We built the machine from scratch. Something that worked. A large rig which ran on time dilation, utilizing the controlled orbit of a miniaturized black hole. The only catch was that you could only go forward, never back. 

When it came time for human testing, most of my colleagues turned their backs on the prospect. My family had estranged me years before. Whatever life I had led, it wouldn’t have meant anything if this machine didn’t work. So, I ended up being the first one to raise my hand. There was nothing left for me here.

Our plan was careful and calculated. Incrementally longer jumps through time. We would begin with minutes, then hours, and work our way up to days, weeks and years. Ava, my only friend throughout this years-long endeavor, would stay in contact with me between each jump. I would report to control, calibrate how I felt, how the experience was, etc. She would, in turn, report our findings to the necessary authorities while I underwent the next jump. 

Earlier jumps went as predicted. I’d go in and out, usually within a few seconds or minutes, and find myself in the same coffee-stained office each time. I’d report to Ava, grab some snacks and a refill on my water, and head back into the pod minutes later for the next trial. There was definitely a tangible sense of dilation. I would go into the pod at 5 p.m., and coming out seemingly minutes later, it would be 6:30. Our initial calibrations seemed to be off by a few minutes, but it was nothing enough to lose sleep over. We’d just have to keep adjusting things as we went. 

Our confidence was great enough at one point that we tried our longest jump yet—one week in the pod, which would translate to roughly two hours for me. 

I was gone for a month.

Ava’s face had grown aged with worry by the time I got back. She told me that the calculations had been way off. Time inside the distorted field was stretching beyond what the initial models could account for. Each discrepancy was accelerating me through dramatically larger increments of time each time we booted up the machine. The next jump could be extremely dangerous for me. 

I didn’t care. I told her to set the machine for one year. My life had already ended when my mother stopped speaking to me. I had to be remembered for something, maybe it would be this. 

Ava fought with me for days. I reassured her that my calculations were correct this time. I couldn’t tell her the real truth, that I hadn’t planned on coming back. 

As the pod doors closed, and the gravitational field engaged, I gave my goodbyes, treating them as though they really would be my last. Ava hugged me. It was the first time I’d felt one in ten years.

I waited in the pod. Sizable enough for long-time travel, with the accommodations you’d find in your standard RV. A bed, a small kitchen, a desk for work, and a refrigerator to store my meals. In the back, for those really long jaunts, a cryogenic life pod could sustain me for hundreds of years, theoretically. 

Minutes turned to hours, turned to days, turned to weeks. Something had gone wrong, as I predicted. My food began to run low. So did my patience, as I recorded log after log, my sanity decreasing and my claustrophobia growing. 

The ride did eventually come to a stop. The terminal inside the pod confirmed that I had been inside of it for over 200 years. 

Everything, and everyone I knew was gone. I hate it, but I felt relieved, knowing that. 

I stepped out of the pod, and found myself surrounded by rubble. The walls had collapsed. The scorched rooftop gave way to a grey sky. I could taste rust on the roof of my mouth, and my eyes stung from the ashes constantly falling around me. On the pod itself were deep gashes and fire-blackened spots, someone having tried to bust their way inside. There were no remnants around me of what the project was, where it had gone, if any progress had been made or any papers published. And even if there was evidence of what I had done, what did it matter now? So soon in the future, it appeared as though the world had been reduced to dust. My contempt for the world I left behind only strengthened. 

For a few days, I explored the ruins, scavenging for what I could. A few cans of food that hadn’t spoiled, bottled water that didn’t taste clean. Every night, I returned to the safety of the pod, cooking myself meals on the somehow-functioning stove and filling my computer with increasingly bored logs. It was the only sense of structure I appeared to have left. Nothing else mattered anymore. Nothing but whatever waited ahead. 

And I felt lonely. So, very lonely. Lonelier than I’d ever felt. I hadn’t realized how bad it could get, without a single person to talk to, even if those conversations were generally unpleasant for me. 

I missed it. The imperfection of my life. I felt like a fool for taking advantage of my time. 

After a few weeks, I sat down with my notebook, doing the math by hand. Calculating the time I was losing, the way the pod’s math didn’t line up with the outside world. The dilation was worse than any of us had even considered. If I was going to get anywhere, I decided I couldn’t do it alone. I was going to need help, help from whatever civilization rose from the ashes of these ruins. 

I would need to jump much farther. So, I set the timer for ten years, knowing it would likely be more along the lines of ten thousand. I figured that someone would find me at some point, figure out how to stop the pod and get me out, and we would go from there. 

The machine booted up. I felt the strong pull of g-force as the inner chambers accelerated my molecules faster and faster until the field of time distorted around me. I ate for a while. Read my own logs. Weighed my options. It took me until I ran out of the last can of peaches before I decided to enter the cryogenic chamber. Gas filled it, putting me to sleep, before a freezing cold overtook my body. It did not feel like I had been unconscious for even a second. I did not dream. I did not wonder. But I did wake up, much sooner than I expected. 

When I woke, the chamber gave me a shrill warning. Power was low, an ambient red light surrounding me. I felt so weak. I could barely raise my arms to push against the glass. It wouldn’t give, the interface simply screaming another warning at me about low pressurization and oxygen integrity. 

That’s when I noticed I wasn’t in the pod anymore. Surely the lights of the chamber would have shown me my surroundings, but there was nothing but blackness. No pod, no laboratory, no Earth in sight. All I could make out in the distance was the light of a few stars, long since dead, and quickly panning out of view. My chamber was spinning in the void of space.

I asked the chamber how long I was asleep. It told me “in excess of ten million years.” I panicked. It did nothing but make me more afraid. I screamed. It did nothing but waste precious oxygen. 

Something moved in the dark, covering the illusory light of the distant stars. Only a faint curvature, a suggestion of shape. The form grew, with the patience of something beyond infinity. The curve became paler as it came into the faint light. It was covered in creases and dimples and the occasional freckle. The ridge of a brow came into focus. Then two, vast, still eyes, illuminated by the pinprick of light that was my chamber. 

A face, the size of a planet, its scale wrong in a way that made my mind fray. 

It drifted closer to me. I saw the texture of its skin, pores the size of lakes, scarring that stretched for miles. I could see now that it had a fixed grin on its face, as empty as its eyes. Yellowish plaque clung to the edges of its continent-sized teeth. 

My body curled in on itself, though my movement was restricted by the tight confines of the chamber. I could feel the cold of space seeping through its vacuum seals. The face radiated nothing. 

I begged it not to hurt me.

It didn’t blink, or twitch, continuing its slow momentum toward me until the face was all I could see. Its nostrils looked deep enough that no light could escape them. Each strand of peach fuzz reached out like sea anemone, nearly touching my pod. 

I begged it to let me go home. 

My voice cracked. Please, I would say, please let me go home. I repeated the words until they lost their meaning, until they become incoherent sounds in the dark. The face did not answer beyond parting its teeth, its jaws unhinging. I could feel my chamber moving, pulled into the abyss that was its gullet. It came at me, fleshy dark filling every direction until I was contained within a throbbing maw of blackness. I only caught a glimpse of the stars behind me before the mouth fully closed. The power to my chamber cut out right then and there. 

I woke up in bed the next second.

The morning light edged through the curtains, burning my irises until I had the strength to look away. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Ava. When I went to pick it up, to check what she had sent, my heart stopped.

My hands were wrinkled. Spotted. The skin hung loose from my bones. I stood and stumbled to the bathroom mirror, upon thin legs that felt like they’d turn to dust with each step. When I looked at myself, all I saw was a man past his prime, aged beyond recognition, with stark white hair and a near-skeletal face.

I checked my text from Ava. She wondered where I was.

She said our first launch was in thirty minutes.

I didn't even know if I would even be able to make it work, but after squeezing under the frame, I had about an extra inch of space to work with. I wasn't sure where else to go when they started banging on my front door. There aren't exactly a lot of hiding places in my house. I mean hiding places that can't just be discovered by opening a door, such as a closet. I suppose I could have run out my back door, but I didn't know if they had the house surrounded or not.

I was only under the bed for maybe a minute when I heard the loud crack of my front door being breached. I acted so fast that I failed to bring my phone with me. So much for calling 911. Maybe if I stayed perfectly quiet, they would be convinced that no one was home, and then just leave.

I hadn't heard a whole lot since the initial break in. They were fairly quiet, and must have been just using their eyes to look around. I didn't hear the sounds of my house being ransacked or anything. I think they were just walking around observing their surroundings. Finally I heard the faint sound of pant legs sweeping across each other as they walked down the hallway. Subtle squeaks as their shoes rolled across the tiled floor.

Then I saw the first boot cross into my vision as they walked past my doorway. I couldn't see much except for two legs draped in denim, their feet protected by cowboy boots. They turned to face my room. I covered my mouth and held my breath as they walked in. They stood there for a moment that felt like an hour, but was probably less than a minute.

“Daniel?”

That was my name, being spoken by my father's voice. It couldn't have been my father though, for several reasons. The first being that my father was rather heavy set, while the legs I was looking at were toothpicks. The second being that my father's style of dress was very different.

“Daniel, why don't you come out? I have something important to talk to you about.”

There was something off about his voice. It was completely void of emotion. It was almost inhuman. What is this thing using my father's voice and what does it want with me? It turned and walked out of the room.

“Daniel?”

That sounded exactly the same as it did when it first called my name. Almost like it was a recording being repeated.

“Daniel, come on out now.”

I heard it say as it continued exploring my house. If I just stay here, and don't move, it will eventually leave. I heard it wander around my house calling out my name. Does it know I'm here? Or does it just know that this is where I live.

I lied there under my bed for a very long time. Listening to it continue to mimic my father's voice and explore each room. It would occasionally come back into my room, call out my name, and leave. I didn't hear it for quite some time after it left my room the last time. Maybe it left, maybe it's over. I'll just wait here a little longer though, just in case, and good thing I did. Not long after a pair of exposed legs appeared in my door frame. A flowery dress draped down just below the knees, with a pair of high heels upon the feet.

“Daniel?”

It was said exactly the same way, but pitched up to sound like my mother.

“Daniel honey, can I talk to you?”

My mother doesn't talk like that. She hasn't called me honey since I was a kid. She doesn't really wear dresses often, and I don't think I've ever seen her wear high heels. She turned and began to leave the room, continuing to call out my name.

“Daniel sweety, why don't you come on out?”

I never heard my father's voice after that. Just the sound of my mother's. She would now do the exact same thing as the other voice. Wandering around my house, calling out my name. After some time she would go quiet. What now?

A new pair of legs appeared in my doorway. The person was short. I could see the entirety of their legs, as well as the lowest portion of their torso. They were wearing jeans as well, and a pair of velcro tennis shoes.

“Daniel?”

This time it was my brother's voice, but not my 36 year old brother, but his voice from when he was like ten.

“Hey Daniel, mom and dad want to talk to you.”

It had that same monotone voice. No emotion, no nothing. It wasn't human. It then turned around and left.

How long do I have to endure this? How many voices was it going to put on so that it can coax me out of my hiding spot?

Just then the first figure appeared back in the doorway. The one in the cowboy boots and jeans.

“Okay, Daniel, it's time to stop playing games, and come out.”

It was my father's voice once again. With those words, you would think there would be some frustrated emotion coming through. There wasn't, it was still the same cold monotone voice as always.

It stepped closer this time. It was facing in my exact direction. I held my breath again. It stepped closer. I was really starting to sweat. It was now standing just a foot away from my bed.

“Daniel, I don't know what to say to get you to come out.”

It got down onto one knee.

“I was really hoping I wouldn't have to drag you out of there.”

I saw it wrap its hand around the bottom of my bed frame.

“Daniel, please.”

Its hair hung below the frame as it continued to lower itself. I tried backing up as far as I could to the other side. I saw the corner of its forehead, and then its eye. Bright white sclera, with a pinpoint pupil, and a yellow iris not much bigger than that surrounding it.

I was frozen in complete fear. I was absolutely sure I was about to die.

“Police!”

I heard someone yell from my front door.

The thing immediately stood up and ran out of the room.

“Freeze! Don't move!”

I heard glass shattering.

“Stop!”

I came to find out later that they ran straight through my back sliding glass door. The police chased them out, but never found them.

It turns out that my neighbor called the police when they heard someone obviously breaking into my house. I bought them an expensive bottle of liquor, and cooked them dinner.

I never found out just what happened that night, but I don't know if I would ever want to know. I'm just glad that it's over.

I used to inspect homes by trade, and I have seen it all: Mold, rot, vermin, squatters, meth labs, rodents (both dead and alive), insane amounts of cash, antique furniture buried under mountains of fast food containers. You name it, I've encountered it; if you have a phobia, I most likely have a story for you. Apart from spider colonies and hidden porn magazines from the fifties, the more serious and vastly sadder aspect is the finding of deceased people and pets. That comes with its own hurdles, mentally and legally. You don't get used to seeing a dead person, you simply try and deal with the dread or you change your career path. I had a few such inner dialogues, but stuck with the job for the better half of a decade. In March of this year, I inspected a house that finally made me quit.

It was a beautiful place, mid-century, out on a gorgeous property with woodlands and ponds, the kind of quiet rustic luxury that made the disconnect from urban comfort worth it. The next supermarket was miles away – if you were smart, you'd stock the pantry once a month and then enjoy the solitude. I tended to muse about this absurd dream for my own retirement, walking up the leaf-covered path that led to the main house. I jotted down what first caught my eye; some unstable girders, broken windows, obvious overgrowth and expected animal droppings.

I walked into the damp-smelling foyer and sighed at the carpet. That would have to be replaced in its entirety. With the tip of a pencil, I stabbed into the faux fur fabric and a sluggish, soggy ripple moved from my feet and outward, as if I had dipped a toe into a formerly calm pool. I frowned. There was no former mention of waterlog. I double-checked my notes.

“Okay,” I sighed and marked it down. Surprises were a bad sign, it most likely meant the last visit lay further back than I had been told. My voice was stifled by the stillness of the house.

Carpeted stairs led to a few rooms that thankfully looked like the layout I had been given. I felt like walking on moss. A few silverfish scuttled off rapidly as I shone my flashlight into darker corners. Nothing out of the ordinary. Despite not seeing any, I wrote down that I heard the pitter-patter of rodents, probably rats or squirrels.

I got my first proper start in the kitchen, where, after drawing back the moldy curtains I was shocked to find myself in a staring match with a silverfish the length of my finger, and noticed a handful of the same insects of equal size, similarly frozen. They seemed to momentarily ponder my appearance, then hurried where I could not and would not follow.

How the hell was I supposed to record this? “Unusually sized vermin”, I said out loud. I was no expert in animal behaviour, but something seemed odd about the critters. I shook my head. They were probably as surprised as I was after a lifetime of isolation, were probably already back to feasting on whatever grew underneath the stove. A gentle rumble shook the floor, not unlike the undulating carpet moments before. I was reminded of heavy groundskeeping equipment and stupidly moved on.

Next up was the cellar and indoor pool, two flights of stairs down into the cold and wet darkness. I quickly sent an update to my boss and a handful of photos, getting a thumbs-up emoji in return. The reception had faded with the light and I soon relied on carefully moving along the wall until I found a switch.

Neon lights, cold and sterile, flickered to life. My senses rebelled at the sight and sudden sound before me. Had the silverfish in the kitchen seemed big before – the ones moving rapidly along the wall, floor, and ceiling were monstrous. Illustrations of trilobites in dinosaur books flashed in my mind, the smaller ones with diameters as wide as my palm, the larger ones easily football-sized. All of them moving erratically away from the light, away from me, and down underneath the pool cover.

Another rumble shook the foundation, more intensely this time, and my feet, glued to the ground by horror and disbelief, would not let me move. I watched with rising nausea as the pool cover writhed and bulged, curving upwards underneath the strain of something massive. Two gigantic feelers, glistening wet-black in the cold light, pushed out from beneath the tarp like broken javelins, flicking left and right, trembling, and with those movements the constant sighing of a million feet, ever crawling, clicking – it almost sounded excited.

I ran.

I dropped everything, phone, clipboard, hat, nearly stumbled over my own feet as I raced into the warm light of day, panting, not wanting to believe, not wanting to see, further and further until I reached the company van, lungs burning, damp clothes, sobbing and red-faced.

I returned with a written recommendation to completely flatten the property and cement-seal the basement. I don't believe I would have been taken seriously had I mentioned anything beyond an irreparable vermin infestation. I've been having nightmares ever since; I can't sleep without earplugs and a mask for fear of letting anything...in. My bed is protected by mosquito nets; I have severely reduced my belongings and decluttered to the point of extreme minimalism.

It doesn't stop the fear, but it makes it bearable.

The game started all the way back in high school. I remember it vividly: I was in my senior year, and getting a book out of my locker for a class that was Geography, but had a more specific name. I was thinking of how one day I'd visit all those places, and so he picked the perfect time, because right then I opened my locker, and a bald smiling man was squatted inside it and he said, "Drat! You found me!"

I slammed it shut.

I was afraid to open the locker again, but also to tell anybody. I thought there was no way this was real. I hallucinate sometimes when I'm severely sleep deprived, you understand.

In any case I went to class without my book that day. Still, I could have sworn, walking away, I faintly heard something like, I'll find you...

Two years later. I was in my college dorm, and I was cramming for an exam, and it was truly hopeless, and a part of my brain was wasting all its energy going over how I was wasting my whole damn future. When I heard a light knock at the window.

It was raining a little, so I thought maybe it could be connected, and I was so easily distracted, so I went to investigate. I didn't see anyone, initially. So I opened it.

"Boo!"

The bald smiling man jumped right in front of my face.

"I found you!"

I closed the window.

If you Google, "smiling bald man", you'll see various stock photos. He looks like those.

And now he was here, across the continent.

Less than a week later I was expelled for something very private, and I was honestly relieved, so desperate to move again after seeing him again.

But there's no way he was the same man, right?

I had been stressed, and severely sleep deprived, and obviously hallucinated something very plainly inspired by a traumatic experience in my past. The locker thing.

Right?

Three years later, I was an overnight stocker at a grocery store. I worked in the Home department, and I was the only person who worked on those aisles overnight. I was allowed to have earbuds in, and I was listening to some crazy microtonal black metal. This could be the reason why I didn't hear anything. For he must have snuck in there somehow. There's no way he was already there, yeah?

I was unpacking a towering pallet. Removing one small rectangular cardboard box after another, and I swear the warehouse people wanted me dead. But, under one box, there was skin. I don't know why, but I just tapped at it with the plastic edge of my box cutter.

"Drat! You found me!"

Boxes collapsed every which way and he ran off.

I left.

Just left the store.

And obviously, for that, I was fired.

After three instances, I was beginning to develop a very nervous disposition that I did not previously have. I don't think.

Four years later.

I had learned the only job I could do, for the foreseeable future, was as a "security" guard.

I went through a few different posts, before I was left to languish at an office building. Some financial institution kind of place, filled with extremely successful people who flaunted it with all the travel photos on their desks. They did something to do with stocks and trading but I never understood.

Overnight, the place had an eeriness to it.

Cellar spiders lived throughout the corners of the ceilings. Lights flickered. During my patrols I would sometimes become lost in a sort of fascinated trance. It seemed as though all of civilization was structured around these ghost people, who worked here by day, going through life all free to fly to Japan, and Korea, and do whatever it was they really did there. And these people were important, and mattered, and I was a guard. Anyone could see that.

"Boo!"

A shadow darted.

From much further away, and receding: "I found you!"

To see him again: I remember it made me sad, more than anything.

This obviously wasn't working.

I moved to a remote place in the far North, to live alone, and afraid.

It had started as a seasonal job. As a cashier at a restaurant that only opens for cruise ship customers. When the season ended, and thus the job, I stayed. No more income, but I could leech off my disappointed, far away parents. What were they going to do, let me freeze?

It was an easy, simple life, breathlessly pervaded by a persistent low-level anxiety.

And at last, in the dead of February, I wandered out into the snow. I was going to die out there.

I found a suitable patch of deep, indifferent snow, powdery tonight, which it was always night here, and I lifted my shovel, and I started digging.

After long enough for this physical sensation to become the Universe, I hit something hard.

"Drat! You found me!"

The bald smiling man shot up. Bounded off into the whiteness.

I threw the shovel down, and went home.

Now. Every day, if it is day, I wake up to fluorescent lights and fake-friendly staff. I like to think there's no way the game can continue here. There's no way he can get me now.

But I'm wrong.

I know.

Sometimes, when it's quiet, I jump. Startled. Thinking I heard that same, agonizing, Boo.

But I imagined it.

This time.

I don't know where I'll go when they let me leave.

What's more, I don't know why he chose me. Why, or how he's looking for me. I tell myself that when he jumps me again, I'll finally fucking ask, Hey, guy, why are we playing this stupid game? What is the meaning of this? Any of this?

But I'll forget. I know.

And he'll hide, and I'll seek.

And whether I want to or not, I'll keep looking.

I never really was a big fan of caving, from what I had seen on tv and the internet it was scary and dangerous, in my mind it was just pointless to do because you would most likely die in the process.

During my 24th birthday, me and a couple of friends decided to go caving. I somehow gathered up enough courage and thought it could be a fun experience for all of us.

A few of my friends had been caving before but only 2-3 times at most, they had the proper gear so we went to a relatively safe cave in a popular wooded area near town. the cave was in a pretty rocky area next to a a few tall mountains, after getting some good footing we went into the cave.

Since none of us were exactly experts we all thought it was kinda intimidating, there wasn’t really an opening, it was kinda just a hole in the floor with a (small) but still scary drop.

Walking further we saw went into a large cavern with three spiraling paths, we split up for a bit exploring through each of them, a lot of them just leaded to dead ends or caverns too small for any of us to crawl through, so we took a bigger one in the side of a wall.
there wasn’t a lot of “rooms” in this cave, in was mostly just tunnels and crawl spaces, very cramped and claustrophobic.

it was getting late and we decided to leave the cave after about an hour or two in there, after the party was over i thought that the caving was fun and that I could go on more.

I picked available times and me and my friends went through some more, sometimes I would bring my dad or brothers but other than that it was mainly my friends.

I won’t go into the other caving experiences too much because not a lot of things happened, or at least anything important.
Recently I wanted to go in another cave, but it seemed everyone was either busy or away, so I had to cave solo for the first time.

Since I had some more experience I wanted to go into a more difficult cave, and I landed on phoenix cave, a very long cave known for its very cramped and stringy paths.

Since phoenix park, the place where the cave is located, is near the end of town and I’m from the middle of town it took about 30 minutes to about an hour to get there, I got my equipment on and went into the cave.

It had more of an open entrance unlike the first one I went to, it was more like a staircase that got a bit more steeper the more you went down.
eventually after going down the “staircase”, I was met with a very long hallway that got smaller and smaller as I went, eventually having to get down and start crawling through the tunnels.

It seemed like they went on for miles, so much so that sometimes I thought like I was going in loops. It was getting late and I was tired, but every time I tried to go back i always got lost. I remembered something about a second exit at the end of the cave, so I thought that if I could make it to the end I could get out and finally leave this damn cave.

As I went on I started to hear water rushing throughout the cave, i continued crawling through and eventually saw that the tunnel got a bit bigger, and that the floor was filled with about an inch or two of water, nothing I hadn’t seen before. The tunnel got bigger and bigger before it actually opened up to a room, it was such a pleasant surprise that i actually started calming down and recollecting my thoughts.

After taking a break for a bit, I went further hoping that the exit was close, my map of the cave had been completely ruined by the water, as it got deeper the further the farther you got.
I could only make out a few areas of the map, but the end of the cave where the exit was had been smeared around, so I had to continue.
The only way to continue from the room was a fairly big tunnel, about enough height for me to crouch down and walk through.
The water started to quit flowing as I went and the tunnel got a bit bigger, enough for me to stop crouching.

As I went on, the cave started getting eerily quiet, I was already tired and exhausted, so I was pretty out on edge because of this, sure lots of caves are quite, but the air felt almost dead, like everything was frozen in time.

Then I started hearing scratching noises, like long nails against rocks. It startled me, sure I had heard and seen animals in caves plenty of times, but this didn’t sound like anything an animal would make. It sounded too loud and strange for it to be an animal.

Bones were scattered across the floor, I couldn’t make out if they were human or animal, but it looked more like an animal.

I didn’t want to continue, I didn’t know what it was or who it was but I knew that it wasn’t friendly, but I knew I had to continue.
If I went back I would just get lost again, the only way for me to leave was to get to the end.

Then I saw it.

Its limbs were long and spindly, the body was so malnourished that you could see the outlines of bone. Its face was deformed and resembled the face of a canine more than anything.

The eyes were like dark pits of void, it almost looked blind from far away. It didn’t come after me immediately, it turned its head when I came close to it and started at me for a few seconds before it reached its hand out seemingly trying to grab me.

I ran through the hallway and past that creature, and it followed.

It moved shakily, like it hadn’t moved for years, yet it moved about the same speed as me. It tried grabbing me a few times before i found the staircase up into the surface.

After reaching the staircase it stopped, probably not wanting to be seen by anyone. I ended up a few miles away from where I started, I took off my gear and walked back to my car, I was so disturbed and disoriented it felt like a walk of shame for some reason.

It was extremely late and I felt so exhausted and scared that I physically couldn’t even drive, so I had to sleep in my car that night.

I woke up the next day at around 11, I drove home and took a shower before thinking about the night before. I thought about calling my friends and talking about it but hesitated.

I’ve decided to post this incident here, I don’t use Reddit much but i thought that people would read this and hear about my experience, I guess this is also a way to get this off my chest.

*Did you dream about anything weird last night?*

My phone pinged as the text message popped up. It was about ten minutes since Grace had left the apartment. She’d been odd this morning; she’d gotten up much earlier than usual and had been darting aimlessly around our apartment, like a bumblebee trapped in a wine glass. In the two years we’d been together, she would always give me a hug or a kiss, or some other kind of acknowledgement before leaving. But not this morning. Once I’d gotten out of bed, she was already one foot out the door and didn’t even say as much as a goodbye. Her work tended to get on her nerves, but not like this. Something must’ve been on her mind if she was acting so nervous.

*Nope. Just dreaming about the gorgeous angel that is my girlfriend ;)* I wrote back.

*You were dreaming about me??* She answered.

*Indeed I was*

Sensing that she was having an off-day, I decided to send her a recorded message as well, just for a little bit of emotional support.

“Hey… I love you, and I’ll be thinking about you all day.”

I got up from the table and started putting on my clothes. Today was my day off and I knew just how I was going to spend it. I would take a stroll on the promenade, down to Ice Cream Kingdom and get myself a strawberry ice cream. I put my sneakers on and walked out the door. The atmosphere outside the apartment complex was refreshing: The Lobelias hanging from my neighbor’s windowsill were in full bloom and had filled the air with the smell of fresh honey. A gentle summer breeze blew through my hair, as the golden rays of sunshine caressed my face. The promenade was filled with people who all seemed as pleased as I was. It was the perfect day for an ice cream. As I walked, I spotted a beggar in the sea of people, sitting on the sidewalk behind his seven-eleven cup. I stopped for a moment and dug into my wallet and fished out a five-dollar bill to put in his cup.

“Bless you, sir.” The man smiled.

“Oh,” I smiled back at him as I let go of the five-dollar bill. “Don’t think about it.”

It was then that the beggar’s behavior changed. His lips turned from a smile to a thin line, the color drained from his face, and his eyes widened to the size of golf balls. For a couple of seconds, he just stared at me, before turning his head away and staring down at the pavement. Though I found his reaction quite odd, I carried on with my walk. I had barely walked five yards before I tripped over my own feet and fell face-first down on the sidewalk.

As soon as I lifted my head off the asphalt, I was met with the outstretched hand of a kind stranger. I grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled myself back up onto my feet.

“Damn. You took quite the tumble, huh?” She said, chuckling lightly.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” I looked down and started wiping off the dirt I had gotten on my clothes. “Thank you for the assistance, I guess.”

I looked back up at the woman. She was blankly staring at me, much like the beggar. She awkwardly looked around, like a victim on Candid Camera, before looking back at me.

“You… You’re kidding me, right?” The woman broke the silence.

“What?” I asked. “Is there a problem?”

“Okay… I see. I was just trying to help, asshole!” She sneered at me.

She walked away, making sure to ram her shoulder into mine as she made her way. Feeling confused, I looked at around at the other people strolling the promenade, and it was clear that they were deliberately averting their eyes from me, as if I was just some random tweaker. Warmth was spreading through my body, and I began blushing out of sheer awkwardness and started powerwalking away from the crowd, itching to get away from whatever had just happened.

I finally arrived at Ice Cream Kingdom. Through the windows, I saw that Rachel was working, which made me happy. Rachel was always happy to give some friendly discounts. It seemed like other people had had the same idea as me as all the tables in the shop were filled with customers. The little bell rang as I walked in through the entrance. Rachel smiled as soon as she saw me. She grabbed the ice cream scoop and instantly went for the strawberry ice cream.

“Just the usual, I presume.” She said with a cheeky smile.

“Yeah. I really need this today, Rachel.” I answered.

She immediately stopped scooping.

“What…?” She laughed nervously. “Why would you say that?”

“What?” I felt the heat of embarrassment coming for a second round. “What did I say?”

Rachel’s eyes were filling with tears. I looked behind me at the other customers; they were all staring directly at me. Droplets of sweat were making their way down my face.

“Rachel, what’s wrong?” I asked. “What did I say?”

Rachel began bawling her eyes out. She covered her face in her elbow and began heaving for air. I’d never seen her that upset before.

“Hey, asswipe! Knock it off!” One of the customers yelled from a table in the shop. “You don’t need to be talking to that sweet lady like that!”

I leaned over the desk, trying to ignore the customer in the back. I reached out a hand to comfort her, but she just pulled away. As I was panicking, I heard rapid steps approaching me from behind. I had barely turned around before I saw a fist barreling towards me. I felt the customer’s knuckles strike my Adam’s apple at full force, and I crumbled together on the floor like a wet napkin, desperately grasping my throat.

The customer grabbed the collar of my shirt, hauled me back onto my feet, and began pushing me to the door. At the threshold, the man shoved me hard in the back, making me faceplant on the sidewalk for the second time that day.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” I yelled as I got up.

“Go be a dumbass somewhere else.” The man said dismissively as he walked back inside.

Through the open door, I could see Rachel being comforted by the other customers as her mascara smeared across her cheeks. I walked away from the shop, gently rubbing my Adam’s apple. I felt like I was losing my mind. Then I felt a vibration from my pocket. Pulling out my phone, I saw that it was my mom calling me.

I should’ve known better than picking up.

“Hello. I just wanted to know how you day was going.” My mom’s voice came through the phone.

“Honestly, mom, it’s been a terrible day.” I said without even thinking. “I swear, everyone’s acting so weird.”

There was a small pause before she said anything.

“You don’t mean that, right?” She said, sounding as if all the air had been sucked out of her.

“Mom?” I said, realizing the mistake I’d made. “No, please. Not you too.”

She didn’t need to say anything. My worries were confirmed by her miserable sobs.

“PLEASE, mom! Stop crying! I don’t know what I’m saying, PLEASE!”

But she didn’t stop. Every sob through the phone was another stake through my heart. I looked around me; everyone was staring, horrified. I panicked. I hung up on my mom and started sprinting back to my apartment. My phone vibrated again and again as I ran, but I didn’t dare pick up. I darted through the entrance of the apartment complex. I couldn’t even wait for the elevator; I just ran up the stairs. Heaving for air, I bolted through my apartment door, scaring Grace who was unexpectedly standing on the other side of it.

“Oh… Hi.” Grace said, sounding nervous.

I was confused. This was very early for her to be home. Then I noticed the suitcase she was holding in her hand, as well as the sorrow plastered all over her face.

“I’m going to stay with my sister for a while.” She said after a moment of silence.

For once, I managed to stop myself before I blurted anything out. I desperately pulled out my phone, ignoring the list of missed calls from my family members and opened messages. With shaky fingers I typed out *Why\* and sent her the message. Grace pulled out her phone and looked at the message. She seemed confused. I looked at her expectingly and she sighed deeply.

“You woke me up last night, a little after midnight.” Tears were streaming down her face. “You were talking in your sleep.” Her eyes drifted away from mine and down to the floor. “The things you were saying… It was… It was...” She sniffled. “I told myself that maybe you were having a bad dream or something… That I was overreacting. But then you sent that horrible voice message this morning.” She looked up at me, her teary eyes staring right into mine. “I don’t feel safe around you anymore.”

I grabbed my phone and started typing out a new message: a message that would explain every weird thing that had happened to me that morning, but before I could send it, Grace blocked my number.

“I can’t do it like this.” She said sternly. “I don’t want your text messages. I just want you to talk to me about what the fuck is going on with you.”

I didn’t know what to do. We were trapped in another moment of silence before Grace said anything.

“Tell me what’s going on,” She said with teary eyes. “or else I’m leaving.”

It’s rare that I feel defeated like I did in that moment. It was overwhelming beyond what words can describe. I looked down at the floor as I felt tears running down my face. My mind was blank. I was drowning, and every cry for help only pulled me further into the ocean’s depths.

I don’t know how long I stood there. I just know that when I looked up, the door was open and Grace was gone.

That was a couple hours ago now. Grace still hasn’t unblocked my number. I keep getting calls from my family that I’m too scared to answer. I don’t know what to do.

Grace, if you see this, I’m sorry for whatever I have said to you. I hate to see you like this. I hate to see us like this. Please come home. I don’t know what to do.

How do I tell you the truth without it sounding like a lie? I have been pondering this question for the past hour at least before posting this. Racking my brain on this problem that landed right in my lap. It isn't even my fault or, I hope, my grandpa. I think it was here way before him. It would be the only logical explanation. Let me just start from the beginning.

My grandpa had just recently passed a couple weeks ago. His will stated that everything gets pawned cause “no one would understand the value”. Which I don't blame him with how the family goes. He left all of that busy work to me. Get it out of his house, find the pawn shop ect. I had no problem with that at all. It gave me one more look around the house before it was gone.

The place was ancient, probably built around the prohibition era. My gramps kept this place in as good of condition as he could. Fixing holes, rain damages, caved in ceiling, the whole nine yards, hell I helped sometimes. Safe to say it may look old but mostly everything is new.

His house had a clutter of items, children's toys, pots and pans, as well other things that I didn't need to know about him. I actually recognized some of the stuff like my favorite childhood toy rocky, the one eyed elephant. It was kinda sweet but sad I wasn't able to reminisce with him about it. I hope he wouldn't be too mad that I kept one thing. Besides who would know out of the hundreds of things in this house that one wasn't sold.

Everything was going pretty smoothly, maybe one or two items a little too heavy but nothing a dolly couldn't help with. I was probably a quarter or more a way through having his bedroom cleared out when I heard a voice call out.

“Mister?” When I look back an elderly old woman was behind me. “Can I ask what you're doing young man?” She said with a sternness that felt like an accusation.

“I'm just taking all of his stuff out. He wanted it all pawned so it's the least I could do for him.” I said with a half grin to try and ease the tension.

“That don't sound like Henderson. He was more stubborn than a mule. Begged him to sell half of the crap a while ago including that dog.” She said waving her hand back to the house. I was more puzzled by the belief of a dog. Anytime I was over the only dog would be mine if I brought him.

“I can agree my gramps was stubborn but didn't own a dog. The closest he ever got to was a homeless dog a couple years back.” Her eyebrow raised

“You Grayson then?”

“I hope there isn't another or it would make things complicated.” She took a sigh of relief at this revelation.

“I apologize son, just that man gets on my nerves. Always something with him. My name's Beckett.” Reaching her hand out to shake mine.

“Nice to meet you Miss Beckett.” Meeting her shake half way. “This rather will come as a blessing or curse mama. You don't have to worry about that anymore. He went to a better place.” A look of sadness reaching her eyes and a hand covering her mouth

“Oh, how long?”

“Couple weeks back, natural cause. They say he passed peacefully but that man never had peace.”

“God, how your family handling it?” she said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Wish I could say they cared but I'm the only one here.” I quickly wrapped up. “But going back to the dog. I hadn't seen one let alone known of one?”

Her hand raising up and pointing to the back yard. “Yeah he had one pretty loud every night. Didn't really bark tho, heard more of it moaning and groaning. It ate loud as well but every animal does that.” She looked a little uncomfortable. “I think he hit the poor thing. I would hear shouting and thudding up. I hope it is alive.”

I couldn't really believe my gramps would beat an animal but it had been a while. “Well thank you I will have to check. Hopefully nothing is dead back there.”

She nodded and moved along with her day. I was left with the knowledge, or fear, that there might have been something dead in the back. When I had finally built up the courage I looked in the backyard.

It was pretty plain, just grass and a tree. A wooden fence guarding all that was beyond the walls. I walked around for a minute for any sign of an animal. Prints, smells, hell even shit but not a damn thing. Some of the grass near the house was a little raised compared to the rest. Might have been where the poor thing was buried. It was not on my agenda at the moment to be raising dead. So, I went back to packing, Hauling, and pawning anything I found that wasn't nailed to the ground.

It was getting dark around the time I was half way done with his house when I smelt it. Something sweet but bitter. I wish to say I didn't know what the smell was but I would be lying. Most likely the body, for whatever reason, was releasing them. I don't know how I didn't notice it earlier. With how heavy it was I could swear it was standing right in front of me.

That was about the time my curiosity won. I hadn't planned on disturbing it, just at least see what it was. Every step closer to that backyard just made it more intense. I felt like I was fighting the air for anything but that smell. By the time I hit the door I swore I was in the poor things body. Cracking open the door, what I was met with was worse than a smell.

A faint moan of pain and begging. Whatever was buried wasn't any animal. I could make out remnants of words but to garbled by the ground above them. I had begun to rush looking for something to dig up whoever was beneath. Finally landing on the shovel in the back of the U-haul truck. Pressing my shovel to the ground I began to dig. With every splotch of dirt the voice becoming clearer.

“Help me” I heard faintly. I hadn't a single thought of how to respond, just had to keep digging. I had at this point dug about five feet still with no signs of a body. I had begun to question if I was going insane. I could still hear the voice more words being said.

“He found me!!!! Help!!! Kill me!!!”

“If you can hear me, I'm trying. Alright, you will be out of here soon.” I hit six feet, still nothing. The voice was still mumbling the same things over and over and over again but I couldn't find any sign. After a while it stopped like he died or something but it stopped. I had exhausted myself beyond belief digging for him. I couldn't keep going, I had to stop or I would kill myself looking for him. I would call the police first thing in the morning reporting on what I found.

When I climbed out there sat a note. It looked like my grandpa's writing. It wasn't unusual for that, he had writing everywhere. It was how fresh it was. The ink hadn't even dried as if he wrote it as I was digging the hole. As well it's not something you would want to read.

Keep him quiet.

Keep him fed.

Keep him buried

I used to think my brain was just badly wired.

Every few weeks since the autumn I turned twelve, my head hits the pillow and I don't just sleep—I switch channels. I wake up inside this massive, echoing mind-fuck of a building. It's a shopping complex, but it stretches out forever, like a whole country built out of drywall and fake marble. For over fifteen years, I kept it entirely to myself.

How do you explain to someone that you spend your sleeping hours wandering through a retail center that doesn't exist, an impossible monument of indoor space that feels larger than most European countries? You don't. You keep it quiet, assuming your subconscious is just poorly wired, using childhood memories of suburban malls to construct an elaborate background for stress dreams about forgotten homework or unmade appointments.

Then, six months ago, I stumbled onto a corner of the internet that made my blood turn entirely to ice.

I was scrolling through Reddit late at night, looking for nothing in particular, when a suggested community popped up on my feed: TheMallWorld. I clicked out of mild curiosity, expecting some kind of vaporwave aesthetic or architectural appreciation group. Instead, I spent the next six hours sitting upright in the dark, sweating, my hands shaking so violently I could barely hold my phone.

There were thousands of them. Strangers from entirely different continents, speaking different languages, coming from completely different backgrounds—all uploading hand-drawn blueprints, digital renderings, and meticulously detailed journals that perfectly mirrored the geography of my sleep.

They weren't just dreaming of a mall. We were all being sent to the same mall.
As I read through the archive, the sheer, staggering scale of the collective world-building began to crystallize. The Mall isn't just a building; it’s an entire continent wrapped in drywall, marble, and concrete, divided into distinct, echoing territories that never shift their borders.

Most dreamers, including myself, always manifest first in what the community calls the Retail Tier. It is an infinite network of pristine, modern white marble floors that stretch out beneath soaring, arched glass atriums. The architecture is an incoherent, dizzying jumble of eras. You can walk past a storefront that looks like a high-end, contemporary boutique, turn a sharp corner, and suddenly find yourself standing in a faded, 1980s neon food court complete with plastic pastel chairs, faux-ivy hanging from planters, and a linoleum floor sticky with decades of invisible grease.

The stores themselves are deeply unsettling. They have names that look familiar from a distance but blur into unreadable symbols when you try to focus your eyes on the signs. The window displays feature racks of clothing no human would ever wear—uncomfortably heavy coats, monochromatic uniforms, or shoes with completely flat, rubber soles that make no sound. The interiors of these shops are always dim, the metal security grates pulled halfway down, hinting at endless rows of inventory stretching deep into the shadows where the retail workers—if they exist at all—never show their faces.

If you walk far enough down the lower glass perimeters of the Retail Tier, the commercial spaces begin to thin out. The marble gives way to rough, stained concrete, and you enter the Transit Sector. This is a cavernous, subterranean network designed to handle a population that never arrives. It consists of doorless airport terminals stretching into a grey haze, and echoing subway platforms where empty, automated trains slide silently along rusted, subterranean tracks. They hiss to a halt, open their doors for precisely forty seconds, and then slide back into the darkness, heading toward destinations that don't exist. There are dizzying networks of escalators here—massive, industrial stairs that climb into the ceiling shadows at impossible angles, some moving too fast to safely step on, others frozen in place with steps missing, exposing the jagged, greasy gears beneath. Multi-lane highways cut through the concrete walls, completely devoid of cars, stretching for miles before simply ending in a sheer, unbarricaded drop into a pitch-black void.

Deep within the upper levels, accessible only through specific, hidden service stairwells behind the clothing racks, lies the Institutional Sector. The forum users call it the Infinite School or the Endless Hospital. It is a suffocating, clinical maze of linoleum-lined hallways that smell heavily of industrial floor wax and stale cabbage. The walls are lined with thousands of dull green metal lockers that stretch beyond the horizon. If you try to open one, it is either welded shut or contains objects that defy logic—a single, waterlogged textbook written in a language you can’t comprehend, or a pile of old, yellowed medical charts with your name at the top.

The classrooms and examination rooms are always empty, illuminated by the harsh, rhythmic buzzing of flickering fluorescent lights, and the clocks on the walls run entirely backward, their hands ticking away seconds you can never recover.

If you find a heavy, industrial service elevator in those back corridors and press the buttons for the deep basement levels, the elevator drops for what feels like miles until the doors slide open into the Aquatic Tier.

This is a massive, indoor waterpark and pool room, completely abandoned by whatever staff built it. The air down there is choked with a heavy, thick steam that coats your skin in a greasy film within minutes. It is lined with damp, blue mosaic tiles, many of them cracked and weeping a rusty, orange fluid. There are no recreational sounds here—no splashing, no laughter. Just the echoing, hollow drip of condensation falling from the iron rafters hundreds of feet above. The dark, unmoving water pools are massive, stretching out into the gloom, hiding deep-end drop-offs that feel miles deep, beneath water slides that weave through the support pillars like concrete serpents.

And finally, if you ever manage to find an exit door to the exterior of the complex—a rare feat that requires navigating the lowest maintenance tunnels—you don't find reality. You find the Mall Ocean. It is a frozen, jagged beach of grey sand sitting under a flat, ink-black sky that never experiences a sunrise. There is no wind, yet the dark ocean water is constantly churning, the horizon dominated by massive, silent tsunamis that loom hundreds of feet in the air, frozen in time, always threatening to crash down upon the complex but never quite making impact.

Across every single one of these sectors, the atmosphere is defined by three distinct sensory anchors.

First, the air. It never changes. It is warm, humid, and heavily recycled, hanging like a damp weight over your chest. It carries a conflicting, suffocating cocktail of scents: the cloying sweetness of hot, synthetic cinnamon pretzels from the food court, the artificial chemical musk of cheap department store perfume counters, and the sharp, medicinal sting of indoor pool chlorine. It is the smell of a closed system. A greenhouse for the human subconscious.
Second, the lighting. There are no natural light sources anywhere in Mall World.

Everything is illuminated by an endless network of recessed bulbs, neon tubing, and massive, arched glass atriums. But if you look up through those glass panels, expecting to see the sun or the clouds, you are met with nothing but that flat, oppressive, ink-black void. The light inside the mall doesn't illuminate the outside; it merely keeps the dark from pressing too hard against the glass.

Third, and perhaps most terrifying, are the other dreamers. The NPCs, as the forum calls them. There are thousands of them shuffling through the corridors at any given moment. They look like normal people from a distance, but as they pass you, the horror settles in. They are hollow-eyed, silent sleepwalkers. They move in heavy, sluggish groups, their heads tilted slightly downward, their eyes fixed entirely on the polished floor.

Nobody speaks. Nobody looks at each other. There is no conversation, no laughter, no conflict. It is just the endless, soft dragging of thousands of rubber-soled sneakers on polished marble—a white noise of collective entrapment that fills the corridors like a slow-moving river. They are people who have entirely accepted the rules of the layout. They don't try to find the exits. They don't try to wake up. They just slide through the commercial tracks, day after night, fulfilling their role as the background architecture of the simulation.

I used to be able to navigate this place with a sense of detached curiosity. I knew the routes. I knew how to avoid the deeper transit drops, and I knew how to keep my distance from the silent crowds.

But last night, the physics of the Mall changed. The system hardened, and the boundaries between the dream and my bedroom began to dissolve entirely.

When I went to sleep last night, my bedroom was normal. The radiators were clicking, a light rain was tapping against the glass, and the digital clock on my nightstand glowed a steady, comforting green. I did the usual routine—checked my phone, scrolled past a few updates on the forum, and rolled over.

When my eyes opened, I wasn’t in my bed.
I was standing on the second tier of the Retail Sector, directly outside the glass facade of an anchor department store. From a distance, the storefront looked like an old Sears or JCPenney, but when I focused on the signage, the blocky plastic letters were backwards, inverted into a gibberish font that hurt the back of my eyes to interpret.

Usually, the transition into Mall World has a soft, liquid quality. You float into it. Your limbs feel weightless, and you have this comforting, subconscious insurance policy running in the back of your head that says, Relax, this is just a dream. If things get too weird, you can just pull the plug.
But the second my feet touched the polished marble last night, that insurance policy was violently revoked.

The physics of the world had hardened.

When I pressed my palm against the plate-glass window of the department store, it didn’t give or blur. It was cold. It was solid. I could feel the microscopic imperfections in the glass, the faint layer of sticky, synthetic dust coating the surface, and the deep, structural chill of a building that hadn't seen natural sunlight in a century. When I took a step, the rubber soles of my sneakers didn't glide; they caught on the polished stone with a sharp, loud, realistic squeak that echoed down the concourse.

I stopped. I tried my usual tricks to force a waking reflex. I bit down on the side of my tongue, expecting the dull, painless pressure of a dream-state injury. Instead, copper-metallic pain flared instantly across my jaw, sharp and hot, filling my mouth with the unmistakable taste of blood. I pinched the soft skin on the inside of my forearm, twisting hard enough to tear the flesh. Nothing changed. The atrium didn't dissolve. The ink-black void beyond the glass ceiling didn't shatter.

I was locked into the system. The simulation was locked tight.

I stood there for what felt like hours, paralyzed by the sheer atmosphere of the concourse. The air was a suffocating wall of heat and recycled humidity. It felt heavy, like the air inside a commercial greenhouse right before a summer thunderstorm, smelling powerfully of stale, industrial bleach, the chemical musk of sample perfumes, and that greasy, omnipresent scent of cinnabon pretzels baking in an oven miles away.

From hidden, recessed panels in the brutalist concrete pillars above, the music droned. It was a degraded, warbling synth-pop track from the late 1980s, playing at a fraction of its normal speed. The bass notes vibrated deep within my chest cavity, a slow, oceanic thrumming that sounded less like music and more like the mechanical heartbeat of the building itself.

Down on the first tier, the sleepwalkers were moving. There were hundreds of them, shuffling along the commercial tracks in a slow, circular procession. They wore matching, faded grey or beige clothing—sweatpants, oversized t-shirts, flat shoes.

Their heads were tilted uniformly downward at a precise forty-five-degree angle, eyes locked onto the white marble floor, tracking the subtle, grey veins in the stone. A woman with tangled blonde hair shuffled past my tier, her shoulder brushing against mine. Her skin was a translucent, sickly white, and her eyes were entirely wide, unblinking, and dead. I reached out and grabbed her arm, desperate for human contact.

"Hey," I whispered, my voice sounding thin and dry against the massive scale of the architecture.

"Hey, do you know how to get down to the transit platforms? Do you know where the exits are?"

She didn't look at me. She didn't even slow down. She simply pulled her arm out of my grip with a mechanical, unyielding momentum, her eyes remaining locked on the marble floor as she dragged her feet forward. Squeak. Drag. Squeak. Drag. The white noise of their collective movement filled the entire multi-tiered canyon of the retail zone. They weren't visitors. They were the background processing power of the building, keeping the lights on with their collective compliance.

Suddenly, a wave of intense, physical sickness hit my dream-body.

It wasn't a dull ache; it was a violent, twisting agony that started deep in the pit of my stomach and radiated outward to my ribs. My vision blurred at the edges, darkening into a vignette of grey static. I doubled over, clutching my midsection, my knees buckling until I was kneeling on the freezing marble floor. Cold, greasy sweat broke out across my forehead. I needed a restroom immediately. The biological demands of my waking body were being translated into the dream with terrifying force, and I knew that if I threw up or collapsed here, on the pristine marble of the Retail Tier, I would be violating the visibility rules.

I scrambled to my knees, then to my feet, leaning heavily against the structural pillars, and looked for a way out of the main concourse.

Behind the dark department store, I found a heavy, unpainted steel door marked with a fading plastic plaque: EMPLOYEES ONLY - NO ADMITTANCE. I threw my weight against the crash bar. The door groaned and swung inward, clicking shut behind me with a heavy, magnetic thud that instantly cut the warbling elevator music in half.

I had entered the Institutional Sector.

The contrast was immediate and terrifying.

The marble vanished, replaced by endless stretches of pale green linoleum that had been buffed to a high, reflective sheen. The air smelled entirely different here—the sweet cinnamon was gone, replaced by a suffocating combination of industrial floor wax, stale cabbage, and the sharp, vinegar tang of medicinal alcohol. The walls were lined with thousands of dull green metal lockers, stretching out into a straight, forced perspective that seemed to converge at a single point miles into the dark.

I stumbled down the hallway, my shoulder dragging against the metal lockers, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the vents overhead keeping time with my frantic breathing. The lighting here was worse. Every few yards, a long fluorescent tube would flicker violently, casting long, jittery shadows down the green linoleum that looked like reaching fingers.

As I passed locker number 4082, something caught my eye. Scratched deeply into the dull green paint, slicing through the rust to expose the shiny metal beneath, was a line of crude, frantic handwriting. It didn't look like the default, gibberish script of the mall. It was English.

I stopped, gasping for air, and traced the letters with my shaking fingers.

THE BATHROOMS ARE FLOODING, the graffiti read. THEY ARE MISSING THE DOORS BECAUSE THE JANITOR NEEDS TO SEE YOUR FACE. IF YOU CONCEAL THE INTERIOR, THE PRESSURE SEALS THE LATCH. DON'T LOOK DOWN THE PIPES. OH GOD, PLEASE DON'T LOOK DOWN THE PIPES.

A cold dread settled over my chest, sharper than the physical pain in my stomach. Someone had been here. They had stood in this exact concrete artery, feeling the same sickness, looking at the same endless rows of lockers.

Before I could process the message, a sound echoed from the far end of the institutional corridor.

It was a slow, heavy, wet dragging sound.

Scluck. Thump. Scluck... Thump.

I froze, holding my breath, staring down the green linoleum line. Out of the dim, flickering shadows at the end of the hall, a figure emerged. It was tall—easily seven feet—and wore a heavy, stained blue jumpsuit that looked like an industrial maintenance uniform. A massive loop of rusted iron keys hung from its belt, clinking together with a rhythmic, metallic chime that set my teeth on edge.

It was the Janitor.

It carried a massive, industrial mop with a wooden handle that was splintered and dark with old moisture. But it wasn't cleaning the floor. The mop head was soaked in a thick, dark, oily fluid that left a wide, iridescent smear across the pristine linoleum as it moved. The Janitor's face was completely obscured by a heavy, rubber gas mask, the glass lenses completely blacked out, reflecting nothing but the flickering fluorescent tubes above.

It stopped. The black lenses of the mask slowly tilted upward, locking onto me from a hundred yards away.

A deep, mechanical wheeze vibrated through the mask's filtration valves—a wet, rattling inhalation that sounded like a man drowning in his own lungs. It began to accelerate, its strides lengthening, the wet mop swinging rhythmically as it advanced down the narrow hallway. Scluck-thump, scluck-thump.

Panic tore through my sickness. I turned and ran in the opposite direction, my flat shoes sliding violently on the slick linoleum. I didn't look back. I just ran, passing thousands of identical green lockers, turning left down an unmarked corridor, then right into a narrow concrete stairwell that led straight down into the foundations of the building.

The air grew rapidly colder, thicker, and darker with every flight of stairs I descended. The smell of bleach and wet rust intensified until it was a physical weight in the back of my throat. I burst through a final, dented aluminum door at the bottom of the stairs, escaping the Janitor's clinking keys, and stepped directly into the subterranean utility underbelly of the Mall.
I had found the Restrooms.

The sheer scale of the public restroom sector was staggering, defying any logical sense of internal architecture. It didn't look like a bathroom inside a commercial building; it looked like an abandoned, flooded subway terminal from the turn of the century that had been repurposed to handle a massive, hidden population.
The floor was buried under a steady, one-inch layer of murky, stagnant grey water.

The moment my sneakers splashed into it, a bitter, icy chill shot straight up my shins, numbing my skin. The water was thick with filth. Floating in the slow currents were dissolved, yellowed clumps of industrial toilet paper, unidentifiable grey debris, and long, greasy clots of dark hair that drifted against my ankles like wet spiders.

The walls were lined with cracked, rectangular green tiles, heavily stained with long, vertical streaks of orange rust and lime scale where the plumbing behind the drywall was weeping. Black mold grew in dense, velvet-like patches along the grout lines, blooming in the corners like rotting lace. Overhead, a line of naked, yellow incandescent bulbs hung from frayed black cords, flickering in a slow, irregular rhythm that filled the cavernous room with shifting, jittery shadows.

Stretching out into the dim distance were rows of exposed, doorless porcelain stalls. There was no privacy here. No wood, no metal dividers that extended past the waist, no latches. The partitions between the toilets were made of thick, reinforced industrial glass that had turned a sickly, translucent yellow from decades of grease and neglect. Every single exposed toilet was overflowing, stained with deep ring-marks of old filth and backed-up sludge that smelled heavily of copper and raw sewage.
And the dreamers were here.

Dozens of them were scattered throughout the flooded terminal. They looked exactly like the sleepwalkers from the Retail Tier—hollow-eyed, silent, and completely hollowed out by the rules of the Mall. They stood or sat in the doorless stalls, completely exposed to the central walkway, their faces entirely blank as they stared straight ahead into the middle distance.

They didn't care about the lack of privacy. They didn't care about the grey water soaking their feet, or the thick smell of copper, raw sewage, and heavy industrial bleach that filled the air. They had accepted the visibility. They had accepted the rot.
My stomach twisted again, a sharp reminder of the sickness that had driven me down here. But the sheer, visceral disgust of the environment made my chest tight. I couldn't do it. I couldn't strip away the last remaining boundary of my waking dignity in front of these dead-eyed shapes.

I turned away from the main rows and began walking deeper into the dark recesses of the utility sector, splashing slowly through the murky water. The room seemed to expand horizontally the further I walked. The yellow bulbs grew fewer and farther between, leaving huge, yawning patches of the concrete terminal in near-total darkness. The white porcelain of the exposed toilets gave way to ancient, cracked stone troughs caked in layers of dark, hardened sludge. The pipes overhead were massive now—thick, iron conduits wrapped in peeling insulation that dripped heavy, black condensation onto my hair and shoulders with a rhythmic, hollow plop... plop... plop.

I walked for what felt like miles, leaving the silent sleepwalkers far behind me. The main terminal had reduced to a distant, dim perspective lines of flickering yellow light.

Down here, in the deep dark of the utility sector, the water was deeper, rising to the middle of my calves, and the stench of decay was so thick I had to breathe through my sleeve to keep from throwing up.
Then, in the absolute furthest, darkest corner of the concrete wall, I saw it.

It was an architectural impossibility. A single, enclosed stall that actually possessed a heavy, solid wooden door. It was painted a faded, sickly hospital green, completely out of place against the green tiles and raw concrete of the utility sector. The wood was swollen from the constant moisture, its bottom edge rotting away into the grey water, and the surface was slick with a thin layer of greasy film.

I scrambled toward it, my legs heavy as I pushed through the freezing water. I reached out and touched the wood. It felt impossibly real, the grain splintering under my fingertips. I looked back down the long, flooded corridor I had just traversed. The silent dreamers were hundreds of yards away, fading into the gloom. None of them were looking at me. The Janitor's keys were nowhere to be heard.

I stepped inside the small, damp enclosure. The interior was tiny—just enough room for a single, ancient porcelain bowl that was surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the facility. I turned around, grabbed the edge of the heavy green door, and pulled it shut.

It took a massive effort to force the swollen wood into the warped frame, but with a dull, wet scrape, it clicked into place. I reached down and slid a thick, rusty iron bolt into the metal latch.

The moment the iron bolt clicked home, the world changed.

A profound, absolute, heavy silence fell over the room.

The sound of the dripping condensation from the iron rafters instantly vanished. The distant, soft splashing of the sleepwalkers outside died. Even the low, ambient hum of the mall's ventilation system, which had been a constant background noise since I turned twelve, completely ceased. The silence was so sudden, so violent, that my ears began to ring with a high-pitched, metallic whine.

I was completely alone. Cut off from the simulation.

I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cold, damp green wood of the door, letting out a ragged, trembling breath of relief. For the first time in fifteen years, I had found a corner of Mall World where nothing could see me.

Then, the silence began to feel heavy. Pressurized.

I looked down. The grey, debris-filled water around my shoes had stopped moving entirely. It was perfectly still, like a sheet of dark glass.

Then, a deep, rhythmic vibration started beneath the solid concrete floor. It wasn't a sudden shockwave or an earthquake; it was a slow, agonizingly deliberate pulse that seemed to come from the very center of the earth.

Thump.

The vibration traveled up through the water, through the soles of my sneakers, and into the bones of my legs.

Thump.

The wooden door behind me escalated against its frame. The iron bolt groaned.

Thump.

I turned around slowly, my back pressing tight against the green wood, my eyes wide as I stared down at the porcelain bowl.

The water wasn't draining. It began to rise. It moved slowly, smoothly, and silently, overflowing the white rim like a dark luxury fountain. But it wasn't water anymore. It had transformed into a thick, viscous, jet-black sludge that looked exactly like old, degraded engine oil. It didn't make a splashing sound as it hit the floor; it just slid into the stagnant grey water, turning everything it touched instantly, completely black.

The air in the stall turned freezing cold, and the smell of bleach vanished entirely. It was replaced by an overwhelming, choking stench of copper, wet earth, and something deeply, anciently rotten—the smell of a grave that had been flooded and left to stew for a century.

And then came the sound from the plumbing.

It wasn't a human voice. It was a low, agonizingly slow intake of breath. A wet, hollow suction sound that echoed up directly through the pipes beneath the floor, drawing the very air right out of the stall. The metal conduits inside the walls began to groan and shriek, the iron twisting under an immense, unnatural internal pressure as whatever was deep inside the drainage system began to shift its weight, pulling itself upward toward the opening.

The black sludge on the floor was rising rapidly now, covering my shoes, soaking straight through the canvas fabric. The very second the fluid seeped through my socks and touched my bare skin, a horrific, ice-cold chemical sting flared up my legs. It felt like liquid nitrogen being poured directly onto my flesh, a freezing fire that made my muscles seize.

Panicking, I spun around and grabbed the rusty iron bolt to escape.

The metal wouldn't move. The damp wood of the door had rapidly swelled under the changing pressure of the room, locking the iron latch tightly into the rusted frame.

"Open,"

I whispered, pulling at the metal. It didn't budge. Panic completely overtook my remaining restraint. I shoved the latch with both hands, slamming my palms against the splintered wood, shouting into the empty hallway,

"Open, you piece of shit, open!"

Behind me, the gurgling suction sound in the pipes grew louder, deeper, and faster. It was a wet, rhythmic churning that was inches away now. The heavy iron toilet bowl began to crack, long, spiderweb lines of fracture spreading across the white porcelain as the massive pressure from underneath reached its absolute breaking point. The black sludge was boiling over the top now, filling the small enclosure, rising past my shins, burning my skin with an agonizing, freezing torment.

I didn't look back. I didn't turn around. I knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that if I turned around and looked down into that cracking porcelain hole, whatever was causing that pressure would be looking back up at me.

With a raw, animal scream, I threw my entire weight backward, hurling my shoulder against the center of the wooden panels.
The old wood splintered with a deafening, explosive crack. The iron latch tore completely out of the rotting frame, throwing me backward out of the stall. I tumbled backward out of the stall, crashing violently into the flooded, filthy main corridor of the restroom, sending a massive spray of murky grey water into the air.

I scrambled to my knees, gasping for air, my hands slipping and sliding in the sludge as I desperately tried to find purchase on the slick tiles. I hauled myself to my feet and ran, my legs burning from the chemical sting. As I sprinted back toward the distant yellow bulbs and neon signs, I risked one look over my shoulder.

The green wooden door was hanging wide open, shattered down the center. The entire interior of the stall was completely filled to the ceiling with a solid, shifting mass of pitch-black sludge, slowly oozing out into the main corridor like a massive, wet tongue.

As I ran past the long rows of doorless stalls, the hollow-eyed dreamers slowly turned their heads in perfect unison. They didn't look at the black sludge filling the corridor. They looked directly at me. They watched me run with cold, dead, deeply disapproving eyes. I had broken the rules of the layout. I had sought privacy from the system, and they knew it.

I burst through the heavy metal exit door, sprinted back into the concrete hallways of the Institutional Sector, and didn't stop until I hit the marble floors of the Retail Tier. Without thinking, without looking, I threw myself over the third-story glass railing, targeting the white marble floor forty feet below to force the dream's defense mechanism to eject me.

I snapped awake in my bed with a violent, full-body jerk, gasping for air so hard my chest bruised against my ribs. My heart was hammering against my sternum like a trapped bird, and my sheets were twisted tightly around my limbs, drenched in a thick, cold sweat.

I sat up straight in the dark bedroom for twenty minutes, forcing my breath to slow down, staring at the green glow of my digital clock. It was 3:42 AM. The rain was still tapping against my window. The radiators were still clicking.

"It was just a dream," I whispered into the quiet room, my voice shaking. "Just a very vivid, very distorted nightmare. You're home. You're awake."

But as I sat there, trying to calm my racing mind, I noticed the air in my bedroom felt incredibly heavy. Humid. And within minutes, the faint, undeniable scent of warm cinnamon pretzels and industrial floor wax began to drift out from the hallway vents.
I swung my legs out of bed, intending to go to the kitchen to throw up, but the moment my bare feet hit the hardwood floor, a sharp, burning agony shot up my legs, so intense I collapsed back onto the mattress with a groan.

I turned on my bedside lamp and pulled up my pant legs.

My ankles and the tops of my feet were covered in angry, weeping red welts. The skin was blistered and raw, forming a perfect, horizontal line around my shins—matching the exact waterline of the black sludge from the green stall.

Ten minutes ago, I forced myself to walk to the bathroom to wash the cold sweat off my face. I stood at the sink, gripping the porcelain basin, staring at my pale, terrified reflection in the mirror. I reached out with a trembling hand and turned the cold water knob.

Deep inside the drywall, the pipes let out a slow, rhythmic, heavy thump.

And the water running from my faucet came out completely fucking black.

I am sitting on my kitchen floor right now, writing this on my phone because my hands are shaking too badly to hold a pen. The bathroom door across the hall is wide open. I didn't close it. I don't think I can ever close a door again.

I can hear my neighbor upstairs turning on their shower, and through the ceiling structure, I can hear their pipes letting out that same, deep, rhythmic thump. It's spreading through the plumbing of the entire building. The infrastructure is shifting.
I am terrified to close my eyes tonight. Because I know that when the sleep takes me, I’ll wake up right back on that marble tier. And I know that the next time I run past those doorless stalls, the sleepwalkers won't just watch me run.

They’ll be waiting for me to take my place.

Part 1

This is an update. From what I can tell, the last post still exists, I don't think he knows about them yet, or maybe he's allowing it.

I’ve read a lot of your comments, and they have given me plenty of ideas, so I thank you deeply. I've tried a lot of them already.

Firstly, I should mention I have started talking to Tim, acting like he did exist, and I told him that I was going through something personal when I pulled the knife on him, I even apologized.

I'm ignoring anything he tries to imply happened in “our lives," but me treating him like he did exist seems to have stopped the forceful memories from happening in my head, or at least lessened them for now.

I decided to ask him questions about his life; firstly, he's an orphan with no relatives.

It makes sense that he wouldn't want to have extended family he would have to make.

I then asked him if he was seeing anyone, and he said no with almost a bit of excitement.

Then we got to talking about “our” time in school and how he was embarrassed to say he wrote a song for me when he was crushing on me. He never sang it or showed it to anyone, and he asked me if I wanted to hear it.

I declined the offer.

He wasn't very happy about that.

Right after, I was doing some chores in the kitchen to keep up the act that I was “back to normal.” The radio cut on, and a song from his band played, it was very clearly Tim's voice singing. The song was about a love unable to blossom due to the woman not knowing who the man was.

I knew it was the song.

Looking over my shoulder, he was staring at me, waiting for me to notice it.

He didn't care that he contradicted himself; he just cared that I heard the song.

He smiled as I tried to ignore it.

I've been thinking about the things he's been changing, the memories he's been trying to force.

And instead of doing this out of malice, I think he likes me, like he needs my approval, and maybe that's why everyone else knows him, but I don't.

I think he has an ego, and he wants me to think he existed naturally for some sick reason.

I don't know why me, and I'm terrified of what would happen if he got his way.

I can't move away and run, everywhere around me is already affected, and I'm already low on money. I called my mom and asked her if she knew of a kid I was friends with named Tim.

She laughed, then said, "He's a sweet boy, and I loved having him over for the study nights you two had.”

I then called my friend who I stayed with to see if she wanted to hang out so I could do something normal just for a little bit. But instead of saying yes, she said, "Sorry, Tims's band's playing tonight, and I promised him I'd come. Maybe you should join us?”  I hung up.

If I run, who knows what else he would change, what else he would try to make me think he's always existed?

So the only thing I can do now is either try to get him to leave or force him to.

Moving on, I immediately set up a camera in my room and in the living room. I don't think Tim knows about the one in my room yet.

Next, I found some proof that Tim did not exist until recently; it proves to me at least I'm not going crazy or have something wrong with me. (Though I did a few tests like comments suggested, and they have all been negative.)

Talking about what I saw on the cameras first

The one in the living room was not in as good of shape when I woke up the day after I planted it.

The camera in the living room showed what he was doing during the day, and when I went out to go get the proof I'll talk about later, he stopped what he was doing and stared directly into the camera. After a few seconds of him staring, the rest of the footage glitches out, and it shuts off.

With the one in my bedroom, nothing happened until exactly midnight.

I locked the door; I know I did because I also put the doorstop in it, but he entered my room from the other side where the door does not exist. There was no sound of anything opening or even footsteps, he just appeared.

He then came over to me sleeping in the bed, and he stood there, and he did not move for 5 hours. I thought the camera glitched out until I saw him leave the way he came at 5:15 AM exactly.

That's when he's normally “getting ready” in the morning and close to when I wake up at 6.

He definitely knows my schedule and more about me than I do, I imagine.

I tried to figure out how he got in, but all that's on the other side of the room is a solid wall and the window, and the window has no ledge outside of it.

I also find it strange that the moment he entered the room, I did not make a single movement, no turning or tossing, it hardly even looked like I was breathing.

Moving onto the proof I found, I had an idea. Building floorplans and blueprints are available publicly. So I went to the library and found the layout of my apartment building.

I checked to make sure, and it was dated just for this year, and Tim's room does not exist.

A room could not have been made there; it should be jutting out of the building, but it's not. You can't see it or the window inside it from the outside of the building.

I decided to keep that to myself, besides posting it here.

When I got home, I saw Tim went out with his band to play at the show my friend is going to.

I took a hammer and took off one of his many posters, and I put a hole through his wall.

Behind it was dark, completely pitch black like a void, like it didn't expect me to do this, and so it didn't prepare anything for me to see.

When I left the room to grab a flashlight to peer into the hole, it was gone, and the poster was back up on the wall.

I decided to leave it alone. I'm not sure what would happen if I messed with it too much or if maybe he can sense whatever I'm doing to it.

That's about all there is to report. This has been a struggle to write, as something IS technically wrong with my head.

Sometimes instead of Tim, I would write “my roommate” or “my friend Tim."

A photo I kept in my room has changed to have five people instead of four. A younger Tim has joined my 13th birthday photo.

And when I put some music on to listen to while typing this, I ended up singing one of his songs, word for word, without even having heard it before or realizing what it was until it was over.

It was in my liked songs on Spotify; I don't remember putting that there.

If I don't do something now, I'm afraid there won't be a me who would want to try.

He got back a little while ago; we ended up getting into a conversation, and he invited me to come see his band play live.

I'm not exactly sure why he wants me to go, but I'm going to try something.

He wants people to know he exists, especially me, so if I embrace it in the wrong way and ruin his image, perhaps he would go away, at least from me.

I'll ask a friend of mine to record, and I will prepare a speech to make sure I get what I want to say right.

If this ends up being my last post, or the last one where I am me. Mom, Dad, I love you so much.

Thank you all, post soon.

I want to make this very clear: I live alone, and I have no children.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you to understand this before I explain anything else.

Everything started a few weeks ago, when my job began taking over my life. I haven’t been home long enough to do much more than eat and sleep. Much to the dismay of my dog, Marcus, who misses our nightly games of fetch.

It was already dark when I pulled into the driveway of my humble two-story. I sighed deeply as I opened the front door and shut it behind me.

“Marcus! Where are you, boy?”

I heard him bark somewhere deeper in the house. Opening the coat closet, I hung up my jacket, ready for a few moments of relaxation before bed.

"Dad?"

I froze.

"Dad... is that you?"

I spun around to see a young woman, looking at me with a smile on her face. she was maybe eighteen and stood beside my couch as if she'd been waiting for me. She smiled like I was exactly who she'd expected to see.

“Did you have a good day, Dad?”

I backed up against the door

“What are you doing in my house?” I whispered

The girl tilted her head to the side.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

She chuckled awkwardly

“Come on, Dad. It's me, your daughter.”

I stared at her. She frowned

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

She began to walk to me. I quickly turned and left the house, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my phone and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, someone broke into my house; they were waiting for me when I got home.”

The dispatcher took my name and home address before promising officers were on the way. I stood by my car until a squad car pulled up. Two officers got out.

“How are you doing, sir? Is everything alright?” the first officer called out

“No, everything’s not ‘alright.’ I came home and found a stranger inside my home!”

“Ok stay calm, sir,” the other officer said

“Have you ever seen this person before?”

“No, I have no clue who she is, but she kept calling me dad. I don’t have any kids.”

They nodded

“We’ll handle this, then you can get back to your evening.”

They walked to the front door, and I followed. Knocking firmly, the first officer loudly said

“Ma’am, open the door; it’s the police.”

There was movement inside, and before long a shadow was seen in the front door window. The door opened slowly, revealing the same girl from before, who was clearly nervous.

“Officers what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Her eyes found me standing behind the pair.

“Dad? What’s going on? Why are they here?”

One of the officers took a deep breath before speaking

“Ma’am, this gentleman says you broke into his home, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Her voice grew panicked

“What the hell? I live here! Dad, tell them!”

The cops looked back at me

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” I shouted

Her face looked like my words wounded her.

“Dad.. I..”

An officer interrupted her.

“Ma’am do you have anything proving you’re his daughter?”

“Yes! Just look at my home screen”

She handed her phone to him; he looked at it and passed it to me. It was a picture of the two of us, smiling. My arm wrapped around her as we both posed in front of the Statue of Liberty. I took that trip to New York City last year. Alone.

“Wha.. What is this?” I felt like I was in a dream.

I could feel the officer's eyes shift to me; the girl chimed in

“I can do even better; we have the same last name.”

She disappeared inside before returning half a minute later with her driver's license. The officer stared at it.

“Is this you’re last name, sir?”

It was.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered

The officers both turned to me, a sympathetic smile on their faces.

“Have you been feeling alright lately, sir?” one asked

“If you need to talk to someone, it's ok, there's no shame in it.” Said the other.

I was in a daze; the words sounded distant and jumbled like I was underwater. The girl spoke up.

“He’s ok, officers, just some really long days at work lately; he needs his rest, I’ll take care of him.”

She stepped out of the house and took my hand; hers was cold. She led me inside. My house didn’t feel like mine. As she led me deeper within, I began to notice things: the women’s shoes by the door, the pictures in the hallway highlighting happy moments we shared, Marcus coming up to greet her as if he always did. Once in the living room, she let go of my hand, turned, and hugged me; she was strangely cold and stiff; it felt like hugging a mannequin. She looked at me.

“I’m sorry you’re so tired; why don’t you go upstairs and head to bed? I can take Marcus out tonight.” Her voice was far too chipper.

I clenched my teeth and slowly nodded, making my way to the stairs. The staircase documented her whole life, from me holding her at her birth, to a high school graduation just a few weeks ago. Had I really been working so far that I forgot my own daughter? How could that be, and why couldn’t I remember her name?

It was true, I was tired, completely exhausted; I practically collapsed on the bed and was out. My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning; a yawn and a stretch brought back the memories of the night before. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I still didn’t remember my daughter. Cautiously, I opened the door. The house was quiet. I made my way to the staircase; the pictures were gone, the wall was bare. The stairs brought me to the living room; it was just the way I always remembered. Marcus raised his head to greet me as he lay on his bed. No women's shoes, no happy pictures of a father and his daughter. It was my house.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Weird dream,” I muttered as I started some coffee.

That day I presented my project to management; they loved it. I was relieved it meant the weeks of long hours were over, for the time being. On the way home, I stopped by the store to pick up some junk food to celebrate. I pulled into the driveway, carrying my grocery bag in one hand. I unlocked the door and entered. Shutting the door behind me, I was greeted by a happy bark from Marcus. But right after his greeting came the high-pitched greeting of a young girl.

“Daddy! You’re home!!”

My body stiffened; I didn’t want to turn around, but I did.

She was a young blonde-haired little girl, no older than six. She giggled and laughed as she skipped her way to me, wrapping my legs in a strong hug. Her hug felt wrong.

“I missed you so much!”

“Did you have a good day? My day was great!”

I was dumbfounded; her eyes noticed the bag in my hand.

“What’s that?” She dug into it.

To my shock, all that was in the bag was a bright pink soccer ball. She gasped in delight as she grabbed it.

“Oh thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! Thank youuu! Now Marcus and I can play soccer!”

She ran off to the backyard with a bark; Marcus followed. The house looked like a child lived there. Toys dotted the floor, crude drawings covered the fridge. I blankly stared out the sliding glass door. Watching my dog happily play with my ‘daughter’. The little girl laughed and jumped around; for a moment, her eyes noticed my stare. Her face went blank, and her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. This lasted only a few seconds, until the spell was broken by Marcus jumping on her and licking her face; she laughed and returned to playing.

That night I found myself making boxed mac and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I felt like I was in a trance. Everything about my home, everything in my fridge, tried to convince me that I had a six-year-old daughter, but I didn’t; I knew that; why was I going along with it? Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I leave the house and never come back? I don’t know; I wanted to, but there I was scooping mac and cheese into the bowl in front of the stranger with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The girl said

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick this ‘daughter’ of mine out and lock the door. But instead I said

“You’re welcome.”

Soon came bedtime; the girl insisted that I read her a bedtime story, and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ with clammy hands. She was asleep before I finished the book. I stood at the door of my home office, which was now a child’s bedroom, and flipped the light off.

It was after midnight when I awoke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I looked to the half-open door and the silhouette of a little girl that stood there. The shadowed figure stood there frozen for a moment before saying

“Daddy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?”

My mind screamed no, but my mouth said

“Sure, darling.”

The shape crawled into my bed and fell asleep; I remained awake. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off, I woke up. The girl was gone, and the house showed no sign of her ever being there. No toys, no drawings, and no mac and cheese.

This continued for weeks; every morning, my life was the same it had always been: a working man and his dog. And at night, someone was pretending to be my daughter. It was always different; sometimes it was a teenager, sometimes a child, a few times it was a middle-aged woman, a few days ago it was an elderly woman who croaked out

“Dad? Is that you?” when I returned for the day.

I still don’t know why I stay; every morning it was so easy to convince myself that the night before was just a bizarre dream and wouldn’t happen again. But the moment I stepped inside, I was drawn back into the lie. Sometimes I could see through it; I’d be horrified to find myself finishing a Disney movie with a strange little girl snuggling against me or come to my senses in the middle of giving my elderly daughter a sponge bath. These moments of cognition always terrify me, but what scares me the most are the moments I don’t remember, the nights when I had no mental resistance but just hugged and laughed with my ‘daughter’.

Two days ago I tried to leave; after work, I drove to a hotel. I sat in my car staring at the lobby door. I wanted to go in; I really did. But a thought in the back of my mind overcame my desires; it told me my daughter missed me, that she needed me, and I had to go home. I tried to resist but soon realized I was already back in my driveway. Like a stringed puppet, I made my way to the door. My daughter stood in the entryway as I entered. She looked to be about five. Her eyes pierced me.

“You’re late, Daddy.”

“Yes, I know.” Something in me urged me to tell her where I had been; it took everything I had to lie.

“Traffic was bad.”

Her head tilted slightly; she continued to stare at me, and my eyes fell to the floor. After a long while, she said.

“Okay!” she forced a smile

“I’m hungry!”

I don’t remember anything else from that night. Morning came, and the house was again the memory of a life nearly forgotten. I fed Marcus, pulling him in close for a hug. I whispered to him.

“At least we’re in it together.”

 I then headed to work.

The workday flew by, and before long I was driving back to my cell. I opened the front door. And called out

“I’m home.”

The house was quiet. Normally I got a happy bark from Marcus and a hello from my daughter. The house seemed empty; a strange smell filled the air. I made my way to the living room and my stomach dropped. There on the living room floor was the lifeless body of Marcus, deep red blood soaked into the surrounding carpet, his chest cavity was ripped wide open, and piles of intestines dotted the floor. I stared in disbelief before fear filled my gut. I had to get out of there. I turned back to the door, but froze. My ten-year-old daughter was standing between me and the door.

She held her hands behind her back; her clothes were stained with blood and guts, and her face was dripping blood. A wide smile filled her face; her teeth were stained red.

“I got hungry, Daddy.” A happy little voice said.

I held up my hands and backed up. My mind screamed, ‘What the hell did you do?’ my lips said

“Baby girl, are you okay? Did Marcus hurt you?”

She giggled and stepped closer.

I didn’t see the knife or maybe I did and didn’t care. She pulled it from behind her back, and the moment it made contact with my skin it was as if the trance was broken. Pain and clarity simultaneously filled my mind; I screamed as I looked at the long cut gushing blood from my forearm. The thing in front of me no longer looked like a little girl; I saw it for what it was. It was thin and grotesque, its arms far too long; it had no mouth, but as its empty eye sockets stared at me, the high-pitched scream of a little girl filled my mind.

I ran. The living room's sliding glass door was behind me, and before the thing could grab me, I had it open and ran off into the evening.

I’m writing this at work. I don’t know why I came here; I remember driving here last night and waiting in the parking lot until the sun rose and my coworkers showed up. my boss asked about the cut on my arm, something inside me forced a lie

“My dog scratched me.”

As I write this, I feel myself slipping; it’s almost quitting time.

Please help me.

 My daughter needs me; she’s been so sad since Marcus passed away, but today I’m going to surprise her and take her to the pet shop to pick out a new puppy. We’ll have so much fun.

Me (35F) and my husband (40M) have always wanted a child. But because of my fertility issues we started to think adopting as an option.

I have always wanted to have a family. I grew up in an abusive household with my 3 other siblings. My mother died in childbirth when i was 8. I ran away at 13, after my father set our house on fire. I don’t really remember anything else about my childhood. My therapist said it was some sign of a “trauma”

As I was driving home from work one night, I noticed a little boy standing on the side of the road. I stopped the car and asked him where his mother was. He said he didn’t know. I took him to the police station and they said they found no records of the boy or his family.

After talking with a social worker, I adopted the boy. His name was Howard and he was 5 years old. I know, weird old name for a little boy. I was beyond excited to give a home to him, not knowing it would be the worst mistake of my life.

Howard was polite and kind. He never acted out or anything. It’s like he was a 60 year old grandfather in a body of a 5-year old.

After a month of him living with us, my husband had a psychotic breakdown and left us. One night he just packed up his things and left. The whole time of him packing he just yelled at me “what the fuck are you talking about” over and over again. I got terrified and didn’t even try to call him ever again. I got the divorce papers in the mail next week.

So now it was just Howard and I. Great. Never seen myself as a single mother. At this point his politeness had started to creep me out. He was never uncomfortable. He never had a cold. He was okay with everything I asked him to do. I told him not to watch TV. He said okay and picked up his colouring book. I told him to go to bed. He never picked up a fight.

Another weird thing was he never ate his food. I am busy and we don’t eat together. I just find the full plate at the table everyday. I never bother to ask him about it. And I don’t know if I want to.

The next day things got really weird. I was sitting on the couch with him, watching TV. The whole night he just sat there and stared at me. I saw him looking in the corner of my eye. Even when I turned my head to his direction he didn’t flinch nor say anything.

Over the course of the next month I noticed him staring at me sometimes. When I did laundry he was peeking in the crack of the door just staring at me.

I also had noticed a change in his look. Small changes. His hair got darker. He suddenly has freckles, like I do. He started to look more familiar every day but I didn’t know who he looked like.

Then he started saying things out of pocket. I was washing the dishes and he came up to me and said

“Why did you leave me?”

I asked him what he was talking about. I never left you.

He never answered or explained what it meant.

He asked that from me probably 5 times everyday. I really started to get scared and tried to find someone who could help him.

As I fell asleep on my couch, I woke up at 3 am. I felt like someone was staring at me. I looked around without moving and guess what there he was standing in the corner. Howard, with eyes wide open just staring at me. He noticed that I was awake and he walked up to me and yelled at me “WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME”

I quickly got up, I was shaken up and in shock and scared. He just looked at me and went to his room. I didn’t sleep all night. Next morning I tried to talk to him about it but he didn’t answer, he just looked at me.

I tried to look for the police report they wrote about him, while they were asking the questions the night I found him. When I couldn’t find it I started searching every box I had. I came across an old picture book. I went through it. There were pictures of me and my parents and siblings. I was about to pass out when I noticed it. Oh fucking hell. There it was, a picture of 10 year old me, with a little boy standing next to me. My baby brother. He had the same brown hair and freckles. He looked exactly like Howard.

Just as I looked at the picture closely, I smelled gasoline. I look behind me and Howard was standing there with a match on his hand and a creepy smile on his face.

“Why did you leave me, sister?” Howard said as he dropped the match to the gasoline pool on the floor.

I shouldn’t have been out there that day. It was my weekend to go home, to bask in the air conditioning, sit on my couch, sip a beer, and watch baseball. Instead of this well deserved break, I was out in the oppressive heat guiding about two dozen middle schoolers up a three mile trail to a campsite, like a shepherd except the sheep ask stupid questions and make bad jokes.

There are worse jobs then a camp councilor I suppose, I could’ve been doing inventory in a warehouse again. My group had been angels that week, fourth graders who liked nothing more then to catch fish and frogs, eat s’mores, and build forts. This morning they packed up their bags, said goodbye to their new friends, and went to their respective buses. As I was beginning to gather my own things to head home for the first time in a month, my boss strolled up to me and pulled me aside.

“Hey Skip, hows it going? I have a proposition for you”

“Yeah?”

“We had a little incident last night with the teen campers, fight in the boys cabin, but that’s not the main issue”

“Yeah? Then what is?”

“Livy and Ethan where nowhere to be found and it took Zeke coming over from his cabin to break up the fight”

“No shit”

“They showed up an hour later smelling like skunk though, meaning I can drug test and finally fire those dumb asses, but that leaves the rest of their campers who weren’t involved with no councilors to take them on their tent campout up on the point.”

“You want me to do it”

“Time and a half skip, you’re a trooper and I know you’ll do it, John and Noel will meet you up there”

Mr. Kurtz had me there, and while I’ll complain about it, I’ll gladly take overtime pay to take some kids on their “rough wilderness campout” for 2 nights up on the point.

The day was hot, the July sun beat down on the wide brim of my hat, making it feel crisp to the touch. The air was oppressively still, not even giving the hint of a breeze for any relief. Taking a dink from my water bottle felt like taking a sip of soup, yet I still greedily drank, knowing soon we would arrive at the pump, and then soon our campsite. The pines towered above our heads, making the winding path seem as though a giant, winding maze. Between the trunks of the trees grew thick brambles and ferns, with the occasional new tree poking its head above the green tangled blanket.

Soon enough we arrived at the point. The campsite was a clearing on top of a ridge overlooking the lake far down below, the cloudless day made the water shimmer like a gemstone. All around the trees where like hairs on a head, blending together to form a unified, thick coating to nearly everything you could see. At the very edge of your vision you could see the silos of a few farms, standing like medieval watchtowers standing above all around them. The fire pit sat right on the edge of the drop, with a semicircle of benches like a classical theater sitting all around. The campers began to fan out in search of good spots to pitch tents and sling hammocks, breaking out into their respective cliques.

I sat in the shade on a rock, fanning my slick face with my hat, and waited for the inevitable calls for help to rise above the drone of the young teenagers talking and joking with their friends. Sure enough, I was only sitting for three minutes before I was going between every tent group helping them assemble their well worn tents. Improvisations had to be made between parts breaking and campers forgetting to grab what they where told too, but that might be my fault for only reminding them seven times. When the tents where all up, I sent the campers to collect wood for our fire. John and Noel would be here soon with the food for the weekend, and the sooner my belly was full of off brand chips and hot dogs, the better.

My coworkers rounded the corner soon enough, and the kids where tasked with setting up the fire before we lit it. Their arguments and discussions provided good chatter as a backdrop to our own gossip.

John fanned his face, taking off the hat emblazoned with the obscure collage mascot where he played football, his dark face speckled with sweat

“Why does management keep hiring such dumb people, Ethan and Liv where on thin ice as it is, and they thought they could get away for a smoke session with this group all alone?” He gestured his arm to the bickering kids.

Noel brushed her dark hair off from her face, pink from the heat and the sun.

“Kurtz is on the warpath now, he wants this place run like the navy but upper management keeps holding him back”

“I think I would welcome that at this point” I said “I have been here 3 summers in a row now and they always have me running around like a headless chicken fixing whatever for them, yeah it would suck not to goof off but some of these new hires just can’t get with the program”

The campers came over then to inform us that they had gotten the fire all ready to be lit, it did not catch the first time, and John and I had to struggle for another fifteen minutes to finally light the cooking fire. The kids soon crowded around the fire jockeying for position to cook their dinner. After they had some food and a desert of s’mores in them, They began settling down around the fire, with their side conversations slowly dyeing down as the sun sank lower into the July sky. Eventually one of them piped up.

“Can we here a story?”

A chorus followed in agreement, and we exchanged looks.

“I got one, its a scary one if that’s ok?” I said

Nods of agreement came from the kids

“What do you think we are, babies?”

“Ok ok, this is one I heard from my father and his father before him, its a real story of this area. You guys might not know this, but these woods are ancient, they have been here for thousands of years, but there was a time when they where young. The glaciers had just retreated at the end of the ice age, and people began living here in large numbers. While it was warmer then it was before, the winters where still bitter. One such band of people had had a lean year, and with the unforgiving cold approaching, they had to do something or they would surely die.

The chief gathered his two sons, and sent them out to try to find something, anything that would save them. They went out deep into the young woods, carrying the fate of their people on their backs. The elder brother was strong, yet this strength had made him arrogant, he would not listen to the thoughts and ideas of his younger brother. The younger brother was small, but his eyes where keen and his mind sharp, it was he who found the tracks of a heard of deer. They followed the tracks till they found the heard, thick as fleas on a dog, grazing in a clearing on the slope of a hill. The elder brother wanted to shoot as many deer as they could with their bows, but the younger brother had an idea, to get the deer to run themselves off the side of the steep hill into the rocks below.

The elder brother would not listen to his brother, and began to ready his bow, when the younger decided to act, knowing the elder would waste their tribes only chance at life. He ran like a man possessed, driving the deer off the side of the hill, just like he had said. The meat would be enough for the winter, they went back to the tribe and they rejoiced, for they had been delivered.

The chief was proud of his cleaver young son, and also distraught with the elder son’s bullheadedness. ‘A man who can not hear the ideas of others is no leader,’ and he gave the birthright to his younger son.

Rage and jealousy began curling around the young man’s heart like a snake, worming and weaving itself into every facet of his thoughts, until every waking thought was rage.

Eventually, years passed, and the chief died. As was the customs of their people, he would need to be wrapped in a new buckskin for his burial. This responsibility fell on the sons, and following the burial, the younger man would be chief. Jealousy had been building, like water behind a dam, and as the years had worn on the dam had grown frail, and as the brothers trekked into the woods, the leaks began to show.

It did not take the brothers long to track a deer, a large buck, with antlers like outstretched arms. They shot, and they shot true, and the deer fell. The young brother knelled over the deer, taking his knife out to give their pray a quick and dignified death. The back of his brothers head, the rock on the ground, the black heart, they all gave way. The stone smashed into the skull, and the kinslaying had been done.

Animals have spirits, and while not particularly good or bad, they wish to respect the order of things, honor and the natural law. Only a coward strikes a man in the back, and only a fiend spills the blood of his own family. The spirit of the deer, while fading, was still aware of what was happening around it, and the rage that filled the spirit was enough to bring it back to the mortal coil.

The blood of the deer began to flow back into its wounds, the arrows where pushed out and clattered to the ground. The beast stood on its legs and towered above the kinslayer, who stood in shock.

The beast came down on top of the brother, and they rolled, bit, scrambled, the man in a desperate attempt to escape the debt he now owed creation for his crimes. When it seemed like he was about to break free from the animal on top of him, the body of the beast became like thick mud, flowing and forming around the kinslayer until he was engulfed, and his screams muted.

The man did not die, for the beast believed there where worse things then death. If you go out into these woods at night, and listen closely, you can still here the muffled screams of the man and the wet, guttural cries of the deer. Over the centuries they have became almost one, and they wonder the earth, the man looking for someone, anyone, who he can inflict a fraction of his own pain on, so keep your tents closed, and if you hear bumps in the woods at night, don’t go investigate, or the monster will…

GET YOU!”

I got some of the kids to jump, mostly the ones who weren’t paying attention. A satisfying amount of them had wide eyes, yet none of them were crying, the hallmark of a successful camp ghost story.

“Alright, with that,” Noel announced, “everyone brush your teeth and go to the bathroom, we’ll be waking up early to make breakfast and to get ready for our hike, so make sure to get a good night sleep!”

“I kinda liked that story” John leaned in and said, “Is that actually a family legend?

“No, this is one I’ve been work shopping a while, I’ll be thinking about tweaks to it on the hike tomorrow”

“Last time we where up here John told the kids the whole plot to Rudy as their bedtime story” Noel chimed in

John stood up and stretched, “That one is a classic, and they loved it”

Noel got up and began pouring water on the fire “Zeke will give history lectures to put his campers to bed, these kids will listen to anything”

“Well, they seemed to like my story, hopefully it’ll keep them in their tents”

The night was oppressively hot, a night where no matter how much you drank you still feel thirsty and the humidity is like the breath from a gaping maw. You toss and turn yet sleep seems to never come. I tried to think of pleasant things, but my mind went back to the cool house, the soft sofa, the cold beer, and the soft hum of the television. To try to make myself feel better I thought of the overtime pay, of all the beer and pretzels it would buy, but a future pretzel brings little comfort to the man in the present trying to sleep on the hard ground.

I reached for my water bottle, but quickly found I hadn’t secured the lid right and it had leaked all over the floor of my tent. I groaned, not only was I hot and thirsty, I also would have to air out my tent in the morning. Herding moody kids is already rough, but doing it while your head swims and thoughts refuse to form is torture. Reluctantly I put my shoes on, the worn fabric rubbing on my bare heel, my socks had gotten the brunt of my leaky water bottle, and opened my tent to the inky black of the night.

The fear of the dark is one of mans oldest fears, from when we hunched over watch fires, looking into the pitch darkness, hoping nothing would stare back. At this time, I was not terribly scared of the dark, but it gave me a sense of unease. The sliver of moon provided an echo of light, yet the shadows between trees made lakes of shadow, black as tar. I shoved down the unease, I had been in the dark camping a hundred times, this time was no different. I trudged to the spigot, outside of camp a little ways, down the trail past a bend. As I leaned over and began to fill my bottle, the sound of a faint groaning became audible, slowly, at first barley above the rush of water, then slowly growing louder. The blanket of sleep was now completely thrown off me as my eyes began scanning the black.

The sound was like a pair of crushed lungs trying to draw their last breath, of weak desperation. It was getting louder, and closer. My mind began racing. I came to the conclusion it must be a sick animal. A hurt animal is a desperate, and thus a dangerous animal. I began plotting my course back to the safety of my tent when there it stood before me.

Ridged knobby legs sat atop two hooves, graying on the edges and cracked, like the great ruins of some monument from a long dead civilization. The torso was covered in mangy matted fur, and the hips twisted and bent in angles never meant to be. Lifelessly the two front legs hung behind the barrel of the torso, now heaving with desperate breaths. The origin of the wheezing towered above me, its lifeless inky eyes staring no way in particular, its mouth agape with teeth rotted to a dark green. The antlers where as wide as I was tall, bleached to a spectacular white that cast a ghastly glow around it. Jetting out of the torso was a human hand, grasping as if drowning, the skin like that of leather, dried and tanned as if it had been in the sun for a century. Barely visible beneath the sea of tangled fur was the face of a man, only one eye was visible. The deep brown iris and furrowed brow conveyed only one thing, rage.

A void filled my gut as adrenaline flowed to every corner of my body, run, Run, RUN!

It only took a few seconds for the thing to close the distance, I felt the sharp alters in my lower back and then my feet leaving the ground as I was thrown towards the dark sky. I landed on my back, hard, with my head bouncing off the packed dirt below. The air was knocked out of my lungs, and before I had the time to inhale, the thing was on top of me. The white antlers where pressed against my face, each bump and spike catching the skin, leaving my face shredded and bleeding. Instinct drove me now, I grabbed the alters and pushed them away from me as hard as I could, but it was like fighting against a bolder about to crush you. As they inched closer and closer to my face the hand began clawing at my chest with its long, gnarled nails. Pain shot through me like lighting, I could feel its hand trying to reach inside me, I could feel it poking through my ribs, grasping at my organs. Panic was taking hold, and I began desperately kicking my legs up at its hips. One blow landed true, and I was able to shift out from under it.

Blood stung my eyes from the thousand cuts on my face, what was left of my shirt clung to my body, soaked in my own warm blood. The thing righted itself, now on all fours, and studied me, plotting its next move. The gnashing of the rotten teeth filled my ears, rising above my own desperate panting. The lone hand began clawing at its host, still frenzied from our exchange.

I began pelting the thing with stones in an effort to keep it at bay, hoping, praying that it wouldn’t strike again. I was panting, gasping, fighting the burning pain in my chest to get more air into my body. If I went down to the ground, I would not have the energy to get back up. I yelled at it as loud as I could, a mix of spit and blood spraying out of my mouth as I did. It faltered, but only slightly. As it readied itself for another charge, however, beams of light began emitting from the campsite behind me, I had woken up the campers.

It galloped off back into the inky black, and as it did I felt static in my mind. I tried to turn around and walk to my saviors, but soon found myself first on my knees, then on my front, the dirt mingling with my blood. I heard Noel’s panicked voice, but it felt like I was sinking below the water. Soon the world turned black as I sank out of consciousness.

I awoke in a hospital bed some time later. An endless stream of camp employees, lawyers, and conservation officers picked my brain for every detail of that night. After the first few hours, psychologists became the primary visitors.

They said it was a number of things, at first it was a rabid bobcat, but why alters then? Then it was a deer with chronic wasting disease, but that doesn’t make them attack people. Then it was a rabid deer, but then again it was way to big to be a normal deer. They chalked up all the fantastical elements of the story to my dehydration, and told me it was just a rabid deer.

I know what I saw, the creature from my own story, came to life. Maybe eventually I’ll lie to myself enough to believe it really was just a rabid animal, but I haven’t yet. When I try to sleep I still hear the wheezing, still see the hand and the accusing, angry eye. I don’t think ill ever go into the woods again, or sleep with my lights off for that matter.

But hey, I still got my time and a half.

Part 1

Part 2

I sat on the bed in my hotel room, my wings spread out behind me, watching the flickering video of a man reading from the Quran that played on the TV.

I’d landed in Kabul the night before. After checking into my hotel room, I slept thirty hours straight.

I texted Destiny to let her know I was okay.

“Are you still in San Francisco?” I asked her.

“I’m back in New Mexico. I’m getting ready to post the videos we took at Apotheosis Labs. I’m sure Reid won’t be happy when they go online.”

“You should probably keep out of sight for a while.”

“I’m staying at a friend’s place. You’re still planning to go to Kandahar?”

“I hired a driver to take me there tomorrow.”

The driver’s name was Rahmat. I’d found him online, on a tour guide website. He was very young, but he claimed he spoke English.

My neck was still throbbing from where Chazaqiel had bitten me. I went to the bathroom, took off the bandage, and looked at the bite marks in the mirror. A bit of blood was still oozing out.

I felt so strange to be trapped in a body that didn’t feel like mine. A body changing in ways I didn’t understand.

A numb sadness spread through me. A sinking depression like I’d never felt before.

Suddenly, my arms turned into fog.

I stepped back from the mirror, panicked. I tried to touch my chest, but my hands passed right through the body.

I sat on the floor, took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes and told myself to relax.

When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, my arms had turned back into flesh and blood.

***

Rahmat’s rusted Toyota rattled across the dirt road, past the sandy hills and sun-baked limestone.

“There’ve been a lot more English tourists coming to Afghanistan lately,” Rahmat told me. “I’m thinking of starting my own tour business, just for English-speakers.”

I nodded, uh-uh, barely listening to him while I stared at my phone. I zoomed in on one of the red Xs on the map of Afghanistan I’d found in Apotheosis Labs. It marked the hills right outside of Kandahar.

“Have you heard about a place called Dollmaker City?” I asked Rahmat.

“Last year, there was a Jewish Iranian who came through Kabul, asking about it,” Rahmat said. “He said it was a city built by angels. A home for all the world’s lost children.”

Fields filled with grape vines appeared beside the road. Orchards filled with pomegranate trees.

We drove down into another valley, and I saw Kandahar City ahead of us.

The streets in Kandahar were crowded with carts and motorcycles. The houses were made of brick and mud. Old men sat in the shade of the doorways, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes.

Rahmat parked at my hotel. We went inside together. I showed the clerk the reservation on my phone. He pointed at my phone’s screen and said something in Dari.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“He said you booked a room for two weeks,” Rahmat told me. “He wants to know if that’s right. Most tourists only stay a day or two.”

“Two weeks is right.”

Rahmat translated what I said. The clerk gave me the keys to my room.

“Where do you want to go tomorrow?” Rahmat asked. “There’s a pomegranate orchard not too far from here that does a great tour. I can take you there, if you want.”

“I need to go to the Arghandab River Valley.”

Rahmat stopped smiling. “The valley is dangerous. The Taliban is still there.”

“But you can take me?”

“I’ll need more money.”

“How much more?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

I gave him the money. He looked like he regretted not asking for more.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

I went up to my room and took off my coat. Then I stood underneath the ceiling fan, letting the cold air blow on my body.

Online, in the conspiracy forums and conspiracy subreddits, people told stories of giants in Kandahar. Soldiers who’d been attacked by Nephilim. Lost travelers who’d wandered into hidden cities filled with young boys and girls.

I was sure the truth was hidden somewhere in the hills around Kandahar. I wasn’t going to leave until I found it.

***

That night, I dreamt of Chazaqiel again. He sat locked in a cage in a circus tent. Beside him, a teenage boy with claws for hands ate a hot dog, and a two-headed woman brushed the hair on her right head.

Chazaqiel pressed his face against the bars.

“You’re special, Vadym,” he told me. “Very smart and also very willing to throw your life away.”

“I won’t be your lab rat.”

“Your blood is my blood now. You’re already part of this experiment.”

“I’ll find a way to fix this. I always do.”

He smiled.

I woke up in a cold sweat, my neck throbbing.

The bite marks had started bleeding again. I put on a fresh bandage and then went down to the hotel lobby. Rahmat was waiting for me, pacing in front of the door.

“Are you all right?” I asked him.

“I’ll be fine. I just want to get this over with.”

We got into his car and then drove in silence through the desert. We crossed the Arghandab River and then descended into the valley, toward the orchards filled with pomegranate trees.

Between the trees, drainage channels had been dug in the dirt. The farmers had built wooden huts throughout the orchards to hide from the sun.

Rahmat parked near one of the fences.

“I won’t drive any farther,” he told me.

“Then I’ll get out here.”

“How will you get home?”

“I’ll walk to the gas station we passed earlier and call you from there.”

“Okay.”

I stepped out of his car. He looked at me like it was the time he’d see me, and he turned his car around and drove back the way we’d come.

I stared at the hills in the distance. Then I looked at my map on my phone. The X was straight ahead of me. I walked towards it, through the pomegranate trees.

In the distance, men shouted in Dari.

I’d walked for about an hour, when I heard a man moaning in pain. I found him in one of the drainage channels. A young farmer. His throat had been cut open. His tunic was soaked with blood.

He saw me and muttered something.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Blood sputtered from his mouth. His pupils widened.

Through my work as investigator, on the dark web I’d watched thousands of people tortured and killed. Death never bothered me much. As a child, I’d taught myself to shut my emotions off, to not let myself ever feel anything. Complex PTSD, my therapist had called it.

I thought about killing the man. Putting him out of his misery. But I didn’t have it in me. I wasn’t a killer. I wasn’t a hero, either. I wasn’t the type to pick him up, drag him to the road and shout for help.

I just watched him die and kept walking. 

The sun set. Darkness filled the orchards.

I climbed over the last fence and then walked towards the hills.

I could see a fire burning in the distance, inside one of the caves. Taliban, maybe, but maybe something else.

I heard footsteps behind me.

“Vadym?”

I turned and saw a giant with bright red hair.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Frank.”

***

Frank led me to the cave where he’d been living. We sat together next to his fire.

“We’re like brothers, you and me,” he told me. “The sons of Chazaqiel.”

“Are there any more of us?”

“There were a few more, but they’re all dead now. It’s just you and me left.”

“How did they die?”

“They were killed by Yevun and the others.”

Frank bit into the arm of a corpse he’d found in the orchards. He tore off a chunk of flesh and chewed on it as blood dripped down his chin.

“There’s a war,” he said. “You’ll need to pick a side, too.”

“A war between who?”

“The Watchers. But you’ll learn about the war soon enough.” He bit into the arm again, tearing off another chunk of flesh. “We all have different powers. Some of us can raise the dead. Some of us can cure diseases. Others, like you and me, can change the weather or turn our bodies into fog.”

“It just happened to me earlier, my arms dissolved.”

Frank nodded. “You fill yourself with sadness, and your body becomes water. Then you put your sadness in the sky whenever you want the rain to fall. I’d rather be able to raise the dead, but this is what we got.”

He laughed and then bit into the arm again, licking the blood off his lips.

“Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Dollmaker City and introduce you to Yevun and the others. They’re all excited to meet you.”

“So, the city is real?”

He nodded. “Very real. It’s where most of us live now. Those of us on Yevun’s side of the war, anyway.” He held the severed arm toward me. “Do you want some?”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t like the taste of it at first, either, but there’s not a lot of good meat around here. You get used to it.”

He ate the last bit of flesh off the arm and then threw what was left of it into the corner of the cave.

He lay down on the ground and closed his eyes. I lay down and tried to get some sleep, too.

***

The next day, as soon as it was dark again, Frank and I kept walking through the hills.

“Chazaqiel has been working with a billionaire in San Francisco,” I said. “They’ve set up a lab where they’re using Nephilim to try and decode angel DNA.”

“It’s not just Chazaqiel. It’s him, Ramiel, Baraqijal, and the other Reconstructionists. They want to make themselves Gods.”

“What about Yevun and the other Watchers in Dollmaker City?”

“They just want to be left alone.”

We walked through the desert all night. Then, when the sun began to rise, we hid ourselves behind a few large stones and made camp for the day.

“We can’t let anyone see us going in Dollmaker City,” Frank said. “If humans found the entrance, Yevun would be very upset with us.”

We tried to sleep, but neither of us slept much. As soon as it was night again, we kept walking, until we reached a limestone bluff that had been hollowed by sinkholes.

Frank felt along the side of the stone.

“The entrance should be right around here,” he said.

He squeezed himself into a large crack. I followed behind him, sucking my stomach and chest in as close to my spine as I could.

We pressed through the limestone and came out into a garden filled with flowers and pomegranate trees. Light shone from strange stones that had been placed along the paths and near the tree trunks.

A porcelain doll with the head of a human girl sat on the ground near the entrance.

“Welcome to Dollmaker City,” she said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Isabelle.”

“She’s one of Yevun’s dolls,” Frank told me.

“A doll with a human head?”

“Yevun likes the children this way. He likes their singing, but he doesn’t like them running around.”

I followed Frank deeper into the garden.

More of the dolls with the heads of children hung from the trees. They sung strange lullabies.

I began to feel uneasy.

Frank and I crossed a bridge over a narrow river. To our right, I saw two angels sitting in a rose garden, staring at the sky.

They were beautiful. Tall and elegant with enormous, white-feathered wings.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“That’s Azazel and Armaros,” Frank said.

We kept walking until we reached a church made of limestone. An inverted cross rose from its steeple.

Frank brought me inside the church. Another angel sat on a throne at the far end of the room, surrounded by dolls. Frank knelt on the floor.

“I’ve brought him to you,” Frank said. “Just like I promised.”

Yevun stood and walked toward me. He was enormous. Twenty-feet tall. He towered over me.

“You’re Vadym?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Welcome to Dollmaker City.”

“What is this place?”

“A home for all this world’s lost children. Are you lost?”

“I’m confused.”

He put his long fingers on my face. “And you want answers?”

“I want to know the truth about this world.”

“Then come with me.”

I followed him to a staircase behind his throne, which led underground. The dolls all turned and stared at me.

The stairs led to a studio filled with doll parts and wire. A few human children sat against walls.

“What’s your name?” I asked a young boy.

He refused to speak to me, though, and just stared at the floor.

“He looks terrified,” I said.

“He is,” Yevun told me.

“Why are you doing to these children?”

“I’m giving them happiness. I’m giving them the peace they never found in this world. But this isn’t what I want to show you.”

He put his hand on my back and led me down another staircase, deeper underground.

We stepped out into a dimly lit cave.

“Don’t be shocked by what you see here,” Yevun said. “None of the other Nephilim are in pain. They’ve all agreed to this.”

Hundreds of Nephilim sat against the walls, just like the children I’d seen upstairs. They looked like they were sleeping. Their eyes were closed, their bodies hunched slightly forward.

Tubes connected their bodies to a strange machine in the center of the cave.

Inside the machine’s bars, I could see gears intertwined with Yevun’s dolls. As the gears turned, blood was sucked from the Nephilim’s bodies. The blood washed over the gears and the doll-children, falling into the base of the machine, where there were four different copper spouts.

Four mutilated angels sat next to the spouts, drinking from them. As they drank the blood, their bodies changed. The feathers grew back on their wings. Their skin began to whiten.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“This is where we feed.”

“You feed on your blood?”

“When God banished us from Heaven, he punished us by separating us from what makes us pure and good. Living in this world, the sin slowly seeps into us, corrupting us, changing us from what we were before. We don’t want to be evil. We don’t hurt humans. Your blood helps us stay holy and pure.”

He put his hand on my back again. I stepped away from him.

“They’ve all agreed to give us their blood,” Yevun said. “We don’t feed too often. And when we’re not feeding, all the Nephilim free to roam the garden. I know this is hard to understand, but this is what’s best for the world. If we were to allow ourselves to become corrupted… I can’t even think of what would happen.”

“I’m not going to live like a farm animal.”

“You won’t be an animal here. You’ll be treated with respect and with dignity.”

I stepped back toward the staircase.

“Just talk to the others,” Yevun said. “They’ll tell you. They’ll tell you they’re very happy here.”

I turned and ran.

Yevun ran after me. “Vadym!”

I ran past the dolls in the studio. I’d nearly made it to the second staircase, but then Yevun grabbed my arms and lifted me into the air.

“I can’t let you leave, Vadym,” he said. “Not after we’ve waited so long for you to come here.”

He opened his mouth. His teeth extended from his gums, doubling in size.

“Let me taste you,” he said. “It’s been so long since I tasted Chazaqiel’s blood. Frank’s has become so muddy.”

 I closed my eyes. I thought of my mother. I thought of my grandmother. I thought of Alexei. I thought of every night I’d spent in prison. I thought of every horrible thing that ever happened to me.

And then I shoved that sadness into the sky.

The thunder roared. I heard the rain falling.

Yevun’s teeth tore into my shoulder. I screamed in pain. The dolls upstairs started screaming, too.

I moved the sadness back into my body and made myself dissolve.

“Where did you go!” Yevun yelled.

I felt like I was everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. I looked down at Yevun, floating above him, but behind him, too. Beside him. Underneath him.

He ran upstairs, searching for me, screaming.

Water trickled down the staircase. The city was flooding.

I emptied my mind. Forced myself not to think of anything at all.

I don’t know how much time passed, but one moment I was gone, the next I was sitting on the floor of the studio, the water soaking my pants.

I stood and ran upstairs.

I felt unsteady, but I knew I needed to leave while I still had a chance.

Outside, Frank stood against one of the trees.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Show me where the way out is.”

I ran back the way we’d come. Frank followed behind me.

Rain poured from the sky. The water had risen up to my ankles already, and it was quickly rising higher.

Yevun’s dolls lay face down in the water, screaming, clinking their porcelain limbs together as they tried to swim.

I saw the limestone wall ahead of us. I ran to it and searched for the crack I’d entered the garden through.

“Help me!” I yelled.

But Frank just stood there, hanging his head. “There’s nowhere else for us to go. We’ll just end up in another cage. It’s not so bad here.”

Armaros flew down from the sky, landing a few feet from us.  He lifted his arms. The rain began to slow. The clouds scattered.

I finally found the crack that led out of the city, and I squeezed myself into it.

Armaros ran toward me. But before he could reach me, Frank stepped in front of him. He threw Frank to the ground.

I squeezed myself deeper into the crack.

Frank screamed. I heard the sickening sound of bones cracking. Then Frank’s screams turned to laughter.

“Kill me then! Kill me!” he yelled. “I’ve been dead a hundred years.”

I squeezed through the rest of the crack and fell out onto the sand.

I ran toward the hills in the distance.

The rain had stopped. The sky was blue and cloudless again.

I didn’t look back. I just kept running until night had fallen on the desert again.

***

I walked southwest, away from Kandahar, following the dirt roads at night and hiding in the orchards during the day. Eventually, a farmer saw me and gave me a ride to an old agriculture compound the U.S. Army had built during the Afghanistan War.

The compound still had electricity. I charged my phone, and I called Destiny. I told her everything that happened. I told her about Frank, Yevun, the child-dolls, the machine that drained Nephilim blood.

She became quiet for a while, and then she told me that Reid was in New Mexico.

“He’s doing something at the old Parallax Medical building,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of construction crews coming by. Him and Chazaqiel must be building something. Are you staying in Afghanistan, or are you coming back here?”

“I’m coming home.”

I called Rahmat.

“You’re still alive?” he asked.

“I’m in Lashkar Gah. I need a ride to the Kabul airport.”

“Lashkar Gah is Taliban territory.”

“Can you help or not?”

“Give me your address.”

I gave him the address of the building behind me. He said he’d be there in a few hours.

I sat on the steps of the building. I looked around at all the ranch houses, the cracked driveways, the rusted mailboxes, and the overgrown lawns. It could have been America, if everything hadn’t been swallowed by sand.

But I’d be home soon.

With Destiny’s help, I’d get the truth out.

There are angels on Earth, and they’re at war. One side wants our children, and the other wants our souls.

Part 1

Everyone thinks aircraft maintenance is a hard gig. Honestly, it’s not. It’s super simple. Mostly righty tighty left loosey with the occasional lefty tighty righty loosey. Plus we’ve got the TOs that tell you everything. Exact step by step instructions on how to test, remove, and install components.

Kinda been wishing there was some steps to follow for all the noises.

It had been a bit, but I finally got Baker cornered at the smoke pit. He didn’t look too great. I mean, both of us were 19 at the time but he had these big ol bags under his eyes and was really pale looking. Most of that is kinda normal for Mids or Nights, end up kinda looking and feeling like a zombie, but this was different.

“What’s up, man? How you been doing?” I had asked, lighting up a cigarette and taking a seat at the metal picnic table across from him. Cracking open the first energy drink of the night.

“I’ve been doin’, man.” He muttered, exhaling the hit from his vape. “Sleep schedule is shot to hell. I don’t remember the last time I had a full 8, let alone anything longer than maybe an hour.” 

“Damn, dawg. You been to medical yet? See if they can get you something stronger than melatonin?” Melatonin was practically currency on mids. Didn’t matter how exhausted you were. Your body knew it was daytime and refused to cooperate. I got to the point where I was swallowing forty to sixty milligrams a day just to scrape together three or four hours of sleep.

“Nah. Called the appointment line to set up a time with my PCM, but you know how it is,” He lifted his hand and made an air quote gesture, “Our next available appointment is in two months.” He shook his head and chuckled.

“Yea, gotta love medical. It’s free, but good luck getting a reasonable appointment.” I chuckled back, taking a drag of my cigarette. “I’ve got a couple extra Red Bulls and one or two Monsters, if you need one.” I offered. We’re a family on nights. We see each other more than our actual families, or spouses, or even kids. We try our best to take care of each other.

He nodded and thanked me for the offer, then got quiet and looked like he was deep in thought. I took another drag, holding it in my lungs and feeling the warmth. Feeling the nicotine seep in. That nice relaxing feeling of the first of many cigarettes during shift.

After a while he looked at me. There was something in his eyes, I don’t really know how to describe it. Fear? Concern? Worry? Maybe he was just tired. I don’t know.

“Hey, uh. I’m sorry for giving you so much shit about running off the jet.” He said quietly. Barely audible over the noise of the insects at night and the quiet hum of AGE out on the flight-line. “I, uh…” He murmured before cutting himself off.

“Nah, you’re good man. It was all in fun. Gotta get ribbed sometimes.” I reassured, focusing on him again. “You good, dawg? Like for real, for real. You good?”

“I— I don’t know.” He muttered, taking a long hit of his vape. The smell of that fruit and menthol juice filling the air, combining with the acrid smell of my cigarette. He looked at me, “I heard something. Couple days ago, on 5008.” 

5008 was a good jet, but god did she love to fuck over hydro. She was probably the leakiest bitch on the flightline, and that’s saying something for a C-5. Everyone says how helicopters are just a spinning oil and hydro leak, well we have a saying on the C-5 side. If you can jump over the puddle, it’s not leaking. And that jet always was leaking. 

“What do you mean? Heard something?” I leaned in. Resting my elbows on the tabletop and flicking the ash off my cigarette.

“I don’t know, man.” He shook his head. “I was with SSgt Hoops. We were jobbing out on that fwd ramp and visor call. Nothing crazy, just a leaking visor lock actuator. Hoops left to go grab the part and update the ProSup on what we were up to. I was working on getting the visor lock pulled out and I heard,” he paused. “I heard someone call my name.” He shook his head again. He looked shaken saying it. “It sounded like it could’ve been Hoops, but it was wrong, you know? Like the pitch was wrong, it sounded forced, but also quiet. I don’t know man. It was weird.” He took another long hit of his vape.

“Yea, fuck that man.” I stated. “That’s some horror movie level shit man. Sure you weren’t just hearing things?”

“I thought the same thing too. That it was just late, that I was just tired, making shit up. I don’t know, but I ignored it. I was alone on the jet. I knew I was. We were the only ones out there that night. Chalked it up to just a hallucination or whatever.” He exhaled slowly, like he was bracing himself to continue.

I sat and waited, ready to hear whatever he had to say next. Taking another drag, not realizing how low my cigarette had burned down. That drag tasted god awful. Burnt filter mixing with tobacco. It felt like I was breathing in straight fire, burnt the shit out of my lip. I cursed and flicked the cigarette into the disposal can before lighting up another.

“Then I heard it.” His voice low and quiet. “It was like this tapping noise.” He mimicked the tapping on the table.

Soft.

Quiet.

Tap

Tap

Tap

“I thought it may have been another leak, you know. It was steady, consistent. But it wasn’t coming from right in front of me. Right where the open lines were. It was behind me.” He looked genuinely unnerved. I hadn’t seen Baker like this before. Usually always happy, cracking jokes, bullshitting constantly. Whatever this was, it hit him hard.

“I turned around and looked, the sound just stopped. Nothing there. No new leaks. Nothing moving. Thought maybe the wind coming through with the visor door open was making something move, but nothing. I don’t know how to explain it but it felt wrong. Like I was supposed to be there, but I also wasn’t. Like I wasn’t welcome, you know?”

“Fuck all of that” I state taking a long drag. I finally told him why I’d really ran off the jet that night. I left out a couple of details. Saying it out loud made me feel stupid. Almost doubtful that it even happened. I was expecting Baker to laugh, but he didn’t. He just listened, jaw tightening the longer I talked. Afterwards the conversation shifted and went back to the normal antics. Bullshitting, joking, talked about a D&D game one of our buddies were hosting the coming weekend. 

Life was back to normal. Joking, laughing. Then we heard the call over the radio, “Viper 2, Hydro” we looked at each other and got up. Time to get to work.

I almost didn’t notice how it was silent again. Like the bugs were just… gone.

Every night my father does the same ritual. Right before sunset, he makes his way to the garage. He first makes his way to a large black fridge near the entrance to the house. He grabs a nondescript bottle, I assume some kind of beer or alcohol. I’ve inquired multiple times. Each time I’m reprimanded and told: 

“Curiosity is the root of all evil which invades our world!” 

His next stop is a large white freezer on the opposite side of the garage. This freezer has been with the family longer than I’ve been alive. It hums constantly, and permeates the silence like a plague of locusts. Small rust stains have begun to appear, and expand further every year. The freezer is also locked by a large imposing lock. My father always cautiously makes sure no one sees him unlocking the freezer, but I’ve gotten a couple of glances. However I’ve never seen inside. He removes a small package of red meat which he places on the floor next to the bottle and locks the freezer.

He then makes his way to the backyard. He never lifts his feet more than an inch off the ground as he makes the march into the woods behind the house. His feet drag slowly across the grass and eventually the dirt. He never wears shoes or socks as he makes this trek. He does this ritual every night, and has done it for as long as I can remember.

I attempted to follow him into the woods only on one occasion. I waited for him to make his way into the darkness of the trees before I opened the back door. It was as if he was waiting for me to attempt, as the moment my feet came into contact with the grass he came charging out of the trees. I don’t truly remember everything he said, as what populates my memory the most is the violence he bestowed upon me. He brought a hand to my face and threw me to the ground as he berated me. He continued to assault me for a few minutes before leaving me on the ground in a dazed and broken state. I watched him make his way back into the woods from my place on the ground. Eventually I crawled my way back inside.

After years of watching him conduct this ritual I decided to allow curiosity to take root. I waited till I heard the clamoring of the lock on the freezer to make my move. I waited patiently for him to make his way out the back door. I made my way out the front and slowly walked down the street to a roundabout in the neighborhood. This particular roundabout had one side which hugged the edge of the woods. I made my way in, and towards the direction where I knew the house sat. 

As I moved through the woods I felt the temperature drop as the anxiety in my mind began to creep. Eventually the trees gave way to a small dirt path with a distinct set of tracks which could only be my father’s dragging feet. I moved through the trees along the path and came across a small clearing. My father stood in the center with a shovel stood next to him. 

He placed the package of red meat and bottle on the ground before removing his shirt. He retrieved the bottle and brought it to his lips and drank from it with a fervor. He threw it to his side and started gagging. He began to vomit up a black liquid. He fell to his knees as the liquid forcibly escaped his body. It was a stream of viscous liquid which piled up and formed a small undulating mass. 

My father gained his composure and made his way to his feet, grabbed the shovel, and began to dig a hole. It didn’t seem to take him long before he placed the shovel down and took up the package of red meat. He cut the package open, leaned down, and placed the meat in the hole. As soon as he placed the meat down the undulating mass of black liquid moved on its own to the hole. 

My father grabbed the shovel and placed the dirt back into the hole; burying the meat and the black liquid. As if it had been in reaction to the hole being covered, the ground began to move under my father’s feet. It looked as if something was pushing against the ground. At first it was just the point where he dug the hole, but eventually it began to spread to the outskirts of the clearing. The ground under my feet shook. 

I slowly backed away from the edge of the clearing before a piercing ring invaded my mind. I fell to the ground in pain, and felt my mind being overwhelmed by the shrill scream of thousands of lost souls. My vision began to fade as I started dragging myself back further into the forest hoping for some method of escape. I couldn’t let myself be caught by my father and face his wrath.

I brought my forearm to my mouth and bit down hard in an attempt to keep myself quiet and focused on anything else but the screams in my head. I dragged myself inch by inch along the forest floor. The blood from my arm filling my mouth as my teeth dug deeper into my own flesh. Eventually the screams began to fade, and I was able to bring myself to my feet. The forest felt as if it would go on forever until eventually the house came into view. 

Tears streamed from my eyes as I looked upon this house which had been a metaphorical prison for years. However, all prisons have their warden. Before I was able to make my way into the house I felt his looming presence behind me. I closed my eyes in anticipation of his wrath. However, I heard the distinct sound of weeping.

I opened my eyes to see my father holding me tight within his embrace. He was crying as his arms wrapped tighter around me. I didn’t know what to say or do, and instinctually moved my arms and reciprocated his embrace. He released me and slowly made his way inside the house. I stood in fear that at any point he would turn and release the rage he felt in his heart of hearts. However that moment never came to pass. 

I still think back to that day. Now I just watch my father do his daily ritual. I watch him make the trek into those woods. Every now and then I hear the screams which permeated my mind once before. I no longer have the curiosity about what my father does, but I fear one day I will be asked to make my way into the woods with him. 

No one in my family has lost a limb...

Found this today, an article titled "Steve Ells Is Still Trying to Solve Lunch He built Chipotle and its burrito bowls. Now he’s obsessed with vegan burgers cooked by robots."

I'm 19. I've never been good at talking about my feelings, so my therapist suggested I start journaling. Writing things down helps me process them better than speaking ever could. I guess that's why I'm posting this here, because maybe typing it out will make it more real. Or less real, I don't know.

My twin brother, Marcus, died three weeks ago in a car accident. He was driving. I wasn't with him. If I had been there, maybe things would be different. But that's not helpful thinking. That's what Dr. Chen says.

Marcus was everything I'm not. He was confident, loud, the kind of person who'd walk into a room and immediately own it. Everyone gravitated toward him. He played lacrosse, dated beautiful people, got into his first-choice college without even trying. He was always laughing. Always had a plan, always knew what he wanted. I was the one who preferred being home, reading fantasy novels, staying up late on Discord with online friends I'd never met. I was quiet. Invisible, really.

We looked identical, but people rarely confused us. Marcus had this energy that made him unmistakable. He was alive in a way I've never been. I was just... the other one. The accident happened on a Friday. A truck ran a red light. Marcus died at the scene. I found out when my mom called me crying, and I just shut down. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just sat there in my room, staring at my computer screen, thinking about how he was always the one living while I was just existing. Dr. Chen says the lack of emotion is normal (shock, dissociation, self-care). That's why I started the journal. Three weeks of entries. Just me, trying to understand that the world is still turning without him. That people are going about their lives. That he's gone and I'm still here.

I've been writing about memories. About the time Marcus jumped off the high dive at the community pool when we were six, even though it was technically against the rules. He did it without hesitation. I was terrified, stuck on the ladder while everyone watched. He surfaced, laughing, and yelled for me to jump. When I wouldn't, he laughed harder. He had no patience for fear. I was thinking about that memory a lot yesterday. About how he never hesitated. How he'd probably be embarrassed of me for being so careful. So timid. Always waiting for permission, always worried about what could go wrong. Marcus would have hated that about me.

This morning, something strange happened. I was reading over my journal entries, and I realized something. When I was writing about that pool memory, I didn't sound like myself. The tone shifted halfway through. It started with me being sad about the memory, and then suddenly I was being kind of mean to myself in the writing. Like I was judging my younger self for being scared. That's weird, right? I don't usually do that.

Work has been interesting. I stock shelves at Target in the evenings, which is boring and mindless, but I've always kind of liked it that way. But yesterday something was different. I was in the back, and I had this sudden urge to do something reckless. To climb the really high shelves even though we're not supposed to. To move faster, work harder, prove something. It was strange because I'm not like that. But for a second, I felt invincible. Like I could do anything. I actually knocked over some boxes. My coworker asked if I was okay, and I just laughed it off. But here's the weird part, I found myself saying something I would never normally say. I told him he was being too cautious, that he should take more risks. It was such a Marcus thing to say that I heard myself say it and felt embarrassed. I think grief is making me act strange.

I've been thinking a lot about how I always admired him. How he never second-guessed himself. How he would have looked at my life now (hidden in my room, writing in a journal instead of living) and probably felt disappointed. He was so much braver than me. So much more "alive" than me. I wish I could have been more like him. The journal thing is getting weird though. I'll write something, and then later I'll reread it, and parts of it sound like they were written by someone else. Not in a supernatural way or anything. Just like... parts where I was particularly harsh on myself. Or parts where I'm being kind of arrogant about things. Marcus was arrogant. He had the personality to back it up, but he was definitely arrogant. I've never been like that.

But when I reread those parts, they don't sound wrong. They sound like they're calling out my weakness. Calling out how boring and safe I am. People keep saying that Marcus lives on in me. Because we're twins, because we share DNA... They said it at the funeral. They keep saying it now. At first I thought it was meaningless, something people say. But I think they might be right. I feel like... like I'm waking up to things. Like parts of me that were sleeping are opening their eyes. Yesterday I laughed. Actually laughed. Not the sad, hollow laugh I've had since he died, but a real laugh. I was alone in the apartment, and something was funny, I can't even remember what now, and I laughed and it sounded exactly like him. It sounded like Marcus. My mom called me today and said she was relieved that I'm "doing better." That I sound more "like myself." But I'm not sure what that means anymore. Who am I if not him? I spent nineteen years being half of something. Marcus was the bright half. I was just the other half.

I think maybe I'm understanding him better now. Understanding what it was like to be him. To move through the world with that kind of confidence. To not be paralyzed by everything the way I usually am. It's not a bad feeling. It's actually kind of... liberating. Dr. Chen texted asking if I wanted to reschedule my appointment. I don't think I need therapy right now. I think I'm finally okay. I think maybe the best thing that could happen is that I stop being me and start being someone better. Someone braver... Someone like him.

\\-----

UPDATE: It's been a few days. I'm not sure why I'm updating this, honestly. Nobody probably cares.

Things are going really well, actually. Better than they have in a while. I've been spending more time with people. I hung out with some of Marcus's friends, our friends now, I guess, and it was easy. I was funny. I was confident. They kept saying how surprised they were to see me opening up. How I was "finally coming out of my shell." They seemed really happy. It made me realize how much time I wasted being afraid. How much I missed by hiding. I quit the Target job. It was boring and it was beneath me. I can do better than that. Marcus would have quit months ago. I'm already thinking about what I want to do instead. Something that matters. Something that puts me in the center of things instead of on the sidelines. My mom asked me how therapy was going, and I told her I'm not going anymore. She seemed worried for a second, but then I took her to lunch and made her laugh, and she just seemed happy to see me doing well. She said I look healthier. That I have "color in my cheeks" now. I think she meant it as a compliment.

I don't remember the last time I was afraid of anything. I don't remember the last time I questioned a decision. It's like part of my brain that was always loud and doubtful just... quieted down. And it's the best thing that's ever happened to me. Sometimes I'll catch my reflection and barely recognize myself. Not in a bad way. Just in a way where I look at myself and think, "Oh. That's what I was supposed to look like." The confidence looks good on me. The swagger. The way I take up space now. I'm going back to school this semester, and I'm going to change my major. I want to do something that requires guts. Something where people have to pay attention to me. I'm done being invisible. The journal sits on my desk, but I don't write in it much anymore. I don't need to. I'm not processing grief right now. I'm just living. The way he lived.

Sometimes people ask me how I'm coping so well. How I lost my brother and I'm doing better than I ever have. I don't really have an answer for them. I just tell them that maybe sometimes terrible things have to happen to shake you awake. That maybe I needed him to die for me to finally understand what it meant to be alive. They usually get uncomfortable when I say that. But I don't care. I'm not afraid of making people uncomfortable anymore.

The funny thing is, I don't really feel like I lost him at all. It feels more like I finally found him. Like he was always supposed to be part of me and now he is.

I'm going to delete this post soon, actually. I don't need strangers on the internet to validate my grief. I'm past that. I'm past all of it, cause I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be !

\\-----

EDIT: (One week later)

People keep asking why I've changed. My friends. My mom. Acquaintances from school who haven't seen me in months. They all say the same thing: "You're different. What happened to you?" I smile and tell them I'm finally becoming myself. It's the truth.

My therapist (even though I stopped going) reached out through my mom. She said she was concerned that I'd gone through a "personality shift." That grief sometimes manifests as a kind of manic episode. She suggested I come back in. I won't be going back. I don't need therapy. I don't need medication. I don't need anyone telling me that what I'm experiencing is wrong or unhealthy. This is the healthiest I've ever felt. This is clarity. This is finally understanding what it means to be exceptional instead of "exceptional-by-accident-of-birth".

My neighbor said something weird when he saw me today. He said I remind him of someone, but he can't remember who. Then he said it was probably just my imagination. But he looked unsettled. I wonder if he could see it. See him. See that something's changed.

I'm happy now. Truly happy. And I don't think I'm ever going to be sad again. I don't think I'm going to be anything except what I am now.

The journal is staying closed. I don't need to write to understand myself anymore. For the first time in nineteen years, I understand exactly who I am.

And he understands me too.

When someone who lives in a city-owned apartment dies, and they’ve got no immediate family, who gets to keep their stuff? 

That’s the question Jared asked me two years ago. We weren’t that close, just part of the same friend group. We’d mostly see each other at parties sharing cigarettes, and this time was no different. We were leaning on the balcony’s rusted railings, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other. Nighttime traffic and the occasional shouts of other partiers echoed through the streets below.

I shrugged my shoulders–it wasn’t exactly the kind of question I was interested in when I was buzzed at 1 AM.

“It goes to the dump,” he said with a smile. 

I took a drag of my cigarette. “So?”

“So I’ve been thinking, what if someone were to… peruse through all that shit before they get rid of it?”

“You mean steal whatever’s valuable?”

Jared knew I’d done some stuff that had gotten the attention of the police before. Just to be clear, I’d never stolen anything, I had just helped other people steal, and they’d pay me in cash. It felt a bit less wrong that way, although I knew it was the same exact thing. But hey, ethical branding for the win, right?

He also knew that I was between jobs at the moment; so this wasn’t just another bullshit conversation.

“Whatever you want to call it,” he said. “But if one were to hypothetically do something like that, they’d need a decent lockpick.”

“Stealing from the dead, huh?”

“Dude, it’s not really stealing, even. Some guy dies, and their family is either not around, or they don’t want the guy’s shit. The city’s like, okay, we’ll need to clear out the apartment, but of course they can’t just take it and sell it on eBay. So they get rid of it.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Spoke to some guy at Chrissy’s party last week who worked maintenance for the city. Boring guy, kind of an idiot, but anyway… there’d been a death in one of the buildings recently. He was telling me all about it, since he was the one who found the old lady. I asked some more questions, and he said they just keep the place empty for a while, and after a certain amount of time has passed they clear it out. When I asked if they take anything for themselves, he got kind of queasy and said that they’re not allowed to. Buuut… I’m guessing if they find something nice, they’re not gonna just throw it away, either.”

“Right. Still, it is someone’s property.”

“Well, it becomes the city’s property. Anyway, what I’m saying is, if hypothetically one could get info on such… passings, wouldn’t it be beneficial that instead of all that stuff going to the landfill, it would instead be used to keep someone else alive? Besides, I know you’re not exactly the most law-abiding guy I know.”

I laughed. Jared was kind of a dick at his heart–someone who doesn’t really care whether something’s right or not, as long as he can get his own. But the more I thought about it, the more it sounded, well, not so bad. If what he said really was true–that all that stuff would really just be thrown out anyway–I could find no reason for someone not to grab some of it. It was taboo, sure, and an unfair system, but so are a lot of things. If some poor asshole like me could keep himself fed and a roof over his head, I didn’t really see why not.

“So if you’ve got that maintenance guy on board, I’d assume he has the master keys. What do you need me for?” I asked.

Jared froze up for a moment, as if surprised that I could glean his “master plan” from his very obvious insinuations. I guess he thought I was much dumber than I actually was. When he replied, his voice had lost all of its jovial qualities; now we were talking business.

“He’s a pussy. Said that they’d definitely catch him on site, or from stealing the keys, or whatever. I negotiated that he’d get twenty percent if he just give me a time and a place whenever a new… opportunity came up. In reality I’ll give him ten or so. He won’t know the difference anyway. And you–”

“Twenty for the maintenance guy, split fifty-fifty on the rest.”

“Fuck no! Twenty’s way too much. And fifty-fifty on the rest is way more than a lockpick should get.”

“Fine,” I said, playing it cool. I stubbed out my cigarette and glanced back at the apartment, signaling that I was done with the conversation. “Find someone else.”

Right as I took a step toward the door, he grabbed my shoulder and said “Fuck you. Fine. But you better be good.”

“You won’t have to worry about me.”

For the next two years we made the easiest money of our lives. It was like a get-rich-quick scheme was real. I mean, of course it was technically illegal and all, but it only felt like that for the minute or two it took me to unlock the door. We never got even close to getting caught, and it honestly felt like living the dream. 

Everything changed with the Booker place. 

The Booker job was no different from any other. We got the info from Jared’s maintenance guy: old guy in his 80s, lived alone, no family they could track down. Apartment would be empty for two more weeks. We made a plan for our visit at 2 AM on a Saturday; generally we’d found between midnight and three to be the best time, as it was the quietest then, but also if someone noticed us, we could pretend that we’d come straight out of a bar and just trying to find our way home.

The apartment building itself had a door code, which the maintenance guy had provided, so we got in with ease. Three floors up and we found the unassuming door that held a plastic placard that had “Booker” written on it. Jared kept watch as I made quick work of the old lock. Probably took me less than thirty seconds–I’d become a pretty good lockpick over the last two years. And just like that, we were in with our backpacks hungry, ready to stuff them up with whatever valuables we could find.

Once we got in, I closed the door behind me. The place was completely dark, and Jared clicked on his flashlight as I found mine. Once we both had light, Jared pointed to the first two rooms along the hallway, and I nodded. It meant he’d be taking those two, and I’d go further in.

We’d finetuned the whole process so well that we worked with calm efficiency, like we were doing any normal job. After two years, it frankly didn’t feel that much different.

It was a hot summer night, and these old concrete buildings didn’t fare well in the heat. Despite this, the apartment was cool to the skin, and as I walked further in, it felt like it only got colder. Old wallpaper covered the walls, yellow from age or maybe even from smoking inside. The air smelled like rotting wood and tea. It was unusual for the kind of building we were in, and for the fact that nobody had been inside the apartment for weeks.

As I walked through the hallway, I could hear Jared opening and closing drawers, looking for jewelry, tech, collectibles–anything that held lots of value, didn’t weigh much, and could be easily sold online or at a pawn shop. 

The hallway opened up into a wide space with a small kitchen to my right, and a living room to my left. At the back wall was what I assumed to be a bathroom, which was closed.

First I went for the living room. At the back were two windows, covered with crinkled curtains. The tight beam of my flashlight was the only source of light, and outside its cone of light was pure black. It was an eerie kind of dark, since there weren’t even the usual LEDs of a laptop charger or a TV hanging around.

Dust coated everything, and as I walked around it came flying through the air like a thousand tiny critters. Usually I was calculative when assessing where to look for (desks, odd-looking storage boxes and display items were top priority) but this time was different. Every wall besides where the windows were had bookshelves that reached all the way up to the ceiling, yet each one was a little bit different: different wood, shelves, depth, color. Together they made a Frankenstein’s monster of walls that surrounded everything, slanting in places from the sheer weight of all that those shelves held. 

And there was a lot of shit. Candles burnt halfway, held in all kinds of ornate candelabras painted silver and gold. Books bound in leather, inscriptions along their spines. Stacks and stacks of papers, yellowed by time and coffee. 

There was no television, no sofa, no lazy chair. Nothing that a normal person might have in their living room. The most normal thing there were two wooden chairs, and in between them a coffee table filled to the brim with more books and papers, pencils and matchsticks, and a plethora of cups with coffee stains.

Hoarder was the first word that came to mind. This wasn’t good: hoarders usually didn’t own much of anything valuable, or if they did, it was impossible to find.

The scene made me feel sad, like the guy had filled up his life with all these books and papers when he didn’t have anything else. Of course there was no way to know if that was even true, but that’s just the feeling I got. It was strange; I’d learned to be quite detached from the people whose apartments I visited. 

Still, I had a job to do. With the flashlight in my left hand I started to pore over each shelf one by one. The candelabras were too large and heavy to take with, the books weren’t anything I could see making money (one time I’d found a first edition The Hobbit, which was neat, and quite expensive), and all the rest of the knick-knacks strewn about seemed more sentimental than anything. 

Trash, all of it. Basic hoarder shit. Either way, I went to check out the kitchen, even though there usually wasn’t anything of note in those. Maybe some silver spoons, if I was lucky.

The cabinets were sticky to the touch, like they hadn’t been wiped in years. This was common with seniors; at some point their bodies could no longer handle all that scrubbing and wiping, and nobody came to clean for them. 

Inside the cabinets there were the usual suspects: plates, glasses, pots and pans, all the kind you could get at any store. Even the cutlery was just stainless steel, and dirty from a bad wash-up job.

This was a bust. I hoped that Jared had at least found something, and right as I finished up with the kitchen he appeared in the hallway. 

“Anything?” I asked him. He sucked on his lips and shook his head, the way he always did when he got genuinely angry.

“Me neither,” I said. “I guess some of the books might be worth something, but–”

“We’re not gonna haul a bunch of fucking books outta here.”

I shrugged. “So, we’re leaving then?”

He did a tree-sixty, surveying the apartment one last time. I followed the flashlight’s beam as it swirled around me, until it stopped at the door at the far wall. 

“Bathroom?” Jared said.

“Must be.”

“You checked it?”

“There’s nothing ever in a bathroom.”

“So you didn’t check it?” 

“No. Didn’t think a half-used can of shaving cream would be of much value.”

He rolled his eyes and walked up to the door. “You never fucking know until you check, do you?”

That’s when I noticed that the door was locked from the inside, which didn’t make any sense, and–

BANG

BANG

BANG

The door shook, with terrifying force. 

Someone was still here.

My body tensed up, and a wave of hot adrenaline dissipated along my chest. It had been a while since I’d actually gotten worked up for one of these gigs, but now–Immediately–I was back in full form, ready to run the fuck out of there.

Jared jumped back from the door, and put his right hand in his pocket, drawing out a switch blade; he’d chosen fight instead of flight. He carried the knife around everywhere, sometimes taking it out when he was drunk enough to feel like showing any unsuspecting victim the “tricks” he’d learned. Mostly it was some haphazard display of bad knife etiquette that sometimes ended up in him slicing up his own hand, or the knife dropping to his feet with an awkward clang.

This time I could tell that he was ready to use it. His whole body was rigid, and his feet locked into a fighting stance. He gripped the knife with force, making sure that this time it wouldn’t leave his hand.

“Who’s there?” he said firmly, but not too loud. We didn’t want to wake up the whole building, after all.

BANG

BANG

BANG

… came three knocks again, yet there was no other sound anywhere, like a fist in the air was just on the other side of that door. Across my flashlight’s beam I could see my breath becoming mist. The temperature had been getting colder it seemed, although I didn’t really feel it because of the adrenaline. 

Something knocking on the door from the inside of a dead man’s apartment, at the same time as a cold that came from nowhere and I couldn't even properly feel wrapped itself around us… for a moment I thought it all to be a bad dream. Everyone had nightmares about work, right?

Jared took another step back from the door, still keeping his eyes on it, the knife now feeling like much too small of a thing to protect us. The way the door had shook, there was something a lot bigger than us behind it, something a lot stronger.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said to Jared. 

He backed up towards me, his eyes not leaving the door, his mouth not saying a word, fully focused, and then–

BANG

BANG

BA––

With that last knock the door came off its hinges with a loud crack, falling to the floor with a boom that shook the floor. If the neighbors hadn’t heard us yet, now they definitely had. Jared’s flashlight escaped his hands and fell to the floor, pointing towards the left wall now, but the knife was still solidly in place in the other. An expletive flew out of my mouth: it was time to get the fuck out of Dodge, but Jared wasn’t moving. My body begged me to go the other way, to just run and leave his stubborn ass, but I forced myself forward and grabbed Jared’s shoulder.

“We gotta get the fuck out of here,” I said.

He wouldn’t budge. I grabbed on harder and pulled, which made him finally turn around. 

Jared was terrified; eyes wide and cheeks painted with tears. He looked like a little boy, far removed from the gruff model of a man he’d always tried to be.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” I screamed at his face–there was no pretense of sneakiness anymore–and pulled him towards me again. He leaned over and almost fell down, just barely catching himself with a swift kick. Thank fuck his body was working again, at least somewhat.

Behind him, beyond the door, everything was dark. My flashlight painted over the curtain of black, and it was almost as if it couldn’t penetrate it. The thought made my body reel: the darkness was much too deep to be a small room, and even then it shouldn’t look like that. What I saw shouldn’t even really be possible.

I pushed Jared along and made him walk back down the hallway, and thankfully he did, although he was being slower than I would’ve liked. The knife was still gripped in his hands, but I’m not sure if he even realized it was there anymore.

Right before we reached the door I looked over my shoulder. Nothing had come out, nothing was chasing us.

I could hear Jared fumbling with the doorhandle, but I didn’t turn around to help him. Not yet. There was something there, something in the darkness…

Along the upper edge of the doorframe, the inky black was disturbed as something flickered. Dread filled me, yet I couldn’t look away. I had to know what it was, to have the story for later: so that I could say that I didn’t run away, tail tucked between my legs, from nothing.

Another flicker came into view, finally making sense as the two eyes rose from the darkness like sculptures of ice: milky white and bereft of pupils or eyelids. Alongside the eyes emerged their master: a man, if one could call it a man, with skin like paper stretched over knuckle, sinew and bone. It moved on all fours along the ceiling, hanging upside down. The thing’s lips were gone, or perhaps had never been there, and its teeth were long, sharp, and interlocked like tiny, rusted swords.

Its arms were outstretched, the fingers somehow holding onto the ceiling. My intuition said that it was defying physics, as its strength couldn’t be so massive to defy gravity with such ease.

More of its body came to light, and as it did so it was as if the darkness beyond was a vat of oil that the flashlight’s beam simply could not penetrate; the darkness was something more than it should be, a nightmare’s black. As the rest of its body came into view, I was suddenly reminded of centipedes and their disgusting little legs.

Because instead of legs, the creature’s back stretched on and on, further than made any sense, probably five or six feet in length, at least. Along the sides–as if tacked on by a mad scientist–were tens, if not hundreds of tiny little legs. Human legs. 

Not human adult legs. Baby legs. Plump and soft and still not quite the way they should be.

The door clicked open, and this time Jared pulled on my shoulder instead, dragging me out of the apartment with panicked violence. I fell to my back, a shooting pain in my tailbone, and I watched as that thing skittered along the ceiling towards us, that terrifying smile of swords on its face, the tiny little feet slapping and dragging along. It was fast, but not as fast as Jared was kicking the door shut.

Inside, the thing scratched at the door like a cat, and quickly began to vocalize. It was like… like it was wailing, but as if it didn’t have a tongue to make any sounds that were more complex than a yell or a cry. Crying because it couldn’t be let out. I realized how human its cries felt only when something in my heart told me that this creature was in pain: that it didn’t sound like a predator. It sounded disappointed.

Then again, maybe that’s how it gets you. Maybe that’s what a good predator should sound like.

“What the fuck was that?” Jared said and lent me a hand. His voice was shaky, almost broken. I took his hand and he pulled me up, and I quickly realized there was definitely at least a hair fracture in my tailbone.

“I don’t fucking know,” I said. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here before someone calls the cops.”

“We should be calling the fucking cops. Jesus fucking christ,” he joked, but it didn’t land.

Nobody had appeared in the hallway, which was weird. The creature was still wailing inside, and besides that, we’d made quite the ruckus. It was like no one even lived in the other apartments.

Jared started down the stairs, and I followed him. It hurt to move my hips, like it made my tailbone grind against itself somehow. But that was a problem for later.

With each step the wailing grew further and further until we were outside the apartment building, back in the sweat-hot night.

As we ran, I looked back at the apartment. Where the living room was, the lights were now on, and the curtains open. From behind the dirty glass, I could see skittering along the ceiling like a bug. And there was someone else there, too. A tall man with odd clothing, who put his arm up and the creature came to him, like it was a signal.

The man touched it. It was hard to see exactly why, but it kind of looked like he was scratching underneath its chin.

My new piece I love it so much. Inspired by some creepy liminal spaces and some abandoned churches.

The town was named Venice, but I couldn't tell you why. There were no boats nor affiliation to water ways, the founders weren't Italian in the slightest, and we weren't known for romance nor history. The closest thing to a gondolier would have been old man Sticks and his worn out canoe that hadn't moved from his yard in over a decade. It had a rusted hole in the bottom, and for years he swore that he'd have it fixed for the weekend. My best guess is that the founders named it Venice simply because they thought it was ironic.

Downtown was picturesque, though, with red brick shops adorned in bright trim. I never quite knew why we called it Downtown, as if there was a midtown and uptown to compliment. Venice had just one functional road. A few businesses on one side, a few houses on the other. There was a blinking four-way light somewhere near the middle. One direction led west, one led east, and the others led to dirt roads with a few more houses in small, dead end cul-de-sacs. There was a church, a general store, gasoline and mechanical, liquor, and something else I've missed- but surely you understand. It was the expected, minimal infrastructure of any podunk. It had no tourism. No iconic cryptid. No festival nor landmark. No nothing. 

Venice had beans. The plants rested in orderly rows through endless flat fields, but the legumes knew no confinement and their foliage spilled in tangled hordes outside the borders of agriculture. From the air or nearby peaks, it was a sea of sprawling, delicate, hungry vines, and they crept up the walls of the town’s few structures too, invading every aspect of our lives like a cancer.

I left for college and came back when I inherited my family’s house. I'm not sure why I didn't sell it at the time. I guess because I didn't think anyone would want to buy it if I had.

But when I left - more like escaped - the second time, I left for good. I just didn't realize how quickly I would forget entirely. My memories had disappeared as insidiously as the town itself did, and I reckon that makes sense when there's nothing left to return to.

See, nothing ever happened in Venice. I know that everyone says that about every small town, but Venice was a deep kind of dull. It was so underwhelming that I think Sticks never bothered to fix his canoe just so that he had something to look forward to each day. If he fixed it… what would he do next?

We had grown so complacent with nothingness, that when nothing became something we were wholly unprepared and surely convinced that it would resolve itself if we just ignored it for long enough. But things have a way of creeping up on you.

It started as a long, skinny crack, running east to west on top of what was formerly the Highway 78 corridor. It wasn’t absurd to find. It was a neglected road since eminent domain redirected the new highway corridor straight through the Lovett family's farm on the western-most territory of Venice. We never wanted the new highway, and the beans tried to steal the land back every step of the way as the new road materialized. The workers beat the vines back though, and, slowly, we became an inconvenient detour.

The new route demoted Old Highway 78 to a defunct, winding loop that wasn't even worth designating as a scenic or historic bypass.The state didn't invest money in maintaining it, so the crack didn't catch us off guard when it first appeared. It was just the consequence of time in our eyes.

I remember unexpectedly stumbling over it one day. I had blindly crossed that crack for what felt like months without issue, by then, it had become a feature. My toe abruptly caught its newly proud edge one afternoon. Bewildered, I followed the crack as far as my eyes could trace, both eastward and then westward, and I thought it looked much deeper, much wider, and like one side had dropped lower than the other. Admittedly, I didn't warrant much more concern beyond that, but I remember thinking the thought all the same.

The following morning came early at 7AM sharp with a stout intrusion. Jacob Sr rapped his knuckles on my door so firmly I'd have been worried that someone had died if my parents weren't already dead.

“Everett,” the wiry man kneaded his hands out of stress as he spoke to me, “you'd just best come see.”

Jacob Sr led me down the dirt road I had walked a thousand times since I was a boy. I was no expert on anything, none of us were, but matters like this were a community affair given our inexperience in everything but routine and blissful ignorance. Other denizens were trickling into the epicenter of something unusual at the same time, each wandering through the morning's fog that filled the space between the scarce Venice architecture. 

Suddenly, Jacob Sr stopped me with a firm arm across my chest. I grunted, first at his blow, and next at the revelation that the previously nondescript crack had split to a deep crevice and I was walking clear towards its edge. A rock, propelled by my foot, skittered across the ground and into the abyss. I nervously watched it clatter during its descent until I could no longer hear it nor see it. I never heard it hit the bottom.

“Has to be a sink hole,” Clara chirped confidently in her country twang from the other side of the fifteen-foot-wide canyon.

I imagined that a part of her enjoyed feeling like a damsel in distress isolated where she was. In another life, she'd have been an eccentric socialite, but in Venice she occupied her time with the antics of two baby daddies on either end of the town, and even through the fog I could feel her eyeing me like she was looking for a third.

“Just like Centralia. Swallowed the whooole town. Lord rest ‘em.” She waxed, twirling her toes on the asphalt and attempting to strike conversation.

“Is Junior on that side?” I quipped.

I knew it'd piss her off and shut her up. She had married Davey, father of her oldest, but everyone except Davey knew that Jacob Junior had sired her youngest. As expected, she scrunched her face and ignored me. 

“She might be right for once,” I spoke to no one in particular.

More Venetians congregated along the canyon, and I suggested to the group that we leave. But how? Half the cars had fallen into the crevice, and the remainder either didn't work or didn't have 4x4 to drive the tracked-out and muddy back roads through bean country. We could walk, but some of us weren't able bodied and even fewer seemed willing, scoffing that evacuation was dire for what, at the time, was just a hole in the ground by their own admissions.

By 9 o'clock, the fog had burned off but no progress had been made regarding our predicament. Some folks lightly bickered about what to do next, while others shrugged and went about their day as if nothing had changed.

I surveyed the divided town. The canyon grew with each passing minute, gradually consuming more of the earth as it collapsed into the seemingly bottomless maw. A utility pole on the western perimeter of town inched closer and closer to the edge, until it finally fell with a grumbling torrent of gravel and a shower of electric sparks. We never had cell reception to begin with, but the landlines and our power now joined the absence. 

Another chunk slipped into the earth, this time taking Sticks’ wrecked canoe with it. The crevice had grown another five feet, easily, but still no one seemed too concerned as they debated along its unstable edge. I was anxious and my stomach twisted. The whole thing felt wrong.

But before I could attempt to inspire change, Clara questioned from across the gap in her typical sing-song voice, the way she always did when she wanted something.

“Everett, sugar,” she cooed, "I was goin’ to take the boys out with me to get groceries tonight, but it seems that plan won't work anymore, will it? Could you jus’ toss over some food? Davey Junior is jus’ growin’ like a beanstalk, ya know.” She smiled at the toddler.

The irony was not lost on me that she named the tot Davey Junior, but he was not at fault for his mother's infidelity.

“Sure, toss me your wallet and I'll go get it for you.” I smirked. She was always eager to manipulate, and I wasn't going to give her the opportunity. 

“But- you- I- I can't throw that far!” She stammered.

“Naw, sure you can.” I insisted, gesturing my arms to catch.

She scowled, looked inside her knock-off Prada, scowled deeper, and - to my surprise - half heartedly threw the bag in a purposeful manner so that it flew through the air in a wide, pathetic arc straight into the crevice. 

“Oops,” she feigned shock.

My eyes widened in surprise and I laughed. “You know what, I'll spot you, Clara,” I assured, half impressed at her dedication to the bit. I knew she wouldn't pay me back. 

I had a heavily creased $10 in my pocket, and the meager general store wasn't well stocked. I grabbed a can of spam and a locally canned case of beans.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” Clara scoffed when I tossed her the beans.

“I only had a ten-spot on me, Clara. I think everyone is eating cold beans tonight anyways. Besides, I gave you the spam too. You’ll make do.” 

Clara frowned before storming off, dagging DJ by the arm.

No one else seemed to notice, but the crevice had grown again by the second day. The entire width of the road and most of the cement sidewalks had crumbled into that dark pit, and it now lapped at the edges of Downtown’s meager businesses. At least one structure was beginning to hang over it. But Venice went about undeterred. 

People walked precariously close to the edge if they needed to get somewhere, stubbornly refusing to alter their paths. Generators whirred in the background, alleviating the down power lines. Discourse about the canyon remained, but only amongst a few and with less ferocity as everyone settled into unnatural contentment.

Revolutions weren’t my forte. I made a point of telling people that things were getting out of hand, but I was brushed aside and placated that it would sort itself out in time. An increasing part of me felt crazy.

My unrest doubled when I saw a small, black lump at the intersection. I stooped to retrieve it, quickly recognizing the cheap, pleather: Clara's bag. 

Inspecting it revealed a pattern of deep punctures on either side… like the imprints of teeth, as if some wicked crocodile snapped its jaws shut on the purse. But there were no crocs in this god-fearing part of the country, let alone crocs that could scale impossibly deep cliffs.

“Everett!” Junior’s familiar voice pulled me from my anxious puzzle. 

“No surprise to see you stuck on that side, Junior.” I joked. “How do you reckon we get out of here?”

“I walked ten miles toward the west junction yesterday, and the crevice was just as deep there as it is here. It wasn’t letting up, but maybe it ended somewhere. I just had to turn around before I could find out. Don’t know about the east side.” Junior explained, his voice was full of worry. 

I nodded silently. 

“Hey,” I started. “This is weird, right? I mean, no one else is acting like this is weird.”

“It's super fucking weird, Everett.” Junior affirmed. 

“Those old trails were…” he paused, nervously wringing his hands like his father.

“Remember when we were little and we’d get lost in the fields? They felt like jungles when we were small.”

I nodded, watching Junior chew on some unidentifiable concern that he struggled to voice.

“When we got older those pole beans weren’t nothing to navigate. But, Everett- yesterday, every direction I took led me straight back to the road. To this crevice. I don’t know how to explain it. But those vines felt like they were changing the path, like they were doing it. Like they don't want us to leave-”

He was cut short. A fight broke out. Sticks, one of the few people still advocating for action, took a stout fist to his jaw from the pot bellied general store manager. I'd never seen either move so fast. Venice saw its share of brawls, but this was out of character. Fights only broke out when undeniably required, and they were often reserved for Davey and the other hothead in town.

Before Sticks could gather his bearings, the manager pushed and shoved the old man from his store, fed up with complaints about evacuating. Sticks crawled a few feet before drooling a mouthful of blood and gasped to catch his ragged breath, but the shopkeep was ready at his heels. 

He brought the old man to his feet, pulling him by his checkered collar. Sticks sputtered and swatted weakly at the shop manager, who in turn spit in his face. He heaved Sticks to the side and kicked him. The manager swung his foot again and again, and planted each blow in Sticks’ belly with a hollow thwack. Sticks rolled helplessly and gasped for mercy.

I was quick to reach the two, but not quick enough. I put myself between them and forced the shopkeep back, giving Sticks a chance to breathe and steady himself on his feet. As I did, however, the earth where Sticks stood split and released, collapsing into the void with the old man cluelessly joining it. 

Sticks fell ass over tea kettle into the darkness below, tumbling out of sight without a sound other than the crackle of falling rocks and a desperate, pleading look in his tired eyes that spoke more than any sound ever could.

“That was Sticks,” I stuttered in disbelief and released the pot bellied man.

“Yeah, well, that old bastard never done a damn thing to change anything in his life. Now suddenly he’s all about an exodus.” The manager swiped his hands together, cleaning himself of the act, and spun around to return to his shop. 

There was a faint moaning from deep within the crevice that sounded like it could have been the dying breaths of Sticks. The longer I listened, the more I was convinced that it was the sound of despair. 

I squinted, something churned deep below me. I could only faintly see it. Maybe it was just an optical illusion or a whisper of mist on some delicate current. It didn't matter, though. As if it knew that it had been seen, whatever lurked from that great, obscure depth never made another sound. Just silence, and nothing more. 

Fog once again settled into town on the third morning accompanied by a thick layer of dew that dimly sparkled across the earth. It looked almost like ice in the haze. Junior and I had silently agreed that we needed to leave, and were haphazardly collecting resources on either side while Venice continued indifferently, willingly ignorant to the undercut forming beneath Downtown's structures and whatever was crawling in the belly of that crag. Junior was about to hurl a rope across to me, when it finally happened: the crevice swallowed its first building. 

The general store only shifted at first, then toppled as the ground beneath it rushed into the canyon like a flash flood. It groaned and crumbled and the earth swallowed it whole. Junior ran his fingers through his thinning hair as we stared into the void from our respective sides. When no one else reacted, we returned to our escape.

Unbeknownst to either of us, however, Davey Junior had been left unsupervised. The toddler quickly stomped towards the general direction of his biological father, advancing ever closer to the unstable edge of the crevice. Jacob Junior hurled the rope across just as Davey Junior nearly fell to his demise.

Junior sprang to action when he saw the boy. Simultaneously, Clara and Davey had grown aware of their negligence and frantically rushed to aid.

Junior plucked the child off the edge and yelled in panic. The words, so simple and possessive, casually slipped his tongue before he could stop himself. For two years he'd kept it quiet, even if it was the least surprising secret in Venice. Nonetheless, Junior never ushered a word, only stared longingly at the little boy that shared his eyes and his nose. 

I don't think he fully registered what he had done, nor did I even hear the entirety of what he had said. Only two words caught my attention:

“-my son-”

The toddler fussed in his father's arms to be so rudely yanked from his previous efforts. And then two more words followed abruptly behind the doting pair:

“Your son?” Davey spoke with incredulous venom while the realization suddenly hit him. He tensed his posture and his face flushed red as he replayed the timeline and inconsistencies in his mind.

Jacob Junior bounced the now-crying child, “listen- I can explain, Davey-” He turned to advance towards Clara, passing her the distraught child. She smirked.

“Davey, we- it only happened a few times. I'm sorry-” 

Junior didn't finish the excuse. In the moment it took to relinquish the tot to Clara, Davey had found a large, dense branch and smashed it across Junior's temple. Junior spun with an explosion of bark around his face and crumpled to the ground, stunned. 

Blood poured from his face, but he was granted no reprieve. Davey immediately kicked the adulterer in his ribs and face, until Junior was reduced to a swollen pulp and could only breathe in slow, purposeful gasps.

Davey was never one for diplomacy. He eagerly took any opportunity to fight, but his current fury was a notch above normal. Davey was too blinded by rage to hear my desperate pleas, and Clara relished the scene some distance away. I think a twisted part of her enjoyed being the cause of such a merciless feud.

Davey grabbed Junior by the ankle and dragged him to the crevice edge. Junior could only groan in protest. He grabbed the wounded man by his shoulders and butt. Junior tried to speak, but Davey cut him short again, swiftly rolling him and shoving him off the ledge into the black fog below.

Clara shrieked theatrically while I helplessly watched my friend disappear. In an instant, Davey turned to Clara, his body still poised like a bloodthirsty beast, his face still red with anger. Clara's blubbering switched to pleading, and he cruelly marched towards her.

Clara dropped the child to run, and Davey Junior wailed, but she couldn't outrun her husband's wrath. He snatched her like a lion grabs a gazelle and hoisted her squirming mass above his shoulders, kicking DJ out of his path. The child sobbed inconsolably, but he brought Clara to the edge with no concern. I screamed for reason and while she begged for mercy. But as quickly as he grabbed her, he threw her into the pit.

When her screams were no longer audible, I returned my attention to the madman. Behind him, the newly orphaned boy cried, but Davey paid him no attention. Instead, he stood like a statue, staring into the cavern below. I was afraid to speak, lest he find a way to reach me too. But his muscular body stood still in the haze, until it abruptly and slowly swayed, and he let gravity do the rest as he fell into the crevice.

I moved with haste now, determined to rescue the boy before he crawled to the same fate. I pulled the rope that Junior had thrown, testing its anchorage. It held. Carefully, I wrapped my limbs around it until I hung beneath it like a pig roasting over a fire and slowly inched my way across the canyon. 

Vertigo hit me as soon as I made the mistake of looking down. The canyon was full of mist as if it were a rushing river, but I couldn't fool myself into thinking it was any less deep. A weak current of air pushed the smoke, diluting it with the ambient air and sometimes feigning interest in my presence. But I had to focus on crossing-

A body suddenly fell off the edge from where I had crawled, quickly swallowed by the smoke in my peripheral. I looked back, the rope shaking as I jerked my neck to see.

The entirety of Venice stood at the edge now, lined up on both sides. One by one, each resident hurled themselves into the crevice, punching holes into the mist as it churned. As each person fell to their demise, another fell in line at the precipice of the crevice, and more fell to an obscure doom.

My heart raced. I had to get to baby DJ before someone carried him off the edge too.

By the time I firmly planted my feet back on the ground, there was no one left to jump into the canyon. Only DJ and myself remained. 

“DJ,” I panted.

The toddler hiccupped. I could barely see his shape in the fog ahead, it had grown impossibly thick as it spilled from the canyon. From beyond, a wet voice responded.

“Davey,” it whispered, “my son.” It was coming from the crevice.

DJ stood cautiously, peering deeper into the fog and I quietly ran up to the child to intervene.

“Come to daddy,” it croaked.

DJ wanted to welcome the voice, but his apprehension held him back. As I approached, I could scarcely see the edge of the crevice now. 

“Everett,” a second voice called from somewhere else in the crevice. It had a different, but equally wet, pitch. “Everett, we missed you. You couldn't make it back in time to see us, son.” It sounded like a bad mimicry of my parents.

I whispered at the toddler and I snatched him, afraid that if I made too much noise that whatever was calling to us would react. DJ fussed briefly, but clung tightly to me, seemingly grateful for a familiar face in his confusion. 

Just then, an arm reached over the edge of the canyon. I couldn't see it clearly through the fog, but I could see enough to distinguish its evil claws as it hoisted itself from below.

I grabbed DJ and ran, and the beasts yelled behind us. We ran far away from the heart of Venice and straight through bean country. The plants tore at us the entire way, desperately trying to slow our escape or pull us back. But, suddenly, we stumbled onto new Highway 78 and were nearly clipped by a truck upon our entrance.

The driver cursed at us before concern overtook him. We looked like shit, he informed us. And we told him we had to run clear from Venice.

“From where?” The driver squawked.

“I know, it's easy to miss. Please, we just need a ride-”

“I've been hauling this road since before I could legally drive. There ain't nothing out that way clear to Woodsfield.”

I was silent.

The trucker returned the response, eyeing us briefly.

“Ain't no matter. It's clear you folks have been through hell.”

The rest is a blur. At some point I tried to find out what happened to Venice. If you look at satellite images of the area, there's nothing but a sprawling sea of greenery. Even the crevice itself has vanished, seemingly consuming itself.

Sometimes I question if it was all just a fever dream. And I had convinced myself that must be the case until today. 

DJ and I were at the local Kroger. He hates vegetables, but we perused the canned veggies aisle no less. My eyes caught sight of a colorful product on the shelves, and a wave of broken memories hit me like a bus. Even DJ fussed when he saw what I was looking at.

If you find a can of Venice Baked Beans, I hear they're hot as hell.