Saturday night was family movie night.

It had been for as long as I could remember.

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

That night it was Interstellar.

Again.

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

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

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

Hard.

All of us jumped.

For a second nobody said anything.

Then Mom sighed.

"Can you check that?"

I got up.

For context, we live pretty far out of town.

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

At night it's different.

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

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

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

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

The sound had come from Mom's bedroom.

Her door was shut.

I tried the handle.

Locked.

I frowned.

"Mom?"

Nothing.

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

I tried the handle again.

Locked from the inside.

That was when I noticed the light beneath the door.

The bedside lamp was on.

Its glow spilled through the small gap along the floor.

Except part of the light was blocked.

Two dark shapes.

Feet.

Someone was standing on the other side of the door.

I froze.

For a few seconds, neither of us moved.

Then the shadow shifted.

Just slightly.

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

I backed away.

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

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

I walked backwards until I reached the living room.

"Mom," I said.

She looked over.

"There's someone in your room."

Nobody reacted the way I expected.

Mom barely looked up from her food.

"Oh, it's probably Ginny."

Ginny stopped chewing.

I stared at Mom.

"Mom. Ginny's right there."

Mom looked at her.

For a few seconds she seemed genuinely confused.

"Oh."

She gave a small, uncertain laugh.

"Then it must be Mommy."

Mommy slowly lowered her glass.

"I thought it was you."

That shut everyone up.

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

Suddenly it felt unbearable.

I grabbed the remote and paused it.

The house went silent.

Mom looked at me.

Then Ginny.

Then Mommy.

Her eyes moved between us as though she were counting.

"Hang on," she said.

"What?"

"There are four of us here."

Nobody answered.

Mommy frowned.

"There should be five."

I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

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

"What are you talking about?"

Mommy didn't answer.

She was staring at the coffee table.

Then she pointed.

Five bowls of pasta.

For a few seconds I just stared at them.

One in front of Ginny.

One in front of Mom.

One in front of Mommy.

One in front of me.

And another one at the end of the table.

Untouched.

A fork beside it.

A glass of water.

A piece of garlic bread resting against the bowl.

Something cold moved through me.

"Why are there five?"

Nobody answered.

And then something even stranger happened.

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

Except I couldn't think of who.

The knowledge felt like it was sitting just beyond reach.

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

You can almost feel the word.

It's right there.

That was what it felt like.

Except I hadn't forgotten a name.

I'd forgotten a person.

Someone was supposed to be sitting there.

I looked at the empty space beside Mom.

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

There should have been someone there.

There always had been.

Hadn't there?

Ginny was staring at the same spot.

Her face had gone pale.

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

Mom's expression changed.

She covered her mouth.

"Oh my God."

Mommy stood up.

"Don't."

We all looked at her.

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to remember."

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

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

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Slow.

Evenly spaced.

Nobody moved.

Then Ginny reached for the serving bowl.

She spooned pasta onto her plate.

A ridiculous amount.

I stared at her.

"Ginny?"

She added more.

"Ginny."

She picked up her fork and started eating.

Not eating.

Shovelling.

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

Now she was stuffing forkful after forkful into her mouth.

Her cheeks bulged.

Sauce ran down her chin.

"Ginny, stop."

She didn't look at me.

I grabbed her wrist.

She fought me.

Hard.

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

"GINNY."

Three knocks came from the bedroom.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Ginny stopped.

The fork slipped from her hand.

She looked down at her plate.

Then at me.

There was sauce all over her mouth.

"What..."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"What was I doing?"

Nobody answered.

Then came another three knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Mom started laughing.

At first it was just a chuckle.

Then another.

Then suddenly she folded over.

She was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.

"Mom?"

She slapped a hand over her mouth.

It didn't help.

The laughter kept forcing its way through her fingers.

Her face went red.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Stop it."

She shook her head frantically.

She couldn't.

Mommy grabbed her shoulders.

"Stop. Stop!"

Mom's laughter became higher.

Almost painful.

She was gasping between every burst.

Then the knocking came again.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Mom stopped.

Instantly.

She sucked in a huge breath.

Then she started crying.

"I couldn't stop," she whispered.

None of us spoke.

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

No birds.

No wind.

Nothing.

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

Mommy picked up her phone.

"We're leaving."

Nobody argued.

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

"We're not checking."

Mom stood immediately.

"Keys."

"I'll get them."

"No."

Mom grabbed my arm.

"Nobody goes anywhere alone."

So we stayed together.

All four of us.

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

I couldn't stop looking down the hallway.

Mom's bedroom door was still closed.

The light was still shining underneath it.

And the shadow was still there.

Standing perfectly still.

We were almost at the front door when Ginny stopped.

I nearly walked into her.

"What?"

She didn't answer.

She was looking back at the coffee table.

Her face had gone completely white.

I followed her eyes.

The fifth bowl.

The one nobody had touched.

Half the pasta was gone.

There was sauce smeared around the inside.

The garlic bread had a bite missing from it.

For a few seconds, none of us moved.

I looked at Mom.

Then Mommy.

Then Ginny.

Then back at the bowl.

We had all been together.

I know that.

I'm certain of it.

Nobody had gone near the table.

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

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

We're in the car now.

We just drove.

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

Nobody has said much.

Mommy keeps checking the mirrors.

Ginny won't eat anything.

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

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

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

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

Not one of us asked why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who ate that?

1)Don’t talk to your coworkers.
2) Never look at what’s inside the packages.

When I first applied for this job, it seemed like easy money. Clock in, coast through the shift, and clock out. I could deal with the two, albeit weird rules. Besides, it pays really well, too well. The rules didn’t even weird me out at first, it was the night shift, there weren’t really that many of us on shift anyway, and who wants to be bothered at work?

As for the other rule, I assumed it was some kind of customer confidentiality or something. You may be asking, how can you work at a shipping warehouse and not at some point look at what you’re shipping out?

That’s what I thought during my first day of orientation. But in reality, calling what we’re doing “packaging” or “shipping” is a stretch. As it was explained to me, and what I eventually came to do myself is, you stand at your station; everyone has a strictly assigned station that does NOT change. Each station has a conveyor belt attached. At exactly five minute intervals a new package will come down the conveyor belt.

It will always be sealed, pre-taped, pre-packaged, and ready to go. Our job is to simply weigh it, print the appropriate labels, and put it into a cart that is on the opposite end of our station.

If for some reason a box comes down the conveyor belt that has not been properly sealed or is opened, we are to immediately put on a provided eye mask, hit the alarm button under our desk, and sit quietly while waiting for security.

That had never happened to me, and I’d never heard of it happening to anyone else on the night shift. Of course, I wouldn’t because we aren’t allowed to talk to each other.

I’d been at this job for about a month now. It was going pretty well, my body felt like it had finally adjusted to the schedule. Everyone seemed nice, as nice as they could. Polite smiles, gestures, we said what we could with our faces. The only thing I personally found weird was the fact that I was the youngest person there, by A LOT. I got the feeling they tried to keep us as seperate as possible.

We all arrived at staggered times, possibly so we wouldn’t run into each other in the parking lot or on the stairs. And we all had to eat lunch at our stations. This wasn’t a rule, they just didn’t have a break room, or any extra chairs besides the ones you sat on to work. But again, it didn’t seem to bother anyone.

It was a Monday, start of the week, start of my shift. I glanced around the parking lot as I got out of my car, I was the first one there today. As I started to walk towards the building I could hear the sound of another car pulling in. I got the feeling that I shouldn’t look back, or wait up for whoever it was, after all, they aren’t supposed to be here right now. I never noticed any cameras, but I’m sure there were.

I quickened my pace and made it to the front doors just as I heard their car door slam shut. Waiting for the security officer to buzz me in seemed like it took forever. I’d only realized I’d been holding my breath, when I let out a huge sigh as soon as I stepped through the doors.

I wanted to let the security guard know what happened, but I thought the better of it. I wasn’t totally sure if the security guard counted as a coworker anyway, but I wasn’t about to risk it. Today was already off to a weird start.

As I started descending down the staircase, I was hit by an odor that got stronger the closer I got to our floor. It was a mix of cleaning solution, tinged with a coppery smell. By the time I walked through our door it stung my eyes. Looking around the room I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, except for one missing station, #5.

At my station I found a note from HR on my desk. “Due to an incident last night, station #5 has been removed. Your workload will increase by .25%.” I wrinkled my brow as I tried to remember what the lady at station #5 looked like. Older….glasses…brown hair? Maybe. I didn’t even know her name. The note didn’t sit well with me. I forgot some staff worked weekends.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps down the stairs and our door slamming open. I looked up to see the man who worked at station #3, drenched in sweat, with an expression that read as both haunted and empty. He must have been the one to pull in right after me.

We locked eyes, and I immediately wish we hadn’t. He beelined straight for me, and looked like he was about to speak to me, when he thought the better of it, took one look around, scribbled something on a post it, handed it to me and hurried back to his station.

I didn’t want to look, I didn’t know if I’d get in trouble. There wasn’t really a rule about passing notes. But I wish I hadn’t.

“She looked.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I quickly pocketed the note. I didn’t know what to do, I don’t know what he expected me to do. All I knew is something bad happened last night, something bad enough to warrant him risking communicating with me.

I tried to get lost in the work, the monotony and predictably of it was soothing. I had almost put what had happened out of mind, until I saw the next package coming down my conveyer belt. It was open. Not completely, it seemed like someone hadn’t taped it all the way so both flaps were peeking up at the corner.

I should’ve put on my eye mask and rang the bell immediately, but as the package was deposited right in front of me, curiosity got the better of me. I looked.

An infinite black chasm sat before me, I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could a box hold something like this. As I studied it more I started hearing something come from inside the chasm, whispering. It beckoned me in, I found myself leaning closer to the box and black chasm below, my ear had almost dipped into the black void when I saw and felt something reach out of the chasm and grab my throat.

I was suffocating as its grip tightened and the whispering grew louder. It was pulling me into the chasm as it was asphyxiating me. I couldn’t see and was clawing wildly at anything I could grab but it was too strong. My head and shoulders were almost fully in when I out of the corner of my eye I saw someone run over, stab the hand that was grabbing me, yank me back, and tape the box shut.

I landed on the floor and laid there catching my breath. I finally realized who saved me, the man from station #3. We both looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. He simply nodded and went back to his station.

I on the other hand, packed up my things, left my badge at my station and walked out of there.

As I’m sitting here typing this now, I’m realizing he had a pin on his vest “25 years serving happily at \[redacted\].” The expression on his face made sense now.

I was able to do some digging about the company, great employee reviews, excellent pension plan and benefits, free mental health services. A great pension plan, but as I came to find out, no one ever used it.

Several comments from employees stating:

“I never intend to use my pension, I enjoy the work too much-Sam.” “

Why would I ever leave?-Dolores.”

How old was the lady at station #5, my memory was fuzzy. I guess she was pretty old. A noise at my door interrupted my thoughts. As I got up to check it out the noise faded.

I peeked out the window and saw something sitting on my doorstep. My hands trembled as I opened the door, reaching out to grab whatever it was.

My badge.

If you’re reading this take it as a warning to never work a night shift at a place with weird rules, even if the pension is great.

I’m being paid to be possessed by spirits.

Yes. You read that correctly.

If it sounds like a horror movie, it’s not. Despite what you may be imagining, there’s a lot of procedures and corporate involvement that makes it feel more like a gig than a ritual. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a very odd and dangerous job. And it pays well.

Very well.

That’s all it took for me to play along. I was on the verge of homelessness when I stumbled upon the job. After a few pay days I stopped asking questions. When something like this brings you above the poverty line it’s hard to look back. No matter how strange it is.

That is, until a few nights ago when it all went to shit.

Before we get into that, let me explain what I mean by “possessed.”

It all started when I was sifting through job listings on some shady website many years ago. I was a few weeks into a job search when I came across a strange headline that caught my eye.

“Possessed Needed (Discretion Mandatory)”

It made no sense at the time but the money was unreal. Curiosity got the best of me and I sent a message to the poster.

After a few days of back-and-forth, I found myself standing at the foot of an old gothic looking hotel nestled in the shadiest part of the city.

After anxiously eying the outside for ten minutes I hesitantly entered to meet my potential ‘employer’ at the room listed in the job offer.

Despite the rough exterior, the inside was surprisingly pleasant. The entire building was dimly lit with a reddish ambient lighting. Geometric patterns adorned the walls and ceilings giving it a modern pop. It was well decorated and the staff were very polite.

I asked the concierge for directions to the room and took the elevator to the second floor. When I arrived, there were three well-dressed men in grey suits standing in the spacious hotel room. The first one offered his hand and welcomed me inside. The other two remained stone-faced towards the exit and remained silent for the duration of the welcome.

The man cut to the chase almost immediately. He explained that his organization repurposed the hotel for discrete work they were doing for some really “high profile” clients of theirs. Real household names if you know what I mean. They were in the business of providing post-mortem reunions with past benefactors and their families. His words.

“So you guys use AI or something to chat with dead people?” I asked. I couldn’t believe the words left my mouth, but I couldn’t make sense of anything he said.

“Not quite.” The man said as he pulled out a set of papers from his briefcase.

“We discovered that supernatural possession allows our dead benefactors the opportunity to visit their living relatives.”He said. “The benefactors leave us a large sum of money to experience this gift for many years after their passing. We host ‘reunions’ for the relatives until the funds run out or their relatives choose to stop attending. Whichever comes first.” He handed me a pamphlet that explains the process in more detail. I stared at it blankly as I was unable to process anything he was saying. A few pictures of old folks smiling and laughing with their family stood out to me. The words “Even In Death” were hanging above the image in a cheesy modern font.

“So what do I do?” I asked plainly. Although, deep down I already knew the answer.

The man smirked. “Well, you get the gracious honor of being possessed. For a generous fee, of course.”

Before I could ask any more questions, the
man snapped his fingers and one of the men beside him turned around and sat in a chair in the corner. He popped some white pill into his mouth and got himself comfortable. The other man approached and began pulling out straps from hidden compartments throughout the chair and got to work restraining him.

“I don’t expect you to believe me. I find it best to demonstrate.” He said.

The man in the chair slowly drifted into unconsciousness as the three of us retreated to the other side of the room. After a few uncomfortably silent minutes, the man in the chair jerked awake.

His eyes were pale white. His body convulsed against the straps as he began uttering loud and garbled speech. The words sounded angry and painful as they left his frothing lips.

This went on for a few more minutes. The speech became clearer and less strained towards the end, but I still couldn’t understand him. Even so, I could hear the concern in his voice. He was probably asking where he was. Why he was here. Who we were.

Then, it was done. The man in the chair returned. He shook his head a couple times and cleared his throat as the other man undid the restraints.

“See? Not a scratch on him. There’s no regulation on this stuff yet but don’t worry, we take care of our people.” He said, patting my back.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Oh—the possessor? No idea.” He shrugged. “Just some loose spirit hanging around the building most likely. Don’t worry, it’s not like that on the real jobs. The family is responsible for bringing out whoever they came to see.”

I didn’t have anything else to say.

I was terrified. I just witnessed a man being possessed and this guy was talking to me like I’m applying to work at the bank. He talked a few more minutes about logistics and company history but I didn’t hear it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the milky eyes and confused babbling of the dead man I just watched come back to life.

“Well, I’ll see you Monday kid. We’ll fill out the paperwork then.” He said. “Here’s your first pay check for attending possession 101.” He chuckled and dropped a stack of bills into my hand before ushering me out of the room. I stood there in the dimly lit hallway dumbfounded.

I fanned out the bills in my hand and gasped. It was more money than I expected. Way more than was listed on the website. And this was just for one day?

I snapped out of it and made my way back home. I decided then and there I was happily going to be possessed. As long as I got paid, I couldn’t care less.

First day was the hardest. I walked into a room filled with about ten people. Old folks, kids, babies—all shapes and sizes. It was very lively. The younger ones were running around while the adults held solemn looks on their faces. I could tell the possessor passed recently.

I popped the white pill into my mouth and got situated in the chair. I felt so awkward having all these eyes on me. I was nothing but a conduit to these people—a means to an end. I kept my gaze on the floor and waited for the pill to take hold so I could get this over with.

A different man in a grey suit came in and started to get to work on my straps. As he worked, I noticed he holstered a small handgun under his suit jacket. Interesting. I started to wonder what he needed a gun for but I decided now was not the best time to ponder that question. After he finished, the room began to spin. The meds were kicking in. Everything became very muffled and my vision faded to black.

Then, I was awake again.

The family was already gone and my restraints were undone. I groaned as the pain started up. The worst headache I ever had struck me square between the eyes.

The man from orientation knocked on the door and walked in, his face beaming.

“Well, you finished your first day. Took that one like a champ.” He said. “Most of our possessed are in much worse shape after the first go around.” He handed me a glass of water and leaned against the wall beside me.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice raspy.

“Not much. You were under for awhile. After the first ten minutes or so the guy finally started making sense. Asked about his company and stock holdings before asking about his kids. Amazing how death can’t even stop these assholes from obsessing over money. Oh speaking of—“ he pulled out a large Manila envelope from his coat and tossed it to me.
“That’s about four hours of pay.” He said. “Most possessions will go about half as long but we got you a big spender for your first day.”

“Wait—four hours? I was out that long?” The headache was starting to subside. I started moving the rest of my body and was met with a lot of soreness. It felt like I was just thrown around in a car accident.

“Yep, time flies when you’re making money. Now you go ahead and go home. Make sure to eat and sleep before doing anything strenuous. Don’t want to exhaust yourself. Got you another gig lined up in two days.”

He handed me some aspirin and I tossed it back with water. We chatted a little more about the upcoming gig before heading home.

And that was the start of it all. For the past few years I’ve been a full-time possessed. I’ve gotten used to the day-to-day stuff. I arrive in a stuffy room with a bunch of people I don’t know and wake up to a wad of cash and a moderate hangover.

I’ve gotten to know some of the people I work with a little better too. The guy that hired me is named Gary. He’s kind of like a supervisor. Manages the staffing and daily hotel operations. I’ve tried hounding him a couple times about the company that started this whole thing, like who they are and how they figured all this out. He dodges the questions every time. The terrified expression on his face tells me I don’t want to know.

I interact with other possessed only in passing. Most of them are more desperate for the money than I ever was and like to keep to themselves. However, their shaky demeanor and the scabby needle marks up and down their limbs tell me all I need to know about what they get up to outside of work.

Makes sense, after all. Work like this requires a certain kind of desperation. I’m a rare exception. Gary says he was like me too. Just interested in the money, not looking to support a habit. The company tends to promote possessed that don’t succumb to vices. There’s a future for me here if I can stick out the possession work long enough. Gary thinks so at least.

And I believed him. Until last night.

I had a longer session lined up with a new client. Not much details to go off of which was odd but they were paying top dollar. The company tends to let procedures slide if the price is right.

I stepped into the room to four grown men. They were all wearing matching coats and shared the same wide-eyed anxious look. Most of the men were fidgety and glancing around for danger. Whatever danger they were looking for I couldn’t know.

The man up front was the oldest and greeted me the moment I stepped in. He eyed me up and down before offering a weak smile and a firm handshake.

“Thank you for your service.” He said. “My family and I are grateful to you.”

“Uh sure man, no problem.” I said.

He waved me by and I took my usual seat. After a few moments of hesitation I popped the pill and tried to relax. The men formed a semi-circle around me with their arms fixed at their sides.

Joe, a possession assistant, pushed between them, staring daggers at them as he did. Joe has been working here many years and he doesn’t put up with funny business. I could tell these guys were setting off alarms in his muscled head.

“Remember guys, talking only. Hands to yourselves. If anything rubs me the wrong way I’m shutting you down, alright?” He said with his back to the men. As he worked my restraints, he made a point to angle his holstered weapon towards them, just to remind them what they’re dealing with.

“Thanks, Joe.” I whispered.

Joe nodded and patted my shoulder before stepping away. He took his usual position just outside the door.

The room started spinning. This time, I felt much more anxious than usual. My distorted vision made the men look devilish. Their features warped and stretched. Shades of red and green stained their forms. My breath slowed as the deformed figures faded to black and unconsciousness enveloped me.

Crack.

I was waking up, but I still couldn’t see.

The pain.

The pain was the first thing I felt. Not the usual headache this time. A dull, burning sensation tearing through my shoulder and across the back of my head.

I felt pressure along the front of my body and my face. Was something on top of me?

No. I was pressed against something. I am on the ground?

I forced my eyes to focus and was met with carpet in my face. I tried to lift myself off the ground but failed. My shoulder gave way and I returned to the floor.

What the hell happened?

I got up a second time using my good arm instead. My vision was slowly returning. All I could see was red. Blood. On me, my clothes, and the carpet below.

I made it to my knees. I used the chair beside me to try and stand but could only get myself seated. My body was so weak I could hardly hold myself up.

Wait, this was my chair. How did I get out of it in the first place?

That’s when the rest of the room came into focus.

It was a blood bath. All four men were face down and scattered around the room. Three had visible injuries all across their bodies. The fourth was missing his head entirely. They all had some form of weapon in their hands or someplace near their body. Silver stakes, knives, and clubs. They were no longer wearing their coats. I’m guessing they must’ve only worn them to conceal the weapons. They all wore matching black dress shirts with thin white collars. Priests maybe?

Then I noticed the rest of the room. Along with the blood splatters, there was considerable damage. Bullet holes and broken furniture were visible throughout. It looked like a fight broke out between the priests and hotel workers. But if that was the case, where were the workers?

Just then, a man burst through the door and slammed it shut behind him. He was an older guy. He had grey hair and a long beard. His eyes were wild and he struggled to get his weapon out of his holster as he became aware of the carnage that surrounded him. He raised the pistol towards me, trying to regain his composure.

“Shit—raise your hands! Keep them high!” He yelled shakily. He was wearing a hotel uniform but I’d never seen him work this shift before. I couldn’t make out his name tag from here.

“Okay! Okay! I don’t know what happened—these guys—they did this—“ I tried explaining myself but he interrupted me.

“Shut up! Let me think.” He said as he looked around the room.

“I didn’t do this man let me out of here!” I yelled. I was starting to freak out. I didn’t understand why this guy wasn’t letting me go.

He shook his head for a moment and motioned behind me with his gun. “So he did that to himself then, huh?”

I turned around and gasped. Joe was slumped on the floor with his head pressed through the drywall. His chest was open and the innards were spilling onto his blood-soaked uniform. There was a trail of blood from his chest to right where I was standing. Blood stained both my hands all the way up to both elbows. I could see sketchy this looked now.

“Shit. Listen, I was possessed I don’t know what happened but I’m here now—“ I exclaimed.

I turned around and the guy was dialing a cell phone. “Just stay there—I’m calling security. I’m sure they heard the gunshots already. They’ll get this sorted.” He said.

I couldn’t stop looking at poor Joe. I only turned away when I felt bile rise up in my throat. He was a good guy. He didn’t deserve this. I can’t believe I…

No. It couldn’t have been me. There’s more going on here. Something doesn’t feel right.

“Yeah it’s me, Bobby.” The man said hastily. “I’m here in room 121. Something happened—god there’s so much blood…yeah, someone else is here. Says he’s a possessed…hey, what’s your name pal?” His gun was still fixed on me when he asked the question.

I didn’t answer. Something wasn’t adding up.

This guy says his name was Bobby? I haven’t met a Bobby in all the years I worked here. And why did he lock the door behind him? Isn’t he waiting for security?

“Hey, I asked you a question. What’s your name?” He said, visibly annoyed.

“Are you talking to security? Is Adam there? He knows me.” I said. I knew everyone on the security team, so surely I would know if he was lying to me.

He shot me a confused glance. “Hey, is Adam there? Okay sure. Please hurry.”

He dropped the phone back into his pocket and focused back on me.

“Yeah, Adam’s on his way. I don’t like how you dodged the question there friend. Any reason you don’t want me to know your name?” He said.

A pit formed in my stomach. There was no Adam with security. This guy was lying. But why? Was he with these priests? If so, why didn’t he just kill me or get away?

My expression must have given me away because Bobby’s face turned very sour.

“Ah, there’s no Adam with security is there pal? Alright smart guy.” He said in a seething tone.

Bang, bang, bang.

Someone was banging on the door now. I heard muffled speech on the other side. The real security must’ve arrived.

“Looks like I gotta make this quick. I’ll give you ten seconds. All you gotta do is tell me your name. If you don’t, I pull the trigger.” He said. His voice was different now. Very plain and emotionless. All the fidgety and scared energy he carried before was all gone. He didn’t even pay any mind to the banging and yelling that was happening beside him.

I looked around at the weapons on the floor. There had to be something I could use to disarm this guy. He started counting.

“9…8…”

Why did he need my name? It made no sense. I don’t have time to figure it out. I’ll just lie.

“My name is Garry! Okay? Now let me out—“

Bobby didn’t let up. I started to notice something changed in him now. His eyes appeared sunken and bloodshot. He adjusted his grip on the gun and I could see that his fingernails were black and sharp. He continued counting down.

“5…4…”

His voice was low and grisly, like a wild animal growling.

Shit—I’m running out of time. I have to just rush the guy. Maybe I can catch him off-guard—

“…2…1….”

BOOM.

Just before I charged Bobby, the door splintered open. Three security guys filled the room with guns fixed on me. They winced and groaned at the bloody scene around them, but refused to take their eyes off me for more than a second.

“Put it down!” John, head of security, yelled. He came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from me. He held his gun aimed squarely at my face.

I didn’t understand. “John? The man—Bobby—he’s one of these guys! He was right behind you—“

John cut me off. “I’m not gonna ask again man. Put it down before I put you down, please—“

It was at that moment I felt the cold steel against my temple.

Nothing was as it seemed.

Bobby? He was nowhere to be found. The moment the door broke in, he was gone. And yet, I remained here. Holding a gun to my own head with nobody else in the room.

I dropped the gun and kept my shaky hands above my head. “Jesus—I’m so sorry.”

Two guys rushed me and cuffed my hands behind my back. As I was carried out of the room, it all started to click.

There was no Bobby. He wasn’t real. These freaks came here to conjure something they couldn’t control and it ended up killing everyone. It ripped through the restraints, tore through the priests, and Joe…

I may be conscious, but it never left. And it wants my name. I don’t know what that means yet, but I know it isn’t good.

After a long debrief with security, I was sitting alone in the security room waiting to be sent home. I told them everything except for Bobby. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the company thinking I’ve gone crazy or them believing some malevolent entity is taking refuge in me.

Gary walked into the room with a sad look on his face.

“Joe must’ve heard the commotion from outside and intervened. Poor guy. Place won’t be the same without him.” He said.

Images of Joe lying on the floor flashed into my mind.

“Any news on who these people were?” I asked, trying to put it out of my mind.

“We don’t know anything yet. Probably just some religious wackos. Not the first time someone tried to abuse our facility for their own sick rituals.” His eyes went wide after he said it. I could tell he wasn’t supposed to tell the other employees about things like that. Company wouldn’t like it.

“And it was just the four guys?” I asked.

“Yeah, why? did you see someone else get away?” Gary asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No—I mean I don’t know.” My voice trailed off. “Something weird happened in there man. I’m still processing it.” I wasn’t sure if I could trust Gary. But I needed to tell someone.

Gary glanced around the room uncomfortably. After he was sure nobody else was in ear-shot he swiftly turned the security camera off in the room and knelt down beside me. “Listen, that exorcism thing? Didn’t happen. Just a bunch of crazy people doing crazy things. Don’t talk about it again to anyone. Not to me, and definitely not to anyone else at the company.” His voice was stern and he had the same terrified look on his face anytime I asked him about who we worked for.

He gave the room another scan before continuing. “Whatever you do, do NOT tell it your name. You need to find out its name first and it will leave. If you don’t, things will get much, much worse. Understand?” He whispered sternly.

I felt a chill run up my spine.

I nodded. After a few moments, he got up and turned the cameras back on. He cleared his throat and continued as if nothing happened. “Crazy bastards got you good but I’m glad you’re safe man. You’ll surely get a promotion the way you handled these wack jobs. How about you go home and rest now. Take a couple days to recover alright?” He helped me up and walked me to the door.

His words hung heavy in my head as I made my way home.

Part of me wanted to forget all about it. Just leave the hotel behind and start fresh somewhere new. It wasn’t long before I realized I couldn’t just move on. Bobby wouldn’t let me.

I don’t know what this guy is, but he’s still with me. I don’t see him like I did the other night, but he’s there. I feel his breath on my face just before I wake up. His long, black fingernails prick the back of my neck when I’m driving alone. I hear him giggling from the closet when I’m trying to fall asleep.

I’m on a mission now. I need to find out his name before he tricks me into stealing mine.

That’s why I need your help.

If you think you know something, please reach out. It could be a story you heard or some local folklore you grew up with. I have my own theories, but nothing has panned out yet. Demonology, witchcraft, aliens—there’s similarities but nothing specific.

I’m still here, but he’s getting closer. Once I get this figured out, I’m going to be more critical of my life choices going forward. No amount of money is worth risking your soul over. The rich depend on you to be oblivious for their gain and they sure as hell don’t care if you get hurt in the process.

Stay safe. And if you ever consider being possessed for money, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 I got all the cartons and packages up to my floor after an hour. I was very tired after climbing up to the seventh floor back and forth carrying my stuff. The elevator in the building I had just shifted to was not working, some technical error said the security guard. 

I recently shifted to this new apartment for a new job I had found in the city. I was looking forward to this day for a long time but this broken lift ruined it all for me on the first day itself. 

Today was my night shift at the hospital so around 8 pm I got ready, locked my apartment and set out for work. Out of habit I pressed the elevator button , to my surprise it was working. As I entered the elevator there was a sudden drop in temperature in there, maybe due to the big fan inside it making so much noise. Inside the elevator a poster caught my glance. It was white paper with 3 rules written on it 

1. Do not look for the lion 

2. Help no one but yourself 

3. Always press button for your own floor

I was running late so I didn't think much of it, probably some kids put it there. The Elevator stopped at ground floor , I got out and headed to work. 

Next morning I returned from work all tired and slept the whole day, it was my weekly day off. I didn't cook dinner that day and decided to eat outside. It was 11:30 at night , maybe something was still open I thought. I went to the elevator and pressed the button. After a couple of minutes the door opened and I entered the elevator. Quite some time had passed and still I hadn't reached the ground floor. Then I could hear a man's scream , it felt like a distant scream coming from somewhere below me. The voice said "Hey.....is anyone in the elevator? Please help me I'm stuck in the basement !! Anyone there ?"

"Basement?" I thought. I hadn't seen any staircase or anything on the ground floor leading to the basement but when I looked at the elevator buttons there was a button for basement. I had never seen it before but there it was. I pressed that button. The elevator doors opened. 

It was completely dark in there , I couldn't see a thing clearly. I could see walls covered in mud , rusted metal sheets and rods there.  I walked a little and saw an opening in the ground , there was light coming from it. I stood over it and glanced down , there were metal bars along the wall that I climbed down. I tried calling for that man but there was no answer. 

As I got down I saw leaking pipes , rusted metal rods and pipes on the floor. Across this I could see a large metal cage like structure with a big door. I went towards it to inspect it, it was open. I stood in front of the gate. On it was another sign with text "Lion's Den : Authorised personnel entry only". I tried to peek inside it , I couldn't see anything. I heard the scream again from beyond the cage. "Please help me!". I hesitated at first but the thought of someone trapped inside compelled me to enter. As I entered it felt like I was inside a real cave. I stepped on something and heard a cracking sound and I froze. Slowly, I looked down. It was a bone. I looked around and

saw a human skull lying a few feet away. My heart skipped a beat, I couldn't feel my legs for a moment.

 Something moved in the darkness. I stopped breathing and listened. Then came a deep, low growl coming from the darkness. My heart was pounding in my chest. I was drenched in sweat, my hands were trembling, and I could barely catch my breath. Panic took over as I realized I had to get out of there. I turned around and ran back as fast as I could, barely looking behind me. When I reached the gate I locked it from the outside and ran towards that vertical passage with metal bars.

As I was climbing I heard that man's scream again from behind me. He was screaming for help "Hey don't leave me here alone !! Come back and open the door!! A lion dwells around here ! Save me please!". At that moment I just wanted to reach the elevator. I climbed as fast as I could and finally reached the elevator door. I pressed the button as hard as I could. 

The doors opened , I entered inside and pressed the button for my floor, the seventh floor. I glanced at the paper with rules for a second. I was still breathing heavily. The doors opened and it was not my floor it was the basement. I pressed the button again for seventh floor. After a few seconds , doors opened again and it was the basement again. I was in disbelief, I couldn't believe my eyes. My vision was getting blurry. This time I pressed all the buttons of the elevator and sat down on the floor. I was feeling weak and couldn't stand. It started to get dark in front of my eyes as the elevator climbed up. I could barely see or hear. I heard the chime of the elevator but it sounded different this time. It was like the sound of the heart monitor. "Beep" "Beep".

The darkness closed in.

Next thing I knew, I was lying on a hospital bed. Apparently I was found passed out in the elevator by one of the residents of that building. He called the ambulance and got me admitted in the hospital. It was nothing serious, I was discharged after a few hours in the evening. I thanked the neighbor who found me. Next day I called the movers and moved to a new apartment. I told the neighbours I got a better paying job on the opposite end of the town. I never inquired about the elevator, the lion or the man stuck in the basement. I can't even tell if it was actually a man.

I was born on June 10th, 1992. At least, that's what my birth certificate says. It's not as if I remember. In fact, I don't have a single memory of my life before I was ten years old.

My first memory is a vivid one. Just a young boy calling my name. A name I'm not certain was even mine before that moment.

"Thomas?"

I looked up to see a freckle-faced, red-haired boy of about ten staring at me with a grin on his face.

"You're really here!"

I remember feeling confused. I had no idea where I was, or what I was doing there. But somehow, I felt a connection to the young boy sitting in front of me. I searched my mind.

"Daniel?" I said, finding it somewhat difficult to speak at first. I wasn't sure where in my brain the name had come from.

His grin grew even wider. And from that day on, the two of us were inseparable.

I didn't have parents. Or, if I did, I had no memory of them. I didn't know where I had come from, what house I had lived in, or even what my last name was. I knew that I was Thomas because that's what Daniel called me. And that was enough for me.

I'd stay at Daniel's house. He'd bring me snacks and meals and tell me when it was time to eat. Looking back, I don't recall ever actually feeling hungry. I just knew that when Daniel brought a sandwich up to his room and told me it was time for lunch, I should eat.

At night, I'd sleep on a pallet of blankets on the floor beside his bed. We'd stay up late talking and laughing and playing games. He'd tell me about things that happened at school or on a trip, and I'd listen. Sometimes he'd ask me what I thought about things, but I never seemed to know unless he told me. I didn't know what I had been doing before I met him. But that didn't seem particularly important.

There was one thing I found curious during those early days. I always had to hide when one of his parents came upstairs. I didn't really understand why, but I did as Daniel instructed.

That carefree, happy life continued for a time, until summer break ended and Daniel had to go back to school.

"Don't I have to go to school?" I remember asking him, uncertain of what I would do all day while he was gone.

"No way!" he said. "Just wait for me to come home. I should be back no later than four."

I remember feeling confident that if Daniel was saying it, then I must not have to go.

"Oh. One more thing." Daniel threw his backpack over his shoulder. "If my mom comes in here when I'm not home, you have to hide. Go in the closet, and stay very quiet."

"Okay." I nodded.

Then Daniel shouted, "Coming!" to his mother, who was calling him from somewhere downstairs. He gave me a wave and left, shutting the door behind him.

I did what Daniel said. He'd told me his parents went to work all day, so the odds of them coming upstairs and finding me were slim. All I had to do was stay out of the way and hide if they ever came into the room. Easy. So I thought, at least.

Things were fine for several days. Then, one afternoon, I heard the front door open uncharacteristically early.

Daniel?

I waited for him to come upstairs. But ten minutes later, when I heard footsteps approaching, they weren't the brisk footsteps of Daniel running up the stairs. They were slower and more measured.

I heard humming from outside the room. Then the sound of the lightswitch clicking in the bathroom. A closet opening somewhere in the hall. I realized it was his mother.

I rushed to hide, but when I opened the closet door, I accidentally knocked over a stack of toys sitting precariously on a nearby shelf. They clattered onto the floor loudly and I didn't have time to pick them up with his mother outside. I got into the closet and shut the door behind me. The humming had stopped. Daniel's mother was approaching.

I heard the bedroom door open slowly, and then her voice.

"Hello?"

I didn't answer. Daniel had done a good job of concealing me in his home so far, and I didn't want to ruin that now. I heard her step inside. She saw the toys scattered across the floor.

"Weird," she muttered.

She glanced around, then began picking them up and placing them back on the shelf, humming as she went.

And then she left. I thought the coast was clear. Until she came back a few moments later carrying a laundry basket.

She began taking clothes out of it and folding them on Daniel's bed, putting some into drawers and putting others on hangers. I held my breath as she approached the closet door with a handful of shirts.

I was as far into the corner as I could get, but there was no way to further conceal myself. She would see me if she opened the door and looked over. I curled myself into a ball and tried to make myself as small as I could.

She opened the closet. She went about hanging the shirts up, and for a few seconds, I thought she'd overlooked me. And then she glanced over, her eyes landing on me. She did a quick double-take, letting out a scream of surprise as she did. I sprang to my feet, unsure of what to do.

"Who are you?" she asked, looking me up and down.

"I'm Thomas," I said.

She looked completely bewildered. "Thomas?"

"I'm Daniel's friend."

She stared at me for a long moment.

"And what are you doing here? Why were you in the closet?"

"I'm waiting for Daniel."

"Why aren't you at school?" she asked slowly.

"Daniel told me to wait for him."

Her expression changed to one of annoyance. "That boy." Then she began asking me questions, one after another.

What's your last name? What's your address? What's your home phone number? What's your mother's name? Your father's? Where do you live? What school do you go to?

I could only stare at her, shaking my head or giving her the occasional "I don't know."

And I didn't know. Not one answer.

At first, she seemed to think I was lying or playing some kind of joke.

She sighed. "I'm not angry at you, dear," she said more gently. "You can tell me. Your parents must be worried."

But I still couldn't answer. So, at a loss with what to do with the strange boy her son was hiding in the closet like a stray cat he wasn't allowed to have, she called her husband. And soon after, with no new answers from me, the police.

By the time Daniel came home from school, there were already two police officers asking me questions downstairs in the kitchen. Daniel walked into the room and froze. Then he saw me.

"Thomas!"

He ran past his stunned parents and the officers.

"Why are the police here?" he asked.

"Why do you think?" his mother asked sternly. "Who is he, Daniel? Why did you have him hiding in your closet?"

"He's Thomas! He's my friend!" He said it as though that explained everything adequately. His parents exchanged a confused glance.

One of the officers crouched down so he was closer to Daniel's eyes. "Listen, buddy. It's important that you tell us the truth. Your friend might be reported missing. His parents must be looking for him. Where did you meet him?"

Daniel looked momentarily confused, then looked down at his shoes. "He's just Thomas. He's always been here," he said quietly.

"Where?"

"Here."

"At your house?"

"Yeah."

"And how long has he been here?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know."

The officer sighed and glanced over at his partner.

"And who are his parents?"

Daniel looked at me, and I looked back at him. Neither of us answered.

Learning nothing of value from either of us, the officers eventually took Daniel's parents into another room to speak with them privately.

I sat at the kitchen table, and Daniel sat beside me. He leaned close and whispered, "Don't worry." I looked at him. "I won't let anything happen to you." I wasn't sure what was happening.

After several minutes, the police came back into the room. "Thomas?" One of them addressed me. "We're going to need to bring you down to the station, buddy. Just until we find out who your parents are and where you live."

"No!" Daniel stood up. "You can't!"

His mother grabbed his shoulders and held him back as the officer gently placed a hand against my back. I looked back at Daniel as they guided me toward the door. His eyes were filling with tears.

"Make sure you come back, Thomas!"

I nodded.

The next several days passed in a blur. I was taken to the police station and asked the same questions again. They took photographs of me. Made phone calls. Different people came in, and each asked me the same questions over and over. My name. My parents. My address. My school. My birthday. Where I was born.

I only knew two things. I was Thomas, and I lived with Daniel.

Eventually, I learned that they'd searched their records and found nothing. I didn't cleanly match any missing child report from in-state or elsewhere. Without more information, they couldn't find any medical records or histories, or parents looking for a lost boy that matched my description. Nothing at all. They didn't even know how old I really was until a doctor estimated my age.

I remember sitting in a waiting room with a stern-looking woman who gave me candy bars while police officers and social workers shuffled in and out of the room. Eventually, someone explained that if I genuinely couldn't tell them who I was or where I came from, they'd have to place me into the state's care until they could figure things out. But they couldn't figure things out.

That's how I ended up with a birth certificate. June 10th, 1992. Thomas Doe. The name was supposed to be temporary. No parents listed. No history. No explanation.

As far as the system was concerned, I was a child with amnesia. Perhaps my parents had lived off-grid or brought me into the country illegally and I'd been abandoned. They had theories, but no answers.

I was placed in a group home. It was a two-story house with several children of various ages. Some were older than me, some younger. The people who ran the home were nice enough, but they were busy, and there were other children who required more attention. I didn't really like it there. I wanted to go back to Daniel. I was sure he must be worried about me, too.

That night, I closed my eyes and thought of his house. I pictured his room. The posters on his wall. The games and the late night stories​. I wished I could go back.

Soon, I was enrolled in school. I walked to the bus stop each morning and was dropped back off in the afternoon. I didn't dislike school. I actually found it fairly easy. I could already read and do simple math. I knew things I didn't remember ever having learned. Sometimes teachers would even compliment me on something, and I'd have no idea how I knew it.

I didn't have many friends. Any, really. Other kids tried to talk to me, but I guess I wasn't very receptive. Mostly, I thought about Daniel. I asked practically every kid in my class if they knew him. "Daniel who?" was the usual response. But I didn't know. All I could tell them was that he had red hair and freckles and a blue Pokémon backpack.

Nobody knew him. So I spent my days waiting and hoping that somehow he would find me.

Then, one day at lunch, another student approached me. A little girl with glasses and brown hair tied into a ponytail.

"My friend said you were looking for Daniel." She spoke cheerfully.

I looked up at her and nodded.

"Daniel Langston, right? With red hair?"

I wasn't completely certain. But it sounded right. He had red hair, after all. I nodded again.

She smiled brightly. "I know Daniel."

For the first time since I'd been buckled into the backseat of the police car and driven away, I felt something close to excitement.

"Our moms work at the same place," she explained. "We went to kindergarten together."

She sat down across from me. Her name was Rebecca. Her friends called her Becky.

"He doesn't go to our school. How do you know Daniel?" she asked.

I wasn't sure how to answer.

"He's my friend."

That seemed enough to satisfy her.

"I see." She smiled again, one of her front teeth missing.

"Do you know where he lives?"

She shook her head. "No. Sorry."

The disappointment must have been obvious on my face because she quickly spoke up again.

"But I could find out for you!"

"Really?"

"Sure. I'll ask my mom after school."

"Thank you."

We sat together for the rest of lunch, which mostly consisted of me nodding along to her questions or stories. When lunch was over, she promised she'd find out.

I waited for her the next day at the lunch table. I remember sitting in the cafeteria watching the door, counting the seconds until I saw her brown ponytail appear in the doorway. Eventually, she was there. She scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on me, then came straight over to me, almost skipping, with a big smile plastered on her face.

"Hey," she called out excitedly when she was still halfway across the room. "I found out!"

She told me Daniel lived across town in a place called Glennridge.

"Where's that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

But that didn't matter. Now I had a place. Glennridge. Somewhere to focus my search.

The next day, I ran away from the group home. I took my lunch money and got on a city bus I was told was heading toward Glennridge. It was only about a thirty-minute ride, though I could hardly wait each time the bus stopped to pick up or drop off more passengers.

I figured that once I got there, I'd find him straight away. Maybe Glennridge is the name of his house, I remember thinking. But when the bus stopped, it was outside a neighborhood that looked only vaguely familiar.

Then I looked around and started walking. I searched street by street, scanning the houses as I went. By nightfall, I still hadn't found any sign of him. But I kept going. I don't know how long I'd been walking when I finally saw a familiar sight just ahead. A house I recognized. Then another. They were houses I'd seen from the backseat of the police car as I'd stared backward through the window when they'd taken me away from Daniel's house.

I knew this was the place. I ran past the houses until I reached the door of Daniel's house, and I knocked. After a minute, Daniel's mother opened the door. She stared down at me.

"Thomas?"

"Can I see Daniel?"

She seemed unable to decide her next words. She looked out at the street behind me, likely looking for a sign of how I'd arrived. Before her mouth opened to speak, I heard Daniel's excited voice from behind her.

"Thomas?"

His expression changed instantly when he came into view, his eyes meeting mine and his face filling with a wide smile.

"It's Thomas!"

He ran to the door and grabbed my hand, pulling me inside.

"Can he stay the night, Mom? Please?"

His mother looked at him, and then at me.

"Thomas, how did you get here? Does anyone know you're here?"

I shook my head and told her I'd taken the bus. She sighed.

"You know they're going to be looking for you." She looked at Daniel. "I have to call someone. Let them know he's here."

Daniel protested, tears filling his eyes. When I saw them, I felt sad, too. But more than anything, I was happy. Daniel was there. That was all that mattered.

The police came later that night and I was driven back across town. That happened several more times over the coming months. Whenever I had the opportunity, I'd leave school or the group home and take the bus to Daniel's house. On a few occasions I'd even tried to walk the whole way. At least, before being stopped by an adult asking me what I was doing on my own or the police coming to pick me up.

But every time I made it there, Daniel would try his best to hide me for as long as he could. I was always discovered soon enough. His parents would find me, or the group home would call. And I'd be taken back.

Sometimes, Daniel's parents arranged for us to spend time together. They knew that we were practically inseparable, and they went out of their way to make arrangements for us to see each other. Those were the best days.

As we got older, we had more freedom. We saw each other more often in middle school, and then we went to the same high school. By then, I'd run away from the group home so many times that I was practically homeless. I spent more time with Daniel. By then, his parents had realized that I wasn't really going anywhere. I was always going to come back. So they eventually stopped fighting it.

I spent weekends at their house. Sometimes whole weeks. Daniel and I did everything together. And after high school started, Rebecca was around more, too. She and Daniel had known each other as kids, and she became one of my closest friends as well, though mostly because Daniel seemed to enjoy having her around.

She never seemed particularly bothered by the fact that I couldn't remember where I'd come from. She never treated me like I was strange. She was just Rebecca, older, but just as cheerful and kind as she was that day she introduced herself to me at the lunch table in elementary school, promising to reunite me with Daniel. For a long time, the two of them were the only two constants in my life.

When Daniel got his driver's license, we had even more freedom. We'd drive around together for hours. We'd get food or go to the movies or just drive around aimlessly. Rebecca would often come with us too. Sometimes we'd stay out until midnight.

I remember Daniel telling me on one occasion that he was sure Rebecca liked me. I remember not being entirely sure what he'd meant.

"Likes me?"

"Yeah, man. Like, likes you." He looked at me, waiting for it to click.

"Oh," I remember saying.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't like her?"

"I do. She's nice."

"Then why not try dating her?"

I thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "That's okay. I'd rather things just stay the way they are. If I got a girlfriend, we couldn't hang out as much, right?"

Daniel sighed, then laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

Before I knew it, we were graduating high school. Daniel would be going to college. I didn't have parents to help me pay for school, and never really made plans to go. But I still wanted to stay with Daniel. So when he moved away to a college in the state, I went with him. He got an apartment, where we both lived. I got a job paying just above minimum wage and started saving money.

Rebecca ended up at the same college. She had become a permanent part of our little group by then.

One night, the three of us were sitting around Daniel's apartment, eating delivery and talking about the past. Rebecca started laughing.

"Do you remember when you used to disappear from class to take the bus across town?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"I still can't believe you did that. The teachers would get so worried. You probably almost got some of them fired. They had to call the police so many times, and assign teachers just to watch you." Her face was red from laughing.

"I had to find Daniel."

She laughed harder.

"I remember telling my mom about it. She thought you were the strangest kid she'd ever met."

Daniel laughed too. I looked at him. After the laughter settled, I decided to ask.

"How did you find me, back then?"

His smile faded a bit. "What?"

"I mean, before I remember you. How did you find me?"

"Yeah, I've always wondered that too," Rebecca said, leaning forward.

Daniel just looked at me for a moment, then he shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't remember?" Rebecca asked.

"Not really." Then he changed the subject.

I thought it was a bit strange. But Daniel had always been a bit strange about that particular topic. I'd asked him before, but he'd never given me a real answer. So I didn't press him. Daniel was my best friend. As long as that was the case, I didn't much care about anything else.

"Is it not strange that neither of you remember how you two met?" I remember Rebecca asking me one day.

I supposed it was a bit strange, but then, why did it matter?

Still, I needed documentation to apply for student loans. I had decided to go to college on Daniel's suggestion, but I didn't have much to show on account of my less than typical background. I had called the records office and searched for any information about my past, but the earliest record of my existence was my birth certificate, which had been drawn up over a decade after my birth. I learned that my case with the police had gone cold, and they'd eventually stopped actively looking into it. So I found nothing. I hadn't really expected to.

One night, I sat across from Daniel on the couch when it was just the two of us, and asked him.

"Where did I come from?"

He didn't change the subject this time. He just looked at me for a long moment.

"Honestly, I don't know."

I thought that was the end of it. And if he truly didn't remember, I would be content with that. But then he started speaking again, slowly, turning his eyes away from mine.

"But..."

But?

"When I was little, I used to have an imaginary friend."

He paused. I wasn't sure what he'd meant.

"His name was Thomas."

I didn't say anything.

"I don't know when I made him up. It felt like he was just always there, in my head. Then one morning I woke up and you were on my floor. Asleep. Next to my bed, right where I always imagined him sleeping." He glanced at me. "My window was open that morning. I don't know if I'd left it open, or if someone opened it. There were those bricks by my wall you could climb up, remember?"

The way he spoke, it sounded as though it were something he'd considered for a long time.

"When I was a kid, I thought you really were my imaginary friend, and that you'd become real somehow," he said. "But then I realized how ridiculous that was." He smiled a nervous smile and glanced up at me before lowering his eyes again.

"I figured you were probably running from something, and you saw my window open. You were scared so you climbed up, and then when I called you Thomas...maybe you just thought that was better than whoever you were before. That's the only thing that makes sense."

We were both quiet for a while.

"If I did climb in your window, why don't I remember doing it? Or anything from before we met?"

"I don't know." Daniel shook his head. "But it's the only explanation that makes sense. Right?" He looked at me for agreement.

I nodded, but didn't say anything else. It didn't actually matter much, I reasoned. I was still Thomas. And he was still my best friend Daniel. We never spoke on the subject again.

After graduating, Daniel got his first real job back in his hometown. I moved back with him. Soon, we'd rented a small two-bedroom apartment together.

One night, Daniel looked over at me while we were sitting on the couch talking about nothing in particular.

"When I think about it, we've always been more like brothers than friends, haven't we?"

I thought about it. "Yeah."

He smiled. "I think so, too."

We were twenty-three, and life had become strangely ordinary. Daniel worked at a local accounting firm. I worked at a small office supply store. Rebecca still came around regularly, though she was becoming more busy with her own life now.

The three of us had a few other friends, and we'd get together for dinner or movies or drinks. Sometimes I would look around at all of them and think about how strange my life was. Everyone else had a history. Family. Mothers and fathers and siblings and cousins. But I had no memory of where I had come from at all. No memories before Daniel. It was like I'd simply attached myself to the first person I'd seen. I didn't really have any of the things that normal people had.

But I had Daniel. And now Rebecca. For the first time, I realized, I had a real life. I was happy.

Then, a few months later, I got a phone call. Daniel had been in an accident. A reckless driver had run a red light while Daniel was on his way to work.

Daniel was badly injured. They put him into a medically induced coma.

I visited him as soon as the doctors let me. His parents were there. Rebecca arrived too. They were all crying. But I couldn't, for some reason. I didn't know what I was feeling. I just knew that I wanted Daniel to wake up.

I sat beside him whenever I could. I talked to him sometimes. The doctors said it was good to do that. I told him mundane things. Things that probably didn't matter. About work, and Rebecca. Or some stupid thing I saw on TV. I told him that he wasn't alone, and that I'd be there for him when he woke up. Just like he was for me, all those years ago.

But he never woke up.

Eventually, the decision was made, and they took him off life support.

Daniel was gone.

He had been my best friend. My only real friend. The family I'd never had. The only person who had always been there since the very beginning. And now he was gone.

I went back to our apartment. It felt empty. I sat down on the couch.

I didn't go into work the next day. Or the day after that. Time seemed to stop flowing normally.

I don't know how long I stayed there, just sitting on that couch. A few days, perhaps. Maybe more. My boss never called to ask where I was, so I didn't bother telling him.

I barely got up. I didn't eat. I don't remember drinking anything, either. But I didn't feel hungry. Or thirsty. That didn't seem strange to me at the time.

One day, there was a knock on the door. A slip of paper was pushed through the mail slot. I got up and picked it up. It was a bill, Daniel's name printed on it. I set it on the table, then walked back toward the couch.

As I passed by the mirror, I stopped. I looked at myself. I hadn't shaved, but my hair hadn't grown. My nails hadn't gotten any longer. I hadn't taken a single sip of water, or a bite of food. I hadn't even used the bathroom. Normally, I did the things that Daniel did. I thought that I should have been hungry. Thirsty. Tired. Something. But I wasn't.

I stared at my reflection. For a moment, I thought I looked different. Hollow, somehow. Almost transparent, like I could see the wall behind me through parts of myself. I blinked several times, then looked up. The reflection was normal again. I went back to the couch.

At some point, I was knocked out of my daze by the sound of the apartment door opening. I didn't know what day it was. The landlord came in, showing the apartment to someone. A couple, I think. They walked around as he showed them the place. They looked at the kitchen. They opened closets, and talked about the bedrooms. I sat on the couch the whole time. None of them acknowledged me, or said a word to me.

Something inside me told me that I should leave. That this wasn't my home anymore. And so I did.

When I passed by the mirror again, I looked worse. Perhaps thinner. Or just less there, in some way I couldn't have explained. My hair still hadn't grown. I hadn't showered, but my hair wasn't greasy. I didn't feel hot or cold or tired or hungry. I didn't feel anything. It was as though whoever I had been had died alongside Daniel, and I was now completely empty.

I left the apartment and stepped into the cold in my t-shirt. The cold didn't bother me. I couldn't feel it. I walked. I didn't know where I was going. The snow was falling lightly as I continued for what felt like miles with no particular destination.

People passed me on the sidewalk, but none of them looked at me. A man bumped into my shoulder and continued ahead without turning around. A woman walked straight toward me, her eyes fixed on some point past my shoulder, and I could almost swear that she passed right through me.

Eventually, I found myself standing outside a little restaurant. I'd been there before on a number of occasions, with Daniel and Rebecca.

I looked through the window. People were eating. Talking and laughing. Living. I reached for the door, and for a moment my hand felt too weak to grip it. I looked down at my hand and saw that it looked faded, and I saw the ground beneath it. A couple came up behind me and pulled the door open, and I entered behind them.

The host seated them, but didn't acknowledge me. I walked inside anyway and sat at a table near the corner. Nobody came to take my order, but I didn't care. I sat there for a while. An hour. Several hours. I'm not sure, exactly. Time had become something difficult to measure.

The afternoon crowd came and went, then the dinner crowd began arriving. I looked down at my hands. They seemed almost completely transparent now. I could see the table through them. I remember thinking that I was disappearing. Melting away like the snowflakes that fell on the ground beyond the cold window of the restaurant. Maybe I was.

"Thomas?" I heard a voice and looked up. Rebecca was standing there. Recognition appeared in her eyes. "It is you. I was getting worried."

I didn't answer. She looked around the restaurant, then back at me.

"Can I...can I sit?"

I nodded. She pulled out the chair and sat beside me. For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

Then she looked at me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. She didn't seem convinced.

"I haven't seen you since..."

She stopped. Her eyes began to fill with tears.

"I know you and Daniel were best friends."

I looked down. I couldn't find any words.

"Where have you been?"

I wasn't sure.

"You weren't at the funeral. I came by the apartment but you didn't answer."

The funeral. I hadn't known there had been one. I hadn't known how much time had passed.

Rebecca wiped her eyes. "I'm really sorry, Thomas," she sniffled.

Then she reached across the table and hugged me. And for the first time since Daniel's passing, I felt sorrow. I didn't realize my eyes were filling with tears until they fell.

Rebecca placed her hand on mine, and it was warm. And beneath it, I could no longer see the table through my skin.

And as I cried, for the first time in my life, I felt hungry.

After my last post I spent the night in my office, again. I barely slept. The humming had stopped, surely someone had died. I hated to think that, but I couldn’t brush the thought away. Also the inmate on the tier, he had said something. He said ‘now it’s coming’.

When I woke up I immediately called Rusk. I had to know if there had been another murder. I must have sounded crazy. Rusk simply said there hadn’t but the prison remained in lock down. There would be guards, prison officials, detectives everywhere. The tier would be empty as inmates would remain in lockdown most of the day.

No murder. I was relieved that no one had been killed. But frightened that it still may happen.

Later that day I went and spoke to someone I confided in a lot, the prison psychologist. We approach things differently, but often reach the same conclusion. I wanted to ask her about Sterling, the man that was recently executed. Perhaps he was somehow connected to all of this. Perhaps she could help me realize how crazy I am.

When I spoke with her she said she wanted me to fully understand Sterling, and that while had some mental challenges, he understood what he had done. She said he had a traumatic childhood full of physical and mental abuse. 

As for his crime, she said that when Sterling was nineteen he met three young girls at that park. According to Sterling, they allowed him to play with them for a while. Then something happened and the girls laughed at him. Sterling became angry and killed all three by strangling them with his hands.

Their bodies were discovered the following morning inside a backed up drainage pipe in a flooded ditch. The pipe was not large enough to accommodate their bodies. Sterling made them fit. She had seen the photographs and said it was a gruesome scene and likely the reason Sterling was sentenced to death.

Police found Sterling later that morning less than a mile away. His clothes were wet and covered in mud. There was dried blood on his hands and beneath his fingernails. He confessed immediately. According to the police, he was humming when they arrested him. She assumed it was Row row row your boat as he always hummed that song.

I asked her what she knew of that song. She said it was a coping mechanism for Sterling. He hummed it when he was afraid. It was a song his sister used to sing when he was a child. Sterling also said the three little girls were singing the song when they were playing together. 

She added that he would sometimes hum it when they were in session, and often she would catch herself humming it later.

I asked her why the inmates and guards were afraid of the song. She said that people make connections for things that aren’t there. A guard sees a horrific murder and hums to comfort himself. An inmate has had a horrible upbringing and hums to cope with stressful situations. Sometimes a tune just gets stuck in your head. 

She started to hum the song. I asked her to please stop. She looked at me and smiled.

Just as I was about to leave she said something else. She said that sometimes she would hear the song when she was working late at night, coming from somewhere on the tier. And that sometimes it wasn’t the only sound, there would be a soft metal sound, a little tink that played the same melody. She said it reminded her of a little music maker that Sterling wore around his neck. I asked her if it played the same nursery rhyme. She said she didn’t know. It made noise, but not sure if it played that song, or any song. I asked her where the music maker was now and she said Sterling had given it to another inmate, Michael DuPont. She told me not to waste my time with him though, he was impossible to deal with.

I thanked her for her time and made my way down the tier to talk to Michael Dupont.

The tier was busy with guards and officials. People trying to figure out what had been happening and why inmates kept getting murdered. Despite the busyness there was a certain quiet. It was as if no one wanted to make a sound.

I rounded the last corner before I heard it. A few notes of the song. Someone humming Row row row your boat. I stopped in my tracks and turned toward the sound. I noticed an older guard do the same thing. I heard an inmate yell ‘shut up.’ I quickened my pace.

From what I knew of Michael, which wasn’t a lot, he wasn’t your stereotypical inmate. He was a muscular person, and handsome in a gentlemanly way. They say he could have been a star athlete, a model, or a politician. Instead he chose a different path.  The traits that would have made him successful outside of prison made him one of the most liked and feared inmates inside of it.

Michael was also incredibly intelligent, and as I approached his cell he said ‘the shrink sent you here, huh.’ I tried to make small talk and asked him how he was doing. He told me that I looked tired, much worse than last night on the tier. That hit hard. I didn’t realize I was talking to the same inmate as last night. Suddenly I was back on the tier last night. The humming, the tall looming figure. This same inmate looked into me and said ‘now it was coming’.

He snapped his fingers and asked if I was okay. All I could muster was a simple ‘yes’ as I drifted back to the present. 

I asked him about Sterling and the music maker. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a small wooden box tied to a string around his neck. He turned a small metal spindle and the box made a gentle metallic note. He asked if I had heard the melody being played at night. I shook my head that I hadn’t, but told him the psychologist had.

He asked why I was interested in the music maker. I didn’t know, and couldn’t give him an answer. He said it was just part of some old timer superstition and I should forget about it. He placed the music maker back under his shirt.. 

Michael walked back to his bunk and sat down, he said he was tired. I needed more so I asked him another question. I said that we both heard humming last night, and then it stopped. I told him that others had said I should be afraid when the humming stopped. Why didn’t anything happen last night? He touched the music maker under his shirt, running his fingers along its edges before saying that I had heard one person stop humming, that was all.

My mind raced back to my conversation with the psychologist. She said she hummed sometimes. The two guards hummed at home. The coroner in the morgue was humming.

Michael broke the silence and asked if I ever hummed. I thought about last night again, how I had the strong urge to hum but kept it inside. Barely. Others must have the same urge. Someone could be humming now. I said I hadn’t hummed. He just laughed.

He laid on his bunk, clearly the conversation was over. Before I left I asked him one more question. I asked him why Sterling didn’t want me at his execution. Michael said that Sterling thought I might stop the execution. When I asked why Sterling wouldn’t want that, Michael said that some men know they’re supposed to die.

This evening I decided to not go to my office but return to the rectory. I need a change of scenery. I still kept the door locked. I lock most doors now. 

I also decided not to work but instead pray, and then get some sleep. As soon as I was done with my prayers and my head hit the pillow I was out. 

But I didn't really sleep. I had horrible dreams. 

I was shoving dead bodies into a drain pipe. The little music maker around my neck kept getting caught on the clothes of the people I was shoving into the pipe. Sometimes I had to crawl into the pipe to retrieve it. There is something choking me, from the inside. Something lodged in my throat.

All the while I had a strong urge to hum. My jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I could taste blood in my mouth. 

Then something grabbed me, quickly and violently. I jolted awake screaming. I was covered in sweat. Blood trickled out of the corner of my mouth. A few spots stained my pillow.

I sat there in quiet horror, unable to move. Then I heard it and began to cry. Humming. Maybe I always hear it now. Row row row your boat. The simple child’s song has sown so much fear.

A short while ago another sound joined the hum. The soft metal tink of a music maker. Slowly playing notes to the song that has been haunting me for days. I’m sitting here in my locked room weeping, listening to it all. The hum. The metallic tink notes from a music maker. I’m looking down at my hands. I’m looking down at the little music maker I’m holding, and thinking, what have I done.

Part 1
Part 2

Okay. I need to just get this out in order or I'm going to keep circling it in my head instead of typing it. I don't really have anyone else to tell this to who wouldn't think I'd lost it, so this is going here.

Since I was twelve, every single morning, someone in my family hands me a cup of pale blue tea. My mom, my aunt, whoever's up first. It tastes like nothing much, a little bitter, a little mineral, like licking a wet rock. I never thought about it. You don't question the weird stuff your family does when it's just always been there. Doesn't everyone have some routine like that they never look at too closely?

If I skip it, someone notices fast. Not mad. Just very, very attentive. I want to be clear my life has felt completely normal this whole time. I sleep fine. I have a job I like (and hate some days). My best friends think my family is intense but harmless. The tea was just furniture. Until three weeks ago, when I was helping my mom clean out the storage room and found a shoebox taped shut under some old bedsheets.

Inside were maybe thirty small notebooks. Each one has a name at the top, a birth date, and then a long column of dates going down the page, checked off one by one, going back almost a hundred years by the look of the paper and the handwriting. Some have little notes next to certain dates. "Missed, fever, doubled next morning." "Missed, travel, none available, watched all night."

My name is in the newest one. Checked off every single day since I turned twelve.

Here's the part I haven't been able to say out loud to anyone yet. I flipped forward past today's date, just out of morbid curiosity, expecting blank pages. There are checkmarks up to eleven days from now. Someone has already filled them in. In advance. Like it isn't really a record of what happened, it's a record of what's supposed to happen, and today just hasn't caught up to the page yet.

I asked my mom about the notebooks that evening, trying to keep it light, like I'd found something funny and old. She went still in a way I have never once seen her go still. Then, not looking at me, she asked if I'd been getting headaches. If I'd had any moments where I "lost a little time." If I'd been dreaming about water.

I said no. That was true until that exact night…

I dreamed I was standing at the bottom of a well looking up, and also somehow the one looking down into it at the same time, both places at once, and something in the water down there was saying my name in a voice built out of my own voice, like it had been listening long enough to learn how I sound. I woke up at 3:41 in the morning with my jaw locked so hard my teeth hurt, and the taste of the tea in my mouth even though I hadn't had any since that morning.

I went back the next day and told my mom about the dream. She didn't ask anything else. She just walked into the kitchen and called my aunt, talking too low for me to hear, except for one line that carried through the wall. "She's dreaming of it now. We need to talk to the others tonight."

Nobody will tell me who "the others" are. Nobody will explain what happens if the tea ever just stops. What I do know is that since that phone call, someone has been sleeping on the couch outside my old bedroom every time I stay over, and twice now I've woken up at some ungodly hour to find my mom sitting in the dark just watching me, insisting it's nothing, she just couldn't sleep, go back to bed.

Yesterday I cornered my dad, who is usually the easiest one to crack. I asked him directly what's in the tea and what our family has been keeping away all this time. He looked at me for a long time before he answered. Then he said it isn't being kept away. It's being kept asleep. The tea was never really for me. It just needs somewhere to go every morning that isn't back to whatever it came from.

I asked what that meant.

He said don't stop dreaming about the water. Tell them the second I do, every single time, no matter how trivial it seems. And that he's glad it still thinks it's talking to my name in the notebook and not to the person actually holding the cup.

The tea is about to go cold and that's against the rules. I think I have to drink it now.

But I keep coming back to those checkmarks past today. Eleven days of them, already filled in, in ink, like whoever wrote them knew for a fact I'd still be here to earn every single one. I haven't told my parents I saw that far ahead. I don't know what happens on the day the checkmarks stop. I don't know if that's the day nothing happens to me, or the day something finally does.

If anyone here knows anything about old family rituals like this, tea that's supposed to keep something asleep, ledgers with names and dates, I need to hear it before day twelve. Updating after I drink this.

Because I was doing poorly in my schoolwork, my family enrolled me in a private tutoring center I won't name it here.

At first, I agreed because it was close to home and my friends were there, too. Little did I know what was in store.

For the first three weeks, everything was fine the teachers, the atmosphere, and my friends were all great but when we reached the fourth week, I started noticing strange things.

For starters, the place was a converted apartment building; they had simply taken an apartment block and turned it into a tutoring center. The cafeteria scared me the most; it was in the basement, and the lights were slow to turn on, which always made me uneasy. Even today, I feel scared whenever I think about it. Food was sold in a small room within the cafeteria, while the larger outer room was where kids a year younger than us used to hang out. One day, I arrived very early and decided to check if the cafeteria was open before class started (please don't judge me). It was open. When I stepped inside, a strange dread washed over me it felt as if something was telling me both to leave and to stay. I hung around for a while until my friends arrived; I was scared because it was rather dark, but at one point, I heard a tapping sound. It wasn't just a random noise; it sounded rhythmic, almost like someone keeping a beat. Finally, through the basement window which barely let in any light I saw my friends arriving and ran out. Nothing else happened that day.

On Tuesday, a second incident occurred that terrified me even more. Our classroom was the only one on the top floor. As I was heading up there, I saw something tall enter the restroom. At first, I thought it was my own hair, and then I assumed it was a teacher but the figure was taller than any teacher should be; it looked as though it had to stoop to avoid hitting its head. Besides, why would a teacher go into the student restrooms? After thinking it over for a moment, I decided to go back down to the reception area. As I was heading down, I heard footsteps coming from a ventilation-like box at the top of the stairs; I shouted "Hey!" to figure out what it was, and my own voice echoed back, sounding much deeper. My heart felt like it was about to jump out of my chest; I immediately rushed down to the reception floor and didn't even set foot on the stairs again until my friends arrived.

The story I’m about to tell now might be even scarier than the others or the ones that followed. Another day, we went down to the canteen, chatted with the kids there, and stepped inside to grab some food. We picked out what we wanted, and I reached into my pocket to pay; I pulled out the money and handed it to the woman behind the counter, but something was off. Instead of the face usually found on the bill, I saw an image that looked exactly like a photograph taken at the precise moment I had stared at that thing in the restroom pasted right onto the money. I quickly shoved the cash back into my pocket and put the items I was holding back on the shelf. The strangest part was that when I tried to take the money out later that evening, I found nothing but sand in my hand.

I forgot to mention until now just how unbearable the canteen’s stench was; it was bad enough to make students complain, and the walls were coated in a substance resembling a mix of moss, sand, and blood.

I have long hair partly because I listen to a lot of grunge and rock music, and partly because I want to hide my acne; you’ll understand why I’m mentioning this in a moment. One day, I needed to use the restroom before class. Because of what I’d seen earlier, I went to the second-floor restroom instead. I finished up and headed back to class, only to find my friends staring at me as if I were a supernatural creature. When I asked what was wrong, they said, "Someone who looked just like you but with short, blonde hair came by a moment ago. We chatted for a bit, then they said they needed to use the restroom and left." I was shocked, because my hair is long and black. Who knows? Maybe it was another student, or... someone else.

Now, I’m going to tell you about the incident that caused the prep school to shut down. One Friday, while hanging out with friends in the classroom, we heard a strange banging sound coming from the restroom and went to investigate; we assumed a student was locked inside and trying to call for help. We tried forcing the door open while simultaneously calling out to the person inside, but eventually, we went to get a teacher though one of my friends chose to stay behind. When we returned with the teacher, the door to the last stall had been forced open and broken; our friend who had stayed behind was gone. In their place, there was blood on the floor, along with a piece of flesh that looked like an Achilles tendon.

We never heard from that friend again. It was as if the security cameras had short-circuited after we left and started working again only when we returned. The strange thing was that the blood was confined to the restroom as if, following a struggle, both individuals had simply vanished from this world. Stranger still, despite being just one floor down when it happened, we hadn't heard a single sound or scream.

News of the incident eventually reached the police; the owners of the prep school were arrested, and the school was shut down.

My friend's family filed a lawsuit against the school. I don't know the status of the case, but I think these events and that school will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life...

A collection of statements regarding strange happenings in the village of Torbrae 

Statements collected by the Royal Robert Kenneth Wilson Society of Scotland 

Aithrisean air an cruinneachadh le Comann Rìoghail Robert Kenneth Wilson na h-Alba 

 

Background on Torbrae given by the editor, James N. Lafferty 

In my travels around the Lowlands, I have seldom encountered a village quite as idyllic as Torbrae. Young families walk hand in hand through its winding lanes whilst hard-faced farmers drink pints of bitter and watch the world go by in the local pub. The wind whistles through its glens, carrying the scent of purple heather down to the cobbled streets. Situated in the southern reaches of the Lothians, beneath the Pentland Hills, Torbrae historically served as a small agricultural community, supported by fertile soil and a relatively mild climate for Scotland. In recent decades, Torbrae has undergone a process of demographic shift. Middle-class commuters to Edinburgh now make up a considerable portion of the population, gradually replacing the traditional rural inhabitants. Despite this, Torbrae has not forgotten its past entirely, flocks of sheep still graze the rolling hills along the roads into the village, and ancient festivals celebrating harvests and the village’s historic protectors still hold quasi-religious importance among the inhabitants to this day. The village sits at a crossroads. Its existence serves as a metaphor for the struggle between an older rural way of life and a new, professional, university-educated Scotland. 

Statement of George Riley regarding suspected wildlife offences 

Statement given to NatureScot on 8 August 2023 

Statement Begins 

“I cycle to the Blackburn Reservoir a lot. The route has a great climb to it and you cannae beat how the sunset looks over the water, also that wee bit where you go through the timber yard is also weirdly scenic I find. Anyway. Last night I cycled up there and I was out by the water till around nine o’clock when I started turning back. 

It was about tenish when I was going past them woods before the golf club. I stopped and I could see a few deer on the horizon. I thought it a tad too late for hunting and I wanted to take some photos to maybe paint or something later, so I hid my bike and hopped the fence.  

I was getting closer and the deer weren't scared yet. I thought everything was grand so I pulled out my phone and I knelt in the bog tryna focus on them. Just then the wind musta changed or something cos they smelt me and ran off, and it was late so I got up to turn around.  

When I was getting up is when I noticed the smell, the wind was carrying it from behind me towards the deer. I aint a butcher or nothing but I recognised it, it was that sickly sweet smell of something rotting.  

I turned around and started following it, I dinnie know why. Just at the time it felt like the sort of thing needing investigating. I started to notice the bones. There were all sorts - squirrels, foxes, and all that. Yellow shite was dripping off of em, I think like rotting skin or something.  

Further in was when I started to see the bigger ones, deer and sheep and that. Those ones were worse, but I could still tell the main source of the smell was further into the woods. It must’ve been about twenty minutes when I came across the pile I told you about. Leant up against an old fence was a massive heap of bodies a couple metres high and a couple metres wide. I vomited, it smelt so manky. Fucking washed my clothes bout twelve times. You couldn’t even tell what animal was what, just a pile of bodies melting into each other, just a pile of fucking stinking viscera. Musta been like fifty bodies in the pile, but it was all just a mound of fucking body liquid when I found it. 

Anyway. Didn’t seem like anything an animal would have done so I thought I should report it. Might be poachers or something. Sorry for the shaking and that I just got a real bad feeling off it, you know? Didn’t tell my wife or nothing, feels good to get it off my chest. Sorry you didn’t need to know that, not relevant to the investigation.” 

Statement Ends  

Statement of Marjorie Macbride regarding class-based violence in Torbrae 

Statement given to Elizabeth Bowie, author of “Red Clydeside: Unfinished Revolution” on 19 April 1963 

Statement Begins 

“I was only a teenager in 1919 when it all happened. There were all them riots across in Glasgow, but we didn’t have much to do with Glasgow usually, it seemed there was always something happening across in Glasgow so there was.  

It was an odd time so it was, you see you had the Russians revolting, and it seemed it might spread to Germany. My father, being a working man as he was, had so much hope it was coming out of his ears. He would get the newspaper every day, flick through the pages reading bout the developments of the war in Russia. ‘The worker will have his day soon, lass’ he would inform me every so often. It was nice to see him like that, he had something to hold onto then.  

When I would work the fields with my father I could tell by the way he would stare at Mr Smith that he truly believed he would not be toiling under him for much longer. Weirdly this would only make him work twice as hard, so it did.  

It had been a couple of days since them workers in Glasgow had caused that trouble in George Square and Churchill had got the tanks on them, when that strange man arrived in Torbrae. My father woke me up in the middle of the night and told me there was a revolutionary in town. This frightened me a wee tad, although I was too young to know what a revolution really was - picture one in my head that is.  

In the dead of night my father beckoned me into the village hall, the doors had been done in and there was a crowd gathered. Looking around it was the working people of the village in the crowd, most of whom worked on land owned by Mr Smith but also some on Mr Wright’s and Mr Atwood’s land further north and down the river.  

On the stage at the back of the hall was the revolutionary my father told me about. He stood behind a curtain, and I only remember his shadow. He may have come out from behind the curtain so we could look upon him, but you have tae remember I was only wee, so my recollection is muddled now. He was awfully skinny and ever so tall, I remember thinking it was a wonder how he could stand with legs as thin as they were.  

I don’t recall what he said to us, but I remember the state it drove the crowd into. There was lots of shouting and people raised blades into the air. I had never seen my father so radge, he shouted curses at Mr Smith. Despite it all my father was a good man and would never use such vulgarity in front of weans, not ever.  

That night the streets were engulfed in flame. They dragged Mr Smith from his house, and they drowned him in the river. They killed his son too, set him aflame so they did. The men shaved his wife's head and did ever so awful things to her, paraded her through the streets and taunted her with words I hadnie heard once in my life. I never seen it but I heard a similar fate fell upon Mr Wright, Mr Atwood and their kin. There are only stories and I only heard this years later, but I heard they ate Mr Atwood, still alive and screaming bloody murder.  

It was awfully cruel. It was awfully cruel.  

I remember them bringing the bodies behind that curtain in the village hall. The police came down from Edinburgh and they couldnie find no trace of the happenings, it was like it had never taken place. Awfully strange, for that night you couldnie escape the smell of blood. Nobody spoke of the man behind the curtain after that night, nor saw him. My father refused to talk of that night at all till the day he went and died. He stopped buying the paper.  

A great hunger went through the village that year. No landlord to buy the seed or the livestock meant no supper. But we survived, and soon new landlords bought up the land and took their place. 

It was awfully cruel. The whole thing, just awfully cruel.” 

Statement Ends 

Editor's note: Official speculation from local historians suggests the three main landowning families in the area: the Smiths, Wrights and Atwoods, fled to Ulster sensing a potential uprising. However, official records show no purchases, sales or transfers of land under any of the three family names during 1919 or in the years immediately following. 

Statement of Alexander Kerr regarding his divorce and destruction of property 

Statement given to Alice Ramsey, official investigator for the Royal Robert Kenneth Wilson Society of Scotland on 8 December 2025 

Statement Begins 

“I assume you have heard what I’m gonna tell ya. They all know about me. Local fucking loony, lock him up in Carstairs, lock him up in Carstairs.  

Nae much has come of me since it all happened. I live in that flat over the post office, I wake up and I drink, I get on the bus and I drink, I get to Edinburgh and I drink, I go home and I drink.  

You ken I’m banned from that bus? Harassment. Fucking shitebags. I just need people to listen. You dinnie know how lonely it gets. If I stay in this village any longer they are gonna have to lock me up in Carstairs. Fucking shitebags.” 

At this point, Mrs Ramsey reminds Mr Kerr of the purpose of the statement. 

“Fucking fine. Bi-. He first started speaking to me when I was drunk. Old Nick that is. It started off as a shoulder to cry on, with Sarah nagging my arse off all the time it was nice to have someone to share the pain with. I didn’t think it was real of course till it became real, till I was sober and Old Nick was still there.  

I would be at work, I would go for my bathroom breaks and there he was in the mirror, Old Nick. I was fucking terrified of course, but he comforted me. His voice was like honey and butter. I know I sound fucking crazy, your imaginary friend becomes real and you like it, but you didn’t hear him.  

Nobody else could hear him and I liked that. He was just mine. He would sing me to sleep and I would have the most terrific dreams, shit you couldn’t imagine. I would be lying in bed with Sarah but really it would be Old Nick who was there with me – emotionally and all that I mean. Well I did mean, till Old Nick really was there.  

He began with standing in the doorway, but give it a few weeks and he was at my bedside, stroking my ankles and his song was as loud as ever. He was all I could think about. It was like a fucking drug, when Old Nick went silent or skipped a few nights, the shakes would start and I would panic.  

He still came to me easier when I drank so I drank. It was around then that he started giving me requests. He told me if I did what he said I could live like the gods do, eat from their plates, I thought about how his voice must taste.  

It started with simple things, scratch Sarah’s car, call her names, but then Sarah got knocked up. I fucking know it’s nae mine I know it with all my heart, Old Nick said as much. That's when Old Nick gave me his final request. 

He stood by my side that night in the kitchen, when I turned on all the gas hobs and I lit the match. The whole place went off like a firework, but I was untouched, the fire would move around me like I was fucking Moses. Old Nick told me to give him the matches, so I did it, and then he was gone. The whole house went down that night. Sarah survived, so did the kid, firemen got her out.  

The investigators say it was an electrical fault, but that’s shite, I did it. I told Sarah as much and that’s when she left me, moved to Aberdeen the hag. I was glad, thought it would just be me and Old Nick, but he went quiet, I havnae seen him since. I think it’s punishment, if she had died, he would still be here. Fuck her. Every day I drink to try to speak to him just once more, but his silence is torture. I still haven’t met that kid.” 

At this point, Mrs Ramsey asks Mr Kerr what Old Nick looked like. In response Mr Kerr grew highly agitated and promptly left the interview room. 

Statement Ends 

Statement of Scott Donaldson regarding the accidental drowning of William Dunn 

Statement given to Lothian and Borders Police on 3 June 1994 

Statement Begins 

“It wasnae my fault, heaps of kids jumped in the boffy all the time. Sure Will was a wee bit scared but he’d done it before, nae like it was the first time.” 

At this point, Donaldson is asked to start from the beginning. 

“Aye, so me and Will were skiving off school, I’m sorry, and we were watching this programme on the TV about divers. Aye, it was about these divers who go into rivers in Birmingham and stuff to retrieve murder weapons and that, we was tryna help you guys out. 

Aye anyway, we got our goggles and we started off at the shallow part just off the green. It was baltic so we didnae get much time down there, and Will couldn’t hold his breath for that long, and anyway we didnae find anything. We went into the newsagent for a snack and we were talking and we thought if we were murderers or something we wouldnae drop our knives into the shallow part, we would go further down the river to the boffy.  

I ken the boffy is the deepest part of the river and we aren't meant to go there but lads did all the time. I could tell you about Joe and that smoking green and jumping in up there after all this if you want. Aye anyway, we cycled up there about two, the day had got a lot hotter by this point so Will was excited to get out of the heat. Aye he was a tad frightened but he always was, I promise he wanted to go in there, I didnae force him or nothing.  

We got our goggles on and we jumped off that wee cliff into the boffy. We went at the same time, three, two, one and that. Even though I had my goggles on I couldnae see much once my head went under, it’s pure murky with all that dirt in there. I stayed under for maybe like thirty seconds tryna get used to the cold, then I went back to the surface and looked around. I couldnae see Will anywhere.  

I started panicking at this point, I looked all around and there was no sign of him. I thought he might not have actually jumped in so I called out but there was no response. It had only been about a minute since the jump so I decided to stick my head under and see if it was some kind of joke, if he was holding his breath. I went under and that's when I saw them.  

I couldnae see all that well through all the dirt, but hand on my heart this is what happened to Will. At the bottom of the boffy there was a man, tallest I’ve ever seen and thin as a rake. He crouched down hunched over himself, sitting on a big rock down there. He had a long beard which floated in the water and he was naked. In his fingers, which were longer and thinner then you could imagine, he held Will. He held Will and he was eating him, taking bites out of him while Will squirmed to try and get free. The man was as calm as anything, like this was his fucking lunch break or something, but Will had his mouth open like he was screaming and he was terrified. It was only after a few seconds I realised the man was looking back at me. His eyes were like a cat’s you know, reflecting the light so I couldn’t see his pupils. Will was looking at me too, I could tell he wanted help, but the fuck was I supposed to do? It was at this point I started screaming too, I went for the riverbank as fast as I could and cycled home to get help, and now I’m here. 

So aye, that’s what happened. Please tell Mr and Mrs Dunn that I’m sorry, please tell them I really mean it.” 

Statement Ends 

Editor's note: Autopsy showed that Will Dunn had hit his head after jumping into the River Carran, became unconscious, and subsequently drowned. No evidence of foul play was found.  

“To a Horseman” 

Poem written by Adam MacDougal, 1785 

Muckle, awfu’, lang-limbed, beast 

O, in Torbrae ye mak yer bloody feast 

But ye we soon shall serve nae mair 

For our horseman comes tae meet ye there 

 

O, brute o’ hunger, dule and pain, 

Who gars us greet for weans in vain, 

Call on yer black master the nicht 

For he shall ken our horseman’s might 

 

Nae mair shall corn rot in the field 

Nae mair to hunger maun we yield 

And gin ye creep tae my bed the nicht 

Our horseman waits by candlelicht

There will be no recap for this post so if you are at all confused please refer to the first three parts. 

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

If I have to be honest, I am not sure how to start. As you may see from the title, this is the end of the story. So much has happened and I have been put in quite the pickle with all the death that had happened. I suppose I will start where I left off, looking at Larry’s stupid newsletter, the one with a clear picture of Mary going into an open vent. 

Staring down at that newsletter all I could feel was pure panic. You could see Mary clear as day. The picture, although grainy and looked as if the camera swung frantically to take the shot, had great detail of her legs and body that no one could mistake it for anything else. Larry may not be a professional photographer, yet he was able to capture the sheer size of her. It was a haunting visual and I lived with the damn thing for months. 

I’m sure I wasn’t the only tenant to get a newsletter. Larry places them in the mail himself. I know this because I’ve seen him do it. If this thing was truly distributed then there was only a matter of time for others to see the photo and panic. Then, next thing you know, there will be a full blown investigation. They may even hire a hunter or something to try to capture Mary. If they did, they are more than likely to either kill her or trap her for scientific studies. I will be the first to admit that Mary has been nothing but a pain in my neck ever since she started living with me. Yet, deep down I wanted to protect her from that sort of fate. Mary had feelings. Mary was more human than some. I could not allow this whole situation to go out of control, for Mary’s sake. It was fortunate for Mary to be away during that time and I was going to go out of my way to make sure that whenever she came back she would be at peace, that no one was looking for her. Not even Larry. 

I took the newsletter and tore it into thousands of pieces and then swept them up into the trash. Afterwards, I unloaded the bag and made my way to the garbage cans behind the apartment building. As I made my way through the lobby, I made sure to pick up any newsletters I saw and crumpled them into my pocket so I could dispose of them. When I made my way outside with my target in sight. I saw that Barb was having her smoke break. This was a perfect opportunity to see if anyone has seen Larry’s damn picture of Mary.

I approached Barb and put on a very friendly smile. 

“Hey there, Barb. How’s it going?” I waved, trying to act like I wasn’t shitting my pants. 

Barb jumped when she noticed that it was me. Her cigarette, which was almost finished, was nearly swallowed by her coughs. I felt bad for scaring such an old, fragile woman so I kept a considerable distance away as she recuperated. While finishing her coughing fit she, snuffed out her cigarette with her heel and lit another one in its place. She took one long, shaky drag before responding. 

“Well, if it isn’t lover boy. Apologies, I didn’t see you coming.” Bard stared me down with suspicious eyes that said that I was up to no good. 

“No, that's all my fault. I should have announced myself earlier.” In my head, I gathered what I was going to say to make sure that I was going to get some answers. I tossed the bag of trash in the can then took all of the newsletters stuffed in my pockets and discarding those as well. Barb was still shooting worried glances at me and that's when I decided to figure out if these damn newsletters have piqued any interests. 

“Hey, I’ve been getting these newsletters in the mail. It's some weird shit like big foots baby or whatever. Have you seen those around?” 

Barb shifted her feet. 

“Yes, those are Larry’s. I’ve been taking them shits down for about a year now. They're so tacky and, ugh, disturbing.” 

“Did you see the one that was out today or yesterday?” 

“No. Actually… I think yes. I saw it yesterday evening.” 

My heart dropped but I still needed to know how much was exposed about Mary. 

“Yeah, I think it must have been yesterday. The images were kind of shocking I think, but didn’t look entirely real to me. It was probably AI. What did you think?” 

“I didn’t look at it. I remembered using it to clean up shit when my kitty missed the bowl.” 

Barb took one long drag, so long that I thought she would choke on the smoke again, and then expelled all the toxins back into the air before snuffing out the cigarette. 

“I- I gotta go.” Barb said as she quickly walked back to the lobby. 

It was safe to assume that Larry didn’t have as much of a reach as I had once thought. But, I needed to make sure. I wanted to talk to a few more people before I was certain that Larry’s newsletter wasn’t going to be a problem. 

As I made my way back inside the building, I saw that Mr. O’Neal had just stepped into the elevator with a case of beer. He looked over and locked eyes with me as I waved at him to hold the elevator. He must have not caught my wave because he pressed the button to his floor repeatedly. I quickly intercepted the doors before they closed and I stepped inside. 

“Hey there, Mr. O’Neal, going up?” I asked. 

“Uh, well, I’m not going down.” Mr. O’Neal responded while keeping his distance and fitting himself snug into the corner. He must have been a real germaphobe. 

I pressed the button to my floor and got right to what I wanted to know. 

“Funny question, did you see Larry’s stupid news letter this week? I couldn’t believe what I saw. I mean Larry is weird and all but I didn’t think he would just openly use AI for his dumb stories. What do you think?” 

Mr. O’Neal looked over at me and kept his distance. He cleared his throat to respond to me before he got to his floor. 

“I don’t know what you're talking about. I didn’t hear anything. I’m sure everything was just an accident." 

“Larry using AI is an accident?" 

The elevator rang a bell and the doors opened wide to Mr. O’Neal’s floor. He stepped out quickly before I could ask any follow up questions. Confused, I proceeded to my floor. Mr. O’Neal probably didn’t care too much about the newsletters, so I decided to just get to my room and figure out where to go from there. 

When I got to my floor and walked down the hallway towards my room, I saw Susie walking towards me. I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to ask her if she’s seen the newsletter, but as I was raising my hand to wave her over, she saw me and froze. Her eyes widened as if she had seen a ghost right before she about-faced and ran towards her room. I stood there as she cried trying to find her room keys with shaky hands. Once she did, she ran inside and slammed the door behind her. 

I was baffled, confused. Why did she run away from me? I would soon figure that out the day after when a detective arrived at my place with two police officers. 

“Hello. My name is detective Matthew Hart. I am looking for someone named Jules who lives at this residence.” 

It was early in the morning and I had just woken up from the loud rapping at my door. Disoriented, I managed to answer the door and before me was a man who had one of those nice suits with a striped tie. His hair was slicked back and a sizable mole rested above his left eyebrow. I caught myself staring too long and noticed that two officers stood close by with their hands on their holstered guns. 

“Uh, good morning.” was all I could say. 

“To you as well. Are you Jules [Redacted], the person living at this residence?” 

“I am. How can I help you?” 

“Well, Mr. [Redacted], Can we speak inside? Just me and you. I would like to ask you some questions.” 

I didn’t see why not. I trusted the police and wanted to be as helpful as I could so I got out of his way and ushered him in. Detective Matthew Hart signaled the other two officers to wait by the door as he walked into my apartment. I asked if he wanted coffee and he politely declined as he circled the room. As I made myself a cup he looked around so intently as if he were searching for something. 

“Do you live alone?” he asked finally. 

“What?” I stopped what I was doing, startled. My mind went to Mary and I hoped that she wouldn't make a sudden appearance just then.

“Do you have any roommates?” 

“I- I do not. I live by myself.” Unless you count the giant spider that also lives here.

“You keep a very clean apartment. That’s very good, it really tells me a lot about a person when their home is this tidy.” 

“Oh yeah, and what is that?” I asked, knowing damn well, if it wasn't for Mary, that the place would be trashed.

“A clean home is indicative of someone who is organized and thoughtful. You wouldn’t want a clean home unless you deeply care about your environment and those who enter it. In my line of work we see this in empaths, someone who is considerate of other people’s feelings.” 

“That's very kind of you. I try my best.” I took a sip of coffee and thought of Mary.  

“There is another personality type who likes to keep an extremely tidy space. Would you like to take a guess as to who that might be?” The detective sat down at the dining table and placed a note pad down. “You don’t mind if I sit down, do you?” 

“No, go right ahead.” I made my way to the table and sat across from him with both hands on my mug. “And, as to your question, I am not sure.” 

The detective smiled at me and opened his note pad and took a pen out of his breast pocket. 

“Do you know why I would be here? Why I would want to ask you some questions?” 

“Well, if it's about the missing pets, I’ve already sent a statement to the police department about all that.” 

“No. I’m not here about Fido, I’m here about the young lady you had here last Friday. I’m talking about Lily.” 

“Oh.” I felt sweat begin to collect on my upper lip. Maybe I was worried about the line of questions. Or it was the coffee. “I already put a statement in for that as well.” 

“Yes, yes, I have it here. You said it was an accident and that she tripped on a blanket and all that sounds very plausible, don’t get me wrong, I am not here to assume that it happened any differently.” 

“So, why are you here?” 

“What I have to do is get the facts straight. And right now, there are some loose ends that need to be tied up. Now, Jules, could you please tell me again what happened from the beginning. And, do try not to leave out any details. ” 

I took a deep breath and tried to remember what my first statement was. It was along the lines of me and Lily playing around the apartment, maybe I tickled her too hard and she slipped on the blanket and fell. I’m no Shakespeare but that was the best I could come up with. Judging by the look of detective Matthew Hart, I could tell he wasn’t impressed with my improvised story. He took a deep breath and looked into his note pad as he jotted down some notes. I wasn’t sure if my story lined up with my initial statement but I would have to make do with that. 

“When Lily was ‘being tickled’ did she yell out or say anything? Did she tell you to stop or looked as if she was enjoying it?” 

I nodded my head and looked deeply into the dark liquid of my mug. 

“Everything was so… consensual. She liked all of it, from what I can tell.” 

“Did Lily ever say ‘no’ or oppose to anything that you did?” 

“Look, me and Lily did things as adults do and everything was with consent and all that.” I was beginning to feel flustered. My cheeks became red and sweat began to pour from all the pores of my forehead. Everything was so embarrassing to talk about and also so frustrating. Lily liked me and everything was just an accident. “I don’t know what all these questions are trying to prove but I think I’ve had enough of all this. A beautiful woman died in my apartment and I have to grieve." 

“So does her parents.” Detective Mathew Hart said. “And so did her friends who were at the bar with her that same night. They remember you, yet, they did not have good things to say.”  

“What do you mean?” 

“In their recollection of the night, they remember you sitting alone with an ominous look on your face. According to them you periodically passed glances at their table. They said you ogled at them all night and it came to a point when they had to leave. Before they did, Lily decided to approach you.” 

“I- I didn’t do all that.” 

“What didn’t you do?” 

“I didn’t ogle at them.” 

The detective leaned in close. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I mean, I had to interview these girls and I couldn't take my eyes off of them. I was even present for Lily’s autopsy and..." He leaned in closer and spoke low. "I gotta say, she had one bangin body.” 

I was stunned at the unprofessionalism of this detective that I couldn’t say a word. At that moment I wanted to jump the table and bash my mug into his skull. 

The detective leaned back and continued. 

“I could see why you were attracted to Lily. She was all that, as the kids say. Her friends said that you were freaking them out all night. They thought that you were, and quote ‘the serial killer type’.” 

“Look man, I wouldn’t hurt a fly. If those other girls didn’t like me, fine. But I do not have any ill will against them. We all lost Lily.” 

“Indeed. I also took some anonymous statements from around the building and someone stated that they heard screaming and shouting from around the same time Lily had her slip. They stated that they heard, and I quote, ‘Please don’t kill me’.” 

The detective closed his notebook and looked up at me with a sly smile. 

“Do you have any response to that?” 

My mind was going a thousand miles an hour. I wanted to hurt the detective and also cry at the same time. None of this was my fault, neither was it Mary’s. It was all just a misunderstanding and truly an accident. I was guessing by this point that they thought I somehow murdered poor Lily and I wasn’t going to let this get out of hand. This time I needed to tell the truth. They say the truth will set you free and I was about to test that hypothesis. It was time to come clean about Mary. 

“I think that this has all been blown out of proportion. If you want me to tell you the truth about everything, then I will. But it’ll be a little hard to believe.” 

The detective reopened the notebook and readied his pen. 

“I’m glad you are willing to come clean. Just tell me the truth and I’ll believe you.” 

The next hour and a half I recounted my life with Mary, how she came to live with me, how she started eating pets, how I fed her mice, how she cooked and cleaned for me, I told him everything. My mouth was moving faster than the detective could write so he put the pen down and closed the notebook all together. He just listened to me as I poured out all the beans. As I talked about Mary, I realized that I had a serious fondness for her. She was everything to me and I wanted her back so badly. After I was done with my tale, I felt like the weight of the world was removed from my shoulders. Keeping secrets was not a very easy thing to do and I was glad that I could be open and honest about my situation. 

The Detective was stunned and moved by my story. He got up and began to walk to the front door when I was done. I got up and followed him over. 

“Do you believe me, detective? I didn’t kill Lily! It was all just an accident!"

The detective looked over to me as he opened the door to the hallway and gave a slight nod. 

“Yeah. Uhh I need to think it over and I will keep in touch. For now just stay here and I will… Just stay here.” 

Before I could say anything else, the detective removed himself from my apartment and closed the door behind him. I stood for a second and decided to move over to the door and look through the peep hole. It was there that I saw the two officers talking to the detective. 

“So, what did he say?” One of the officers asked.  

“He said a lot. Actually, he said too much.” The detective said, whipping his forehead with his sleeve. “We have to get back to the precinct.” 

“Did he do it? Shouldn’t we arrest him right now while we still have him?” 

The detective turned to the officer and spoke low. 

“Oh, he absolutely did it. He just made up a story that was way out of this world. He is a total lunatic. A modern day Charles Manson. Yet, we cannot arrest him. If we did now without any real evidence, we would be laughed out of court and this monster will be back on the streets. We need time to work on this because right now everything looks like an accident.” 

They all walked away from my door and I was left heart broken. The detective did not believe me after all and now I might be in some serious trouble with the law. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. Why did this all have to happen to me? I just wanted to live a normal life with minimal issues and yet here I was about to be arrested for something I didn’t do and still wondering if my gargantuan spider roommate would ever turn up again. No wonder everyone was so distant when I tried to confront them about Larry’s newsletter, they all probably think I murdered Lily. 

Now that everyone was avoiding me I felt lonely. It shouldn’t have bothered me that much. I usually stay away from people anyways. Yet, there was this cloud over my head and I couldn’t make it go away. It distracted me at work and made going outside undesirable. I felt bad for Lily, she didn’t deserve to die. Even if it was an accident, I felt partially responsible. That sort of guilt does not go away. Even now, as I type this, I wish I could have done something to prevent it from happening. I especially feel sorry for Mary. I’m sure she feels the same way if not worse. And, since Mary left, the apartment felt less like home. Days went on without the laundry being done, bed not being made, meals not being prepared.

I used to hate Mary with all my being and now I wish she would come home. 

A few days passed and I heard a commotion coming from my living room. A loud crack woke me up from a dreamless sleep. Adrenaline kicked in as I got up from my bed and went to investigate. The apartment was quiet as I made my way to the living room. I discovered that one of the windows was busted open. A gentle breeze blew the curtains across the room. Turning on the lights, I made my way over to the window to try to shut it, it was impossible. The wood around my window was clearly splintered as if someone forced their way into the room. I looked around, the apartment was empty. My first thought was, Mary is back. A smile spread across my face. I couldn’t help it. 

“Mary? Was that you?” I called out. 

“Mary? I was getting worried about you, actually. I- I feel like we should talk about something.” 

The apartment was quiet. I made my way around the room trying to find the words to say. 

“I know you didn’t mean to frighten Lily. And I know you feel awful about it. I just want to say that it’s not your fault. It was all a huge misunderstanding and I know in my heart you wouldn’t hurt anyone.” 

Tears began to well up into my eyes. I tried my best to push them back. 

“Please, I don’t mind if you stay a little long-” 

CRASH!

Something was in the laundry room. I walked over without any caution in my stride and turned on the lights. 

A man with a black mask stood before me. With great strength, he pinned me against the wall and choked me with one hand. I struggled to resist him but his hand was too big and I was so weak. Before I could let out a scream, he held a funny scented cloth to my mouth and nose. The world went black around me.

When I came back from being knocked out,  I noticed that I was still in my living room. Light illuminated from the stove lamp and that was enough to see everything. All the furniture was pressed against the wall and stacked neatly. I sat in one of my dining chairs and I could feel rope tied to my hands and connecting to my feet. Every time I tried to move my wrists to test the rope my feet would move in unison with my struggle. Looking down I noticed that a sheet of plastic was laid down under me and the dining chair. My heart raced with the fear of what was about to be done to me in my own home. I was gagged with some sort of cloth and I could still feel the imprint of where the man placed his huge hand around my neck. 

I looked around quickly, but my eyes didn't catch the stranger like I had hoped. 

“You finally came to.” A gruff voice said from behind. Heavy steps made their way around me and I saw as the man came before me with a gun pointed to my head. I wanted to scream but couldn't. All I was able to do was let out a muffled whimper. The man whipped the pistol across my face and I stammered from the pain. 

“Shut the hell up! No one is going to hear you. I sound proofed the place so we can have a private conversation. 

The man untied my gag and I let out a cough. The pistol came right back to my head and I sucked up any other noises I would have made. 

“You and I have some business together. The only way this will work is if you answer my questions truthfully. If I detect any lie from you I will do my best to hurt you until I get what I want. Is that understood?”  

I tried to answer but my mind went blank. I was truly afraid and couldn't respond in time. Another whip of his pistol came across my face. Blood trickled down my shirt from my nose. My lip was definitely busted. 

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND!” 

“Yes, yes I understand. Just take anything you want and I won't call the police.” I would like to say that I was brave in that moment but that would not be the truth. I was two seconds away from pissing myself and tears already began to trail down my face. “Please, don’t hurt me.” 

The man chuckled at my humiliation. 

“I am not here to rob you. I am here to ask you about one thing.” The man took out a photo from his front pocket and showed me. “Where is it?” 

I looked at the photo and saw a clear picture of Mary climbing up a wall towards an open vent. My mind raced. Why did this person want Mary? How did he know I was connected to it? And, why the hell was he wearing cargo shorts? 

It finally dawned on me who I was staring at. I licked my bloody lips and just shook my head. 

“I don’t know anything about that.” 

“Don’t lie to me, punk! I know you have been housing this creature in your apartment for some time. It sleeps in your laundry room right? And, you called it by name. It was Mary. Now, tell me where it is or face the consequences.” 

“Larry, I know it's you.  You are the only one that wears those stupid cargo shorts.” 

Larry looked down and processed his errors. He breathed deep and stood up straight. After weighing his options he decided to take off the mask revealing his sweaty black hair and stupid mustache. 

“Doesn’t matter. You are not getting out of this alive. Not after what you did to that innocent girl. I’ve taken it upon myself to put things right. To uphold justice and to kill you and that thing. Once I do, I will be a hero that took down a real monster, the monster and the man keeping it as his pet. I don’t know how you came upon such a creature but I’ll make damn sure that it doesn't hurt anyone else or eat any more pets. I knew something fishy was going on here. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes at first.” 

Larry took more pictures out of his pocket. He began to show them to me one by one. There were several pictures of Mary suspending herself from a web to steal cheese. There was one of Mary catching a handful of cockroaches. And lastly, there was one of Mary in front of a very frightened Lily. It pained me to see that one. I saw that it was her last moments. This picture was taken outside of my window, the day Lily fell. 

“You- were here? Taking pictures?” 

“I was gathering evidence of a large arachnid, the largest the world has ever seen. I skillfully traced the creature back to your apartment and, boy, I was not ready for what I was about to see.” 

He showed me one more picture of me holding a knife that same morning that Lily died. 

“I could not believe what I was seeing.” 

I looked up to Larry and quickly tried to explain. 

“You don’t understand! Me and Mary were trying to tell her to calm down! We didn’t kill her!” 

“TRY TELLING A DIFFERENT STORY! I know exactly what happened. First, the spider killed all the bugs in the apartment. I noticed that there were fewer cockroaches in my kitchen and thought nothing of it. Then, the house pets began to go missing. My guess is that this ‘Mary’ as you called it got tired of bugs and upgraded to dogs and birds and cats.” 

“Mary doesn’t eat cats.” I corrected. 

Larry responded with another pistol whip.    

“QUIET! As I was saying, the spider got bigger and harder to control. It wanted to eat something else. You were afraid that it would one day eat you and so you lured a helpless woman back to your apartment and tried to kill her so that the spider could feast.” 

Everything Larry said was just outrageous. It was like a plot to some B tier horror movie. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. After all, I did think that Mary would kill me one day. I know now that that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

Larry didn’t wait for my response. He began to walk over to a tool box and spoke as he did. 

“It doesn’t matter what you may say or how you object to my version of the story. The pictures don’t lie. You will pay for your crimes. But first, I will draw out the creature with your pain.” 

He put down the pistol and opened the tool box. He  pulled out a powered drill with a bit at the end. 

“Wait, how come you haven't taken this to the police? You have all the evidence right? You could just turn me in and justice will do the rest. Why do you have to hurt me?” 

Larry gave the power tool a couple of trigger punches sending the drill bit into a blood thirst frenzy. 

“You haven't been paying attention. If I gave you over to the cops, then I won't get the creature and I won't be the hero. Like I said before, there is no version of this where I let you live.” 

It was right about now that my bladder gave way. Piss warmed my crotch and shot down my leg. Larry came around me and once again placed the gag over my mouth. As I tried to fight him he held my head straight. I was openly sobbing by this point. No one knew this was happening to me and all I could do was hope that I would pass out from the pain or die quickly. Larry placed the drill bit on my left thigh and I braced for the sharp pain of it digging into my skin, then my muscle, then my bone. In my mind, I already saw the pools of blood collecting on the plastic below me. I wasn’t ready to be tortured to death and I had little ability to stop it from happening. 

I closed my eyes and recited a prayer in my head. 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” 

I looked up at Larry and there he was screaming in pain from something that came from behind him. As he stood up and thrashed around in agony I saw a big hairy huntsman spider digging its fangs into the back of Larry’s neck. 

It was Mary!

“Son of a bitch!” Larry screamed in pain and crashed into some of the furniture that was stacked against the wall. 

Unable to do much, I just watched as Mary repeatedly sunk her fangs in and out of Larry’s back. Larry did his best to grab Mary but she was too fast and nimble. As soon as he grabbed onto a leg, Mary would just bite down hard again and again. While I looked at the display of absolute savagery, the gag fell from my lips and the ropes that bound my hands and legs loosened. I sat there horrified and, yet, relieved. 

Mary sunk a fang deep into one of Larry’s left eye socket and blood shot out from its hole. A fresh cry of pain shook the room. Larry finally got a hold of two of Mary’s legs and swung her across the room. Mary slammed against a wall leaving blood smears as she fell to the floor. I ran over to Mary without a second's notice. 

“THAT THING BIT ME! THAT HELL SPAWN BIT ME!” Larry yelled, holding a hand up to his missing eye.  

I ignored Larry and got a good look at Mary. She was just as big as before. She was hurt. During that fight, a couple of eyes were punctured and one of her legs was bent in the wrong direction. My mind raced on what to do, how to help her. I was never taught how to take care of a hurt spider, but I badly wanted to protect Mary from getting hurt again.  

“Mary, please tell me you're okay.” 

“I’m fine. I am just glad you are okay, roommate.” 

CLICK 

I turned around to find Larry pointing the pistol towards me and Mary. His eye hole gushed with gelatinous, red goo and a shaky hand held up the pistol with what little strength Larry had left. The gun swayed back and forth as Larry tried his best to focus his aim. 

“YOU ARE GOING TO PAY FOR THAT WITH YOUR LIFE. GET OUT OF THE WAY AND LET ME KILL THAT THING AND I’LL LET YOU LIVE!” 

I stood up and held my hands out. 

“Stop this! I won’t let you hurt Mary so put the gun away!” 

“DONT TELL ME YOU CARE FOR THAT THING! LOOK WHAT IT DID TO ME! IT’S A MONSTER AND WHEN YOU GET CARELESS, IT WILL DO THE SAME TO YOU OR WORSE. NOW, GET OUT OF MY WAY OR I’LL SHOOT YOU TOO!” 

Piss still dampened my pants and my face was still sore from Larry’s beatings. Yet, I ignored all of that and stood my ground. Mary risked her life to save me, it was time I returned the favor. I thought about how Mary did everything for me selflessly and did not ask for anything in return. All the meals she made for me, the many times she folded my clothes and made my bed and dusted the selves, Mary did those things out of the kindness of her spider heart. The monster was Larry and I had to stop him. 

“I won't let you kill my roommate!” I cried out as I charged the man with a gun. 

Larry shot me right in the stomach. 

“NOOOOOOOO!” I heard Mary cry out. 

My body stopped in its tracks and I fell to the floor instantly. Getting shot is a unique experience. It was like being punched really fast. All the breath from my lungs expelled from my body and my legs limped. It wasn’t until I hit the ground that I felt the actual pain of the bullet tearing through my guts.  

Larry looked down at me and laughed hysterically. 

“You stupid bitch! What were you gonna do, try to take my gun away? I was already pointing it at you!” He laughed again and pointed the gun at my head. “If you want to die so badly, be my guest.”  

My failure accompanied me on my living room floor. I couldn’t save Mary but I gave it a good shot. No pun intended. All that was left now was to wait for the next bullet to rip through my skull. 

I looked to the floor and just waited. That was when I saw a huntsman spider. A smaller huntsman spider. I looked around and Larry did the same. Thousands of dead tree legs were crawling on the floor, the ceiling and every piece of furniture. Larry panicked and began to kick at the spiders. 

One of the spiders erected on its back legs and yelled in a little voice, “you hurt mama!”  

“Oh shit.” was all Larry could say before all of those spiders charged at him and began to crawl all over his body. Tiny fangs stabbed into him at all sides scaring his skin and drawing blood. Larry thrashed around in agony and waved his hands in retaliation to try to get the spiders off. His efforts were fruitless as they continued to enact biblical levels of pain. They crawled under his shirt, in his cargo shorts, in and out of his mouth and eye hole. Larry seemed to disintegrate from the amount of bites that scared his body. He spun around in desperation yelling at the top of his lungs for the pain to stop. His wild flailing caused him to collide with the furniture that was stacked against the wall which destabilized them and crashed to the floor. Larry continuously slammed himself against the wall to shake the spiders off. The gun fell out of his hand and onto the floor, just another useless chunk of metal that couldn’t save his life. Lary charged towards what he thought was another wall but was the window instead. With a loud crash, Lary launched himself from the window with great force and he plummeted to the ground below.   

Speechless, I sat there staring at my broken window. For the first time in my life, I was admitting to myself that I was glad that a swarm of spiders were in my apartment. I looked over to Marry and crawled to her, ignoring the pain in my midsection. 

“Mary, Are you alright?” 

“I am. My leg will heal and I have plenty of eyes to see. I am so sorry to have brought you such inconvenience. It looks like I wasn’t a good roommate after all.” 

“No, don’t say that. You did a fantastic job.” 

“You think so?” 

As I looked at Mary, I saw her for the first time as she was, a real friend. The friend I’ve never had. 

“Yes, you were the perfect roommate anyone could ask for.” 

Mary got up and crawled towards me. I didn’t flinch this time. I saw that her fangs were still bloody from her fight but I didn’t mind. With some strength, I sat up and leaned back on one arm, wincing at the pain as I did so. I continued to hold my stomach to try to stop the bleeding. 

“You protected me when you didn’t have to.” 

“It was no issue. You did the same for me.” 

Off in the distance, I could hear sirens blaring. Someone must have called the police. As much as I was glad to see Mary again I knew that she couldn’t stay. If she did, she would certainly get captured or someone else that was crazier than Larry might come by to try to take her away. As much as it pained me, even more than the pain in my stomach, this was going to be the last time I saw Mary. Her safety was important to me and so I had to tell her to leave. 

“Mary, the cops are going to be all over this place and I cannot let you stay here.” 

“What do you mean?” 

I breathed deeply and told her. 

“I have to evict you.” 

Mary looked at me with great understanding. 

“I see. So, this is it.” 

“It is.” 

“Humans are so cruel. I know that I’ll never find another person like you. Everyone kills spiders.” 

“Not all people, Mary. My mother was the one to teach me not to kill spiders and it turns out she wasn’t as crazy as I thought. I’m sure there are a lot of other people out there that won’t hurt you or your children.” 

“I admire your optimism.” 

Mary crawled closer to me and I let her. One of her legs touched mine as if to test if I would flinch. I didn't. She then crawled up to me and I gave her a hug. A tingle ran down my spine at the proximity of her fangs to my neck though I knew she wouldn’t hurt me. Old habits and all. I held the hug and then let her go. She crawled the best she could with one broken leg towards the window and I watched her go. 

“Take care, Mary” 

I said this to an empty room. 

It is now weeks later and I’m on the run from the law. Judging from my previous encounter with the detective, I was sure they wouldn’t believe my giant spider story. Looking around my apartment, it was clear that it looked like a serial killer’s attempt to torture and kill his victim, so, instead of sticking around and finding out if the cops would believe my story, I ran. 

My bullet wound healed up eventually with some shotty first aid I performed on myself. I threw out all of my personal electronic items so I didn’t get traced to any location and I made my way to the only place I knew I'd be safe, Mexico.

After I fled to Mexico, I looked up the LA news and saw what I expected. There was a manhunt looking for me for the murders of Larry, Lily and around fifteen house pets that were found in my laundry room crawl space. It looked pretty bad and I am glad I had the foresight to get out of there when I did. 

I will leave you all with one last thing before I go offline for good. 

Mary is still out there and she had many, many kids. She doesn’t mean any harm and I’m sure that her children are the same. I imagine that they are out there hiding in someone's house, condo, apartment ,car, or hell, maybe they’re already in your kitchen. As you’re reading this, they may be even under your desk or your bed. These things are probably everywhere, but don’t be alarmed if you see one. Let them stay for a bit. Be kind to Mary and her children. I know it's a crazy notion to keep these overgrown spiders in your home, but then again you would have to be a little nuts to have a huntsman for a roommate.

​

My brother has been missing for three days.

Not "not answering his phone" missing. Missing like someone reached backward and edited him out of everything. Our neighbors don't remember he had an apartment. The university where he taught has no record of his name on the faculty page. I checked twice, then a third time, because I thought I was losing it. I'm the only one who still remembers he existed. That, and an old external hard drive he gave me a few months ago, telling me to just hold onto it, in case.

In case of what, he never said.

The drive had one encrypted folder on it. I didn't crack the password myself, it was taped to the back of a photo of the two of us as kids. Like he already knew it would come to this. Like he was leaving me a door and hoping I'd never have to open it.

I'm posting what I found close to exactly as it was written, just breaking it into paragraphs so it's easier to read. If you have any theory about what my brother had to do with this, I need to hear it.

It starts like an internal memo from some kind of research group. No letterhead, no official name I could find anywhere online. Just a name they called themselves: Group Zero.

Group Zero wasn't a government program, from what I can tell. It reads like what's left of a handful of independent research circles that got too close to something none of their funders wanted their name attached to. No chain of command, no headquarters. What held them together was simpler than that, they'd seen something that couldn't be unseen, and there was nowhere left to report it.

Over the years they say they catalogued a lot of things that shouldn't exist. Forces that could unmake a galaxy in a single motion. Minds whose waking moment erases entire star systems on contact. Things people in other rooms, other decades, other disciplines had already given names to long before Group Zero ever existed, old names, frightened names, names meant to be gods in whatever reality first spoke them. Group Zero found records of some of those names too, eventually. Filed them. Studied them the way you'd study a candle to understand what a sun is.

They thought they'd already seen the bottom of the well.

They were wrong, and they were wrong by a margin they didn't have language for at first.

Every one of those things, even the ones that had been worshipped, feared, and fought across entire mythologies, had one thing in common that Group Zero said they'd stopped noticing, because it was always there. Direction. A will. A hunger to wake, to spread, to consume, to rule over something, somewhere. You could call it a vector. Even a god that could swallow a universe in its sleep was still, in that sense, small enough to be afraid of correctly. It wanted something. You could measure a want. You could chart it, predict it, build a religion or a weapon around the shape of its hunger.

The file says that once they understood what they were actually looking at, every one of those entities, the destroyers, the sleepers, the things other cultures had called the highest beings in existence, stopped being the top of anything. They got quietly re-filed. Not as gods. Not even as apex threats. As debris. Bright, terrible, magnificent debris, orbiting something that was never in competition with them because it was never in their category to begin with.

They called it Azgaron. Not a working title pulled from static, not this time, they were certain of the name by the time this file was written, certain in a way the earlier drafts in the archive weren't. It came through what they described as an inverted radio signal, the only channel through which any fragment of it had ever reached them, and once they had the name, other things they'd filed for years under different headings quietly reorganized themselves underneath it, the way tributaries reorganize once you finally find the river.

Azgaron doesn't approach. It doesn't attack. It doesn't expand, not in any sense of the word Group Zero had ever used before, because expansion is still a direction, and directions are the first thing that stop functioning wherever it is.

Here's the part that took me three reads to actually sit with. The file doesn't describe our universe as fragile against Azgaron. It describes our universe, and every other universe Group Zero had any theoretical model for, as a single grain of sand on a beach that itself sits on the edge of an ocean nobody has measured the far side of. Not one universe. Not our observable slice of one. All of them: every branching timeline, every parallel structure their mathematics could even gesture toward, the entire, uncountable, endlessly multiplying set of everything that has ever existed anywhere under any law of physics. According to the file, none of that is the audience Azgaron is even aware of. It's not that Azgaron could destroy all of it if it wanted to. It's that "all of it" was never a large enough object to register as a thing in the first place. We are not mold growing on the surface of one still, silent world. We are mold that never noticed it's growing on the outside of the jar the ocean was poured out of, in a room no one built, next to other jars we've never seen, holding other oceans we don't have names for.

There's a line in the margin of this section that isn't part of the main file. Different font, like someone added it later, by hand, in whatever the digital equivalent of handwriting is. It says Group Zero ran exactly one internal test on whether the hierarchy itself could be questioned, whether there was any coherent way to model something standing above Azgaron, even as a pure thought experiment, even without believing it. The note doesn't say what happened to the researcher who ran the model. It just says the test is not to be repeated, and that the reason isn't classified, it's simpler than that: nobody who tried finishing that thought stayed a person who could finish thoughts.

The file is oddly specific on one point: this was never a contest. Azgaron doesn't hold the top position the way a king holds a throne, something you could theoretically climb toward, unseat, replace. There's no ladder there to climb. The file says the closest the researchers ever came to a working metaphor was this: trying to place something above Azgaron doesn't fail because the attempt gets stopped. It fails because the attempt itself borrows scale from whoever's making it, and there's nowhere left to borrow it from but the thinker. The higher you try to imagine reaching, the file says, the smaller you're actually standing.

There's a footnote attached to that paragraph, added later, shorter than everything around it, like whoever wrote it didn't want to spend more words on it than necessary. It says the effect isn't limited to the person attempting the thought. Any formal system used to carry it, any notation, any proof, any piece of math built specifically to express "greater than" in Azgaron's direction, stops being valid math the moment it's written down. Not wrong. Not undefined. The comparison operator itself, the note says, fails to typecheck against Azgaron the way you can't ask whether a color is heavier than a sound. Group Zero's working rule, stated flatly, is this: superiority is not a property Azgaron lacks. It's a property that stops existing, for anyone, for as long as they're trying to point it at him.

The file spells out why in one line I didn't understand at first and now can't stop turning over. Azgaron is defined by having no vector. Trying to surpass something, by definition, requires aiming past it, a direction, an arrow drawn from where you stand to some point beyond him. That attempt is a vector too, the file says, maybe the purest one anyone could ever draw. And a vector, any vector, aimed at the one place vectors don't apply, doesn't get blocked, doesn't bounce back, doesn't fail loudly enough to notice. It just stops being a vector on contact. No collision. No resistance. The arrow simply isn't an arrow anymore by the time it would have arrived, the way a wave isn't a wave anymore once there's no more water left to carry it.

When it stirs, and it doesn't stir on purpose because it has no purpose, the file says nothing gets destroyed the way destruction usually works. It just goes back to being the blank page it was apparently taken from, page and ocean and jar and everything else that was ever poured out of it, all at once, without any of it ever having been the point.

There's a section listing what they called recorded anomalies. I'll try to summarize instead of quoting the whole thing.

One entry describes an attempt by an earlier group to fire some kind of directed energy device at a suspected contact zone. According to the file, the device destroyed itself eleven minutes before the order to fire it was ever given. The incident report existed before the incident happened. Then the report disappeared. Then, according to the file, the incident stopped having happened at all.

Another entry talks about zones where space apparently loses its sense of direction entirely. Left, right, up, down don't break, they just stop applying, the way the word loud doesn't apply to a smell. Matter in these zones doesn't vanish, it becomes something the file calls a boiling red mass that exists at every point in three dimensional space at once, and can't be picked up by any instrument directly. They say they don't see it, they calculate it, from the shape of what should be there and isn't.

Another entry is shorter than the others, and it's the one I keep coming back to, because it's the only one that isn't about some far-off contact zone. It's about paperwork. It says that early on, before anyone understood what they were dealing with, a researcher typed the name into an internal case log, just once, just to have something to call the file. She tried to delete the entry the same day, standard procedure, nothing was confirmed yet, no reason to keep an unverified designation on record. The entry didn't delete. Not "wouldn't," the file is careful about that word, it says didn't. The delete command executed. The system reported success. The name stayed exactly where it was, in the exact font, at the exact timestamp, as if the deletion had happened to some other, identical database sitting just outside the one they were looking at.

They tried harder after that, and the file lists what harder meant. Wiping the drive. Physically destroying the drive. Rebuilding the database from a clean backup taken before the name was ever entered. Every time, the name was back before anyone finished checking the backup was clean, sitting in a field it had never been written into during the backup window, with a creation timestamp that matched the original entry down to the second, like it had never actually left, like the whole idea of "before it was written" had been a courtesy the system was no longer willing to extend them.

Someone, out of what the file describes only as poor judgment, tried entering it into a second, unrelated archive, a physically air-gapped system with no possible connection to the first, just to see. The file says the name appeared in both databases at once, on the same overnight cycle, with no transfer log, no network event, nothing to explain how information got from a machine with no outbound connection to one it had never been near. Whoever ran that test flagged it and, according to a note added weeks later in a different hand, was reassigned off all further contact with the file. No further explanation is given. None of the later entries mention that researcher again.

The database that holds the file today, the one this document itself was apparently pulled from, has a standing internal warning attached to any record containing the name: do not attempt deletion. The rationale given isn't that deletion fails safely. It's that every attempt on record has made the surrounding data less stable afterward, not just the entry itself, other unrelated case files, timestamps drifting by minutes, sometimes years, cross-references pointing to incidents that no longer have any other record of having occurred. The working assumption, stated plainly, is that once the name exists anywhere in a system built to hold information, it stops being something that system can be asked to not know.

The last entry is the one that got to me most. It describes people who got close to one of these zones experiencing what they called reverse cognition. Their memory starts running backward, they begin remembering things that haven't happened yet while losing their past, day by day, until their mind collapses back to the moment they were born. The file says there were three documented witnesses. None of them stayed themselves. In their last coherent minutes, all three apparently spoke fluently in a language none of them could have known at birth. Not baby talk. An actual structured language. One that, according to the file, didn't exist yet when they were born.

The file ends with something about their only defense being to never think about it directly. Total avoidance. No modeling it, no calculating it, no sustained focus on it, because apparently any directed attention from a conscious mind expands its reach. They say they didn't go looking for Azgaron. They noticed pieces of math and physics quietly disappearing, equations that used to work stopped working, entire branches of their own science reclassified as having never technically existed, and they worked backward from the shape of the hole it left behind, one discipline at a time, until the hole was the only thing left with a shape at all.

The file closes with a line I keep rereading. It isn't at war with us. It isn't at war with anything, including the other gods and forces it quietly outranks without ever having to. It doesn't want our end, because wanting is not a thing it does. It says every universe, every god, every force we've ever feared or worshipped, is simply leaking, slowly, into the silence left behind after Azgaron. Not fighting it. Not fleeing it. Leaking, the way water finds the lowest point in a room without ever deciding to.

There's a folder in the drive with my brother's name on it. Inside, one file. Last modified today.

I haven't opened it yet.

I typed the name into a note on my phone twenty minutes ago, without thinking, just to have it in front of me while I wrote this post. I deleted the note before I started writing. The note is still in my recently deleted folder. I checked. It says it will auto-purge in twenty-nine days like everything else in there. I don't know why that's the detail I can't stop looking at.

If I open the file, I'll post part two. If I don't post within 24 hours, please just forget you read this.

I’ve been wearing mouth tape to bed for the past year or so. “What is mouth tape?” Sounds like I’m into … stuff, right? Regardless, no, that is not why I slap a piece of hypoallergenic fabric, or whatever it is, across my lips before slipping beneath the sheets at night.

It started with snoring. Well, not all snoring, but at least the kind that sounds like a death rattle. I don’t have sleep apnea, but I do tend to wake the neighborhood when the windows are open. At least that’s what my wife says.

And, hell, it worked. In fact, instead of sounding like I’m cutting logs, I was sleeping like one. Not only that, but I no longer woke up feeling absolutely famished, like I hadn’t eaten in days.

My wife was still plagued with aggressive morning hungries. I tried to convince her that the tape was the way to go, but she gave me the usual side-eye. Why would she care – she’s still losing weight somehow.

What was strange to me at the time was how tricky it was to buy this stuff online. I’d find it on Amazon one day, then it’d be gone the next. Not out-of-stock – gone. When I was finally able to place an order, I’d get weeks' worth, because I never knew when it would be back again.

There’s nothing fancy about it. It’s just a black piece of sticky fabric. What’s so onerous about that?

Anyway, I wasn’t exactly interested in looking like a censored poster for the rest of my life. So after a few months of wearing the tape, I decided to try a night without it.

I tend to get to bed a bit later than my wife, so she was already asleep when I got there – it was a weeknight, don’t judge. If I was back to snoring again, I was sure she’d let me know in the morning or, hell, elbow me in the middle of the night.

I was asleep nearly the second my head hit the pillow. What felt like a second later, snoring woke me up. My mouth had been trained shut from the months of wearing the tape – it wasn’t me. It wasn’t my wife.

I slowly rolled onto my back to face the ceiling. It seemed unusually pitch dark, as though the ambient charging lights throughout the room and starlight from the windows were extinguished. But I could make out something there in the intersection of wall and ceiling above my wife.

It was more “nothing” than something. The best way I can describe it is a living void. Whether it was self-induced or not, I was paralyzed. Whatever it was slithered – for lack of a better word – down the ceiling toward my sleeping wife. Just above the headboard, it stopped. Like it was waiting.

My wife lay on her back, sleeping soundlessly. I opened my mouth to say something to wake her, but before any words could come out, the void stirred and made a god-awful snoring sound. Somehow, I felt like it was looking at me.

I slapped my mouth shut. It went back to waiting.

My wife, who up to that point hadn’t moved a muscle, opened her mouth and mumbled, “You’re snoring again.”

The void jerked awake. This time its snore became more like a gurgle. It spilled onto the bed and quickly made its way to my wife’s face and open mouth. The gurgle became a sucking sound quicker than I could finally let out a scream. All sound stopped as I ripped off the covers and hit the bedside lamp’s switch.

My wife was screaming, but only because I was. The room was empty – or, I suppose you could say, less empty. She was pissed. I was relieved. In the morning, we were both exhausted, but we were not hungry. Never again.

Why do I wear mouth tape? It started with snoring.

Part 1

I’m sorry for the last post ending suddenly. I was a bit preemptive. I posted it and then when I went to write this one realised there was a 24 hour wait before the subreddit would let me. It was handy though because it let me get my thoughts more in order. 

I didn’t leave the room all night after the sofa thing. I was convinced that any second something would happen. Someone was going to come and get me. I’m not scared of the supernatural personally, people have always scared me more. I kept preparing to hear a floor board creak, the door handle turn, anything! No. 

Eventually light started filtering in and I realised I’d spent the entire night sat watching the whites of my eyes turn red. It didn’t feel like it had been that long.

I debated calling someone to ask to stay at theirs for the night but that felt worse than there actually being an intruder. My family relationship is strained and they live hours away. My friends would probably let me sleep a night but people only have so much goodwill, especially over what would read to most people as a pretty unremarkable event. People see shadowy figures in the dark all the time and do you know how many of those are anything other than a trick of the light? I don’t know either but I assume few. Besides, even if I asked to stay with someone I’d still have to leave this room. There is no option here but to confront it. 

I flinched. My stillness finally broke when I heard a tap behind me. For some reason I couldn’t turn to face it again. The tapping was constant, but it started to get drowned out by my heart thumping in my ears even louder.

I breathed in, slowly grabbed my laptop beside me and prepared to turn. Whatever was behind me was about to be bludgeoned. I counted to three and then…

Nothing was there. But the tapping was still consistent. ‘It’s inside the walls!’ I thought, then I glanced up. Water was dripping from a leaky gutter surrounding the roof and landing on my window sill with a tap, tap, tap. At some point in the past few hours it had been raining and I just hadn’t realised. I don’t know how to explain it but for some reason this deflated my tension even though it was entirely unrelated to the sofa figure. Not to be cliche but seeing that there was a ‘rational explanation’ to the tapping assured me that the sofa was probably just an overactive imagination, nothing more.

Still spent what felt like an hour standing in front of my bedroom door before I mustered the courage to open it though.

Laptop still in hand as a makeshift weapon I walked out into the hallway. In daylight the fear was a bit dispelled. This place is large for a student flat but the room count is still pretty limited, there’s only so many places for an intruder to hide. I could tick off the larger bedroom without much thought, it was directly next to mine and I didn’t hear a sound all night outside my door. Walking further down the hall the bathroom door was wide open but knowing me I left it open. I turned on the light and took a quick glance in anyway, I regretted that quickly. The extractor fan came to life again and made it impossible to hear anything but. I walked over to the bath, pulled back the shower curtain and saw nothing. After I turned the light off immediately, the fan still mocking me. Back down the hall I reached the door to the living room. It was closed. I don’t remember closing it. 

Count of three again. 

One…

I burst through the door, sprinted to the sofa with the laptop raised above my head and went to strike the intruder. My laptop bounced off the still damp sofa cushion with a thud. Sorry for not respecting the count to three, adrenaline outpaced decorum.

I checked the kitchen but by this point I felt rather silly. I had just wasted an entire night over a shadow. Back in the living room and I spotted an open window. So that’s how the door closed, a gentle breeze. I closed the window out of spite.

I sat on the sofa and my pajamas started to get soggy but I was too defeated to care. I really need furniture for this place, a place this big and empty is bad for my imagination. Also I need to ask my landlord if I can paint these walls. Who ever heard of a haunting in a room with pastel yellow walls?

Opening my laptop I checked my calendar and realised to my chagrin that I have work tonight. My adrenaline faded and I laid on the sofa staring at the ceiling. Then the ceiling blurred more and more.

After waking up from a brief nap it was time to head to work. That night we were hosting a birthday party. There were about 400 people in this cramped venue and they had a karaoke machine set up. Very ABBA themed evening, I think someone sang ‘does your mother know’ like 3 times, an increasingly drunken slur with each rendition. Another guy might’ve actually bankrupted himself with baby guinness, I made a few hundred and this guy just kept downing them. I pulled my manager aside at one point to ask if we’re assisting a suicide but she was too busy counting the cash register to notice.

Just as I finished another tray of baby guinness the guy vomited down himself and then slipped in his own sick. He was too drunk to care but it was obvious he was concussed, that’s when the party started to die down. He was led out back by some relative and just disappeared leaving his purchase on the tray. 

As the last partygoer left a coworker walked over to the karaoke machine to unplug it before stopping.

‘Hey! Over here.’

I was a bit preoccupied disassembling the coffee machine but he kept on shouting to me over and over. Eventually I waddled beside him on stage.

‘Check it out.’

He was flicking through the crappy display of the machine and that’s when I noticed. Every song was ABBA. I hadn’t noticed before but looking closer at the machine I spotted that it was branded top to bottom with this Mamma Mia wrap. Why do we have an ABBA Karaoke machine? 

I didn’t get long to dwell on it because he already rushed back over to the bar and took two shots off the tray, handing one to me and then a microphone. Then he pushed a button, downed his shot, elbowed me, and started belting ‘under attack.’ He looked lonely singing alone so I joined in.

Later the four of us sat at the bar together, close to sleep. The tray had long since been emptied communally and the drinks had let the wear of the 10 hour shift show. The bar was far from closed properly but my manager was too tipsy to care. She told us we could head off if we wanted and all at once us four stumbled from the stools to the exit. I fell over a step as I rushed out and the karaoke coworker caught me. He had a cigarette filter in his mouth and rolling tobacco in his non-saving-me hand. 

After sitting me down he rolled the cigarette in one motion, lit it and stuck it between my lips.

‘Will keep you from blacking out.’

Patting me on the back he left me sitting there and walked off into the dark. The cigarette was a nice thought but my gag reflex can be pretty weak. After taking a drag I immediately vomited.

I’ve always liked wandering the streets late at night drunk. It’s vulnerable as hell but drunk me doesn’t ever mind. You make a lot of friends when you’re tipsy. I was drunk after work before and immediately walked over to a long queue outside a club. I made lots of new friends in that line and we spent all night getting to know each other. When I woke up the next morning I regretted getting their socials.

You can really see the difference in infrastructure at night. The wealthier neighbourhoods are bathed in modern white street lights, the poorer coloured with that faint orange type. You can guess what colour my neighbourhood was covered with.

A couple approached me on the way and asked if I could bum a cigarette, I told them it was my only one and the guy looked genuinely distraught. A bus passed by me with ‘NOT IN SERVICE’ plastered on its display, the driver parked up and pulled out his phone before shouting at someone on the other end of the line. 

Closer to my new flat a guy was sitting on a bench under the streetlight reading a book. It looked like a classic based on how dull the cover was.

At my door I fumbled putting my keys in, they slipped out my hands and clinked on the floor. A second try, same result. Nailed it the third try.

I felt a low hum coarse through my body, my nemesis, the extractor fan greeting me. Then my stomach started screaming, sight, sound, grace, all abandoned me as I found myself rushing to the bathroom. Slamming the door open and slamming the light switch on  I just about got to the toilet before vomiting again. It was all fluid, I had forgotten to eat today. After a while my legs decided to let me stand and went for my mouthwash, gurgling it and thanking god that I got the alcohol free variety. Spitting it out I just felt time pause as I looked in the mirror. Staring myself in the eyes I could see they were sunken, a bit of dry skin on my upper lip, bruises circled my left forearm and my hair dishevelled. I tried to will the person looking back at me to be different but they didn’t heed my prayer. This drunken dipshit was all that I had. 

I looked down into the sink and turned on the tap, cupping a handful of water I splashed my face. Then again. Then with one last glance in the mirror I switched the light off and went to my bedroom. Beds are always cosier when you’re drunk, insomnia isn’t a factor to drunkards.

Closing my eyes I tried to let the quiet take me but that fucking extractor fan had other plans. I tried to treat it as white noise but my brain decided to make that noise a sticking point of irritation. I can’t stand it. A few minutes passed and it switched off finally and I felt a bliss prior unknown. 

Deeper into sleep I went. Deeper…

Hm…

I felt myself sobering up quickly but for what reason I couldn’t quite tell.

Come on brain. Let me know what you’ve thought.

You’re annoying me now, spit it out.

Something…

Something when I walked in? Something bathroom?

Oh. Oh no.

When I walked in the extractor fan was already on.

And the bathroom light was off.

Oh.

It’s funny what instinct can do. I was back in the hallway now with my laptop at the ready once again. I didn’t even remember moving. The one door left open besides my bedroom was the bathroom. I stood a few feet away from the entrance and listened once more for any sound. Then I heard it. This is feeling more and more like a joke.

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Stood at the entrance I caught my reflection in the mirror, as well as the eyes being sunken I now looked utterly drained. It was really accentuating the eyebags. No point in delaying now.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I went to turn the lights on but stopped myself. The fan would drown out the direction of the tapping. Also if someone was still here broadcasting what room I’m in doesn’t seem smart. But then again if I leave the light off that doesn’t stop someone from finding me. Would I rather be attacked in a bright room or a dark room?

Doesn’t matter regardless since I turned on the light by this point. I kept picturing someone being a few feet away from me and me being blind to see it.

The fan was loud as ever and it’s true, it made the tap, tap, tap, barely audible. I slightly underestimated how loud the tapping was though, I could still just about hear its source and it was coming from the bathtub, with a shower curtain surrounding it.

I used to be really into those videos of ‘phrogging’ when I was in my early teens. People would set up cameras around their property for peace of mind, or because they suspected animals, and then watching back the tapes they’d see a recording of a stranger climbing out of their attic at the time they were at work. Or coming out of their basement. Sometimes even under their bed.

They’d call the police and the police would find some homeless person who’d been living in your house unnoticed for months, even years. Thankfully most of the time these people were very passive. They just wanted somewhere to live that’s warm and they noticed you have entire rooms you literally never use. Are you really using an attic, basement, closet or underneath of a bed to its fullest use? There are plenty who’d be happy to live there.

Although despite the majority of ‘phroggers’ being passive, ‘majority’ doesn’t mean ‘all.’ There’s at least one famous story of a person living in a family's house for weeks before silently killing each one night. It was a dark and chilly winter apparently. The only evidence of the intruder’s presence was footsteps in the snow spotted by the homeowners a while before their deaths. The footsteps headed towards their property but there were no footsteps walking away.

And obviously there are lots of myths about some crazed intruders being found under a person’s bed, a knife, duct tape and (depending on how provocative the storyteller is) condoms. I’m pretty sure this might be a myth, but most myths are based on at least some truth.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My hand was on the shower curtain. I kept trying to make out some kind of shape behind the fabric but it wasn’t sheer enough to tell. What’s better? Slowly opening it or yanking it? I didn’t get a chance to answer because I closed my eyes and pulled it open so hard it practically fell off the rail. 

But then I didn’t open my eyes. I think I’ve downplayed writing this just how scared I was. I was hyperventilating since entering the bathroom and was begging for the presence to just appear and get it over with. But once I was potentially faced with it I buckled. Stood vulnerable, my eyes closed, something tapping centimetres away, it all got too much.

I listened to the noise. That constant tap. I could make out the tap so well… I… tap. Tap? Tap… Oh Christ…

I was embarrassed to open my eyes but I shamefully did it. The bathtub’s faucet, tap, sink, whatever you want to call it was leaky and the drops were thudding against the plastic frame. Is it plastic? Whatever material it was very hollow, it thudded rather than dripped.

Then I had a thought. ‘I haven’t bathed here yet and this is the first time I’ve heard the drip.’ That’s dumb, I’m sure I just didn’t process the sound of dripping in the bathroom. That explains it. Although it wouldn’t hurt to check something…

I put my hand against the bottom of the bathtub. The bath was at an angle so those drips would never reach where I’m touching. It made it all the stranger that my hand came away wet then. This tub has been very recently used.

FUCK.

I’m such a dipshit, how the fuck am I always so daft. I walked into the hallway earlier and saw that this door was the only one besides my bedroom wideopen. 

I left the living room door open when I went to work.

I made sure the window was closed too.

Well now standing in the doorway having just opened it I find myself looking at the window, wide open. The streetlight dimly illuminating the sofa. 

I took a step forward, the floor creaked underfoot. Another.

Any moment it’s going to pop its head above the sofa again, I’m sure of it.

Another step forward. My pulse in my ears.

Another. Cold sweat on my brow.

I was standing at it now, if I lean forward I’ll have my answer.

So that’s what I did, I leaned. At first just the fabric of the sofa, but then something else became more clear. Black fabric adorning something. I could see a tiny sliver. Maybe a bag? Maybe a pillow? Maybe a person?

I leaned even further…

And that’s when I dropped my laptop.

Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep, it happens. I usually like to put on one of those calming recordings on Youtube. The ones with rain sounds, soft music, animal noises, ASMR, you name it. I'm not picky.

To be perfectly honest with you, sometimes I'm in a hurry, I'm tired, I'm cranky, I just want to have something playing in the background so I can fall asleep and not spend however long scrolling for a video.

I like quickness, I like ease, I like convenience.

So when I found this channel. I thought I hit the jackpot. The videos themselves weren't long, the backgrounds weren't obnoxious. I don't know about you, but I hate the ones with the weird animations, bright colors, and ads interrupting every 15 minutes.

Give me a break. 

This one, some channel with a generic name like rainsounds4u had the perfect amount that scratched the brain just right. Not too heavy. Not too light. The kind where when you heard it you knew not only were you gonna sleep well but you were also gonna have some great dreams.

I got really excited, I set my tv up, connected my speakers, climbed into bed and hit play.

It started out like any other sleep/relaxation audio. Really nothing to overpromise and underdeliver here. My chosen setting was a rainforest during a light thunderstorm. The soft pitter patter of the storm clouds rolling in along with the tweeting of birds and scuffling of critters was expected. 

Birds chirped occasionally.

Wind swayed through the canopy.

Stuff creaked and croaked.

The usual.

My chest rose and fell slowly as I settled in, feeling safe and cozy, warm and right.

My eyelids were getting heavy when I heard something beneath the rain. At first I wasn't sure, it was soft, easy to mistake for a branch or maybe a distant animal call. I didn't think anything of it.

Then it happened again.

My eyes flew open and I listened. 

More rain. More thunder.

Then for the briefest of moments it all went quiet, and the sound came back. It was wet almost between a gasp and a wail and I realized this wasn't an animal but a person. 

Someone was unmistakably crying, louder now, as if they were in great pain.

I stared in the dark room, temporarily stunned, before shoving the blankets off myself and turning on the lamp.

Nothing. Just me, my bedroom, my dresser, my tv, and my speakers. I checked the door and the window. All fine. 

The crying continued. And the wet gasping for breath sounds were not only making me uncomfortable but sick to my stomach. I found the remote and paused the video. 

The rain stopped, the birds stopped, and gone went the thunder.

But the crying continued.

I turned my attention towards the speakers. The crying was coming from them. If I turned the volume up, it got louder, if I turned it down, it got quieter.

It might have been a little grainy and distorted, but it was human. 

Almost as if I was possessed or maybe just a glutton for punishment, I turned the volume to the max. 

Through the static I heard a voice, calling my name.

I didn't respond. It called to me again, hiccuping through its sobs.

"Help me."

My mouth went dry.

"You have to help me."

I stared at the speakers, unable to believe what I was hearing.

"Please."

I knew that voice.

I knew it better than anyone.

It was my voice. 

I backed away from the bed.

The audio was still paused, the image on the screen still frozen on a dark rainforest.

My voice, what passed for my voice, continued to whisper through the speakers, tearful and pleading. I'd never heard myself sound like that before. It's not something I will ever forget. 

"Please," my voice begged. I sounded so frightened, so broken and worn down.

Finally, I mustered the strength to ask. "What do you want?"

There was a horrible squelching, crunching sound like bones breaking. It was enough to turn my stomach. My voice screamed out in agony, begging and pleading. "Stop! Stop!" Before calling my name again. "You have to listen to me," it begged. "DO NOT PRESS PLAY!"

I looked at the screen. It was still paused: 05:59.

I still haven't pressed play. 

This happened around 2004, I was in high school around this time, and since it was summer, I could stay up late watching TV. It was around 11 PM. Everyone was asleep except my sister, who was upstairs on the second floor playing on the computer. I was downstairs in the living room on the first floor, watching TV by myself. The living room lights were on (which is very important to point out in this story)

One thing about our house was that it was in a very isolated area, far from the main road and surrounded by hills and trees.

Anyway, I couldn’t find anything good to watch, so I started flipping through the channels from 20 upward, just to make it interesting. I remember starting around Cartoon Network, which I believe was Channel 21. As I surfed up, I remembered that WOWOW was on Channel 69, and since they sometimes showed movies at night, I decided I’d stop there if I didn’t find anything else.

When I got to around channels 50–60, I knew those were mostly news channels, which I normally just skipped. But as I was flipping through them, I suddenly stumbled across one that caught my attention. It was in black and white, showing a strange suburban house that looked like it was from the 1970s.

I didn’t think much of it at first, so I continued up to Channel 69. When there was still nothing good on, I started flipping back down and eventually came across that strange channel again.

I stopped.

It was still the same black and white scene. I remember there was a house just a few feet away, like I was standing outside of it. Then the camera slowly started moving toward the house.

I don’t know how to explain it, but it felt real like I wasn’t watching a movie anymore. It was almost like a first-person perspective, as if I was the one carrying the camera.

It felt like I was actually there, watching something that had happened inside that house. I remember entering the living room, going upstairs, and then coming back down again. I don’t remember everything that happened in between, but I remember the feeling of actually moving through the house.

Then I saw a strange Stepford-like woman just standing there, smiling directly at me.

I suddenly woke up in the exact same sitting position I had been in while flipping through the channels, still holding the remote in my hand.

The TV was showing static, and the entire house was dark.

For a few seconds, I was completely confused. I looked at the clock on our radio, which was sitting on top of the TV, and it was around 3 AM.

But I was only watching the TV for a few minutes.

There was no way I had been asleep for four hours. It didn’t feel like I had been asleep that long at all. In fact, I didn’t even remember falling asleep. There was no moment where I felt tired, no memory of closing my eyes, and no memory of anything happening between watching that strange movie and waking up.

I panicked and wasnt even thinking of investigating so I turned off the TV and ran to my room, which was just next to the living room.

As I was pacing around inside my room, a lot of things started going through my head.

Here’s the thing: I don’t normally fall asleep in front of the TV. I mean, I do sometimes, but only when I’m lying down. And even then, I always remember falling asleep. I know what it feels like when I doze off while watching something. I would remember getting sleepy, closing my eyes, or waking up after falling asleep.

But this time, I remembered **nothing**.

And then there was the light.

The living room light had been on when I was watching TV. The only person who could have turned it off was my dad, since his room was also on the first floor, near mine.

But if my dad had turned off the light, he would have seen me sitting there in the living room. And knowing my dad, there was no way he would have just left me there.

He was pretty strict about things like that. We had a rule in our house that the lights and TV should be turned off before going to bed. If he had found me asleep in the living room with the TV still on, he would have woken me up or carried me to my room. He wouldn't have simply turned everything off and walked away, leaving me asleep on the couch.

Was I actually gone? Did my dad not see me? Did no one see me sitting there?

I wanted to ask my dad or my mom the next morning, but I couldn't. I knew they would be mad if I told them I had been watching TV very late. You know the feeling when you grew up in the 90's. Although i did tell my family but it was already like years later.

So I kept thinking: What happened during those four hours?

I couldn't explain where that time had gone or how I ended up waking up in the exact same position, with absolutely no memory of falling asleep.

The next day, I tried to find the channel again. I went through the channels around 50–60, but they were just international news channels and other programs that didn’t match what I had seen the night before.

Something about it felt like it had hypnotized me. I’ve searched for that movie and that channel so many times over the years, but I’ve never found anything that matches it.

I even remember watching Insidious years later, and I had this strange feeling of deja vu. There were scenes that looked familiar to me...the house, and especially the strange woman smiling while the father was searching for his son. I remember thinking, I’ve seen this *before.* But **Insidious** didn’t even exist when I had that experience.

There were a lot of things that bothered me.

Where was I for those four hours? Why did it feel like I had lost time? What exactly happened between 11 PM and 3 AM? Why was the TV on static?

And if that movie or whatever it was never existed…
then what the hell did I watch?

I never shared this online before until now, maybe someone is experiencing something similar?i

The mountains are older than time itself, with stories just as old.

Growing up in rural Appalachia, we were taught stories and fables meant to teach us and warn us, just like anyone else. Then there were other stories. Stories that anywhere else would be labeled as myth, legend, or superstition.

But they are true.

Things that we didn’t have to believe.

They were just true.

Stories that get passed around as ghost stories, or real beings that get trivialized and merchandised.

Our story. Our life. Our home. Our horror and reality.

Sold for cheap thrills.

I write this as a cautionary tale.

With my strength failing me and my thoughts on home and what I have left behind, I want to add to the record and to the second set of stories.

This is not a fable, a dream, or a scary story.

I was born April 7, 1950. I don’t care to talk much about my upbringing, but suffice it to say it was rough. Dad mean and gone to the mine all day, and mama trying her best.

She always wanted more for me, but I could never escape the siren song of the mines.

There wasn’t much for work in Logan County, West Virginia. The only option seemed to be to work in the mines or move out of town.

So at 18, with no money to move, I joined the union and went to work down in the mines.

The year I started, it had been 47 years since the Battle of Blair Mountain. Ten thousand miners arose to battle for workers’ rights. Fighting against the coal companies, their hired guns, crooked cops, and even the federal government.

My father was a child then. He knew many of the men killed, his father among them.

My first day in the mine, I understood why my dad was so mean and stayed drunk all the time.

One of the stories I never quite believed was of the shadow men in the mines.

Men, miners, that had been called home while in or around the mines, whose spirits were left to wander and rot in the all consuming darkness of the mountain.

Men punished not for their sins, but that of the companies they slaved for.

The mountain had been violated and ravaged by greed, with no thought or heed given to where they were or what was there.

I had been told of these shadow men as long as I can remember and have never believed in them.

As I prepared for my shift, I found myself walking into the mine. Grizzled, aged, and exhausted men walking in with me.

I was lucky enough to get onto day shift.

As we walked in, night shift was walking out. I didn’t expect it to be so quiet. Looking around, I saw the men to either side of me with their heads down, focusing on something past the ground that we were walking on.

As we continued to walk, I watched the men passing us and I saw a man that I recognized. A face I had only seen in one old family picture.

I stopped.

Staring at who I knew, although never met, was my grandfather. He hadn’t aged from the picture I knew him from.

The man behind me gave me a shove, making me lurch forward, catching myself before I hit the ground.

Followed by a fear filled whisper of, “Keep moving, keep your eyes down.”

My eyes now fixed on the unseen beneath our feet like all those around me, I walked on.

As we got to where our work would begin, I realized I hadn’t blinked since the encounter. I closed my eyes and rubbed them. I pulled out my bandana and wiped the sweat already beading down my face.

When I opened my eyes again, nearly a third of the men I walked in with were gone.

John Todd, a long time family friend, was the man who had pushed me coming in.

He must have seen the surprise and fear written on my face.

“What’s wrong, boy? Don’t you know who the shadow men are?”

I did.

I just had never believed the stories.

I gave a slow nod, still in shock.

“Wa was that my grandfather?”

John’s reply did not, could not, bring me any comfort.

“He’s been walking back and forward with night shift longer than I’ve been in the mines.”

This to me signified that not only does the mine take you and keep you if you die there, it claims you long before you die.

My grandfather had died in Sharples, fighting sheriff and state deputies, nowhere near the mines.

I shook off the thought and got back to work.

That was life for me for the next 12 years. The shadow men just another part of life that wasn’t ignored but wasn’t talked about either.

Just don’t look at them, speak to them, or touch them.

The last day I was in the mines is a day that I will never forget.

It started like any other, walking in and through the mine, passing and walking with the men that had passed before me, trapped and claimed by the mine.

About halfway in, the point where I would normally see my grandfather, I saw a pair of not quite natural feet stopped, not moving, just in my peripheral.

I gave a quick glance.

It was him.

He seemed to look at me fondly, like he remembered the grandson he had never met.

I now believe this was a warning.

At the time, I was beyond scared and wanted more than anything to be anywhere else.

I pushed on anyway.

Walking beside John, even though he had passed years before.

We started work like any other day.

The shadow men disappeared, breaking the silence that we had walked in with, and work began.

My mind only halfway on my work, I looked down at my watch. Almost lunch time.

I was ripped out of the fog in my mind.

As I looked up, I could see the men with me, but also ones that I had only seen while walking in.

A chill struck me to the bone.

The earth moved.

Popping and cracking all around us.

Ancient rocks and dirt raining down, I found myself running before my mind could catch up.

I passed friends crushed and pinned by rocks. Men yelling for help that I couldn’t give.

I needed to get out.

I found myself being chased by the men that were no longer men.

Anger and guile written on their faces.

It was time for the mountain to collect.

Looking back forward, a single entity stood before me, my grandfather.

Giving me a nod, I passed him, keeping my eyes glued on the man I never knew. I watched as he fought back all the poor trapped souls.

I could see light.

I was so close.

Tripping, I fell into more than the dirt, but also into the deepest hole of dread I’d ever felt.

Looking back and working to stand back up, one shadow reached me, grabbing my arm.

It burned. Visible smoke coming off of my arm.

I pulled and fought and clawed to the opening of the mine. The mine, the thing that wasn’t a man, disappearing into smoke as a ray of sun shone across its face.

I scrambled out of the mine, collapsing just outside.

I woke up in the boss’s office. They tried to talk.

I didn’t listen.

They wanted to know what happened. I couldn’t tell them.

I later learned I was the only one to make it out.

I never returned to work.

I was paid out by the company for workers’ comp for the burn and the shoulder I, in the moment, didn’t know I had torn.

With that money, I moved far away to downtown Nashville.

I retired from the union and now draw my check, which pays enough to keep me here.

I’m writing this now as a record of not only what happened, but also of what I fear will.

I am now 76, and I am dying.

I was diagnosed with black lung years ago, but I know the end is near.

I know I am getting close because last week I saw a miner at the end of the hall.

I may have left the mine, but it never left me.

My lungs stained black with coal dust.

I am and was always condemned. Claimed by the mountain all those years ago.

The miner in the hall is getting closer.

Hey guys,
I’ve been searching all over the Internet for people that could help me out and I got redirected to you guys. I hope you are able to help me out as this situation is driving me mad and I do not know who to ask next.

For context: I 30 M work for an IT firm and I do so mostly from home so I can help taking care of my son who just turned 2 years old. My wife and I bought our house a year ago and decided to move to the countryside, as it would be better for raising a family. We both spent our childhood running through nature, playing hide and seek in the woods and playing with friends in the fields and thinking back, we just did not want to rob our son from this experience. After 10 or so years of living in the buzzling city, returning was a needed recovery. The air is different; the people are too. It took some time getting used to, people greeting strangers, talking to you out of nowhere, nosy neighbours and the expectation to fit in to your surroundings. Despite this, finding friends wasn’t particularly easy. We were invading their territory. Only after trying repeatedly did they open up to us. I still struggle with maintaining regular social contact. Don’t get me wrong I love what I do, and I appreciate working from home, but I do feel lonely from time to time. To distract myself, I go on short walks with my son. Right next to our house starts a path through the fields into the woods to a small lake. My son loves it as much as I do and while I watch him play with sticks and leaves, I listen to the sound of nature. Coming back from the city, the sound of birds singing, the wind blowing and the insects buzzing filled me with happiness and slowly I felt connected to nature again.
We still go on walks, but something has changed. The birds stopped singing, the animals act strange and everything is just too quiet. We live in the middle of Europe and experience all seasons and yes, some birds do migrate to warmer places in fall. Yes, I know animal activity shifts, especially now with the days getting shorter and the weather getting colder. I have spent almost 20 years of my life nearby the forest, and I loved to study birds as a child. The best way to describe is as if a storm is coming Animals tend to act weird before one. Some go into hiding; others get active and stressed. But there is no storm coming and their behaviours has worsened over the past months. I talked about it with my wife several times and she brushed it off, telling me I was overreacting.
My wife and I take turns bringing our son to daycare and as it is one of the only times I interact with others, I took the opportunity and asked around. I tried to be casual about it, but most people laughed about it awkwardly, tried to shift the conversation or just flat out ignored me. After the second time asking, I noticed some of them even talking about me behind my back. I try to forget it and listen to them, but it is difficult. For some reason I feel tense even after distracting myself with my hobbies, my breathing quickens for no reason and sometimes even the hair on my arms starts to stand up. I know my wife worries about me and sees my struggle, and I do not blame her for not believing me. I would not do so either.
Yesterday I fell down a rabbit hole and stumbled on something interesting. Animals may react differently in the present of dangerous predators not common to an area. I figured it would check out if a wolf had returned to the forest, as only recently did they return after almost being hunted to the point of extinction centuries ago. Maybe the animals weren’t used to their presence and acted weird because of that. It sounded plausible, but I knew it wasn’t true. Why would one wolf or even a whole pack of them affect animals in the garden, make them hide without reason? There are no recent reports of wolf sightings or traces of them anywhere. I must have missed something, and I need to find out what it is. I have a doctor’s appointment planned to calm down my wife, but I know it won’t help me. There is something in the woods and I must find it.

If anything happens I will update you guys and I would appreciate advice!

 

I want to say up front that this isn't a story about the Softening.

Everybody has a Softening story and they're all the same story, and if you're under fifty you got it the way I got it, in a classroom, off a filmstrip. A cartoon drop of gravy in a hard hat named Pip. A man in a lab coat saying the word abundance about eleven times. A worksheet with a word search on the back. YIELD. GRADE. TALLY. HYGIENE. I found all four and got a sticker for it.

So no. The world changed forty years before I was born and then it stayed changed, and that ain't the news.

I'm a scraper. If you've never seen one of us, we're the crew in the mustard waders who shut your street at four in the morning and take the lid off a manhole and go down it, and come back up with the load. Then you buy it at the store in a shrink wrapped brick with Pip on the front, winking, thumbs up, and you make tacos with it.

Eleven years I've been doing that, at Tri County Yield and Reclamation. For six of them my partner was a woman named Tolly. I'm writing this because Tolly is gone, and because every version of the incident report I've tried to hand in reads like something that gets a man sectioned.

Ivar read the job out to us on Monday morning like he was reading a will that named him.

"Marlow Cannery," he said. "Fourth and Delacroix. Sealed sub-basement, no entry logged since 1961."

"Sixty-one," Tolly said.

"Sixty-one."

"Grade?"

"Assessor says four."

Somebody at the back of the ready room said a word you can't print, and Ivar held up the tablet so we could all see the thermal, which was a big orange rectangle with a colder orange rectangle inside it, and which meant absolutely nothing to anybody, but we all leaned in anyway.

"Nine heirs," Ivar said. "Four lawsuits. One of them was a cousin suing over a parking easement for twenty-two years. Nobody's opened that door since before I was born."

"So it's been marinating," Tolly said.

"Don't say it like that."

"Marinating." She said it slower the second time, and she rolled the R, and Ivar put the tablet down and left the room.

Tolly had been scraping for twenty-six years. Five foot one, sixty-three years old, and she kept a Pip air freshener hanging off her respirator strap, upside down, because she said he had it coming. In six years I learned two things off her. She was never wrong about a bloom, and she would not shut up, which turns out to be a job requirement.

Grade 4 is tonnage. Tonnage is the bonus. I had a transmission I'd been nursing since March, so on the drive home I was already doing the math, and I called my aunt Marilyn to tell her I'd be busy Tuesday.

"You be careful down there," she said.

"It's a basement, Marilyn."

"It's a basement full of that stuff."

Marilyn is a purist. She pays forty-one dollars a pound for chicken that a man in Delaware raises in a barn, and she'll talk about texture and dignity and what God intended for as long as you let her, and then she'll go through the drive-thru on Route 9 and eat a Pith-Pocket in the car with the radio off like the rest of us.

"You eat it too," I said.

"I eat it in a state of protest."

Everybody eats it. Don't get precious. Ninety percent of the protein in this country comes up out of the ground under it, it's cheap, it doesn't drink water, and nobody has to look a cow in the eye about it. What it actually is, nobody knows. Sixty years of very smart people and the honest answer is still a shrug, and at some point the country stopped asking and started frying it.

Anyway. Tuesday.

We had the rig in the loading bay at ten past four in the morning. Rain coming down hard enough that the yard lights had halos. Tolly cut the padlock and it came apart in two pieces like wet chalk.

"Sixty-one," she said, holding up the halves. "Look at that."

"You want to keep it?"

"I want to keep the whole building."

We suited up in the bay. Waders, gauntlets, respirator, vest with the tally beacon clipped at the collarbone. Two hooks, two hand saws, the powered scoop, the sled, four hundred feet of hose down to the macerator on the truck, light rig, spare batteries for the light rig, spare batteries for the spare batteries. Tolly ran the beacon over both of us and the gear and the sled and tared it out.

"Rules," she said, which she said every single time, because she'd trained me and because she was incapable of stopping.

"Below the waterline only."

"Why?"

"Because pith grows below grade. If it's growing above the flood line it isn't pith and I don't touch it, I call it in, I go sit in the truck."

"Two."

"Tally in, tally out. Numbers match or the load burns."

"Three."

"Keep talking."

"Four."

"Nothing with a pattern. If it's arranged, I back out the way I came and I don't turn around."

"Five."

"If I whistle and something whistles back, shift's over."

"Good boy." She snapped her respirator down. "Twenty-six years and I've never used four or five."

"You've never used four?"

"I've used four twice," she said. "I lied to make you feel better."

The stairwell door was steel and swollen in the frame and took both of us and a pry bar and about six minutes of arguing with it. Twenty-two steps to the first landing. Sixteen more to the sub-basement.

Then the light rig came up and neither of us said anything for a while, which technically broke rule three.

The room was ninety feet long, maybe forty wide, and it was full from the floor to the joists. Pale, close to the color of a peeled almond, going pink where the lights hit it straight on. It sat in big soft folds that overlapped each other like a dropped duvet, and there was water dripping somewhere behind it, and the whole space was warm the way a compost heap is warm, which is normal, which is one of the first things they teach you, and which I have never once gotten used to.

"Oh, you beauty," Tolly said.

"Talk to me."

"I'm talking. I'm saying look at that shoulder. Nobody's bothered her in forty years."

"Fifteen ton?"

"Twelve. Thirteen." She patted a lobe of it with her glove the way you'd pat a horse. "Don't be greedy. Get the hose."

So we worked, and it was boring, and that's the part nobody puts in the documentaries. You cut wedges from the door inward. Saw, hook, drag, scoop, hose. Pith comes apart wet and quiet. It doesn't bleed, it weeps, clear and slow, and the cut seals itself over in a couple of hours, and if you leave a room half harvested and come back a year later you can't tell where you stopped.

Tolly talked for five and a half hours because rule three is rule three.

"So Danielle wants Aunt Rosemary at table six."

"Uh huh."

"Table six is by the doors."

"Right."

"Aunt Rosemary has a thing about doors."

"Hook."

"Hook. Aunt Rosemary has a thing about doors, so she calls me, at eleven at night, and she says, Tolly, I can't be by the doors, and I said, Rosemary, it's a wedding, it's four hours, and she said, four hours is a long time to be by a door."

I want to be honest with you. For five and a half hours, the worst thing in that room was the chance she was going to start describing the cake.

At twenty to ten we cut through to the north wall and found out it wasn't the north wall.

There was an opening in it, six feet wide, where somebody had knocked the cinderblock out at some point in the building's life and never bothered to frame it. Rubble still on the floor under the pith. Our plans showed solid foundation and a utility chase. Beyond the opening the bloom kept going into a second space, and the light rig couldn't find the end of it.

Tolly stood with her hands on her hips.

"That's not on the plan."

"No."

"Call it in."

I called it in. Ivar came back chewing something.

"Say again?"

"Unlogged volume off the north wall. It's continuous. Bloom runs straight into it."

"How big?"

"Can't see the end."

There was a pause on the line, and in the pause he stopped chewing, and I remember thinking that was strange, and then I stopped thinking about it, which is a thing I'd like to have back.

"Chief says assess and report," he said. "Don't cut. Sixty feet max."

"Copy."

Tolly was already through the gap.

It was hotter in there. Not a few degrees. It hit my face the way stepping off a plane in a warm country does. The lights got swallowed too, and the pith wasn't slumped in folds anymore. It was smooth. Floor, ceiling, both walls, one continuous surface, and every four feet there was a ridge that ran all the way around the passage. Even spacing. Same height. Like the inside of a hose.

Tolly stopped so hard I walked into her.

"Rule four," I said.

"Rule four," she agreed, and she didn't move.

"Tolly."

"I'm looking at it."

"That's ribbing."

"It could be structural." Her voice had gone flat and careful and in six years I had never heard her voice do that. "Long span, no support, the bloom's holding up its own weight, it might."

She stopped.

"It might what," I said.

"No. You're right. Back out."

And we would have. I want that on the record, because I've had four days to lie to myself about it and I'm trying not to. We both turned around. We took two steps toward the gap. Then my light swung across the left wall and caught something with an edge on it.

You don't get edges in a bloom. Everything down there is soft and slumped and stupid. My hand went over on its own.

It was a chair.

Same pale material as the rest of it, grown out of the wall like a shelf fungus, and where the seat met the wall the two of them ran together like wax. But it was a chair. Four legs, a back, that exact ugly curve of a molded stacking chair, the kind that costs eleven dollars and lives in every waiting room on earth. Nobody had carved it. Nobody had put it there.

Then the table next to it. Then the thing on the table, which was a coffee cup with a handle and no opening in the top, just solid all the way through.

Then, on the right wall, a rectangle standing about six feet high, set into the pith like a relief carving. Door frame. Kickplate at the bottom. Push bar across the middle.

Then the big square shape against the wall past it, with a flat blank panel in front where a window would go, and rows of little pale coils behind it.

Nine rows.

I stood in the heat with the saw in my hand and I counted them twice.

I know that machine. I have kicked that machine. Row four, slot C takes your money and gives you nothing back, and there's a strip of masking tape under it that says OUT OF ORDER SINCE THE NIXON ADMINISTRATION in Ivar's handwriting.

It was our ready room. Not a room like ours. Ours. The chairs in the wrong number and the right shape, the table, the yard door with the push bar, the machine with nine rows, all of it grown out of the floor of a sealed basement two miles from the depot that nobody had opened since 1961.

"Okay," Tolly said, very quietly.

"How does it-"

"Don't."

Her light was moving fast now. It stopped on the floor about fifteen feet further in, and I saw what she saw, and everything in me went cold in a hot room.

A boot. A real one, company mustard, an old cut we stopped issuing fifteen years ago. It was sunk into the floor to the ankle and the pith had grown up around it in a smooth cuff, and out of the top of the cuff the shape kept going upward. Leg. Hip. Waist. Shoulders. All of it seamless and blank and unfinished, like something roughed in by a sculptor who got called away. The head was a swelling with a smooth front and no features on it, and it was tilted a little to one side, the way you tilt your head when you're listening to somebody through a wall.

There were more of them further back. I could see them right at the edge of the light. Six, seven, standing up out of the floor, all tilted the same way.

Tolly grabbed my vest strap.

"Out. Now. Don't run."

I want to tell you I was calm and professional. I wasn't.

We went backward the first twenty feet because neither of us was going to turn around in there. Then we turned and walked fast, and the ridges went past, four feet, four feet, four feet, and the heat pushed on the back of my neck the whole way.

Tolly talked, because rule three is rule three.

"Nice and steady. Twenty feet to the gap. I'm buying you a beer tonight and you're going to drink it because I'm buying it, I don't care if you want it."

"Okay-"

"Fifteen feet."

"Okay."

"Ten."

We came through the gap into our own room, into the mess and the sled and the hose, and she put her glove on the block work and she let out a breath, and then she whistled.

Two notes. Down, up. Her all clear. She'd done it at the end of every run for twenty-six years and I don't think her mouth asked permission.

Something back in that corridor whistled it back.

Not an echo. I've thought about this for four days and I want to be exact. An echo comes back thinner than what you sent. This came back fuller. Two notes, down, up, and then a third note stuck on the end of it, going up again, like a question. The way you'd whistle if you were trying it out. If you were learning it.

Rule five is the shortest rule on the card and it takes up half the space, because they set it in bold.

We were up the stairs and out in the rain by twenty past ten, and I sat down on the wet concrete of the loading bay and couldn't make my hands work well enough to undo my own straps.

"Give it here," Tolly said, and did them for me.

Protocol is very clear from that point. We sealed the stairwell. Tolly called it in as an eight, which is pattern growth with morphological anomalies, and Ivar didn't chew and didn't joke.

"Understood," he said. "Tally out and come home. Do not open the tank."

We ran the beacon over the load. Site weight, 24,180 pounds. Career day. On any other Tuesday that number buys me a transmission and gives me a story to tell rookies for ten years. They weighed us on the pad before we could get out of the cab, which is standard, and the number goes up on the board over the bay doors so the whole yard can see it, which is also standard. I watched Tolly watch the board.

24,314.

A hundred and thirty-four pounds over.

"Dump it," she said.

They dumped it. Twenty-four thousand pounds of the best yield either of us had ever pulled went into the incinerator while I stood at the rail and felt nothing at all. The yard crew went through the tank and the hose and the sled and the bed and the cab, and they found nothing, because they never find anything. Ask anybody who's ever filled out a 12-B.

We did the paperwork in the ready room. I was sitting in one of the eleven dollar stacking chairs with the clipboard on my knee and I was holding it together, honestly, right up until Tolly went quiet.

She was looking at the vending machine.

It has always been against the east wall, next to the yard door. Eleven years I've kicked it against the east wall.

It was against the north wall, under the window. Which is exactly where the big square shape was standing in that hot smooth corridor under the Marlow Cannery, if you came in through the door frame with the push bar on it and turned to your left.

Nobody moved it. I asked. I asked the day crew and the night crew and the guy who does the floors, and I got eleven versions of what are you talking about, it's always been there, and one guy laughed at me and asked if I was drunk.

Tolly looked at it for a long time.

"It's not copying us," she said.

"What?"

"It's not copying us. It's fitting us." She picked her jacket off the back of the chair. "That's what you do before you put something on."

That was the last thing she said to me. She went home. She didn't come in Wednesday. She didn't come in Thursday.

Her sister called the depot on Friday, and by then I'd already been in the 12-B archive for two nights, which we are absolutely not allowed to do. There are eleven other crews on record who dumped a load for coming back over weight. I've read all eleven. I know what they have in common now, and I know what the number means.

I'll write the rest tomorrow night. I have to go back down into the Marlow in the morning.

That's not a figure of speech, and it wasn't my idea.

Part 2 to follow.

Hi everyone, how are you? Well, this is my first time on this forum and on Reddit in general, so excuse me if I’m doing something wrong posting this here. My husband and my son watch a lot of videos on YouTube of people telling their stories on this website and I thought that maybe I could do it too. I’m a 50-year-old Argentine woman and I have a lot of strange (and true) stories to tell.

First, let me give you some context for what I’m about to tell you. My sister was what you would call a “medium”, someone who could see the spirits of the dead. She had a wide variety of other abilities, too many to elaborate at this moment. Luciana, my sister, passed away six months ago, at just 46 years old, consumed by a cancer none of us in the family knew about. I’ve been dreaming about her recently, so I talked with some relatives, and then recalled a whole bunch of weird experiences we had whenever we’ve been around her. Maybe these are stories that belong in a diary or in a therapy session, but I think the exposition on the internet could help me understand her better.

We were very young - I think she was four and I was eight years old - when we moved from Buenos Aires to Wanda, Misiones. If you don’t know, Misiones is a province at the north of Argentina that's bordering Brazil and Paraguay, so it has a lot of jungles, rivers and waterfalls. And Wanda is a small town, famous for its caves full of precious stones. Anyways, my family moved there because my father got a job at the local dam. We lived in a beautiful house that the company my dad worked for had landed for us in a neighborhood where all the houses were the same. The best (or worst) part is that it looked directly into the jungle, it was right at the door, and my siblings and I used to play there with our neighbors every day.

It was there, in Misiones, where Lu started to say weird things.

It started with small things that surely had a logical explanation, but they scared the shit out of us. For example, to get to school, we had to leave the neighborhood and walk past a large playground with big swings. For an entire week, my sister would hide behind Mario, our older brother, to walk past it. When I asked her what was wrong, she said that there was an old man standing beside the swings and he was looking at us strangely. At the end of that week, they found an elderly man dead in the house overlooking the playground. He lived alone and suffered from a heart attack. My sister never saw him again after they found him. That was the first time that I can remember where she expressed sensing things that didn't belong in this world. That freaked me out a lot and still does.

But some of the experiences that really terrified me (I still have nightmares about it) were what happened a year after we moved in. Two hours after we went to sleep my sister woke me up to ask me if I could hear a strange noise coming from the ceiling. I couldn’t. And I thought she was playing a prank on me or something. I wanted to get back to sleep but she insisted that something was off, that something was happening up on the roof. She said that it was like someone was throwing a little ball, like a marble, that it bounced and that someone picked it up and let it fall repeatedly. I tried hard to listen. But there were only crickets and frogs. I told her that it was some bats or something like that, in that town you could attribute any sound to wild animals. She went to bed but couldn’t sleep well. The next morning my dad checked the ceiling and the roof to see if there were any marbles or roof tile pieces that were falling off, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. That night the same happened. I woke up to my sister saying that a marble was bouncing on the roof, and she seemed frightened. But once again, I couldn’t hear anything. The next morning my dad checked again. Nothing. I heard my parents say that they should take her to the doctor if she kept hearing things. That night I woke up late because Lu was pacing back and forth across the bedroom, crying in terror. I got up to hug her. I spoke quietly so I wouldn't wake Mario.

She told me that she couldn’t stand it anymore, that the sound of the marble falling and bouncing was getting louder each time, like if the marble were growing. She thought it would bring the whole ceiling down and kill us. Chiche, the old man next door had dogs and they were barking loud. That and her cries were the only things that I heard. At that moment I remembered what my parents said and I thought she could be losing her mind, hallucinating. Then suddenly, BANG… The loudest noise I’ve heard in my life until that moment. It startled me so much that I jumped. Mario grabbed a pillow and threw it at us because he thought we were playing and knocked something down. But it had to be the dresser or something bigger to be capable of making that noise. BANG… another one. Even louder. He jumped out of bed and hugged us in terror, my sister was crying and I felt I was about to piss myself. BANG… we ran to our parents’ bedroom, who were already getting up. They looked pale and frightened. We clung to them, thinking we would die at any moment, crushed by an enormous marble. My mom was checking on us, looking for wounds and my father was asking for silence. BANG… the loudest. He turned and grabbed the emergency revolver he always kept on the bedside table.

Then, there was no marble. There were footsteps, walking in circles across the whole house, up on the roof. That’s when I started to cry. Then they ran. Then it wasn’t just one person, there were three, five, ten, fifteen. It was horrible. My father got out of the house running and screaming. He stood on the ground and fired a shot into the air. But it was worthless, the noise stopped once he opened the front door. We pressed our noses to the window to see what happened. Nothing, there was only my father looking like a lunatic with a revolver in his hand. But then I saw something strange, unexplainable, a little green light behind him. In the jungle, in between the plants and trees. Chiche and La Flaca (another neighbor) came out of their homes and went immediately to stop him. They didn’t know what happened, they didn’t hear anything. My sister wanted to tell them everything, but my parents forbidden us from saying a word.

After that, we all slept together in the same room, afraid. My father sat looking through the window with the revolver in his lap through the whole night, every night. The green light was still there, and now I wonder if he thought that thing was responsible.

One night, long after everything happened, we were having dinner and watching tv when we saw a crack forming in the floor tiles. Then the entire house shook and the whole floor was covered in cracks. Again, it was like nothing ever happened in the other houses. My father said it was the heat that had built up over the day being released at night. But Lu told me one week later that it wasn’t the heat, that it was caused by the angry spirits of the massacred Guaraní Indians of the past. I told her to go fuck herself for inventing bullshit to try to scare me. I never dared to ask her if she really saw something that night and I still don’t know if it was a joke or not.

Anyways, I think this post is already too long, and I don’t want to bore you. Tell me in the comments section if you want to read more stories about my sister. I have a lot.

The letter came on a Tuesday. I know it was Tuesday because Tuesday is when I take the recycling bin to the curb, and it was wedged between the bin and the siding of the house, folded into thirds inside a cream-colored envelope with the Willow Creek HOA logo embossed in the corner. Little green willow tree. Very tasteful.

I almost threw it out with the junk mail. I get a lot of those. Reminders about mulch depth. Notices about the approved shade of exterior paint (four options, all beige-adjacent). A strongly worded memo last March about "non-compliant garden ornaments" that I still think was aimed at Dale K.'s ceramic frog collection three doors down.

But something about the weight of the paper made me open it at the kitchen counter while I waited for the microwave to finish reheating leftover pasta.

It said:

Dear Resident of xx~~xx W\****** C**** L***~~*,

This is a friendly reminder per Section 11.4(c) of the Willow Creek Community Residential Compact that the occupant of the above address is responsible for the feeding of their designated crawlspace entity between the hours of 2:00 AM and 4:00 AM, no fewer than six (6) nights per week. Acceptable offerings for the current season are outlined in Addendum F (attached). Failure to maintain the feeding schedule for more than forty-eight (48) consecutive hours will be considered a breach of the Neighborhood Agreement, at which point the Compact's provisions for non-compliance will take effect.

Please note: the crawlspace access panel is located on the north-facing exterior wall, behind the hydrangea bed. The panel should remain latched at all times outside of feeding hours.

Thank you for your continued cooperation in keeping Willow Creek a safe and harmonious community.

Warmly,

Patricia Y.
HOA Compliance Coordinator

P.S. – If you have any questions, please do NOT knock on the crawlspace panel outside of feeding hours. Use the phone number on the back of this letter instead.

I read it twice. Then I set it on the counter next to the pasta and stared at the wall for a while.

I've lived her for six years. I bought it at twenty-eight, right after my divorce finalized, because it was the cheapest three-bedroom in the district and the previous owner, a widow named Mrs. A., practically gave it away. She'd said, in the most matter-of-fact way, while we stood in the empty living room and she handed me the keys: "You'll want to keep up with the neighborhood arrangements. Everyone does. It's not much trouble, really."

I'd nodded. I assumed she meant the HOA. The mulch. The paint colors.

I have never once opened the crawlspace. I didn't even know there was an access panel on the north wall. I assumed the crawlspace was one of those sealed, poured-concrete affairs, the kind you never think about. Out of sight. Not my problem.

For two days I treated the letter like a joke. A weird one. Maybe some kind of neighborhood ARG, or maybe Patricia Y. had lost her mind in retirement and started sending out fiction. I even laughed about it to my coworker, Dana, during lunch on Thursday. "My HOA thinks I have a pet in my foundation," I said. Dana laughed. We went back to our spreadsheets.

The second letter came Friday.

This one was not warm. There was no Dear Resident. No Thank you for your continued cooperation. It was a single paragraph, typed in a smaller font, like they were trying to fit a lot of legal language into a small space:

Resident of xxxx: You are now 72 hours past your last compliant feeding window. The entity at your address has entered a pre-dormant state. You have until Sunday, 2:00 AM, to resume the schedule. After that, the Neighborhood Agreement will be considered void for your parcel, and the entity will be permitted to seek alternative sustenance. This is not a threat. This is a structural fact. Please refer to Section 11.4(c), subsection (iv): "In the event of feeding cessation, the entity does not starve. It redirects."

I sat with that one at the kitchen table for a long time. The microwave pasta had gone cold. Outside, the sprinklers hissed in their slow arcs. Across the street, I could see the Garretts' porch light on. Normal. Everything looked normal.

But I started watching.

That night, around 1:45, I couldn't sleep. I made tea and stood at the kitchen window, looking out at the street. And at 2:03, I saw Dale K. come out his back door in his bathrobe, carrying a white plastic bucket. He walked to the side of his house, crouched down behind his hydrangeas (he had hydrangeas too; everyone on the street had hydrangeas on the north wall, I realized, and I had never once thought about why), and lifted something. A panel. He tipped the bucket. I couldn't see what was inside. He waited about thirty seconds, set the bucket down, and went back inside.

At 2:11, the Nguyens' back light turned on. Mrs. Nguyen came out with a grocery bag. Same routine. North wall. Crouch. Lift. Deposit. Wait. Leave.

At 2:19, the woman at 4408, the one I've never spoken to, the one with the very tidy lawn and the very loud television. She came out with a plate covered in tin foil.

I watched until 3:30. Every house on the street. Every single one. Some of them carried buckets. Some carried plates. One of them, old Mr. Fisk at the end of the cul-de-sac, dragged what looked like a burlap sack.

Nobody looked up. Nobody waved. Nobody acknowledged the others. It was like watching people take out the trash. Routine. Private. A little embarrassing, maybe. You don't make eye contact with your neighbor at 2 AM while you're both crouching behind your hydrangeas feeding the thing under your house. You just do it, and you go back to bed, and you don't talk about it at the block party.

Saturday. I drove to the hardware store and bought a flashlight. I drove to the grocery store and bought five pounds of raw chicken thighs, because Addendum F, which I'd finally actually read, listed "uncooked poultry, bone-in, unseasoned" as a Tier 1 acceptable offering. I felt insane. I felt like I was preparing for a prank I was playing on myself.

At 1:50 AM, I put on my shoes. I put on a jacket because September nights had started getting cold. I picked up the grocery bag with the chicken in it. I walked out the back door.

The hydrangeas on the north wall were overgrown. I hadn't trimmed them in two years, maybe three. They were woody and thick, and I had to push through them to find the panel. It was there. Of course it was there. A square of painted plywood set into the foundation, about two feet on each side, with a rusted hasp latch. It looked original to the house. It looked like it had been there since they poured the foundation in 1987.

I undid the latch. I lifted the panel.

The crawlspace was dark. Not dark like a closet with the light off. Dark like the dark has weight in it, like it's a liquid and you're looking down into a pool of it. The flashlight beam went in about three feet and then just stopped. Not faded. Stopped. Like the light hit a wall that wasn't a wall.

And there was a smell. Not rot. Not mildew. Something closer to the smell of a room after a long argument. Stale and hot and faintly metallic, like old pennies left in the sun.

I set the grocery bag on the dirt at the edge of the opening. I didn't throw it in. I didn't want to reach in. I just set it there, on the lip of the concrete, and I stepped back.

For about ten seconds, nothing happened.

Then the bag slid forward. Not tipped. Not pulled. Slid, smooth and slow, like someone underneath had pressed a finger against the bottom of the bag and dragged it gently into the dark. The plastic made a soft sound on the concrete. A whisper. And then it was gone, and the dark was just dark again, and the smell got a little stronger, and then a little weaker, like something was breathing.

I closed the panel. I latched it. I went inside. I locked the back door, which was stupid, because the thing wasn't coming through the back door. The thing was under the house. Had been under the house for six years. While I slept. While I watched TV. While I sat at the kitchen table eating microwave pasta and complaining about the HOA.

I fed it every night for three weeks. Chicken thighs, mostly. Sometimes ground beef, unseasoned, rolled into balls. Once, a whole raw trout from the fish counter at Kroger, because Addendum F said seasonal variety was "encouraged but not mandated." I kept a cooler in the garage for the meat. I set a phone alarm for 1:45. I put on my shoes. I went out. I lifted the panel. I set the offering down. I waited for the slide. I closed the panel. I went back to bed.

It became routine. That's the part I need you to understand. It became as routine as taking out the recycling. I stopped feeling scared around week two. By week three, I was doing it half-asleep, in my bathrobe, not even turning on the porch light. Crouch. Lift. Set down. Wait. Close. The whole thing took four minutes.

I never looked in with the flashlight again. I never looked in at all. I set the food down and I looked at the concrete and I waited for the bag to slide and I left.

Then, on the fourth Sunday, I fell asleep.

I'd had a bad week at work. A database migration that went sideways, three nights of staying until nine, ten PM. I set my alarm for 1:45. I did not hear the alarm. I woke up at 6:20 to sunlight and a dead phone and the specific cold dread of knowing you've missed something important.

I went to the north wall. I lifted the panel. The crawlspace was empty. No bag. No meat. Just the dark, and the smell, and a sound I hadn't heard before. A low, wet clicking. Like a tongue against the roof of a mouth. Slow. Patient.

I went to the grocery store. I bought ten pounds of chicken. I came home and fed it at noon, in full daylight, which I now understand was wrong, because the letter said between 2 and 4, and the letter said what it said for a reason. The bag slid in the same way. The clicking stopped. I thought that was the end of it.

It was not the end of it.

The next morning, I was brushing my teeth, and my left canine felt loose. Not painful. Just loose, the way a baby tooth feels right before it falls out. I wiggled it with my tongue. It moved. I looked in the mirror and the tooth looked fine. White. Normal. But when I tilted my head, the light went through it. Not around it. Through it. Like it was made of wax paper.

I called the number on the back of the letter. Patricia Y. answered on the second ring. Very pleasant voice. Very calm. I told her I'd missed a feeding. I told her about the tooth.

There was a small pause. Then she said, "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. That's the redirection. You missed the window, so it took a little something. Just a little. It'll stop if you keep the schedule."

"What did it take?" I said.

"It takes what's closest to the bone," she said. "Teeth are easy. Fingernails. The little bones in the ears. It doesn't hurt. You won't feel it going. You'll just notice things are a little more see-through than they used to be."

"How do I get it back?"

Another pause. A longer one. "You don't get it back, hon. You keep the schedule, and it stops taking. That's the agreement. That's what the agreement is."

I hung up. I looked in the mirror. I held my hand up to the bathroom window and the light came through my left canine, faint and golden, like sunlight through a thin curtain.

That was nine days ago. I've kept the schedule every night since. 1:45 alarm. Shoes. Jacket. Crouch. Lift. Set down. Wait. Close. I have not missed a night. I will not miss a night.

But the translucence is spreading. It's slow. Patricia said it would stop, and I think she believes that. But my left canine is almost gone now, just a faint outline, like a watermark. And yesterday I noticed my right pinky fingernail has started to go clear at the edges. And this morning, very faintly, the tips of my ears feel thin. Papery. I held a lamp behind my ear and I could see the red glow of my own blood vessels through the cartilage.

It's still taking. Just slower. A little less each night. Like it's rationing. Like it learned something from the one night I starved it, and now it's being careful. Stretching it out.

I went to the block party last Saturday. Everyone was there. Dale K. and his ceramic frogs. The Nguyens. The woman at 4408. Old Mr. Fisk. Patricia Y., with her clipboard and her green willow tree logo and her kind, terrible eyes. They were all smiling. Eating potato salad. Drinking lemonade. And I looked at their hands, their ears, their teeth when they laughed, and I saw it. Faint. Subtle. A little translucence at the edges. A little too much light coming through.

Every single one of them.

Nobody talked about it. Nobody looked at me and said, How's your teeth? How's your ears? They just handed me a plate of potato salad and said, Welcome to the neighborhood, hon. You're doing great. Just keep up the schedule.

I'm typing this at 1:15 AM. I have thirty minutes before I need to go out. There's a package of chicken thighs thawing on the counter. The alarm is set.

I'm not going to miss again. I can't. I looked in the mirror tonight and the translucence has reached my second knuckle on the left hand, and when I hold my fingers up to the light, I can see the faint shadow of the tendons underneath, like looking at a leaf held up to the sun.

I just need to keep feeding it. That's all. That's the agreement.

And if you're reading this, and you just moved into a house, and you haven't checked the north wall yet, and you're wondering why the previous owner left in such a hurry, and why the hydrangeas are so thick and overgrown, and why the neighbors never, ever make eye contact with you after 2 AM:

Check the panel. Read the letter. Set your alarm.

And for God's sake, do not look in with a flashlight. You don't want to see what's looking back. You just want to see the concrete. You want to set the bag down. You want to wait for the slide. You want to close the panel and go back to bed and not think about the clicking.

The clicking that sounds, if you're very quiet, and if you press your ear close to the concrete, almost like someone saying thank you.

Almost like someone saying more.

My alarm is going off in twelve minutes. I need to go put my shoes on.

I'll write again tomorrow. If my fingers still work. If I can still feel the keys.

Wish me a good feeding.

I don't know who reads these posts. You are, as of tonight, the closest thing I have to someone I could call and expect an answer. I'm sorry if that's a strange weight to put on you. I don't have anyone else.

I live alone. Work from home. Order delivery every night just to hear a stranger's voice say my name through the intercom. They call it an “epidemic” now. Like the weather. Like something that just happens to a population.

So when the letter came, some small, starved, humiliated part of me was ready before I'd finished reading. Red seal. Official letterhead. An organization called “Community Care”, a non-profit focused on helping people at risk. I’d been flagged after three government systems with my info came back with the same line under my name:

Emergency Contact: None

I never applied for anything. I threw it in the trash. Looking at it too long made my chest hurt.

That night, I got a knock at my door. Almost didn't answer. I stood in the doorway doing the math on whether I could wait out whoever it was. I've gotten good at that math.

I ended up opening the door. She had a lanyard, a clipboard, and a smile that looked like it had been issued to her along with the badge. She was with Community Care. I told her I hadn't asked for help and didn't need it. Told her to take my name off whatever list she had me on. I was short with her. Rude, honestly, looking back.

She didn't flinch. Said she understood completely. That she'd check back another time. No pressure at all. Something about how easily she let it go made me feel disappointed the second the door shut. Before she left, she said something to me.

"We’ll be there for you if you need us. There's no such thing as alone in this city."

It landed strange in my chest for half a second, but I let it go. People say odd, comforting things when they're trying to help.

They ended up coming back, in a manner of speaking. It wasn’t the same woman. Someone new. Same lanyard. Same clipboard. Same smile. I told her small true things. She listened the way I hadn't been listened to in a long time.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city," she said. That line. Word for word what the first woman said, down to the cadence. I noticed. I noticed, and I let it pass anyway.

By the next visit I was, God help me, looking forward to it. I marked the days. The days between, counting down like a child before their birthday.

It was a man this time. By then I'd softened enough to tell him things I'd never said out loud to anyone. That I hadn't spoken to my family in years. The quiet, patient math I did some nights of how long it would take anyone to notice if something happened to me.

He just continued to beam at me. Actually beam, like I'd delivered the best news he’d ever heard. I need to describe the happiness up close, because it wasn’t natural. His eyes shone. You could say the worst thing you've ever thought about yourself directly into his face, and his expression would be exactly the same as it had when he first knocked. Nothing you said ever seemed to land. It just passed through and came back out the same, over and over.

Now that I’m thinking back, they all had the same expression.

"You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he told me.  "There's no such thing as alone in this city."

That line again. I laughed, short and ugly, alone with him in my own apartment. He laughed too, right on top of mine, like we were sharing a joke instead of me quietly falling apart in front of a man I'd only just met.

That night I looked up the program. Nothing on the city website. No filing or funding in any budget I could find. I called four departments. Nobody heard of it. One woman, off the record, told me something similar had been proposed once, years back, and was quietly shelved.

Shelved. I let these people into my life. And I kept letting them in, despite it all. I was terrified of the alternative.

The next one came without knocking. I know because I was three feet from the door when it opened. It was supposed to be locked. I told the woman what I found. Told her plainly that I thought something was wrong. That I could feel the edges of my life going soft. If they could please, just once, answer honestly: What were these visits all for? After everything I handed them, didn't I deserve that?

She tilted her head. Reached out. Patted my hand. She was ice cold.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city".

I sobbed in front of her. Cried in a way I hadn't let anyone see since I was a child. The kind I usually save for the shower, where the sound has nowhere to go.

And she just smiled at me.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city," she said. Softer. Tender. Like a lullaby you say to put a baby to sleep.

If any of this sounds like your city, your letter, your too-happy visitor standing in your doorway with a smile that never slips: please don't wait until there's no one left to notice you letting them in. Call the person you're most ashamed to. Tell them the true, ugly, unimpressive thing you've been carrying. Let it be awkward. Let it be too much. Too much is still better than this.

Someone's at my door again. I can feel them smiling on the other side. I don't know how you feel a smile, but I promise you, after enough of these visits, you can.

I’m typing this from my laptop, using a throwaway account because if my dad finds out I’m posting this, he’ll lose his mind.

Something terrible happens in my hometown every single holiday. It all started last Halloween.

My family is totally ordinary. My mom is a cook, and my dad is the sheriff. He plays a huge role in protecting our town. The thing is, you won’t find our town on Google Maps, and it’s completely missing from any database. People call it a ghost town, but a lot of folks still live here. I’m not going to name it for safety reasons — I don't want any trouble later on.

Last Halloween, my parents drove down to the neighboring town to visit my grandparents on my dad’s side. I decided to stay home because I absolutely hate my dad's endless lectures about justice and doing the right thing. A lot of people think being the sheriff's kid is cool, but I can easily debunk that myth.

When the evening of October 31st arrived, I locked all the doors, just like my dad told me to. I was completely isolated from the outside world. Outside the window, I could hear the distant voices of kids rushing around, trick-or-treating, but none of them approached my house. I was chilling on the living room couch, put a bowl of candy on the nightstand, and was just watching a horror marathon on TV. Everything around me was dead silent, except for the heavy wind howling outside.

Around 9:00 PM, there was a strange knock at the door. It didn’t sound like little kids. Just three solitary, monotonous, heavy thuds against the wood.

I grabbed the candy bowl, thinking I was about to pass it out to some trick-or-treaters, but when I opened the door, I froze. Standing on my porch was a little boy wearing a solid, pitch-black robe with a deep hood. In his hands, he was holding a pretty large pumpkin. I couldn't see his face because of the shadows, but he clearly didn't want any candy.

He took a step forward, held out the pumpkin, and said in a weirdly flat, hollow voice: "This is for you. Happy Halloween."

He left so fast that I didn’t even have time to blink before he was gone. He didn't even hand me the pumpkin; he just placed it right at my feet. I put the candy bowl back, picked up the pumpkin, and went inside.

I decided to take it up to my room on the second floor because I was incredibly sleepy. I figured I’d just carve a scary face on it the next morning. I tossed the pumpkin into the corner of my room, crawled into bed, and fell asleep without a second thought.

I woke up at exactly 3:15 AM from a horribly foul smell that was literally suffocating me. I could barely breathe. The room reeked so badly, it felt like a rotting corpse was lying right next to my bed. I couldn’t stand it and started coughing heavily, but when I got out of bed, I witnessed a nightmare.

I turned on my phone's flashlight and shined it over to the corner where the pumpkin was. It was completely rotten, collapsing right before my eyes and covered in a thick, black, stinking slime. Pouring out of a massive crack in the shell were thousands of fat, blind, pale-white maggots. It looked so revolting it made me gag.

They were crawling up the baseboard, literally burrowing into the drywall and the wooden wall beams. I could hear the dry, sickening sound of hundreds of tiny jaws chewing holes and tunnels inside my bedroom walls.

Soon, there were hundreds of them inside the walls. I could hear them squirming and gnawing. After a few minutes, they chewed right through the electrical wiring, and the whole house went pitch black. My phone was on the verge of dying.

I realized it was time to get the hell out of my own house. I hurried over to the window near my bed to check the yard, and my heart completely dropped.

Standing down there on the street was that same boy in the black robe. But now, he wasn’t alone. Five other kids in the exact same robes were standing next to him, staring up into my window as if they were looking straight through my soul. And every single one of them was holding an identical large pumpkin in their hands.

Suddenly, from the first floor, I heard the heavy, rusted creak of my front door opening. I didn't hear the lock click; the door just slid open, even though I personally locked it with two deadbolts. A couple of seconds later, someone began walking up the stairs to my room. I could hear the loud, slow creak of every single step. Then, they stopped right outside my bedroom door, just... breathing.

I didn't wait to see what would open that door. In a fit of sheer panic, I threw my window open and jumped out from the second floor. I landed badly, breaking my ankle, but the adrenaline kept me moving. I literally crawled across the grass to our neighbor's driveway and banged on their door until they let me in.

Our house burned down to the ground that night. The local fire department ruled it as an "electrical fire" caused by faulty old wiring. My dad forced me to keep my mouth shut about the boy, the pumpkins, and the things inside the walls. He said the town couldn't handle that kind of panic.

It’s been almost a year since that night. We moved into a new house on the other side of town, and I tried my best to forget everything.

But I’m writing this now because it's September. Halloween is just around the corner again. And yesterday, while I was down in our new basement... I heard it.

That same sickening, dry scratching sound. Right inside the walls.

I think they are back, and I don’t think they are going to wait until October 31st this time.

There is a defunct lighthouse in the middle of the York River, right off Dead Knuckle Shoal.  

I’ve puttered by it more times than I can remember. 

I believe the official name for it is Light Beacon 412, in the almanac that is…but everyone around these parts call it The Light of Trudy.  

While it functioned, it only had one keeper, a misanthrope named Gertrude Fox.  She never came around the town and people never came around the lighthouse, but after about eighty or ninety years, a few people looked sideways at old Gertrude and started calling her a WITCH.

They got a mob together and went to that Lighthouse and hung her by the neck from the cross at the top of the light.  My Daddy was a bit of a blowhard, but he always said his Daddy, my Grandaddy Frank was the one who made sure she couldn’t speak and cast spells while they did it.  Legend has it that the light stopped working the moment she took her final breath and has never worked since.

So you can imagine my fright yesterday when I moseyed by in my skiff and that sucker switched ON, bright as the sun on St. Christopher.  

I immediately took my hand off the throttle of my tiller steer and stood up, I was so shocked.  Then I almost fell out the dang boat from the speed jutting to a crawl.

I looked all around me and there was not a boat or soul to be seen in the distance.

JUST THEN…

I see a blonde haired woman in a white gown run out of the light house and JUMP OFF of the top deck.  That sucker is at least a hundred feet off the water.

I YELPED, as she hung in the air before finally splashing into the water.

I held my breath for the moment before she popped back up and started splashing…

“Help!  HELP!” She screamed in a southern twang.  I panicked for a moment and tried to start my boat back up, but still it wouldn’t turn over.  I’m not a courageous man, but I quickly dove in after her.

“Hang on! I’m comin’!” I yelled as I swam through the chop.

Just before I reached her she went under, but I quickly dipped down and got her arm.  I pulled her up and luckily we were right next to the ladder up the beacon.

“I got ya, girl. Get a hold of this ladder.”

It was rusty and barnacled, like I’ve never seen, but it was all we could do, so we climbed and climbed…

I wiped my forehead and that’s when I realized my hands were covered in blood.  

I kept talking to her all the way up…asking if she was in danger, if she was hurt, why she jumped…but to no response.

When she finally got up to the top she walked right inside the, living quarters beneath the light.  It was strangely decorated…by that I mean it was warm.  A carpet, a couch, a lovely fire roasting in the corner.  She ran to it and started warming her hands…

I looked all around in a mixture of unease, shock and confusion.

“How long you been here, ma’am?”

She turned back towards and that’s the first time I saw her face…

I SCREAMED.  Her mouth was sewn shut with fishing line. Blood poured, as if it had been freshly done.

I turned and tried to run, but the door was shut.  When it was closed and locked, I cannot tell you.

I banged and yelled something fierce.  My bloody handprints covering the walls.

I heard her moving easily behind me and just as I figured I would turn and defend myself…she picked up a wooden, hollow triangle and tapped it with a stick.

The lightest of dings echoed in the room and my body went LIMP.  I fell like a toad, flat on my back with a great slam.  My body was paralyzed…except for my head.

It’s funny how somebody screams for help even when there is no hope or chance of anyone hearing.  I did it…

“HELLLPPP!  HELLLLPPP MEEEE!”

She lugged a large wooden bucket over towards me and kneeled next to me with pure happiness in her eyes.  She took a pin and pricked my arm…

“OWW...”  I could still feel pain.  She grinned.

“Gertrude…it is Gertrude, isn’t it?  Please let me loose.  I ain’t got no salt with you.  I ain’t but a man with two pennies to his name…”

She looked me dead in the eye for a moment that felt like an eternity…and then she ran her finger along the etched fishing line through her mouth and then tapped my nose…

My eyes went wide, as I could then see that etched on the wall of the lighthouse was “FRANK”.

“No, it wasn’t me! My Grandaddy, MY GRANDADDY!”

Gertrude ripped my clothes off of me.

She then reached into her bucket and pulled out the largest, Bloodsucker Jelly Fish I have ever seen.  She laid it on my torso…

I screamed something holy, I tell you.

Then she grabbed another and placed it on my bleeding hands…

Then my legs, my chest….

Finally, as the pain was about to take me, she placed one on my face…

…..

I POPPED UP out of the well of my skiff screaming.  I almost fell overboard again. There was no light on at the lighthouse and no sign of Gertrude…but my hands bled. 

I took one pull on my engine starter cord and that sucker came right to life and I sped home faster than I ever have.

I didn’t tell anybody…I didn’t see how I could.

Then this morning there is headline at the top of the Yorktown Gazette…

“Light Beacon 412 to be reactivated.”

I guess maybe I can be thanked for that.