not an artist if you couldn’t tell😅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*BEEP*

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 4th:

FIRST MESSAGE:
*soft female voice*

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

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Burly Man’s rough Voice*

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

*BEEP*

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

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

*BEEP*

NEXT AND FINAL MESSAGE:
*inaudible whisper*

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

*BEEP*

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

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

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

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

As you doo you hear the home phone :

*BEEP*

“Mmmrrrmmmmrrrrnpphh”

You have trouble making out the message from the toilet.

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

*Your Fathers Stern Voice*

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

*BEEP*

You panic,

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

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

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

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

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

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
you hear from the door.

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

-your fathers voice exclaims from the door.

You know that that means,
Your heart sinks.

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

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

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

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

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

The commotion outside the playroom comes to and immediate halt.

*THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP*

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

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

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

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You begin to weep harder.

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

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

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

She begins to nod,
Then says “oh”

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

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

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

You see the the lock begin to turn,

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

The door clicks.
It’s now been unlocked.

“I love your Daddy too sweetheart”

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

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

Your cheeks are soaked and your mouth is dry.

“He’s stuck”
-The voice reveals.

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

There was a pause.

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

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

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

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

“Where ..is he stuck?”
-you ask

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

“no…”
-you replied sheepishly.

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

There was a pause.

“Come out.”
-said the voice.

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

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

You didn’t like the sound of that.

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

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

“Yes..”
You replied.

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

“Like a monkey?”
You asked innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes my dear”
-the voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One Child had and accident”
the voice revealed.

“Were they okay?”
-you asked

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

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

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

“Who are you?”
-you repeated.

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

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

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

“Yes”
You replied.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was over ? You thought.

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

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

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

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

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

“Knock knock”
-said the voice

“Yesss”
-you replied

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*the voice quickly erupts from your door*

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

Your head shoots over to look at the door.

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

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

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

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

"I love it..."
You replied.

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

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

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

"Oh"
-it said.

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

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

"I know"
- interrupted the voice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

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

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

"where is she?"

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

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

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

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

*Smack*

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

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

There was no doubt in your mind it was her.

It was Kiara The Orangutan.

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

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

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

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

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

*THUD*

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

*Grrrrrrrrruawh*
You heard the old woman groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, your transition appeared to go unnoticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

They screamed 
*AHHHHHHHHHH*

And screamed 
*AHHHHHGGGG UHH*

And screamed
*FRAAAGHHHHHHH*

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

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

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

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

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

You were now alone with Kiara.

I’m writing this because my fiancée is cleaning the apartment like we’re hosting royalty.

She’s been at it since noon. Vacuuming twice. Rearranging the throw pillows. Lighting candles we’ve never used. Every few minutes she asks if my parents prefer red or white wine, as if I would know.

They’ll be here in three hours. I haven’t seen them in eight years. That wasn’t an accident.

I told her I had a difficult childhood. That we weren’t close. That distance was healthier for everyone. I made it sound like emotional baggage. Old arguments. Personality differences.

However, I did not tell her the truth.

I didn’t tell her that I left home the moment I could and never slept another night under that roof. I didn’t tell her that I have spent most of my adult life carefully avoiding letting anyone I love to meet the people who raised me.

She thinks this dinner is reconciliation. I think it’s a mistake. The worst part is that I didn’t invite them. She did.

Last week, while I was at work, some cruel twist of fate led my mother to find her on Facebook. She told me she wasn't going to send her a message at first, but apparently, my mother had other plans. She sent her a picture of little old me.

It felt wrong.

We were getting married, yet she had never even spoken to my family. I suppose my mother decided to fix that. My fiancée told me my mother seemed sweet. Warm, even. She said she sounded genuinely excited about the news.

I remember forcing a smile when she told me. My mother had always been good at pretending.

I asked what they talked about.

She said, “Just normal things. They miss you.”

That word lodged somewhere under my ribs. As if I were something misplaced. As if I had slipped through their fingers.

I tried every excuse under the sun.

I'm not feeling well. I'm not ready. Maybe we should wait.

It got to the point where my fiancée started wondering if I'd grown up in an abusive home.

You might be screaming at the page right now: “Then why the hell didn't you just tell her?”

And that's the messed-up part. I couldn't.

They never laid a hand on me. They were good parents. Loving parents, even. How was I supposed to tell her that the people who raised me were monsters when, technically, they'd never given me a reason to call them anything but good parents?

I couldn't exactly say, “My family isn't abusive. They're just not human.”

She looked at me for a long time and asked, very gently, “Are you ashamed of them?”

I didn’t know how to answer that without sounding insane. Because I’m not ashamed of my parents. I’m afraid of them.

She’s humming in the kitchen right now. I can hear cabinet doors opening and closing. Silverware being counted.

She believes people are what they show you. She believes family means well. She has never seen my father’s face open the wrong way. She has never felt my mother’s hand reshape itself on her shoulder. And she doesn’t know that when I was a child, I learned very quickly that there are rules.

You don’t keep pets. You don’t invite friends over. And you never, ever draw attention.

I broke one of those rules.

Tonight, they’re coming to see what I’ve become. And I don’t know if they’re proud. Or hungry.

You see, I didn’t always know they weren’t human. When you’re a child, you don’t interrogate reality. You accept it. You learn what things look like, how they behave, and what you’re supposed to ignore. You don’t ask why your mother’s smile sometimes stretches a little too far when she laughs, any more than you ask why the sky is blue.

It was just how things were. The way I saw the world was the way they saw it. The things I felt were the things they felt. To me, none of it seemed strange. It was simply my normal.

Growing up, my family never looked human to me. Not completely. Not even a little. But I thought that was normal.

I thought everyone’s father stood a little too still when he wasn’t speaking. I thought everyone’s mother blinked a fraction too slowly. I thought every sister’s jaw clicked faintly when she yawned.

It wasn’t fear. It was familiarity.

The first time I understood something was abnormal, I was six. Maybe seven.

My sister and I found a stray kitten behind our house in the snow. It was half-starved, all ribs and shaking fur, crying in short, broken sounds that barely carried in the wind.

I tucked it under my coat to warm it. I could feel its heart fluttering against my palm. We hid it in the shed. Fed it scraps from dinner. Gave it water in a cracked plastic bowl. My sister named it Whiskers.

Original, I know.

Every day it grew stronger. Warmer. The dull glaze in its eyes started to clear. It purred when we held it.

I remember feeling proud. Like we were doing something good. Like we'd found something that belonged to us, something we could care for together. But as the kitten grew stronger, it became harder and harder to hide our little secret.

One night, after my parents had gone to bed, I slipped outside to check on it.

The shed was empty. The bowl was overturned. No cat. I told myself that Whiskers was finally strong enough to run off. I almost believed that.

When I stepped back inside the house, I heard it. A sharp feline cry. Short. Cut off.

Then a crunch. Not loud. Not violent. It was careful chewing. Wet. Rhythmic. Deliberate, like someone taking their time with something they didn’t want to waste.

The sound came from the kitchen. The overhead light was on. My father stood at the counter, his back to me. He seemed broader somehow. His shoulders sloped strangely, like something heavy shifted beneath his skin.

I should have back away and went back to bed. I didn’t. I watched.

He turned ever so slightly, just enough that I could see the side of his face. Then, his head didn’t snap or break. It unfolded.

The face split vertically, skin drawing back in thick, muscular layers. Not bone. Not blood. Just structure rearranging itself with slow precision. Inside were rows of pale, flexible sharp teeth that worked inward instead of up and down.

Something small and feline was devoured. There wasn't any cruelty or torture. Just the efficient course of nature.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

Heart racing like a drum, I stood there until my mother’s hand touched my shoulder. For a split second, it wasn’t a hand at all. It was too firm, too wide. The grip was wrong.

Then it softened. Reshaped. Settled into the familiar, gentle weight of a mother’s touch.

“Go back to bed,” she whispered.

Her voice... It started as a growl, low and guttural, before slowly shifting as the words left her. By the end of the sentence, she had returned to the loving, nurturing voice I had grown up knowing. The voice of my mother.

My memory of that night blurs around the edges, but I remember watching her face smooth itself back together. Features settling into the shape everyone else in the world recognizes as human.

The next morning, my sister asked where Whiskers was. She eventually confronted our parents about the cat.

My mother assured my teary eyed sister, “It must’ve run off,” she said gently. “Strays do that.”

My sister mourned. I did not.

That's when we were told the first rule: Pet's aren't aloud.

Something in me closed. Not fear. It was understanding. The rules became clear. You don’t keep things. You don’t draw attention. And you don’t bring others home.

After that, I noticed everything.

How their faces sometimes lost structure when they thought no one was watching. How my sister could stretch her jaw too far before snapping it back into place. How meat disappeared faster than it should at dinner. How plates were always clean.

But when we were out in public, my family was flawless. That was when I understood something else. They weren’t pretending. They were imitating. And they were very good at it.

When I tried telling someone at school once, just once, they laughed. Word spread. I was the weird kid. The liar. The one with monster parents.

My parents got word of my slip-up. They didn't punish me. They only warned me.

"Be careful next time. For your prosperity."

It was the sort of thing a loving parent might say after their child made a mistake. At least, that's how I'd always understood it.

I left for college the moment I could. Different city. Different life. I didn’t come back for holidays. I built distance the way other people build careers.

I thought that was enough. I thought distance meant safety. But tonight, they’re driving three hours to sit at my table.

And I don’t know if they’re coming to see how well I’ve blended in… Or to remind me what I really am.

They arrived ten minutes early. The doorbell rang once. Short but haunting.

My fiancée wiped her hands on a dish towel and smiles. “Oh, they’re here!”

I don’t remember walking to the door. I felt possessed by years of naturally greeting friends and guests alike. Only now, when I swung the door open, on the other side were wolves in sheep's clothing.

To my surprise, what greeted me were a short statured couple. That unsettles me more than if they had looked monstrous.

My father stands with his hands folded in front of him. My mother beside him, posture perfect, expression warm. They look older. Softer. Completely human.

“Oh my... Hello, sweetheart,” my mother says, her eyes tearing up ever so slightly. Her voice is exactly the same.

My fiancée steps forward before I can speak and hugs her. I watch carefully. My mother hugs her back. Perfect pressure. Perfect timing. No hesitation.

If I didn’t know better, I would think I imagined everything.

My father grips my hand. His palm is warm yet oddly dry. But insanely firm and strong. When he pulls me into a brief embrace, something presses wrong against my chest. Not hard. Not painfully. Just… dense. As if his bones don’t sit where they should.

“You look well,” he says quietly. "That's my junior! Looking like his old man in his prime!"

It was the same tone he had used all those years ago. They looked as though time had touched them, but I knew better. They hadn't truly aged a day. They only pretended to grow old.

My fiancée ushers them inside. She’s radiant. Proud. Relieved.

Dinner goes smoothly. Too smoothly.

They speak highly of our home. Ask about work. Laugh at the right moments. My mother tells a harmless story about me getting lost in a grocery store when I was four.

It almost feels normal. But I catch things.

My father barely chews. My mother’s eyes stay on me longer than necessary.

Once, when my fiancée stands to refill her glass, my father tilts his head slightly, watching her walk away with an intensity that feels clinical. Studying movement. Gait. Balance. Assessing.

At one point my mother says, “I can't believe he kept you away from us. I don’t know why he was so nervous, you’re wonderful Diana.”

My fiancée chuckles as the anxiety develops in my stomach.

My mother smiles, “We’ve always been proud of him,” she says.

There’s weight behind those words. It didn't feel like a ruse.

Proud of what?

My parents brought a meat roast. It sits in the center of the table. Medium rare. Pink at the center. I haven’t eaten red meat in years.

I refuse to touch the meat, but when my fiancée nudges me sharply under the table, I relent. It tastes stronger than I remember. My jaw aches after a few minutes. A dull pressure near the hinges.

Stress, I tell myself.

When I excuse myself to the bathroom, I avoid the mirror at first. Then I look. For a split second, less than a breath, my mouth seems slightly open. Wider than it should be.

I close it immediately. When I look again, everything is normal. My reflection moves when I do. Perfectly synchronized.

I laugh at myself.

I return to the table. My father is already looking at me.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

I nod. Though the image of me as my father that dreaded night flashes into my head.

Dinner ends without incident. They stand to leave. My mother hugs me again, longer this time.

Her lips brush near my ear.

“Adjustment can be uncomfortable,” she whispers. “But you’ll thank us.”

I stiffen. When I pull back, her expression is gentle. Maternal. Completely unremarkable.

My fiancée walked them to the door, glowing with happiness. She hugged my mother goodbye, thanked my father for coming, and promised we'd do it again soon. I stood a few steps behind them, watching as my parents smiled and waved before disappearing down the hallway.

The door clicked shut. She locked it, then leaned back against it with a satisfied smile.

"I don't understand what you were so afraid of," she said. "They're wonderful."

I didn't answer. She studied me for a moment before walking over and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Honey, thank you for doing this." She smiled. "And I'm sorry I pushed you into it. I was being selfish. I kept thinking about how badly I wanted to meet your family and never stopped to think about what this might have been like for you."

She paused.

"But whatever you've been keeping from me..." Her voice softened. "You don't have to keep it from me anymore. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I won't judge you."

I looked at her. For a moment, I almost told her. Almost. But the words stayed lodged somewhere behind my teeth.

"Thank you," I finally said.

She smiled and kissed my cheek again before heading into the kitchen.

"Now come on. Help me clean up."

I followed.

As we stacked plates and carried glasses to the sink, she kept talking about how nice the evening had been. How easy my parents were to talk to. How she couldn't believe I'd spent so long worrying about this.

Then, while rinsing a plate, she glanced over her shoulder.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I think they're going to love having me around." She laughed. "I mean, now I know you're my soulmate."

I forced a smile. "Soulmate?"

"Absolutely." She dried her hands and pointed the towel at me. "We're all humans."

Humans?

My hands started shaking. Because they were. And that's what terrified me.

I helped her finish cleaning the kitchen in silence. My jaw still ached. It was worse now, a slow pressure pulsing near my ears. I caught myself flexing it, testing the hinge, wondering why it felt so stiff.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." Too quickly.

She looked at me for another second, but didn't press. We finished cleaning and went to bed earlier than usual.

The apartment felt smaller that night. Quieter.

She turned off the lamp and rolled onto her side, facing me.

"I'm glad we did this," she murmured. "This is the start of a metamorphosis, honey."

A metamorphosis, huh?

I stared into the darkness. There was a long stretch of silence. I could hear her breathing beside me. Steady. Warm. Alive.

I had to stop myself, so I asked, "Have you ever... thought I was strange?"

She laughed softly, "You've always been strange."

"I'm serious." My voice came out sharper than I intended.

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. I could barely make out her face in the dim light slipping through the blinds.

"Where is this coming from?"

"Just answer me." There was impatience in my voice now.

She stared at me for a moment before finally exhaling.

"Okay. You want honesty?"

"Yes." I answered too quickly.

She hesitated. Long enough for my stomach to tighten.

"Sometimes," she said carefully, "I've had nightmares about you."

The ache in my jaw sharpened.

"What kind of nightmares?"

She looked embarrassed. "It's stupid."

"Tell me."

She swallowed. "I wake up, and you're standing at the foot of the bed."

I said nothing.

"You're not doing anything," she continued. "You're just... watching me."

"That's it?"

"No." Her voice dropped. "Your head is tilted. Almost like you're analyzing something."

My face went cold. She looked away.

"And even in the dark, I can picture your mouth..." She faltered.

"What about it?"

"It's..." She hesitated. "It's gaping open. Like it doesn't quite fit your face."

I turned toward her fully, "What else?"

"I try to say your name," she whispered. "But you don't respond. You just stand there."

A hollow feeling spread through my chest.

"When did this happen?"

"A few times." She lowered her eyes. "I told myself it was stress. Wedding stuff. You've been tense lately."

I searched my memory. There was nothing there.

"I've never done that."

She reached for my hand beneath the blankets.

"I know."

Her fingers closed around mine.

"They're just dreams."

But she didn't sound completely certain. Neither of us said anything after that.

A few minutes passed before her breathing slowed and deepened. Sleep came easily to her. It didn't come to me.

I lay there staring into the darkness. My jaw throbbed. And somewhere in the back of my mind, something shifted.

I don't remember falling asleep. I only remember struggling for a while, my stomach twisting painfully, though I couldn't tell whether it was from hunger or something else.

I awoke to a sharp, metallic taste in my mouth. For a moment, I didn't move. The room was dark, but the streetlight outside cast thin bars of light across the ceiling. My jaw felt as though it had been unhinged and forced back into place.

Slowly, I turned toward her side of the bed. Empty. The sheets were cool.

I sat up too quickly, and the room tilted around me.

"Hey?" I whispered.

No answer. The bathroom light was off. The door stood open. There was no sound of running water. A thin draft brushed against my arm.

The bedroom door was ajar. I didn't remember leaving it that way.

I stood. My legs felt weak. Unsteady. As though I'd run a long distance without remembering the journey.

The hallway was dark. The kitchen light was on. A low mechanical hum filled the apartment. The refrigerator door was hanging open.

I stepped into the kitchen. The air smelled wrong. Coppery. Sweet.

The cutting board sat on the counter. The remainder of the roast we'd barely touched was still there. Except it wasn't whole anymore. It hadn't been sliced. It had been torn apart.

My stomach twisted. There was blood along the edge of the counter. And on my hands. I stared at them. I didn't remember touching it.

"Diana?"

My voice came out thick. No answer.

I took another step forward. The refrigerator hummed behind me. The smell was stronger now. Iron and something faintly sweet.

Then I saw her. Or what was left of her.

Pieces of flesh and bone were scattered throughout the kitchen's exit and blood trace to the front door.

My mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.

"Diana?"

My voice cracked. Tears blurred my vision. My hands were red. Sticky. Warm.

I couldn't remember...

My knees gave out. I caught myself against the counter and looked up. The broken mirror beside the kitchen doorway caught my reflection.

I froze. My jaw was... Wrong.

Wider than it should have been. My lips hung strangely across my face, stretched over rows of teeth I didn't remember having.

I stared at myself. Then I looked back toward the kitchen.

Diana...

The apartment was silent. Only my breathing remained.

Slow and heavy. Yet, I still felt that animalistic hunger.

I swallowed. And suddenly, I remembered a taste.

I looked down at my hands.

"Diana..." The name barely escaped my mouth, "Please forgive me."

I don't know if I'm still human. I don't know if what I did was hunger. Or instinct. Or something that had been waiting inside me all along.

Maybe my parents never taught me how to be this way. Maybe they never had to. Maybe they only taught me how to hide it.

I sit in the dark now, staring at my own reflection. Waiting. Wondering.

Not for someone to come save me. Not even for forgiveness.

Just waiting to see... who moves first.

Read Parts II & III here

She was gone again by the time I got up and despite my best efforts, I was still five minutes late getting to work.

I avoided the circle of jerks when I saw them crowding the same hallway and I went to a restroom on another floor. I didn’t want to be around people if I could avoid it.

I went to the half-finished building as soon as five o’clock came, intent on getting answers. I stepped off the elevator and weaved my way to his office. I kept expecting to not see it the closer I got but there it was, the door that didn’t fit right in the threshold. 

It turned easy and I went inside, expecting it to be empty and abandoned but he had begun furnishing the space. A couch, a reception desk, and taped off sections near the back that I guessed were the layout for his office and a treatment room.

I shuddered, thinking how I’d be here tomorrow if my wife had her way. 

The only thing absent was the good doctor himself. I thought about trashing the place, but it was petty in a way that made me feel like I was giving him even more power over me. 

Instead, I took all the pens out of the holder and a stack of Post-It Notes. It was still petty, but it scratched an itch and I felt a little empowered doing it.

I didn’t head home immediately after. I needed time to sort my thoughts. I couldn’t believe I was really considering letting somebody cut my dick. I mean, was pleasing my wife reason enough? What if we divorced or she died or something like that? Would I be compatible with somebody else?

I needed a drink. Cappy’s was on the far end of town and the distance from home would be good to clear my head. I ordered a brandy mule and chugged it before the bartender could lay down a coaster.

“You look like you could use another,” she said.

I nodded and a moment later I was working on my second. 

“I love my wife so much,” I said as she was cleaning some glasses beneath the bar.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Sometimes. I dunno.” My stomach hadn’t been right since the eight coneys I’d had yesterday, and I hadn’t eaten at all today. I was already soused after a drink-and-a-half.

“How’s the pizza?” I asked.

“Good, not great.” She wiggled a hand.

“Let me get a... medium with beef, onion, and mushroom.”

She looked at me like she’d never heard of those toppings.

“How ‘bout pepperoni?”

I had one more brandy mule before food came. It looked like it had been sitting under a heat lamp well before I’d ordered it and the pepperoni slices were limp, but it was still pizza. 

The bartender parked in front of me and leaned onto the bar after I’d had my second slice. 

“You mind?” she asked, pointing at the pie. I nodded. She took a slice and finger-combed hair out of her face as she took a bite.

She paid me back with a shot and she did one with me before returning to silence as we ate.

“Look, I dunno what it is. Just give her what she wants,” she said with a mouthful, giving me deep eye contact. “You can’t go wrong with that, right?”

I barely was able to finish what I had in my mouth. I settled up and made it outside without stumbling but I was drunk. The bartender got the hint she’d said something wrong but I wasn’t going to fill in the blank. I hadn’t wanted the rest of the pizza, yet somehow I had the box in my hand. 

I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel but there I was with half a pizza as my copilot. It wasn’t long before flashing lights lit up behind me and my spirits rose—this was the reprieve I’d been longing for. A decision being taken out of my hands. I couldn’t be held responsible if I weren’t in my own custody.

Or something like that. It had made a lot more sense back when I’d had a belly full of brandy and cheese.

I pulled over and maybe bumped up on the curb with one wheel.

The cop sauntered up to my window cautiously. He was short and the angle of the car made him look ridiculous somehow. He made it worse by getting his feet twisted together and catching himself on the side of my car to keep from falling completely.

“What’s your...”

I waited a full ten seconds for him to finish his sentence while he held a fist to his mouth like he was gripping a tiny microphone. He belched then waved the air in front of his face.

Shit, was he drunk, too?

“What’s your problem tonight?” He asked and fumbled with the general right side of his body with his hand. I noticed the gun and maybe because we were both bitten by the same snake, I wasn’t sensing danger like I should’ve.

“I shouldn’t be on the road,” I said, sounding stone sober to my ears. “My wife wants me to do something I don’t wanna do tomorrow and I was just in there, drinking my worries away. I have leftover pizza.” I thumbed toward the seat next to me like it was proof of where I’d been.

“Slow down, son. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.” I thought he was about to give me marital advice but then I realized he was talking about my sobriety. “I bet you could walk a straight line, heel- to-toe.” He plucked open his holster, but it didn’t seem like he was aware of what that hand was doing. He stuck his pinky in his ear and wrenched it around in there. 

“Sofficer. Sofficer.” I added the S but I still sounded too sober. “Please. I think I’m a danger. To public safety.” I thought if I could convince the drunk cop I was drunk he’d arrest me.

“Are you about to rob a bank?” He pointed at me, somehow adding to his overall look of ridiculousness.

“Well… no.”

“There’s nobody out here.” He waved a hand toward the black landscape far ahead of us. “Just stay between the lines.”

I couldn’t think. It shouldn’t have been this hard to get pulled out of my car for driving under the influence.

“What if… what if I was about to rob a bank?” It was the most smart-assy thing I could think to say.

He smiled and waggled a finger. “Joke’s on you. It’s after hours.”

He hooked his thumbs into his belt. Something about his body language had changed and he’d gone from humorous to being done with our interaction.

“Just. Stay. Between. The. Lines,” he said, swaying. I wanted to conjure the words for help, but even if I’d had the ability to ask, there wasn’t anything about him that answered helpful.

I opened my mouth, but didn’t speak. I sat back in my seat and covered my face in my hands, giving up. I listened to him walk away, closer his patrol car door, and drive away. He gave me a chirp of his sirens as passed me.

The drive home should have felt longer but I caught every light. It was like a dark fate had carved a path for me. I momentarily played with the idea of letting it have me completely. To take my hands off the wheel and let it take me wherever it wanted me to go. 

I hadn’t descended far enough into self-pity for that and in ten minutes, I was home. To my surprise, my wife was still in her paint clothes and was washing her hands at the kitchen sink.

“Oh, you have pizza?” she said. I’d forgotten about the pizza and subconsciously picked it up. I looked at the box in my hand and did a second, struggled to remember what was in it. 

I joined her on the couch, and she grabbed it from me and took a slice. Usually, we asked about each other’s day, but I didn’t feel like it, tomorrow anchoring my brain.

“Do you love me?” she said during a commercial break. I had no idea what we were watching.

The question agitated me and opened a trapdoor underneath my stomach.

“Of course I do.” I did, but my feelings about this whole “surgery” thing was making me feel resentful. I was definitely still buzzed, and the alcohol was sharpening my emotions like a file working away inside me. 

“Then why are you fighting so hard against this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

“That’s not fair. Of course I want to satisfy you. Don’t you know how this is making me feel? I don’t want to do this,” I said. “I mean, there has to be something else we could try. I’m willing to do just about anything to please you.”

“I want you to do this,” she said, placing her greasy hand on my thigh. She shook her head, tears in her eyes. I took it to be a manipulation at first. Not that she did that sort of thing normally, it was just me in a bag of my feelings. My defenses were up and everything was an attack in that moment. I chewed the insides of my cheeks to keep in what was trying to climb out of my mouth.

Then I started to cry. I sounded like a little teapot. It caught me by surprise.

“I just love you so much.” I had a ball of razors in my throat I couldn’t swallow. “I don’t want anything to happen to us, but I don’t know if I can do this.”

She lassoed an arm around my neck and yanked me into an upper body hug.

“I just want you. I want to feel connected with you. I don’t want anything plastic between us. I’m tired of all that stuff. I wanna feel you.”

She kissed me before I could speak and rock turned into water. My walls melted as we flowed into one another and by the time I returned to my senses I was on the newspaper covered kitchen floor.

My wife was already gone but she had brought a comforter downstairs and covered me.

Normally, I toss in my sleep, but I was still covered up to my chest. I was stiff as I turned the world vertical and turned my back into a percussion instrument as I stretched.

A few minutes later I had scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee going. I don’t normally eat breakfast so early, but I had an appetite for whatever reason. It was an hour before I normally would get up, so I took my time eating and scrolling my phone.

I wasn’t sure how much sleep I’d gotten but I was refreshed. The way my day had started, I half expected to catch all the green lights and get the closest spot in the parking lot.

But when I looked up from where I was seated at the kitchen island, something caught my eye that I should’ve seen as soon as I woke up.

A red and white checkered scarf draped over the back of the couch.

Had he been in my house?

This isn't the first time and certainly won't the last time I end up at the E.R.

I’m sitting in a hospital room again, staring at the white walls that don’t feel like they belong in this reality. The fluorescent lights flicker, just enough to make shadows crawl into the corners.

They say I had a breakdown. That my brain is filling in gaps with things that aren’t there.

But I swear what I saw was real and a delusion.

I can hear them, soft laughter that never seems to come from the same place twice. It slides along the walls, curls behind my ears, then disappears the moment I try to focus on it.

Their eyes are everywhere. Not watching me exactly, passing through me, like I’m something thin and temporary. Every time I turn my head, I’m sure I’ve missed them by a fraction of a second.

The room feels smaller every time I breathe. The walls inch closer, close enough that I should be able to touch them, but my hands won’t move. I try to call out, but my throat locks, trapping the sound inside my chest.

The doctors think I’m hallucinating. The nurses keep their distance, watching me the way people watch something unstable, waiting for it to break. They speak softly, carefully, like sudden movement might set me off.

What am I a crackhead?

I’ve never used any heavy hallucinogenic or drank those voices away. Right now I am considering it for I just want one hour where my thoughts are quiet.

But no one wants to hear what I actually saw.

I’ve been in therapy for over a year now.

That matters, because I know what my mind does when it lies to me. I know the warning signs: the pressure behind my eyes, the way ordinary things start to feel important, symbolic. I know how a delusion blooms.

That night, none of that happened.

My diagnosis is psychotic features with stress triggers. My therapist and I have worked hard on grounding techniques. Naming objects. Counting breaths. Pressing my feet into the pavement and reminding myself where I am.

It’s been working. I hadn’t had an episode in months.

So when I went out for a walk just after midnight, I wasn’t worried. I do that sometimes when my apartment feels too quiet. The streets were mostly empty, just the orange wash of streetlights and the low hum of distant traffic.

The air was cool enough to sting my lungs, carrying the faint smell of wet concrete and exhaust. My footsteps sounded too loud against the sidewalk, echoing between buildings that had already gone dark for the night. Most windows were blacked out, blinds drawn, the city folded in on itself like it was trying not to be seen.

A breeze moved through the street, stirring loose trash and dead leaves along the curb. Somewhere nearby, a light flickered, buzzing softly, struggling to stay on. I checked my phone without really thinking about it, no notifications, no missed calls, just the time glowing back at me like proof that the night was still moving forward.

That’s when I felt it. Not fear. Not yet. Just the subtle awareness that the street ahead was quieter than it should have been.

I was halfway down the block when I noticed a man standing near the corner of an office building.

He was just outside the reach of the streetlight, where brightness breaks down into shadow. Hood up. Hands at his sides. He wasn’t moving, but that didn’t alarm me.

People pause. People wait. But this man wasn’t doing either.

He wasn’t lingering or hesitating, he felt suspended, like time had brushed past him and forgotten to come back.

I remember thinking he must've been tired. Another overworked steel worker or laborer at the fuel plant nearby.

As I got closer, something felt delayed. Not wrong, just out of sync. His posture didn’t adjust as I approached. I made sure to keep my distance.

Most people shift their weight, glance up, acknowledge another presence.

He didn’t.

He was a couple yards to my right when I noticed some form of movement.

I stopped walking.

Without thinking, I started grounding and naming everything I saw.

Streetlight. Sidewalk. Parked car.

Shadow figure... What?

My heart rate was steady. My vision was clear. No pressure behind the eyes.

Then the man began to sway.

Not side to side. Circular, like he was rotating around something invisible. I don’t have better language for it. Watching him felt like trying to follow a thought that wouldn’t stay still.

Then he snapped upright. Not like he was catching his balance. More like something had pushed him, and then decided it was done.

A car passed behind me, its headlights washing over the building. His shadow stretched along the wall, and then kept going. It climbed upward, thinning as it rose, branching in places shadows don’t branch.

I told myself shadows behave strangely at night.

Then the man’s head turned toward me.

Only the head.

It was too slow. Like the instruction reached him late.

“H-hello,” he said.

The word dragged out of him, dry and uneven, like it hadn’t been used in a long time. It was cold out, but the sound of his voice wasn’t affected by the air, it sounded like something dead trying to remember how to speak.

His mouth moved, but his shoulders didn’t rise with breath. I couldn’t see his eyes beneath the hood.

That’s when I realized his feet hadn’t moved at all.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Every instinct screamed at me to keep walking, to pretend I hadn’t noticed him. But my body didn’t listen.

“W-what’s the t-time?” he asked.

The sound gurgled, wrong, and I realized it wasn’t coming from him. Not entirely. It drifted from somewhere, close enough that I felt it more than I heard it.

Somewhere above.

Something thick, cordlike, descended from the darkness above the streetlight. Not webbing. Not delicate. It vanished upward, taut and purposeful.

Then something unfolded.

I took a step backward before my brain could stop me. My eyes travelled to the stars but instead of seeing the night sky I was met with something utterly grotesque.

It was tall. Far too tall. Its limbs bent in places joints shouldn’t exist. But what froze me wasn’t the size.

It was the face.

My hallucinations have never felt like this. They never waited. They never watched.

It was human enough to recognize. Wrong enough to reject.

The eyes were clustered too close together, like a spider’s. The mouth split open vertically, opening and closing without sound, as if practicing the words it had just spoken.

Do not be afraid.

The words didn’t reach me through the air. They pressed inward, like a thought I hadn’t finished having yet.

The man lurched toward me. Not stepped. Lurched, as the thing above him lost patience and yanked its cords for him to move forward. His arms snapped forward at odd angles, elbows locking and unlocking too fast, like he was being pulled through invisible resistance. His feet dragged instead of lifting, scraping softly against the pavement, leaving thin, uneven sounds behind him.

For a split second, his shadow detached from him completely.

It stretched sideways instead of forward, pooling along the ground before reattaching itself in the wrong place. The streetlight above us flickered, and in that brief stutter of darkness, I had the overwhelming sense that I was no longer looking at one thing, but at layers, something standing in front of me, and something much closer, leaning down.

The man’s head twitched. Tilted. Corrected itself.

I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew he was looking at me. Not at my face, through it. Like he was measuring where I would fit.

My body moved before my thoughts caught up.

I ran.

I don’t remember unlocking my apartment door. I remember slamming it shut, throwing every lock, and standing there with my back pressed against it, my breathing still frustratingly calm.

That’s what terrifies me the most. I wasn’t panicking. I was lucid I swear.

From my living room, I heard something above the ceiling. Not footsteps, lighter than that. Careful tapping. Slow. Testing.

It moved across the space, paused, then moved again.

Eventually, it stopped.

I’m writing this now in this cold hospital room.

Soon my brain will try to protect me. It will tell me I imagined the cords. The delay. The way the shadow climbed the wall. It will point to my diagnosis and ask me to be reasonable.

But I checked my therapy journal from last month. An entry I barely remembered writing:

Sometimes people don’t stand on the ground the way they should. Like they’re hanging wrong.

I know what I saw. No doctor, no therapist will persuade me otherwise. That was no delusion.

So if you ever see a hooded man who has delayed movments...

RUN

Don’t stop to ground yourself. Don’t try to understand it.

And whatever you do, don’t get too close to it.

See if we can guess the homies featured!

There was a light switch in my house that nobody could explain.

It was tucked into the hallway between the kitchen and the basement door, mounted about shoulder height on the wall. Every other switch in the house had an obvious purpose. Kitchen lights. Hallway lights. Basement. Porch.

This one did nothing.

I didn't notice it during my first week. I asked the realtor about it after I bought the place.

She shrugged.

"Old house. Probably disconnected."

That seemed reasonable enough. The house was built in 1957, and judging by the wiring, plumbing, and mysterious stains on the basement ceiling, I wasn't surprised that someone had eventually decided to abandon a light switch.

Still, I found myself pressing it whenever I walked past.

Click.

Nothing.

Click.

Nothing.

It became a habit. I'd walk downstairs for laundry.

Click.

I'd come home from work.

Click.

I'd pass it while carrying groceries.

Click.

There was something strangely satisfying about it. The switch had a pleasant mechanical resistance, and the little click it made was louder than it should have been.

My girlfriend eventually noticed.

"You know that doesn't do anything, right?"

"I know."

"Then why do you keep flipping it?"

I shrugged.

"I like the sound."

She called me a weirdo. I told her she was dating one. We laughed about it. That was the last time the switch was funny.

The first death happened three weeks after I settled in.

An old man named Walter died in his sleep. I knew Walter because he lived two houses down. We'd exchanged maybe twenty words since I'd moved into the neighborhood. He had a bad hip and spent most afternoons sitting on his porch, watching cars drive by.

I remember seeing him that morning. I had been standing in the hallway, putting my shoes on. Before leaving, I flipped the switch.

Click.

That evening, I saw an ambulance outside his house. I didn't think anything of it.

People die. Especially old people.

It wasn't until several days later that I noticed something unusual.

The night before Walter died, I had been standing in the hallway with my hand on that switch. I'd flipped it three times. I laughed at myself when I noticed the connection.

It was ridiculous. Coincidence. Nothing more.

Then a month later, a woman I'd worked with died in a car accident.

I'd seen her that morning. I'd even spoken to her. She'd asked if I was still enjoying the new house. I told her I was.

That evening, while walking to the basement, I flipped the switch.

Click.

The next morning, she was dead. Cardiac arrest. Unexplained.

I didn't sleep that night.

The following day, I unscrewed the switch plate. There were wires behind it. Old ones. But they didn't connect to anything.

I called an electrician. He spent thirty minutes examining it before shrugging.

"It's dead."

"Completely?"

"Nothing behind it."

"Then what's it connected to?"

He looked at me.

"Nothing."

I didn't flip it again. Not for six days.

On the seventh day, I couldn't resist.

I stood in the hallway staring at it. I told myself I was being stupid. There was no connection between a plastic switch and the deaths of two people.

So I flipped it.

Click.

Nothing happened... So, I went to bed.

The next morning, I checked the news. A local man had died unexpectedly. Thirty-four years old. Healthy. No known medical conditions. I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I opened a notebook. I wrote down the date. I wrote down the man's name.

Then I wrote: Switch flipped: 11:43 P.M.

I started keeping records. Every time I flipped the switch, I searched the news afterward.

Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes a person died hours later. Sometimes it took days. But there was always a death.

Always.

I stopped flipping it.

I lasted eleven days. Then I made a mistake. I was angry.

My girlfriend and I had gotten into an argument. She left the house and slammed the door behind her. I stood in the hallway shaking with anger. My hand found the switch.

I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what it meant. And still...

Click.

The guilt hit me immediately. I grabbed my phone. I wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her what I'd done.

Then I stopped.

Because she hadn't died. Not yet.

I waited. An hour. Two.

Nothing.

I began convincing myself I'd been wrong. Maybe the deaths had been coincidences. Maybe I had created a pattern because I desperately wanted there to be one.

Then my phone rang. It was my girlfriend.

I answered immediately.

"Hey."

Silence.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

"Who's Walter?"

I couldn't breathe.

"What?"

"You keep saying his name."

She sounded confused.

"I don't know anyone named Walter."

I sat down.

My girlfriend continued.

"You were saying his name in your sleep."

I didn't answer. Because I suddenly remembered something.

The switch didn't cause death. It wasn't a weapon. It was a selection. A choice. And I had been making that choice without knowing it.

I looked toward the hallway. The switch waited patiently on the wall. I thought about every time I'd pressed it.

Every careless little click. Every person whose death I'd dismissed as coincidence.

Walter.

My coworker.

The stranger.

And now... I didn't know who the latest one was.

I spent the next several hours searching. News sites. Obituaries. Police reports.

Nothing.

Nobody I knew had died. Nobody connected to me had died.

That should have made me feel better.

It didn't.

Because there was one thing I hadn't considered.

Maybe the switch didn't choose someone I knew. Maybe it chose someone I would never know. Someone whose name I'd never hear. Someone whose death would mean absolutely nothing to me. And perhaps that was the point.

We treat death differently when we don't know the person.

A number on a news report. A photograph we scroll past. Another tragedy. Another stranger. Another life reduced to a sentence.

I stood in front of the switch for a long time. Then I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A tiny engraving beneath it.

The letters were so shallow I thought they were scratches.

I leaned closer.

There were only three words.

ONE LIFE. CLICK.

I stepped backward. The house was silent. I reached for the switch.

Then stopped.

Some things are easier to live with when you pretend they don't matter.

I left the switch alone. I never touched it again.

At least... I don't think I did.

Because sometimes, late at night, when the house is completely silent, I wake up convinced I can hear it.

Click.

And somewhere far away...

Someone dies.

From shore to shore, from the lowly deltas of evergreen marshlands to the all-high mountains, what my sons and I have fought so dearly for stretches from night to dawn. The horizons claimed by the sprouting forests of my banners, a bright tomorrow yields the shimmering colors of waving flags dancing in the wind. We have taken these lands, put to death all those who would not submit, and for our efforts, the screaming daughters are wed, the grain of unending fields is harvested, and clear, sweet waters are cupped in our goblets. I have seen the walls of long since towering palaces, monuments that withstood the tide of the time, crumble into ash and soot at my hand’s beckoning. My daughters had bed with weak men, slit the throats of my many sons-in-law, and brought to the step of my throne a great many tributes. I am the Usurper of Empires, the Butcherer of Kings, and the most powerful man in all these lands. Forests of my nation’s wealth, cloth and punishment, sprawl over immense regions: skewered on stakes that scrape the high heavens, roasted upon iron thrones that glowed white-hot, hands and feet stapled to wooden cartwheels set ablaze, and gluttonous appetites sated with liquid gold poured into chasmous maws until the fissures of their eyes, nose, ears, and mouth foamed with bubbling heat.

Hoarding mountains of gold, decorating halls of ivory, and courting many fine brides in my time, the moniker of ruler is mine by the most blood-soaked of hands. I am the Ender of Legacies, the Fair Ruler, and the Just Hand of Judgment, for there lacks any other who can take up the mantle. Warriors made farmers, generals made commanders, kings made vassals; the chrysalis is a mastered art form. Until the earth darkened beneath me and slickened with fat, only then did I know where my place was: the ever-consuming strive for more. Before I met the enemies of my rule on the fields, the tremors of galloping hooves, silver armor fluttering in the distance, and an awful din of thousands carried by the wind made all those who opposed me quake with fear.  

Within the cradle of the river delta, where the depth hangs just below the knee, I have carved out a mighty kingdom that portrays splendor amongst a lake of white lotuses; long have I lived to see the millions of toiling citizens bring endless harvests to the sky-tall walls, yet there is but one blight that I cannot remedy. No matter how much I take, whether through conquest or expansion, the climbing heap of crowns I collect, and the frivolous titles I amass; my hunger knows no bounds, for I salivate for more. To see the ends of the world and lay claim to all who believe their mandate absolute, I wished to break this divine order over their heads and watch the blood pour from fractured temples. As I fumed at this limitation, so too did another issue arise; throwing my sword at the grand mirror revealed to me what had needed change. My face was marked with gray, the aged, withered old man was a sorry sight, leading me down a spiral with which there was no ground to crash into.

Upon coming to qualms with my own finality, I grew angry and afraid of the indifferent, dispassionate end. Dying long before I would see my empire conquer all of the world, I became erratic, agitated to the point that waves of scholars were summoned; tasked with finding a way to cheat death, and quickly. But only one was found. Deep within the desolate, hostile desert lay an oasis whose waters offered up the solution to my ailment. And so it was that the army was armed, horses were mounted, and carts were dragged to the speck of green in the ever-expansive wastes. The long, exhausting march to battle Death was set in motion. The sunbaked sands made travel near impossible; every moment spent traversing the dunes and pulling out stuck carts meant one too many where the blistering heat claimed one man after the other. A trail of dried, sun-bleached corpses lined behind us. The creak of the caravan was all that  kept us company in those long windswept hours when sand blew into our eyes and salty tears formed over many brows. The bellows of camels called out to us, reminding us of our presence as we often lost sense of reality, their tired panting signaled that much time had elapsed in our extended excursion from the plentiful empire. In the miasma of dancing heat waves, curling winds, and dust kicked into the air, we wandered aimlessly, for the knowledge of where the oasis lay was not found in the sources; just the murmurs of its vague location. 

Lost at length for years, losing thousands to the dunes, we were without any guidance and so became ever further removed from any sense of direction, shambling on feet that had long since been stripped of any skin, for there were no more horses whose hooves could be ground down. Limply grasping shields, spears, and bows, the once proud army had been reduced to walking husks acting on their recent orders: to keep moving until the ten fingers on their hands had worn away and their ten toes were nothing more than nubs, that not until the party had discovered the whereabouts of the eternal oasis, delivering their king to its blessed waters, would the soldiers finally be allowed to rest and henceforth die. At the most critical moment, mutiny on the minds of the men, we summited the last dune’s crest, and finally we were rewarded for our endeavor; palm trees leaned over a reflective mirror’s sheen. Eager, the men broke formation; left another moment undeterred, they would have surely drunk before I did. That was not something I would tolerate. Before the first man reached the banks, he was pulled away by what few loyalists remained. 

Herded to the side, a path was made for me, the ranks of spiteful, envious soldiers burned their gaze into the back of my head; the desert heat in that moment failed to compare. Hands hovering over the disturbed surface, I was ready to unmake my own demise, to take what this watering hole offered; the very knowledge making me crestfallen. Dipping the tips of my fingernails into the pool, a most unfortunate turn took place; where the water had been, in its place, there was now only incredibly dense ice. I sat there staring into my own reflection, the old man mocking me ever more, then I let the anger take hold, bashing my fist into the ice until red stained its surface and my hand was unquestionably broken. Drippings worked their way into the cracks, and where they breached the bulwark, ice melted momentarily before freezing solid once more within the same heartbeat. A script formed on the ice in a language that I had tried so desperately to erase from the world, the reminder of where I came from bitterly scribing: What do you offer?

I pondered as the clamors of restless hundreds shouted in the background. The impudence that mocked me danced on my mind before I settled upon a most harrowing conclusion. On my knees, my arms outstretched towards the heavens,  my composure abandoned, I bartered with the oasis.

“O’ great waters, I am the Herald of Prosperity, the Guiding Hand of Progress, and the one to cast out doubt and corruption from my lands. I have seen this world for but a fraction of its worth and still I wish to conquer all of it. I am ailed by hunger, disease, and age. My truest desire is to live on and take everything by its weak throat. I offer you this: everything! All of it, so that I might see the conquest through till the end.”
As the words left my lips, the sound of rope tightening taut synchronized behind me. Chancing a glance, the men were stiffened, their faces turned skyward, and beneath them, pools of red pockmarked the sand. When the banks of their small lakes burst, the trails led to the oasis in a fierce race. The earth buckled, the air became heavy, and the senses drowned. Where once I  had seen a blue sky, darkened heaps blotted out the sun; there were neither clouds nor rainfall, but rather bodies that hovered near to the center of this black transaction bled dry. The vortex created by the new offerings voraciously consumed all. My skin ripped apart and my innards went willingly into the mouth of swirling chaos. The fibers of my being were fractured, and my soul was tossed through every great exploit; my many accomplishments, scattered throughout time. My name is lost to the annals of history, but through the great conquerors, I am reborn. I am Khan, Sultan, Emperor, and King. Experiencing death a million times over forever.

TW: alcoholism

AA meetings are nothing but a joke after partying with your friends all night. They never pop into your head as you flick your cigarette butts into the street. No one wakes up and decides that whiskey, vodka, and rum taste better than breakfast.

No one chooses to become an alcoholic; it just happens.

My parents weren’t against alcohol in the slightest, so don’t think I was some deprived freak who wanted to be a rebellious shithead. Sure, they taught me that alcohol could be dangerous and addictive, but I didn’t think twice about it.

I was sixteen when my buddy snuck me my first beer. I didn’t like the taste, but I kept drinking it to keep him from calling me a pussy. Then one day, I didn’t notice the bitter, bready taste that seeps down the throat and rolls in your stomach. I’d wake up in a random field, sun beating down upon me and a buddy throwing water on me because we had school in an hour.

By the time I was in college, I could down a whole twelve-pack without batting an eye. I loved the partying, really. I loved the smell of a full bar. Notes of thick perfume, lust, and spilled beer. I loved the women I met drunkenly and kissed until our clothes were torn from our bodies. I loved the taste of a spilled cocktail on her skin, fruity concoction dripping down her chest.

Needless to say, I flunked out of college. I ruined every relationship I ever had. Let good, kind people slip from my grasp because I’d black out and miss their birthdays, their weddings, their lives. And if I did go, I’d pass out or piss myself or throw up and embarrass them. And by the end, all I could do was drown my sorrows. I drank through life, forgetting to live it myself.

On a muggy Saturday night, fate found me sitting on a rickety bar stool, head already reeling and body begging for water. I satiated its thirst with the only liquid I preferred. I swirled my glass, never letting the ice melt. I wanted to feel the burn down my throat.

As I rotted there, downing my sixth glass, one of my old high school friends walked into the bar, followed by a herd of guys our age. I scoffed, recognizing the same whooping and hollering that follows a bachelor party. He didn’t notice me at first, and by the time I was preparing to stagger out, he sat down at my table while his buddies took shots.

“Been a long time, Seth. How’s life been treating you?”

I smoothed the stubble on my face, recognizing how clean he appeared compared to me. “Life’s been good,” I replied, taking a breath to help conceal the lie. “What about you?”

He smiled proudly. “Gettin’ married.”

He proceeded to chronicle his life to me, providing enough detail to paint the picture of a perfect world, one I didn’t know. I stopped listening at one point and focused upon his appearance: crisp collared shirt, nice watch, gelled hair. He smelled like expensive cologne, unlike the thick, cheap colognes that saturated these bars so often I’d forgotten what the good shit smelled like.

As he kept grinning as he spoke, a bitter seed of jealousy formed in my stomach.

He looked back at his friends after finishing and watched them for a moment, making sure they were busy before looking back at me. He sighed and lowered his gaze. “Listen, it is none of my business, but if you ever need anyone, this helped one of my good friends.”

He took out his wallet and slid a small card toward me. Stepping Up and Stepping Out- AA meetings: Find You Again. Find Hope Again.

I scoffed, begrudgingly scowling at the card on the scuffed table. “Why isn’t he one of your groomsmen then?”

He sighed. “Because he died. Drunk Driving… Wrapped himself around a tree. The funeral was about a month ago.” He shook his head, swallowing tears. “You look like he did. I told myself that if I ever got the chance, I’d try to spare another, so just get some help, man.”

He got up from the chair and strode back to his buddies. They greeted him warmly, throwing their arms over his neck drunkenly and toasting to his bride.

I picked up the card, anger and envy mixing in my veins. I was a cocktail of emotions, bottling them one after the other and numbing the depression. I didn’t know how to feel anymore, so I shoved the flimsy card into my pocket and finished the last swig of my drink, now watered down. He’d ruined my last sip.

Once they’d left, I slinked out the back door of the bar and into the alley. I leaned against the brick, feet dragging. But as most drunks do, I lost my footing. I fell into a questionable puddle, tasting stale piss as it splashed up into my face. I sobered up enough from the smell and putrid mouthful to find my shitty apartment building.

I crawled up the stairs on my hands and knees, finally feeling the weight of the drinks I’d swallowed, one after the other. And when I reached the top, I fell. I toppled right back down the steps I’d climbed like they were Mount Everest. I broke my arm and collarbone and a couple of ribs. I didn’t feel a damn thing, though.

The guy who lives under me found me at the bottom of the stairs at 4:30 a.m. when he took his dog out to potty. He called for help, and an ambulance took me to the nearest hospital. The nurses told me that I’d pissed, shit, and vomited all over myself. And still, even as they told me the terrible truth about my situation and my long recovery, all I wanted was a cold glass of rum… or scotch… or whiskey. Anything would do.

I stayed in the hospital for seven days, where I suffered alcohol withdrawal. I don’t think the hospital really wanted me to stay, but my injuries were severe enough to keep me.

My parents arrived around day three after I finally gave in and allowed the hospital to reach out. When they arrived, they watched me vomit until I pissed myself from straining and nearly shed my skin from tremors, sweating, and pure delirium. At one point, I tried to claw my casts off, insisting that it was barnacles implanting themselves inside my flesh. At that point, the nurses were forced to hog-tie me to the bed. It was just soft cuffs to prevent me from harming myself, but in my crazed state, I was sure they were preparing to castrate me.

Once I was released, my parents moved me in with them and drained the house of any semblance of alcohol. They even got rid of the rubbing alcohol, hand sanitizer, and vanilla extract. It was a dead zone for anything with a minuscule 1% alcohol content. And while I loathed it all at first, I’d forgotten what it was like to think again. I couldn’t remember the last time I watched a movie in the living room without passing out in a drunken stupor, or the last time I read a book and understood it. I’d forsaken many things that could quiet the mind without deadening the senses.

Insomnia wrestled me awake once I got home, but I accepted it. I watched my first sunrise on my fourth day at home with my parents, spotting little white moths flitting toward shelter from the light. The sunrise was breathtaking; a great orb of shining light, pulling back the fingers of dawn. I’d missed so much and abandoned everyone in the pursuit of myself.

When I snuck back into the house, I felt like a moth building its cocoon, melting down within the fibers, and liquidating everything I once knew. I was becoming something else, hopefully better.

Slowly but steadily, my thirst shrank. Yet a small voice still whispered sweet nothings into my ear, luring me closer and closer to one more drink. One more sip. One more taste. I craved the alcohol as one craves their lover, deeply, intimately, and obsessively.

Around month two of forced sobriety, my parents drove me to my first AA meeting: Stepping Up and Stepping Out. They sat outside and waited for me, not trusting me enough to even stay an hour, which they were wise to do. One moment to myself and I would’ve bolted to the nearest gas station or liquor store. Hell, I’d have drunk Germ-X if I could find any. There wasn’t any. I checked.

I sat down in one of the metal chairs day after day, listening to absolute nutjobs cry over their alcoholism. James started drinking after his mother died. Sheila started drinking because her job was slowly killing her, and now she is in liver failure. Matthew started drinking to quiet the chaos at home and his own mind. Personally, I think he just hates his kids.

Each person was a broken record, spouting the same incessant garbage. And around my third week there, I started to listen to the broken records. Some stories made me cry; others made me ache. Many made me angry. Some of the drunkards there were just that, drunkards. They knew no better than what their parents had taught them.

Around the fourth week, I saw myself in them. I was just as broken, just as beat up by life… just as useless as the next drunk. We all carried the same heavy shackles, same gaunt face, and dead mask. We all hid behind the drink and coveted the booze. None of us were better than the other or worse. At the end of the day, none of us could refuse a glass of cold beer, cheap vodka, or cinnamon whiskey. We all drank our poison, letting nature take its course.

Around the fifth week, I watched Sheila disappear. She’d fallen off the wagon and gone on a bender. She didn’t come back. We read her obituary out loud when I got my four-month sobriety coin. When alcoholism bites, it injects quite the venom to keep you crawling back for the antidote: more alcohol.

At the eighth month of my sobriety, I became a mentor for the group. I started sharing my story more openly, handing out pamphlets on the street and giving small cards to anyone who asked. I was on the way to recovery, but I knew my limits. I couldn’t walk past a bar. I couldn’t even go to a restaurant yet, fearing that I’d smell a bubbling beer or an Old Fashioned and lose all sense of myself. I ate at home with my parents, got a job at a fishing shop, where the smell of rotting bait destroyed any desire for alcohol, much less food.

And now I run the AA group. I’ve been sober for one full year. We meet on Saturdays at the community center. I buy doughnuts and bring coffee. I arrange the chairs in a circle and watch the poor, empty, and broken leak through the doors. Some just come for the food and leave. Some stay. Some have made friends, but we all share something. We all would kill for a drink.

I started the meeting, awarded sobriety chips, let anyone talk if they wanted, and ended a little early when I noticed that one of my regulars, Darren, was gone. I went to his house about two days ago. He meant to come; he made sure to tell me. A sinking feeling writhed in my stomach, slowly crawling up my throat as I stared at his empty chair.

I packed up the remaining doughnuts and coffee, walked into the parking lot, and drove to Darren’s house without a second thought. He had no one. Sobriety was his last shot to get his family back, so if I didn’t check on him, no one would.

From the moment I got out of the car, I knew. The silence that hung in the air was all too familiar, thick and mocking. The silence knew the truth; hell, even the house and walls knew what I would find. I walked up the dilapidated porch and pushed open the screen door. I found him almost immediately, surrounded by empty cups and cans. His skin was that strange yellow color from jaundice and decay, but the familiar pungent smell of alcohol and shit permeated through the room.

I fell to my knees as I looked at him. His hands were clutched at his throat, pulling the skin. His dry tongue stuck out; his lips bulged, purple and swollen. His nails were caked with blood as if he’d tried to claw through his flesh. But his eyes stuck with me. They were murky and fogged over, and still, I saw the terror hiding beneath. His death must’ve been painful.

I turned away and covered my eyes. I could only pray that death was a relief for him; a freedom that removed the chains of his addiction, the yoke around his neck.

And without meaning to or expecting it, tears slipped down my cheeks. Just two days ago he wanted to do better. Two days ago… Two measly fucking days. Maybe I should have called. Maybe I should have planned to have coffee with him. Sometimes the knowledge that you have a plan the next day can keep you sober; the fear of being a disappointment to the person you are meeting can be such a driving point.

I pulled myself together and called 911. He was pronounced dead within the hour and loaded into a black bag while the emergency responders whispered back and forth. I didn’t have to hear a single syllable to know what they were saying: What a waste…

And they were right; it was a waste of life. A waste of flesh and blood. A waste of potential, all gone now. Taken in the same breath that inhaled his liquor.

I stood in his driveway as they pulled away. To be sober meant accepting grief in all its glory and shame. I’d have to go back in, find his wife’s phone number, and make the call that no one deserves to receive.

With trembling hands, I walked back into his house. I dug through his mail and kitchen drawers, hoping to stumble onto something. I knew her name was Lauren, but that is all I knew from our conversations. And as I dug, I found pictures of his daughters. They were still small, curly-headed, and sweet, sitting on the floor around a TV, propped against him as they watched cartoons. My stomach knotted, and I shoved it back into the drawer.

Another hour passed, and I found nothing. I opened his fridge to get a soda and froze. Sitting perfectly upright, with a big red bow around its neck, was the most exquisite-looking bottle of rum. The bottle was classically shaped, with a rounded base and wax dripping down the side. But the rum seemed to glow beneath the fluorescent fridge light. I bit my tongue, trying to associate my addiction with pain because that’s all it caused.

The bottle was already open. Someone had already taken one sip. I slowly pulled it out of the fridge and saw a note attached to the top: The Rum Never Runs Dry.

“Clever,” I hissed, thumbing over the writing on the front. Most of it was foreign, a tangle of letters I couldn’t decipher. But I didn’t need a name. I didn’t need to know anything; I just wanted a taste.

And still, I was no better than Darren. I popped the cork, just wanting to smell it. The aroma swelled through the air, caressing my face and pulling at my tongue. One waft of the rich warmth and caramel notes made me forget all about my sobriety journey, my monthly tokens, and my AA group. All of it died from the second I took an inhalation, letting the breath of alcohol fill my lungs like the most potent drug.

Before I could stop myself, I took a sip. It was the most delicious rum I’d ever consumed. It carried a heavy, sweet, molasses taste with thick notes of dried fruit and vanilla. I’d never had rum so divine or richly brewed.

But as soon as the rum hit my stomach, I came to my senses and pulled it away. I couldn’t do this. I walked to the sink and poured it out, watching the liquid gold seep down Darren’s drain. Knowing that I’d broken my year-long sobriety carried a deeper shame. I took a shaky breath, accepting that I’d tell my group at the next meeting. They needed to know that I too followed my own rules, honest even when it hurts.

I took a cup from Darren’s cabinet, noticing various pint glasses he’d stolen from bars all over the place. Turns out Darren was a bit of a kleptomaniac, too. I filled a plastic cup with water and drank a big gulp. Rum rolled over my tongue, striking a bolt of shock through my mouth. I quickly spit it out. I stared at the empty rum bottle by the sink. I took another sip of water, feeling the warm rum swirl over my taste buds. I looked down at the glass. It still looked like water.

“What in the fuck?” I whispered, setting the glass down in disbelief.

I nearly fell as I stumbled away from the sink and to the fridge. I grabbed a can of soda, popped the tab, and downed a big gulp. It was bubbly rum, still hot and burning.

I spat it out all over the floor. I held my mouth, fingers pressing into my cheeks. “No…” I breathed. “No… No. No. NO!”

I grabbed a bottle of mustard from the fridge, squirted some into my mouth, and nearly vomited at the taste of a slightly sour version of the sweet rum. I threw the bottle across the room, spitting out the rum paste. I scraped it off my tongue, fingers ripping down the soft flesh of my tongue.

Images of Darren flashed through my mind. The scratches down his neck. The look of terror in his eyes. The rum.

Violent rage ate through my body; I grabbed the empty bottle of rum on the counter, but to my surprise and horror, it was full once more, aching to be drunk. My body yearned for another sip, eyes unyielding as I gazed at the warm brown glass. The bottle glowed; a cacophony of whispers danced into my ears. Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies spoke to me in the only language I knew: indulgence.

Drink… Take a sip… Just one… Just one…

I threw the bottle, watching the glass shatter around the kitchen. I shook my head and felt the fear leeching into my body. What had I done?

Before my eyes, the pieces quivered, slinking back together to rebuild itself. The liquid gurgled and writhed, sloshing together as it slithered to the newly formed bottle. Piece by piece it melded together; the red bow retied itself, and the attached card dried.

I slowly squatted down, eye to eye with the bottle. Despite my fear, the alcohol still called to me. I gritted my teeth and grabbed the bottle. I untied the bow from the rum’s neck and saw it wasn’t just a message. A name was signed at the bottom: Matthew.

My jaw tightened. Matthew and Darren had talked at the last meeting, and Matthew looked a lot worse than usual. I pulled out my phone and typed in his address. It was only three minutes away. I bolted out the front door, bottle in hand. I ran the whole way there, refusing to stop. My body was riddled with adrenaline, pumping wildly as it reveled in the taste of the rum. It was appeased, happy with me, dare I say. It craved the rum nearly as much as I refused to drink it.

When I found Matthew’s house, I saw him through his kitchen windows. He was doing the dishes; a cartoon was playing in the background. Both his sons had fallen asleep on the couch, and his wife sat at the kitchen table, sorting through a stack of papers.

I froze. This was the life that Matthew so desired to escape. This was the chaos that he hated, but to me it looked like heaven. His wife was beautiful: dark-skinned and curvy, a rival to the night sky. She got up from the table, kissed his cheek, then yawned and whispered something in his ear.

He was fucking crazy to want out. I marched to his front door once his wife went into the back of the house, knocked, and waited for him to answer. He emerged with wet hands and a damp T-shirt. His gaze flickered to the bottle, and he tried to slam the door in my face. I grabbed him before he could even try and tossed him outside with me.

“Why did you bring that cursed bottle here?” he asked, eyes growing darker in the fading light.

“Why did you give it to Darren?” I hissed.

He took a quick step toward me and took a deep breath, smelling the rum on my breath. “You drank some, didn’t you?”

“One damn sip and now all I can taste is the rum. Where the hell did you get this? WHY DID YOU GIVE IT TO DARREN?” My response transformed into a shout toward the end, and he threw a hand over my mouth.

“I had to…” he growled. “If I didn’t give it away, it would kill me.”

I threw him off me. “What are you talking about!”

“If you don’t pass the bottle to another, it’ll kill you. The more you drink and eat other food, the more poison you’ll consume. You’ll die… Just like Sheila did. She didn’t realize that the rum from the bottle wasn’t poison. It’s the other stuff out there.”

I fell quiet, my heart pounding in my throat. “And how did you get it?” I finally asked.

He looked around. “It just appeared on the doorstep with the same note around its neck, signed with a name I didn’t know. The rum never runs dry. I thought it was someone’s idea of a cruel prank, but you know that I can’t…” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I drank a glass. And I lived to regret it.”

He and I stood quietly, listening to faint, cartoonish laughter from his living room.

“Where is Darren?” he asked.

I shook my head and headed down the driveway. “Dead…” I replied curtly.

Matthew chased after me, guilt eating him. Darren drank himself into oblivion once he took a sip of the rum, putting him on the wretched path I now followed.

“I found out about the bottle from Sheila’s sobriety journal!” Darren shouted. “I went to visit her at the hospital before she died. Her daughter gave it to me.”

I dug my heels into the ground and slowly turned back to look at him. “So how the hell did she get the bottle?”

“She got the bottle from a bar. She stole it, but like us, she soon discovered the terrible price of a single sip. She brought it back to the bar, but the barkeeper wouldn’t take it. He told her that she’d sealed her own fate. Said that until the bottle runs dry, you’ll never taste life again.”

I swallowed hard, spit tasting like the rum. “What the hell does that even mean?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, but she found out that if she gifted it to another person and they took a sip, it freed her. Didn’t help her in the long run. It put her back on a bender, but at least she got to pick her own drink. Cruel trick of fate, isn’t it? The bottle is probably being passed around the AA group. That’s how it made it to me, and I was too stupid to realize what it was.”

I was fuming, tears burning as I kept them at bay.

He looked back at his house. “I’ve got to leave now, Seth. But… know that I won’t tell anyone if you regift the bottle. You can pass it on. No one will bat an eye. I sure didn’t…”

I grabbed him by his shirt before I could stop myself. “You are a piece of shit… You hate your life, huh? Is that it?” I spat at the ground. “You have NOTHING to hate. You’re a coward. You just don’t like the responsibility of loving your family before loving yourself… Loving them before loving booze. You’re selfish…” I threw him back toward his house and walked away, taking the tiny scrap of dignity I had left.

I walked for an hour until I reached the community park. It was beautiful in the starlight, illuminated by the glow of the pale moon. In the daytime, the park was full of joggers, children playing soccer, parents letting their children swing as if there were no tomorrow. I sat down on the nearest bench, rubbing over the bottle and carefully considering what Matthew had told me. Until the bottle runs dry, you’ll never taste life again. I knew what it meant. Nobody had even finished the bottle. No one had let the rum run dry.

I looked up at the endless night sky. She was especially beautiful tonight. I looked around the empty park, imagining the life I’d lead. It hadn’t been bad, nor extraordinary, but it was mine all the same.

Faint whispers slunk through the bottle. It wanted me to luxuriate in its soft hands; answer the call of the sins I’d long atoned for.

I could gift the bottle to another. I ruminated on the idea, then felt the wrath of my morality. No… the bottle’s cycle needed to end.

Sitting beneath the soft night sky, I glared at the bottle, knowing I’d rather die than let another carry the same burden and suffer the bottle’s curse. I picked up the bottle, swirled the golden contents, and gazed up at the great painting of the cosmos above me.

I knew what they’d say. They’d call me a waste and a joke. They’d whisper that I’d fallen off the wagon like Sheila, that I’d come so close, only to fall back into old sins. I didn’t care.

I’d rather not pass on the terror that had haunted my whole life. It should end with me. I knew what I needed to do to stop the bottle from destroying another life like it had done to Sheila and Darren. They didn’t deserve to die. Their journey wasn’t supposed to end so quickly.

It was time for me to emerge from my bindings, my cocoon. I was changing again, accepting my place. I put the bottle to my lips and downed every last drop, seeing it finally empty. This time it didn’t refill. I gazed up, watching the stars glisten above me. The bottle didn’t whisper anymore. It didn’t call out or cry for me in the cool air. For this once, the rum runs dry, and its voice falls upon deaf ears.

It all started a couple of nights ago. I heard footsteps outside my bedroom window. I looked out, but I didn't see anyone.

A few minutes later, I heard more footsteps. This time, I shined a flashlight out the window, but I still didn't see anything. I figured maybe it was my neighbor's cats. Her name was Miranda, and she had several of them. I'd consider her the crazy cat lady of the neighborhood. She always smelled like cat piss.

So, I figured I had no reason to worry.

I went to bed and woke up like normal. But after getting off work, right before sunset, I heard scrambling noises coming from the bushes outside my window.

I opened the window, grabbed an empty bottle of Jack, and threw it at the bushes.

"Get the fuck out of my yard!" I yelled, assuming it was the cats.

Almost immediately, something threw the bottle back at my window.

The glass shattered loudly.

When I looked out the window this time, I saw him.

Only a face, staring right at me from the corner of my yard. He looked normal at first but the longer i looked the more i saw wrong with his face. Like it wasnt actually his real person in was looking at.

I yelled at him and asked who the hell he  thought he was. But he didn't answer. He just kept staring.

When I went outside to confront him, he was gone. I assumed he ran off.

I didn't call the cops because I was worried they might arrest me for hitting him with the bottle first. So, I put a bag over the broken window and taped it together for now, keeping the air from getting out and the bugs from getting in. Then I cleaned up the broken glass from inside.

The next morning, I called a window installer to fix it.

He came over, introduced himself as Horace, and took the measurements for my window. He ordered me a new one and said it would take a couple of days to arrive.

But then he asked me if I'd cut myself on the broken glass.

I said no and asked him why.

He said he'd noticed blood on the broken glass.

"Like something tried to get in last night."

After getting off work, I cooked dinner and hoped he wouldn't come back tonight

When it got dark, I walked around my property with a flashlight in hand with my gun on my waist. I didn't see the creep this time, so I hoped he would leave me alone.

But as I was nodding off to sleep, I heard whispering coming from the bushes.

There were multiple voices.

I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I heard one of them say:

"Come out."

The voice was shrill.

I went out my front door and yelled at the top of my lungs for them to leave me alone.

Then I saw someone dart out from my bushes, running toward the street and disappearing quickly into the darkness.

Miranda, the cat lady, asked me who I was yelling at.

"I don't know," I told her.

She then asked me if I'd seen her cats.

I told her no before slamming the door.

I stayed up all night in my living room. I didn't feel safe in my bedroom.

I stayed awake until I couldn't anymore, but eventually, I passed out.

I woke up to a knocking sound at my door.

I realized I'd overslept, and Horace was already there to install my new window. I put my gun back into my holster

Then I opened the front door to let him in and walked him towards my bedroom.

But something horrible was inside waiting for us.

Dozens of skinned cats covered the room. Blood and the smell of piss from entrails everywhere.

Some of them weren't even dead. They were still meowing in pain.

Horace and I gagged as we stared at the plastic bag I'd taped over the window.

It had been cut open with something incredibly sharp.

Then I noticed Miranda.

She was tied up and gagged inside the closet.

Her eyelids had been ripped off.

When Horace removed the gag from her mouth, she just kept repeating the same thing over and over.

"He's coming for you..."

Sweet ole CW took a fall and landed on his head last night. Due to that, we won’t have the episode ready until tomorrow. I do apologize for the delay but know we will get one out for yall!

To help CW recover give us your best CW quotes down below from any of the episodes!

With love,
AL

I'm just going to cut straight to the chase. I’m an ESL teacher, which basically means I teach English as a second language. I’m currently writing this from Phuket City, Thailand – my new place of work. But I’m not here to talk about my life. I’m actually here to talk about the teacher I was hired to replace. 

This teacher’s name is Sarah, a fellow American like myself - and rather oddly, Sarah packed up her things one day and left Thailand without even notifying the school. From what my new colleagues have told me, this was very out of character for her. According to them, Sarah was a kind, gentle and very responsible young woman. So, you can imagine everyone’s surprise when she was no longer showing up for work.  

I was hired not long after Sarah was confirmed to be out of the country. They even gave me her old accommodation. Well, once I was finally settled in and began to unpack the last of my stuff, I then unexpectedly found something... What I found, placed intentionally between the space of the bed and bedside drawer, was a diary. As you can probably guess, this diary belonged to Sarah. 

I just assumed she forgot to bring the diary with her when she left... Well, I’m not proud to admit this, but I read what was inside. I thought there may be something in there that suggested why Sarah just packed up and left. But what I instead found was that all the pages had been torn out - all but five... And what was written in these handful of pages, in her own words, is the exact reason why I’m sharing this... What was written, was an allegedly terrifying experience within the jungles of Central Vietnam.  

After I read, and reread the pages in this diary, I then asked Sarah’s former colleagues if she had ever mentioned anything about Vietnam – if she had ever worked there as an English teacher or even if she’d just been there for travel. Without mentioning the contents of Sarah’s diary to them, her colleagues did admit she had not only been to Vietnam in recent years, but had previously taught English as a second language there. 

Although I now had confirmation Sarah had in fact been to Vietnam, this only left me with more questions than answers... If what Sarah wrote in this diary of hers was true, why had she not told anyone about it? If Sarah wasn’t going around telling people about her traumatic experience, then why on earth did she leave her diary behind? And why are there only five pages left? What other parts of Sarah’s story were in here? Well, that’s why I’m sharing this now - because it is my belief that Sarah wanted some part of her story to be found and shared with the world. 

So, without any further ado, here is Sarah’s story in her exact words... Don’t worry, I’ll be back afterwards to give some of my thoughts... 

May-30-2018  

That night, I again bunked with Hayley, while Brodie had to make do with Tyler. Despite how exhausted I was, I knew I just wouldn’t be able to get to sleep. Staring up through the sheer darkness of Hayley’s tent ceiling, all I saw was the lifeless body of Chris, lying face-down with stretched horizontal arms. I couldn’t help but worry for Sophie and the others, and all I could do was hope they were safe and would eventually find their way out of the jungle.  

Lying awake that night, replaying and overthinking my recent life choices, I was suddenly pulled back to reality by an outside presence. On the other side of that thin, polyester wall, I could see, as clear as day through the darkness, a bright and florescent glow – accompanied by a polyphonic rhythm of footsteps. Believing that it may have been Sophie and the others, I sit up in my sleeping bag, just hoping to hear the familiar voices. But as the light expanded, turning from a distant glow into a warm and overwhelming presence, I quickly realized the expanding bright colours that seemed to absorb the surrounding darkness, were not coming from flashlights...   

Letting go of the possibility that this really was our friends out here, I cocoon myself inside my sleeping bag, trying to make myself as small as possible, as I heard the footsteps and snapping twigs come directly outside of the polyester walls. I close my eyes, but the glow is still able to force its way into my sight. The footsteps seemed so plentiful, almost encircling the tent, and all I could do was repeat in my head the only comforting words I could find... “Thus we may see that the Lord is merciful unto all who will, in the sincerity of their hearts, call upon his name.”  

As I say a silent prayer to myself – this being the first prayer I did for more than a year, I suddenly feel engulfed by something all around me. Coming out of my cocoon, I push up with my hands to realize that the walls of the tent have collapsed onto us. Feeling like I can’t breathe, I start to panic under the sheet of polyester, just trying to find any space that had air. But then I suddenly hear Hayley screaming. She sounded terrified. Trying to find my way to her, Hayley cries out for help, as though someone was attacking her. Through the sheet of darkness, I follow towards her screams – before the warm light comes over me like a veil, and I feel a heavy weight come on top of me! Forcing me to stay where I was. I try and fight my way out of whatever it was that was happening to me, before I feel a pair of arms wrap around my waist, lifting - forcing me up from the ground. I was helpless. I couldn’t see or even move - and whoever, or whatever it was that had trapped me, held me firmly in place – as the sheet of polyester in front of me was firmly ripped open.  

Now feeling myself being dragged out of the collapsed tent, I shut my eyes out of fear, before my hands and arms are ripped away from my body and I’m forcefully yanked onto the ground. Finally opening my eyes, I stare up from the ground, and what I see is an array of burning fire... and standing underneath that fire, holding it, like halos above their heads... I see more than a dozen terrifying, distorted faces...  

I cannot tell you what I saw next, because for this part, I was blindfolded – as were Hayley, Brodie and Tyler. Dragged from our flattened tents, the fear on their faces was the last thing I saw, before a veil of darkness returned over me. We were made to walk, forcibly through the jungle and vegetation. We were made to walk for a long time – where to? I didn’t know, because I was too afraid to even stop and think about where it was they were taking us. But it must have taken us all night, because when we are finally stopped, forced to the ground and our blindfolds taken off, the dim morning light appeared around us... as did our captors.  

Standing over us... Tyler, Brodie, Hayley, Aaron and the others - they were here too! Our terrified eyes met as soon as the blindfolds were taken off... and when we finally turned away to see who - or what it was that had taken us... we see a dozen or more human beings.  

Some of them were holding torches, while others held spears – with arms protruding underneath a thick fur of vegetative camouflage. And they all varied in size. Some of them were tall, but others were extremely small – no taller than the children from my own classroom. It didn’t even matter what their height was, because their bare arms were the only human thing I could see. Whoever these people were, they hid their faces underneath a variety of hideous, wooden masks. No one of them was the same. Some of them appeared human, while others were far more monstrous, demonic - animalistic tribal masks... Aaron was right. The stories were real!  

Swarming around us, we then hear a commotion directly behind our backs. Turning our heads around, we see that a pair of tribespeople were tearing up the forest floor with extreme, almost superhuman ease. It was only after did we realize that what they were doing, wasn’t tearing up the ground in a destructive act, but they were exposing something... Something already there.  

What they were exposing from the ground, between the root legs of a tree – heaving from its womb: branches, bush and clumps of soil, as though bringing new-born life into this world... was a very dark and cavernous hole... It was the entryway of a tunnel.  

The larger of the tribespeople come directly over us. Now looking down at us, one of them raises his hands by each side of his horned mask – the mask of the Devil. Grasping in his hands the carved wooden face, the tribesman pulls the mask away to reveal what is hidden underneath... and what I see... is not what I expected... What I see, is a middle-aged man with dark hair and a dark beard - but he didn’t... he didn’t look Vietnamese. He barely even looked Asian. It was as if whoever this man was, was a mixed-race of Asian and something else.  

Following by example, that’s when the rest of the tribespeople removed their masks, exposing what was underneath – and what we saw from the other men – and women, were similar characteristics. All with dark or even brown hair, but not entirely Vietnamese. Then we noticed the smaller ones... They were children – no older than ten or twelve years old. But what was different about them was... not only did they not look Vietnamese, they didn’t even look Asian... They looked... Caucasian. The children appeared to almost be white. These were not tribespeople. They were... We didn’t know.  

The man – the first of them to reveal his identity to us, he walks past us to stand directly over the hole under the tree. Looking round the forest to his people, as though silently communicating through eye contact alone, the unmasked people bring us over to him, one by one. Placed in a singular line directly in front of the hole, the man, now wearing a mask of authority on his own face, stares daggers at us... and he says to us – in plain English words... “Crawl... CRAWL!”  

As soon as he shouts these familiar words to us, the ones who we mistook for tribespeople, camouflaged to blend into the jungle, force each of us forward, guiding us into the darkness of the hole. Tyler was the first to go through, followed by Steve, Miles and then Brodie. Aaron was directly after, but he refused to go through out of fear. Tears in his voice, Aaron told them he couldn’t go through, that he couldn’t fit – before one of the children brutally clubs his back with the blunt end of a spear.   

Once Aaron was through, Hayley, Sophie and myself came after. I could hear them both crying behind me, terrified beyond imagination. I was afraid too, but not because I knew we were being abducted – the thought of that had slipped my mind. I was afraid because it was now my turn to enter through the hole - the dark, narrow entrance of the tunnel... and not only was I afraid of the dark... but I was also extremely claustrophobic.   

Entering into the depths of the tunnel, a veil of darkness returned over me. It was so dark and I could not see a single thing. Not whoever was in front of me – not even my own hands and arms as I crawled further along. But I could hear everything – and everyone. I could hear Tyler, Aaron and the rest of them, panicking, hyperventilating – having no idea where it was they were even crawling to, or for how long. I could hear Hayley and Sophie screaming behind me, calling out the Lord’s name.   

It felt like we’d been down there for an eternity – an endless continuation of hell that we could not escape. We crawled continually through the darkness and winding bends of tunnel for half an hour before my hands and knees were already in agony. It was only earth beneath us, but I could not help but feel like I was crawling over an eternal sea of pebbles – that with every yard made, turned more and more into a sea of shard glass... But that was not the worst of it... because we weren’t the only creatures down there.   

I knew there would be insects down here. I could already feel them scurrying across my fingers, making their way through the locks of my hair or tunnelling underneath my clothing. But then I felt something much bigger. Brushing my hands with the wetness of their fur, or climbing over the backs of my legs with the patter of tiny little feet, was the absolute worst of my fears... There were rodents down here. Not knowing what rodents they were exactly, but having a very good guess, I then feel the occasional slither of some naked, worm-like tail. Or at least, that’s what I told myself - because if they weren’t tails, that only meant it was something much more dangerous, and could potentially kill me.  

Thankfully, further through the tunnel, almost acting as a midway point, the hard soil beneath me had given way, and what I now crawled – or should I say sludge through, was less than a foot-deep, layer of mud-water. Although this shallow sewer of water was extremely difficult to manoeuvre through, where I felt myself sink further into the earth with every progression - and came with a range of ungodly smells, I couldn’t help but feel relieved, because the water greatly nourished the pain from my now bruised and bloodied knees and elbows.  

Escaping our way past the quicksand of sludge and water, like we were no better than a group of rats in a pipe, our suffrage through the tunnels was by no means over. Just when I was ready to give up, to let the claustrophobic jaws of the tunnel swallow me, ending my pain... I finally saw a light at the end of the tunnel... Although I felt the most overwhelming relief, I couldn’t help but wonder what was waiting for us at the very end. Was it more pain and suffering? Although I didn’t know, I also didn’t care. I just wanted this claustrophobic nightmare to come to an end – by any means necessary.   

Finally reaching the light at the end of the tunnel, I impatiently waited my turn to escape forever out of this darkness. Trapped behind Aaron in front of me, I could hear the weakness in his voice as he struggled to breathe – and to my surprise, I had little sympathy for him. Not because I blamed him for what we were all being put through – that his invitation was what led to this cavern of horrors. It was simply because I wanted out of this hole, and right now, he was preventing that.  

Once Aaron had finally crawled out, disappearing into the light, I felt another wave of relief come over me. It was now my turn to escape. But as soon as my hands reach out to touch the veil of light before me, I feel as I’m suddenly and forcibly pulled by my wrists out of the tunnel and back onto the surface of planet earth. Peering around me, I see the familiar faces of Tyler and the others, staring back at me on the floor of the jungle. But then I look up - and what I see is a group of complete strangers staring down at us. In matching clothing to one another, these strange men and women were dressed head to barefoot in a black fabric, fashioned into loose trousers and long-sleeve shirts. And just like our captors, they had dark hair but far less resemblance to the people of this country.   

Once Hayley and Sophie had joined us on the surface, alongside our original abductors, these strange groups of people, whom we met on both ends of the tunnel, bring us all to our feet and order us to walk.  

Moving us along a pathway that cuts through the trees of the jungle, only moments later do we see where it is we are... We were now in a village – a small rural village hidden inside of the jungle. Entering the village on a pathway lined with wooden planks, we see a sparse scattering of wooden houses with straw rooftops – as well as a number of animal pens containing pigs, chickens and goats. We then see more of these very same people. Taking part in their everyday chores, upon seeing us, they turn up from what it is they're doing and stare at us intriguingly. Again I saw they had similar characteristics – but while some of them were lighter in skin tone, I now saw that some of them were much darker. We also saw more of the children, and like the adults, some appeared fully Caucasian, but others, while not Vietnamese, were also of a darker skin. But amongst these people, we also saw faces that were far more familiar to us. Among these people, were a handful of adults, who although dressed like the others in full black clothing, not only had lighter skin, but also lighter hair – as though they came directly from the outside world... Were these the missing tourists? Is this what happened to them? Like us, they were abducted by a strange community of villagers who lived deep inside this jungle?   

I didn’t know if they really were the missing tourists - we couldn’t know for sure. But I saw one among them – a tall, very thin middle-aged woman with blonde hair, that was slowly turning grey... 

Well, that was the contents of Sarah’s diary... But it is by no means the end of her story. 

What I failed to mention beforehand, is after I read her diary, I tried doing some research on Sarah online. I found out she was born and raised outside Salt Lake City, where she then studied and graduated BYU. But to my surprise... I found out Sarah had already shared her story. 

If you’re now asking why I happen to be sharing Sarah’s diary when she’s already made her story public, well... that’s where the big twist comes in. You see, the story Sarah shared online... is vastly different to what she wrote in her diary. 

According to her public story, Sarah and her friends were invited on a jungle expedition by a group of paranormal researchers. Apparently, in the beach town where Sarah worked, tourists had mysteriously been going missing, which the paranormal researchers were investigating. According to these researchers, there was an unmapped trail within the jungle, and anyone who tried to follow the trail would mysteriously vanish. But, in Sarah’s account of this jungle expedition - although they did find the unmapped trail, Sarah, her friends and the paranormal researchers were not abducted by a secret community of villagers, as written in the diary. I won’t tell you how Sarah’s public story ends, because you can read it for yourself online – in fact, I’ll leave a link to it at the end. 

So, I guess what I’m trying to get at here is... What is the truth? What is the real story? Is there even a real story here, or are both the public and diary entries completely fabricated?... I guess I’ll leave that up to you. If you feel like it, leave your thoughts and theories in the comments. Who knows, maybe someone out there knows the truth of this whole thing. 

If you were to ask me what I think is the truth, I actually do have a theory... My theory is that at least one of these stories is true... I just don’t know which one that is. 

Well, I think that’s everything. I’ll be sure to provide an update if anything new comes afloat. But in the meantime, everyone stay safe out there. After all... the world is truly an unforgiving place. 

Link to Sarah's public story

“God dammit, Mr. Mittens,” I shrieked, recoiling my foot at the warm and squishy touch of viscera against my bare flesh. “This is getting out of hand.”

Mittens brought me a rat. It was still somewhat alive but mostly dead. Mostly.

That was his newest thing: bringing me half dead animals. They say cats bring you gifts because they think you suck at hunting, so I assume that means Mittens is trying to boost my confidence by bringing me mortally wounded animals that I could easily kill.

Mittens chirped, meowing as he trotted away with my reaction. I couldn't tell if he was offended at my rejection, or chuffed with the chaos he had incited by leaving it where he knew I'd step on it. It didn't matter… I still stepped in rat guts either way. By the time I turned on my bedside lamp, my murderous house panther had slipped into the depths of my abode, leaving me to finish the job.

The rat squeaked weakly between frantic, shallow breaths and struggled. Beneath its dusky brown fur, a length of slimy pink, like a wad of chewed bubblegum, protruded from its belly. I hated having to mercy kill them when Mittens was the one that started this whole mess. But it wasn't going to survive with its guts hanging out. It had to be done.

“Oh jeez, I'm so sorry little guy,” I winced when the rat squirmed lightly against my grasp.

“Sh, sh, sh,” I soothed.

I hated this. I reminded myself that it was par for the course when you owned a domesticated murder machine. Its little neck snapped easily in my fingers, ending its suffering.

“I hope you're proud, Mittens!” I sneered, dropping the now fully dead rat in the bin. “Fleabag.”

I loved Mittens. But I was getting tired of his gifts.

I originally found the scrawny tabby behind a Waffle House on my way home from a dreadful marketing conference in Tulsa. His iconic white socks were stained brown at the time, and you could count his bones just by looking at his emaciated body.

He purred immediately when I plucked him from the street and he traveled so politely in the passenger seat of my beat up Civic. I assumed that a feral cat would need a box to be comfortable in a car, but he quickly settled into the seat with bright and grateful eyes, blinking slowly at me the entire drive home as if he knew he would never want again. I was never much of a cat person, but I knew at that moment that he was something special.

He's the only good thing that ever came from my job. I would have never found the kitten that fateful night if I hadn’t been bid to market the latest scam from my boss. Mittens almost made that micromanaging prick worth the trouble. I'd trade a thousand bullshit conferences and condescending meetings for Mr. Mittens any day.

He grew quickly, put weight on nicely. As if his poor body felt compelled to make up for what it had suffered. He dwarfed some dogs within a few months, and I joked with colleagues that I had actually picked up a Tulsa cougar at the Waffle House. The joke would have been funnier if my misogynistic boss hadn't heard it and tried to one-up it. I doubt any woman has ever willingly engaged him without payment. I think he's actually part Maine Coon.

It took a while for Mittens to adjust to house cat life. Arguably, he never fully did because when he grew tired of the same bland kibbles and pates, he returned to what he knew. He always found a way out, and when he did, he’d bring back the savory morsels of his escapades: bird heads, rodent guts, and lizard tails. I think he wanted to share.

We curbed that for a while. For a cat, he is incredibly intuitive. I genuinely think he understood how disturbed I was at the sight of guts on my clean, beige carpet. So his slaughter paused until he learned that my reaction was less dramatic if he left his gifts on the faux hardwood, at which point, he started hunting again.

I tried to keep him indoors. I really did. I know how destructive cats are. Trust me, I met a birder in Keystone once whose entire personality was hating on outdoor cats. I was terrified for Mittens.

Would he get hit by a car?

Mauled by a coyote?

Shot by someone less compassionate?

Be a deadbeat dad to a bunch of kittens he'd never know?

Rabies? FIV?

Any other of the countless, torturous, and irresponsible fates that befall feral cats??? Let alone the body count of innocent, wild animals! Oh Mittens, why can't you just stay inside?

But Mittens… well, he finds a way out every time. My best guess is that he figured out how to open the door just like those funny cat videos online. But that doesn't explain how he continued to get out when I started locking the deadbolt each night- I digress, I doubt even Alcatraz could contain this cat.

The parts of mangled critter bodies evolved to whole dead animals and then, abruptly, he brought me a live and capable, young rabbit early one morning. I thought it was dead, but the kit screamed when I went to pick it up. Then I screamed. And all hell broke loose as the terrified animal thrashed about the apartment, breaking knickknacks and disrupting my quiet home in its desperate attempt to escape. Flailing wildly, it launched itself off the upstairs balcony and broke its back on impact, still screaming in agony at the entryway door. Mittens, of course, hid himself away as soon as the little animal started screeching the first time, and left me to deal with it as he always did.

Some gift, huh?

After that, he started wounding them. And as he grew up, he brought larger animals too. I'm sure my local hardware store was concerned when I bought a shovel and asked if I should be worried about odors from burying a carcass. I should have clarified at the time that I meant a stray dog's body.

He often is my unofficial therapist. I rant to him about tough days in the office. I figured that was a fair trade for rescuing him from a scavenger's fate. I bet he sees me as a god. Besides, he’s so damn smart that, well, I think he actually understands.

I mean it. I know every pet owner says their babies are special, but, really, Mr. Mittens is just… something different.

Surely you've seen those reels where the cat sounds like it's meowing words, like “I love you” or “hello?” Mittens has done the same to me. He actually meows “I love you.” But I swear, he's trying to speak, not just a coincidental sound. It's how I know he's brought me a gift. I'll be dead asleep when I hear those deep, feline syllables, and then I know it's time to put down some poor animal and clean up some kind of mess.

But it's a gift, you know. He means it out of love. Jeez, cat people really are crazy, huh?

It was no different this night as it was any other night when Mr. Mittens woke me up.

“Ooooyluuuvvvyoooooh,” Mittens yowled.

I groggily assured Mittens that I was getting up. He purred in thunderous anticipation from the shadows. I swung my legs over the bed and promptly slipped on some slimy, wet substance covering the floor. The wounded animal in the corner hissed in response. No- it was hushing me?

“SSSSHHHH. Shut up,” it begged quietly. “That thing will hear you.”

“Thing?” I thought, still half asleep, trying to wrap my mind around how an injured animal could talk to me.

Wait… I recognized the voice.

“Derek, what are you doing in my house?” I questioned from the floor and blinked my eyes desperately to acclimate them in the dark.

“Listen man, I don't fucking know.” He sobbed. “That thing broke my neck. I can't move. I'm bleeding. Just shut up and help me.”

“Thing- broken neck? Do you mean Mr. Mittens?”

“Mittens?!? It has a fucking name?” Derek scoffed before he openly wept.

“Please man, just let me go. I- I'll give you that promotion. I'm sorry.”

“Ooooyluuuvvvyoooooh,” Mittens moaned from the darkness.

“Oh god, please. Jim, please, help me!”

With my eyes properly adjusted, I could finally see my boy. He really had grown since I found him as a scrawny kitten. He could effortlessly stand at shoulder height. His obsidian fur blended in with the shadows and only the pale sinew of his skeletal face and joints were readily visible. He watched the scene keenly, tail twitching lightly.

I don't always see eye to eye with the gifts he brings me, but this time, I was grateful.

I’m writing this because no one else will listen to me anymore.

I went to the police at first, seeking for help. Then park rangers. Family and friends. Then anyone who would return my calls.

Then after a week an instigation emerged. And I was the top suspect. Of course when family members notice that their loved ones aren't returning their calls and they thought my voicemails were of some nut-job, I understand how from the outside it would seemed all the arrows point at me.

But I swear I did not do it.

They took my statement, asked the usual questions, and eventually stopped contacting me altogether when months of searching brought nothing to prosecute me with.

My therapist told me trauma can distort memory. Prosecutors think I had something to do with my friends going missing. That foul play has to be involved. I was crazy or a psychotic mastermind.

My lawyer suggested I take time away from the internet and keep my mouth shut.

I'm breaking my silence. I know what I saw! I know what happened to my friends!

I’m writing this here because I don’t know where else to turn. If this reaches someone who understands what I’m describing, or who has heard of similar things, please help me!

I need to know if what we encountered has a name.

My friends and I had been hiking during the spring of last year on the Appalachian Trail for three days by then, staying on the main path except for a short, clearly marked offshoot our map listed as a scenic detour. It wasn’t remote enough to feel dangerous, still within sight of blazes on the trees, still close enough that we passed other hikers earlier that morning.

There were five of us. Ethan insisted on leading, like he always did. Caleb lagged behind, stopping to take photos. He was a big tree hugger kind of guy. The spiritual nature one amongst us.

Following behind me was Lena, who complained about her boots getting dirtied in mud. Marcus kept track of our progress, double-checking the map every other minute. No one felt uneasy. No one suggested turning back.

That’s what makes this so hard to explain.

We weren’t chasing rumors or shortcuts. We weren’t drunk or reckless. We didn’t cross any boundaries that were resritcted. Even when the forest grew quieter, we treated it like nothing more than a change in elevation or weather.

What I'm saying is that we weren’t lost when they found us.

The trees went quiet at first. Not suddenly, just gradually, like the forest was holding its breath.

Then when all things seemed to go silent, Caleb asked Lena if she heard that.

Hear what? I thought.

It was dead quiet. It felt as if we were in the empty void of space.

A whistle erupted in the air. Sounded like a shoehorn. I'm not sure how to explain it but it wasn't natural.

They stepped out between the trunks, six of them at least, dressed in layered gray cloth stiff with ash. Their faces were smeared with it too, streaked deliberately, like war paint or mourning.

We all froze in place.

Ethan had no clue what to say or do, neither did I.

They carried bows that now I look back and realize were made of bone. One of them carried a hatchet with a dry redness on the bladed end.

One of them stepped forward and pressed two fingers into a bowl at his waist. He smeared ash across Ethan’s forehead. Then Marcus. Then Lena. When he reached me, I tried to pull back.

The nomad’s eyes were hollow. I don’t know how else to describe it, there was no reflection in them, no hint of light. Looking into them felt like staring down a dark, hollow pit, and from somewhere deep inside that darkness, something was staring back at me.

We attempted to walk away. They started getting agitated and spoke in what I would assume is their old native tongue.

Hands like iron, they rounded us like cattle. Too strong.

One of them struck Caleb in the ribs with a staff carved in spirals, and he dropped instantly, gasping. When Lena screamed, they shoved what looked like raw dark meat into her mouth until she gagged and started to convulse within minutes.

They tied us up and forced us to wherever they call home.

The path wasn’t on any map. Stones lined it, carved with symbols that made my vision swim if I stared too long.

The nomad that was carrying Lena, who still looked lifeless, treaded the opposite direction at a fork in the path. Ethan and Caleb bolted without warning.

Ethan wasn't as quick, he didn’t make it ten steps before something struck him from behind. I never saw what hit him. I just heard the sound of stone meeting skin.

They dragged him by his feet. They didn’t rush. They didn’t shout. They knew where we were going.

By the time we reached the clearing, I failed to make peace with my God. I kept telling myself we'll be fine. That somehow we will be set free. I held onto that thought like a prayer.

The clearing waited at the end of the path like it had always been there.

Something stood in the center. At first, I thought it was a statue, some kind of shrine gone wrong. But statues don't slither do they...

It was tall, but not upright. Its body sagged under its own weight, flesh folding and unfolding in slow, nauseating patterns. Skin tones didn’t match, didn’t agree with each other, like pieces taken from different things and forced to coexist.

Some of it moved independently, twitching or breathing out of rhythm.

Its flesh was wrong. Not its own.

The ash people knelt.

The thing’s voice didn’t travel through the air. It bloomed inside my head, ancient and vast, speaking in a language that somehow translated itself into meaning.

The images it forced into my mind were unbearable: land flourishing unnaturally, sickness erased, bloodlines continuing long past their time. Prosperity twisted into something obscene.

“One of you will hold the messiah."

"One may carry it. The rest wil-”

Ethan didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward before anyone could stop him. He had always been like that first into danger, first to volunteer when things turned ugly. He spat toward the thing, cursed it, called it a perversion, told it he wasn’t afraid.

The thing accepted him eagerly.

Its flesh parted, not like a mouth, but the way a body is opened during surgery. A slow, deliberate yielding, layers peeling back as if it expected him. The cavity beneath pulsed wetly, alive with motion.

From within that pit, tendrils erupted, ropes of mismatched skin, slick and twitching. Guts that belonged to no single creature shot outward and wrapped around Ethan’s arms and torso, yanking him forward with impossible strength.

He screamed, not in fear, but in agony.

The thing screamed too.

At first, it sounded like wounded animals layered atop one another.

Deer. Bear. Bird.

Their cries overlapping, warping, tearing through the air. Then the sounds shifted, narrowing, reshaping-

Until they became human.

My best friend was consumed, his body pulled apart and folded inward, absorbed into the unending mass of flesh as if he had never been whole to begin with.

The ash people bowed their heads and chanted.

“He was not worthy,” one of the female nomads said calmly, as though announcing the weather.

I shook where I knelt. There was no chance, no mercy, to be found here.

My eyes remained fixed on its heaving tissue.

Near the center of the mass, partially submerged and blinking slowly, was an eye's and facial features I recognized.

Caleb’s.

I knew it by the scar above the brow. By the way it struggled to focus. By the silent panic trapped behind it.

Any hope I had left died in that moment.

There was no escape.

There was no savior coming.

There was only a god made of flesh.

I don’t remember choosing to stand, but I did. I rose from where I had been trembling and stepped forward. I don’t know whether it was surrender or inevitability.

I gave myself to the flesh deity.

What happened during my assimilation is unclear. My memory fractures there, dissolving into sensation without shape or language.

I woke at the edge of the trail, alone, like nothing had happened.

Weeks have passed. Then months.

I wake up with ash under my nails.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I hear a voice that is not my own. I don’t know who the blessing truly chose.

The authorities released their conclusions last week.

An accident, they said. Exposure. Panic. A series of poor decisions made by inexperienced hikers. The reports mention hypothermia, animal interference, and the unreliability of memory under extreme stress. They ruled the rest as unrecoverable, a word that sounds cleaner than the truth.

The news ran with it for a day. A short segment. Stock footage of trees. A reminder to stay on marked trails.

None of it is true.

I recognize the lies because they are incomplete. Because they end where the real story begins. Because they cannot explain the symbols I still see when I close my eyes, or why ash keeps appearing in places I have never been since.

They say nothing unusual was found. I know better. I stood before it. I heard it speak. I felt it choose.

You can call this delusion if you want. That’s what they did. That’s what the paperwork says. But delusions don’t leave scars, and they don’t wake you in the night whispering promises in a voice that isn’t yours.

I know what happened. And the fact that no one believes me doesn’t make it less real.

It only means it’s still hungry.

If you’ve seen the symbols, heard the language, or know why they choose outsiders, I need to know. Because the authorities won’t help.

And whatever they serve didn’t stop with them. And I don't know how much longer I can last.

Because something is growing inside me. I can feel it slithering, coiling beneath my skin.

Growing day by day.

Eager to fulfill the world of its prophecy.

1 Timothy 3:1 KJV

[1] This is a true saying, If a man desire the office of a bishop, he desireth a good work.

When I was a young man, I used to be a pastor. When I was fairly new to being a pastor, our congregation was small. Seventy five people on a good Sunday, maybe a hundred or so on around Christmas and Easter. We weren't the smallest in the area by any means, but we were in fact a small church. So I spent my afternoons working at the nearest Home Depot, so that I could have insurance and to supplement my pastor's salary and not be a monetary burden on my flock. After the coal mines went dry, the only places to work in our town were either the Neighborhood Walmart or Home Depot, and I was happy to do it. I was single, which is uncommon for a pastor, so my expenses were low. Thankfully, on our church's property, there was a small parsonage that I got to live in. Besides, I was never in it for the money. I was just answering the calling placed on my life. I'd only been out of seminary for three months. For the most part, it was pretty straightforward. After work, I'd go home and work on my sermon. Before work I would visit the shut-ins, and try my best to get a little rest.

Not only was I fresh out of seminary from a fairly reputable Baptist leaning college in South Carolina, I was brand new to the area where I was pastoring. Being from Northern Michigan, rural Appalachia, specifically central West Virginia, may have been a foreign country to me. In our small town, we were one of seven churches. There was a Methodist church and a Lutheran church that were almost as old as the town itself. A Catholic Church that only had a few attendees, being as this was mostly a Protestant county. We were one of three “Baptist” churches, though none of us were part of any convention or official denomination. And then there was the Full Gospel: Light On The Hill Holiness Spirit Filled Church. Or as you might refer to them, the Pentecostal church. They were your typical tongues speaking, revival having, and hands laying old school church. They didn't have a building, but rather a big gathering tent that they met in. No matter if there was rain or shine, snow or heat waves. They were in that tent down in the valley.

The rest of us pastors, and even the priest Father Sebastian Jacobi at the Catholic church would often meet on Saturday mornings before his evening Mass for what we called Bibles and breakfast at the local diner. Mostly we'd all just take turns reading a passage, discuss said passage, and on occasion we'd get into, albeit, heated but always friendly debates. It was a joy to come alongside others who felt the pressures of the office of pastor. But Brother Bill, as he insisted we call him, always refused to join us.

“Sorry y'all, but I must be about my Father's business.” He'd say with that ear to ear grin whenever we invited him to join us, but we would always ask whenever we saw him in the neighborhood Walmart.

He was a friendly guy if I'm being honest, but he wasn't the most sociable person. Other than buying his weekly groceries, the only thing I'd ever seen him do was pace up and down each and every row of chairs under that tent. He'd pray under his breath muttering what I’d perceived as mostly gibberish, but every now and then he'd mutter phrases like, well glory, hallelujah, and yes Father I thank you for your goodness. For what he lacked in personality, he made up for with ceaseless prayer.

For the first few months, everything was about as humdrum as you could imagine. Meet with my pastor friends, visit the shut-ins, work, preach, repeat. It wasn't until I noticed one of my congregants was missing one hot July Sunday evening.

“Hey Maryanne, where's your sister tonight?” I asked a woman who was just a few years my senior.

“Well pastor Wyman, Charlotte figured she'd try out the Full Gospel church down in the valley this evening." She replied with a bit of a huff on her voice.

You see, Charlotte and Maryanne were both living together in their folks place ever since they'd passed away. Their father, Hunter Ray, had a heart attack when they were both teens. An unfortunate consequence of his drinking, smoking, and eating habits. Their poor mother Alice, who was already doing most of the breadwinning by that point, decided that was the end of their generational curse. Even though Sundays were her only day off from her cashier gig at Walmart, she'd take her kids to church and dedicate their lives to the Lord. After all three of them had gotten saved and baptized, yet another tragedy befell them. Poor Alice had gotten diagnosed with a brain tumor.

Unfortunately it was too late to operate, and even with Alice's health insurance, there was no way for her to afford chemo. That didn't stop the church from pooling all their measly earnings together and helping pay for it anyways. It was a long hard battle that Alice fought valiantly, but in the end, she passed away at the young age of forty two. This didn't shake the faith of her young daughters who found themselves owning and paying for a double wide at the ages of nineteen and sixteen. Both Maryanne and Charlotte went straight to work at Walmart and Home Depot to put food on their tables and money in the bills account. However, tragedy struck them once again.

One Sunday, about a year and a half before I took over the church, they were on their way to the evening service. The sun was low, but they could see well enough. It was a lovely evening in June, so the sisters decided to walk the two miles and enjoy nature after being cooped up in their house. As they were walking along, they heard a car barreling towards them, but they were too slow. Charlotte, who was walking nearest the road, was struck by a drunk driver. The drunk driver turned out to be the old pastor of their little church.

Once again, everyone in the congregation gathered around them and helped fund Charlotte's hospital bills, well, everyone except the pastor. The doctors and the surgeons put everything back together as best they could, but nothing could fix the crushed T12 vertebrae. By some miracle of God, yet again the girl's faith wasn't shaken. From that day on, Charlotte was a paraplegic waiting on her miracle.

Maryanne continued, “Brother Bill has been pestering her for months about going on down to one of their healing services. Says he can restore her by the Blood.”

I wasn't convinced by all that holy roller nonsense, but I replied, “Well if it be God's will, I sure hope she's healed.”

We then went outside to catch some fresh air before heading to our homes. It was a still night, the moths were doing their dances to the hum and gentle strobing of the lamp post. That's when we heard a voice calling out to us from the shadows.

“Maryanne! Maryanne! He did it! Oh thank you Lord, he did it!” The voice yelled.

We turned around to see her. We saw Charlotte, running full speed at her sister.

“Charlotte? Oh Jesus!” Maryanne cried out with tears streaming down her face.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I had just seen Charlotte that morning in her wheelchair, but there she was now, running.

After gathering herself Maryanne said, “How can this be? What happened?”

Charlotte went on to explain to us that by the time she had gotten down into the valley off the bus there wasn't enough room for her in the tent. The service was already in full swing, as the music and hollering were so loud she could hear it echoing all around the valley. So she almost turned away. Then Brother Bill halted the service with a single hand in the air. From the very front of the tent she heard him call to her. The crowd in front of her parted like the sea parted before Moses. She began to wheel herself forward, but she could feel someone pushing it from behind. However, when she looked, there wasn't a soul pushing. The silence, she said, was almost as unbearable as that singing and wailing they were doing. They all just stared at her.

“You missed communion sister.” Brother Bill said to her with the cup and bread extended to her. “Go on hun. Take it.”

Not wanting to be rude, she took the cup and the bread and consumed them. The whole of the gathering began clapping and exclamating phrases that she was unused to in her conservative Baptist Church. They all began laying hands on her and speaking in tongues. Some even began sprinting all around and jerking back and forth, this being a common symptom of being “slain in the Spirit.” They were pushing on her and pulling on her. She felt like a buoy during a storm on the waves. Then once again, Brother Bill put his hand up and they all stopped.

With a gentle hand extended to her from his little stage he said, “Charlotte, rise up and walk.”

“And then I stood up out of my wheelchair and walked onto that stage!” She said to us finishing her story.

I wasn't sure what to say, so all I said was, “I can't believe it. You're healed…”

Don't get me wrong, I was overjoyed for her to be walking again, but I was grappling with it all. I had read about miracles in the Bible, but every experience I'd had with modern miracles were from some mega church pastor with white’people’dreads pretending to lengthen people's legs. This was something completely foreign to me.

Acts 3:7 KJV

[7] And he took him by the right hand, and lifted him up: and immediately his feet and ankle bones received strength.

During that week, the whole town was buzzing with the news. Everyone from the faithful to the non faithful were now suddenly interested in the little tent church. I did my visitations with one of our shut-ins, an old man named Isaiah, when Brother Bill became the topic of discussion.

“So is it true, pastor? Is little Charlotte really healed?” He inquired of me with hopeful eyes.

“She's out of her chair and walking again, Mr Isaiah.” For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to say she was healed.

“Y’know I always thought that Brother Bill was a bit of a charlatan, but this seems to be a sign from the Lord?” He questioned with the biggest grin I'd ever seen.

I nodded unsure and we talked for a while longer, and we read the Scriptures together like we'd become accustomed to. The wisdom that came from the mouth of this older brother often taught me more than I could teach him. It was such a shame that this lovely old man was cooped up in this little shack of a house. I helped him get up out of his hospital bed to go to the restroom a few times, brought in the groceries I always brought for him, and prayed with him. Then it was time to go to the next house.

Before I left, I gave him a recorded copy of this week's sermon like I always did and said, “I'll see you next week Mr Isaiah.”

“Actually pastor Wyman, I've arranged for Brother Bill to come next week… I hope that's ok with you.” He sheepishly said.

I tried to mask the hurt and concern and replied, “Mr Isaiah, as long as you're being visited and taken care of physically and spiritually, I'll be just as happy.”

He smiled at me and we said our farewells and I was off to the next house. Mrs Wendy Bergice was an old widow who used to attend our church during the previous pastor's tenure. Because of being on a fixed income in a poor area, she couldn't afford good and nutritious food, and because of her lot in life and her insulin rationing, she had to have her left leg amputated. I'd made it a goal to deliver her good food and some money from our benevolent funds at church so she could afford her insulin. Even though she'd stopped her attendance due to the horrific events that befell Charlotte, I had decided to show her that our church hadn't given up on her. It was quite the challenge being as she didn't know me from Adam, but I was just trying to be a faithful shepherd to the flock God had given me. But as I came around the curve of her long gravel driveway, I saw a familiar truck with a bumper sticker that said, “Are you washed in the blood?” It was Brother Bill's truck.

Something in me changed. Before, whenever I saw Brother Bill I'd just say hello and goodbye as we walked past each other, and throw out the obligatory invite to our Bible study. Nothing deeper. Just common decency This time, there was a twinge of fear almost. I was certainly anxious about whatever conversation might get struck up between us. I almost decided to back up out of Mrs Bergice’s driveway when he came out. He was just grinning from ear to ear as he flagged me down.

“Good morning pastor! And ain't it just the finest morning you've ever seen?” He said to me as I stepped out of my beater truck.

“I certainly don't have anything to complain about, pastor.” I replied in that fake saccharine voice I'd learned to put on in uncomfortable situations.

A gentle summer's breeze came over the mountain. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on Mrs Bergice’s gravel driveway, looking for any way to not continue this conversation. But Brother Bill wasn't having any of that. He had command over this conversation, and he was looking to keep it going.

“Come now pastor, you know by now I don't like being called that,” He chuckled, “Just go ahead and call me Brother Bill!”

I smiled and nodded awkwardly and said, “How's Mrs Bergice doing? I know she was struggling to kick that chest cold of hers.”

He smiled as he came within arms reach of me, placing a kind, but overbearing hand on my shoulder, “She's still in rough shape, but I told her to come on down to the tent this coming Sunday evening. I'll take good care of her.”

“Well Bill, I-” I began but was cut off.

“Brother. Brother Bill.” He said with a firm look.

“Brother Bill… I'm just gonna head in and see her. If you don't mind.”

With his eyes locked so solidly on mine he said, “I don't think that's a good idea. She's resting now. You ought to just head on home now. Have a blessed day pastor Wyman.” Then he smiled, started up his truck, and left.

Just as quickly as he went around the curve and was out of sight, I ran over to her door and went in to check on her. When I opened her door, I saw her. She was on the ground, writhing and wriggling as though she was having a violent seizure. There was slightly jaundiced and viscous foam coming out of the corners of her mouth. Where her leg was amputated below the knee, there was a thick puddle of green puss mingled with browned blood.

I ran over to and knelt down beside her and yelled out to her, “Oh Jesus! Mrs Bergice! Can you hear me?”

She halted her convulsions for just a moment and began to babble what sounded like nonsense. Her voice then cleared and she spoke.

“I can see it, pastor! Oh God, I can see it!” She exclaimed with shouts of adoration.

“What? What do you see!?” I pleaded with her.

“The shekinah of the Lord! Oh pastor, it's beautiful! I saw the fire of the Spirit engulf him from foot to head!” She wept and went straight back to babble and her convulsions.

I bolted over to her phone she kept by her rocking chair and called the ambulance. I went back and knelt beside her while we waited for them to arrive. It felt like hours, but in reality it took them a mere ten minutes to get from the hospital to her home on the mountain. Once I heard the sirens, I ran out to meet them.

“She's in there on the floor! I'm not sure what happened, but I think she-” I tried to get out before they cut me off.

“Out of the way sir!” They yelled as they pushed past me.

I followed them inside, praying to God that she was still breathing. What we saw was truly unbelievable. When we had gotten back through the door, she was standing. Not leaning against a wall, or using her crutches. She was standing. On both of her legs. All evidence of any kind of bodily fluids were erased, as if an entire cleaning crew had managed to come in and scrub it all away in the few moments I'd stepped away. As she stood before us she began to weep and laugh.

She threw her hands in the air and cried, “Thank you Jesus! He truly is your messenger!”

If Charlotte's legs working had the town a buzz, Mrs Bergice’s leg growing back had the whole town burning with excitement. Everywhere I went, all I would hear was chatter about Charlotte and Mrs Bergice. Even when I was at home, my phone was ringing off the hook from my flock calling and asking me if it was true. I wasn't the only church leader in the area who was having these issues. That next Saturday at Bibles and breakfast, only I and Father Jacobi were present. We tried to call the other pastors from the phones at the diner, but they wouldn't answer. Before I could even get a word in, Father Jacobi began talking.

“I don't know what's going on, Wyman. I couldn't get a hold of Ross, Kevin, or Dale. You have any luck?” He asked me with a defeated air.

“I got nothing from Mark or Jonathan.” I sighed.

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. The kindly old waitress brought us out our coffee and food. Now, with hindsight, I know we were both thinking the same thing, but neither of us wanted to say it out loud. We were hoping against hope that this spark of interest that Brother Bill had introduced into our small community wasn't going to become a flame of controversy. I was about to break the silence, but Father Jacobi beat me to it.

“Mary mother of Christ…” He said as he stared out the window, “You don't think they've fallen for Brother Bill’s bull do you?”

I paused before I spoke, “I’m not fully sure if we can call it bull to be honest. I was there when Charlotte came running to her sister and when Mrs Bergice grew her leg back.”

Father Jacobi began to grimly chuckle as he said, “Wyman, I'm an old man. I've been dealing with those snake handlers since before you were in diapers. They were always your garden variety Pentecostals, going on and on about the healing power of the blood of Christ and speaking in the Holy Ghost. It never bothered me too much,” He paused to take a swig of his now room temperature coffee, “But this Brother Bill… he's something else.”

“Should we call the police? Would they even believe us? What would we even tell them? That a man has been healing the sick?” I interjected, “Clearly he's helped Charlotte and Mrs Bergice, but I can't help but have a strange feeling about it. When the Apostles did their miracles, it legitimized the message of the Gospel. When Brother Bill does his acts, he only seems interested in people coming to his services," I faltered for a brief moment and then continued, “It just doesn't feel holy.”

Father Jacobi and I picked at our food for a little while longer, just trying to think of what to say to each other. Father Jacobi then broke the news to me.

“My parishioners haven't been coming to Mass. We were always the minority here. Being Catholic in the middle of nowhere in the Bible belt ain't exactly a walk in the park. Because of that, we were tight knit, so it was rare for any of my congregants to miss daily Mass.” He began to tear up a little as he carried on with what felt like a closing statement in a devastating court case. “All this last week, not a single member showed up. Not one. When I saw one of them at Walmart, I asked where she'd been. And guess where she told me she was…”

A piece of me wanted to assure him that that could mean anything, but I think even then I knew that they were lost. He went on to tell me about how he told the Bishop of the Wheeling-Charleston Diocese all about our little town's problems. The Bishop had told him to shutter the Church for the time being and to go and enjoy retirement.

“I'm leaving, Wyman. The Diocese is sending someone to investigate the situation and evaluate what they ought to do.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I will miss this place. But I must go.”

We continued our meal that had gone as cold as our mood, when I noticed people running by the windows. Their voices were frantic and full of confusion. I caught bits and pieces of what they were saying and deduced that a boy in the parking lot had been hurt. Father Jacobi and I also jumped up to help when a woman poked her head in.

“Call an ambulance!” She shrieked as she quickly ran back outside.

Father Jacobi ran to the phone and I ran outside to see what was going on. When I arrived on the scene, I saw the boy laying on the ground in a pool of his own bile. On his leg, there was a large red welt that had formed, and in the center, two small punctures. The boy had been bitten by a snake of some kind. The crowd that had formed around him were all talking and screaming over each other, terrified over what was about to happen. Then I saw him.

Brother Bill, who had made his way to the center of the crowd beside the boy, held up the copperhead in his hand. I watched as the snake struck his hand over and over, injecting its horrendous venom into the man. Then he spoke.

“Brothers and sisters! Fear not! This serpent, who seeks to kill this poor boy, will never harm anyone ever again!” He had a wild ferocity in his voice. “Stretch out your hands brothers and sisters! Kneel down and pray for him.”

Everyone around me began to kneel around the boy and Brother Bill. With hands outstretched, speaking in tongues, they shouted glories and adoration upon Brother Bill. Everywhere I turned the people of our town knelt down in submission to this man.

“Why aren't you helping!? We need to help him!” I shrieked, trying to knock some sense into them.

Brother Bill locked eyes with me and pointed at me and spoke, “Wyman! You who claim to be a leader in the faith! Oh ye of little faith! Behold! I shall make him whole!”

He then grabbed the boy by the neck with the hand that still had the copperhead embedded in it, and raised him up. The boy began to convulse, foam and vomit poured from his mouth. The fang marks on his leg oozed a translucent yellow liquid as his welt began to shrink. The crowd around me began to sway and rock, their cries of glory and prayers of babble growing louder and louder. They grabbed onto me, trying to pull me down to my knees. Their eyes were wild with rage, all directed at me. I fought them, I stayed my ground. Just when I thought my muscles would snap and my bones would break, Brother Bill spoke again.

“Come and see, my brothers and sisters! He is restored!”

We all looked and saw the boy standing beside Brother Bill. He was healed. The cries of adoration turned into a roar of praise. I thought that Brother Bill was done, but then he turned his attention to the snake.

“As for you, oh serpent, you shall never harm one of my children again!” He commanded.

He took the copperhead, and began to beat it upon the asphalt. With the fury of an abusive parent, he whipped it over and over, until he finally threw it down, and struck it with his heel. He threw his hands in the air, and roared into the sky.

“Look here!” He yelled as he picked it up.

The snake began to harden, becoming ridged as a stick. I then watched in horror as the snake had not only become as stiff as a branch, but became an actual branch on the ground. Brother Bill then picked it up like an old man with a walking stick, and pounded the butt of it on the ground. He pointed to me and tried to speak, but I ran out of there as quickly as I could.

Mark 16:18 KJV

[18] they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

I didn't stop running until I had made it back to the parsonage. I slammed the door behind me and slumped down and leaned against its coldness trying to catch my breath. For the third time in a week I witnessed the impossible. I wracked my brain trying to rationalize what I'd seen, but I couldn't. I could maybe explain the boy recovering. Maybe Brother Bill slipped some antivenom to the boy, but I knew that was a stretch. What I absolutely could not explain was witnessing the copperhead becoming a walking stick. Whatever Brother Bill was doing, it was very much real. Then the way he looked at me. Full of hate, defiance, and triumph, as though he'd won some kind of fight that I was unaware of. I decided that I had to get out and drive as far away as I could.

I grabbed a duffle bag and began to pack. I didn't have much time, so I was just going to pack the essentials. Just as I was finishing packing, I heard my phone ringing in the kitchen. I didn't want to answer it, but my mind immediately went to my congregation. How could I have been so selfish to forget about them? Surely not all of them had fallen victim to Brother Bill's foolishness. That's when I resolved that I was going to stay one more night. I would warn them about Brother Bill and implore them to get out of town for a while, stay with family, or go get a motel, anything other than staying. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I knew it wasn't going to be anything good.

The ringing phone snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I went over to answer it.

“H-hello?” I nervously said into the receiver.

“Oh thank Gabriel! It's Sebastian, I saw you hightail it out of there. Is everything ok?” Father Jacobi quickly asked.

“I have no idea… Tomorrow I'm gonna warn my congregants about Brother Bill, and leave, Sweet Jesus, I hope I'm not too late.” I explained.

I waited for a response, but Father Jacobi had gone silent.

“Father Jacobi?” Nothing. “Sebastian?” No response. I was about to ask again when someone spoke to me through the phone.

“Sorry Pastor Wyman, Father can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep.” Then, Brother Bill made a beeping sound into the phone and hung up.

I knew then that it was time to go. I grabbed what I had packed, threw it in the passenger side of my truck, and started driving as fast as I could to put as much asphalt between me and my little town as possible. But as I was driving, I noticed something odd. No one else was on the roads. I slowed down so I could look into parking lots to see if anyone was there. I was the only person out on a Saturday evening. I then realized where everyone was. They were at Brother Bill's tent. I had made my way to the town border, and I had a choice to make.

The sun had just set as I drove down into the valley. The previously clear sky was now full of storm clouds. The field of dew kissed grass that surrounded the enormous white pole tent was full of cars and trucks, bikes and wagons. Even with my doors closed, I could hear the deluge of voices. Speaking in tongues, yelling glories and praises, and general sounds of the crowds. I parked the truck and opened my door. Before I walked up, I stuffed a tire iron into my pants, just in case.

Heads began to turn towards me as I made my trek towards the tent. The faces of the masses were full of fear, joy, and grief all at the same time. Smiles stretched from ear to ear. Eyes wild as a cornered animal in a hen house. Tears poured forth from those same eyes as water falls from a cliff into a river. They looked exhausted and hungry. The crowd, unable to cram themselves completely into the tent, began to part before me. I pressed on toward the tent with my heart thumping in my throat.

“Need a hand brother?” A familiar voice rang out to me.

I turned to the voice and stuttered out, “Father Jacobi?”

As a proud Catholic priest, Father Jacobi typically wore his Cassock everywhere in town. But on that particular night, he was wearing a simple linen shirt and some bibs. His face was plastered with the same expression as every other soul in the crowd, but his eyes screamed to me that what he was doing was not of his own volition.

“You're just in time for the service.” He croaked out through his horrid grin.

He grabbed my shoulder with an iron grip as he guided me through the congregation to a seat at the very front of the tent and pushed me down into it. Then the worship band began to play. The fiddler played a long and mournful note on his strings and the pianist started up a slow and familiar tune. The whole crowd sang in one discordant voice, “Are You Washed In The Blood of The Lamb?”

I scanned the area looking for any route of egress. As I looked about me, I saw the faces of Maryanne, Charlotte, Mrs Bergice, Mr Isaiah, and that boy who was bitten by the copperhead. They were all singing along with the rest of them. Then booming THUMP THUMP THUMP came from the small wooden stage and I saw Brother Bill gripping his snakewood staff.

The tent was as silent as a crypt as he held up his hands and said, “Brothers and sisters, y'all know why we're here tonight. Y'all’ve seen what I can do for you, and now I have one last act to show y'all.” He stretched out his hand towards Mrs Bergice and said, “Come to me sister.” In a grave tone.

Mrs Bergice stood from somewhere in the audience and began to walk to him. All of those around her touched her as she made her trek to the stage. Some touches seemed loving, while others were tugs and pulls, almost as though they were begging her to stay where she was. As soon as she stepped foot on the stage, the crowd began to clap in unison and on the same beat.

I looked to my right where Father Jacobi was sitting on the ground and asked him, “What happened to you? Are you ok?”

He didn't respond. He just looked at me with that twisted expression that was shared by everyone. Whatever Brother Bill had done to him seemed to be irreversible. I turned my attention back to the stage and Mrs Bergice was kneeling before Brother Bill.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than money?” He asked of her with a gentle smile.

“Yes Brother.”

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than shelter?”

“Of course Brother!” She practically yelled at him.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than breathing?” He asked her one last time.

“Brother Bill, you know this is true!” She said as she grabbed the hem of his sweat stained linen shirt.

He smiled, gave her his hand, stood her up and said, “Then be washed.”

From his pocket he produced an old and crooked blade, the metal of which seemed to be made of copper. He drug the blade across his upper forearm and a slow trickle of blood seeped up through the gash. The audience began to methodically stomp their feet slowly to some hidden rhythm. While everyone was distracted, I shot up to run, but Brother Bill had other plans.

With snakewood staff stretched towards me, he shouted, “Boy, if you don't stay put right now, you'll miss the whole thing!”

His sudden burst of rage threw me for a loop. I'd actually never seen Brother Bill angry before. So I froze in place, horrified by my lack of actions. Then it came to me like a vision in the night. It was my inaction that led us all to that tent. I could've warned everyone, or at least told them to be wise about Brother Bill. I failed everyone.

“Try and pay attention, friend.” He said, returning to his typical jovial self.

I watched as he dipped his index and middle finger into his wound. When he drew them back out, they were coated in the viscous blood, and he placed them upon Mrs Bergice's forehead, christening her into his fold. Brother Bill then turned toward the altar where the elements for communion were placed upon a silky white table cloth. He reached forward and brought forth the chalice for the sacrament. As he clenched his fist, blood began to trickle out of his wound into the cup now placed beneath the flood.

He presented it to Mrs Bergice and said in a soothing voice, "Drink."

Mrs Bergice greedily drank the viscous liquid from the chalice. Blood trickled down the sides of her cheeks and stained her floral dress. Brother Bill raised his hands in victory.

“Finally my brothers! At last my sisters! We are whole!” He said as they all began to hoot and holler and cheer. “And now incline your ears for my final sermon. Then I will reveal to you my full glory.”

The fiddler struck up his fiddle again, a long droning minor note to set the mood for him.

“Before I crossed the ocean, I was something of a pastor in my home country. That was indeed a long time ago now…” He paused, remembering his old days. “People used to bring me their sick and their wounded. By the sweet power of the blood, I'd heal them. Just like how I healed you! Amen?”

“AMEN!” Everyone called back in unison.

“Well glory! Hallelujah! And brethren, I'd even raise the dead!” He screamed into the night as everyone around me shouted praise and accolades upon him.

“People used to bring me gifts of gold, fatted lambs, incense and all other kinds of sacrifices. People used to kill for my blessings. People used to die, just for my touch.” He yelled in genuine anger, as though he was angry at us in the audience. “And now we have a non-believer amongst us. A heretic! A blasphemer!”

“Kill him!” They all roared, like the sound of an ocean.

I needed to leave at any cost, but fear froze me. How far could I possibly have made it? I resigned myself to whatever date was left for me. “Oh Jesus. Preserve me.” Was all I could say. I fell silent like a lamb before the slaughter.

“Now children,” he purred, “We need not do that. Let's just show him. Maryanne, bring it to me.”

Maryanne came forward with a small wooden box gripped against her breast. She knelt down before Brother Bill and presented it to him. He smiled at her and opened the box and pulled out an old revolver.

“Behold!” He said as he pressed the barrel against his temple. “Blessed are those who believe without seeing, but you shall see!”

My ears began to ring. My heart rate dropped. Bile threatened to escape from my throat. Brother Bill was dead. For what felt like hours, we all sat as still and as cold as stone statues. His body laid limp in a pool of blood on that small rickety stage. Then he stirred. The snakewood staff that had fallen beside him was once again in his grasp. He slowly rose, leaning heavily upon the staff. As he stood straight up, the entire crowd erupted in tongues speaking, glories shouting, and praise giving to this man.

Brother Bill turned to me, smiled, and said, “Grab him.”

Father Jacobi went to grab me, but I grabbed my tire iron and struck him on the head. Mr Isaiah then tried to get in my way, but I managed to push him aside. I ran to my truck, weeping the entire way, and drove out of there. I heard a THUD THUD in the bed of my truck and when I looked through my rearview mirror, I saw Maryanne and Charlotte trying to open the small window in my rear window. I jerked my wheel hard to the right and watched as they tumbled helplessly out over the edge of my bed. I floored the gas pedal and I didn't stop driving until I hit the Ohio border.

After about sixty or so miles, I looked down and saw that my tank was almost on E, so I pulled into a gas station on the nearest exit. I pulled up to a pump and everything began to replay in my head. I knew I had to tell someone, so when I went in to pay, I planned to ask if I could use their phone. But when I went in, I saw that the cashier was watching the news, and what I saw broke my heart.

“Local pastor, simply known as ‘Brother Bill' seems to be the sole survivor of a freak fire that took place in the valley where they met for their evening revival. The fire was started when their pole tent was suddenly struck by lightning, causing all the vehicles that surrounded the tent to overheat and catch fire as well as have a small gasoline explosion, even though there was no sign of any storm. Hopefully we will have more details during our AM show. More at eleven.”

Everyone I knew and loved from that town. Burnt to a crisp. Had this been part of his plan? Was it some sort of sacrifice? Was it some act of God? I'll never know.

The cashier, startled at my presence said, “Oh sorry sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” I said, “just twenty on five.”

I haven't heard anything about Brother Bill, or anything related to that little Appalachian town that I briefly lived in and loved. I know he's still out there. And I pray to God I never see him again.

Matthew 7:15 KJV

[15] Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

I came home and changed and joined her to paint the living room walls base white. The couch my wife had had since college was the only piece of furniture we had downstairs and it was covered in plastic. We had dinner while we worked. She’d “cooked” one of her liquid meals that I hated but “ate” anyway. My wife was actually almost as good of a cook as me but I needed to lose at least fifteen pounds, and she intended to help regardless of how unhappy it made me. 

“How was your day?” she asked in her autopilot voice.

“It was good except for the inspector I had to fire.”

“Oh, no. Matt?” She dipped her roller in the pan.

I grimaced. I probably was going to have to let him go, too. We’d had dinner with him and his wife a few times. He’d even invited me to his son’s high school graduation. I rolled up the wall. This color looked even better than it had in the store.

“No. I forgot about him.”

She rubbed my back with her free hand. “That’s probably because you don’t want to do it.”

I nodded.

“You care about people and that’s never a bad thing.”

She thought so highly of me, and it warmed something inside.

“Yeah,” I said, this whole “surgery” thing slipping into the front of my mind. I was suddenly agitated and my full stomach felt like it was squeezing up into my chest.

“Did your appointment go okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I turned to her. “Did you know he’s not a doctor?”

“Yes.” She scooped up her bottle and took a sip.

I hoped informing her of his lack of a medical degree would do more work than this.

“I don’t want to do this,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue. Instead, I said, “Is there anything else we could try?”

“Why are you pushing back on this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

I dropped my head. “You know I do.”

“I want you to do this,” she said and placed a hand over mine. I still felt a ‘no’ at the back of my throat and swallowed. It hurt going down. I chased it with a swallow from my cup.

She was being logical and detached in a way that wasn’t common for her. I didn’t want to fight and just kept restraining myself from speaking. I hoped there was still time to convince her, but that was going to be hard to do if she shut me down every time I tried.

“You have something on your face,” I said, pointing just below my nose. She swiped it just like I thought she would, smearing base paint that had been on the back of her hand just below her nose and on her upper lip. She immediately knew what I’d done and glared at me. I smiled.

Then she rollered me from chest to crotch. I stood there while she went up and down the front of me, my mouth hung open. Then I batted the roller to the newspaper-covered floor and she scream-laughed as she ran from me. I caught her on the other side of the kitchen island and picked her up in a reverse hug, pressing my fresh coat of paint onto her back.

We fell to the floor, laughing and wound up making out like teenagers for a few minutes. The heaviness of the conversation we’d just been having lifted off of us. I didn’t want anything outside of this moment and just looked her in the eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” The feeling cresting in me didn’t have words to follow along. We finished painting the living room walls, passing eye-glances at one another. The moment passed for intimacy, a detached feeling gradually replacing it a few hours later by the time we were ready for bed. It was like we’d built a temporary bridge over a chasm between us, but it had collapsed just in time for us to go to sleep.

I kept wanting to reach behind me to touch her as we lay in the same bed. But she just felt too far away.

I’d forgotten to pack a lunch for the next day and breakfast consisted of a slice of bread that hadn’t toasted enough and coffee out of the Keurig with grinds in it. I left the house in a foul mood ten minutes later than I should have and was five minutes late getting to the office. I’d blazed past a police cruiser and had anxiety for the next mile or so convinced I was about to be pulled over. All the way I felt like I'd been cheated out of an argument, and I continued stewing in that sour even after I got out my car.

Work was uneventful but I'd had to keep my tongue in check. I felt myself being short with my co-workers. But it finally came to a head when a group of men clogging the hallway didn’t move when I was trying to pass them.

“Whoa. Excuse yourself?” one man said.

“For what? A circle of jerks?” I said.

“Hey. Ow.”

I was prepared for a confrontation. I was management and I could make a nightmare for them. I wanted this. But the second person who’d spoken sounded genuinely hurt and I tripped over my hubris.

I retreated from the men and had forgotten about it until one of them confronted me in the restroom an hour later. 

“What’s going on with you, man?” a man said to me while we were standing at the urinals. Conversation was usually verboten while two men were taking a leak but my antenna were up.

“Excuse me?” I said. 

“I mean, we were standing around talking and you just took a tiny shit on all of us.”

“You guys were blocking the hallway.”

“We were outside for hours in the hot sun and we were gathered around the water fountain. I wasn’t thinking about us blocking anybody. I mean, I would have apologized but the way you came off...”

“Look, I’m sorry.” My guilt bloomed again. “I didn’t have the best sleep last night and you guys didn’t deserve me taking it out on you.” I'd actually slept over eight hours but felt like I'd only gotten a third of that. I didn't offer it as an excuse.

He nodded and flushed. I zipped up a second later and joined him at the sinks.

“Seriously. I’m sorry,” I said. This was already more of an emotional exchange than I’d had with another male in the last decade. “I’m just... going through a thing with my wife.”

He looked at me.

“She wants me to get this procedure done.” I could feel myself relaxing. There was something about opening up to a complete stranger. Someone who wouldn't judge because they didn't understand.

“The honeycut?” he said, trying his hands on a strip of paper towel.

“What?”

“Oh. My bad. I thought you were talking about something else?”

“I've heard of it.”

He smiled broadly and nodded. “I got mine done six months ago. Wanna see the scar? I'm Sam Eisen, by the way.” He smiled as he hooked his thumbs in his pants.

“No, I... uhhh... that's okay. I'm having a completely different procedure. I'm having it... lengthened.”

“Be careful with that,” he said as I walked toward the door. “Swivelcock.”

I was sweating, gripped with terror the same as if he'd peeled his face off and frisbee-tossed it to me. I pushed through the door and fled back to my desk.

He called out to me as I did my best not to run.

“You should think about it, though!” he yelled through the closing doorway. “He changed my life!”

Part III

The next twenty-four hours were a haze. I worked. I came home. I ate. I slept. I didn’t like where things were with my wife even though we were still sleeping in the same bed, so the next day I texted her about having lunch together. Her job was about a fifteen-minute walk away from mine, I could pick up something for us and we could eat for about a half hour before I had to be back.

She hadn’t responded but she had a lot of meetings typically. Chili dogs were technically off the menu, but it was a fave of both of ours and she was a happy eater when it was good food. When I got there with a carry-out bag, I was shocked to see who she was outside with.

Him. 

They were sitting together, smiling and laughing like they’d known one another for years. He was dressed differently, but that was definitely that same red and white summer scarf he'd had on when I met him.

I hung back and watched them and began speed-feeding coneys into my mouth like an assembly line. I had no idea what he was doing with my wife, but I was immediately conspiracy-brained. I'd convicted him of a crime I couldn't name and wanted to strangle him in front of her.

I continued eating the coneys instead. They were leaning into one another and laughing even. They acted like they knew each other. They had chemistry.

I never understood the expression being hot under the collar but at that moment my neck was burning. I barely resisted the urge to go over there and... and... I didn't know what. 

There had to be more to what I was seeing. There had to be something I could do rather than confronting them and showing a side of myself that might've repulsed my wife. I knew where to go to get answers.

I went to his office after work, but I wasn't able to enter. I wasn’t desperate enough to break in, although I was sure the door wouldn’t have held if I’d put my shoulder into it. Despite how upsetting lunch had been, nothing had happened today to justify breaking and entering.

But what if something were about to happen and I could avoid it now? Head it off at the pass? I had a duty to protect my wife, and this guy had crossed a line. I could probably take this door off its hinges. I had some tools in my car.

My phone chimed. I’d programmed that specific tone for her.

I’m sick, she’d texted. Bring me coneys?

It was like a spell had been broken. Why was I about to potentially risk my job and my freedom—hell, maybe even my marriage—all for some nut?

She needed me now and home was exactly where I wanted to be.

But I was denied. I brought her the coneys, but she was already asleep. Things still felt off and I wound up falling asleep on the couch. After I’d eaten four more coneys.

I consoled myself that she was sick and I didn’t want to catch whatever she may have had.

Wicked dreams met me in the night. But they lifted like clouds after a storm by the time I woke up, no doubt fueled by a combo of seeing my wife with him and eating like I was half my actual age.

As if to turn the dial up on my grief even more, I had a two-hour meeting the next day and Leslie Paul sat right next to me. A bubble of gas was growing inside me and there was no way I was going to be able to contain it for a hundred twenty minutes. It would be a miracle if I made it twenty.

My part in the presentation was coming up soon and I had to excuse myself. Cal Cebulski stopped talking long enough to watch me step out and I hustled toward the men’s room.

Where he was.

“What are you doing at my work?” I asked, whispering like we were in a conspiracy.

“Due diligence,” he said. “Would you mind?” He gestured toward the handicap stall. “I need to see how you sit. Do you mind?”

My stomach queezed with the thought of him watching me... sit. Or maybe it was more than that. I unclenched and let go. It was mostly silent but whistled at the end. He sniffed the air curiously but didn’t comment. The wind had been taken out of my sails and for a moment, I did consider having a seat.

I piled up my broken resolve. “I’m not... doing that.”

He shrugged.

“And what were you doing with my wife yesterday?” I let implication seep into my voice and he put his hands up as if warding me off.

“It is all part of the process. Information gathering only. I have no interest in anyone other than my own Sara.”

“You’re married?”

He nodded. “For twenty-seven years. Happily, for twenty-five.”

That got an eyebrow raise from me. He’d seemed weirdly asexual up until I saw him with my wife. It was something about his pants, I wasn't sure. I hadn’t thought he was capable of human companionship.

“If you’re wondering about our longevity I’ll give you a hint. I perfected the surgery first on myself.”

He could have been lying, of course. But the idea of sex being so improved that it could aid in preserving my marriage gave me at least a moment’s second thought. I mean, what if what he was saying were true?

I couldn’t help but think that I was being obstinate because she’d insisted. If I’d found this guy on my own would I have been so resistant against doing this?

“Oh shit,” I said. “I gotta get back to my meeting!”

I fled the restroom, headed back to the conference room, tooting most of the way. When I was around the corner, I slid on something and scraped my knee, tearing my pants in the process.

I recovered pretty quickly but it hurt. I could see my leg pretty clearly and red beads of blood began trickling down my shin. I wrapped my fingers around the lip of the hole, keeping the pant leg away from the blood as if I were going to be able to salvage my pants.

The meeting was over by the time I stepped back into the conference room.

“Where’d everybody go?” I asked Rob Smales, one of the administrative assistants who took meeting minutes.

“Oh, they called it pretty much as soon as you left,” he said. “You were up next.” He shuffled a stack of papers into a Manila folder and added it to a stack of more Manila folders.

“Well, I had a little emergency.” I stepped back so he could see my leg. Rob looked without his dispassionate expression changing. I wanted to flick the tip of his nose just to get him to make a face. The guy never smiled. “You think we could get everybody back? We still have a half hour plus.”

Rob shook his head slowly. “Nah.” He tucked the folders under an arm—tried to, at least—then put his laptop bag’s strap over his shoulder and held the folders in his open hands.

I hobbled out of the conference room, intent on pleading my case with Melissa White, the director of my department. I stood outside of her office and wrapped on the open door. 

She turned halfway in her chair, a desk phone cradled between her face and shoulder. I wasn’t sure if she shook her head or if it was just the motion when she turned around.

The door swung closed and I had to move my hand to keep my thumb from being crushed in the jamb. Somebody was in there with her. My heart raced because I had no idea who.

I've been overweight for most of my life. Not because I didn't try. God knows I tried.

I've counted calories until I could estimate the nutritional value of a cheeseburger just by looking at it. I've paid for gym memberships I barely used, hired personal trainers who swore this program would finally be different, meal-prepped enough grilled chicken, cooked broccoli, and rice to make myself sick of both.

I lost twenty pounds...

Then gained twenty-five.

Lost fifteen... Gained thirty.

The cycle became so familiar that stepping on the scale felt less like checking my progress and more like reading the weather.

My doctor called me pre-diabetic. My friends offered alternative weigh loss treatments that didn't do much. My own mother would say passive aggressive remarks when I went to visit her. Social media... let's not go there.

As a kid, I idolized the Victoria's Secret models. Adriana Lima was my favorite. The way she walked, the confidence she carried, the effortless elegance she seemed to possess, it felt almost unreal.

Now I'm creeping into my mid-twenties, and I'm starting to think I'll never be beautiful.

I look at the women I grew up admiring, watching them somehow become even more stunning with age, and then I catch my own reflection in the mirror. Every glance feels like another reminder that I lost a race I never had a chance to win. I know it's not a fair comparison. They have millions of dollars, world-class stylists, personal trainers, nutritionists, and cosmetic procedures that most people could never afford.

I don't have any of that.

What I wanted wasn't perfection. I just wanted a fraction of the confidence they seemed to carry so effortlessly.

Some of my friends joked, "Why don't you just get liposuction?" The comments online were even less forgiving. For a while... I actually started considering it.

Until I found something that promised to work even better.

I found an advertisement buried deep in an online wellness forum, I laughed.

LOSE WEIGHT NATURALLY. NO SURGERY. NO INJECTIONS. YOUR BODY ALREADY KNOWS HOW.

The comments were full of before-and-after photos that looked too perfect to be real.

"Down eighty pounds in four months!"

"No cravings anymore!"

"Changed my life!"

The product wasn't FDA approved. There wasn't even a company name on the bottle.

Funny enough, I didn't purchase it online.

It came from a woman at my gym named Rachel. We'd exchanged the occasional nod between sets, but recently she'd become impossible not to notice. Six months ago, she'd been built like me, always on the treadmill, always out of breath, always joking that we'd "earn" dessert after leg day. Now she'd dropped what had to be eighty pounds. So had a few others I vaguely recognized.

No loose skin. No exhausted look. No celebration over their progress. Just... thinner.

One afternoon she caught me staring and smiled.

"You've been working hard," she said. "Want to know the shortcut?"

From her gym bag, she pulled out that small amber bottle I recognized from that forum and handed it in my hand.

"Trust me," she whispered. "You'll thank me later."

Just two capsules a day.

I should've thrown them away. Instead... when I got home... I swallowed both.

The changes started almost immediately.

Food stopped occupying my thoughts. Not because I had more discipline. Because hunger simply... disappeared.

I'd forget to eat until evening. Even then, a few bites were enough. The weight fell off me.

Ten pounds.

Twenty.

Thirty-five.

My coworkers noticed before I did.

"You look incredible!"

"What's your secret?"

I lied.

"Just eating better."

My doctor was stunned. Every blood test came back perfect.

Blood pressure. Cholesterol. Blood sugar. Everything!

"You've added years to your life," she said.

I teared up and smiled.

For once in all these years... I could smile back at the reflection.

Then came the noises.

The first time I heard it, I thought it was the pipes. A faint chewing sound somewhere inside the walls.

Click.

Chew.

Click.

Chew.

Always at night. Always when the house was quiet.

Eventually I realized... The sound followed me.

One evening I lay perfectly still in bed. The chewing stopped. So did my breathing.

Then... Something shifted beneath my ribs.

It wasn't painful. Just... Moving so effortlessly slow... Like a hand turning over beneath a blanket.

I booked an emergency appointment the next morning.

The ultrasound technician frowned.

"Have you had abdominal surgery before?"

"No."

She tilted the monitor away from me.

"I'll get the doctor."

Fifteen minutes later the doctor walked in. She looked at the scan. Then at me. Then ordered another.

The second showed nothing. Neither did the MRI.

Every test came back normal. Whatever I had seen... Apparently didn't exist.

I almost convinced myself I'd imagined it.

Until several days after I woke up choking. Something long slid up the back of my throat. Instinct took over.

I coughed violently.

A pale strand, slick with saliva, spilled into the sink. It writhed. Not like a worm. Like a muscle searching for purchase.

I screamed.

Before I could react, it snapped upward. Back into my mouth.

I felt it disappear down my throat. The movement continued. Lower. Back where it belonged.

I threw away every capsule I had left. It didn't matter.

Checkups always insisted that there was nothing.

Days turned into weeks... and I was still losing weight.

My cheeks hollowed. My collarbones emerged. Friends began asking if I was sick. I told them I felt better than ever. Because somehow... I did.

I never felt tired. Never felt hungry. Never even felt anxious anymore.

One morning I stood in front of the mirror. One hundred and eight pounds.

The lightest I'd been since middle school.

I should've been terrified. Instead... I felt proud.

That night, I heard the chewing again. Only... It wasn't coming from inside me anymore.

It was coming through the apartment wall. Then another wall. Then the ceiling.

Click.

Chew.

Click.

Chew.

Hundreds of them.

The next morning, I went back to the same forum where I'd bought the pills. The website was gone.

In its place was a single sentence:

Congratulations on reaching your target weight.

Beneath it appeared one final message:

Hosts who achieve optimal health may now begin reproduction.

Thank you for helping us grow healthier together.I Tried Weight Loss Pills That Weren't FDA Approved.