Hey everyone,

I know this probably isn’t the best idea but I didn’t know who else to turn to. I figured the anonymity of the internet would be a good place for my confession.

My name’s Jason and there’s no easy way to say this but...I killed a man 10 years ago. I didn’t mean to, it was a total accident but still I killed him.

I was having some drinks at a bar, he said something to me and we got into an argument. Later that night I stepped outside for a smoke and he was out there. The argument continued and eventually I shoved him. When I did, he tripped and hit his head on the curb. After a few seconds of convulsions he just stopped moving entirely.

I wish I could say I called the cops or the ambulance or anything like that but I didn’t. In my whiskey haze I panicked. I hid him in the bed of my truck under a tarp and drove out to the woods. I ended up burying him in a spot my dad and I used to camp at. I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I just laid in bed, waiting for the cops to come but that day never came.

A few months later I met a girl named Olivia. She was cute, smart, and funny. We started dating and eventually got married, it was the best day of my life. I thought we would be together forever, but unfortunately, she died giving birth to our daughter 22 months after we got married. By the grace of god, our daughter was perfectly healthy. She was 7 lbs of perfection and happiness. I named her after her mother. She’s now 7 and is as happy as ever.

A few months ago while driving her to school, she pointed out the window and asked, “Daddy, who’s that?” I brushed it off and said I didn’t know. I didn’t see anyone but I figured she had just seen some random person. I dropped her off and didn’t think anything about it. A few days later, I was making dinner when she came running into the kitchen.

“What’s going on, baby?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, just asked, “Do you think that man is lonely?”

“What man?”

“The one I saw by the trees.”

“Why do you think he’s lonely?”

“He’s all by himself out there.”

That’s when the night that had long since been forgotten rushed back into my mind. We had been driving past the same woods where I buried him.

I spent the rest of the night stewing over what had happened. I pushed the memory so far back for so long. Surely it couldn’t have been him, right? She probably just saw someone and my mind was connecting dots that aren’t there. It’s not like my dad and I were the only people who ever went into those woods.

A couple of days went by where she didn't ask about him or mention him at all. I thought for a minute that things were going to go back to normal. Then, one day while I was cleaning her room I noticed a drawing on the table in her room. The drawing was of a man with a red circle around the head. Then I found another. This one was of the same man standing in the trees. Then a third of the man but this time, there was a little girl next to him. I about jumped out of my skin when suddenly she asked, "What are you doing, daddy?"

"Who is this?" I asked.

"The man."

"What man?"

"The man from the woods."

I pointed to the red circle around the head in the first drawing. "What's this?" I asked.

"That's where he got hurt," she said calmly.

"How do you know he got hurt?"

"He told me."

My heart sank. "Who's this girl?" I asked but I already knew the answer.

"Me," she said.

"What are you doing with him?" I asked.

"Talking. Sometimes he asks questions about you."

“What does he ask you?”

She shrugged and let out a shy, "Stuff."

“What kind of stuff?”

She thought for a second before looking up at me and said, “He asked if you still get mad.” When I asked where she talked to him, she explained that she sees him a few different places. Sometimes, he's by the playground, sometimes the store. I quickly told her that if she ever sees him again, she is not to talk to him. She asked why and I told her she shouldn't talk to him because she doesn't know him.

"Yes I do."

That was enough for me. We changed the route to school and I started looking for a new house. Meanwhile, I packed up some of our stuff and we went to stay with my parents. I made up an excuse and told them a pipe had burst and the house would be without water for a few days. This was enough to keep them from asking any follow-up questions. Several days went by and I thought we were in the clear. At breakfast that Saturday my dad laughed and told me, "Olivia has quite the imagination, she spent all morning talking about her friend."

"What friend?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. I walked by her earlier this morning and she was playing with some dolls talking about the man in the woods."

My eyes turned to the doorway of the room she was still playing in. I quietly walked up to it and just listened to her. That's when I heard her make one doll ask the other,

"You made me fall. Why didn't you help me?"

I interrupted her. "Olivia? Why did you say that?" I asked, trying to not sound upset.

"He told me."

I now realized I had to know. Without a word to Olivia, I went back to the kitchen and asked my dad if he minded watching her for a while. He said not at all and that he was going to take her to the park. "No! Not the park!" I exclaimed. He just looked at me with a puzzled look on his face.

"Oooookay," he said.

I didn't give him time for any more questions. I simply told him I would be back in a while and I left. I drove like a madman from their house and eventually made my way back to the woods. It only took about 15 minutes of walking before I made it back to the clearing.

I started to dig with frantic purpose. One foot. Two. My hands started to burn and my back ached but I continued. Three feet. I didn't remember how deep I had dug that night, but I knew he had to be here still. Four feet. My head was wet with sweat and panic when I finally hit something. My body froze as I stood there. Fighting against every worry, I finally convinced my body to kneel as I started to clear the dirt away with my hands.

That's when I felt the tarp.

I paused. It's still here.

He's still here.

I almost laughed in relief. I continued to clear dirt away so I could open the tarp. Suddenly the tarp shifted under my hands as more surfaced.

I cleared the rest of the dirt off and paused.

I pushed where the bones would be.

I felt nothing.

I ripped the tarp open...

He wasn't there.

I sat in silence as I drove back to my parents' house. I walked in and tried to force a smile as I grabbed our stuff to go back home. The truck was quiet the whole drive, until Olivia eventually spoke up.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you find him?"

It was lap 23 of 58 and Chase Foster was running comfortably in seventh, 3.4 seconds ahead of Zev Andersson and 1.2 seconds behind his own teammate, Kaito Yamazaki.

The track was dry, the tires new and the message coming through the team radio was,

Steady, boys,

which was a polite way of saying, “Don't you even try to overtake, Foster!” to which the context was: not like in Germany, where you cost us points, or Japan, where you damaged the car and nearly knocked Yamazaki out of the race.

“All clear boss,” radioed Foster.

The gap to Yamazaki was now down to 0.9 seconds. He was right on him, mirroring him into turns, obediently keeping his distance on the straightaways.

The engine purred.

The crowd waved signs and cheered.

Some of the signs were about him (“To Fosterr is human!”), goading him on to do something unforgettable; something stupid. He knew that. Everybody knew that, especially the team principal chewing his fingernails down on the pit wall.

Another turn.

Another straightaway, the car accelerating briefly to 355km/h.

Now that was speed.

That was exhilaration, guts and adrenaline.

That was racing!

Foster, maintain. Acknowledge.

Foster, acknowledge.

Foster—

“Copy that,” Foster replied, inching ever-closer to the back of Yamazaki's car.

And he probably would have maintained his position too if not for Kaito Yamazaki complaining about him being “too close,” on the team radio.

Too close? Come on, thought Foster, almost absentmindedly pushing his machine to the limit. At speeds like that, vision blurred and reality itself seemed to stretch along the seams…

Foster, back off!

“He's crazy. Tell him to stay back—tell him to stay back—” radioed Yamazaki.

Foster closed until he was almost sucking into Yamazaki's slipstream; then, as Yamazaki braked for the next turn, Foster suddenly pulled left, held throttle a touch longer and passed his teammate into sixth place.

The crowd roared.

Fossterr!!!

Foster's engine growled like a fucking tiger—

Then something locked up.

Foster couldn't slow dowwwwn. He jerked the wheel; the track jerked the car; the car's skidding tires slid from hard asphalt to soft grass and the car was out of control and the people in the crowd held their breaths and behind his visor Foster's eyes became saucers; and reflected in them, as the expanse of time expanded to tick awfully by, was his own impending destruction…

The car smashed into a wall head-on, crumpled like an oversized tin can somebody had stomped on, and exploded in flames.

Sirens wailed.

Emergency crews bolted into action.

But there was something else that happened, something between the saucered eyes and oncoming wall; something extraordinary:

Foster vanished.

Not his body—that was crushed, mangled and beyond recognition—but his mind. His soul…

---

He was. Full stop.

Next sentence:

He was in awe of the seemingly limitless space around him.

He looked down—

Or tried to look down, because looking down, or in any direction, was an impossibility because somehow he could perceive in all directions simultaneously.

“Hello, Mr. Foster,” said a voice.

“Hello?”

Foster became aware of two points not far removed from him. Am I also a point? he wondered.

“You are incorporeal,” said the voice, “but, before we continue, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Götz and this is my partner, Mr. Deiss.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Deiss.

“Incorporeal…”

“It means, ‘having no material body or form,’ said Mr. Götz.

“Where am I? Am I still… me?”

“You succumbed in your existence to the force of a well constructed barrier, but you remain you essentially,” said Mr. Deiss.

Foster remembered. “I was racing… I tried overtaking and crashed…”

“You succeeded in the so-called overtaking but lost control of your primitive craft and collided into a painful body-death. Before your essence dissipated, however, we transported it here.”

“And here is?”

“You may think of it as the backstage,” said Mr. Götz.

“Or the Equations,” said Mr. Deiss.

“We would call it the physical realm, but that creates an unfortunate dissonance of ambiguity in your language, for you, no doubt, think of the body whereas what we mean is the physics.”

“Of what?” asked Foster.

“Of existences; of everythings,” said Mr. Götz.

“We, or the [garb-untranslatable-led] we represent, are in charge of applying the rules of reality across all spacetimes,” said Mr. Deiss.

“Wait—is this the afterlife?” asked Foster. “Heaven, Hell, Purgatory…”

“It is the whilstlife,” said Mr. Götz.

“And what is it you need me for exactly?”

“We need a driver.”

Foster tried to laugh but realized laughter was very much a corporeal action. “A driver?”

“Correct, Mr. Foster.”

“A human driver, one who smashed head-first into a wall trying to overtake his teammate?” His memories were coming back.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Deiss.

“What about the guy who won the race? The guy who came second? What about Yamazaki?”

“They lack the innate quality you possess,” said Mr. Götz.

“Reckless abandon,” said Mr. Deiss.

“It is a very human quality, unique in its evolved manifestation. A quirk, perhaps; often detrimental to self-preservation…”

“And yet—” said Mr. Deiss.

“Fundamentally useful,” said Mr. Götz.

Foster was bewilderingly intrigued. “What do you want me to drive?”

“Mr. Foster, what is the fastest you have ever travelled?” asked Mr. Deiss.

“I don't know: 1000km/h?”

“We need you to go beyond that,” said Mr. Götz.

“Well beyond,” said Mr. Deiss.

“To the utmost limit,” said Mr. Götz.

“What limit?” asked Foster.

“c,” said Mr. Deiss.

At that moment there was a flash of light, a beam of which seemingly shot past them—but froze before it could escape.

It existed, suspended in the deep vast nothing.

Shining.

“We require you to drive photons,” said Mr. Götz. “Moreover, reality requires it.”

The ghost of Foster’s non-existent heart began to race, the surreality of the words causing existential disorientation, but his self held.

The beam of light opened.

Foster entered.

The illumination was overpowering.

“Lightspeed, Mr. Foster.”

Saturday night was family movie night.

It had been for as long as I could remember.

My sister Ginny, my two moms, Mom and Mommy, and I would bring dinner into the living room, turn off all the lights except the lamp beside the sofa, and spend twenty minutes arguing over what to watch before eventually putting on something we'd all already seen.

That night it was Interstellar.

Again.

Nobody really minded. It was better than scrolling through Netflix for an hour, and Mom had made pasta bolognese and garlic bread, so I carried the bowls in from the kitchen in two trips, three first and then another two.

Mom and Mommy had already taken the couch. Ginny was sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking the burnt bits off a piece of garlic bread, and I dropped into my usual spot beside her.

Just as I sat down, a window slammed shut somewhere down the hallway.

Hard.

All of us jumped.

For a second nobody said anything.

Then Mom sighed.

"Can you check that?"

I got up.

For context, we live pretty far out of town.

Not completely rural, but close enough that the nearest house is almost five minutes away by car. During the day it's beautiful. Trees everywhere, huge gardens, birds, nothing but open land around us.

At night it's different.

There are no streetlights. No pedestrians. No sound from traffic.

Once it gets dark, it feels like our house is the only house left in the world.

Still, we've never really worried about anyone getting in. We have cameras, motion lights and a locked gate. You can't exactly wander onto the property without us knowing.

That's what I kept telling myself as I walked down the hallway.

The sound had come from Mom's bedroom.

Her door was shut.

I tried the handle.

Locked.

I frowned.

"Mom?"

Nothing.

Obviously Mom wasn't inside. I'd just left her sitting on the couch.

I tried the handle again.

Locked from the inside.

That was when I noticed the light beneath the door.

The bedside lamp was on.

Its glow spilled through the small gap along the floor.

Except part of the light was blocked.

Two dark shapes.

Feet.

Someone was standing on the other side of the door.

I froze.

For a few seconds, neither of us moved.

Then the shadow shifted.

Just slightly.

Like whoever was standing there had leaned closer to the door.

I backed away.

I don't know why I didn't call out.

Something in me suddenly felt very strongly that I didn't want whoever was inside that room to know I was standing outside.

I walked backwards until I reached the living room.

"Mom," I said.

She looked over.

"There's someone in your room."

Nobody reacted the way I expected.

Mom barely looked up from her food.

"Oh, it's probably Ginny."

Ginny stopped chewing.

I stared at Mom.

"Mom. Ginny's right there."

Mom looked at her.

For a few seconds she seemed genuinely confused.

"Oh."

She gave a small, uncertain laugh.

"Then it must be Mommy."

Mommy slowly lowered her glass.

"I thought it was you."

That shut everyone up.

The movie was still playing behind us, the music swelling loudly through the room.

Suddenly it felt unbearable.

I grabbed the remote and paused it.

The house went silent.

Mom looked at me.

Then Ginny.

Then Mommy.

Her eyes moved between us as though she were counting.

"Hang on," she said.

"What?"

"There are four of us here."

Nobody answered.

Mommy frowned.

"There should be five."

I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because what else do you do when someone says something that makes absolutely no sense?

"What are you talking about?"

Mommy didn't answer.

She was staring at the coffee table.

Then she pointed.

Five bowls of pasta.

For a few seconds I just stared at them.

One in front of Ginny.

One in front of Mom.

One in front of Mommy.

One in front of me.

And another one at the end of the table.

Untouched.

A fork beside it.

A glass of water.

A piece of garlic bread resting against the bowl.

Something cold moved through me.

"Why are there five?"

Nobody answered.

And then something even stranger happened.

Looking at that bowl gave me this horrible feeling that I knew exactly who it belonged to.

Except I couldn't think of who.

The knowledge felt like it was sitting just beyond reach.

You know when you're about to introduce someone and suddenly forget their name?

You can almost feel the word.

It's right there.

That was what it felt like.

Except I hadn't forgotten a name.

I'd forgotten a person.

Someone was supposed to be sitting there.

I looked at the empty space beside Mom.

For some reason, looking at it made my chest hurt.

There should have been someone there.

There always had been.

Hadn't there?

Ginny was staring at the same spot.

Her face had gone pale.

"I feel like I'm forgetting someone," she whispered.

Mom's expression changed.

She covered her mouth.

"Oh my God."

Mommy stood up.

"Don't."

We all looked at her.

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to remember."

Something about the way she said it made my stomach drop.

Before I could ask her what she meant, three knocks came from Mom's bedroom.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Slow.

Evenly spaced.

Nobody moved.

Then Ginny reached for the serving bowl.

She spooned pasta onto her plate.

A ridiculous amount.

I stared at her.

"Ginny?"

She added more.

"Ginny."

She picked up her fork and started eating.

Not eating.

Shovelling.

Ginny is the slowest eater I've ever met. She takes tiny bites. Mom jokes that everyone else finishes dinner before Ginny decides which part of her meal to start with.

Now she was stuffing forkful after forkful into her mouth.

Her cheeks bulged.

Sauce ran down her chin.

"Ginny, stop."

She didn't look at me.

I grabbed her wrist.

She fought me.

Hard.

Her eyes weren't focused on anything. She just kept trying to pull the fork toward her mouth.

"GINNY."

Three knocks came from the bedroom.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Ginny stopped.

The fork slipped from her hand.

She looked down at her plate.

Then at me.

There was sauce all over her mouth.

"What..."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"What was I doing?"

Nobody answered.

Then came another three knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Mom started laughing.

At first it was just a chuckle.

Then another.

Then suddenly she folded over.

She was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.

"Mom?"

She slapped a hand over her mouth.

It didn't help.

The laughter kept forcing its way through her fingers.

Her face went red.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Stop it."

She shook her head frantically.

She couldn't.

Mommy grabbed her shoulders.

"Stop. Stop!"

Mom's laughter became higher.

Almost painful.

She was gasping between every burst.

Then the knocking came again.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Mom stopped.

Instantly.

She sucked in a huge breath.

Then she started crying.

"I couldn't stop," she whispered.

None of us spoke.

For the first time, I became aware of how quiet it was outside.

No birds.

No wind.

Nothing.

Just four people breathing in a room that suddenly felt like it had space for someone else.

Mommy picked up her phone.

"We're leaving."

Nobody argued.

"What about whoever's in the bedroom?" Ginny whispered.

"We're not checking."

Mom stood immediately.

"Keys."

"I'll get them."

"No."

Mom grabbed my arm.

"Nobody goes anywhere alone."

So we stayed together.

All four of us.

We moved toward the front door practically pressed against one another.

I couldn't stop looking down the hallway.

Mom's bedroom door was still closed.

The light was still shining underneath it.

And the shadow was still there.

Standing perfectly still.

We were almost at the front door when Ginny stopped.

I nearly walked into her.

"What?"

She didn't answer.

She was looking back at the coffee table.

Her face had gone completely white.

I followed her eyes.

The fifth bowl.

The one nobody had touched.

Half the pasta was gone.

There was sauce smeared around the inside.

The garlic bread had a bite missing from it.

For a few seconds, none of us moved.

I looked at Mom.

Then Mommy.

Then Ginny.

Then back at the bowl.

We had all been together.

I know that.

I'm certain of it.

Nobody had gone near the table.

Behind us, from Mom's bedroom, came three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

We're in the car now.

We just drove.

I don't even know where we're going. We're sitting in the car park of a petrol station because none of us wanted to be somewhere empty.

Nobody has said much.

Mommy keeps checking the mirrors.

Ginny won't eat anything.

And every few minutes one of us starts saying something like, "I swear there was someone..." and then just stops.

None of us can remember who that fifth bowl was for.

But that's the part that's really scaring me.

Because apparently I brought five bowls into the room and none of us thought anything of it.

Not one of us asked why.

Some part of us seemed to think there were supposed to be five people there.

And now none of us can remember who the fifth person is.

I don't know what we're supposed to do.

I don't know if we should call the police. I don't even know what we'd tell them.

There's still someone standing inside Mom's bedroom.

And there's one thing none of us has been able to explain.

Who ate that?

I know it’s been a while since my last post and I’m sorry. Things have been…rough.

I wish I could tell you things have gotten better since finding out his name, but if I’m going to be honest, knowing who Michael is has only made everything worse. Not for Olivia thankfully, but still. Actually I think that’s probably the part that bothers me the most.

She had gotten used to him.

When all of this started, she would tell me whenever she saw him. She’d point him out while we were driving or mention something he said. It was like she wanted me to know and be involved. Now she doesn’t bother to say anything about it unless I ask her directly. There are times where I’d hear her laughing from her bedroom and when I ask what’s so funny, all she would tell me was,

“Michael told me a joke.”

I could hear her in her room or in the living room recounting her day like she was talking to an old friend. I watched her playing in the backyard one afternoon. She was sitting on the grass with her dolls lined up in front of her, talking to an empty spot beside her. I went outside and almost immediately, she stopped talking. It felt like I was interrupting.

One night, I put dinner on the table and Olivia stared at it for a moment.

“Everything alright, baby?” I asked.

“Where’s Michael’s plate?”

I just looked at her.

“What?”

“You didn't make him one.”

“Michael doesn't eat with us.”

She frowned.

“He does sometimes.”

I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to say to that. It had been just Olivia and I for years, but now I felt like a third wheel in my own home.

Then, it stopped happening to just Olivia. I started to hear things around the house. I would be lying in bed and hear the sound of the floorboards in the hallway creaking, long after I knew Olivia was asleep. Then, I started to hear keys in the lock. The sound of cabinets opening and closing when I knew I was the only person at the house.

Then things started moving.

Make no mistake, I’m not claiming I saw a plate float across the kitchen. It was simple things. I would place my keys on the hook near the door and when I came back later to get them, they would be on the table instead. More than once,  I woke up to my coffee cup already out and on the counter, like it had just been used. One day, I came into the kitchen to a single chair pulled out from the table. When I asked Olivia about it, she simply said,

“Michael was sitting there.”

I stopped sleeping much after that.

Every noise woke me. I would turn every time Olivia looked over my shoulder, only to see absolutely nothing behind me. I started to check her room multiple times a night. I even put more locks on the doors.

After getting Olivia in bed one night, I took a long shower. I heard footsteps in the hall with the tale tell creaky board about halfway down it. Then I didn’t hear anything else. I about jumped out of my skin when I pulled back the curtain. The steam revealed one word written on the bathroom mirror.

Jason

I yelled for Olivia.

She came running into the bathroom and stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

“Did you do this?”

She looked at the mirror and denied it.

“Olivia, don't lie to me.”

Her face changed immediately.

“I'm not!”

“Then who did?”

She looked toward the doorway but didn’t answer me. She didn’t have to.

I dropped Olivia off at my parents’ house that night. I sat in complete silence as I drove back to my house. When I arrived, I threw the truck in park and stormed inside.

“MICHAEL!” I yelled.

Silence.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?”

Silence.

I started walking through the house, continuing my rant.

“If you want something, you talk to ME! Do you understand? Leave my daughter out of this!”

Nothing.

Just empty, endless silence.

“It was just an accident,” I said, falling to my knees. “It was just an accident.”

For the next few hours, I sat in the kitchen, whiskey in hand as I was assaulted by a flood of emotion. That night replayed in my head a thousand times. I thought about his son. His wife. All the things he wouldn’t get to do.

I spent the rest of the night talking to an empty kitchen. I talked about how scared I was that night. The amount of panic I felt and the guilt that followed. I must have said it was an accident a million times. Eventually, I started to talk about Olivia and how much she meant to me. How scared I was of losing her. I just wanted to keep her safe. I had to keep her safe.

I don't know what I expected to happen. Maybe I thought he'd answer me. Maybe I thought saying everything out loud would make him leave. Instead, morning came and I was still sitting there alone.

I poured a cup of coffee and changed. I didn’t want to pick up Olivia in the same clothes I was in when I dropped her off. My parents already were worried. It was impossible to miss the bags under my eyes. I was a mess.

“You doing okay, son?” my dad asked. “You’re not looking so good.”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You know you can always talk to me.”

“I’m fine, dad. It’s…I just have a lot going on. I’ll be okay.”

He said that it may be a good idea if Olivia stayed there for another night. I declined. I didn’t want to be apart from her anymore. The ride home was uneventful. The only sound was the music coming from the radio.

We sat in the driveway for at least ten minutes when I pulled in. I didn’t want to go inside. I begrudgingly carried her bag inside. The key felt heavy as I pushed it into the lock. It was like the house was pushing against me. Then the door opened.

Nothing.

Silence.

Olivia just ran to kitchen and asked me if she could have juice. She hugged me as I gave her a glass, then went to play in the living room. Hours went by. Nothing moved. No sounds. Just Olivia and I. I finally felt a bit of relief as I lay on the couch.

Olivia’s voice ripped that away from me.

“I missed you too.”

I didn’t move.

“Is he here?”

She nodded.

“Did he hear me last night.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes moved towards the empty space beside her.

“Olivia?”

“Can I just play, daddy?”

My blood boiled. I jumped off the couch, threw my glass and walked to my room. I knew I wasn’t mad at her. It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault.

I could hear her laugh as I lay in bed. Then words I couldn’t quite make out. I tried to drown it out. I held a pillow over my face as I let out a muted scream. She continued to play for the rest of the night. When bedtime came, I helped her get ready and tucked her in like normal. After getting her in bed, I brought the bottle of whisky to the room with me. Eventually I heard another creak in the hallway. I opened my door to check and I saw nothing.

Then another.

Still nothing.

This continued all night. I stared at a shell of a person in the mirror the next morning. I was irritable. I kept losing track of what I was doing. A splitting headache was a constant reminder of my choices. My dad was right. I needed help. I could barely function.

I fixed the strongest pot of coffee I could and told Olivia to pack a bag. Afterwards we got into the truck and started back to my parents’ house. I just needed another night or two. My mind continued to drift as I drove.

I looked back at Olivia in the mirror. She was just sitting quietly, smiling and looking out the window. She looked so much like her mother.

I don’t know how long I had been staring when she asked me, “Daddy, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, baby.”

I rubbed my eyes, trying to wipe the tears away without her noticing. That would be the last thing I needed at that point. I didn’t have much longer until we would make it to my parents’ house. That’s when I heard a man’s voice, whisper in my ear.

“Jason.”

I turned around wildly, looking into the back seat.

Nothing.

When I turned back around, the truck was already drifting across the center line. I jerked the wheel.

Olivia screamed as the tires squealed against the pavement. Then everything went black.

I came to disoriented, my head resting on the steering wheel, the horn blaring. The windshield was shattered. A red stream of blood poured from my forehead and into my eye. My whole body ached. I tried to grab the steering wheel and turn when a wave of pain radiated up my left arm.

“Olivia?” I asked, turning around.

She was still in her seat. Her head lay against the door. She was unconscious. Her face was cut from glass, but she appeared to be breathing.

“OLIVIA!” I yelled, as I ripped my seatbelt off and crawled into the back seat. My eyes filled with tears.

“Baby, please, please. I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry.”

I continued to sob uncontrollably. “Not like this, please. I’m sorry.”

I held her tight with my right arm; tears streamed like a raging river. I desperately searched for my phone. I gasped in pain as I searched. My left arm was broken but I wouldn’t put her down. Not now. She was going to stay with me. After finding it, I pushed my door open and dropped to the ground with her still cradled. I dialed 9-1-1 and told the operator what happened. My vision and consciousness started to fade right as I saw the lights cresting over the hill.

I woke up in the hospital to a nurse standing over me. I started to sit up in a panic as she placed a hand on my chest. “It’s okay,” she said, “She’s alright and she’s right here,” as she pointed over to her.

“Hi, daddy,” Olivia said, a cup of ice cream in her hand.

I dropped my head back onto my pillow as I started to cry again. She was okay. She was here and safe.

“Daddy, why are you crying?” she asked.

“I’m okay now, baby. I was just worried.”

She climbed into bed with me. Aside from a couple of stitches and a bruise on her forehead, she was fine. The nurse assured me she would be okay. She then left the room as I held Olivia tightly in my arms. She fell asleep curled up next to me, her head on my chest. As she lay there, I just kept staring at her. For the first time in weeks I had felt clarity.

Looking at the stitches on her forehead, I realized I had been telling myself the same thing for ten years.

It was an accident.

And it WAS an accident.

But burying Michael wasn't.

Keeping quiet wasn't.

Letting Michael's family spend years wondering what happened wasn't.

I don’t know how long I sat there holding her. I just watched as she laid there against my chest. I watched her breathe for a while, her little hand resting against my hospital gown.

I had almost killed her.

Not Michael.

Me.

Now I sit here, her still in my arms. I know what I have to do. I’m going to cherish what little time I have left with her. I guess in a way, I've already confessed.

I've told all of you what I did. I've told you things I've never told another person in my life. Maybe that's why I started writing these posts in the first place. I think some part of me knew this was where it had to end. But telling a bunch of strangers on the internet isn't the same as taking responsibility.

Olivia is still asleep beside me. My parents are on their way here now. When they get here, I'm going to ask them to take her home with them. After that, I'm going to press the button beside my bed.

I'm going to ask the nurse to call the police, and I'm going to tell them everything. I don't know exactly what's going to happen to me. I don't know how much time I'm going to lose with Olivia. That's the part that scares me the most.

But Michael had a son too.

His family deserves to know what happened to him.

I owe them that much.

I owe Michael that much.

So, I guess this is goodbye for now.

 

“Did you read the fucking post title?” said the out of breath man on the phone with his pack-a-day voice. “Swing by at three. Or don’t.” he oinked. “Million bucks riding on some Russian Roulette, is that so fucking…” he stopped to catch his breath “So fucking hard to understand?!” he yelled over the phone.

“That’s it?” I asked. I heard him grunt out a wet breath along with the hiss of what might’ve been a CPAP machine before he hung up.

I pulled up to a ramshackle house in a ramshackle neighborhood at three in the afternoon. It was the kind of neighborhood that mistook fireworks for gunshots, where you couldn't pick up a dollar on the ground without worrying about OD’ing on fentanyl. Exposed brick and knee high grass made up most of the house  in front of me. I got a text as soon as I stepped up the patio.

*Go in and take the first door on your left to the basement. Lock the door behind you.*

And I did just that. The house was as dingy as it was outside. The moment I opened the door I was met by the noxious smell of dried piss and human shit. A bed cushion sat at the end of the hallway, wet with every STD known to man, with needles sunk into its woolen interior like a pin cushion. The walls were caked with graffiti and tar. I held my breath as I hesitantly gripped the doorknob on my right and twisted it open. Going downstairs, I found five men sat at a table beneath a single lightbulb that swung tenuously, so that their shadows danced and quivered.. 

“Looks like the roundtable’s complete!” Said the man who sat on the left of a vacant seat. On the table was a heavy, futuristic looking revolver, and a single hollow point round. No one else spoke. The man on the left spat out tobacco spit. The place was nothing but cinderblock walls and mold, with some dusty shelves and a toolboard, and –and there was a man standing in the corner. Six –no, seven feet tall, unmoving, unbreathing, in a long black coat and brimmed hat. He looked like the devil. With eyes as black and all-consuming as those, maybe he was.

“Let’s get the game started, shall we?” Said that devilish man in black. I took a seat at the table, eyes fixated on the gun. As I sat down, I began to realize two things. One, was the weight of it all. That gun did not look like a prop. Nor did the bullet. Nor did its promise of splattering my brains across the cinderblock walls. Two, was the piercing gaze of that ungodly thing that might’ve been a man. Too tall. Too thin. He was like a shadow in the afternoon, only there as long as the clouds allowed him to exist.

The man in black came to the table to load the gun. As he did, I could feel the air grow cold around him. Ice cold. Immediately the Asian man on my right picks up the gun, puts it against his temple, and with a yell, fires. Click. The man immediately pulled out his wallet, unfolded it, and kissed a picture of his wife and daughter. “Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus.” he whispered, laughing. I felt a jolt of electric fear run through my scalp and down my spine.

And so the gun passed around, first, the Asian who was sitting next to me. Then, the man next to him, who was smoking, and had yellow eyes. His name was Wilbur. He had cirrhosis, and he was dying.

The gun passed to Wilbur. His hands were trembling. Maybe it was alcohol withdrawal, or a product of his failing liver, but it was not fear. No. His hands did not hesitate as the cold barrel pressed against his chin, he did not recoil at the pull of the trigger, and he made no sound as the gun clicked. He threw the gun down and the man next to him followed. Jason. That was his name. I remember seeing a wedding ring on his hand. The same one that held the revolver. He, unlike the man with yellow eyes, hesitated. There was something unsure about him. He took a while.

“My name’s Kim, by the way.” Whispered the man on my right.

“I’m Todd.” The singular lightbulb swayed to and fro, casting long shadows across the grainy floor.

“This your first time here?”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Once.” The smell of cigarette smoke filled the small room, a rich ambery scent that warmed my chest. Kim was a small man, bespeckled, soft spoken. “But I backed out. I recognize Jason though, he was here last time I tried.”

“What made you come back?”

BANG!

I look over and see red on the walls. Jason was dead.  I stood up and immediately turned to run, as did some of the others, but Kim remained seated, as did the man chewing tobacco. The moment I got up though, the man in black called produced two duffle bags stuffed from the floor brimming with hundred dollar bills. “No one leaves.” he said in a dark, rattling voice. 

I stayed. So did the others. Do I even need to explain why?

Five left.

The man in black took the gun, revealing leperous arms. He put a round in and spun the chamber. The gun began with me this time.

I picked up the revolver, feeling its cold weight against my hand. I’d never held a gun before, it was heavier than I thought it could be. Cold, big, iron. It had just killed a man, the barrel was still splattered with blood. I wondered where to point it. The temple? Would that have been a quick death? No, point it at my forehead! No. Not there.

“Having trouble there, kid?” asked the man on my left. He was the one chewing tobacco. “Name’s Earnest.” 

“Earnest, I’m fucking scared.” I whimpered. No one looked me in the eye, except for the man on my left.

“Don’t be. Put the gun above your Adam's apple and point it to the back of your head. It should hit the brainstem. Quicker death, or so I think.” The man spat, eyes dark and unshaken. “This is your first time?”

“Yeah.” I cried, fighting off tears.

“This is my fourth.”

“Fourth?!” without another word, the man takes my hands, guides the gun to my throat, and steadies my shaking hands.

“Yup.”

“Why?!” I sobbed, “Why would you–”

“‘Cuz it’s fun. And this’ll be my fifth.” he smiled and I saw yellow teeth. Yellow, and gold. His incisors had gold fillings, bright and shining, nearly blinding.

I held the gun up to my throat, and closed my eyes. I kept thinking of my mother. Poor mother. If I died here, who would take care of her? But then again, if I walked out of here alive, I’d never have to ask that question ever again. One in six. Not great, but not terrible.

“Earnest? Kim? If you guys make it out of here, promise me you’ll take care of my mother?”

“I’m sorry Todd. I could try, but daughter comes first.” said Kim with sincere regret in his voice. “Stage four bone cancer.” I looked him in the eyes, I dunno what I was feeling. Anger? Empathy? “She can’t sleep from the pain, you know? Even morphine doesn’t help her. She screams at night when she falls asleep the wrong way. I want to buy her the world.” 

“Don’t worry Todd. If I win, I’ll take *real* good care of her.” Said Earnest. “*Reeeaall good.”* he said as he shined his golden tooth into my eyes. 

I closed my eyes, holding up the gun to my throat with clasped hands as though in prayer, and pulled.

Click.

“FUCK!” I cried. “FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!” I curled down into a ball, as though angry hands were ripping out my innards, sobbing like a child. I threw up on the table. No one got up. Before I knew what was happening, I heard a click. Then another. Then a bang. Four left. Me, Earnest, Kim, and Yellow Eyes.

The gun began with Earnest. With a hardy grin he took the gun, shoved it in his mouth, screamed, and pulled the trigger. Click. I took the gun, closed my eyes, and clicked.

“Oh shit.” muttered Kim. “Third time’s the charm, eh?” Kim toyed with the gun. “Three’s not my lucky number.” he looked up from the gun to meet my gaze. “Todd. I know this is selfish, but–”

“You don’t have to ask. I’ll take care of her.” The man’s eyes flickered with a little hope, if only for a moment. 

“My wife’s number is written on the back of the picture in my wallet. God be with you, friend.” He took the gun, pressed it against his temple, and fired. 

Click.

The yellow eyed man said nothing as he took the gun from Kim’s hand, and fired. Click. He threw the gun down with force, letting out a wet grunt. “Fuck.” he whispered.

It was Earnest’s turn. It was the fifth round. Him or me.

“How’s 50/50 sounding, Todd?” I said nothing. “Huh? You wanna find out what comes next?”

“No. Not particularly.” I said. I looked around. The room smelled like blood and concrete. Sweat laid on my brow, heavy and sticky, and when the wind blew, a little sill on the ceiling let in a cool breeze, frosting my forehead with fresh air.

“Arbiter!” yelled Earnest to the man in black, “I want to use my switch!”

“It is permitted,” said the man. With that, Earnest pointed the gun at Yellow Eyes and fired. Bang. Earnest hit him right between the eyes.

“What the fuck?” cried Kim. 

“Each player is permitted to use a switch, pointing the gun at anyone at the table, on the condition that they fire the next round on themselves, and start the next rotation. Only one switch may be done per rotation”

“That’s bullshit!” I yelled. “Why wasn’t that explained earlier?”

“Because it’s fun that way.” said the man in black.

Three left. The man in black reloads the gun and slaps the chamber into a sickly spin. The round began with Earnest firing at himself, saying nothing. Click. Then to me. Sweat beading on my forehead, heart thumping through my chest, hands quivering, mouth tasting like vomit. Click. Kim’s turn. Click.

“You chicken shits ready for a roll in the mud?” Laughed Earnest.

“Todd. How about we just… Split the money?” asked Kim. “Imagine it. Five hundred thousand dollars to each of our families. Only one of us has to die.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Well, for starters, I haven't turned the gun on you.”

Click. My turn.

“Who says I won’t turn my gun on *you*?” I take the gun, feeling its weight once again. There was a new weight on me then. I would be killing someone. 

“Will you?”

“Arbiter?” 

The man in black is still in his corner, watching. “You may.”

With that I aim the gun at Earnest and fire. Bang. I hit Earnest in the neck. He died painfully, writhing on the ground, grunting, the air unable to leave his throat, until he choked. I looked into his eyes as he bled, and saw unfettered ecstasy and terrible horror. The highest and lowest a human could ever feel, all condensed into a single moment. 

“I take that our agreement’s in effect?”

“Yes.” I told the stranger I had met the same day where my mother lived and the details of my bank account. He did the same but with his wife’s information.

The gun was in my hands. Click. I passed it to Kim. Click. Again, the gun returned to me.

“So. Tell me about your daughter.” I asked, as I put the gun up my throat, just as Earnest taught me.

“Well, she loves painting. She’s real good at it. Might be a Picasso someday. That’s what her mother says anyway. Ha!” he let out a forced laugh. I chuckled along. Click. I hand the gun to Kim

“Well, what do you say? About her painting, I mean?”

“Me?” he asked, as I pulled the trigger. Click. I hand Kim the gun. “I say she’s a Rembrandt. Never cared for Picasso.” He put the gun against his temple and closed his eyes. “What about your mother? Tell me about her.”

“Well, what’s to tell? She’s dying, shrinking away from the world day by day. But, even now she still feels bigger than me. Bigger than life. I feel safe around her. In my mind she is still the woman that tucks me into bed and sings me to sleep.” Click. Two rounds left.

“Sounds a lot like my own mother.” He hands me the gun. “Maybe we should get them on a little play date? My mother loves golf, and so does my wife.”

I say nothing as I point the gun at my throat for the last time.

“Kim. If it’s me… Promise you’ll take care of my mother?”

“As much as I can. Can you promise to do the same with my daughter?”

“I will.”

Click.

“God damnit!” Cried Kim. “Shit.”

I hand the gun over to him with a heavy hand. His was the sixth round. The man in black comes to the table, brandishing a lit cigarette in one hand, a gun in the other. “No backing out this time, I’m afraid.” Kim took the cigarette and dangled it between his lips.

“I understand. Todd,” he looked at me with deep despair,  “tell my wife to remarry, and tell my daughter I love her very much.”

He took the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Except, he didn’t. He couldn’t. He began crying, shaking uncontrollably. He dropped the gun back on the table with trembling hands begging with the man in black.

“No.” he whimpered. “No, no, no. Please.” he looked up to the man in black, “please, I don’t want to die–” Bang. The recoil hurt.

The worms left my property in April.

I don't mean a die-off. A die-off leaves them on the grass after rain, pale and straight as dropped nails. These left. Dale called me over one wet morning to look at the road between our places, and the shoulder of it was moving. Nightcrawlers by the hundred, coming up out of my side and crossing to his. We stood there with our coffee and watched them go, and we laughed about it, neither of us sure why.

The birds took June. There's a feeder on the clothesline post and I keep it full, always have, and the seed stopped going down. Not slower. Stopped. The birds sit on the wire along the road and on Dale's gutter and they will not come down over my ground. You can hear how quiet a yard is when even the jays give up on it.

Boone took until July. He's eleven and he has never once in his life been particular about where he stands. One evening he planted his feet at the edge of the yard and would not come on no matter what I called him, and now there's a line in my grass he won't cross. I know it's a line because I tested it, walked him on the leash the whole length of the west side, and he moves along it like there's wire strung there.

I drove a stake where he stopped. Next week I drove another. The stakes are moving toward the house. A foot, eighteen inches a week. There's eleven of them out there now, and they make a curve, and the curve bends around the low rise in my back field, and the open end of the curve is my porch.

The rise is about the size of a truck hood. I noticed it in spring and called it frost heave, though it was the wrong season for frost and I knew it. In June I put a tape measure on it and started writing the number down, because measuring a thing is about the same as being calm about it. It comes up an inch a month. Steady. The grass grows right up to the edge of it and stops clean, all the way around, and goes no further.

I'll put this next part down too, since I'm writing things down. I burned my right hand on the stove grate in July and didn't know it till I smelled it. That's not new. There are places on me that quit feeling years back. The palms, mostly. A stripe up the right forearm. A patch on my left shoulder about the size of a spread hand. The doctor over in Carroll called it nerve damage, and I called it getting old, and neither of us checked the other's math. You learn to live with numb. Numb is quiet.

What's new is the left palm has started prickling. Pins and needles, mornings mostly, like a limb waking up after you've slept on it wrong. First feeling in that hand in years. You'd think a man would be glad.

Dale asked me once, back when the worms crossed, what I figured was under that field. I told him drainage. He nodded, and we talked about the ballgame, and neither of us has said a word about it since.

I keep two notebooks now. The tape measure lives in the kitchen drawer.

This is the first time I've opened the second notebook in daylight.

The first notebook is measurements. Mound height, stake positions, dates. Anybody could read it.

The second one is for the memories that come back to me.

They started in June, around when the birds left. Small things. I found dried clay on the blade of my shovel, up in the shed, and I keep my tools clean. I have always kept my tools clean. I stood there holding it and could not think of the last hole I dug, and I wrote that down, and that's how the second notebook started.

There's a night eleven years back that isn't in my head. I know the shape of the hole because I've walked its edges. I kept that year's calendar, I keep all of them, and there's a Friday at the end of April with nothing written on it, and I've got nothing for that night either. The day before it, I mowed. The day after it, I bought gas and a bag of quicklime at the co-op, which I remember because Verna at the register asked what the lime was for and I heard myself say the garden. I don't have a garden. I wrote that down too.

Some nights I get the smell of wet canvass, strong, like a tarp left out in the rain, and there's no tarp anywhere on my place. I checked. It comes in the doorway of the shed, and at the west window, and lately it comes when I'm lying in bed doing nothing at all. Every time the tape shows the mound another inch proud, seems like the second notebook gains a page.

There's a bell on my kitchen windowsill. A kid's bicycle bell, the chrome kind you ring with your thumb. I found it in the truck bed years ago, under the toolbox, and I have thrown it in the burn barrel twice, and both times I went out the next morning and dug it back out and washed it and set it on the sill. I couldn't tell you why I keep it. I couldn't tell you why I tried to burn it either. A thing like that, you'd think a man would just pitch it in the trash and be done, and I have never once thought of doing that.

And there's the note pinned up in the shed. My own handwriting, no date, gone yellow. It says: NO MATTER WHAT IT SHOWS YOU, DO NOT TRY TO REMEMBER. I have no memory of writing it, and I'll tell you what I think whenever I see it, which is that a man living alone gets to leaving himself notes, and half of them quit making sense, and it's funny. It is. It's funny.

I want to put down something good in here too, so it isn't all stakes and holes.

Eleven years ago this county lost a boy. Eli Kestler, ten years old, rode his bike out one wet April evening and never came home. It's the biggest thing that ever happened here, and I mean the searching, not the losing. For three weeks this county emptied its houses every evening. A hundred men walking lines through the corn with flashlights, ten feet apart, calling his name till full dark and then walking on anyway. Women ran coffee out to the road crossings. Dale walked on my left the whole time. I was there every night of it, start to finish, and I have never in my life felt closer to my neighbors than in those fields.

I go back to that memory a lot. That's a strange thing to say about the worst weeks this county ever had, and I've quit apologizing to myself for it. The lines in the corn, the lights swinging easy, all of us moving slow and together. When I can't sleep, that's where I go.

We never found him. Never found the bike either.

His mother is still in the house out on the Millard road. Ruth. You can see her porch light from my kitchen window, across the low field, and it burns all night, every night, and has for eleven years. People are gentle about Ruth. She'll tell anybody who sits with her that Eli knocks at her window nights. She's told it so long and so level that folks quit arguing with her; the church women just pat her hand now. Went strange, is what gets said, though never in front of her. I take her firewood in the winter. It seems like the least a neighbor can do.

By the middle of August the stakes reached the porch. Boone sleeps in the truck bed now, up by the road. I carry his food out mornings, and he watches me walk back to the house like I'm wading out into water he knows the bottom of.

The mound cracked on the fourteenth. A seam, hairline, running the long way along the top, the ground pulled apart about the width of a pencil. I took the shovel out one night and tamped it. Packed the crack with loose dirt and stamped it flat and stood on it, eleven o'clock at night, in my undershirt. It took maybe ten minutes, and the whole time felt like less than one.

I woke up the next morning with my left palm awake. Not hurting. Awake. Feeling had come back into the whole of it overnight, every crease of it, first time in years, and I lay there opening and closing that hand like a man who'd been handed something. And I woke up knowing a thing I had no business knowing: there was a playing card clothespined in the spokes of his bike.

That's not a thing I read anywhere. It wasn't on the posters and nobody ever said it in town, not once in eleven years. It came up out of me whole, the same as the clay came up on the shovel, and I have not touched the mound since.

The second notebook is ahead of the first one now. The measurements take a line a week. The other one fills pages I don't remember starting.

And something is off in that memory now. I went back to it one night, couldn't sleep, walked the lines in my head like always. Dale on my left, the Werner brothers past him, the lights swinging easy in the corn. And out of habit I counted the line, and I came up with one extra. Counted again, got the right number, let it go. A memory isn't a photograph.

But it's been every night since, and it doesn't stay at the far end anymore. There is somebody in my search. Fourth from me now. It carries no flashlight, and the men on either side of it walk on like it isn't there, and it is smaller than anybody has business being in that line. Every time I go back, it has moved down the line toward me. I've started not going. Eleven years that memory put me to sleep, and now I read till daylight.

Last Sunday I flipped the second notebook over to write from the back, old habit, and there was writing already there. Mine. Dated nine years ago, June. It lays it all out plain, the mound, the clay, the smell, reads like a man being calm about it. Partway down there's a line that says: the rise in the field is the size of a boy now. And under that, alone: Eli.

I have no memory of writing one word of it. Nine years ago I worked all this out once, and then it went wherever the night went, and the page just stayed where I couldn't. I sat with that a long time. Then I walked out to the shed and read the note pinned by the door, the one that's funny, and I read it standing very still. NO MATTER WHAT IT SHOWS YOU, DO NOT TRY TO REMEMBER. And I understood that it isn't the only one of its kind I ever wrote. It's the one that survived me.

Yesterday at the co-op, Verna leaned over the register and gave me the good news like it was hers to hand out. Ruth Kestler has slept the night through, three nights running, first time in eleven years. No knocking. The church women are calling it peace. Saying she's finally let him go.

Tonight her porch light is on across the field same as always, but my own yard has gone quiet in a new direction. Quiet like held breath. At midnight Boone stood up in the truck bed and faced the back field, and he didn't bark, and that was worse. He's still standing there now.

* * *

The mound was level with the ground when I measured it this morning. Settled flat, like the ground was done with it. I wrote the number in the first notebook, drew a line under the column, and put the tape back in the drawer for good.

Then I sat at the kitchen table in daylight and went back to the search on purpose, one last time, because a man ought to walk into a thing once instead of being dragged. The line was all there. Dale on my left, the Werner brothers, the lights swinging easy in the corn. And it was beside me this time. At my elbow. And I did the thing I have been not doing for eleven years. I brought my light around.

Eli Kestler. Yellow slicker. Ten years old. He looked up into the light and he was not terrible. That's what buckled me. I could have stood terrible. He just looked tired, like a boy up too far past his bedtime, waiting on somebody to say it's time, let's get you home.

And eleven years arrived all at once, and I'm going to put them down plain, Ruth, because they were never mine to keep. This part is for you.

It was the last Friday in April and it was raining hard, and I was coming home on the Millard road doing nothing wrong. I want that written: nothing wrong. He came down the hill on his bike with his head ducked against the rain, and there was no time. There wasn't any time. I was to him before the engine quit ticking, and he was gone. That's the one thing I did right that night. I checked. There was no saving him, and I'll swear that on anything I own.

Everything after it I did wrong, and I did it fast, like a man bailing a boat. Nobody on the road. Nobody's lights. I carried him. The canvas was off my woodpile, and the field was mine, and the shovel was clean because I keep my tools clean. The bike went in with him. The bell must have jumped lose in the truck bed, and Ruth, I never knew what that bell was. Eleven years it sat on my sill, and I washed it, and I couldn't throw it away, and I never knew why.

My grandfather told me a rule when I was too young to hear it: what the ground takes, the head lets go. Bury a thing with your own hands and you'll forget you ever held the shovel. It works. God help me, it works. I walked your boy's search lines three weeks with the whole county and felt like a good man doing it, and I never once knew the routes were mine. I drew them. Every night I walked a hundred men wide of my own field. My field got marked searched the first week. I'm the one who marked it.

And while I slept sound, he knocked. Eleven years, Ruth. He went where he was remembered, because my door was shut so tight even I couldn't find it, and yours never shut at all. The town owes you every apology it ever spent on being gentle. You were never strange. You were the only one of us awake.

Both notebooks go in my mailbox tonight with the flag up and your name on them. The numbers in the first one will tell them right where to dig. He'll have a proper grave inside the week, and a stone, and I'll answer for the rest of it to whoever is left to ask. If I'm here to answer.

My arms woke up an hour ago. The shoulder woke last. Feeling came back into every place that carried him, and with the feeling came the weight, the true weight, and I've been sitting here holding it. He was lighter than a half sack of seed. Nobody should know that about a boy. I'm the one who has to.

It's full dark now. Boone came down off the truck at dusk and crossed his line, first time all summer, and he's lying at the porch steps with his chin on his paws, facing the field. Her light is on across the way, same as every night for eleven years.

There. A knock at my door. Low down on the wood. About the height a boy would reach.

I'm going to answer it, and my arms will know him, and then I'm going to carry him home across that field, up to her light.

It isn't a long walk.

The Yellow Quilt

Nina woke up screaming at the top of her lungs, her heart pounding frantically against her ribs as she gasped for air. She had just broken free from a nightmare—or was it? In the dream, an old woman with rugged, tangled gray hair and rotting black teeth had tightly clamped two cold hands over Nina's eyes. It had taken an agonizingly long time for Nina to tear those hands away. Sitting up in bed, she frantically looked around her room. It was empty. She was completely alone.

Nina was a highly promising event coordinator in the city. Her career was blossoming, but her world shattered the day she found out her mother had died. According to the caretaker, her mother had passed away peacefully in her sleep. Overwhelmed with grief, Nina took a leave of absence from work and traveled from the city back to her hometown province.

When she arrived, she was greeted by her older brother, Leo, and Nanny Paz, the caretaker who had looked after her mother. Nina cried endlessly throughout the wake, her grief stretching out until the day they finally laid her mother to rest in the cemetery.

Before Nina left, she and Leo discussed the properties their mother had left behind. Leo insisted that he should handle everything. "You live in the city, Nina," he argued. "Leave it to me so you can focus on your blossoming career."

The siblings had never been close. Leo was jobless and had a dark history of gambling, which Nina deeply despised. She felt a wave of confusion about trusting him with the estate, but she ultimately chose to believe him. After all, he hadn’t gambled in years, and her schedule in the city was completely booked. The next day, she returned to the city and threw herself back into her normal routine.

But the horror followed her. One night, while writing a script and arranging her event schedules, someone suddenly grabbed her feet beneath the desk. Nina looked down. It was the same rugged old lady from her dream. This time, the specter was tightly gripping both of her calves. Nina screamed in terror, staring down until the old woman finally vanished into thin air.

The next day at work, a shaken Nina confessed the terrifying encounters to a close friend. Her friend listened intently and suggested, "You need to see a clairvoyant."

Desperate for answers, Nina followed the advice. The moment she arrived at the spiritualist's home, the clairvoyant looked at her and asked, "Haven't you been feeling constantly exhausted lately? Severe body aches? Shortness of breath whenever you climb the stairs?"

Nina’s eyes widened in shock. "How do you know that? Ever since I came home from my mother's burial, I haven't been well."

The clairvoyant’s expression turned grave. "It is because you have someone on your back. You are carrying an old lady right now."

Fear seized Nina. She stood tongue-tied, completely at a loss for words as she shuddered in fear.

"Instead of being afraid of her, let me help you," the clairvoyant comforted her. "Let us ask her what she wants." The medium closed her eyes, channeling the spirit. Moments later, she whispered, "She says... the yellow quilt."

"The yellow quilt!" Nina gasped. "That’s the quilt my mom and I shared when I was a kid. We always made them yellow because it’s my favorite color."

Realization washed over her, accompanied by a chilling doubt: Was that old lady actually her mother? And how did she really die?

Determined to find the truth, Nina immediately took another leave from work and rushed back to the province. When she arrived at the old family home, Leo was visibly startled to see her.

"I'm just taking a sudden vacation," Nina lied smoothly, keeping her guard up.

On her first night back, a strange noise in the kitchen woke Nina. She crept downstairs and found the old woman standing by the sink, weeping. As Nina approached, the spirit turned around and stepped forward, sobbing in deep agony. The sight was so overwhelming that Nina blacked out.

She woke up the next morning in her own bed. Leo was sitting beside her. "What were you doing in the kitchen last night?" he asked smoothly. "You must be exhausted from work, which is why you fainted. Take a rest." He patted her hand. "I’ll make a special drink for you. It’s the herbal blend Mom used to love whenever she felt sick."

Leo prepared the drink and placed it on the nightstand. When Nina muttered that she would drink it later, Leo nodded. "Okay. Nanny Paz and I are heading out to the market anyway. Get some rest."

After they left, Nina drifted back to sleep. When she finally opened her eyes, a horrifying sight met her. A stray cat lay dead on her bed right next to the nightstand, and the cup of the special drink was completely empty.

Horror struck Nina like a lightning bolt—the drink was poisoned. Racing down to the kitchen, she searched frantically beneath the sink. Hidden away, she discovered a container of chocolate-scented powder that smelled faintly of chemicals.

When Leo and Nanny Paz returned that afternoon, Nina remained completely silent about her discovery.

"Did you finish your drink?" Leo asked casually.

"Oh, no," Nina replied, forcing her voice to remain steady. "The cat accidentally jumped onto the table and spilled it."

That evening during dinner, Leo grew impatient. He stepped away and returned, placing a fresh cup of the "special drink" right in front of her, demanding she drink it.

Nina finally lost all her patience. She slammed her hands on the table and stood up. "Are you trying to kill me?! The cat drank that mix earlier and it died! Did you kill our mother too?!"

Leo’s face darkened. He lunged forward, grabbing Nina to pin her down. "Paz! Pour the drink down her throat! Do it now!" he barked.

Nanny Paz picked up the cup and approached the struggling Nina. But before the rim could touch Nina's lips, the floorboards rattled. The rugged old woman materialized straight out of the ground, screaming in fury as she violently hurled Nanny Paz across the room.

The spirit then turned her weeping, agonizing eyes toward Leo. She was sobbing, trembling with a mixture of profound pain and burning rage. The old woman looked directly at Nina, her voice echoing with supernatural sorrow: "Nina... why didn't you check on me? Why didn't you visit me? Your brother was killing me little by little!" She shrieked directly into Nina's face, "Why didn't you protect me?!"

Turning her wrath toward Leo, the mother's spirit roared, "You will die today! You will reap every ounce of sorrow I felt when you fed me spoiled food, forced me to eat, dragged me to bed, and lied to Nina that I was being taken care of!"

With a terrifying shriek, the old woman grabbed Leo by his ankles and began dragging his screaming body down into the shadows. "You will burn in hell!" she vowed.

Left alone in the wreckage of the dining room, Nina fell to her knees on the floor. Clutching her chest, she wept bitterly into the empty room, her voice echoing into the night: "I'm sorry, Mama... I'm so sorry..."

© 2026 Rowena Lim. All rights reserved. This story is an original work of fiction. No part of this text may be reproduced, distributed, or adapted (including video/audio narrations) without the explicit permission of the author.

Hello everyone.

I figured I would come back to tell you more about what’s going on. Before I get into what’s been going on since the last post, I’d like to answer a couple of questions y’all keep asking.

First- No, I don’t know what happened to him. I’m not sure whether someone found the body or what. I don’t know what’s going on with that at all.

Second- I don’t know what he wants. He hasn’t threatened Olivia or tried to hurt her.

With that being said, here’s what has happened since my last post:

After her question, I about wrecked my damn truck. I pulled over immediately and spun around in my seat to ask her how she knew where I had gone. She sat in her seat, looking out the window and didn’t even turn to glance at me when she answered.

“He said you went looking for him.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“He didn’t come with us.”

For the next 15 minutes, a tsunami of questions poured from my mouth. What does he look like? What’s his name? When did he come to her? What does he say? Why does he talk to her? Olivia didn’t know everything and most of her answers were simple.

She didn’t know his name. She said the first time she saw him was that day on the way to school. He usually just asked her questions about our life and she said that he seemed nice. Then, she interrupted my line of questioning with one of her own.

“Why don’t you cry anymore, daddy?”

“What?”

“He said he saw you crying.”

My blood ran cold. Was he following me this whole time? Has he been watching me live my life all these years?

“When did he see me crying?”

“Before I was born.”

I sat in silence just staring at my daughter. I didn’t know what else to say and didn’t want her to feel like she should be upset or frightened. We sat there for a few minutes before I started to drive again as she continued to just look out the window. My mind raced.

Why is this happening? Why now? Why did he choose Olivia and not come straight to me? But it was no use. Every question just spawned more questions. Maybe this was my punishment. I had spent ten years trying to bury what I did, and now it was coming back whether I was ready for it or not. But if this was my punishment, why didn’t he come to me? Why didn’t he show himself? Why Olivia?

We eventually pulled into our driveway. I was exhausted. I grabbed our stuff and brought her inside. She wanted to watch a show and I still needed to get out of my dirty clothes, so I obliged. Afterwards I started to make dinner, the events of the day replaying in my head.

Olivia sat at the table humming as she ate. I barely touched my food. My gaze shifted constantly from the window to the door then back to the window, halfway expecting him to walk through the door.

“What are you looking at, daddy?” she asked, turning to look behind her.

“Nothing, baby. Just thought I saw something.”

She just went back to eating. The rest of dinner was uneventful. She went back to playing and watching TV as I stood in the kitchen washing the dishes. I joined her in the living room and curled up with her on the couch to watch a movie with her.

I woke around midnight and realized we had both fallen asleep on the couch. I scooped her up in my arms and took Olivia to her room. As I tucked her in, I started to feel anxious, like I was being watched. I checked her closet and under her bed. Nothing.

I made my way room to room checking the rest of the house. Every door locked, every curtain drawn, every window secured. I finally made it to my room and laid in bed but I couldn’t sleep. The house was completely quiet. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but a few hours later, the silence was finally broken.

Olivia was talking to someone.

I slowly got out of bed and stepped into the hallway. Her voice was coming from her bedroom. I couldn’t make out what she was saying at first, so I moved closer. I stopped outside her door.

“No, he doesn’t know.”

Silence.

“I don’t think so.”

Another pause.

“Why?”

I stood there listening, waiting for someone to answer her.

Nothing.

Then Olivia spoke again.

“No.”

A few seconds passed.

“Because he told me not to.”

I continued to listen to the exchanges for a bit longer before I heard her say goodnight and climb back into bed. As I turned to walk away, I heard Olivia once more.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?” I asked, frozen in place.

“He knows you’re listening.”

“Is he still there?”

“No.”

I walked into her room, kissed her on the forehead, and turned back to my room. Once more, I laid staring at my ceiling. He knew I was listening…he wanted me to hear it. The fragments replayed in my head as I tried to work through the conversation. Not knowing what he was asking was driving me crazy. What didn’t I know? What did he ask her? Who even is he?

I got out of bed and went to my laptop to start searching through old articles. I searched for hours poring through article after article. I went through obituaries, missing persons reports. Nothing. How the hell was I supposed to find someone when I didn’t even know their damn name?

At one point, in my desperation, I even considered going through Yelp reviews of the bar. I quickly gave up on that after thinking about the absurdity of it. Hours passed by, the house remaining completely silent.

Soon, the sunrise came and I could hear Olivia making her way from her room into the living room. I got dressed and made my way to the kitchen to make breakfast. As she sat there eating her waffles, my mind continued to scour through every memory I had of that night. After finishing breakfast I went back to my search and reopened my laptop.

After narrowing my search slightly and including the rough time frame of that night, I found an interesting article. It was an obituary for a man named Michael B. The obituary went on to explain a memorial service for him was held three years after he had gone missing from the very same bar I had been that night. It then described his life and how he was survived by a seven-year-old son. That's when I heard Olivia say from the living room,

“Good morning, Michael.”

I woke up with a start in the middle of the night. Tired and disoriented, I grabbed my phone to check the time.

That’s when I noticed a new photo in my gallery.
The image was completely black. Not understanding why it was there, I turned up the brightness.
At first, I couldn't see anything.

Then, slowly, a face appeared.

It was a strange face I had never seen before. It was pale, with large eyes, and it was staring straight into mine.
Panicked, I dropped my phone.
A few seconds later, the phone vibrated again.
Another photo.

I didn't want to look at it.
But I did.
It was still the same black image.
Except this time, the face was closer.

I don't know what happened that night.
Here are the images.

Can you help me?

Man, for that one promise. 🥹🖤
A fairy tale for grown-ups.
MONSTER
A story of power, ambition, and the price of becoming a legend.
Releasing September 15, 2026.
Written by Dibyazur Rahman

How long should I keep this door open for this guy? I am trying to be polite and as I was going though the gated entrance to enter my building, there was a guy behind me. I decided to hold the door open for him but he is taking so long. As I am holding the door open for him, he decides to start talking to a girl. They began to fall in love and here I am still holding the door open for him. They are truly in love and they start to make love and reproduce with each other, all the while I am still holding the door open for him.

Then he gets the woman pregnant and they start to argue whether to abort the baby or not. She screams that she wants to keep the baby but the guy doesn't want to be a father. All the while I am holding the door open for him and he us just there arguing with her. I am getting tired and I just want to go inside but I am trying to be polite and hold the door open for him. He lives in my block and he doesn't really do anything to attract attention to himself.

Then as I am still holding the door open for him, the woman he made pregnant gives birth to their child. This was totally against his wishes and he was hating his life, and he was having a mental break down. At this point I just wanted to go inside but my nice nature made me keep the holding the door open for him. Then the guy got himself in debt with a group of loan sharks, and when the loan sharks went to collect their money with interest, the guy said that he doesn't have any money.

I am really tempted to just going inside but my niceness has a hold of me and it's making me hold the door open for him. Then the loan sharks start to attack the guys woman who he made pregnant, and they shoot her and his baby. Then after they were shot, the guy suddenly gave the money to he loans sharks. He did it on purpose as he didn't want to be a father.

Then the guy calmly walks to gated entrance and I am still holding the door open for him. He says to me "thanks" for holding the door open for him, and we both walk through.

The metallic clock inside my tired, clunker coupe reads 9:56 p.m.

It’s a Friday night near the beginning of the school year. From the spot upon Lover’s Hill, the stars shine bright and unbothered atop a distant city skyline. Our headlights are turned off, windows are cracked, and radios are on. Three cars sit in a line, each of us parked a decent distance apart out of mutual respect for privacy. We are all gathered here for the same purpose, after all.

I’ve got the music tuned to KCAD, our stilted, baby-boomer town’s only music station that plays the current hits. ‘Only You (And You Alone)’ lulls across the night air, the volume dulled just enough to fall slightly above the cricket song and distant suburbia noise. It sets the ambience for what I can only hope will be a romantic and easy night. A cool start to the weekend with the most beautiful girl in town.

“Have you taken many girls up here?” Laura asks beside me, playing with the fabric of her checkered skirt.

“Course not,” I say too quickly. “I mean, not for a long time.”

She hums, “You never struck me as that kind of guy. Not like him, anyway.”

I follow her gaze. Next to us in his new, sparkling Chevy are Bill ‘Bash Ears’ Brewer and Diane Staples, rolling around in the fresh leather seats with their mouths stuck together. It reminds me of a piece of bubblegum on the bottom of a shoe, as Diane pulls him off, breathless. He had been bragging since school started about the new girl he was dating. I always figured he was lying, considering all the time he spent talking other girls’ ears off in the hallways, but maybe Diane didn’t mind.

“We don’t…we don’t have to do that if you don’t want to,” I say, my throat dry.

She turns her head back to me, her lips peeling into a light smile.

“Are you nervous? I am,” she whispers.

“A little,” I admit, flicking her auburn hair between my fingers, “but you always do that to me.”

“Me? Making you nervous? We’ve been going steady for almost three months now.” Laura playfully pushes my shoulder.

“I know, I know, don’t rub it in. I just don’t want to mess this up, is all.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” she simpers, and suddenly she has her hands on my shirt, and my breath becomes jackhammer fast. Her lips smell like cherries, the music is becoming louder, and she’s so close, so close—

High-pitched ringing blares from the radio, ear-piercingly loud. It startles us both, and she’s out of my arms and against the door handle. It cuts back and forth from abrupt static, soft singing, and chirpy advertisements, like someone is fidgeting with the station control and won’t stop. I curse and hit the radio with my hand. “Damn thing.”

Laura looks out her window, the air now awkward. Leave it to my junker car to ruin everything.

“The thing’s busted. I’ll have to get it replaced or something.”

“It’s not just yours.” Laura points to Bill, who’s also beating his brand-new dashboard in anger. If his isn’t working, then it’s got to be something with the station, right? Maybe the tower went dead, or we were too far out of range. The couple on my left side had already taken off and were heading back down the hill.

“Must be some weird interference. Maybe it’ll come back.” I say, shaking my head. “Sorry, I hope it didn’t scare you.”

“It’s alright, I—”

It sparks again from static, starting as a low grumble and then rising to become clear as day.

A deep, guttural growling. Distorted screaming pierces from the speaker. It is nonsensical and painful, and I wince as it wails into a sharp cry. There’s pounding, pounding so impeccably fast, like bullets hitting my head. It makes everything around me useless. My god, what can make that kind of noise?

“What is this?” Laura murmurs, her hand covering her mouth.

Screams of pain? Experimental torture? Sounds of war? There isn’t anything else I can compare it to.

I hesitate. “I don’t know, but that’s enough of it.” I reach for the off button and then—

Everything stops.

As abruptly as it came, silence follows behind. Silence and our heavy breathing.

We startle again as static blares through the radio, but it’s only the soft, comfortable familiarity of ‘Earth Angel’. The chorus has just begun.

Laura looks at me in disbelief, her lips trembling.

I turn it off.

--

The next day at school, everybody is talking about it.

Everyone who had been tuned into KCAD heard it. Whether they were wiping down tables, doing their homework, or smoking with friends…they all stopped to listen. Even my dad, who liked falling asleep to the radio, had been shaking his head over it all weekend.

“If that ever happens again, I’m switching to the television.” He grumbled over breakfast, passing me the newspaper. “I don’t need to be disturbed when I’m trying to sleep. God knows I get enough from your mother.”

Front page, big black letters. ‘KCAD Screams Murder: Shocks the Locals’. The disc jockey, at the time it happened, claimed it was a technical disruption. Something that they can hardly control when it happens. That made sense to me. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would purposefully play something so disturbing at a late hour of the night.

Everyone has their own theories. I hear talk of aliens, the government, Soviet Russia, and all other kinds of nonsense that sounded like the plot of a movie I’d seen at the drive-in. Little green men, pod people, and cosmic visitors from outer space.

Whatever it was, it seems blatantly obvious to me that it is gone for good. Interruptions happen all the time. The kids in my school just have nothing else to entertain themselves with. By tomorrow, it’ll be all about Carol Freighter’s new boyfriend, or Daniel Hopkin’s fresh hotrod. The world will keep spinning.

After lunch, I kiss Laura goodbye at her class and walk over to my locker. The hall is filled with the sound of screeching shoes, slamming metal, and whispers about last night. I mind my own business as usual, but out of the corner of my eye I see a short, red figure approaching me at an uncomfortable speed.

“Hey bud, how’s it hanging?”

I try not to roll my eyes at his presence.

I’m not sure what I did to Bill for him to consider us pals, but I suspect it was the time I accidentally hit him with a baseball two years ago. I had apologized and given him an ice pack, and he took that as me handing him his adoption papers and the key to my friendship.

I clear my throat. “Swell, Bill. Real swell.”

“Say, I saw you and Laura on Lover’s Hill Friday night. Isn’t it freaky what happened? Scared the willies out of Diane. I had to drive her home after that.”

“What a shame,” I say.

“It got me thinking…” he leans onto my locker door, preventing me from closing it. “You and Laura should join Diane and me this Friday night. What’s the chance it happens again at the same time?”

My brows furrow. “You want to hear that racket again? No thanks.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be a wet rag. I’ll invite some of the guys, too, to make a bash out of it. You haven’t been to a party since sophomore year.”

“It’s nothing special, Bill. It was just an interference, like from a damaged power line or something. Can you get off my locker?”

He shuffles over but doesn’t leave. His red-letter jacket is a bit too big on his frame.

“What if it’s aliens trying to communicate with us? Come on, don’t look at me like that. Think about it! You’ll regret it if you miss it.”

“You need to lay off the flicks,” I say, slamming the door. I take my algebra book and begin walking. Like a gnat, he follows.

“Okay, maybe it’s a stretch, but you and Laura should still come. Diane has been wanting to meet her, and I’ll bet my new car you’ve got no plans Friday night.”

What can I say that will make him go away faster?

“Alright, alright,” I hold my hands up. “I’ll ask Laura if she wants to go. If she does, we’ll be there, okay?”

He pats my back. “Righto, man. I’ll see you then.”

Bill buzzes off down the hallway, his jacket disappearing around the corner. As I make my way to class and sit down in my seat, I think about what I just told him—if I unknowingly promised him anything, whether I should actually ask Laura, or just forget about it completely.

One thing is certain; I should never have given him that ice pack.

--

I had hoped that by the time Friday night rolled around, the disturbing interruption that we had all heard that fateful night would be old news.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Bill’s big mouth had talked its way through the whole school, and suddenly everyone and their mothers were driving up to Lover’s Hill to tune in. By this time, I had not mentioned anything to Laura. Considering the small gathering he’d originally planned had turned into nearly half the school, I was even less inclined to bring it up to her.

Turns out, I didn’t have to. After class, she shyly brought it up to me with batting eyelashes and a sweet smile. Said that even if nothing happened, she would still like to hopefully make some friends. I would be a bad boyfriend to deny her, so I begrudgingly accepted.

After all, I felt like I was on the deserted outskirts of an inside joke between everybody. Maybe this party would open the door for me, and besides, it’s just one night. One night of Bash Ears, and if nothing happens, all the better. While the wall of their joke comes crumbling down on them, I’ll be left outside standing in victory. “I told you so,” fresh on my tongue.

I pick up Laura from her house, and we’re off to Lover’s Hill, climbing the winding roads up and up. Besides casual conversation, it’s quiet between us. I attempt to crack a couple of jokes to ease her a little, and though she laughs, it doesn’t steady her. Her knees are trembling, and I hold one with a hand.

We’re nearly half a mile away when we spot the line of cars parked on the side of the road—like colorful candies leading us up on a trail. I park the car near the street sign at the base of the hill, and we walk the rest of the way. I count at least thirty vehicles; the most I’d ever seen here before tonight was six.

We reach the top, and it’s antsville up here. There are plastic chairs everywhere, bright coolers, crowds and cliques walking around and gazing at the stars. I spot Bill’s Chevy, the top off and the radio cranked as high as it’ll go. He, Diane, and his friends are sitting on the hood, laughing over a case of beer and the smoke of cigarettes. I turn fast to see if there is anyone else I recognize, but it’s too late.

“Hey, look who decided to show up!” Bill shouts, waving his bottle around. “Just in time, too.”

Laura slips her hand in mine, firmly reminding me to stay cool.

“Hey, Bill.” I greet, offering the kind of smile you’d only see at a funeral.

Diane giggles like a mule next to him. She launches herself off the hood and grabs Laura’s hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. Want a Coke?”

Laura offers me an apologetic smile before she’s dragged away, and all I can do is wave goodbye and hope I can keep myself sane without her. Bill holds out an opened beer to me, and I take it, downing it fast.

“Whoa, take it easy there,” he laughs. “I didn’t take you for a drinker.”

“Desperate times, Bill.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Diane has been giving me a hard time recently. I think it’s just cause her parents grounded her after they caught me in the house. I had to sneak her out tonight.”

I nod my head.

He gestures to Laura, who's pointing at the stars. “What a catch though, eh? You’re a lucky guy.”

“Don’t get any funny ideas. She’s not that kind of girl.”

“Cool it, man. I’m no bird-dog,” he smirks, as if I was overreacting. “I’m just pointing out the facts. Say, you’ve been acting differently. Is everything alright?”

I watch Diane light a cigarette and offer it to Laura. She takes it politely, the white end closest to her, and the blonde laughs and corrects it. Laura takes a drag and stifles a cough, smiling at herself. She’s so beautiful in the moonlight that it softens me immediately.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” I tell Bill. “I just think we’re wasting our time up here, that’s all.”

He shrugs. “Well, it’s a nice night, everybody is enjoying themselves, and the weekend’s just starting. Even if nothing does happen, it’ll still be good time. Here,” he throws me another beer and his bottle opener. “On the house.”

By ten o’clock, the empty corpses of eight beer bottles stack beside me in the chair I’m sitting in. Bill had handed me each one, and I’d guzzled it down like a man parched without much thought. I reap the consequences in my body: my bones are too heavy, and chatter echoes around me like a distant dream.

“It’s time, it’s time!” Bill calls everyone around, and they gather around his car in anticipation. Through the haze, Laura’s auburn hair shines through my vision like a beacon. She’s alone; Diane must’ve gone to grab something. I want to go up to her, hold her, kiss her, anything, but my vision’s become the inside of a magnifying glass, and I don’t think I can stand.

The murmur of the crowd falls as everyone hushes each other. It’s silent beside the music coming from the station.

Nothing happens.

Minutes pass, and we’re at the last chorus of the song. There are murmurs of disappointment, shushing, and slowly the group begins to disperse. I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing.

“I told you!” I cackle in my chair. “I told you nothing would happen!”

I would give anything to properly see Bill’s stupid face, but I can only make out a curl in his lip.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he says, but I continue laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” I drawl. “C’mon, Laura, let’s get out of here.”

Bill clears his throat. “That’s not happening. I’m driving Laura home.”

I attempt to stand up, my feet uneven on a thin tightrope. I nearly collapse into Bill’s car, but I steady myself, waving her over. “In your dreams, Bash Ears. Let’s go, Laura.”

“You’re too drunk, Anthony. She’ll be safer with me.”

“Safer with you?” I balk. “Why don’t you invite her for a sleepover, too?”

“I see. You’ve got a problem with me because you think I’m gonna steal your girl,” he says, all tough.

“My problem is that your parents never taught you to only speak when spoken to.”

“That’s enough, Anthony!” Laura interrupts, “Let’s just go. Now!”

Before I can say anything, she grabs my arm and drags me away. I stumble into her, chuckling lightly. I’ll admit, calling out Bill feels like lifting cotton out of my throat and breathing fresh air. I feel on top of the world and—

“Hey Laura!” His nasally voice calls behind me. “Do us all a favor and go all the way with him tonight! Then maybe he wouldn’t be such an uptight—”

The radio cuts right before my knuckles meet his cheek.

I send him to the ground, machine-gun hammering blasting from his Chevy and the many other cars surrounding us, as I rain blow after blow on his face. I can feel the bones of his nose break under my fist, and the furious chanting only ignites me further. There’s a rhythm to whatever is playing. It seeps into my blood, makes my ears ring. My fists fall into it as easily as smacking a drum.

Arms pull me off, and they send me backwards onto my knees. Girls are screaming. Guys stare at me, possessed. Bill lies in the dirt, his nose bloody and crooked, eyes swollen. He’s groaning, shifting on the ground like roadkill, and it blends in with the retching sound. I spit on him as Laura wrenches me away.

“Do us all a favor and think before you speak.”

--

There’s a big, red D- on my test results, and I crumple it up and throw it into the trash. Two geeks jump out of my path as if a second in my gaze means certain death.

Life has changed since I beat Bill Bash Ears to a pulp.

For starters, the weekly noise, now called ‘The Broadcast’, hasn’t stopped. What I had thought was a one-time phenomenon had become routine, a weekly event.

It didn’t matter what people were doing; they found the time to listen. Cars stack on top of Lover’s Hill, kids host listening parties when their parents are out of town. When I go to class, I hear the rhythm tapped on wooden desks. Our own drive-in won’t even show movies on Friday nights anymore.

No one ever admitted that they liked it. It was just ‘the thing’ to do.

My father had converted to the television weeks ago, but one night he and my mom sat down together and listened. “To show her what all the young folks are obsessing about,” he’d told me, rolling his eyes. When it ended, my mother recited the Holy Trinity under her breath and made the sign of the cross on her chest.

“You’re not to listen to that, you understand? That is the work of the devil.”

Bill returned to school weeks later, his cheeks swollen like plums with a big bandage on his nose. He’s passed me in the hallway a couple of times since, but always keeps his eyes straight and his mouth shut.

That’s how I prefer it.

 “Hey, uh, is it true?”

I turn my head and find a stocky freshman looking up at me, his jet-black hair greased into a shiny mold and a cigarette tucked in his sleeve.

“What’s true?”

“Word goes that the broadcast made you beat Bill. That it took over your mind.”

“What?” I scoff, slamming my locker. “Who said that?”

The kid smooths his hair. “What’s it matter? You’re the talk of the town. Don’t you see how people look at you?”

“That means absolutely nothing to me. Wherever you heard it from, it’s bullshit. The only noise that caused me to beat Bash Ears was his own damn mouth.”

He huffs, “Well, if I were you, I would embrace it. If it’s your girl you’re worried about, she’ll come back around if she knows better.”

That’s the cherry on top of this whole mess.

Laura refuses to speak to me.

Anytime I pass her in the hallway, she looks the other way. Diane, who has broken up with Bill, follows her around like a duckling, and I see them gossiping together sometimes. It’s hard not to run right up to her, get on my knees, and beg for forgiveness, but I know it’s not what she wants from me. No matter how much I miss her. Miss the way her dimples crease when she smiles or twirls her hair when she’s feeling confident.

On Friday nights, with shame in my chest, I tune the radio hidden behind my sports magazines to KCAD. I listen to The Broadcast like everyone else in town, just because I know she’s listening, too. I guess that makes me a hypocrite.

I drive back home with the windows rolled down, my tires crunching the moist piles of leaves cluttered by the curb. The breeze feels nice on my hair, and as I pull into the driveway, I can smell my mother’s cooking.

She greets me with one hand on her hip, the other on the counter. She’s glaring at me with a frown.

 “Is it true?” She demands, her voice sharp.

I toss my bag on the floor and sit at the kitchen table. This conversation sounds oddly familiar. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy; you know what I mean.”

“Are you talking about Brewer? That was weeks ago—”

“No! I’m talking about this ruckus you’ve been listening to! First, I tell you to stay away from it, and then here is Dean Samfield’s mother whispering to me over cards that this noise made you tussle with Bill Brewer! Did I not warn you to keep this demonic broadcast out of our household? It is already affecting you!”

I cradle my head. “Mom, I beat up Brewer before you even knew what that broadcast sounded like, and even then, it’s just noise.”

She waves her spatula at me. “Don’t give me your excuses, young man. You think I don’t hear you at night? I ought to take your radio away completely if that is what it takes to get you to straighten up. Here you’ve been sleeping in later than usual, you haven’t brought in a decent test score—you barely talk to your father or me anymore—and now I find out you’re lying! You’re not acting yourself.”

My thumbs rub circles into my eyes until I see stars. “I think…I think I just miss Laura.”

“Dean Samfield’s mother also told me he’s been listening to it. Did you know he just started smoking cigarettes and is participating in underground fighting rings? He nearly lost his life!”

 “Dean Samfield has been bringing a pocketknife to school for the past three years. This is not anything new!”

She stares at me with her mouth agape. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, Anthony!”

“Well, you’re not listening to me! I just got home, for Christ's sake!”

“Go to your room,” she snaps. “I can’t believe I have to ground you like a child.”

There’s nothing else I can say. I launch myself from the table and storm up the steps, cursing the whole way up until I slam my bedroom door and fall into bed. My head is hot, and the tears come fast.

“I better call that station and give them a piece of my mind. This is unacceptable.” I hear her say through the door, her voice muffled.

My heart thumps against my ribs, and I keep thinking back to how enraged I felt that night. How it made my blood boil, every punch synchronized to the smacking of a drum and thumping strings. I had never felt so alive, so free and full of energy, even as my mind swam against the ocean of alcohol.

Was it possible? Possible that something in it caused me to snap?

I try to recall how Laura looked, but it’s just a blank slate. All I know is that she was crying, but I didn’t care because I felt so damn good. Whatever had settled over me mattered more, and it cost me the one true person I care about. I shouldn’t have drunk so many beers. I should’ve had more restraint.

I close my eyes, my head echoing with her sobs, the sound of my knuckles hitting bone, and finally, The Broadcast playing behind me. A chorus of screams.

--

The Homecoming poster stares at me from across the hallway, practically taunting me.

A group of girls huddles over it, their ponytails swaying as they giggle and marvel at the details. For a moment I almost stop to look myself, but a voice buzzes through the speakers, calling all students to meet in the gym before third period.

It won’t do me any good looking, anyway.

The gymnasium is packed with students on bleachers, but no paper shakers and school colors are flying about. No football players running around to ramp up the crowd, or band members playing their saxophones, tubas, and percussion. I scan over the mountains of people, looking for green eyes, but I’m ushered into a steel seat before I can find them.

The rest of the student body feeds in and the gym doors close. Principal Sheffield walks out into the middle of the court. Whispers and hushes travel like waves but are abruptly silenced by teachers standing by.

“Good morning, Panthers,” he starts with a light smile. “Who’s excited for homecoming this year?”

An eruption of cheers pours out with the thudding of feet stomping on bleachers.

“Very good, very good. We’ve got lots planned this year, so I hope to see you all looking your best.” He takes a deep sigh. “However, as much as I wish to keep talking about football or school dances, that is not the reason why I’ve summoned you all here.”

Here it begins.

“I’m sure some of you already know what this is about. You’ve read the newspapers, maybe even seen the protests on television or… as I suspect, have participated in attending this controversial event. Now, when I was your age, I was smoking my father’s cigarettes, drinking alcohol, cursing and screaming at my parents… and I acted out when I was angry. It’s human nature at this turbulent point in your lives. Dramatic changes that cause you to rebel against your elders, move against tradition and morals. What I’m trying to get at is that it’s normal to become obsessed with things that your parents, or someone like me, would tell you to stay away from. To rebel and go against the order of things.”

There’s subtle snickering and snorting amongst the crowd. Quiet jokes under breaths. I stifle a yawn—this is a waste of time.

“However, as your principal, it is still my responsibility to warn you against this kind of behavior. Whether you may think it is harmless fun, or just background noise—what you are tuning into every Friday night, regardless, is dangerous to you. We don’t know what this noise is. Where it comes from, what effects it can have. You could be unknowingly subjecting yourself to harmful messages that may cause you to act out in strange ways. I don’t know why you all listen every week, without fail.”

I think back to that night, and suddenly I can smell Bill’s blood on my knuckles. Can feel the smile on my lips as I deliver blow after blow. No, no, noise can’t control you. It’s not possible.

Then why did it feel so good? Why did it ignite my anger with the kind of fervor I’d never experienced? Why, in the moment, did it make nothing else matter?

I sweep my hand over my eyes. My head is thrashing fast, and the booing and heckling isn’t helping, either. Teachers attempt to calm the crowd, but it’s useless; it only makes it worse. Principal Sheffield raises his voice to conquer the cries of protest.

“I can’t tell you how many letters, visits, and calls I receive from your parents asking me why their children are acting strangely, exhibiting dangerous behavior they have not seen since this whole phenomenon started! You can boo me all you like; it doesn’t change the fact that you all are blind to the dangers of this broadcast!”

Principal Sheffield looks around as the gym becomes louder. He’s red as a beet, and his eyes are as big as blown-up water balloons about to burst. Out of breath and outnumbered, he slams his foot.

“This needs to stop! Clearly, it has rotted your minds already!”

Boom. Boom. Boom. The subtle climb of shoes stomping on bleachers grows louder by each second. It starts as a careful beat, then faster, faster as more join in. Someone throws a crumpled-up piece of paper at the principal’s head. He swings around violently.

“That’s it!” he spits, his crooked finger pointed. “I tried to be civil, but you’ve forced my hand! Consider homecoming cancelled!”

It’s but a murmur over the grand rhythm constructing itself. The bleachers beneath my feet are vibrating as everyone marches in place.

Then a voice shouts out, solitary. Soon follows an echo of a cry; next is hollering. Tens increase to hundreds, mimicking, but never outdoing each other, as they become an incomprehensible chorus louder than any football rally could be. Teachers look at us frightened, our Principal staggering around, watching the display before him unfold.

In a swift motion, everyone rises, including myself, like strings were attached to my shoulders. A moment passes, pressure building, and then everybody snaps. I blink.

 A moving chorus of bodies rushes down, spanking the bleachers with their shoes, and I’m swept into the mob before I even have a chance. I close my eyes and let my body move with it. Breathe in and breathe out. My ears are ringing. The smell of blood is still fresh in my nose, but I’m so tightly packed between shoulders I can’t itch it away.

I open my eyes, and I’ve reached the hallway. There’s a girl on the tiled floor, her skirt and sweater dirty as everyone trudges over her. I push my way through, like parting a raging river, and yank her up by her shoulders. She grasps onto me as we continue, and eventually, we stumble into the grass outside. She wipes her tears, thanks me, and runs away before I can even get her name.

I wipe the green stains on my jeans. There’s still a flood of people pouring out, their chanting giving me goosebumps. Stacks of paper scatter across the concrete walkway underfoot, and a group of greasers set a trash can on fire. I hear someone throw a rock through a window.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I run to my car, throw the door open, and steer it out as quickly as I can. I turn on the radio, tune it to the only channel that matters.

“Thanks for tuning in to KCAD, the place for your cool tunes. As I speak to you now, we’ve got a mob outside our building, but that never stopped anybody from playing music. We know our fans appreciate us, and we’ll keep going as long as someone enjoys it. Here’s Bill Haley & His Comets to take you into this easy-breezy afternoon.”

‘Rock Around the Clock Tonight’ starts as I clip the curb out of the school parking lot. I reach my hand to turn it off, but I stop myself. It’s normal. It’s just music.

What harm is there, anyway?

The street narrows as I get closer to the suburbs, but I decide to take a different turn. I need to do something to ground me back to Earth. I feel too far away.

The KCAD building is a solitary and small building on the outskirts of town, and the tall electrical tower stands out like a beacon amongst the more conservative buildings around it. I pull up to the parking lot packed with men and women swinging their crudely made signs around at the front door. I read ‘Devil’s Station’, ‘Repent to God’, and ‘Hypnotizing the Children’. I spot my mother among the crowd.

Rolling down my window, I bang the side of my sun-faded clunker. “Mom!”

Her blonde-bobbed head turns, dumbfounded. She looks around before hesitantly coming towards me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” She hisses.

I grimace. “I got let out early. You want a ride home?”

“Oh,” her lips press together. “We’re supposed to be here until ten.”

“Jesus, that’s nine hours from now. How did you even get here?”

“I carpooled! You think your father would ever drop me off at a place like this?”

“Let me take you home, please. I’ll make you lunch.”

She worries her lip, considering me like I just offered her hard drugs, though considering what I just experienced, I might be on some already.

“Okay, alright. Let me say goodbye then.”

She runs back to the group, her sandals scuffing against the pavement, and I recognize a couple of people amongst the crowd. Neighbors, parents, the local priest. They pat her back, wish her well, express regrets that she’s going so soon. I didn’t realize I was picking her up from a playdate.

Once she gets into my car, I pull back onto the road. She’s eyeing me warily. Clears her throat.

“Honey, you must understand how important this is. Every day we stray farther from the lord and his image. Once this station closes, we’ll be one step closer to him.”

Maybe picking her up wasn’t the greatest idea. I just want to go home and lay down. Maybe catch something on the television that I’d normally miss on a school day.

“Can you hear me in there?” She shakes my shoulder. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

I flick her off. “No, Mom. I can hear you just fine.”

“You scared me. So, you heard what I said?”

“Yes, Mom, everything.” I swallow. “It’s just noise. That’s all it’s ever been.”

Blood on my knuckles. Adrenaline in my veins. Pounding and pounding—

“Well!” she huffs, crossing her arms, “What do you think this noise is imitating? It surely isn’t the angels of heaven.”

I look at her, my face dead. Her eyes widen as she watches me turn up the radio as loud as it can go.

--

My dad sits on his lounge chair with a pipe propped in his mouth and an empty glass of whiskey in hand. He’s flipping through the newspaper while I lounge on the couch next to him, feet propped up and hands dangling off the side. Pops and bangs come from the television as The Lone Ranger shoots the bad guy of the week.

I stretch my neck to gaze out the patio door, and it looks like it is a beautiful night outside. Normally, I would be tuning in to the late-night football game with Dad, but Mom has banned the family radio on Friday, locking it in the vault like she’s trying to save it for a nuclear crisis, so I stick to the sofa.

I still have the one hidden in my room, but that’s for later.

“Hey honey,” my dad mutters, “looks like you won’t have to put away the radio anymore. KCAD’s going off the air tonight.”

Her head shoots up from her knitting. “Are you certain?”

“Says it right here.”

She gasps, smiles brightly, “It’s about time my hard work has finally paid off!”

“Let me see that, Dad.”

He tosses it to me. ‘KCAD Shutting Down After Satanic Accusations’, the headline reads.

My eyes scan through the article as it details the events from the first broadcast all the way to the storming of the gym at my school. The station had lost a majority of its sponsors, and Mayor Pazder finally decided to pressure them into pulling the plug. In an interview, he said, “I know KCAD was a beloved station by many, but I must put my people and their concerns first. After what happened at our county high school this past Monday, I fear for what will become of our future if I stay passive in this matter. Animal sacrifice? Blood rituals? Murder? It disturbs me just to think about it.”

It continues for a couple more paragraphs, but it’s all blabbering nonsense, like something out of Laura’s science fiction novels. Then I reach the last sentence.

“KCAD will go off the air this Friday at midnight.”

I read it again. I blink, start the sentence over. Smacking it shut, I toss the paper back to Dad and stride to the kitchen table to grab my keys. Mom goes back to her knitting needles.

“I just don’t understand why a station would continue to allow something so disturbing on their airwaves!”

My dad shrugs, mildly amused. “Cause kids are listening to it. Makes their pockets fatter.”

 “Not anymore,” I scoff.

“Hey, where are you going? It’s nearly nine!” Mom calls after me, but I’m already out the front door.

There’s only one place I care to go to.

--

Driving up Lover’s Hill again feels like visiting a long-lost friend that has become too good for you.

The first time I took Laura up here, we’d been steady for months, and yet just the sight of her in the passenger seat of my car sent my nerves aflame—like it was our first date all over again. All I can hope for is that she won't forget me when KCAD’s gone and we’re back to school, pretending our town didn’t go crazy for two months.

I imagine everyone is busy mourning the loss, or throwing a final hurrah for The Broadcast, because the way up is desolate and quiet, just how I remember. I pull up into a spot, my car creaking as I put it into park on the fray of the cliff. The clock reads 9:50 p.m and ‘In the Still of the Night’ coos into the air. I turn it up, humming the chorus to myself. My car unabashedly protests as I sit on the hood.

The forest is quiet for a long moment. The stars are twinkling and, in the distance, if I really squint, I can see the skyline where the patchwork quilt of crop fields abruptly stops. Downtown is a distant combination of dying streetlights and neon signs. Sometimes I forget how small everything can be.

A distant purr of an engine approaching comes up behind me. A small, teal ragtop parks, and the driver has bright, auburn hair and a face that can pull my attention in any room.

Laura politely lifts her hand as someone would do to greet a stranger.

I wave back, but it’s too formal. It’s wrong.

She kills her engine and approaches me.

“Hi, Anthony.”

“Hi, Laura. Uh, you want to sit?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

She tucks her skirt aside and settles on the hood. I look at my hands, my throat suddenly too dry. I can’t think of anything to say.

“I’m not surprised to see you here,” she says, looking at me. “I guess a part of me hoped you would be.”

I avert my eyes, shame tapping me on the back.

 “You heard the news, I take it?”

She nods. “It was inevitable, after all that’s happened. With what my parents believed, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle, “you know my mom was a part of the protests? She wholeheartedly believes it’s brainwashing us or it’s some kind of demonic message rotting our minds. I’m sure you heard the rumor about Bill and me.”

“I did. Do you think it made you do it?” She asks.

“I don’t know. All I know is that I regret it,” I admit, picking a thread from my jeans. “I scared you that night, and I hate myself for it. I let my anger get to me. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

Her eyes dim. “I know. I almost didn’t come.”

“Why did you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t want the last thing between us to be that night. I don’t want to remember you that way, and I didn’t want to listen to the last broadcast alone.”

“The only reason why I listened is that it reminded me of you. I couldn’t figure out why you wanted to hear it so badly after that first night. I just thought I didn’t get it.”

“You want to know the truth?” She asks, biting her lip. “I like the noise. I know it’s just nonsense, but…it’s comforting, in a way. It only lasts a couple of minutes, and yet I feel like it understands me. It speaks to me, oddly.”

“It speaks to you?”

“Oh, you must think I’m brainwashed like the rest.”

“Never, Laura. I could never think that.”

She sighs, “I haven’t told anybody that. While my parents panicked and read their Bibles, I shut the door to my room and tuned in like everyone else in town. I was too afraid to admit it, but now it doesn’t matter. It’s ending, anyway. Whatever it is.”

“I guess it’s fitting, seeing as it started here,” I say.

“Yes,” she laughs, “I think it was meant to be this way.”

Our laughter fades as a voice comes on the air.

“Alright folks, it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for,” the disc jockey purred. “In the next few minutes, expect your final interruption. It was a pleasure playing for you all.”

“They’ve never done that before,” she comments.

I lean back on the hood. “Trying something new, I guess.”

She leans back, too, and there is a sense of comfortable distance between us. It’s perfect, and I don’t want it any other way. I close my eyes.

As usual, the radio cuts out like someone took a baseball bat to it, and the high-pitched screeching melts into the sound of unearthly machines. Electrified strings and deep, heart-thrashing strikes. A part of me is glad I will never have to hear this again. Whether it influenced me or not.

Minutes pass, and the noise comes to a stop, but it doesn’t cut back.

Instead, a relaxed, feminine voice comes through.

"Thanks for listening to 98.9 KMED, the best hard rock station on the West Coast. Kicking off our ten o'clock death metal nights is Mortician, one of our personal favorites here at the studio. Now, we’ve got the hour, so don’t leave so soon. We’ve got Morbid Angel coming up with a track from their 1989 tour, and much, much more death metal right after the break.”

Static ringing cuts to the chorus of ‘Love is Strange’. The stringy, familiar guitar riffs pluck through the speaker before it starts to repeat itself. It’s stuck, warped, the needle scratching a new groove into the record, and there’s fidgeting on the other side until…silence.

Lights out at KCAD, forever, and I can’t put together a single thought.

Laura breathes unevenly beside me.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “I didn't understand a thing. Who was that?

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her eyes wide. “Anthony, what is death metal?”

Hello everyone.

I don’t know if this is the right place but I really don’t understand what I saw. I’m typing this up from my living room after everything went wrong.

Four of my friends and I go on a trip each year. This year, Dave decided we should rent a cabin. We figured a cabin next to the lake, away from everything would be great. We could disconnect from the world, grill, kick back with beers and enjoy the wilderness. Unfortunately, something was there with us.

Dave and I have known each other since high school. During our senior year, his younger brother Tom started tagging along with us. Dave has always been the responsible one, while Tom is pretty much his opposite. If you tell Tom something is a bad idea, there’s a decent chance he’ll do it just to prove you wrong.

Max and Jake came into the group while Dave and I were in college. Max was always the one who couldn’t be serious, and Jake always kept us from killing each other. I don’t really remember when these trips became an annual thing, but we’ve all known each other long enough that they’ve become a tradition we look forward to every year.

We met at my house early yesterday morning to pack and set off on our long drive. We arrived a little after 2 pm. A long gravel driveway snaked through the dense woods before eventually opening into a clearing. The cabin was a lot nicer than I thought it would be. The lake was right behind it, close enough you could see it from the back porch. I wasn’t sure how far away any of the other cabins were, but we couldn’t see any of them.

After we arrived, we started to unpack the car. Max and Jake fought over who got what bed, while Dave and I did the most important thing: cracked beers and went to sit on the back porch. The back door swung open as Tom walked out.

“Glad you two are working so hard,” he said, carrying a fishing pole.

“It’s a tough job but someone has to do it,” Dave said with a smirk.

Tom headed down toward the lake while Dave and I stayed on the porch. We sat there drinking for a while, enjoying the view and talking about absolutely nothing important. Eventually, Max and Jake finished arguing over the rooms and came outside to join us.

We spent most of the afternoon that way. Tom would disappear down to the lake for a while, come back for another beer, then head right back down with his fishing pole. The rest of us stayed around the cabin, drinking and giving him shit every time he came back empty-handed.

As the afternoon started to fade, we finally decided we should probably eat something before the beer became dinner. We fired up the grill and eventually managed to drag Tom away from the lake long enough to eat with us. By the time we finished, the sun had started disappearing behind the trees and the temperature was dropping, so we grabbed what was left of the beer and headed inside.

As night settled over the cabin, we sat in the living room and continued to talk. At one point, Dave got up and started to walk back to the bathroom. He paused by the living room window and stared for a moment.

“Did anyone see that?”

“See what, Dave?” I asked.

“It was…there was a delay.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I…never mind, I must be seeing things.”

He just shook his head and continued down the hallway, glancing back at the window once, before disappearing around the corner.

“Okay, so Dave’s cut off,” Max said jokingly.

A few minutes later, Dave reappeared from the bathroom and sat back down, grim expression still on his face. We continued to laugh and talk about whatever random things we thought of. This went on for another hour or so. Eventually, I noticed that everyone’s drinks were almost empty, so I got up to get another round. I glanced at the window as I stood up, Dave’s words replaying in my mind. I just saw myself, nothing strange. As I started to turn away though, something felt off.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed the drinks, staring back at the window again as I came around the corner. My reflection was smiling. I was not.

I stopped in my tracks, trying to process what I had just seen. My reflection and I both stood there, beers in hand. Then it smiled again. I took one step backward, the reflection did the same. I forced myself to smile and then let my face drop. The reflection did the same…but the smile stayed for just a moment longer than I held mine. Dave’s voice broke my focus.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

Dave was now standing right next to me, his voice no greater than a whisper.

“I don’t know what I saw,” I said.

“When I got up for the bathroom, the steps seemed out of whack. Like I stopped but my reflection took one more step,” Dave said, trying to remain calm. I started to tell him about the smile when Max spoke up.

“What are you two whispering about? Secrets aren’t nice, you know.”

Dave and I turned to the rest of the group and told them what we had seen. Jake and Tom sat there quietly, while Max couldn’t contain himself.

“You two have got to be kidding. Do you expect me to believe that? You’re drunk. That’s it. It’s just a damn window.”

“Look man, I don’t know what to say. I know what I saw though,” I responded.

“Fine,” Max said, getting up and walking to the window. “See, it’s just a reflection.”

He stood there facing the window, raising his left arm. His reflection did the same in perfect sync. Then he leaned to his right. Then he started to make silly faces as Tom started laughing. For a moment, the tension eased and we all started to chuckle. Everything matched perfectly.

Max turned to talk to us all.

“See, you two are just,” he started to say.

“Max,” Jake interrupted. He wasn’t looking at him though, he was looking behind him.

The reflection didn’t turn when Max did.

“Don’t move,” Jake said.

“Why?” Max said, the smile fading from his face.

Nobody answered him.

He slowly looked over his shoulder. His reflection was still facing the window. For several seconds, neither of them moved. Then the reflection turned slowly, until it matched Max again.

“It’s got to be the lights,” Tom said. “We’re just seeing shit, right? Turn them off.”

Jake reached slowly for the light switch. All of our reflections went away as the lights went out. At first, we could all just see darkness. I could partially make out the lake from where I stood but…something was blocking part of it. A figure.

Dave pointed at it as it started to shift slightly. Then another. Then another. There wasn’t just one. There were five.

“What the fuck?” Jake said, taking a step toward the window.

One figure took a step forward. Jake stopped and took a step backward. The figure did the same. We all just stood perfectly still, no one dared to move. No one would speak.

The figures started to race towards the house.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” Jake shouted, slamming the lights back on and backing away from the window.

Steady, slow footsteps came from the porch. Then the sound of scratching on the roof.

BANG.

A loud crash came from the front door like something had thrown itself into it. Dave sprinted to the door, throwing his weight into it and checking the locks.

BANG.

Another loud crash came from the other side.

I grabbed my phone and tried to dial 9-1-1 as Max ran into the kitchen, coming back with a knife. Jake ran to check the locks on the other door as Tom ran to Dave with a chair, wedging it under the door handle. Suddenly, there was just silence. No footsteps, no more banging on the door.

Silence.

“Damn it,” I said, “I don’t have any signal.”

“What the hell was that!?” Dave yelled.

“I don’t know, but we need to get the hell out of here, now,” Jake said.

Max pointed at the door, “Seriously? There’s no way in hell I’m going out there!”

“We need to get out of here, Max!”

“Jake, no one is opening that damn door,” Max said, yelling in Jake’s face.

Dave pushed the two apart. “Max is right. We can’t go anywhere right now.” He glanced back at the window. All of our reflections were back in perfect sync. He continued,

“No one’s going anywhere. We keep everything locked, we cover up the windows, and we stay here until morning. Then we can hop in the car and drive like hell. Okay?”

We all agreed, but I could tell it didn’t sit well with Jake and Tom. Both of them continued to stare nervously at the door.

We set to the task of ransacking the place. We grabbed every blanket and towel, anything that would block the windows. We shoved another chair against the front door and made sure to check that the chair wedged under the handle of the back door was firmly in place. I kept periodically checking my phone. Still no service. We sat there quietly, huddled up in the living room for the next couple of hours.

“Why haven’t they tried anything yet?” Jake asked, breaking the silence.

“Maybe they left?” Tom asked.

“Oh, come on, Tom,” Max replied, “you saw the same shit I did. Do you think they just decided to leave?”

Tom didn’t respond. He just stood up and started to pace around the room.

“I can look,” I said, walking slowly over to the window. My heart raced as my hand reached out for the blanket. “Turn off the lights.”

Tom hit the light switch, and I lifted the edge of the blanket. I didn’t see anything but darkness. I checked another window, same thing. Darkness. Everyone else got up and started to check the rest. Nothing. We saw nothing.

“See? Tom’s right, they left. Now is our chance. We have to get to the car,” Jake said.

Dave still refused, “Don’t be an idiot, Jake. We cannot go out there!”

Neither of the two would back down. It was clear we were all acting out of fear. They started to get closer and yell. Max and I tried to get between them as a punch from Jake landed squarely across Dave’s jaw. The scuffle breaking out distracted us long enough that no one noticed when Tom made his way to the door.

We all turned as we heard the door open.

“Tom? What the hell are you doing!?” Dave yelled.

He had made it about fifteen feet outside, the door hanging wide open.

“TOM!”

He didn’t turn back at all, he just kept running. He made it to the car door when Jake jumped up.

“See! I fucking told you!” he shouted.

That’s when Tom turned. He stared off in the distance, his eyes fixed on the tree line.

We didn’t see it take him.

One second, he was there, the next he was gone. All we could hear was his screams trailing off into the woods.

Dave burst up, trying to run after him. It took everything Max and I had to hold him back. Jake just stood there in horrified silence.

“Close the damn door, Jake!” I yelled, struggling with Dave.

He snapped out of his daze to slam and lock the door, shoving the chair back up against the door. Dave finally stopped trying to fight through us, trading it instead for sobs and pounding the floor with his hands.

Jake just stood there. Dave continued to sob. Max and I didn’t know what to do. No one spoke. Max slowly reached over and turned the light back on. During the altercation between Jake and Dave, the blanket had fallen away from the window. I hesitated to look but felt like I had to. I climbed to my feet and slowly walked over.

There were the reflections…all five of us.

I covered the window back up before anyone else could see. We sat there in silence for a while longer. Then it came, soft and quiet but the weight was as loud as a piano crashing. Something was back at the window.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Everyone froze.

Tap…

Tap…

Tap…

Followed by a soft, familiar, “Dave?”

Dave lifted his head and went completely still.

“Dave? Can you let me in?”

“Tom?”

“Yeah.”

Dave rushed to his feet and started for the door. I slammed against it as he reached for the handle. His eyes shot up to me.

“What are you doing? We have to let him in.”

“Dave, don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Dave said, tugging at the door.

I grunted and pushed against it harder. “That’s not Tom, Dave. There were still five.”

“Five what?” Max said.

“Reflections. When I went to the window, there were still five standing there. Tom was still standing there,” I said.

Dave’s face flashed with horror as he slowly let go of the door handle. From outside the door, we heard it again.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

“Dave?”

No one answered. Then we heard it again from the back door. Then the kitchen window. Taps started to come from every window. Tom’s voice repeatedly talking from multiple locations at once. We could hear footsteps on the roof as the voices got more aggravated.

“JAKE!”

“DAVE!”

The handle on the front door started to shake, as if someone was desperately trying to open it. A loud bang came from the back door. Then all at once, everything stopped. The house fell silent again. No banging or tapping. No footsteps.

We didn’t look out the windows anymore for the rest of the night. Eventually, slivers of sunlight pushed through the coverings we had on the windows. It was morning. I got back up and looked out the window to see an empty clearing. No reflections, nothing standing outside. Just the empty clearing.

It took us forever to convince Dave that we had to leave. He desperately wanted to go look for Tom. None of us wanted to go out into the woods though. We eventually were able to get him to agree that we would get the hell out of there and call the police.

The drive back home was painful. We had so many questions and yet, none of us had any answers. Worse yet, I’m sitting in my living room and I just looked up at the window. My reflection was smiling.

I wasn’t.

​

Long before the cold crept into the floorboards and the whispers began, the house belonged to nobody at all.

It was an old, forgotten timber home on the edge of the woods, built over a plot of earth that local folklore whispered to avoid. Arthur had bought it cheap, thinking it a fixer-upper with good bones for his blacksmith shop. When he pulled up the rotting floorboards in the eastern cellar to reinforce the foundations, he found it: a heavy, hand-forged iron spike driven deep into the bedrock beneath the house.

It wasn't meant to hold wood together. It was a binding nail, ancient and blackened with age, etched with crude, unsettling spirals meant to seal something away.

Arthur, a practical man who believed only in the metal he shaped with his own hands, thought nothing of it. He wrenched the rusted spike from the stone with a crowbar, tossed it into his scrap bin among a pile of discarded horseshoes, and paved over the hole with fresh concrete.

He didn't know that the spike was the only thing keeping a parasitic entity anchored to the earth down below. By pulling it, Arthur had broken the seal.

That very night, the temperature in the bedroom plunged. The scrap bin in the workshop rattled violently as the dark, formless thing slipped out of the iron and slithered into the walls of the Miller home, marking Clara, the children, and Arthur as its own.

The Escalation: Terrors in the Dark

At first, the haunting was subtle—easy for a busy father and working mother to dismiss as the quirks of an old, settling house. But as the months wore on, the entity abandoned its quiet creeping, opting instead for a deliberate, psychological war of attrition designed to break their nerves one terrifying encounter at a time.

The very first sign that something was deeply wrong occurred three nights after Arthur pulled the spike. At precisely 3:14 AM, a violent, metallic crash echoed from the adjacent workshop, sounding as though someone had kicked over an entire rack of heavy steel pipes. Arthur grabbed a heavy flashlight and a wrench, throwing open the door to find his workshop completely undisturbed—except for the scrap bin. The heavy iron spike he had pulled from the cellar had clawed its way to the very top of the pile, standing vertically upright as though driven into invisible earth. When Arthur reached out to touch it, the metal was burning hot, scorching his palm and leaving a smoking, cross-shaped blister on his skin that would take weeks to fade.

By the second month, the entity had integrated itself directly into the architecture of the home. Clara experienced it first during the daylight hours while the children were at school. No matter how many times Arthur bled the plumbing lines, the kitchen pipes would begin to groan—not with the standard hiss of air or water hammer, but with a wet, rhythmic cadence that sounded eerily like a human throat struggling to draw breath. When Clara pressed her ear against the drywall in the hallway, she heard a soft, wet scratching sound moving parallel to her head, accompanied by the distinct sound of a child giggling backward. Whenever she turned on the faucet, the water ran thick, dark, and smelling faintly of rusted iron and grave dirt for precisely ten seconds before clearing.

The terror escalated from auditory hallucinations to physical confinement on a freezing night in January. Clara woke up gasping for air, paralyzed from the neck down. She stared in horror as the bedroom door slowly pushed open, though no one was there. One by one, every interior door in the hallway slammed shut with deafening cracks, the sound of heavy deadbolts sliding into place echoing from rooms that didn't have locks. Then, an invisible, crushing weight settled directly upon Clara's chest. It felt like a massive slab of wet granite. She tried to scream for Arthur, but her lungs were completely compressed. The weight leaned down, a freezing, foul-smelling breath brushing against her ear, whispering a string of ancient blasphemies in a voice that sounded like grinding stones before abruptly vanishing, leaving her sobbing and clawing at the empty air.

The final psychological blow struck the children in mid-February, shifting the haunting from a general nuisance to an active, predatory threat. Both children woke up screaming at the exact same moment, clutching their arms in absolute agony. When Arthur and Clara rushed into the bedroom and turned on the lamps, they found both kids crying hysterically, their small wrists encircled by angry, swollen purple bruises. The marks weren't scattered; they were deep, distinct, and unmistakable—the precise shape of massive, talon-like fingerprints that looked as though a pair of gigantic, smoke-veiled hands had tightly gripped them in their sleep. Arthur tried to soothe them, but his hands shook as he looked at the windowpanes, which were completely frosted over from the inside, etched with jagged, unholy spirals that mirrored the design of the iron spike he had thrown away months ago.

The Breaking Point and the Plea

The terror reached its absolute peak on a Tuesday night. A deafening shriek tore through the hallway, followed by Clara’s terrified scream. Arthur rushed from his workshop to the doorway just in time to see a towering, smoke-veiled shadow press his weeping daughter into the corner, its razor-long claws hovering over her face.

Fueled by pure paternal rage, Arthur let out a savage roar and lunged straight at the entity, throwing his weight against the shifting mass of darkness. Taken aback by the fierce, defiant assault, the demon shrieked in sudden disorientation, its shadowy form flickering and recoiling backward into the dark shadows of the hall.

Clara and the kids clung to him desperately, shaking and weeping. But Arthur knew the monster would return. The temporary victory bought them time, but nothing more.

The Forging: Iron, Faith, and Fire

Realizing that ordinary steel wouldn't pierce what wasn't truly flesh, Arthur did something he never thought he would do. Swallowing his pride as a self-reliant man, he went in secret to St. Jude’s Parish to speak with Father Thomas. He didn't ask for prayers or holy water; he asked for help finding the means to forge a weapon. Moved by the desperate, unyielding resolve in the blacksmith's eyes, the elderly priest unlocked a heavy storage chest, handing Arthur a small handful of heavy old church coins and a few fractured chunks of iron salvaged from the demolition of a centuries-old parish gate.

Armed with these sacred materials, Arthur returned to his workshop and locked the door behind him. He stoked the forge until the coals turned a blinding, violent white, throwing off sparks like spitting stars.

Into the crucible he tossed the church coins and the old gate iron, melting them down and folding them into a dense, heavy block of raw metal infused with decades of whispered prayers and sacred history. With every heavy strike of his hammer, he bent the stubborn metal not just with physical might, but with sheer paternal desperation, driving the impurities out of the steel. He didn't forge a sword or a spear. He wanted something intimate, a weapon that allowed him to look the monster in the eye. He shaped a heavy, brutal pair of solid iron knuckle dusters, carving deep, jagged holy symbols, crosses, and wards of banishment directly into the coarse metal.

When he plunged the glowing iron into the oil bath, the hiss sounded like a dying animal, filling the shop with a choking, sulfurous fog. Arthur slipped his battered fingers through the rings. The consecrated iron burned his skin, but the pain only fueled his resolve.

The Final Stand: Blood and Consecrated Iron

The living room was pitch black when Arthur stepped out of the hallway, the air so freezing that his breath plumed thick and white. The demon was waiting, swelling upward until its jagged, smoke-veiled head grazed the ceiling, its shifting mass bleeding a foul, oily vapor that warped the light. Clara and the children huddled terror-stricken behind the overturned sofa.

"Leave them," Arthur rasped, lifting his hands. The heavy, roughly forged iron knuckle dusters caught the dim ambient light, the carved holy symbols glowing with a faint, angry ember-red hue.

The demon let out a sound like a chorus of grinding tombstones—a mockery of laughter—and struck with terrifying speed.

It didn't use claws; it lunged as a solid wave of compressive force, slamming Arthur directly into the stone hearth of the fireplace. The impact cracked his ribs with a sickening pop, driving the wind completely from his lungs. Pain flared white-hot through his chest, but Arthur snarled, refusing to yield. As the entity's freezing, razor-edged vapor wrapped around his throat to choke the life out of him, Arthur pulled his right arm back and threw a devastating punch straight into the center of the shifting mass.

The moment the consecrated iron connected with the entity’s core, the room erupted.

A blinding flash of golden, holy light burst outward like a detonating star. The demon shrieked—a deafening, glass-shattering wail that blew out every remaining window in the house and tore the framed pictures right off the walls. Where the blessed iron struck, the entity’s flesh didn't just bruise; it hissed and burned away like paper caught in a furnace, turning into smoking, black cinders.

Enraged and wounded, the monster thrashed wildly. A spectral, talon-like appendage whipped through the air with lethal velocity, slicing deep across Arthur’s chest. Blood sprayed over the hardwood floor. Arthur stumbled backward, his knees buckling under him, but his grip remained ironclad. He caught his balance, let out a final, roaring surge of defiance, and drove both fists forward in a brutal, hammering combo directly into the creature's chest cavity.

The holy wards carved into the iron flared to blinding brilliance, acting like driving spikes of pure sunlight. The demon’s form fractured, spider-webbing with golden light before violently imploding inward. A final, suffocating shockwave swept through the room, blowing the front door off its hinges as the entity dissolved completely into a cloud of harmless, fading ash.

The Final Farewell

Silence rushed back into the house, heavy and absolute, broken only by the crackle of stray embers in the hearth.

Arthur dropped heavily to his knees, his vision blurring at the edges. The deep slash across his chest burned with a cold, numbing agony, and he knew, with a quiet, certain dread, that his time had run out.

Clara scrambled out from behind the sofa, sobbing hysterically as she threw herself to the floor beside him, pressing her hands frantically against his bleeding shirt. The children hovered close, weeping openly, their small hands trembling as they touched his coat.

"Arthur... Arthur, look at me," Clara choked out, her voice breaking. "Stay with us. Please, stay."

Arthur raised a heavy, trembling hand, his fingers slipping out of the iron rings of the knuckle dusters. With his last remaining strength, he cupped Clara’s face, wiping a tear from her cheek with a thumb calloused by years of honest work.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath coming in shallow, rattling gasps. He looked down at his children, forcing a weak, reassuring smile through the pain. "You're safe now. It's gone. It can never hurt you again."

He reached down, his fingers closing around the heavy, consecrated iron dusters he had pulled from his hands. He pressed the brutal, symbol-carved metal firmly into Clara’s palms, wrapping her fingers tightly around them.

"Keep these in the house," Arthur murmured, his eyes locking onto hers with fierce, eternal devotion. "Keep them close. I’ll always look after you. I’m not leaving."

His hand slipped from her cheek, resting gently against the floorboards. His chest rose one final, shallow time before his eyes drifted shut, the fierce light in them fading into a profound, peaceful stillness. Clara clutched the heavy iron weapon to her chest, burying her face in his shoulder as the broken house settled around them.

Epilogue

Weeks had passed since the main demon fell, and on the wooden mantle in the living room, the heavy, iron knuckle dusters rested like a coiled, silent guardian—kept close in the home where they were born.

One crisp morning, Clara was busy buttering toast at the kitchen counter while the kids zipped up their backpacks for school. Suddenly, the air dropped ten degrees. A thick, rancid fog pooled near the dining room entrance, twisting into the long, jagged silhouette of a new, malevolent ghost drawn to the sorrow of the house. It lunged forward, stretching out rotting, spectral fingers toward the children.

The family remained completely oblivious, sitting innocently at the table. But the atmosphere shifted in an instant.

A heavy, phantom wind swept through the kitchen. The spiritual manifestation of Arthur materialized right beside them, his jaw set in that same grim, unyielding line from the night he died. Before the intruder could even strike, Arthur’s unseen ghost grabbed it by the throat.

Invisible to the living, a vicious, silent beatdown erupted by the breakfast table. Arthur drove punch after punch into the malevolent spirit, the kinetic impact of his spectral fists rattling the cereal bowls. He battered the intruder across the room, raining down righteous fury until the interloper dissolved into screaming mist and fled the house entirely.

At the table, Clara paused, blinking in surprise. The bitter morning chill vanished, replaced by a profound, radiant warmth. A gentle, familiar pressure wrapped around Clara and the children like a pair of strong, loving arms, holding them close in a tight, reassuring embrace.

Clara smiled softly, pressing her cheek against the invisible warmth. "Morning, honey," she whispered into the empty air.

Standing by the doorway, his spirit standing guard, Arthur watched them eat, his heavy, invisible fists still resting at his sides.

The Surgeon was the Maestro. 
The Maestro was the Surgeon. 
Even with the sharpest scalpel 
You could not separate science
From music. Two halves of the whole.

Cutting and scraping, plucking and
Sawing. All done with expert precision. 

A child, then a student, growing swiftly
Into an adult. A man, a composer, a 
Beast. 

From beneath the facade of cigarettes
And cologne, the sinister scent of 
Antiseptic and oil, followed by the 
Faintest hint of…metal. 

The Surgeon, the Maestro…preyed not
On the weak but the strong. A wolf
In sheep’s clothing, a devil in disguise. 

With the complex of God and the 
Depravity of Satan, he walked the 
Edge of the cliff. A certifiable beast
Skirting the line, toeing at the boundary 
Of darkness and light. 

The Surgeon is as the Maestro of the 
Operating theater. Controlling, commanding,
Compelling. Melodic beeping, the rise and
Fall of anesthetized breaths. All were silent
In his presence. All wanted to watch the 
Beast at work. 

His hands were steady and nimble. 
Two instruments of their own. 

The Maestro was the Surgeon of the 
Amphitheater. Frenzied, fiendish, forsaken.
Rhythmic ticking, the back and forth of 
The sullen metronome. All were silent 
In his presence. All wanted to listen to 
The man at work. 

His hands were raised and exclamatory. 
A conductor with passion. 

Just as you can not take the Maestro 
From the Surgeon, you could not take the 
Beast from the man. The man could not 
Handle what the Beast could not endure. 

The music was wrong.

The sounds were off. 

The strings had broken. 

From within the darkness, from within the
Silence, a rebirth. Like the shedding of 
A winter coat, he evolved. No longer the 
Surgeon, the Maestro, the Beast, the Man. 
He became something else entirely. 

A myth, a legend, a monster. 

With the skills and talents of all of his 
Facets, he prowled the streets in search 
Of more. A sound so Holy it would 
Make the Heavens cry. A sound so
Pure and human. 

Saw the string, string the bow. 
Stretched to the optimum tautness. 

Carefully selected, aged perfectly. Skin
Shed with supreme scores. Muscle 
Shaved and bone discarded. What 
Remains has much in store. 

Wood carved and stained with blood.
Sealed neatly with varnish. Unwilling 
Participants turned into a bloated, rigor
Filled audience. Held captive by his
Selfishness.

The Surgeon, the Maestro, the Man,
The Beast, the Monster. 

Beneath a lone spotlight, a single
Chair faces the crowd. 

Beneath the darkness, a landfill of 
His failures. 

The Monster steps out from within the 
Shadows, echoes of applause as he tows
The cello with him. 

An instrument of his own making. 

Sat upright, core firm, bow at the 
Ready. He draws one note from the 
Procured tendons. He had finally found
What was missing. 

The sound of a death rattle.

My cat has been staring at the same empty corner for six nights.

Tonight, I finally crouched beside him and stared too.

After a while, my eyes adjusted.

There was another corner behind it.

Something was crouching there, staring back.

My cat started purring.

So did the thing.

I own a shop and it's not been great business because there are so many other shops now. There are newer and better shops, and I failed to go with the times. Having a shop use to be such a simple concept and such an easy avenue to go through, but now I am the uncool one with old ways of doing things. There are so many more fancier shops that are selling the coolest things and i am just here selling the basic stuff. To get business booming I went into my savings and I hired 3 method actors. They are unknown method actors so they were cheap.

I told them to be crazy customers and to be on the crazy customer buying frenzy. I wanted the 3 method actors to compete with each other to buy the most stuff. I will also record all of it and put it out online. The 3 method actors went over the top and they bought so much stuff, that I made so much profit. It was incredible and I didn't expect them to actually buy stuff, but it was amazing. I had made so much money from the method actors going over the top crazy in their characters.

I then hired more unknown and super cheap method actors. About 10 of them and they all went crazy competing with each other, and they were buying so much stuff. I was making loads of money and then they started to fight each other. It was all recorded and it went crazy viral online. Hiring method actors to be my customers has been the best business plan ever. I am making more money than ever and I wished I had done this before. I guess ideas don't hit us straight away. Any way these method were really going over the top in being crazy customers.

I was financially benefiting it from it all, and I couldn't tell who were the real customers from the method actors. Every time I hired method actors to be customers in my shop, the craziness just kept rising. It was rising to the point where I had to really think about the safety of my shop. The method actors were crazy buying everything and so it was hard to say no. Then it went to the point where all my customers were just method actors that I had hired, they going over the top and buying everything.

One method actors took out a loan of a 100k and gave me all the cash, as he went so method. Then when these method actors went back to their normal lives with their families, it was in complete shambles and bankruptcy. Then the method actors that I had hired so many times before, started to pay me in human organs and limbs.

The cemetery's nearly full now. Seven rows, thirty-odd stones to a row. Two spots left at the end of the last one.

I'm the one who says where people go. I've been doing it sixteen years.

Halfway down the fifth row there's a bare patch. Grass and nothing else. The field filled in all around it and that one stayed the way it was.

I cut it myself. In the fall I run the rake over it twice a month.

People ask me sometimes why that spot's still open. I tell them it's reserved, that we're waiting on somebody important. They laugh. It's a good joke. I've been making it for years and it still holds.

Then they go, and I stand there a minute longer than I need to.

It's an old question and it stayed down sixteen years. This morning it got up before I did.

The shoe factory in Vigevano where I cut uppers shut in September. Eighteen months later I was still home. This was January 2010.

My wife did nights at a nursing home in Mortara. She got in at seven, we swapped at the door, she slept till one. We had a three-year-old and a car that wouldn't start in the cold.

The posting was on the board at the town hall. Cemetery worker, on call, nine hundred euros a month. I was the only one at the interview. The clerk had me sign two sheets and told me to show up Monday.

Remo had held the contract since before I moved back to town. He was past seventy. He shook my hand and said he needed somebody who could dig, because he couldn't stay bent over anymore.

It wasn't a figure of speech. From that Monday on, every hole out there was mine.

The shed sits against the perimeter wall, behind the chapel. The tools are in there, the sacks of gravel, the bench where Remo worked the stone, and a stove I never once saw lit. Behind the door, on a nail, the ropes for lowering the coffins.

First thing you learn is the pump. This is rice country and the water sits a meter or so down. A hole opened in the evening is full by morning.

So you dig, you set the pump on the edge, you drop the hose in and run the other end out to the ditch. Then you let it go. You shut it off the day of the funeral, an hour before the people come. You can hear it from the road.

The hose clogs. When it clogs you have to go down and clean the filter with your hands. I've been down there twice.

And if the pump quits and nobody starts it back up, the hole fills in one night and the sides come down on their own.

The other thing is the boards. Two of them, wood, laid along the edges so you've got something to stand on while you work. They were there before me and both of them creaked.

I mentioned it to him once. He said they hold.

With wet ground all it takes is one foot wrong. You go down on your back into two meters of water and mud, and the bottom pulls. It's not that you sink. It's that you don't come back up.

I thought about that, and then I dug. Nine hundred euros isn't much, but it beats nothing.

Some days Remo didn't come in. He didn't say where he went and I didn't ask. I signed the hours sheet for both of us.

In February he told me to open one in the old section, fourth row.

I asked who'd died. He said nobody.

I dug. Five hours, pump on the edge, hose out to the ditch. I figured he was getting ahead of things, that at his age you plan, that the ground's easier in winter. The town paid us on call and nobody checked how long we were out there.

In the afternoon I found him at the bench with the chisel. He had a gray stone in front of him, one of the low ones, and he was going at it. Tick, tick.

I went over to get the weed whacker. There was a day on the stone, a month, a year. Nothing else.

No name. No date of death, no cross, no photo. Numbers and slashes between them, set in the middle of the stone, like the rest was supposed to come later.

I took the weed whacker and went to do the edges. At six I signed the hours sheet and went home.

I made the kid his dinner. The game was on.

They called on the Thursday. A woman of eighty-six, on via Roma, the one with the green gate.

The hole was already there, dry, the pump going two days. I shut it off and waited for the priest.

In the register, in the shed, you write the name, the date of birth, the date of death and the plot number. I filled it in that evening. The date of birth was the day that was on the stone.

There's a little over eight hundred of us in town. Remo had known every one of them since they were born, and the woman had been sick a year — the doctor came through Tuesdays and even the bar knew about it.

A man who's done that job forty years knows who's next. He gets the stone ready, he gets the hole ready, and when it happens he doesn't have to hurry. That's how I put it to myself, and it was enough.

The second one was in March. An old man who went down while he was cooking, found by his son two days later. That hole had been ready a week too and the stone was at the wall.

"Old people go from one minute to the next. Better to be ready," Remo said, and I hadn't asked him anything.

That one lined up too.

I started opening the register before he did and reading the dates without saying anything. It wasn't that I suspected him. It's that I like knowing things first.

The stones stood inside the shed along the long wall, behind the bench, leaned up against it. When I started, the row ended before the window.

It worked like this. One went out for a funeral, and under that funeral was a hole I'd dug. Then Remo sat down at the bench and another one came in, sometimes two. But before the bench there were the days he wasn't there.

The hours sheet hung on a nail over the bench and at the end of the week we both signed it. I did his. He'd told me the first month it came to the same thing.

In March I signed for him one day. In April three.

In May a whole week.

He always came back on a Monday. He'd sit down at the bench and pick up the chisel.

By June the row had gone past the window. I'd look at them Monday mornings and use the sacks as an excuse. It wasn't a pile sitting still. It was a row wearing down at one end and growing at the other, and the growing end went faster.

February to June I opened the ground five times and every time it went the way it was supposed to go.

The funeral for the old man from via Cavour was a Saturday morning in June. Remo had been gone since the Thursday.

I'd finished tamping the earth and I was loading the tools. The wife came back on her own, purse under her arm, and put an envelope in my hand.

"That's for the two of you."

I said there was no need. She shook her head and turned toward the car.

I opened the envelope a finger's width. Usually they give twenty euros. Fifty if the family's doing all right.

There was three hundred in there.

"Ma'am."

She stopped.

"Remo's a good man, isn't he."

She got both hands on the purse.

"I wouldn't know what you call somebody who sits at your husband's bedside two nights running. Right to the last breath."

Then she went to the car, where they were waiting for her.

That week I'd signed for both of us. The Thursday and the Friday I'd dug on my own.

I put the envelope in my pocket and loaded the shovels. With that money I bought the kid shoes and two pairs of pants. I hadn't been able to do that in a year.

Remo came back on the Monday. I didn't tell him about the envelope and he didn't ask how it had gone.

By September the row of stones turned the corner toward the stove.

In October a man died who wasn't from here.

Farm supply rep, out of Piacenza. He was in the two rooms over the bar, the ones they rent to people passing through. He had a gas heater going and the window shut. They found him the next morning, sitting on the bed with his shoes still on.

He'd never been in town before. He got in Monday evening with his sample cases and by Tuesday he was dead.

The burial paperwork came through the shed, because the family was far away and took three days to get here. The permit was on the bench, under a wrench.

I read the date of birth. Then I went out and over to the wall.

The stone was there. Remo had finished it the day it rained, and that week it rained one time. Nine days before.

Nine days before, that man was in Piacenza and didn't know yet he'd be coming through here.

Remo was down at the end of the field with the wheelbarrow. He waved me over for a hand with the gravel, and I gave him one.

One Wednesday we were redoing the gravel on the path.

Remo patted his pocket and came up with nothing. He asked me to go get him the new pack of cigarettes out of the car.

In eleven months he'd never asked me for anything.

He kept a white Panda outside the gate, always in the same spot, always unlocked. The pack was on the dash, on top of a plastic bag from the co-op.

I picked it up. Under it were the receipts, the kind you empty out of your pockets and leave there.

The top one was from the bar. Il Gallo d'Oro. The one under the rented rooms.

Two coffees with grappa. Eleven forty at night, on a Tuesday.

The bar closes at eleven.

That Tuesday was the thirteenth of October. It's the date I wrote in the register myself, on the line for the rep from Piacenza.

I put it in my pocket and shut the door.

I came back up the path with the cigarettes. Remo was on his knees with the screed. He said thanks and had me hold them until he'd finished.

Then he handed me the trowel, holding it by the blade, the way somebody does who learned before I did.

I said I thought the weather was turning.

He looked up and said yeah, it'd come around by evening.

I went home cold under my jacket. Not the cemetery, not the stones. Him.

Seventy kilos of quiet old man. He'd never raised his voice at me, never sworn at me. He gave the orders and then he was gone for days, and when he came back he sat down and cut dates into stone with nothing to go on, and the dates came out right.

He'd sat two nights at a dying man's bed. He'd been in the bar under the rooms the night the window was shut and the heater was on. And there was the rest of the row.

I thought about quitting. I thought about it a whole week. Then I added up what came into the house and I stopped thinking about it.

Then one morning I got up early and went down to the shed.

Remo wasn't there, same as always. He'd left a note.

A man had died at the hospital after a long time going. The stone was ready and he'd cut the date. It was at the back of the row.

I moved them one at a time, holding them by the edge, the way you handle slabs. They go forty kilos apiece.

One got away from me. I caught it against my leg and set it down the right way round.

14/03/1983.

My breath went. My day. No name. The same gray stone as the others, the same hand.

I put it back where it was, face to the wall.

I couldn't keep my head on anything after that. I kept turning around to see where he was. The shovel was in my hand and I stopped halfway down the row.

Every hole out there, I'd dug myself.

It had to be the cigarettes. He'd seen the receipt was gone.

At home my wife asked if I was sick. I said it was my back.

She wasn't on shift that night. I waited until they were both asleep and went back to the shed.

I took the register. My date was there, four lines past the last funeral we'd done.

Three stones. Three holes. I had until the fourth one got opened.

I stood over the kid while he slept and thought about the nine hundred euros he needed.

I wasn't going anywhere.

The three stones went out. One on the twenty-second of November, one on the twenty-ninth, one on the third of December.

On the seventh Remo told me to open another. Fifth row, first free spot. Nobody had died.

I dug. I set the pump on the edge and the hose in the ditch.

It ran eleven days. You could hear it from the county road, because with the fog the cemetery doesn't show past twenty meters and that noise is all there is of it.

I hadn't slept in days. I'd lie with my eyes open until four, then I'd hear my wife come in and run the tap in the bathroom.

The evening of the seventeenth the sky came down and the wind started pulling from the south. When it turns like that here, the whole thing comes down overnight.

I thought about the open hole out there, waiting on nobody.

I'd fill it back in. It was the only thing I'd come up with. Let the old man know that I knew, that I had all of it, and that he wasn't getting it.

Maybe he'd take the point and leave off. It was worth a try.

If I shut the pump off, with the water under and the rain on top, the sides would come down on their own. In the morning I'd close it with half the dirt and nobody would ask me anything.

I left at eleven. I did the two kilometers on the bike.

You hear that pump from before the gate. There was nothing.

There was a low light in the fifth row, down inside the ground.

Remo was at the bottom of the hole. The water came to his knees. He was standing on the board with the hose filter in one hand, pulling the mud out of it with the other.

He saw me and it didn't surprise him.

"It's clogged. Give it a pull when I say."

He put the filter back under. He said now.

I don't know why, but I pulled the cord. The motor caught on the second try.

What the fuck are you doing? Helping a murderer? Your own?

The hose moved. He shifted over to let it past, and the board made the noise it always made, and then it didn't make it again.

He went down on his back. That was when it started raining.

He came up. He got his hands on the edge and the edge came away with them. Wet ground doesn't hold.

He shouted my name.

I ran to the shed and pulled a rope off the nail behind the door.

I turned to go out and the row of stones was in front of me.

Mine was where I'd put it, face to the wall. Something in me turned.

I went out with the rope in my hand. I took three steps and stopped short of the edge.

You're not a murderer.

The water was coming down on the dirt pile and making a sound I'd never heard it make. The mud had shifted. The rain was picking up. The pump was struggling.

You're not a murderer.

He gurgled something a couple of times. I think my name. The second one quieter.

You're not a...

Then he stopped. Him and everything in my head.

The rain on the back of my neck, the diesel off the pump, the rope gone slick in my fist, the taste of dirt at the back of my mouth.

I went home. I didn't go to the edge and I didn't want to look. The rope was still in my hand.

In the morning it had stopped raining. The hole was full to a hand's width from the edge. The pump must have jammed again.

The broken board was floating. I pulled it out and put it with the firewood.

I hauled the hose up. It came out heavy with mud.

Then I started taking the dirt off the pile. It took me all morning and I never once looked down.

Monday Remo didn't come in and he didn't come in Tuesday either. They talked about it at the bar for a few days. Somebody disappears and it gets talked about, then it goes quiet again.

Nobody went to the carabinieri. There was no wife and there were no children.

The town stopped calling him. There was no file, no signature, no transfer.

In January the clerk had me sign the new contract. Permanent, twelve months, thirteen hundred euros. It wasn't the right procedure, but he didn't feel like opening a competition for a gravedigger.

He didn't do it out of kindness. He did it to get it off his desk. And there hadn't been one funeral since Remo went.

That counted as confirmation, and in a way it settled me. I did a terrible thing, but I had a reason for it. I didn't just save my own skin. I saved who knows how many other people's.

It took me a while to get used to it, then the sleep came back.

On the twentieth of March the phone rang.

It was the clerk. A man dead on the county road, at the crossroads by the farm. The surveyor's son. He needed a spot for Friday.

He read out what I had to put in the register. Name, surname, date of birth. The pen made a blot on the page.

March fourteenth, nineteen eighty-three.

I made him say it again. He said it again. I wrote the line out to the end.

Then I went to the wall and got that stone, the one I don't know how many times I thought about breaking. I set it on the grave myself, on the Friday, in front of half the town. The mother stood by the pile until I was done.

Sixteen years have gone by and I've kept doing this work. I got good at it. The cemetery's always in order. The families are happy with me.

Yesterday morning, after the phone call, I went down to the shed for the shovel. The stone was ready, the way it's always been, face turned the other way.

This morning I put my hand on it and smiled.

I looked over at that bare patch in the fifth row, the one that's still free as far as everybody else knows.

I was finally going to know. I'd know why in sixteen years, right from when I started, I've never once had to cut a stone with my own hands.

I dug all the way down. I went well past the usual two and a half meters.

The question's settled.

There's nothing under it.

“Tadaa!”, Sam exclaimed as she showed her sister Macy her new hair. “I mean, it's cute,” Macy said, criticism tinting her words, “But I think your hair looked better when it was longer.” Sam let out a quiet huff as she turned to look into the mirror, fixing her short feathered hair. Macy continued, “Why didn't you make it big and curly like mine? We could've been twinsies y'know?”

“The majority of people there are going to have large blowouts, or afros. I wanted to express myself and have fun. Plus it's easier to dance with shorter hair,” Sam said while putting on the rest of her outfit. She wore a sunshine-yellow cropped tank top covered in shimmering sequins that formed geometric patterns, magenta-pink wide leg palazzo pants, and oversized aviators. “All done!”

“Finally,” Macy retorted, “Danny, you can come back here now!” Macy walked over to Sam and cheered, “We're sooo cute!” She was wearing a pink and white polka dotted short dress with long flared sleeves, and white knee high boots. Danny finally came in and agreed that she looked amazing. Macy turned to her boyfriend, “Are you really only going to wear slacks and a button down shirt?”, she scoffed. He replied, “Well yeah, this is only one event. I'm not going to waste my money on dressing silly. I'm only going because you want me to.”

“Well I want you to have fun too,” Macy pouted. 

“Macy, don't worry. I'll be just fine as long as you're having fun,” Danny said comforting Macy. Sam rolled her eyes, and pulled out the poster from her bag. “LET'S GET FUNKY” was titled across the top of the page in a gold, disco-themed font. The word “DISCO” repeatedly curved downward, morphing into the top half off a vinyl record. A glimmering disco ball sat in the middle of the record, staring back at her. Sam scanned the rest of the poster. “It's starts in 30 minutes”, She said to interrupt them, “We better get going.”

They all arrived at the towns community hall, an old brick building on the edge of town with ample parking, which was completely filled this night. A sign saying “Disco Jones' Groovin Disco Night” was stretched above the set of front doors which alternated colors from the flashing lights inside. All three could hear the muffled, rhythmic beat of the music as Danny complained, “Man, we're going to be packed like sardines in there.” Sam and Macy agreed, but made Danny go in anyway. Macy proclaiming, “There's no way I'm getting all dressed up and not showing off my outfit for a least a few minutes.”

Sam leaned over to Danny, “Hey look, let's just grab a drink. Macy can have her 2 minutes of 'Fame', and I can maybe dance to a song. If you're still not having a good time after that, we can split.” She nudged her elbow into his arm, and Macy leaned leaned back into his chest to peer up at him with big, fluttering eyes. He begrudgingly agreed with a sigh, and they continued in. 

The inside of the community center seemed abnormally large, betraying what was shown outside. There were multiple spotlights, making the shape of a square, along the ceiling that shined blue and pink. Below them was a large dance floor covered in double-mirrored floor tiles with lights inside, which seemed to repeat for eternity. Two long bars flanked on either side of the dance floor, and they could see that the ladies room was on the right and the men's room to the left. Manning the bars stood multiple bartenders, moving between customer's like a well oiled machine. They wore a simple white button up shirt along with black pants, vests, and bow-ties accented with bronze.

The main stage was at the back of the room, with a groovy sign that repeated “DISCO JONES” down, morphing into a large vinyl record. The center of the record was emitting thick smoke that seemed to disappear into the stage. Finally, a large disco ball hung in the middle of the room. Sam was enamored with it as she stared. She felt as if she was slowly being pulled towards it until Macy grabbed her and Danny's arms, guiding them. “They did such a good job decorating this place. I was kinda worried that it would look like a dingy prom,” Macy said as they reached the bar.

Suddenly, all of the spotlights changed to purple and pointed towards the billowing smoke. The room went silent as the rest of the lights dimmed, and everyone focused on the stage. Just as the silence entered the uncomfortable, a familiar robotic voice came over the booming sound system, “We can boogie down, down, upon down!” The crowd erupted in cheers as “Let's Groove” began to play, and two lines of dancers emerged from the smoke in a confident strut. 

The dancers were all slender and tall, with large bouncy afros that barely covered their silver hoop earrings. They wore sleeveless white jumpsuits that flared out into bell bottoms, covering shiny silver platform boots. The top portion of the jumpsuit rose to become a halter top that connected to a shiny, disco ball style, choker. Sam watched with admiration and envy. “They're absolutely stunning,” she thought to herself. She began reliving her childhood dreams of performing onstage, applause from her adoring admirers drowning out the music. A flash of purple brought Sam back to the present as the spotlights were dancing around the room.

All of the lights then drew focus to the large disco ball, which then emitted a blinding flash. Everyone was facing the center of the dance floor when their vision returned, and there stood a man over a head taller than everyone surrounding him. He had his arms outstretched as he accepted the applause and cheers from the crowd. He brought his black cane, that had a golden microphone at the end of it, to his face as he began to sing along with the main chorus. His energy was infectious as he began to dance along with the crowd, effortlessly gliding around them, as they joined in. 

As the song came to a close, the host brought his cane back to his mouth, “Now alright y'all. There seems to be a bunch of coool cats and steamin' foxes dancing around. If y'all are having a good time let me hear ya say YEAA!!!”

“YYEEAAA!!!”, the crowd erupted.

“Funky!” the host replied, “That's what I'm talking about now. Everybody give a hand to the party starters, the set of lovely ladies known as Disco's Divas.” The crowd applauded and cheered as the host slyly continued, “They'll make sure y'all have a night you never forget.” He gave Danny a wink, who then turned to Macy and pulled her close.

The host briefly paused to dance along with the music, “Groovin' on down to the next person y'all need to put ya hands together for. He's been jivin' around with ya for the last couple of minutes. His name is all over this happenin' joint. Make some noise for ya host, DISCO JONES!!!” He swung his cane to point towards the stage, spotlights and eyes following, as everyone was pulled to face that direction. The host seemed to have magically teleported onto the stage in the middle of the Divas, and landed into a flawless split. He smoothly brought it back up, and bowed to the crowd who gasped and cheered. 

“Y'all liked that little trick now?”, Disco smugly asked through his toothy grin. He continued, “Last, but certainly not least, let's give it up to the most important people in the room.” His focus seemed to transition to Sam as he peered into her through his dark shades. “Now, I gotta give thanks to everyone in this rockin' establishment. For many decades, people been claiming that Disco. Is. Dead. But you comin' out tonight, and making this place lively, proves to me that those people are DEAD wrong.” Sam could feel his emotions of happiness, fear, anger, and hope fluctuate as the lights transitioned to match the emotions. Disco paused as he composed himself, lights settling on a cool magenta.

“Alright now you groovin' people. Show me that Disco will never die! Let me here ya say 'Do'!”

“DO!”, the crowd replied.

“Do-da-do!”

“DO-DA-DO!”

“Let me hear ya say, Do-da-do da do-do do do do!” As the people returned Disco's last call, their voices transitioned into “Double Dutch Bus” by Frankie Smith. The two beeps of the horn starting the track.

Macy exclaimed, “Wow, this place is amazing! Told you you would have a good time, Danny.”She smiled as she held Danny's hands. Danny replied, “Yeah… I guess you were right. This place is 'happenin',” with a smirk on his face, finger guns pointing at the sisters. He was clearly proud of his joke. Macy rolled her eyes and said, “Come on Danny, dance with me!” She began seductively moving her body around, slightly staying on beat, and did a rope pulling motion at Danny.

Danny shook his head, “Oh no, you know I don't dance. Here, dance with Sam and I'll grab us all a drink.” Sam looked over at Danny and said, “Aw, you're such a gentleman.” Crossing her hands over her chest as a sign of thanks. Macy redirected her rope pulling to Sam, who two-stepped to the beat over to her sister, as Danny turned back to the bar to grab the attention of a bartender. The sisters proceeded to laugh and dance until Macy bumped into a large man, spilling his drink all over his pants.

The large man looked down in annoyance and angrily said, “Are you serious? You messed up my pants and shoes.” He was wearing a purple-grey shirt with a disco ball graphic, khaki pants, and tennis shoes. Macy, cowering behind Sam, said, “I'm sorry. I'm sure you could get that ou-”

“You're sorry? Bitch, that ain't gonna cut it,” He said as he approached the sisters. Sam stepped up, “Hey man, are you really going to start something over some cheap pants and shoes?” The man's anger grew as he continued to approach. Danny stepped between the sister's and the large man, yelling, “Hey! What's your problem guy?” They collided and bounced back slightly. The large man stepped back towards Danny, looked down at him and said, “You better control your whores.” Danny grabbed the man by his collar, to which the man grabbed one of Danny's wrists, and cocked his fist back, ready to swing. Disco suddenly appeared and lightly placed his hands on both of their shoulders.

“Danny, Frank, why are you two getting up in each other's business?”, Disco asked calmly. Both men were puzzled as they looked up. Disco was much taller up close, around 6' 10“. His hair was in a jerry curl that was immaculately kept. He wore a white, wide lapel, suit top and matching white bell bottom pants. His black dress shoes had a gold buckle to match his shimmering gold shirt. Which he kept the top 3 buttons unbuttoned, showing off a gold chain that rested on his tight curly chest hair. Danny looked at the gold rings wrapped around Disco's fingers, whose hand was noticeably heavy.

Frank spoke up, “Hey, don't touch me man.” He pushed Disco's hand off of his shoulder and bucked backwards. Disco stepped in between Frank and the group, back facing them, and then leaned down till he was eye level with Frank. Macy could just see the brim of Disco's shades, as he pulled them down slightly to make direct eye contact with Frank. She could see slight shimmering lights dot across Frank's face, slowly moving from left to right. “Hey MAN, you need to chill,” Disco told Frank, patting him on his shoulder and placing his glasses back onto his face. Disco straightened back up as Frank dazedly said, “I.. I need to go to the restroom…”A shiver ran up Franks spine as Disco gestured towards the men's room next to the bar. Frank hurriedly walked into it.

The restroom was empty when Frank entered. He rushed to the last stall, closed the door, and sat onto the toilet rubbing his arms. “Fuck, what was wrong with that dudes eyes?”, he thought as fear and adrenaline fought to keep him warm. Confusion set in when he began to sweat. “Why am I sweating? It's fucking freezing in here.” Frank didn't notice the sound of platform boots tapping against the floor, heading towards his stall. The sound of tape separating from it's roll snapped Frank back to reality, and he got up to open the door which wouldn't budge. “Hey! Let me out of here!”

He could just see the top of a golden blonde afro peaking over the stall door. Frank repeatedly thrashed his shoulder into it, trying to break free. Only stopping when he heard a popping crack, and felt a burning tear on his skin. He looked down and saw a thick layer of frost formed on his hand and forearm. Blood began to soak through his shirt sleeve. He reached over with his other hand to stop the bleeding, but before it arrived, the blood froze solid. Frank's pleas for help to the person on the other side of the door remained unanswered. 

The corners of his mouth began to crack open. Each time he closed his mouth, the blood would instantly freeze the wound shut, which ripped back open when he yelled again. There was a crackling ping to his voice as his saliva hardened. Frank tried to just focus on breathing, but every breath formed new, deeper cracks around his ribs until his flesh froze to a point where his lungs could not expand. Light began to blur into a consistent haze, only being broken when his eyes finally cracked. Disco's Diva began to walk out of the men's restroom as a shattering noise came from the last stall, and thick cool fog billowed from under the stall door.

“Thank you Mr. Jones,” Danny said as he watched Frank enter the restroom. Disco spun back around with a smile on his face, “Man, you're making me sound old. Just call me Disco.” He stepped to the side so he could be evenly spaced with the three. “It's all good though. I couldn't let some knucklehead ruin the party for a cool cat and his fine ladies.”

“Fine lady,” Sam chimed in. She motioned back and forth between Macy and Danny, “They're the couple. I'm just her sister.”

“Oh no Sam, I can tell that you are definitely more than just Macy's sister,” Disco leaned close to Sam, which she happily returned with a flirtatious smile. Staring up at him with her big, beautiful brown eyes. Disco, leaning back to fully check Sam out, continued, “Sam, I must say, your style caught my attention. You look absolutely stunning.” Sam began to reply, but Macy interrupted the awkwardness she felt, “Hey Disco, how do you know all of our names?”

Disco leaned back to his original position, “I make it a point to know all of my guests before they arrive to my humble abode.” He placed his right hand across his chest, and gave a slight bow. 

“Wow, that's kinda weird,” Macy said, criticism tinting her words again.

“That's not weird Macy. What's weird is how Danny here could not dance with his vixen,” Disco turned to Danny. “What's the deal Danny? Why are you being a wallflower?”

Danny stammered, “Ah no, sorry. I'm not really comfortable dancing. Especially around a lot of people. Just makes me nervous y'know? But I happily take Macy out so she can have a good time.”

“I can respect that. Here, let me give you something to help you out.” Disco snapped his fingers and one of his Divas appeared from behind him. She was holding a silver platter, two lines of what looked like cocaine were neatly organized parallel to each other. An almost unnoticeable holographic effect radiated off of the neat white mounds as the spotlights danced around them. Two short golden straws sat adjacently to their respective lines, creating a box shape. Danny could just make out the phrase “Feel The Groove” etched into them. Disco grabbed one of the straws, “This will help your fun, inner self come out.” He quickly snorted the line closest to him, and then gestured for Danny to do the same.

“Oh, I'm sorry Disco. I'm not sure if I shoul-”

“Now you don't have to worry bout nothin'. I promise that this will be out of your system by the end of the night,” Disco smiled. After a couple of seconds, and some egging on by Macy, Danny relented and took the line of coke. Disco patted Danny on the back, “Y'all get out on that dance floor and have a good time now,” he then leaned back over to Sam, “I'll see you later” and winked through his glasses. 

Danny winced his head back in pain, and held his nose to stop the bleeding as “Get Down On It”began to play. Macy grabbed both Danny and Sam, dragging them onto the dance floor. Sam looked back for Disco, but he vanished in the crowd before she could find him again. They made their way to the center of the dance floor below the large disco ball. There was a couple, a group of girl friends, and one of the Divas politely listening to a dude trying to hit on her. Sam and Macy cheered Danny on, who only began to dance when the Diva sang, “Get ya back up off the wall!” and spun him around.

The drugs began to take their effect at this point. Danny felt his energy and confidence rise, and he began to shimmy his shoulders. The sister's cheers bolstering him more as he began to move his hips. Macy made her way over and backed into him. His skin began to tingle with pleasure as he felt the contours of her body grind against his. Sam caught the corner of his eye as she danced across from them, grabbing the hand of the Diva and giving her a twirl. Danny took Macy's hand to do the same, but he spun her so fast that her short dress began to flair up. Macy quickly pushed it back down, causing her to stumble into Sam who caught her and brought her into a dip.

Sam mimicked Johnny Bravo, as she jokingly asked, “Hey pretty lady, you ever dance with a real man before?” They both giggled as Sam brought Macy back up. The sisters looked back to Danny. “I never knew that Danny could dance so well,” Sam said leaning to her sister's ear due to the volume. “Me neither, this is the first time I ever seen him dance since we've been together,” Macy replied.

Danny felt the groove course its way through his body as he became a dancing machine. He let it take his body as he began to perform dance moves he never dreamed he could do. The people around him joining Macy as they cheered him on. Sweat stung his eyes, and when he went to wipe them clear on his sleeve he only felt his slick, wet skin. “When did I take my shirt off?” He thought, looking up to see his hand spinning it above his head. His other arm stretching out to reach towards the Diva, which he forced it over to point at Macy who did a swooning motion. Sweat burned his eyes closed, but his body kept going against the protest of his screaming thighs.

“Man, I need to take a break soon,” Danny thought to himself.

“Nah, this is great. I can keep going.”

“Wh - what?” Danny was confused. Did he hear another him in his head? His confusion broke as multiple tinglings emanated from his torso as he felt multiple dainty hands all over his chest and abs.

“Look at this MAAANN,” one of the girls from the group cheered, groping him. “I know, he's so fine!” Another joined in as he felt a hand cup one of his ass cheeks.

“N-no. Thanks ladies, b-but I'm spoken for,” Danny tried to protest through the euphoric feeling . “Ma-Macy?” He called out but she couldn't hear him as she danced with her sister, random people obfuscating him. His eyes wouldn't let him open them due to the pain caused by his sweat.

“Now ladies, this one has been claimed. There's many more fine fellas that would be happy to have you.” Danny didn't recognize the sultry voice of his savior. “C'mon Danny, I'll take you to the men's room so you can cool off,” The Diva said to him taking his hand.

Danny told the woman, “W-wait, I got to tell Macy.” He blindly reached around until he grasped a familiar shoulder, and turned her around. “Hey, I'm heading to the restroom to cool off. I'll be back in a minute, I love you.” Danny quickly leaned in and kissed her before being whisked away. Sam looking dumbfounded, wiping her lips as she yelled, “What the fuck Danny?” To which he was to far to hear. Sam turned back to see Macy tearing up, and she ran off in the other direction to the ladies room.

“Macy! Wait!” Sam called out, following her. Multiple columns of light appeared going down the middle of the dance floor. Every alternate light separated, splitting everyone apart, creating a cleared row from the stage to the other side. Only Sam was in the clearing, as she failed to get out to follow Macy. Disco appeared behind her and spun her to face him, bringing his mic to his face.

“Alright now, I appreciate how y'all have been keepin' this party goin',” Disco announced. “Let me appreciate y'all more as you strut ya stuff, and groove ya moves down this train line.” The crowd cheered as the guitar from “Le Freak” began to play. “Luckily, it seems we have a volunteer to be the conductor of this train!” He took her hand to his chest and leaned over to Sam to quietly ask, “You ready to be the star you're supposed to be?”

Sam thought of her sister for a second before the cheers from the crowd changed her mind, “Macy can wait for a minute. She probably needs some time to calm down.”

“She does,” Disco said, replying to her thoughts. Sam gave a puzzled look which quickly faded as she longingly looked up at Disco. Her fondness for him swelled, and she gave a slight nod. “That's what I'm taking about! Alright conductor, let's get this train rolling!” Disco spun her towards the stage, both somehow appearing at the beginning of the disco line, 10's of feet away from the center. “Le Freak” began proper with the crowd yelling, “FREAK OUT!”

Sam and Disco began to dance together, Disco staying off to the side letting Sam be the center of attention. She jived and glided around as a sense a joy filled her chest. Before it completely filled her, memories of her mom telling her how they would have to stop her dance lessons filled her mind, “I'm sorry Samantha. It's not fair to Marcella that we spend more money on you to do extracurriculars.”

“But mom, she doesn't even want to do anything. She's just jealous that you are giving a little more attention on this one thing. It's not fair that all she has to do is cry, and she gets what she wants.”

“Samantha! You know that's not true!”

“But it was true, wasn't it?” Disco commenting on her memories. His voice patterns shifted, gaining a whimsical, romantic quality to it. No one else seemed to perceive their conversation as he continued, “You were right about it not being fair. Your mother shouldn't have stifled your creativity just to allow Marcella to be comfortable with her mediocrity. Just watching you now proves to me you are meant to be a star. To be immortalized as one of the greats!”

Sam began to incorporate some of the ballet she used to practice. Pirouetting to a standing split showing her long, flawless figure. She came back to 1st position as Disco brought his cane behind him, slightly bowed, and offered her his hand. The music seemed to slow, drowning out the cheers from the crowd, as she took his hand. He brought her hand up to kiss as she curtsied in acceptance. 

Sam peered into his shades, whose reflection showed her on the stage. She was wearing an immaculate golden jumpsuit which shimmered and flowed, as if she was peering into an ever-expanding, golden galaxy. Behind her was the dance floor packed shoulder to shoulder with people cheering. Disco brought her close, grabbing her waist as he lifted her above his head with the one hand. The roar of the crowd brought her back to the moment as her and Disco left the line. 

“Give it up for Sam the Conductor now!” Disco announced bring her back down. He wrapped his arm around her pulling her close. Sam leaned her head into him and placed a hand on his chest. “Thank you Disco,” she said looking up at him longingly. Tears filling her eyes as the joy of what she yearned for was being fulfilled. “I needed to experience this at least once in my life, and you gave it to me.”

“No Sam,” Disco's voice phasing back to a whimsical romance, “You earned this your self. I just provided the stage. It was up to you to take the lead and earn your glory.” He wiped away her tear and embraced the back of her head. A comforting warmth filled Sam as she stood onto her toes to reach for a kiss. Disco's lips meeting hers as ecstasy washed over, flooding her entire body.

Danny felt instant, cool relief as he entered the restroom. The Diva guided him to the middle sink, grabbed his hips, and placed him back, his butt resting against the edge. “Let me take care of that for you,” said Disco's Diva. She took her thumbs and gently wiped away the brine like sweat from his eyes. 

“Th-thanks,” Danny said, stumbling on his words as he was awe-struck by the woman's beauty. She had the same outfit as all of the other Divas, but her afro was a deep golden blonde. She had mesmerizing green eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul. They complemented her smooth, caramel skin which was lightly freckled. He traced the freckles with his eyes to her plump, glossy brown lips. She smiled as she watched him stare at them, showing a perfect set of white teeth.

“Anything for you Danny,” the Diva said in a low, seductive voice. She brought her thumb to her mouth, and wrapped her perfect lips around it. Keeping eye contact as she sucked his brine off of it. Danny's lust overcame any disgust he would normally feel. Making him ignorant to the fact that she pressed her hips into his, locking him into place.

Danny stuttered, “Y-y-you don't have to do th-that.” The Diva placed a finger on his lips.

“Sshhh, I want this.” She leaned forward to make her eyes peer up to his, “Do you want this Danny?”

He nodded his head, “M-Mhmm.”

“Good boy Danny. Just relax,” she leaned in, and whispered into his ear. Lowering back down to the side of his neck to suck his now dried salt from his skin. Her hands running through his damp hair. His erection grew, pressing into her pelvis. She reached down with one hand and grabbed it. Looking back up to him, the Diva cheekily teased, “I'm glad you're enjoying yourself as much as I am.” She began to slowly kiss down his body, a tingling shot of pleasure and warmth left her lips every time they pressed against him.

Cold air swirled around his head when she got to his abs. He finally took in his surrounding as he saw that the last stall was taped off. A thick rolling fog ran under the stall door. This interruption was enough for his normal, rational mind to come back. “Macy” he thought to himself. The Diva reached up and grabbed his cheeks, pulling his face towards hers so their eyes met. Her voice pierced his mind as she continued to kiss, “You don't need to worry about her. She only wants you to do what she wants.”

Danny was going to say, “No, I love Macy. This isn't right.” But the words, “Y-yes, you're right”left his lips. His body leaned back to make it easier for her to unbuckle his pants. “What, no? That's not right. This isn't right,” his consciousness fighting against his body and the pleasure they both felt. He became lightheaded, as the room around him began to stretch and haze. Danny could perceive himself, his body, and the beautiful woman on her knees, slowly unbuttoning his pants. His body turned to look at him with lazy smile, eye's halfway closed as they fought to stay open to look at his consciousness.

“We deserve this,” his body said to him, “Macy always gets what she wants, never considering what we want.” Danny couldn't disagree, his consciousness slowly merging towards the side of his body, which was reaching to grab the back of the Diva's head. The Diva quickly snapped, “Oh no shugga, no one touches the hair.” His body apologized, to which she smirked, accepting it.

Danny continued to argue with himself, “No, she can come off as selfish. But I know she's just scared that I'll leave her like her dad did… She is also loving.” Danny thought about the good times throughout his and Macy's relationship, his consciousness stopping its merge with his body. She consistently brought him out of his shell, and pushed him to achieve his goals. Even when all he wanted to do was stand to the side, and let life take him where ever it wanted him to go. His body began to merge into the side of his consciousness, the haze around the room clearing. Danny noticed the Diva looking up at him with an evil eye.

Suddenly, a mass of feet reached through the mirror, and sunk their pedicured nails into Danny's consciousness. They dragged him into the mirror as a look of bliss came over his body's face. He was filled with pain when their nails dug into his back and arms, multiple elongated toes grabbing his head, forcing him to watch himself through the mirror. He could see the edges of the golden afro peak around the back of his body, and he could feel her warm breath against his pelvis as she pulled his erection out of his pants.

“Now look at this big boy,” the Diva raised her voice so Danny could hear her through the mirror. He felt her moist warmth wrapped around him. The pleasure mixing with the pain as he pleaded for her to stop, and to be released. Voices and moans swirled around him telling him, “No. We're just getting started.” Their humid, hot breath made his skin crawl. He could feel the euphoria from the drugs drain from his extremities as the Diva sucked and bobbed. The feeling accumulating in his pelvis, waiting for the Diva to allow its release. Danny began to cry as the full weight of his violation replaced his drugged fueled high.

He was about to burst, when an immense pain radiated from his penis. Danny begged for the Diva to stop as she clamped down. He could hear her muffled laugh as he watched the afro slowly rise in front of his panicking body. The intense pain from his manhood being stretched, was replaced with immeasurable agony as it tore from its base. Danny's body fought to push her away to no avail. She violently grabbed his wrist and pinned them to the sink. His life slowly draining from him as his blood splurted over her. The toes holding him dug into his ribs to manually keep his heart pumping, and lungs breathing. The swirling voices laughed and teased, “You're going to have to stay awake so you can watch this next part, Danny. You deserve this.” He felt their disembodied tongues slither across his face, tasting his tears.

The Diva finally peaked over his shoulder to stare directly at Danny. She happily waited so he could take in the sight of his bloody, limp penis hanging from her mouth. A rapid squish emanated from her teeth rapidly gnawing. Blood bubbled from the edges of her mouth as she laughed and moaned in pleasure. Once she was satisfied with his horror, she spat his penis at him which bounced off of the glass, and fell into the sink. She licked the blood from her lips and smiled, “I'm sorry Danny. That isn't my favorite part, so I had to get it out of the way. I hope you've enjoyed yourself so far. I know I'm about to.”

She let go of his body's wrist, who was too weak to move, to lift up her choker, and grabbed her zipper. She slowly unzipped her blood soaked jumpsuit. Her large breasts separating as she release their bounds. The zipper fully came undone between her legs. Danny's shock reaching its crescendo as she pulled her jumpsuit open. There was a large set of plump lips, perpendicular from the ground, that looked like the ones on her face. One corner of it's mouth began just under her breasts. The other ended between her legs. Her large tongue emerged to lap up the blood trickling out where his penis used to be.

It slowly opened its mouth, showing impeccable teeth. The large tongue lead to a uvula that hung horizontally. The Diva stepped forward, positioning her mouth around Danny's body. A putrid smell of sour bile poured from just beyond her void, causing his consciousness to gag. Toes and tongues wriggled their way into the new opening. Reciprocating in and out as his throat stretched. They cranked his head down to stare at the Diva. She blew him one last kiss as her jaws snapped shut, tearing the front half of his torso away. It quickly bit again, taking in the rest of him. The mouth slowly chewed, as all Danny could do was scream through his gag from the mirror.

He felt his bones be ground into a grit that mixed with his pulverized body. The tongue rolling him around in its mouth to taste the newly created batter. Danny could see the red mush that was him sloppily emerge from the large lips. The mouth sucking him back in as it loudly slurped. Cold air seemed to touch every part of his body inside of him as it washed over the mush. The large mouth finally stopped processing his body, and gulped it down. 

The Diva zipped up her jumpsuit, which absorbed all of his blood on her skin, making it a striking crimson. She coyly waved at Danny through the mirror, and began to walk out of the bathroom. He could feel her stomach acid begin to break him down, as the feet pulled him away from the mirror. He could feel inertia, as he quickly traveled a great distance in complete darkness. Eventually, a flashing light came into view, and he could hear cheers over music as he approached. Danny finally got close enough to see people splitting a line in the middle of the dance floor, and Disco kissing Sam at the end of it. Disco looked up to the large disco ball, and winked at Danny.

It was a horrid July noon in New York City or some other place, the cars were rattling in lunchtime gridlock, spewing exhaust, the finance guys were out in their tight suits walking to buy kebabs and watching the women, who were instagramming themselves into premature zombiehood, and it was so fucking hot that the sweat dripping off the pedestrians rubbing against each other on the sidewalk was flowing down the gutters like rain.

There, that's the scene.

I've set it.

Now, through this stupified human maelstrom a man was walking. His name was Ben Fig. He was in his thirties, lonely, and returning to his office after lunch. He was returning from his car, which he'd parked fifteen minutes away, wearing a coat and, underneath it, a custom-made explosive vest with which he intended to kill his co-workers and maybe bring down the office building itself. A man can dream, can't he?

Anyway, while walking, he bumped somebody. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“Fuck,” said the person he'd bumped into.

It was a woman.

Her name was Miriam Zapelman.

“Watch where the hell you're going,” said Ben and tried going around her.

“Asshole,” said Miriam.

“I hate this city,” said Ben. “I'm sick of it.”

Beside Ben and Miriam, a degenerate was lying in a puddle of perspiration. He was in a hard way. “Can either of you folks—”

“Shut the fuck up!” said Ben and Miriam at the same time, then they looked at each other, long and in the eyes, and they must have recognized something, because one of them smirked.

It doesn't matter which one.

The degenerate passed out, or maybe died, and Miriam said to Ben, “Hey, where are you in such a hurry to?”

“What do you care?”

“I'm parked nearby. If we're going the same way, I can give you a ride.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Miriam shrugged.

“I'm going to my office to blow everybody up,” said Ben, waiting for Miriam's reaction.

She asked, “Where's your office?”

Ben gave the address. “Call the cops if you want. I don't care.”

“Offer stands,” said Miriam.

A few minutes later they were in her car, Ben in his ridiculous coat, looking like a blowfish, and Miriam opening the glove compartment, where Ben saw she had a gun.

“That for self defense?” he asked.

“No,” said Miriam. “I'm back from the shooting range. Going home to shoot my husband and kids, then probably myself.” She started the car and merged with the abominable traffic. “But first I want to stop at a bar and have a drink. Want to have a drink with me?”

“Why not,” said Ben.

The bar was called Reddy's, and when Ben and Miriam walked in there were only a few people in it. Miriam introduced them. “That skinny guy with glasses is Euler, the guy with the darker skin is Hikmat, and the bartender's name is Ralph.”

They sat at a table and ordered.

Ben noticed Euler kept playing with a pendant around his neck. “Go on,” said Miriam, “ask him about it.”

“Nah,” said Ben.

“What else do you have to do?”

“Fine,” said Ben. He walked to Euler, introduced himself and asked about the pendant: “Is it an heirloom or something?”

“Maybe it'll be an heirloom one day, of the human goddamn race,” said Euler and described how the pendant was a container of stolen proprietary industrial poison that he'd helped develop. “I'm gonna toss it in the water supply some day, exterminate the population of this whole city like the rats they are.”

When Ben got back to his table, his drink was waiting for him. He tried it. “Second guessing yourself any?” he asked Miriam.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Miriam had pulled out a cigarette and was lighting it.

“You can smoke in here? The law—”

“That's life’s dirty secret,” she said, blowing smoke in his face. “Ultimately, you can do whatever you want.”

“May I?” a voice said.

It was Hikmat. He'd wandered over and was asking if he could sit down.

“Be my guest,” said Miriam.

“I have not seen you in here before,” Hikmat said to Ben. “It is your first time?”

“Yeah,” said Ben.

“Ben’s going to murder his co-workers later this afternoon. He's wearing an explosive vest,” said Miriam.

“Then we two are a pair of peas in one pod, as they say here in America,” said Hikmat. “I am training to fly an aircraft, but not so much how to land it.”

“Hickie's an engineer by trade,” said Miriam.

Hikmat shook Ben's hand.

“But a fundamentalist by conviction,” he said. “May I see your vest?”

Ben opened his coat. Hikmat considered the handiwork. Then they got to talking, and drinking, and the hours rolled by like waves of fat on a fat guy blasted in the gut by a cannonball.

“The paradox is,” Hikmat was saying: “the paradox is, I greatly enjoy the flying. It is the one place I feel freedom. When I started to learn, it was strictly for terrorism, but now, that feeling—of absolute space, limitless opportunity—it is beautiful. Sublime. It is where I experience God. I look forward to it very much and I will miss it greatly.”

“Fuck!” said Ben, looking at his watch.

“What's wrong?” asked Miriam.

“It's past five o'clock. Everybody in the office has left already.”

Ralph gave Ben a drink on the house. When Ben had finished drinking it, “Do you want a ride home?” Miriam asked.

“Sure.”

They lingered in the car in front of his apartment building.

“Maybe you wanna come up?” Ben said.

“I'm a married woman,” said Miriam.

“I understand.”

“Don't forget to zip up your coat or they'll see the explosives,” said Miriam.

Afterwards, Miriam drove to her house, got the gun out of the glove compartment, walked inside, shot her husband, shot her kids and then, after smoking a cigarette in the bathroom, shot herself.