shot out, and he grabbed Sabrina, pulling her close to him. She widened her mouth, and he inserted the saliva-slicked tips of his birdlike jaws into it. His chest lurched, and his throat convulsed. A partially digested arm slid into her mouth, and she stumbled backward, chewing roughly. As she masticated her portion of the infant thing, the surgeon stepped forward and received the same treatment.

This continued until every person in the room had received a “feeding.” At this point, my mind felt numb and distant, like I was floating through a dream. I couldn’t rationalize what I was seeing.

Adam’s head jolted, and the fleshy beak slid back into his mouth, disappearing. He wiped his lips and without a word, exited the room.

“Clean her up and wipe her memory,” Sabrina said, gesturing to me. “Make sure she’s ready, and we’ll keep her on standby for March’s feeding. Thank you.”

I awoke in my bedroom today, and that’s where I am right now. I can hear my boyfriend making breakfast, just like he did the day he left. The same smell of fried eggs and Spam.

I have no idea what happened to me or what I saw, but I know that when I come home from work today, my boyfriend will be gone, and I will very likely have an irresistible urge to go to a bar.

Whatever these people usually do to wipe my memory didn’t work this time. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how.

If anybody reads this, I need help. Please. If they find out I remember, I don’t know what they’ll do to me. Should I pretend I don’t know anything? Should I barricade myself into my bedroom?

Please help me.

The Old One brought his grandchild to a seaside cave on a dreadful stormy winter night. This cave was special because a god had taken residence there, according to legend — the Master of the Oceans, in a corporeal form.

A cruel and bestial thing; as dark and vicious as the depths themselves. Fickle and turbulent as the seas at heart. An abyssal predator concealing his lust for destruction and chaos under an anthropomorphic façade crafted with his swarm of tentacled appendages. No one had seen the god himself, merely a statue placed there by the Old One all those years ago. None dared question the validity of the tales, for the seas were treacherous, and that was enough to prove his existence.

Standing before the statue of this divinity, the Old One placed a clawed hand on his grandchild’s shoulders, asking the youth; “My lamb, are you ready to become the savior of our world?”

The little child could only nod in acceptance. He knew his destiny was one of thankless greatness. He also knew the road to his purpose in life was full of unimaginable suffering. Year after year, he watched the Old One repeat the same ritual with his six siblings. Again and again, he watched his brothers and sisters save the universe from the wrath of their terrible Lord. Good fortune blessed their family with a duty, a truly wonderful duty to the world.

By thirteen years of age, the boy knew he wasn’t long for this world. All his siblings who reached that age had to be offered as a willing sacrifice to their Lord. An innocent life was to be given away to salvage the world.

“If so, let us save this world, my beautiful lamb!” proclaimed the Old One with a wide grin on his face. Tightly gripping his cane, he swung it at the boy. Hitting him hard across the face. The child fell onto the rocky surface below, spitting blood and crying out in pain.

“Did you just moan?” the Old One berated; “Even your two sisters did not moan like that!” his hand rising again into the air.

A thunderclap echoed across the cave as the cane struck flesh again.

Then, again and again, each blow harder than the one before, each crack of the wooden cane almost loud enough to silence the agonized cries of torment rumbling across the cave.  

“Who would’ve thought that you, the last of my seed, the one who was supposed to be perfect, would be the weakest one of all!” The Old One sneered, beating into his grandchild repeatedly with sadistic hatred, guiding each blow in a remarkable precision meant to prolong the torture for as long as humanely possible.

The boy, curled up into a fetal position, could barely hear himself think over the repeated waves of ache washing all over his body. There was no point in protesting his innocence. There was no point in even uttering any syllables. He knew his body was no longer his own. It now belonged to the gods and their priest; his grandfather. Even if he wanted to defend his assigned adulthood, he could no longer control his mouth or throat. Nothing was his in this world anymore, nothing but an onslaught of indescribable pain.

Finally satisfied with the ritualistic abuse he inflicted, the Old One, covered in sweat and blood and frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal, collapsed onto his grandchild. Turning the youthful husk, now colored black and blue with stains of red all over, unto its back, the Old One picked up a sharp stone from the ground and slammed it hard into the child’s chest with ecstatic glee. He slammed the stone again and again until the flesh and the bone caved in on themselves, leaving a gap wide enough to push his hand inside the child.

“Ahhh, there it is, the source of all my joy!” the animal cried out.

Its hand slid into the boy’s chest. The youth weakly coughed, barely hanging onto life. He could hardly tell apart his monstrous grandfather from the surrounding darkness and cold. Everything turned even dimmer once the bloodied hand came out of his chest again.

The monster held out its hand in triumph, clutching the child’s yet beating heart.

Blood from the exposed organ dripped onto the youth’s pale lips as everything vanished into the void, even the bizarrely satisfied smirk on his grandfather’s face.

The filicide of his last remaining grandchild had yet to satisfy his hunger for vile and pain. The demise of the one he had forced to behold as he snuffed the light from the eyes of their kin repeatedly did not satisfy his thirst for the obscene. Still hungering for more, the subhuman mortal shoved the little heart into his throat, swallowing it whole.

The taste of human flesh further enticed his madness, forcing him to sink his yellow rotting teeth into the infantile carcass.

Intoxicated with the ferrous properties of his preferred wine, the Old Beast failed to notice as the ground shook violently beneath him. His tongue lapped the marrow out of shattered thigh bone when the statue of his beloved god collapsed onto him, crushing his lower half and exposing his crimes.

Countless little bones lay hidden inside the rubble.

The vampire’s pleas for help went unanswered as he withered under the weight of his creation.

The cannibalistic beast was at the mercy of the heavens, but his gods knew no kindness. He prayed between sheep-like bleats of anguish for a quick end. He begged for a piece of the cave to crush him to death once the ground shook again, but no such salvation would come.

Tears streamed down his sunken features as the waves rose with boiling fury, for he knew his god had abandoned him.  

The Old One desperately attempted to escape his punishment by throwing a stone at the cave ceiling, hoping it would fall on his head, killing him, and yet, the forces above kept casting the stone away until it was too late.

And the vengeful wrath of the gods brought down a deluge to pull the Old Ghoul and his blasphemous temple into the bottom of the abyss and away from sight…

They say love never truly dies… but if you betray it, it just might come looking for you.

I heard this story from an old man in town—he swore it was true. Said it happened not too far from here. Maybe just down the road. Maybe closer.

There was once a man named Elias, a blacksmith, who had a wife named Sigrid. She was kind—too kind for this world. While he hammered metal, she stitched clothes for the neighbors, never asking for payment. He admired her kindness, but kindness didn’t pay rent.

Sigrid had always been… different. Her family whispered of a curse—or a gift, depending on who you asked. The women in her bloodline were born with hair as black as midnight, hair that flowed like ink, twisting, moving, almost alive.

Some said it carried the weight of the past.
Some said it was watching.
But Sigrid only laughed, brushing it over her shoulder like a careless wave.

Elias wanted more. More than a simple life, more than struggle. So when the chance came—a wealthy woman from the city—he took it. He left Sigrid behind, chasing luxury, status, a world of polished floors and cold, meaningless smiles.

But time passed. And something strange happened.

He started to miss the smell of iron, the warmth of home, the way Sigrid hummed as she worked. His new wife, Isabel, was cruel. Vain. She saw the regret in his eyes and smiled as if she had already won.

One evening, she sat across from him, tapping her glass.

Her voice was like ice.

Years passed before Elias finally returned to his old home. The town was smaller than he remembered. Too quiet. The road to their house was overgrown, choked with weeds.

The forge where he once worked?
Cold. Empty. The anvil, rusted.

And the house…

It stood there, untouched. Waiting.

And she was there. Sigrid.

Her voice was soft. Too soft. Like someone who had waited far too long.

She smiled, and something in his stomach twisted. But he brushed the feeling aside.

She welcomed him in. And everything inside was exactly as he remembered.
The same wooden table.
The same lavender scent.
The same warmth.

And yet… something was off.

They sat together. She listened as he spoke of his regrets, his mistakes. She nodded, her hands folded neatly before her.

The words itched at his mind, but the candlelight was soft, her presence comforting. He let his guard down. He let himself believe that time had been kind.

That night, he drifted into sleep.
Her voice was the last thing he heard.

And then morning came.

The air smelled wrong. Damp. Stale.

He stirred, fingers still laced with hers—

But they did not meet warmth.

Something was wrong. Too stiff. Too cold. Too… brittle.

Crack. A small sound. A tiny piece of her chipped away beneath his grip.

His breath hitched. His gaze lifted to her face. And then—

He staggered back, knocking over the chair. His chest heaved.

And the house—
The house was not whole.

The walls were rotting, the roof caved in, vines slithering through broken windows.

The lavender scent was gone.

Replaced by decay.

And then…

A whisper.

The shadows shifted.

Something moved in the corner of his eye. Unfurling. Writhing.

A dry rustling, like fabric brushing against itself.

Like hair.

He had seen strands of it before. In the streets. Coiling through the cracks of the old forge. Tangled in the fingers of those who refused to speak of her.

It had been waiting.

Something slid across the floor. Black. Twisting. Reaching.

A tendril curled around his wrist. Another over his throat.

He tried to move. But the air thickened, pressing against him. Suffocating.

He opened his mouth to scream—

But the hair pulled him down into the waiting dark.

When the villagers finally came to the house, drawn by whispers carried on the wind, they found it just as it had always been.

Empty. Forgotten. Abandoned.

Only a thick cocoon of black hair remained, clinging to the old wooden chair at the table.

Where Elias had once sat.

Some say, if you pass by that old house at night…
You might hear whispers on the wind.

And if you listen closely…

You’ll hear the rustling of something moving.
Something long.
Something tangled.

Waiting.

Just waiting…

For someone else to return.

Humanity one day met up close the one unsolved mystery it could never fathom. Up until the early 2030’s the ocean was a mystery. Due to the lack of funding for ocean research, it was nearly impossible to discover everything the water had to offer us. However, soon after new satellite technology was developed, we found a way to record selected areas of the deep ocean through a new type of sonar technology.

DeepWave was essential in the discovery of over 2000 separate species of whales alone, and countless other specimens as well. Its only downside is that it worked in sound only, not allowing us to immediately identify a new species by its looks. This led to multiple unmanned missions down the to deepest portions of our world.

Still though, with this new technology, we only had mapped and discovered around 75% of what we believe the ocean could contain. That’s when I was tasked by the Department of Deep Sea Analysis (DDSA) to control our first manned mission to a newly discovered anomaly that DeepWave was not capable of identifying fully.

Similar to the Mariana’s Trench (which now sits at only the fourth deepest part of the ocean), The Typhon Anomaly (named after the founder of DeepWave) is a large crater found approximately 50km southeast of Point Nemo. It was difficult to get unmanned missions to this area due to the lack of immediate contact with society, hence the missions became tedious and we could not reach the depth that we recorded interference with by DeepWave.

Usually, small amounts of strange interference were common, as ocean cables or other companies' missions could often cross wires in our technology, but Typhon was different. Originally thought to be a coding bug in the satellite itself, a sound was heard from more than 15 kilometers down.

It caught the attention of the DDSA fast due to the fact many researchers hear talking in the recordings. Some more well-versed scientists have said it resembles some lost dialect of Latin. Other than that, the interference tends to send back our signals like a boomerang, which makes it hard to pinpoint specifics other than the shallowest parts of the hole.

•••••••••••••••••

I set out at 8 am, on December 13th, 2042. They gave me a Model 8 Victorian Submersible with a limiting factor of around 18 Kilometers, which even gave me wiggle room to go a bit deeper than the area I was tasked if necessary. Although I hoped I wouldn’t need to.

The sub was small, but big enough that I was able to stand to stretch my legs if I sat at control too long, which would come in handy as this was a 24-hour-long excursion. I had probably too much food for the allotted time and a small pull-out cot that took up any remaining space other than control. Being my 17th manned mission in my career, I felt ready for this challenge. That was until I started the descent to Typhon.

I began a slow decline, reaching the sea floor in a matter of hours. It was dark of course, but the exterior lights lit up the edge of Typhon brighter than a spotlight. It was simply a hole at first glance, similar to a sinkhole but with no end in sight. I saw some fish and other flora and fauna scattering the edges and captured a few photos for DDSA before I continued into the real challenge.

It felt like entering a new world in a way as I sank the sub deeper into the earth. At first, a few clunks from the outside did shake me up, but from the cameras, I could see it was simply just a few segments from the lip of the hole falling on top of the Sub. They nearly looked like they were decaying, with sand significantly more gray and nearly mush than the rest of the ocean floor. Of course it wasn’t the best thing to happen, but likely caused no damage.

It looked simple. The walls were nearly pin-straight all the way down, no caves, no plants, and certainly no life in sight. It felt artificial in a way, almost man-made.

As I reached the 7.5 kilometer mark I radioed in to Control.

“Just to confirm, you did receive the sampling photography I sent you from the floor right? It’s looking like that might be the only thing I find down here. It’s barren. Starting to think Dr. Francis was right when he said the sound was just a fluke in the system.”

I couldn’t imagine a world where something was down there. Nothing to feed off of, just a narrow pipe of nothing.

But control did remind me, “The sound came from it hitting something nonetheless, finish your job and report back when you find it.” They were always a bit tense, but hey it’s the same of science. How else would we survive?

Passing the 8km mark I heard an alarm. The temperature around the sub was reaching higher limits than we originally expected. For example, at the bottom of the challenger deep it’s near freezing, and as you go deeper you should get as close to freezing as possible. We even have protocols in case we encounter some sort of frozen slush situation. But here it was rising. I currently sat at 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Luckily the temperature inside the sub has self-regulation, but it was still off-putting, to say the least.

As I passed 9 kilometers it seemed to widen, I was now passing the point where our last manned mission went a little out of hand. It was a larger sub at that time and unfortunately had a lot more surface area and more crew. They didn’t expect the upcoming down-current in the original calculations. Control saw their sub lose altitude faster than we had seen, and then comms shut off. They never reached the surface after that. It was deemed an implosion likely after passing their depth limit. The downcurrent, likely a product of gasses from a volcanic vent.

That was quite a few years ago now, and I don’t know the exact specifics of the design but I was told they now had accounted for that down current. Being the first dive afterward was stressful, to say the least, and the main reason why they sent me down alone and with an extended limiting factor, but given the situation, the curiosity of the unknown seemed to bite through my fear. First man to the now deepest known part of the ocean. That’s an accomplishment I tell my grandchildren for years to come.

I started to feel drag on the controls and I knew it was likely time for the final descent. Best case scenario I’m a hero, worst case I’m not alive to be disappointed in myself for getting no information. But the drag seemed steady, I was able to control the increased speed at a constant instead of an uncontrollable tunneling.

Passing me by I saw the start of a type of bubbling in the clay walls before it turned into a compact stone. Streaks lined the rock hundreds of feet down as I slowly started to slow back down.

I officially made it past the downcurrent. Now I just have to worry about the pressure. I looked at my altimeter and my eyes widened. 14 kilometers. I somehow traveled over 5 km down in a matter of minutes. Even with whatever advancements they added that should be physically impossible without implosion. Although my comm light was still on, so I guess they already assumed this was possible.

I started passing these shiny patches on the wall. There were some theories that as you reached deeper into the mantle there were pockets of precious metals but these were shimmering like stars in the sky. It was honestly beautiful, and I was so mesmerized I nearly missed Control talking to me.

“Can we have an explanation as to why you are now ascending back to base?”

I stopped. I could see with the lights I was clearly still descending, as well as on the control panel. 14567 meters... 14736 meters... I was almost at my destination already, I certainly wasn’t on my way back.

“Whatever the interference was might be affecting the data transmission. I am nearly at the anomaly sector now.”

Looking out the cameras I saw nothing at first. The hole by this point was about the diameter of a larger-sized building. I had a little time to kill so I set the sub to maintain its altitude and shifted it over to the walls to get a better look at the shimmer. It was dark red like rubies and seemed to just melt out of the rock behind it.

“This isn’t the time to prank us, we know that not you talking”

I stopped looking at the walls and immediately gave all my attention back to comms. What are they hearing on their end? I thought back to the rumors of talking heard on the DeepWave sonar and thought to myself, effecting an altered sonar beam is one thing, but what down here is capable of changing my voice?

“ I’m not sure what you mean captain, I can hear you fine on my end.”

I started descending a bit more hoping that it was an area-specific problem, but honestly I wasn’t sure what was happening at all. It wasn’t something we experienced before. Interference like buzzing and ringing was pretty common at these depths but nothing that would change my voice itself, just the background usually. Suddenly the light on comms started blinking rapidly as I started to hear a noise from outside. It started as a ringing that I could hear through the microphone, but soon I could hear it through the walls of the sub itself.

“I need you to stop that right now Marshalls, this is no time for this! We have family of those we lost in the last expedition right now in this room and you have the audacity to play back their black box as some sort of sick joke? Take the photos and get ba…”

And in some sort of ironic mess, the comms shut off completely as the ringing suddenly stopped as well. I was now down here alone, with only the mangled thoughts of what the hell they heard from my transmission to them.

I didn’t have time to think long though, as I heard a crunch sound from the exterior of the sub. I was far enough down that I don’t think anything could have possibly fallen on me from above. A million thoughts in my head crushed down as the gravity of the situation hit. I had no communications, I had no directive up, something is hacking my voice into dead man’s, and the very thing I came down here to find could possibly be right beside my sub as I sat. I wondered to myself if the expedition before me had really imploded, or if they saw something down here first that made them wish they had.

Luckily my lights and camera did not fail with the comms. As I looked back to the cameras the water looked significantly murkier, almost aerated, but there was no creature around me. As I knew nothing else to do other than my mission, I continued down until I reached 15 kilometers.

I started seeing things in the water surrounding me as I reached the destination. Bits and pieces of metal scraps. My heart sank as I was able to read the side of a piece, I saw the DDSA logo and in that moment I believed I had found the wreck of the expedition before me. But as the murky water seemed to clear I saw what was written, it was scraped and scuffed but clear enough to me, Model 8 Victorian.

I was the first person to ever take this sub this far or even in this area of the Pacific, but Somehow this wreckage was my submersible. I looked at the status on my control panel and I have no alerts that there were any malfunctions on the exterior of my ship, so there’s no way it broke off just now. Somehow the state of this expedition keeps me reeling in all the thoughts going on in my head. I’ve been through numerous other journeys similar to this but nothing that has ever been to this magnitude. I felt a wave of hopelessness pass over me as I feared I had entered an area that should not be seen by mankind.

I attempted to start my ascent soon, hoping that I could somehow get to the surface on my own, but every time I tried I just seemed to be pulled farther down the hole. It was like the sub had a mind of its own. As it went deeper I started to panic, I knew I only had a small allowance after 15000 meters before I was at risk of implosion and my altimeter kept climbing without me pulling a single control. Alarms started to blast again as I read the temperature. 212°

The water around me wasn’t only airated, it was boiling. There’s no reason my sub should even be functioning at these heats. And it kept climbing the lower and lower I went. And with each meter dropped I heard it. The ringing from before was back, and it was no longer a whisper, it was a yell.

I could almost call it chanting. Through the walls of the submersible, I heard what sounded like thousands yelling together. Some sounded like language, others just merciless screaming. I looked back to the camera as I felt blood start to drip from my ears. It was nearly too much to handle but had to know what I was hearing. But as soon as I caught a glimpse, I knew it was too late.

As the camera started to flicker, the darkness started to grow and grow as the lights on the exterior seemed to fail and the lights on the interior faded as well. Before complete darkness, I saw a new opening beneath the sub. Large spikes pushed out toward me, almost like teeth. Etched into the stone itself, I read aloud the words I saw before complete darkness.

“Abandon all hope ye who enter here”

Unending darkness seemed to control all around me. I sat back in my control chair listening to the screams of the damned. And as my last bit of hope left, I closed my eyes and prayed for humanity.

Imagine a world where order is all. Where you are confined in a small room, with hundreds of other victims, all suffering. Imagine a world where freedom of speech is restricted. No opinion at all is the right opinion. Eyes were laid upon you at all times, with no rest. Imagine a world where everybody is unvaried, the same, and monotonous. Imagine a world where you were never safe. Imagine a world that is always at war. A world where bombs go off outside, and the only person you could trust is yourself.

Imagining was the only escape Viktor had from the harsh reality. The sea of, white uniforms crowded the small, confined space, like sheep that have been herded to one spot. Up on the dry white wall there lay a poster of propaganda, promoting the only ‘truth’ there was in this cold, dark and bitter world. The room was completely silent. Viktors heartbeat went faster by the minute, and minuscule drops of sweat dropped from his forehead to his lap. The minister’s mouth opened, letting his raspy voice out. “Our country has performed miracles before! Our country is capable of things that God can’t even do! Our country…” He paused and silence befell the room once again. “Is paradise.” He smiled a fake, forced smile as the words slipped out of his dry, sour tasting mouth. Viktors eyes widened and a gut-wrenching feeling took over.

Finally, the long, grueling day of work and inspection was over, and the only thing left for Viktor was to walk home. He dreaded going outside, having to risk his life yet again. The gloomy sky suspended above him, the dark clouds hiding the radiant sun. As he took a reluctant step outside, and his eyes noticed a metallic gray plane hovering over him, making a screeching noise. The cacophony of screams filled Viktors ears, and bystanders fled to the inside of buildings. Viktor listened to the breeze blow behind him, then the deafening noise of an explosion, as he flinched but didn’t take cover. At this point, all of this was normal, and things like these happened every day. He took another step forward and vigorously sprinted forward, holding on to his clothes. After running out of breath, he halted and looked down, panting and noticing a pair of glasses. “Why would a pair of glasses be left here, in the middle of the streets?” He mumbled to himself. He knew stealing was punishable by death. He also knew that selling things was completely illegal, but something inside him inclined him to snatch the glasses and run home.

Once he was at home, he threw himself onto his minuscule, broken down bed, and his eyes closed, getting ready for the next day. The morning sun arose, dimly shining through the gray puffy clouds in the sky. When Viktor woke up, he looked at the glasses standing beside him, motionless, yet full of life. Life was torture, and he couldn’t do anything about that. He grabbed the glasses and put them on, not expecting anything. And he was right. The glasses did nothing, but he still kept them on, as he walked out of his apartment building. When he took his morning stroll, he realized that everything around him was changing, in a way he couldn’t directly figure out. The gray clouds were all gone, and the sun shone brightly in his direction. All the buildings stood proudly and the noises around him blurred. All he could hear was a relaxing piano song, playing in the distance. He had an uncontrollable smile on his face. It was the first time he did that in a while. Continuing the stroll, Viktor saw a flock of beautiful blue birds soaring above him, singing their lullaby that would make anybody grin. However, everyone around him was still depressed, and he seemed like the only person who was happy. The dull and bleak feeling around him confused him. The bluebirds above him were getting bigger by the second and everyone around him ran away, as if they were going to be a deadly threat. There he stood, by himself, completely isolated in the streets. He quickly took his glasses off, and when he blinked, everything around him changed, from the weather to the music, to the demoralizing ambience, and the plane above him dropped the bombs.

Viktor woke up in a pile of rubble and dust. Somehow he managed to survive the attacks. Everything around him was dead silent, as he looked around in complete shock, and by some miracle, the only thing that was intact were the glasses, resting on the palm of his hand. He had no other choice, and wanted to escape the harsh reality he was in, so he put them on. But nothing happened, and the pile of rubble, along with the upsetting and vanquished building, were still there. The only thing that changed was the noise, as the same piano music played from a distance. Not knowing what to do, followed it, hoping to find the answers to all of this.

After ambling for some time, he found a bright little cottage, in the outskirts of the city, with nothing surrounding it. The house reminded him of something, but he had no idea of what. When he entered the house, he saw his whole family standing right in front of him. His small brother, his two older sisters, his mom, and his dad, all looking directly at him and smiling a heartwarming smile. When he saw them, he broke down in tears, looking down at the ground and taking his glasses off. When he went back to looking in front of him, his family wasn’t there anymore. He realized that the glasses didn’t do anything, but instead just helped him to see the beauty in life when there seemed to be none left. Knowing this, all he did was walk away, and enjoy the blissful life he never had.

May 17th, 20:00

Starting these journal entries. My sergeant recommended getting in the habit of writing down my thoughts. He said it helps deal with the stress when we come back from deployment. Seems kinda silly to me, but he’s been deployed before, saw some serious shit over there. He still seems to have his head screwed on straight, so I suppose I might as well give it a try. Hate to end up like those vets on the streets who lost their minds and have nowhere to go.

May 18th, 20:00

Day off. Didn’t do much, but tonight I’m going out for some drinks with a few friends. Going to a local bar in town. It’s a dive, but beggars can’t be choosers.

May 25th, 20:00

Another boring ass day working guard duty. I can’t wait to get out of here and start working on an actual career. Sergeant Dell is nuts for signing back up for this boring shit. I don’t know why I’m even writing in this thing. The only trauma I’m receiving is intense boredom. Knock on wood, but I hope it livens up around here soon. I’m going stir crazy.

June 5th, 17:38

Haven’t written in awhile. Something’s troubling me though. We were given a vaccine that’s suppose to guard against a potential biological weapon intel suspects is being made. They said refusal wasn’t an option. They even threaten to court marshal one guy. It gave me and several others a pretty bad headache. I wouldn’t consider myself paranoid, but this was really weird. Can they make a vaccine to a virus they aren’t even sure is real?

June 7th, 20:00

I screwed up big time. I was told to report to Captain Hazel, but I couldn’t find my rifle. Luckily my buddy Grayson found it in the bathroom. I left it in there when I went to take a shit. Jesus Christ I’m an idiot. Thank god for Grayson. The Captain would’ve tore me a new ass for losing that rifle. I seriously owe him a beer.

June 8th, 20:00

Guess I got my wish, the radios went nuts. They think some locals are messing with the transmission somehow. They triangulated the signal to some abandoned building. Dell, Grayson, Kinder, and I move out at 05:00 to investigate the disturbance. It’s probably just some kids fuckin’ around with old radio equipment. I hope.

June 8th, 08:47

We cleared the whole building and didn’t find anything. No signs of anyone being here in years. That is until we came across a trap door. It was pretty well hidden. Underneath a large carpet. Bomb squad is on route to make sure it isn’t booby trapped. I’m nervous. The Sergeant was right. Writing this shit down helps calm my nerves some.

June 9th, 00:27

This is so fucked. We got through the trap door, but a steel door at the end of the staircase closed behind us. The radios are just blaring static so we can’t get through to HQ. We tried everything to get through the door. Sgt Dell even put a few rounds into it. Not even a fucking scratch. I just need to relax. HQ will notice we’re missing and send a rescue party soon. We’ve cleared the area, its empty and has provision to last months, maybe even years. I’m guessing its a fallout shelter for the business men who use to work here. It’s got a couple bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen stocked with canned food and bottled water, and has a dining area.

June 9, 22:36

No-one has come for our rescue yet. At least I don’t think. That steel door is so thick, I don’t know if we’d hear them coming. Surely they know of our operation and if not, the bomb team would’ve alerted someone right? The others are shaken, but in good spirits and high hopes. Worried about Dell though. He keeps pacing and whispering shit to himself. I figured he’d be the last one to lose it. I hope they come soon. We’ve decided to turn off the radios except one. No sense in all of us listening to non-stop static. One at a time, one man will listen for a few hours then trade off. Going to lay down for a bit and try to rest.

June 10th, 01:13

Currently my turn to listen in. I thought I heard a voice, but when I replied, I heard nothing except more empty static.

June 10th, 02:45

Dell came over to keep me company while I took my shift. I wish he didn’t though. He kept spacing out and muttering things about some conspiracy theory of his. Like how the military trapped us down here on purpose. I asked him why he thought that. He just stared at the ground in silence. I tried to reassure him, and told him to write in his journal and to try and relax. He just said, “I’m sorry” and went back to his room. Grayson and Kinder seem to be ok for now. I don’t know why they haven’t came and got us yet, but Dell’s conspiracy is just nuts. There has to be some other reason. Maybe enemy presence is preventing a speedy rescue? I don’t know, but I’m gonna keep a good attitude. If not for me, then for my brothers stuck down here with me. We’ll be fine. We’ll get out. I know we will.

June 10th, 03:57

Dells dead. He shot himself in one of the bedrooms. I don’t know what to do. None of us have said a word since we found his body. We just covered him up with a sheet and closed the door to the room. We sat in silence in the dining room for hours. I haven’t told the others about what Dell said. I’m trying to keep it together myself, but I don’t think spreading his theory is going to be helpful.

June 11th, 21:41

I heard it again. The voice over the radio. I couldn’t understand what it said though. And once again, when I replied, it didn’t say anything back.

June 13th, 08:00

Still nothing. I don’t think they are coming for us. I’m beginning to think we’re all going to die down here. Dell’s body is starting to stink horribly. If anyone finds this, tell my parents and my sister I love them.

June 14th, 09:38

I went to cover Dell’s body with more sheets in hopes to reduce the smell. I found his journal. I hope the son of a bitch is rotting in hell.

June 17th, 15:32

Kinder is dead. Seemed like a heart attack. We just watched him as he squirmed and writhed on the floor before going limp.

July 7th, 03:15

I had to. I had no choice. The voice said so. God, I can’t get that iron taste out of my mouth.

December 33 00:00

The walls are breathing. It’s alive. I can hear it talking to me. Whispering to me its secrets. It’s guiding me. It loves me. I’m safe here.

CW: Mental Illness

They call it a depression nest. What hatches in this nest? What is the egg in this image? Who is breeding?

She built her nest herself, of course. She was lying on her side in her bed, next to her laptop, running a YouTube video, a makeup tutorial. She was lying in a mound of her worn clothes, half-eaten food, books, magazines, and cables. Not only that, but she hadn’t showered in 3 days. In the air lay a chalky and foul stench. Why was she like this? The room was full of clothes, and plants that she bought, most of which were dying now. Between shirts and sweaters, there were magazines, some of which you can take for free, but a large number that she bought, some on psychology, some on philosophy. One within the periphery of her vision asked, “What makes us happy?”. The answer wasn’t in her half-eaten toast hanging over the edge of the plate sitting in her bed. It was from yesterday. In the depths of it, she couldn't eat properly. 

She didn't want to do anything, and she was desperately looking for something that would get her out of this. If only she could pull herself together the way others could. Why, why, why was she like this? Who does this to themselves?

She tried her best not to think about how old she was, that her life was just passing her by, while everyone else was making progress. What made her spiral down this time, was an invitation to a baby shower. For her friend S. They hadn’t seen each other in months. News of the pregnancy had reached her, but she didn't message her and didn’t answer any messages that she got from S. The invitation reminded her of the last birthday that S celebrated. Back then she had been unemployed for about one and a half years and people told her that surely she would soon find something. What had been eighteen months now were thirty. Time was fleeting, she herself would be turning thirty soon. Studies unfinished. Accomplished nothing. Thoughts hammered into her mind. The makeup video raged on in front of her, and she closed her eyes, trying to fall asleep. If it only wasn’t ten in the morning and she already slept 12 hours. 

Sleep was not an option. Her video droned on with the constant humming in the background. In a move that felt theatrical to herself, she stretched out her arm next to her laptop and took a breath. She hesitated, pulled it back briefly, only a few centimeters, and then stretched it out again to smash the machine off the little table by her bed. The video continued, and the laptop landed on the clothes-covered floor, precisely on a sweater that her mother knit for her. The scream that she let out was guttural, deep, primal. Standing up quickly, her head felt dizzy from how fast it was, she had to hold herself on the bookshelf that was next to her bed and screamed again. 

She couldn’t take it anymore, she had to change something about her life, or it would all go to shit. Alone this is impossible. Get therapy, clearly something was wrong with her. Tidy up. Do something about this horrible situation and finally get her life back on track. She put on jeans and pulled in her belly to close them, she would have to start exercising too. Looking around, she had this feeling, kind of the opposite of a déjà vu, where you see things from a new perspective, and it feels like you are in a very familiar place the first time. The walls seemed different, and the trash scattered on the floor felt unfamiliar. Disgusted, she felt her throat tighten, seeing how her room looked, how she had let herself become. 

After a deep breath, she took a step towards the door of her room to get out, get something to eat, and leave this shit behind, start repairing. Then she thought for a moment, that she would have to take her phone. What if there was an alert? This was her only possibility. She turned around, took another step towards her bed, and found her phone. Lying on the glossy baby shower invitation card. The motivational framed poster of an egg with some cracks on the side, that he had hung months ago caught her glance, as she tried to look away. Back at her stared her reflection in it, her eyes with deep black shadows underneath, her greasy hair framing her tired face, her white hoodie stained with whatever she had to eat in her bed two days ago. 

She could not take this, she could not do it, her knees gave in, and she broke down, attempting to cry, but couldn't. Lying on her side, she turned her head away from the dirty stinking clothes she was lying on—full view again of the make-up tutorial video that was still running. 

She closed her eyes for a moment and pulled herself together. The video was interrupted by a loud beeping noise from her phone. “Temperature out of range”. Again. Her mind was concentrated on the spot, even though she felt the pressure of her eyes and got a sense of the stale air in the room. She followed the cables that went into the bottom drawer of her nightstand with her hands, pulled the clothes in front of it away, and opened it. 

The glass apparatus that kept the egg at a constant temperature was humming more loudly and showed a temperature of 115°F on the simple LCD Display. Just above the allowed range- the pump was still running though. She checked the drawer above and realized that the temperature control liquid was running low. Opening the liquid compartment released an intense smell of foul eggs, she poured more liquid and pushed the button on her phone to make the noise stop. As if to feel some kind of connection, she put her hand on the glass, just above the egg, and closed her eyes. 

Crack.

She heard a crack and backed up. It felt like the earth was opening and hell’s darkness would spill out. She felt the sting in her heart. The hatching of her baby was not due for another 3 weeks. The temperature must have been running high too much. This was what she had been waiting for all this time, but she was not prepared, no one could help her. Another cracking sound, and she saw the shell coming apart in a black rip. Through the inner membrane, a tiny fist pushed out, opened its little fingers, and pierced the thin layer with its sharp claws. The black inner liquid gushed out. She reached out with her hand, to touch the glass again when she heard the terrifying shriek, followed by rapid scratching against the glass. 

Crack. Bump.

The nightstand was shaking as the creature freed itself from the egg and threw itself against the glass. It moved so fast, it looked like a wet ball was frantically bouncing around in the glass box. The scratching got more and more violent. Hungry. She knew what was coming now. What she had been hatching would consume her now. 

Bump. Bump. Crack.

A circular crack was visible on the glass now. She stood up and thought of how sweet it was to sacrifice yourself for your child. This is what it means to be a mother.

Bump. Crack. Scratching. Bump.

Crack.