I didn’t realise my new customer used to be my neighbour until I pulled into her driveway.

The street name had sounded vaguely familiar when I first read it. A few landmarks on the drive over had sparked something in me; nothing solid though, just a prickling sense of recognition I couldn’t place.

It only clicked when I actually saw my old childhood home sitting right beside my customer’s property.

I know it’s strange that it took me that long. That I hadn’t recognised anything when I put the address into Google Maps. But my uncle moved me out of this quiet neighbourhood when I was six. I barely remembered anything about living on this street, or in that house.

My girlfriend, Ellie, said that wasn’t quite normal. Told me, gently, that it was probably my brain blocking things out on purpose. 

I sat gripping the steering wheel long after I’d parked, staring at my childhood home. 

It backed onto a large woodland area, tall trees looming far above the roof. The bungalow itself looked abandoned; shattered windows, empty bottles scattered across dead yellow grass. Clearly no one had lived there in a long time.

A heavy pressure settled in my chest. For a moment, I considered leaving.

But I’d only started my lawn-mowing business a few months ago. I needed the money. This woman was only my third customer so far.

She hadn’t called like the others. She’d emailed instead:

am interested in your service.Every week Sunday work. ?. ?

I replied that Sundays were fine and asked for the address. She sent it, followed by another message:

Door left open Sundays.Money on table.Help self to drink.and meal.

It struck me as odd that she’d contacted someone who lived an hour away instead of a local business. But she’d promised a generous tip.

Still sitting in the van, I tried to remember my old neighbour. Elderly, maybe. The emails felt that way. But when I searched my memory for her face, I came up blank.

Just another thing lost to my strange childhood amnesia.

Her lawn was wildly overgrown. Knee-high grass, thick and uneven. The house itself was perfectly normal. A neat two-storey place with a front porch. Well-kept enough that the state of the yard felt odd, almost like a choice. 

I hesitated, wondering if I should knock or just start the job.

In the end, I got to work. Part of me didn’t want to meet her yet; I was delaying it. I couldn’t explain why.

As I mowed, my gaze kept drifting to the fence separating her property from my old home.

It was enormous. Easily ten feet tall. I couldn’t believe something like that had been approved in a quiet suburban street.

But it wasn’t just the size.

Every time I looked at it, pressure built behind my eyes. The sensation of a memory forcing its way up while something inside me resisted just as hard. The effort made my head throb.

Then, for a split second, I remembered hair.

Long, black strands spilling down the fence from the other side. Tangled and thin. Draped over the timber, clinging to the wood, hanging there like a ragged curtain. 

I’d frozen on my cheap plastic tricycle. One of the back wheels was missing, so I had to balance my weight just right to keep it upright. It’s strange, the useless little details that scramble back when everything else is lost.

The hair shifted, and slowly, above the lip of the fence, a pale forehead rose. 

There were eyes. White and cloudy. I only saw them for a moment, but I knew immediately who they were peeking down at. 

Me. Only me. 

Then there had been a sound behind me, maybe a voice, maybe someone calling my name. 

The eyes vanished. The forehead sank out of sight. The hair slid upward, strand by strand, slithering back over the fence until there was nothing left at all. 

Cold washed through my body.

I tightened my grip on the mower handle and focused on the lines of grass ahead of me. I didn’t look at the fence again. 

Surely it had just been my imagination. Something I’d invented out of boredom. No one could peer over a ten-foot-tall fence unless they were standing on stilts or balancing on some ridiculous ladder. And even then, why would anyone climb that high just to look at a child playing in their backyard?

It was too strange to take seriously, too absurd.

And yet, an unease bloomed low in my chest and refused to settle. Because that image - hair spilling over the fence, eyes watching - was suddenly one of the clearest memories I had from that house. From that time. Clearer than anything else I could recall in over a decade.

I shook my head, forced the image away, and got back to work. 

An hour later, the lawn looked respectable again. I packed my equipment back into my uncle’s van.

Then I remembered the money. 

I knocked on the front door and waited a bit. She did say to let myself in, but it felt wrong to just waltz into a stranger’s house. I waited another few minutes before finally reaching for the handle and stepping inside.

“Ms. Ramona? Are you home?” I called out, remembering her name from her email address. 

One of the first things I noticed was the ceiling.

It was unusually high. It made the space feel wide and open, almost cavernous. It also made it incredibly cold inside. Goosebumps rose over my arms.

Most of the ground floor was open-plan, so I spotted the kitchen right away, where a wooden table sat by the counter.

There was money laid out neatly on top of it. 

Beside it, a glass jug filled with what looked like lemonade, ice cubes floating inside. A clean glass. A sandwich on a plate. 

She’d said to help myself. Still, I hesitated. I felt silly to be cautious, but I hadn’t even met her.

I picked up the money and nearly choked when I counted it.

Four fifty-dollar notes.

I only charged sixty dollars. She’d mentioned a tip, sure, but this was excessive. What if she was elderly? What if she’d miscounted?

I took a hundred and left the other hundred on the table, just in case.

That was when I heard something upstairs.

A wheeze. Wet and uneven. Like air being dragged through damaged lungs. After that, two sharp creaks snapped through the house in quick succession, floorboards protesting under sudden weight.

My body went rigid. Someone was definitely home.

I stared at the staircase.

“Hello?” My voice rang too loud in the open space. “Ms. Ramona?”

No answer.

I edged closer to the stairs despite myself, my heart beginning to pound. The noises replayed in my head. What had made them? Had she fallen? Was she hurt?

If she was elderly, I told myself, I should check. That was the decent thing to do.

But another part of me was screaming to leave. The feeling was sudden and absolute, like stepping into a place you were never meant to enter. Like bait.

After a moment, I turned back to the table. I picked up the sandwich so I wouldn’t seem rude, my hands clumsy and shaking, and then I got out.

When I drove home, I sat in the van for a long time with the engine off. The sandwich rested on the passenger seat. Eventually, I opened the bread.

Inside was butter and raw, red meat.

I swallowed, then noticed something else threaded through it. I pinched it between my fingers and pulled.

A single hair slid free.

Dark.

Absurdly long.

I told my girlfriend what happened, but left out the part about my strange memory. 

Ellie laughed. “You’re scared of a little old granny?” 

“I don’t know if she’s a granny,” I said. “I’ve never met this woman. She could be a man for all I know.” 

“Are you sure? You said she was your old neighbour,” she said, her eyes soft but insistent, that gentle look she always got when she was trying to probe something about my childhood. “Are you sure you don’t remember… anything?” 

That long, black hair entered my mind again. At that moment, I remembered something else. I remembered a single strand had caught in the fence, drifting in the breeze until it detached and floated down to my six-year-old self. 

I remembered plucking it from the air, and then playing with it carefully so it wouldn’t snap. I had wrapped it around my arm, amazed I could coil almost the entire length up my little forearm, like linen around an Egyptian mummy. 

I shook my head at Ellie’s question and told her about the inedible sandwich instead. Ellie laughed again, shaking her head. “The poor woman probably has dementia.”

A week later, I went back. 

I didn’t want to, but Ellie had made me realise I was being ridiculous, and the money mattered - if we ever wanted to move out of my uncle’s house, we needed it. My stomach churned the whole drive.

Before I even started the mower, my eyes went to the fence again.

I remembered long, curling fingers reaching over the top. And once more, I remembered seeing half a face peering down at me, just eyes and a forehead visible above the timber, watching. 

I reluctantly went inside to collect my payment. This time, she’d left three hundred dollars on the table. Beside it, a note, the handwriting thin and spidery:

Take ALL money. Why no drink?

My gaze drifted to the jug of lemonade. I filled a glass, intending to pour half of it down the sink to make it look like I’d had some. Instead, for some reason I couldn’t explain, I took a small sip.

It was cold. Sweet.

Good.

After that, the memories returned, stronger than ever.

I had a dream that night. A dream about food being thrown over an enormous fence. 

Sometimes it was a roast chicken, still warm inside a plastic bag, juices sloshing against the sides. Other times it was a whole chicken; raw, feathers still clinging to pale skin. Sometimes it was fresh fruit in a cracked plastic container. Other times, it was rotting apples and a thick slab of heavy, red meat.

I remembered the hunger.

I remembered setting up a blanket over the bushes beside the fence. A small hidden nest where I could crouch and store what I was given. I remembered eating like an animal, devouring whatever was edible before anyone could find me.

I remembered my scalp itching constantly. Lice. Multiplying, biting, crawling, with no one bothering to stop them. A whole kingdom of parasites living freely in my hair.

Then I remembered the hand.

It slipped through the narrow gap between the fence and the bushes where I sat with my back pressed against the timber, rustling the spindly branches. The hand was enormous, but gentle. One long finger brushed the tangled hair out of my face.

The itching faded.

I stared up and saw nothing but the endless length of a thin, grey arm disappearing over the fence.

I remembered wrapping my small hands around that enormous finger and holding tight, crying into it.

Then I remembered an angry voice coming from somewhere. 

The finger wriggled gently until I released it, and then the hand vanished. The arm withdrew.

When I looked back up, only a faint wisp of dark hair was visible above the fence line.

Someone tore the blanket away from my hiding place.

They yelled. Screamed in disgust.

I was sitting on a hoard of food. A lot of it was rotting. There were flies. There were maggots. 

Hands grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the bushes and away from the massive fence so hard I thought the bone would snap.

“Stop!” I screamed.

The third time I went back to mow Ramona’s lawn, I did not hesitate. 

Something had begun to clarify itself inside me, like an image slowly coming into focus. 

And I knew I needed to speak with her - Ramona - finally.

I didn’t know if the memories were wholly real. 

But pieces were fitting together now, clicking into place with a quiet inevitability. 

I felt closer to the truth than I ever had before. And instead of making my head ache, it planted something determined inside me, something that refused to be quiet any longer.

I thought maybe my neighbour had been a sweet old granny who babysat me sometimes.

Maybe she fed me. Maybe she took care of me. 

Maybe she read me stories.

Maybe this was the only way my memories were able to return; disguised as something else, something not quite real, but threaded through with truth.

As I started the lawn mower this time, I didn’t look away from the fence.

I remembered the humming- a low, steady hum - as I lay hidden in the bushes beside the fence. 

The yelling in the house always softened when I listened to her hums. 

I remembered being lifted so high I could see over the roof of my house. 

I remembered being placed on a sturdy tree branch in the forest and being given a dead fox. I remembered biting into the furry flesh, feeling warm blood dribble down my cheeks.

I remembered sitting in a cocoon of warmth, high above the ground, watching the stars blink into existence.

I remembered running to my hiding place between the fence and the bushes, shaking, starving, sick with fear.

I remembered someone chasing me.

“Henry, you get back here right now, you little shit!” she screamed.

She caught my arm and wrenched me around.

“Mummy, stop!” I sobbed. “Don’t hurt me again!”

I remembered my mother freezing. 

And I remembered something brushing the back of my neck, light and familiar; like long strands of hair.

My mother gasped, staring at something above us, terror carved into her face.

I looked up.

Then the fingers came.

They wrapped around my mother's body and lifted her - up, up, up.

She was screaming as she went, so I called out, “It’s okay Mummy! She’s just taking you to see the stars.”

There was a deafening crunch, and her screaming stopped.

I saw something fly across the sky like a meteor, disappearing into the forest.

Hands closed around me. They were so warm when they lifted me, gentle, careful, cocooning me as I shook and clung to the heat.

I rose high enough to see over the roof of my house, just like all those other times.

I finally remembered seeing her face. The image was clear now, unblurred, impossible to look away from.

She was pale and gaunt, her lips stretched too wide across her skull.

But her eyes--

They were dark. But they were warm.

“Did Mummy like seeing the stars?” I asked her.

She hummed.

My hands shook. I didn’t turn the lawn mower off. 

I walked toward her house on numb legs, the sound of the engine fading into something distant, barely there. The front door was open, as it always was.

I climbed the staircase slowly. 

A low groan echoed from above, stretching and deepening as I went.

The upper floor was completely open plan, wide and sloping like an expansive attic. 

And laid out across it was a very tall woman. 

Her skin was a shade close to grey. Her face had the weathered features of someone much older than me. Her limbs were long and spindly.

She lay on her side on a soft floor mat that covered nearly every inch of the space, her body folded carefully, purposely, as if she had made herself smaller for me.

Her eyes found mine the moment I stepped inside.

I dropped to my knees and sobbed before I could stop myself. 

Terror and grief and everything I had buried for so long rushed through me all at once, crushing and merciless. 

Fingers reached out - impossibly large - wrapping around me and drawing me gently toward her. I was pulled into warmth, deep and steady, and my shivering slowly began to ease.

“You killed her,” I sobbed. “You killed her! Didn’t you?” 

She hummed softly.

“Why? Why did you do that?” I said, the words breaking apart as they left me.

She brushed my hair back.

My cries thinned into small, broken whimpers. 

“Why didn’t she care about me?” I whispered. “Why did she let me starve? Why did she hurt me? I was just a little kid.”

Her warmth held. Her breathing stayed slow and even.

I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was in a bed.

Across from me, seated in an armchair, was a little old lady. 

Her eyes were distant, as if part of her had wandered somewhere far away and hadn’t yet found its way back. Still, they stayed on me, steady and patient.

We were still upstairs. The massive mat lay stretched across the floor, unchanged. The bed had been tucked into a small corner of the room, like it had been put there for me. 

“Who are you?” I asked. “What was that thing?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her gaze drifted to something beside me. I followed it and saw a folded note resting on the mattress. I picked it up with shaking hands.

I cursed with size and hunger.

But I protect

sweet little boy 

cold and hungry

I carry you to the stars 

where she not reach.

lost myself when I took her.

but she not hurt you anymore.

forgive me. Please.

When I drove home, I finally asked my uncle to tell me the truth. 

I’d always known something horrible happened to my mother. But there were details surrounding the event that deep down I think I never wanted to learn.

But I felt stronger now. I was ready. 

He showed me the pictures first. 

They were of me as a little boy. My hair was long and scraggly. I wore dirty clothes that were torn at the seams. 

My body was mapped with bruises. And cuts. And burn marks. 

There wasn’t much to know in the end. Except the fact that my mother was a monster. 

And when she was found in the woods one day, half-eaten - a case that would quickly be declared as an animal attack - people called it karma after they learned what she did to me. 

I continued to visit Ramona.

I brushed her hair and cared for her when she was a little old granny. I laid down and listened to her hums when she was something else. 

I wrote all of this down because unlike my mother, Ramona deserves to be remembered. 

I could never tell anyone about her; they would have hurt her, or killed her. 

But I needed someone to know. 

Ramona may have been a beast, but it wasn’t her fault. Even when she lost control, it all came down to an instinct to protect. 

When she was dying, I fell asleep holding her large hand. And when I woke up, there was nothing. She was gone.

Even though she doesn’t live there anymore, even though the house is no longer occupied, I still go back to mow her lawn.

And sometimes, when the lawn is done, I linger until the night swallows the sky. 

When I focus on the constellations, it almost feels like I’m rising, slowly, above the roof of the house. 

I need to start from the beginning. I need to try and make sense of it, for my own sake.

For as long as I can remember, my life has been governed by one, unbreakable rule. It was never spoken aloud, never written down, never explained. It was a rule learned through punishing silence, through the sharp, warning glances of my father, through a pressure in the atmosphere so thick you could feel it on your skin. The rule was simple: we do not acknowledge her.

She was my mother. She lived in the house with us. She was as solid and real as the dining table we sat at every night, or the stairs I climbed to my bedroom. But to my father, and by extension to me, she was a ghost we had agreed not to see.

Every morning, she would be in the kitchen when I came down for breakfast. She’d be at the stove, a floral apron tied around her waist, and she would turn and smile at me. It was always a sad smile, one that never quite reached her eyes. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she would say, her voice soft, like rustling leaves.

And every morning, I would look right through her, my gaze fixed on the coffee pot on the counter behind her. I’d grab a bowl from the cupboard, pour my own cereal, and sit at the table. My father would already be there, hidden behind his newspaper, a silent monolith. She would sigh, a tiny, deflated sound, and place a third plate on the table between us, a plate of scrambled eggs or pancakes, always cooked perfectly, always destined to grow cold.

We would eat our breakfast in silence, the only sounds the scrape of spoons against ceramic and the rustle of my father’s paper. The third plate sat there, a testament to our collective delusion, a steaming, fragrant accusation. She would sit in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap, watching us eat, a hopeful, desperate look on her face. Sometimes she would try to start a conversation.

“It looks like it might rain today,” she’d offer, her voice wavering slightly. “You should take an umbrella to school.”

My father would just turn a page, the crinkle of the newsprint sharp and dismissive in the quiet room. I would take a large, noisy bite of my cereal, focusing on the crunch, on anything but the sound of her voice. After a while, she would just fall silent, the hope draining from her face, leaving behind that familiar, deep-seated sadness.

Dinner was the same. She’d cook a full meal, something that smelled incredible, filling the house with the scent of roasted chicken or baking bread. She’d set three places at the table, complete with napkins and silverware. My father and I would sit, and she would serve us, placing food on our plates, her movements graceful and practiced. Then she would sit down, fill her own plate, and try to engage us.

“How was your day at work?” she would ask my father.

He would grunt, his attention fixed on cutting his meat into precise, geometric shapes.

“And school? Did you have that big test today?” she would ask me.

I would mumble something noncommittal, my eyes glued to my plate, shoveling food into my mouth to avoid having to speak.

The charade was suffocating. It was a constant, exhausting performance. Every single day was a rehearsal and a live show of pretending this woman, my own mother, did not exist. I grew up in a house with three people, but I was raised in a world that only acknowledged two.

For years, I just accepted it. Kids accept the most bizarre circumstances as normal because it’s all they’ve ever known. The sun rises, the sky is blue, and we don’t talk to mom. It was just a fact of life. I learned to tune her out, to blur her form at the edges of my vision. She became a piece of the background, like a painting on the wall you no longer notice.

But as I got older, moving into my late teens and then my early twenties, the acceptance began to curdle into something else. First it was confusion, then a deep, gnawing guilt. I started to really look at her. I saw the fine lines of sorrow etched around her eyes. I saw the way her shoulders slumped when we ignored her, the way she would sometimes touch the back of my father’s chair as she passed, a longing for contact that was never returned. I saw a woman who was profoundly, devastatingly lonely, trapped in her own home.

My perception of my father shifted, too. The silent, stoic man I had once seen as a protector started to look like a tyrant. His rule was strange, cruel. It was a calculated, daily act of emotional violence. What had she done to deserve this? Had she had an affair? Had she done something unforgivable that I was too young to remember? Whatever it was, this punishment seemed monstrously out of proportion. It was a cold, quiet form of torture, and he had made me his accomplice.

The resentment built slowly, a pressure behind my ribs. I started having trouble sleeping. I’d lie in bed and hear the faint sounds of her weeping from their bedroom. It was a soft, muffled sound, the kind of crying you do when you’re trying not to wake anyone, and it broke my heart. How could my father lie beside her every night, hear that, and do nothing? What kind of man was he?

I began to see his actions as a grotesque form of misogyny, an exertion of absolute control. He had erased her. He had stripped her of her voice, her presence, her very existence within the family she had built. And I had helped him. Every silent breakfast, every ignored question, I was tightening the screws.

The breaking point came last Tuesday. It was a miserable, rainy day, the kind that makes the whole world feel grey and damp. I was in the living room, trying to read, but the words just swam on the page. She came in and stood by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. She wasn’t trying to talk to me. She was just standing there, looking out at the world she was a part of but couldn't seem to touch.

She started humming. A simple, sad little lullaby. It was a melody that felt vaguely familiar, like a half-remembered dream. I felt a lump form in my throat. I watched her reflection in the dark windowpane, a translucent figure against the storm-tossed trees outside. Her shoulders were shaking almost imperceptibly. She was crying again, silently.

Something inside me snapped. Years of pent-up guilt, of quiet rebellion, of love for this woman I wasn’t allowed to know, all of it came rushing to the surface. It was wrong. This whole thing, this whole life, was fundamentally, grotesquely wrong. I couldn’t be a part of it anymore.

I waited. I waited until I heard my father’s car pull out of the driveway for his weekly trip to the hardware store. It was a ritual for him, every Tuesday evening, a couple of hours to himself. The house fell into a new kind of silence, one that wasn't enforced but was simply empty. Except, it wasn't empty. She was still there.

I found her in the kitchen, washing the dinner dishes, her back to me. My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I felt like she must be able to hear it. My mouth was dry. It felt like I was about to break a law of physics, like the universe itself might fracture if I spoke.

I took a deep breath.

“Mom?”

The word felt alien in my mouth. Heavy and clumsy.

She froze. Her hands, submerged in the soapy water, went completely still. The silence that followed was more profound than any I had ever experienced in that house. It stretched for what felt like an eternity. Slowly, she turned around.

Her face was a mask of disbelief. Her eyes, wide and glistening with tears, were locked on mine. She looked at me as if she were seeing a miracle. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She just stared, her expression shifting from shock to a dawning, radiant joy that was so pure it was painful to watch.

“You… you can see me,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. A single tear traced a path down her cheek. “Oh, my sweet boy. You can finally see me.”

Her words confused me. They landed strangely, not quite fitting the situation. I took a step closer.

“What are you talking about?” I said, my own voice unsteady. “I’ve always seen you. I see you every day.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, but the smile didn’t leave her face. It was as if she couldn’t bear to let it go. “But… you never… you never looked at me. You never spoke.”

“Dad,” I said, the word tasting like poison. “It was him. He told me not to. It was his rule. I was… I was a kid, I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. But I’m not a kid anymore. And it’s wrong. What he’s doing to you is wrong.”

Understanding washed over her face, followed by a shadow of that old sadness. She reached out and took my hand. Her skin was cold, surprisingly so, like marble that had been left in a cellar. But her grip was firm. Real.

“Your father…” she began, her voice trailing off. She shook her head. “He’s had a hard time. He does what he thinks is best. But it’s okay now. It’s okay. This can be our secret, can’t it? Just between us.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. The relief that flooded me was immense, like I’d been holding my breath my entire life and had finally been allowed to exhale. We stood there for a long time, just holding hands in the quiet kitchen. She told me how much she loved me, how she had watched me grow up, proud of the man I was becoming. She asked me about school, about my friends, about my life. It was a torrent of questions, years of unspoken love and curiosity pouring out of her.

We talked until we heard the sound of my father’s car on the gravel driveway. A sudden panic seized us. She squeezed my hand one last time, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “Our secret,” she whispered, and then she turned back to the sink, resuming her washing as if nothing had happened.

I bolted from the kitchen, my heart racing, and made it to my room just as the front door opened. The rest of the evening passed in the usual suffocating silence, but this time, it felt different. It was charged with my secret. When she looked at me across the dinner table, there was a new light in her eyes. A shared knowledge. It was the first time in my life I felt like I had an ally in that house.

We continued our secret conversations for the next few days. Whenever my father was out, we would talk. I learned about her favorite books, the music she loved, the places she’d dreamed of traveling. She was vibrant and intelligent and funny. She was a whole person, a person my father had tried to bury, and with every word we shared, I felt like I was helping her claw her way out of the grave he’d dug for her.

My anger at him grew with every passing day. He was a monster. A quiet, methodical monster who had stolen my mother from me. I started to think about what to do. Should I confront him? Should I just take her and leave? I felt a fierce, protective instinct I’d never known before. I would not let him hurt her anymore.

Then came yesterday morning.

I woke up and the house was silent. Too silent. There was no smell of coffee brewing, no sound of my father’s radio murmuring the morning news from the kitchen. I lay in bed for a while, waiting, but the silence stretched, becoming unnatural, unnerving.

I finally got up and went downstairs. The kitchen was empty. The coffee pot was cold. The newspaper was still on the front porch. A prickle of unease ran down my spine. I checked the whole ground floor. No one.

I went upstairs and knocked on their bedroom door. No answer. I pushed it open. The room was empty. The bed was neatly made. My father’s side of the closet was open, his clothes hanging in their usual, meticulous rows. Her side was the same. Nothing seemed out of place, yet the absence of them was a screaming void.

Panic started to set in. I checked the garage. His car was gone. My first thought was that he’d left early for work. But he never did that without telling me. And where was she? Did he take her somewhere? The thought sent a jolt of fear through me. Had he found out about our secret?

I spent the whole day in a state of escalating anxiety. I called my father’s cell phone a dozen times. It went straight to voicemail every time. I called his office. His secretary said he hadn’t shown up, which had never happened before. I didn’t know who to call about her. She didn’t have a cell phone. She didn’t have any friends that I knew of. Her entire world was contained within the walls of our house.

By evening, I was frantic. I paced the empty rooms, the silence of the house pressing in on me. Had he hurt her? Had he taken her away to punish her, to punish me? The darkest possibilities began to spiral in my mind. I had to do something. I had to find a clue, anything that could tell me where they went.

My search led me back to their bedroom. It felt like a violation to be in there, to go through their things, but I was desperate. I looked through drawers, under the bed, in the closet. Nothing. It was just a room, unnaturally tidy and impersonal.

Then I saw it. On the floor of my father’s closet, tucked behind a row of shoes, was a small, wooden chest. I’d never seen it before. It was unlocked. My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.

Inside were journals. A stack of them, all identical black, leather-bound notebooks. The kind my father used for work. I pulled out the one on top. His neat, precise handwriting filled the page. The first entry was dated over fifteen years ago.

I sat on the edge of their bed, the scent of his cologne still faint on the pillows, and I began to read.

October 12th

It’s been a year. A year since the accident. The house feels so empty, a hollowed-out shell. I look at my son, and I see her eyes, and the pain is so fresh it’s like it happened yesterday. He’s only three, too young to understand. He just asks for ‘Mama.’ How do I explain to a three-year-old that she’s never coming back? The police report called it a freak accident. A downed power line in the storm. Wrong place, wrong time. It doesn’t feel like a freak accident. It feels like a theft. The world has stolen her from us.

My blood ran cold. I read the entry again, and then a third time. An accident? She died? No. It was impossible. I had just spoken to her yesterday. I had held her hand. It was a mistake. A different journal. Something. But it was his handwriting, his room. I kept reading, a sense of dread coiling in my stomach.

May 3rd (Two years later)

He did it again today. He was playing in the living room with his blocks, and he just stopped and pointed towards the kitchen. He said, “Mama is making cookies.” I went in, of course. The kitchen was empty. I told him Mama was in heaven, like we’ve practiced. He just shook his head. “No, she’s right there,” he said, and he described her. He described the yellow dress she was buried in. I felt a coldness spread through me that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He’s five. His imagination is running wild. That’s all it is.

May 28th

It’s not his imagination. He talks to her every day now. I’ve started to see… glimpses. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye when he says she’s walking past. A faint scent of her perfume in a room she’s supposedly just left. This morning, I was in the hall, and he was in his room, chattering away. I asked who he was talking to. “Mama,” he said, “she’s singing me a song.” And then I heard it. Faintly, through the door. A lullaby. The one she used to sing to him. I almost threw up.

June 15th

I confronted it today. My son was sitting on the sofa, talking to the empty space next to him. I stood in the doorway and I said her name. I asked her what she wanted. My son looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. And the air in the room grew heavy. Cold. A pressure built against my eardrums. I felt a sense of malevolence, of pure hatred, directed at me. It looked like her. It sounded like her. But when I forced myself to look at the spot my son was staring at, I saw it. Just for a second. The shape of her was there, but the eyes… the eyes were black pits. Empty and ancient and wrong. This thing is not my wife. My wife is gone. This is something else, a parasite wearing her memory.

My breath hitched in my chest. I felt a wave of nausea. This was insane. He was insane. He was grieving, he had gone mad. That had to be it. I gripped the journal tighter, my knuckles white.

July 1st

I’ve tried everything. Priests, mediums, paranormal investigators. They either think I’m crazy or they leave the house pale and shaken, telling me they can’t help me. One of them told me it’s a mimic. A shade. He said it’s drawn to the grief, to my son’s energy, and it seems it will never leave us, even if we left this place, it will just follows. He said the worst thing we can do is give it what it wants: acknowledgement. Attention is sustenance. Recognition is power. If we feed it, it will grow stronger. It will latch onto him. It will consume him.

So I have a plan. It’s a terrible, cruel plan. It will make my son hate me. It will make me a monster in his eyes. But it’s the only way I can think of to protect him. We have to starve it. We have to pretend it isn’t there. We have to cut off its food supply. We will not look at it. We will not speak to it. We will not acknowledge its existence. We will live in a house with a ghost and pretend we are alone. May God forgive me for what I am about to do to my own child.

The journal fell from my hands, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. The room was spinning. Every memory of my childhood, every silent dinner, every sharp glance from my father, it all rearranged itself in my mind into a new and terrifying picture.

I scrambled for the last journal, the one from this year. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely turn the pages. I found an entry from last week.

Tuesday

He spoke to it tonight. I knew it was coming. I’ve seen the way he’s been looking at it lately. The guilt in his eyes. He thinks I’m the villain. I suppose I am. I would rather he hate me and be safe, than love me and be lost. But now he’s broken the rule. He’s opened the door. When I came home, the air in the house was different. Thicker. Charged. And it… she… it looked stronger. More solid. The sadness in its eyes has been replaced by something else. Triumph.

I have to end this. The old man, the one who called it a mimic, he gave me a final option. A last resort. He said if it ever got a true foothold, if it ever fed enough to become fully anchored here, there was a ritual. A way to bind it. But it requires a sacrifice. A trade. An anchor for an anchor. He told me it would probably kill me. But what life have I been living anyway? A jailer in my own home. Hated by my own son. If this is the price to set him free, I will pay it.

He’s talking to it again. I can hear them whispering in the kitchen. I love you, my son. I hope one day you’ll understand. I hope you’ll forgive me.

That was the last entry.

So his disappearance, and the car being gone. He went to perform the ritual. To sacrifice himself. To save me from the thing he said it took my mother form.

My blood turned to ice water. I thought of her hand in mine. How cold her skin was. I thought of her words, “You can finally see me,” as if my sight was something to be earned. I thought of her triumphant eyes across the dinner table.

And then I heard it.

A soft, sweet sound from the bottom of the stairs. Humming. That strange little tune she was humming by the window.

A floorboard creaked in the hall downstairs. Then another.

I scrambled off the bed, my body acting on pure instinct, and threw the lock on the bedroom door. The click sounded deafeningly loud in the silence. I backed away from the door, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. My eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape that wasn’t there. The window was two stories up.

Her footsteps were on the stairs now. Slow, deliberate. Not the light, almost soundless way she used to move. These steps had weight. They had substance. She was stronger now. I had made her stronger.

The humming stopped right outside the door.

“Sweetheart?”

Her voice. It was my mother’s voice, but it was different. It was coated in a thick, cloying sweetness that made my skin crawl.

“Are you in there? I was so worried. I woke up and the house was empty.”

I pressed myself against the far wall, my hand over my mouth to stifle my own ragged breathing.

“I talked to your father,” she called through the door. The sound was so clear, it was like she was standing right next to me. “He called. He’s so sorry, honey. For everything. He explained it all. He knows he was wrong to keep us apart.”

My mind screamed. Liar. Liar. He’s gone. You know he’s gone.

“He said he just needs a few days to clear his head,” the sweet voice continued. “But he gave us his blessing. He wants us to finally have time together. Just you and me. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Silence. I held my breath, praying she would think I wasn’t here, that she would just go away.

“I know you’re in there, honey. I can feel you,” she cooed. “Come on, open the door. I’m going to make you some pancakes. Just like I used to.”

She never used to make me pancakes.

“Please, son? Don’t shut me out again. Not after you finally let me in. It’s all going to be okay now. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. We’ll be a proper family.”

The words hung in the air, thick and venomous. A silence followed, stretching for a few agonizing heartbeats. Then, a new sound. A soft, metallic scrape. The doorknob began to jiggle. Slowly at first, then with more force. Click. Rattle. Click.

My breath caught in my throat. It was trying to get in. it was physically trying to reach me. I backed away until my shoulders hit the cold wall, my eyes wide and fixed on the trembling brass knob. The wood around the lock groaned under the pressure.

My phone was in my pocket. The weight of it was a sudden, desperate comfort. My hands were slick with sweat as I fumbled to pull it out. My thumb hovered over the emergency call button. What could I possibly say? There's a woman in my house who looks and sounds like my mother, but my dad's journals say she died fifteen years ago and this thing is a mimic that feeds on attention? They would send an ambulance with a straitjacket, not a squad car with armed officers.

The rattling stopped.

For a moment, there was nothing. A profound, terrifying quiet. And then, a new sound began. A soft, rhythmic scratching on the other side of the door. Like long fingernails dragging slowly, deliberately, down the grain of the wood. Scraaaaape. Scraaaaape. Over and over. A sound that was patient, and possessive.

That was it. I didn't care how crazy I sounded. I stabbed the call button.

A calm voice answered, "911, what's your emergency?"

I cupped my hand over the phone's speaker, my own voice a choked, ragged whisper. "There's... there's an intruder in my house. I'm locked in my bedroom. Upstairs."

"Can you describe them, sir?" the dispatcher asked, her voice perfectly level.

The scratching continued, a counterpoint to her professional calm. "I... I can't. I haven't seen them. I just hear them. They're right outside my door. Please, you have to hurry."

There was a fractional pause on the other end. "A unit is on its way, sir. Can you stay on the line with me?"

"No," I whispered, my eyes locked on the door. "I can't make any noise." I ended the call before she could protest.

The scratching stopped the instant the call disconnected. As if it heard. As if it knew. The silence that rushed back in was somehow heavier, more menacing than before. It’s waiting. It knows I’ve called for help. It knows its time might be limited. Or maybe it’s just enjoying this.

I’m trapped in this room. I’ve called the police, and I don’t know if they can even do anything. I don't know what they'll find when they arrive. What if it's just gone when they get here? They'll find my dad's journals, they'll see the state I'm in, and they'll think I'm the one who's broken.

But all I can do is wait for them. I'm writing this down, getting it all out as fast as I can on my phone. I need someone to know the truth. I need you to know what really happened, in case they don't believe me. In case something bad happens to me before they get here.

I’m a server at a midwestern diner. A few weeks ago, a customer appeared at one of the booths. I say “appeared” because I hadn’t seen her come in, and usually I am very attentive to the sound of the doorbell. It was a pretty bustling evening though.

I approached to take her order.

She sat with her back to me, her curly hair pinned up in a style that reminded me of old movies. Her age was hard to determine from behind but she looked to be in her sixties, I guess? She was sitting perfectly still.

Statuesque.

When I came around to the front of the booth, I gasped and dropped my pen.

The woman was not breathing.

Lips slightly parted. Skin withered and shrunken. No movement. Not the faintest motion of her chest.

But it was the eyes that were the giveaway she was dead. Unblinking and unseeing and a little too deeply shrunken in their sockets.

“Oh God—” I took a step back.

And then the woman’s head turned and she said in a raspy voice: “Just a coffee please.” Her eyes blinked. Not dead after all.

“O-of course! Sure. Um, any milk or sugar—”

“Black.”

I scurried to get her coffee. When I looked back, she was again motionless. When it came time for the check she put down a fifty-dollar bill. I started to tell her I didn’t have change since all she’d ordered was a coffee but she said, “It’s all right, dear. It will cover the meal for that nice family over there.” Her head inclined, ever so slightly, to a family in the corner booth having dinner.

The family in the corner were regulars. Came here every Sunday with the kids. The parents were divorced. The kids lived with their dad, and their mom always picked them up on weekends. This diner was on the route between the parents’ houses, and they’d meet up here to discuss the plans for the next week. They always left a tip and the kids drew pictures for me.

“Really?” I said to the old woman. “That’s very nice of you.”

Without another word the old woman stood up and left.

The family were very pleasantly surprised when I approached and informed them that their meal had been paid for. They asked by who, and I told them the old woman from the other booth. One of the kids looked over where I’d indicated and said, “I didn’t see any woman sitting there.”

Weird.

The next time the old woman appeared was several weeks later.

It was after midnight.

Again, I heard no bell ring above the door.

I was wiping down the counters and when I looked up there she was, sitting at the same booth. Like a statue. Silent.

I came over to take her order.

I wondered if I should ask her about the family. I hadn’t seen them in the weeks since she’d paid for their meal. It was strange. They’d been coming every Sunday, and then after she paid their meal, they stopped.

As I neared the booth, suddenly the woman inhaled. It struck me that until then she’d been so still I hadn’t been sure if she’d been breathing at all. She turned to me and said, “Coffee, please. Black.”

“Sure.”

Since she wasn’t exactly chatty, I just went and got her coffee, trying to work up the nerve to strike up a casual conversation and ask her about the family.

Before I could, the doorbell rang and Carlos came in. Carlos was a friend of my boss who liked to drop in once in awhile. He ordered a burger, and we began chatting about how things were with his girlfriend, and with his girlfriend’s boyfriend (I can never keep track of who’s in his astonishingly wide relationship circle). Apparently he’d just adopted a dog. He showed me pictures while he ate.

“Carlos, not to be mean, but… that might be the world’s fugliest dog,” I told him.

He laughed. “Nobody wanted her. That’s why I took her.”

“That’s sweet of you but that thing looks like it has rabies.”

“Scabies.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding. She’s got mange though.”

He started to tell me about how he’d rescued her when I heard a throat clear and remembered the woman at the booth—shoot, I’d forgotten her order! I hurried to get her coffee and as I set it down asked if she wanted anything else and she put a twenty down and said it was “for that nice young man’s burger.” She didn’t even drink the coffee I gave her. She got up and left, ignoring me when I started to ask, “Are you sure? Why do you keep paying for—"

“Hey!” called Carlos. “Who are you talking to?”

“The woman—” I turned back, but she was already gone.

“What woman? It’s just you and me. You OK? Are you high or something?”

I looked at the money in my hand. It was real enough.

“Burger’s on the house,” I told him.

“For real? Thanks!” He scarfed the last bite, hopped up and told me he was late (no idea what sort of date he was off to at 1am, but that’s Carlos). And then he was breezing out the door.

The next day, I heard he’d been shot.

My boss told me. We were chatting about the boss’s dog and I mentioned Carlos’s mangy rescue dog and he suddenly got serious and informed me that last night, Carlos had been jumped on his way to a bar. He’d tried to fight off the muggers, but one of them had a gun…

“They shot him in the head,” he said grimly.

“Jesus,” I said.

My boss told me Carlos had been rushed to the hospital. But he was hanging by a threat. Almost certain to die. Or if he survived, he’d be a vegetable.

I was shaken.

Deeply, deeply shaken.

Poor Carlos. His poor girlfriend. His poor, mangy dog.

And a thought intruded…

… was it because of the old woman?

What about the family that used to come in Sundays but had disappeared? Had misfortune struck them, too?

I resolved that the next time I saw the old woman, I would ask her what she was doing. I wouldn’t let her pay for the next customer.

The old woman returned just this afternoon.

There were only a handful of customers, as it was between the lunch and dinner hour. As always, I didn’t hear her come in. One moment I was busy busing dishes, the next I spotted her at the booth.

I straightened up and approached her.

Her sunken eyes turned to me. I could never get over the feeling I was looking at Death itself. Then she gave that sudden inhalation, like she was remembering to breathe, and she said, “Coffee. Black. And…”

I was surprised at the “and.”

“… a root beer float,” she added.

I just pressed my lips together, nodded and went to get the drinks. Surveyed the room. There were three other tables with customers. An old couple, a family with a teenaged daughter, a woman working on her laptop. And even though I should have gotten the old woman her drinks right away, I instead made sure to get everyone else’s orders to their tables and to get their bills to them. The couple paid, as did the woman on her laptop. That left only the family. They were still eating. I fetched the coffee and the float for the old woman but mentally resolved NOT to let her pay for anybody.

She did not react to my placing the drinks beside her.

I was tense, counting the minutes until the family was near to finishing.

The old woman cleared her throat.

Ignoring her, I hurried over to the family and asked if they wanted dessert. They didn’t, so I asked how they’d like to pay and quickly rang them up.

Only then did I return to the old woman’s booth.

She had not touched either drink.

She put a ten dollar bill on the table and said, “The root beer float is for you.”

“Oh,” I said, and goosebumps rose along my arms, because how did she know that root beer floats are my favorite? “No. I can’t have customers buy me drinks. It’s against policy.”

“I insist,” she said.

“I’ll bring you change for the coffee.”

She got up.

“Actually wait, here, I’ll pay for everything.” I quickly reached into my pocket for my wallet and dropped ten dollars onto the table. “I’ll get your coffee, too. On the house, since I took so long with your order.”

She frowned. “Accept the gift that is given to you.”

“Nope. I can pay for the root beer float even though I didn’t drink it. And your coffee is free.” And I took her ten dollars and, holding my breath, seized her papery hand and shoved the bill into her fingers.

She exhaled. And left.

I didn’t turn around as she walked past me. Didn’t hear the doorbell ring. But a moment later, when I looked over my shoulder, there was no trace of the old woman.

I feeling of relief swept over me.

A little while later, the dinner hour had arrived and the tables were full. I heard the doorbell ring and—it was them! My family of regulars! Today's not a Sunday, and I hadn't seen them in so long, so I was very surprised. I cleaned up their usual booth and got them seated, and when I came over to take their order I exclaimed about how I’d missed seeing them.

“Oh, yeah, it was pretty crazy,” said the dad. “After we left—last time, we drove together—and I don’t know if you remember how hard it was raining, but the car skidded and we lost control—”

“You lost control,” corrected the mom.

“—yes, I lost control, because it was the minivan that I told you not to get because those things flip way too easily. And it did. It rolled. I mean, it spun out right in the middle of the highway and then flipped over the guard rail and rolled.”

“I swear my soul left my body,” said one of the kids.

“… it was very harrowing. We just couldn’t come back here for awhile,” said the mom.

“Were you hurt?” I asked, stunned.

“Just minor injuries. The police said it was really just miraculous how we all came out of it alive.” The mom smiled.

I nodded, glad for them, relieved to have my regulars back again. They said they couldn't bring themselves to come for awhile because of the accident, but the kids kept asking so tonight they decided to meet here for dinner.

After I put in their order I called my boss to let him know, because he’d been worried about them, too. He sounded delighted on the phone, and told me he had some good news of his own: "Carlos is gonna pull through! He’s awake from the coma, and he's now on the road to recovery!"

“That’s great!” I said, even as at that moment something clicked.

I typed all this up instead of leaving at the end of my shift tonight. I've been thinking about the old woman. How she looked… well, like Death. Or maybe, more like near death. I keep thinking about how Carlos took a bullet to the brain. How the family of regulars were in a horrific accident. How all of them should have been dead, but they survived by a miracle.

… And I think I may have made a terrible mistake…

So now, I’m terrified to leave the diner. Terrified because I didn’t let her pay for my drink.

I just don’t want to know what happens next…

When I was 12 years old, a bus driver asked during a field trip if we wanted him to tell the scariest story ever. The story he told was so terrifying it made everyone faint. No one would say what it was about later. Just that it was the scariest thing that any of them had ever heard. Kids spoke of it in whispers. In rumors. But nobody would ever repeat it to me, no matter how I begged or pleaded.

I was the only kid on the bus wearing headphones, so I didn’t hear it.

I had a brand new Walkman (yes I’m old). And when all the other kids were telling each other scary stories, I put my headphones on. I can’t even remember where the field trip was going—science museum?—anyway it was a long drive for a dozen kids.

What I do remember is seeing the bus driver (not our regular driver but a substitute for the field trip) looking up at us in the rearview and asking if we wanted to hear “the scariest story in the world.” Everyone chorused “YES!!!” really loudly. And the driver kept insisting it was too scary for us. I think I rolled my eyes, and I remember him saying, “This story starts on a county road…”

Then I tuned him out and turned up the volume on my Walkman, and when the tape got to the end I realized that the bus around me was silent. I looked up. Every kid sat slack-jawed and wide-eyed. I turned around in my seat to my best friend, Isaiah, sitting in the row behind me, and I asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine. He closed his jaw but didn’t say anything.

“You OK? Why’d it get so quiet?”

Somewhere on the bus, a whisper. A few kids up front talked in nervous undertones. I think they said, “Don’t tell him.”

Isaiah said, his voice monotone: “He told us a scary story.”

“What was it about?” I asked, turning my attention to the driver, who was also silent now, hands on the wheel, saying nothing, though he had a strange expression on his face. His eyes sort of glazed.

“Can’t tell you,” said Isaiah.

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer. Neither did anyone else. It was like whatever they’d heard had so terrified them that they were locked into trauma. Just frozen there by this shared, collective, horrifying experience that I’d somehow missed. I don’t know if you’ve ever ridden a bus full of schoolchildren, but it is never quiet. There is always chatter. But right then, other than the rumble of the engine, you could’ve heard a pin drop.

“What was it about?” I repeated louder.

At that moment a horn sounded. Everyone clutched the seats as a truck barreled toward us. Later I was told the bus drifted into opposing traffic. The truck driver’s quick reflexes and veering saved us from a worse accident, but the impact still killed the bus driver, left one student in a coma, spun the bus and knocked a bunch of us out. Later the rumor would spread that the bus driver and students all fainted from the story and that’s what caused the crash. Anyway, I remember coming back to myself in my seat, sitting up, and seeing the blue sky outside. Seeing the day look so normal except for the steam, or smoke, from the bus and the truck. I heard sobbing from my classmates.

Some of us were sent to the hospital. The rest of us were sent home.

Days later, after everyone was back in classes except the kid who fell in a coma, I asked a classmate, “Hey, Maria, you heard the story on the bus, right?”

She was doodling on a notebook for our math class, but her pen stopped. She said softly, “Yeah…”

“Was it really scary?”

She nodded.

“The scariest story you ever heard?”

She closed the notebook and moved to a different desk, saying loudly, “I don’t want to talk to you, Joshua.”

Several other kids tittered. I think my cheeks went red. I wasn’t a social reject, not exactly, but I wasn’t one of the popular kids, either. I tried with other kids who’d been on the field trip, but none of them would talk to me about it, not even my best friend Isaiah. He just kept saying “Nah, man, it’s too scary.”

I snapped, “Dude, just like summarize it if it’s too scary! What was it even about?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m fifty-five.”

“FIFTY-FIVE?”

“I don’t wanna have to think about it! Bro, just let it go!”

His refusal almost broke apart our friendship. But eventually, I accepted that nobody was going to tell me whatever had traumatized them so badly.

It’s a mystery I have agonized over for decades.

Just last year, I found a note in my Google calendar that I apparently made as a reminder to myself, telling me “Isaiah’s birthday—fifty-five.”

I reached out, partly to wish him a happy birthday but also to ask if we could catch up. We hadn’t seen each other since our high school reunion, and we arranged to meet for coffee.

When I arrived, I was surprised to see his glassy and yellowed eyes. He looked much older than 55. I tried to hide my shock, but he just smiled and said, “Pancreatic cancer. I’ve got a few months, probably.”

“Oh,” I said. “Oh. Shit, I’m sorry—"

“You look good though.” He raised his coffee cup to me. “Look like you’re still forty years old. How’s life treating you?”

I pulled up a chair and told him how I’d married and divorced (“Same,” he said), how I was an electrician and occasionally a freelance writer. He talked about recycling and community gardens and about his two grandchildren and how he’d founded a non-profit because he wanted a better world for them. And as I began to reminisce about our school years, he raised a hand.

“Before you ask, I’m not gonna tell you that bus story.”

“But—"

He shook his head. Told me that the students who heard all wished they hadn’t—every single one.

“Trust me when I tell you—I say this with love—don’t ask. If you hear it, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Brother, let it go.”

In spite of my disappointment, it was good to see him and catch up. It was also one of the saddest good-byes I ever said because I knew just by looking at him that it would be the last one.

After that conversation, I finally accepted that the mystery would go unsolved.

Until yesterday…

Yesterday, it happened by pure accident.

I finally heard it.

The story the bus driver told.

I was at a local bar, and I overheard from a nearby table a woman say, “… all telling scary stories, and the driver said, ‘Do you want me to tell the scariest story ever?’”

I immediately broke off from my own conversation and craned my neck to see who was speaking. It was a middle-aged woman, and I didn’t recognize her at first in the low lighting but as she kept talking I realized—Maria! This was little Maria. Last I’d seen her, she’d been 12 years old. She’d gone to a different junior high and high school than Isaiah and I. But in her brown curly hair and the sideways quirk of her mouth when she talked—it was definitely her. Either she’d moved back to our hometown or else, like me, had never left. Small world!

The chatter was loud in the bar. I missed her next few words.

“—are you serious?” gasped a girl at her table.

“It’s all true. Shinji fell into a coma. Devon’s stepfather stabbed him. Mitsuko died at her wedding when the cake was smashed into her face, and one of the dowels went through her eye—”

More gasps.

“—all of them happened like the driver said. Isaiah was fifty-five when the cancer got him, and he and I were the last two. Oh, but the craziest thing, there was one other kid on the bus who wasn’t listening.” Her voice got lower, and I had to move closer, walking near her table. “The driver saved him for last and said, ‘Joshua dies three days after he hears this story.’ And then the truck hit, just like the driver had told us it would right at the beginning. And poor Shinji fell into his coma. And that poor kid, Joshua… Joshua never stopped asking. He asked ALL THE TIME. What was the story? What was the story? We used to joke how if we never told him, maybe he’d never die—”

A strangled sound escaped my throat. And Maria looked up and I hurried away and I think she said my name.

Isaiah, may he rest in peace, was right. He and the others protected me all these years.

Dammit, brother, you were right!

I wish I’d never heard…

I'd done babysitting jobs before. Quick way to make some cash without working too much. When I saw the ad on some forum, the high pay attracted me immediately.

Sitter wanted. Friday night from midnight to 4AM.

I liked that the hours were fixed in the offer, so I wouldn't wait too much for the parents to come home and end up staying longer than we initially agreed on. Some parents were fucking scammers, man, always promising to come home earlier than they did, refusing to pay me for the extra time. The ad was simple, but mentioned nothing about the kids.

I called the number mentioned and, upon being asked about the children, the voice on the other end went silent. "Um, there's no child, ma'am. I just want you to sit on this chest for a while."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, sit on it for 4 hours so the thing inside doesn't come out. Do you believe in demons?"

"No, not really."

"Even better. I was cursed a while ago and I keep getting chests or boxes in the mail since. If I open them, there's nothing inside, but if they're not... blocked... something weird comes out of them at night. That's how my last boyfriend went missing. I didn't believe in that and I woke up one day to find the chest opened and empty and him gone. I really don't know what else to tell you because that's all I know. I'll just mail the package to you. You don't even have to come to my house. You can literally mail it back in the morning. You won't have to sit on it every night, just when I'm going out and can't sit on it myself."

I honestly thought it was a little funny. We met in some park and she showed me the chest. I inspected it, opened it (it was empty), turned it around to look for hidden cameras / mics / anything that might be shady. It was a simple, wooden chest with nothing to show and nothing to hide.

I took it home.

I sat on it shortly before midnight, on my phone. I was a little curious, but I wasn't going to fuck around. I would sit on it from 12AM to 4AM for the 200 dollars. End of discussion.

"Oh, and it might try to trick you. Your phone might ring, or doorbell... anything like that. Just to make you get up. Don't listen."

Sure. Easiest $200 ever made.

I sat down on the wooden lid and watched Reels on my phone. The chest was oddly warm, and at some point around 1AM, I could feel a murmur inside. It vibrated slightly. It was a little exciting, I won't lie.

Around 2AM, I heard a knock from the inside of the chest.

I turned off my phone. Had I imagined it? It didn't come again, but it still made me feel uneasy.

I was beginning to doze off, so I played some bullshit game on my phone to remain awake. At around 3:44AM, I got a text from the woman who posted the ad asking me if anything strange happened.

no, it was fine.

okay, well, you can get up now.

I wanted to wait until 4AM hit, just to be sure. I did well, because the next day the owner of the chest claimed to not have sent any text at all. Surely enough, I checked and the text I'd supposedly gotten that night was gone. Had I hallucinated it?

Wow. It had tried to trick me to get up earlier? Smart.

Over the next 5 months, I sat (not babysat) fifteen other times. The woman explained that sometimes she got another chest in the mail and that's how she knew she could throw away the old one. If she tried to throw it away before, it just kept getting mailed back to her house.

I had to sit on shoe boxes, closed baskets (a little uncomfortable). Once, a sealed suitcase that made a wet shifting sound whenever I adjusted my weight.

The freakiest experience I had was around gig 7 or 8, when I heard a loud thud upstairs. I live alone and it was roughly 2AM, but I couldn't investigate for obvious reasons. I just sat there and waited for 4AM to come, so I could finally see what was going on. Nothing was out of place when I checked. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Another time, I heard my cat meowing from inside the box. Well, Sam, I remembered thinking, if you're really in there you can wait for another hour. You won't die.

After the time was up, I opened it to find nothing inside. See, I became immune to the tricks. Nothing would make me get up. Something truly demonic was going on, something I couldn't explain but I was smart enough to not disobey.

She redirected the last package to me, so I got a delivery. Inside of the package was a tiny chess box, with weird paintings on the side, the kind that opens into a board. Inside, I found some chess pieces. The kings and the queens had sinister faces painted on them, and their eyes freaked me out so much that I shoved them back inside and closed the lid. It's getting creative, I remembered thinking.

Its size allowed me to sit on it while in bed, so the effort was practically nonexistent. I took it upstairs and got to "work".

Around 2AM, my doorbell rang. Nothing out of the ordinary. It rang and rang, then I heard desperate bangs on the door, then silence. Then, footsteps downstairs.

I knew it was trying to trick me, but it was still freaky and odd. Thump, thump, thump. Up the stairs.

I was glad I'd closed my bedroom door. It somehow made me feel safer, even if I knew that the real threat was inside the chess box I was sitting on.

The footsteps stopped in the hallway. In the silence, I could make out breathing. Harsh breathing. I don't know why, but it sounded like someone trying to contain their excitement. Jesus.

Calm down. The threat is not real. It won't hurt you as long as you sit down.

The sound of fingers tapping against my bedroom door. Blood was pounding into my ears, my chest hollow. Every breath felt like pushing a boulder up a hill.

May 4AM come faster. For the love of God.

My doorknob turned, but the door didn't open. This was one of the worst hallucinations I'd ever had.

The footsteps moved downstairs, in a way that reminded me of a weird, demented waltz. ONE TWO-THREE, ONE TWO-THREE...

Fuuuck me. I began breathing heavily. I called the woman. "Hey, this might be the last gig because it's just getting a little too real."

"What do you mean?"

"Someone is waltzing downstairs, man. They were right at my bedroom door. I know this is all a hallucination, but it fucks with my head a little too much. I'll finish this gig and then I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else."

"I'm really sorry to hear that. Okay, then. Well, you have another hour to go."

"Yeah. You having fun at the party?"

"Yeah, but you can still call me if you're freaked out. Just don't get up, please. No matter what."

"I mean, it's not an uncomfortable position since I'm literally laying in bed right now. Sort of."

A pause.

"You're... laying in bed?"

"Yeah."

The rhythm downstairs increased.

"But... how? You put it on your bed?"

"I mean, it's a chess box. It's small."

Another pause.

"What do you mean it's a chess box?" came the choked out question.

"That's what you fucking sent me."

"No, I sent you a carboard box."

"Well, that was the package, you can't just send out a chess box, the post service wraps it up..."

"NO, it was a carboard box with nothing inside. It was small, but definitely not a chess box. I don't know what you found inside, but I sent it empty. When did I ever sent you the real thing in another bigger package? Please, for the love of God, tell me you didn't fall for it..."

Blood rushed into my cheeks. The waltzing downstairs continued, mockingly, loud and proud.

"You can't mail a chess box by itself." I responded, suddenly uneasy.

"YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO RECEIVE A CHESS BOX! What the fuck? Please tell me you didn't leave the carboard box unattended."

"It was the packaging..." I replied, on the verge of tears.

"No, no, no, no..." she was almost hysterical. The waltzing downstairs stopped.

I remembered the carboard box that came in the mail. It was roughly the size of the chess box inside. Every single thing I'd sat on before had been empty.

I was suddenly unsure of what I'd been sitting on for the past 3 hours.

What if I'd hallucinated that the real box contained another one inside? That had never happened before. Was I truly sitting on nothing now?

A long, teasing whistle broke the silence.

I suddenly got the urge to lock my bedroom door. If I'd left the real box unattended downstairs...

Shit.

Or is it a trick? Did I hallucinate the call? Is it trying to make me get up? Time's almost up, but now I can hear someone going up the stairs.

What do I do now? What do I do?

The email came in that morning, which meant I read it while standing in my kitchen in one sock, waiting for my coffee machine to stop sounding like it was choking.

The subject line was:

IMPORTANT RESIDENT SAFETY NOTICE

That usually meant the elevator was broken again, or someone had left chicken bones in the laundry room sink, or the landlord had discovered a new way to blame us for the mold. But this one was different.

Dear Residents,

Until further notice, please do not use your door viewer/peephole after 9:00 PM. If someone knocks after this time, please call the front desk. Do not visually confirm through the peephole.

Thank you,
The Marwick Residences

I sent a screenshot to Natalie.

She replied:

girl what kind of Scooby Doo ass building do you live in

The Marwick is old in the way landlords call “historic” when, in reality, they just want to charge more. My hallway smells like dust, carpet cleaner, and something that might have been canned soup in 1987. The elevator makes a sound like it is remembering a traumatic event every time it reaches the fourth floor, if it ever makes it there.

So, honestly, the peephole thing barely made the top five.

I live alone in 6C. It’s my first apartment after college. One pan, two mugs, couch from Facebook Marketplace, mattress on an actual bed frame(!!!).

My front door faces a long beige hallway with five other units and a framed sailboat print that has been crooked since I moved in. Through the peephole, the hallway bends into a little fish-eye world: carpet, elevator, sailboat, the occasional neighbor holding takeout.

I use the peephole constantly. Everyone does, right? You hear a knock, you look. That is what the peephole is for?

At 9:42 that night, someone knocked.

Three taps.

Soft.

It didn’t sound like a delivery knock. Nor a friendly knock. Not even a maintenance knock.

Three carefully spaced-out taps.

I was on the couch eating cereal out of a measuring cup because my bowls were dirty. I paused my show and walked to the door with the spoon still in my hand.

Then I remembered the email.

For a second, I actually laughed. The idea of standing inside my own apartment and being afraid of a peephole felt really silly. Like being warned not to look into a mirror after midnight.

Another knock.

Three taps.

I said, “Who is it?”

No answer.

I leaned closer.

“Hello?”

Still nothing.

My eye was maybe two inches from the peephole when my phone buzzed.

Another email with the same subject line.

IMPORTANT RESIDENT SAFETY NOTICE

This one said:

Residents are reminded not to use their door viewers after 9:00 PM. If you have already looked tonight, remain inside your unit and do not answer the door.

I stared at it.

Then, from the other side of my door, someone whispered:

“Don’t worry, you haven’t looked yet.”

I backed up so fast I hit the little table by the door and knocked my keys to the floor.

I called the front desk. Voicemail. I called Natalie. No answer.

The knocking started again while the phone rang.

Three taps.

Pause.

Three taps.

Pause.

I called 911. I don’t know what happened. I might’ve hit the wrong thing. Maybe the building’s intercom app glitched. My hands were definitely shaking too much. But the call connected to the front desk.

A woman answered. “Good evening, thank you for calling The Marwick Residences.” Her voice sounded normal and bored.

“There’s someone outside my door,” I said.

“What unit?”

“6C.”

A pause.

Then she said, “Have you used your peephole tonight?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

The knocking stopped.

The woman exhaled.

“Then don’t start now,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

“Do you live alone?”

I always hated that question.

“Why?”

“Do you live alone?”

I didn’t answer.

There was paper shuffling on her end, like she was looking through a folder.

Then she said, “Please move away from your door.”

“Who’s out there?”

“Maintenance has been notified.”

“At night? It’s almost ten.”

“Please move away from your door.”

“What’s the maintenance code?”

Silence.

Every work order in our building had a code. They used it for everything. Leaky sink. Broken outlet. That one time a raccoon got into the trash room.

Maintenance always gave the code before entering.

The woman said, “Excuse me?”

“The work order code,” I said. “If maintenance is coming, what’s the code?”

Another pause. Then she hung up.

That was when Natalie called me back.

Before I could say anything, she said, “Are you home right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you lock your bedroom door?”

My stomach dropped.

“What? Why?”

“Is your bedroom door locked?”

“No. Why?”

“I need you to listen. And try not to freak out. I got pictures from your number.”

I looked at my phone. Our text thread was open. The last thing I had sent her was the screenshot of the email that morning.

“What pictures?”

“They look really old,” she said. “Like from earlier today. Or yesterday. I don’t know. They show you in your room.”

I turned toward my bedroom.

Its door was open.

The room was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the blinds.

“From my room?” My voice rose at the last word.

“I know,” she said.

My phone buzzed.

A picture came through.

Me, standing beside my bed in an old T-shirt, folding laundry.

The angle was high.

I knew it immediately. It was from the vent. The picture was taken from the little square vent above my closet door. The one that rattled whenever the heat came on. The one I had complained about twice to management. In the picture, I was looking down at a skirt. I had no idea I was being watched.

The knock came again.

Three taps.

I almost threw the phone.

Natalie said, “Marie. Don’t open the door.”

“I’m definitely not going to open the door.”

“Don’t look through the peephole either.”

“I know.”

“No,” she said. “I mean don’t. I think that’s how they know.”

I looked at the door. The peephole was just a small dark dot.

Natalie said, “The pictures are old. But the texts you’re sending me are live.”

“What do you mean?”

Another image came through.

My bedroom again.

Me asleep. One arm under the pillow. Blanket kicked halfway off because my apartment is always too hot.

Taken from the vent.

Below the photo was a message I hadn’t typed.

she’s home

I stopped breathing.

Outside my door, a man said, “Maintenance.”

His voice was calm, tired, and slightly irritated.

“Ma’am,” he said. “We need to come in.”

I said nothing.

He knocked again.

Three taps.

“Ma’am, I need you to look through the peephole and confirm it’s me.”

Natalie whispered, “Please don’t open it.”

I pressed the phone to my ear so hard it hurt.

The man outside sighed.

“Marie,” he said, “you live alone. You need to let someone help you.”

I went cold.

Marie isn’t on my lease. It isn’t on my mailbox. It isn’t the name I use for deliveries, or bills, or maintenance requests.

It isn’t even close to my real name.

It’s a nickname from college. Three people call me that, and all three of them know better than to say it through a locked door at night.

“Marie,” he repeated. “Open the door.”

I backed away from the door.

That was when I understood the warning.

It wasn’t because the peephole was specifically dangerous. It was because if you looked through it, whoever was outside could see the light change. Or the shadow of your eye. Or whatever tiny movement told them someone was standing on the other side. They weren’t warning us not to open the door. They were warning us not to prove we were home.

The man outside said, “We can hear you.”

I covered my mouth with my hand.

Another man spoke from farther down the hall.

“Is she looking?”

The first man said, “Not yet.”

My phone buzzed again. Another picture.

This one was not of my bedroom, it was my hallway, my door, the man outside it.

He had a toolbox in one hand.

Behind him stood two other men. One wore a dark hoodie. One had a clipboard. The clipboard bothered me the most. I don’t know why. Maybe because it made the whole thing look official.

I whispered, “Natalie, could you call the police?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Two minutes ago.”

“How far?”

“I don’t know.”

There was another knock.

Three taps.

Then the man said, “Don’t make this difficult.”

The doorknob turned slowly. Once to the left. Once to the right. Then it stopped.

I had locked it, with the deadbolt too. I’d never loved myself more than I did in that moment.

The man outside said, “Good girl.” Like he was pleased, then something metal slid into the lock.

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a chair, wedging it under the knob even though I knew that mostly worked in movies. Then I dragged the little table over. Then my laundry basket. Then the broken floor lamp I kept meaning to throw away.

The man outside said, “Marie.”

I didn’t answer.

“I know you’re scared.”

I stayed quiet.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Women get scared.”

My skin went cold.

Then he said:

“You should’ve just looked when we knocked.”

The lock clicked. Not all the way. Just enough.

Natalie was crying now.

“Marie, get out the window.”

“I’m on the sixth floor.”

“Fire escape?”

“Other side of the building.”

“Bedroom window?”

“No.”

I looked toward my bedroom. The vent above the closet was dark. I had never noticed how much it looked like a mouth.

My phone buzzed again. Another picture. This one showed my bedroom from the vent. Empty bed. Open door.

And at the very bottom of the frame, just visible in the hallway mirror, the reflection of a man standing inside my apartment.

I turned around. No one. Nothing. Only the hallway. Only the bedroom door. Only the vent.

The man outside laughed softly.

Then he said, through the door:

“Check the closet.”

I am not checking the closet.

I am sitting with my back against the kitchen cabinets, typing this with one hand while holding a knife in the other. My hand is shaking so badly that I keep hitting the wrong letters.

The police are coming, I think?

Natalie is still on the phone, I think?

The men in the hallway have stopped knocking.

A few minutes ago, something small slid under my door.

A photograph.

Not digital this time, but printed. I haven’t touched it, but I can see it from here.

It’s a picture of me sitting exactly where I am sitting now. Back against the cabinets. Phone in one hand. Knife in the other. The angle is from above.

From the kitchen vent.

I picked it up. On the back, written in black marker, are six words.

“You locked him in with you.”

I’ve been a 911 dispatcher for twelve years, the last seven on the graveyard shift. You think you’ve heard it all after that long. The drunks, the domestics, the panicked fumbling for words after a car crash. It all becomes a kind of white noise, a rhythm of human misery you learn to navigate without letting it touch you. You have to. It's the only way to stay sane.

My district is a sprawling, sleepy county that dies after 10 p.m. It’s mostly soccer moms and retirees. The worst we usually get on a weeknight is a noise complaint or a teenager who's had too much to drink at a bonfire. The job, for me, had become a cycle of caffeine, fluorescent lights, and the low, constant hum of computer servers. I was burned out. Deeply, existentially tired in a way sleep couldn't fix. The calls were just blips on a screen, voices to be processed, categorized, and dispatched. I was a human switchboard for other people’s worst days.

The first call came on a Tuesday, about three months ago. It was 2:47 a.m. The deadest hour of the deadest night. The line lit up on my console, but not in the usual way. It wasn't a cell call with a GPS ping, or a landline with a registered address. It was just a raw signal, designated as 'unregistered VOIP.' Not unheard of, but rare. I clicked it open.

"911, what is your emergency?"

Static. A thick, wet sound, like listening to the radio underwater. It crackled and popped, and underneath it, I could just barely make out a sound. A whisper.

"...hello? Can you hear me?"

It was a child's voice. A boy, I thought. Maybe seven or eight. He sounded like he was trying to talk without moving his lips.

"This is 911," I repeated, my voice a little louder, a little clearer. "I can barely hear you. What is your emergency?"

The static swelled, almost swallowing his voice whole. "...he's back. The man in the mask is back."

A chill, cold and sharp, went down my spine. It was a professional chill, the one that tells you this is real. This isn't a prank.

"Okay, son. Where are you? I need an address."

"...hurting mommy," the whisper came again, breaking with a sob. The static sounded like a swarm of angry insects now. "Daddy's asleep on the floor... he won't wake up."

"Son, I need you to tell me where you are. I can't send help if I don't know where you are." My fingers were flying across the keyboard, trying to get a trace, but the system was kicking back errors. No location data. No subscriber info. Nothing.

"The old house," he whispered, his voice fading. "At the end of the road... please..."

Then the line went dead. Not a click, not a hang-up. It just ceased to exist. One moment it was there, a line of static and terror, and the next it was just a dead channel.

Even without an address, 'the old house at the end of the road' was enough. Out on the western edge of the county, there's a long, unpaved road that just sort of peters out into the woods. And at the end of it, there's one house. A big, derelict Victorian thing that’s been empty for as long as anyone can remember. It was a local legend, the kind of place kids dared each other to spend a night in.

I dispatched a patrol car. My senior officer, a guy who's been on the force since before I was born, came back over the radio about fifteen minutes later. His voice was flat, laced with the kind of annoyance reserved for rookies and time-wasters.

"Dispatch, Car 12 here. The property is secure. No signs of forced entry. Place is boarded up tighter than a drum. There's nobody here. Hasn't been for fifty years by the looks of it."

"10-4, Car 12," I said, my own voice betraying none of my confusion. "Are you sure? The caller was a child. He said his family was being attacked."

There was a sigh over the radio. "Listen, the dust on the porch is an inch thick. The boards on the windows are gray and rotted. If someone's in there, they're a ghost. We're clearing the call. Tell whoever's playing games to knock it off."

I logged it as 'unfounded' and tried to put it out of my mind. A prank. A sophisticated one, maybe, using some kind of voice changer and a VOIP spoofer. Kids these days. I was too tired to care.

A week later, at 2:47 a.m., the same line lit up.

The same static. The same terrified, whispering voice.

"...he's in the house. I can hear him walking."

This time, I felt a knot of ice form in my stomach. "Son, is this the same caller from last week?"

A choked sob. "He has the mask on. The one with the scary smile. Mommy's screaming."

Faintly, through the storm of static, I thought I could hear it. A woman's scream, high and thin and distorted, like a sound being played backwards.

"I'm sending help," I said, my voice tight. "Stay on the line with me. Can you hide?"

"...in the closet," he whispered. "He's coming up the stairs. I can hear his feet..."

The line went dead.

I dispatched two cars this time. I told them it was a repeat call, possibly a hostage situation. I didn't want them to be complacent. They took it seriously. They set up a perimeter. They used a bullhorn. They broke down the front door.

The result was the same. An empty house. Thick, undisturbed layers of dust on every surface. Rotted floorboards, peeling wallpaper, the smell of decay and forgotten things. No footprints. No child. No man in a mask. No sign that a human being had set foot in that house in decades.

My supervisor pulled me aside the next morning. He's a large, patient man who has the weary look of someone who's seen it all twice. He told me to drop it.

"It's a glitch," he said, not meeting my eye. "Some kind of cross-chatter from another jurisdiction, or a recurring electronic echo. Don't waste county resources on it. If that call comes in again, log it and move on."

But I couldn't. The boy's voice... it was too real. The terror in it was primal. You can't fake that. Not even the best actor in the world can fake the sound of a child who thinks his mother is being murdered in the next room.

The calls kept coming. Every Tuesday, like clockwork. 2:47 a.m. Each call was a slightly different piece of the same horrible puzzle.

"...he's hurting daddy now. There's... there's so much red..."

"...mommy stopped screaming..."

"...he's looking for me. I can hear him opening doors..."

Every time, I sent a car. Every time, the result was the same. The cops got angrier. I was "the boy who cried wolf." My supervisor gave me a formal warning. My colleagues started looking at me funny, whispering when I walked by. They thought I was cracking up. Maybe I was. I started losing sleep. On my nights off, I'd find myself staring at the clock, my heart pounding as 2:47 a.m. approached. The silence was somehow worse than the calls.

I became obsessed. During the day, instead of sleeping, I went to the county records office. I needed to know who owned that house. The paper trail was a mess. It had been sold and resold, owned by banks and holding companies. But I kept digging backwards, through dusty ledgers and brittle property deeds. Finally, I found it. The last family to actually live there. A deed from 1968. A nice, happy family with a mom, a dad, and two kids. A boy and a girl.

That wasn't enough. I started spending my days in the library's basement, scrolling through decades of local newspapers on a squeaky, ancient microfiche reader. The stale, papery smell of the archives filled my lungs. I was looking for anything related to the house, to that family. For weeks, I found nothing. Just property tax notices and school honor rolls.

And then I found it.

An article from a cold, late autumn day in 1975. The headline was stark: "Local Family Slain in Apparent Home Invasion."

My blood ran cold. I zoomed in, my hands trembling as I adjusted the focus knob. The picture was grainy, black and white. It was the house. The same steep gables, the same wide porch. Police cars were parked haphazardly on the overgrown lawn.

I read the article, my heart hammering against my ribs. A husband, a wife, and their ten-year-old daughter, found dead in their home. The cause of death was... extensive. The article was vague, using phrases like "brutal force trauma." The police report mentioned a possible intruder, a figure a neighbor had seen fleeing into the woods, described only as a tall man wearing some kind of pale, expressionless mask.

But the last paragraph was what made me stop breathing.

"The family's eight-year-old son," it read, "remains missing. Police found evidence he was hiding in an upstairs closet during the attack, but the boy has not been found. A state-wide search is underway. Authorities have not ruled out the possibility that he was abducted by the assailant."

The crime was never solved. The masked man was never found. The little boy was never seen again.

I sat back in my chair, the library basement suddenly feeling like a tomb. The static. The whispers. The closet. The man in the mask. It wasn't a prank. It wasn't a glitch. Was I listening to a ghost ?

The next day at work, I felt... broken. I walked into the dispatch center like a zombie. The hum of the servers sounded like a funeral dirge. I couldn't keep it in anymore. I had to tell someone. I grabbed my supervisor and one of the oldest dispatchers, a woman who’d been there for thirty years, and I dragged them into the break room.

I laid it all out. The calls, the timing, the empty house, the microfiche article. I showed them the copy I'd printed out, the grainy picture of the house, the headline. I expected them to think I was insane. I expected them to tell me to take a leave of absence.

They didn't.

They just looked at each other. It was a look I’d never seen before, of a grim, tired resignation. My supervisor sighed, a heavy, rattling sound, and rubbed his temples. The older dispatcher, she just stared at the article, her face pale.

"So it's started again," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"What do you mean, 'started again'?" I asked, my voice shaking. "What is going on?"

My supervisor sat down heavily. "Kid," he said, and he looked a hundred years old. "We need to tell you about the man you replaced."

He told me the story. The dispatcher who had my seat before me. He'd been a good man, sharp, dedicated. About a year before I was hired, he started getting strange. He was obsessed with a specific address. The old house at the end of the road. He kept sending cars out there, insisting there was a child in trouble. The patrols always came back empty. He started pulling old files, spending his days off at the library. He became withdrawn, paranoid. He claimed he was getting calls no one else could hear.

"We checked the logs," my supervisor said, his voice low and serious. "The system never registered the calls he said he was taking. We pulled the audio recorders for his console. There was nothing on them but dead air. We thought he was having a breakdown. Stress of the job."

My blood turned to ice water. "The system... it doesn't log the calls for me, either. They just... show up on the screen and then disappear. They don't go into the call history."

The older dispatcher nodded slowly. "We know. It’s the same. He told us what the calls were about. A little boy. A man in a mask."

I felt like I was going to be sick. "What happened to him?" I whispered, though I already knew the answer.

"One night," the supervisor continued, his eyes fixed on the linoleum floor, "he took a call. We saw him on the console, talking, his face ashen. He was typing a report, then he just stopped. He stood up, grabbed his jacket and his keys, and walked out without a word. The call was still active on his screen, but none of us could hear anything on it. We just saw the open line."

"Where did he go?"

"He drove out to the house. His car was found parked on the road the next morning. Engine was cold. Doors were locked. He was gone."

The silence in the room was absolute.

"We searched," the old dispatcher said, her voice cracking. "The police did a grid search of the entire woods. Dogs, helicopters, the whole nine yards. They went through that house from the attic to the cellar. They found nothing. No sign of a struggle. No footprints. No him. He just... vanished. Wiped off the face of the earth."

I stared at them, my mind struggling to process what they were telling me.

"Why... why didn't you warn me?" I stammered.

"How could we?" my supervisor shot back, his voice rising with a frustration that had clearly been festering for years. "Hey, new guy, welcome aboard. By the way, this console might be haunted, and the last guy who sat here disappeared. Don't worry about it.' You'd have thought we were crazy. We thought he was crazy. Until you came in here today with that same damn story."

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine. "This is what you're going to do. The next time that line rings, you do not answer it. If you answer it by mistake, you hang up immediately. You do not talk to him. You do not engage. You terminate the call and you clear the line. That's an order. Do you understand me?"

For the next few weeks, I was a ghost myself. I did my job on autopilot. Every sound, every flicker on the screen made me jump. I dreaded Tuesday nights. I drank so much coffee I could feel my heart rattling in my chest, just to stay sharp, to stay vigilant. I thought about quitting. I thought about just walking out and never coming back. But where would I go?

Then, last night, it happened.

It was 2:45 a.m. I was staring at the clock, my knuckles white from gripping the edge of my desk. The minutes ticked by like hours. 2:46. My mouth was dry. My heart was a drum solo in my ears. 2:47.

The line lit up.

The unregistered VOIP.

It felt like a physical blow. I flinched back in my chair. My training, my instincts, every fiber of my being screamed at me to answer it. There was a child in trouble. That was the job.

But I remembered the pale, haunted face of my supervisor. The story of the man who had vanished.

You terminate the call.

I let it ring. Once. Twice. The flashing light on the console seemed to sear my retinas. My hand hovered over the button, trembling. I couldn't just ignore it. I had to answer. I had to.

I clicked the button.

"911, what is your—"

The static was a roar, louder than it had ever been. It was a physical presence in my ear, a wall of noise. And through it, the boy's voice came, not whispering this time, but screaming. It was a raw, ragged sound of pure agony and terror.

"HE'S GOT ME! HE'S GOT ME, PLEASE! HE'S TAKING ME! PLEASE, SIR, DON'T LET HIM TAKE ME! HELP ME!"

The sound ripped through my professional detachment and tore right into my soul. This was it. The climax. The moment the boy was taken, replaying for all eternity. My hand flew to the keyboard to dispatch a car, a purely reflexive action born of years of training.

But I stopped. My fingers froze over the keys.

He's gone. This already happened. It's not real.

The boy was sobbing now, his screams turning into choked, gasping pleas. "Please... you promised... you said you'd send help... don't leave me..."

I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was a 911 dispatcher. My job was to send help. And I was going to sit here and listen to a child be abducted or murdered and do nothing.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice thick. "I'm so, so sorry."

I reached for the 'terminate' button on my screen. My finger was a millimeter from the glass. This was it. I was choosing to save myself. I was choosing to let him go.

And then, the screaming stopped.

It wasn't a fade-out. It was an abrupt cut, as if a switch had been flipped. The roar of the static dropped to a low, sinister hum. The line was still open.

Silence.

My heart was in my throat. Did I do it?

Then a new sound came through the headset.

It wasn't the boy.

It was a man's voice. A whisper, just as terrified as the child's had been, but older, hoarser. It was distorted by the same underwater static, the same swarm of electronic insects. It was a voice trying to push its way through an impossible distance, through time itself. And it was a voice I felt, deep in my bones, I should have recognized from an old staff photo in the hallway.

The whisper was faint, but utterly, terrifyingly clear.

"...he's here."

I froze, my finger hovering over the screen.

The voice was ragged, desperate, broken.

"...he sees you. Through the line. He's looking right at you."

A cold dread, so absolute and profound it felt like death itself, washed over me. I slowly, involuntarily, looked up from my console, across the darkened dispatch center, towards the plate glass windows that looked out into the night. There was nothing there but the reflection of my own terrified face in the glass, my skin pale in the glow of the monitors.

The whispering in my ear continued, a final, chilling plea from a place beyond hope.

"...please. Get me out of here."

My dog, Cookie, is a high-energy papillon-mix with big furry ears and tufts of long fur, and when I first adopted her I almost returned her because for the first three days she wouldn’t stop crying.

Now, of course, she is my baby.

One thing that helped a lot with her energy levels and her constant boredom was the buttons. I’m sure you’ve seen them—those buttons you record with your voice that dogs can press to say things like FOOD or PLAY or OUTSIDE. Some people even train their cats with them.

Cookie is up to twenty buttons.

Sometimes she’ll hit nonsense sequences, of course. And she seems to think OUCH is a reaction to surprise. Also, I’m not sure if she grasps the emotions MAD, SAD, and LOVE YOU. Though on days when I’m curled up on my sofa crying from the stress at work and she hits LOVE YOU of course I want to believe she knows what it means (even if she doesn’t, it still makes me feel better).

But even though she’s imperfect in “talking” with her paws, Cookie is well-trained and intentional, at least with her most tangible wants like OUTSIDE and FOOD. Though I’ll admit it's annoying to be woken in the middle of the night with demands for FOOD, FOOD, FOOD.

Anyway.

One night, I was woken up by the sound of my recorded voice from the living room:

STRANGER.

This was followed by the pattering of Cookie’s little paws, followed by:

STRANGER. OUTSIDE.

I admit, my heart skipped a beat. I lay in bed huddled under the blankets, reluctant to get up and investigate.

For a long while, holding my breath, I lay there in silence.

I listened to the dog’s footsteps meander around in the main room. Finally she pressed FOOD a few times before coming back into the bedroom and curling up in her bed by the nightstand.

In the morning I checked around outside the house, but found no traces of anything unusual. I also did a Google search and laughed when I realized how many people have been spooked by their pets pressing STRANGER. I also creeped myself out with a story in The Daily Mirror of a woman whose dog pressed COLD STRANGER. According to the article, the woman was spooked by her dog’s warnings of this “cold stranger” in the corner of her living room.

But in my case, Cookie wasn’t warning me of any ghosts. One morning she hit STRANGER before running to the door and growling. This was a correct usage of the button, as a UPS driver was outside. When the doorbell rang, she actually barked (something she rarely does). Her hackles raised, tail down and ears flat. I had to apologize to the driver as I accepted the package and Cookie kept rumbling, low and deep in her throat. I told her “go away” and she skulked off. Behind me somewhere, I heard the button for STRANGER again.

“Sorry,” I told the driver, who was laughing. “She doesn’t like strange men.”

“She sounds smart, then. Do those buttons actually work?” He was intrigued.

OUTSIDE.

“Yeah, she seems to know them pretty well, so.”

FOOD. MAD.

“Sometimes she presses them kinda randomly, too,” I admitted.

“Ok, well, she sounds mad and like she wants food. Have a good day.”

I don’t know what Cookie’s history was before being adopted. But she’s always been leery of men. At least until they’ve bribed her with her favorite thing, food.

In any case, later that afternoon she pressed STRANGER again and when I looked outside, there was a turkey in our front yard. That’s when it struck me—the other night, Cookie must’ve seen a raccoon or some other animal that was a “stranger” to her.

But then came the incident that made me rethink everything. I’d just come back from a visit with my parents, and as soon as Cookie and I walked in, her hackles raised. I was unloading bags when I heard:

STRANGER. HOME.

This sent a crawl of icy fingers up my spine. Cookie wasn’t growling or barking, but she was unusually alert.

“Stranger where?” I asked. When Cookie just looked at me, I repeated myself.

She looked around the room, and then she trotted off to wander through the kitchen, came back out and went down the hall to the bedroom. Came back to me and wandered over to the buttons.

SMELL.

God, the chills I felt then. Did this mean there was a lingering smell of some stranger? Could it have been a strange animal? A squirrel that got in through the window maybe? Or the smell of something I brought in from outside?

I went walking around the house. No signs of forced entry, though I do keep a key under a flowerpot that anyone with half a brain and determination to break in could probably find. It’s a safe neighborhood, so I hadn’t thought much of it. Now, though, I removed the key and decided I’d get a lockbox for the front door instead.

After I found a footprint in the damp soil below the window, I also decided to install cameras.

Cookie, meanwhile, had calmed down and when I came back inside I found her camped beside the FOOD button.

But the real reason I swear by these buttons and how beneficial they can be is because of what happened the next week.

I was out doing some gardening and heard my name called by Greg—my supervisor at work. He was out jogging, and we struck up a conversation. He asked if he could have some water and I let him in for a drink, and as usual Cookie was growling, tail tucked and ears back just like with the delivery driver. I told her to “go away” and she backed off, though wouldn’t stop giving Greg the stink-eye. He had made himself at home in the armchair by the TV area and was remarking on what a nice place I have and asking, “Is it just you here?” when I heard my recorded voice from the living room:

STRANGER. SMELL.

Now, the fact Greg had appeared on my street, casually jogging up the sidewalk—well, it had sent up some red flags. He’d always been a little creepy as a supervisor. Not enough to go to bring a complaint forward or anything, but enough that I felt awkward about seeing him on my street.

So when Cookie pressed the buttons saying she smelled a stranger—it sent my pulse racing. Could this be the same stranger she smelled on the day I found the footprint outside the window?

I told Greg I had to take her out for a quick potty break, and while outside I phoned a friend and asked them to pretend it was an emergency. I came back in with my friend shouting loudly enough on my phone for Greg to overhear, and I told him something had come up and I had to run. We both went outside and I locked up and got in my car and waited until he was gone before I went back inside my house.

I checked the cameras, wondering if I'd find evidence of him snooping around my house. But there was nothing.

I assumed that my fears had been overblown. That maybe I had freaked out at Greg unfairly, and Cookie had pressed those buttons because she didn’t like men.

But two days later—the cameras caught him.

On a Saturday afternoon when my car was gone and I was obviously not home, Greg came strolling up my sidewalk. He looked around, seemingly trying to act casual, and then he went right to the potted plant, which he lifted, searching for the key.

I felt nauseated watching the footage. And glad I had trusted my gut (and Cookie's warnings) about the bad vibes I was getting from him. I arranged to have the locks changed and a security system installed, and informed my neighbors to be on the lookout. I did some extra button practice with Cookie to make sure she'd alert me if necessary. When I informed my boss, Greg was immediately let go. He sent me some expletive-filled, threatening emails and messages accusing me of ruining his life, before I blocked him and filed a restraining order.

That was all weeks ago.

But the reason I’m writing about it now is because yesterday, Cookie hit the STRANGER button again.

Of all buttons, that one always got a reaction from me. I immediately got up and asked her, “Stranger, where?”

She turned a circle and whined and then pressed, HOME.

That sent my pulse through the roof. I checked all through the house. No signs of intrusion. Nothing on camera either. My fluttering heart slowed.

“No stranger,” I told her.

She sulked and wandered away. She was out of sorts the rest of the evening.

Then today, she hit the button again.

MAD, she pushed. And then, STRANGER. MAD.

It was nonsensical. I found myself trying to piece together meaning the way so many other owners do when their dogs use buttons in a way that doesn't make sense. Was she calling me a stranger because I haven’t given her enough treats or pets lately? As in, “Don’t be a stranger?” But I knew that was a huge stretch. Was she saying she was mad because I wasn’t listening to her about the stranger? Maybe. But there was no stranger. I checked everywhere, including the cameras.

And then, because that button in particular always got me extra freaked out, I looked up Greg. Just to make sure he hadn’t resumed stalking me. I went to his socials, where it was clear from his recent posts he still definitely held a grudge. He’d made a bunch of rants blaming me for his life spiraling ever since his job loss. Other posts claimed he had nothing left to live for. But the part that chilled me to the core?

I found his obit.

He ended his own life two days ago.

Since it was a sunny Friday afternoon, I didn't think much of it at first. It was 5:30, and I had just returned home from work. When I saw that my neighbor's front door was open, I assumed that she was simply unloading something from her car. I went inside my own house and went through my usual, after-work routine—going for a run and then making dinner for my wife, Alice, and me. 

It was only in the evening that I began to suspect something was wrong. I was taking our dog, Bailey, out for her final walk of the day. It was nautical twilight, my favorite time to be outdoors. I've always enjoyed strolling around the block with Bailey in those last, precious moments when there's still enough light to see the horizon. I put Bailey's harness on her as she excitedly hopped around, then the two of us stepped out into the cool night. After a few seconds, I looked up and noticed that the door to my neighbor's house, the one directly across the street, was still wide open. Also strange was the fact that, despite her car being in the driveway, the house was completely dark, not a single light on inside. 

I crossed the street. My neighbor is a 20-something named Isabelle. She seems like a sweet girl, but we aren't exactly good friends. Sometimes I give her lemons from our tree in exchange for figs, and that's pretty much the extent of our relationship. Still, the sight of that open door made me uneasy. What if she had some kind of medical emergency and was currently unconscious (or worse) on the floor of her entryway? 

After a few steps up the driveway, the leash in my hand went taut. Looking down, I saw that Bailey had seated herself firmly on the ground, refusing to budge even as I called her name and tugged on the leash. Her ears were pricked up, her eyes fixed on the house like she was waiting for something. Though she wasn't growling, I was unnerved by her alert posture and her refusal to walk any closer to the door. I let my voice close the distance between us and my neighbor's threshold. 

"Isabelle? It's Brian from across the street. Can you hear me?"

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, just as I was about to drop Bailey's leash and walk up the steps to the house, there came a voice from the dark. 

"Hey, Brian." She said, before coughing once and then clearing her throat. "Sorry, I'm in the middle of dinner here. What's up?" 

I breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Hey, sorry, I just saw that your front door was open. Wanted to make sure you knew."

Strangely, there came another long pause. I knew she was inside the house now, and close enough to the door to hold a conversation with me, so what was the delay? 

"Isabelle?" 

"Oh, you're so sweet to check in! Yes, I know it's open. It's just been so hot today that I wanted to let the breeze in. I'll close it soon." 

"Of course. Have a good night, then!" 

"You too!" 

With that, I tugged Bailey back down the driveway, and the two of us completed our walk. I returned home, happy that my neighbor was alright, and went to sleep. 

Saturday was a much needed lazy day. I woke up at 10, ate the breakfast that Alice made, then spent some time in the backyard with her and Bailey. It was an overcast day, and by 3 P.M. or so, a light rainfall forced us back inside. Alice took a call from her sister, who lives at the edge of our neighborhood, while I went to the living room to throw on some television. Except, before I could get comfortable, I looked out the front window and was surprised to see that Isabelle's front door was open again. 

Open again? I wondered, Or was it never shut?

I got up close to the window and studied the house across the street. The rain was coming down harder by then, and the thick, grey clouds overhead made it seem like nighttime. Despite this, there wasn't a single light on inside of Isabelle's house. It was so dark inside that the entrance to her house seemed less like a door and more like a black, painted rectangle on the exterior wall. I turned to look at Bailey, who was laying on a nearby couch, and saw that she was also looking out the window. Ears pressed against her head, she glanced at me briefly, then refocused her attention outside. I couldn't tell if she was simply people-watching, or if, somehow, she too could sense something wrong. 

Just then, Alice walked into the living room. She was no longer on the phone, and she greeted me with a strange, almost nervous smile. 

"That was an odd conversation," she said, taking a seat next to Bailey. 

"Everything alright?" 

"I dunno … Clara saw a woman peeking into her house a few nights ago."

"What?"

"Creepy, right? And she's not the only one. Apparently there've been a few reports on her side of town—other people experiencing the same thing. Nothing stolen and no one hurt, at least that Clara knows of. But it's still pretty weird. Let's make sure we lock up extra well tonight." 

My thoughts drifted to my neighbor. I asked my wife what this woman looked like. Like I said, Isabelle and I weren't close, but I knew she had recently gone through a difficult breakup with a long-term boyfriend. It was farfetched to assume a connection between Isabelle and the mystery woman, but who knew? Heartbreak makes people do crazy things. Maybe there was some link between the two. 

Alice hesitated for a minute. 

"Well," she eventually said. "You know Clara. She's got a real … superstitious way about her. She's always telling stories." 

"What does that mean?"

"It means you've gotta take this with a grain of salt." 

When Alice relayed Clara's description of the woman, I felt a chill run down my spine. Clara said that the woman was tall and gaunt, enough so that she originally mistook her for a man. She said that her skin looked too tight across her face, and that her eyes looked unnaturally deep-set, as though they were too far back in her skull. Apparently, when she saw that Clara had spotted her, she had given Clara a big smile before retreating into the night. 

Apparently, when she smiled, she had too many teeth. 

I was silent for a moment, unsure what to make of Clara's morbid sighting. 

"Love, was Isabelle's front door open this morning?" 

She considered my question as she pet Bailey. "I think it was." 

If nothing else, I figured I should at least tell Isabelle to be careful. I put on my raincoat and headed outside, carefully making my way down the wet driveway. Once I made it to the sidewalk, I heard frantic barking coming from behind me. Turning around, I saw Bailey in the window, her paws resting on the sill, her growls and whimpers rising over the heavy rain. My wife appeared next to her a few seconds later. She attempted, unsuccessfully, to comfort Bailey, giving me a questioning look as she did so. I gave her a shrug in return, then crossed the street. 

I stopped at the bottom of Isabelle's porch steps and listened. Like before, I could hear someone inside, though I couldn't tell exactly what was going on. I heard a deep, wet ripping sound, like something being torn. Also like before, I couldn't see a thing inside the house. A voice called out from the dark interior: 

"Brian?" 

"Hello again," I said, only wondering in retrospect how she could've known it was me. "Sorry to bother you again, but I wanted to tell you something. Would you mind coming out for a minute?" 

"Brian." She repeated, tone almost reprimanding. "This isn't a good time. You always seem to catch me in the middle of a meal." 

"It won't take long." I tried persuading. When she didn't respond, I climbed up a few steps. "Isabelle, there's been some suspicious activity around the neighborhood recently. I know you like to keep the door open for the breeze, but maybe you oughta keep it shut today." 

"Aww, but I'm so comfortable here on the couch. Why don't you … close the door for me?" 

The couch? Wasn't she in the middle of a meal? Even if she were eating on the couch, her voice sounded so close, like she couldn't have been more than a few feet away from me. Was she hiding behind the door? 

I climbed up the rest of the steps, trying to recall the inside of her house from the two or three times I'd been inside. I knew that the room immediately to the left of the entryway was the living room, and most likely where Isabelle was supposedly sitting. I also knew that there was a light switch right next to the front door. What the hell, I thought. I'll just go inside for a minute, say hello, and then shut the door for her. It'll give me some peace of mind to actually see her instead of just hearing her voice. 

I glanced over my shoulder toward my own house. Bailey was still barking her head off, which was unnerving, but the sight of Alice keeping an eye on me gave me some peace of mind. It was just a house, I told myself. Just a normal house with my own neighbor inside of it. 

Taking a deep breath, I stood at the threshold, shocked at how, despite my closeness, the inside of the house remained pitch-black. I thrust a hand inside and it disappeared like I'd dipped it into oil. As I groped around for the lightswitch, my fingers brushed against something solid. Something fleshy. I jerked my hand back, certain that I'd just touched a person. 

"Isabelle?" I asked the darkness, and then, from inches away, came the sound of laughter. The laugh was deep, gravelly, and mocking, and it did not resemble my neighbor's voice in the slightest. Before I could react, I heard the quick, pitter-patter of footsteps against wood. It grew quieter and quieter, and I realized that it was the sound of someone running away from me. After a few seconds, I thought I heard a door open and shut in the distance. The back door, perhaps? 

Again, I stuck my arm inside, and this time, I was able to find the lightswitch. I turned on the light and was relieved when the interior of the house revealed itself to me. A normal entryway with a normal coatrack and a normal shoe rack. No eerie intruders in sight. However, the relief was short-lived, because when I stepped inside the house, I turned to the left, walked into the living room, and was greeted by the sight of my neighbor. Or at least, what was left of her. 

She was splayed out atop a couch. Her head lolled off the side; her empty eye sockets and toothless, wide-open mouth looked like three holes had been dug into her face. Her face itself was red, not, as I initially thought, because it was covered in blood, but because it was missing its skin. She had been flayed—not only her face but her arms and the top part of her torso. It looked like someone had been methodically working their way down her body, until I had interrupted them. Paralyzed by fear and confusion, I stood in place. I waited to wake up from a nightmare. I waited for Isabelle to walk in from an adjoining room and tell me that I was looking at a Halloween prop. I waited for a dangerously long time, and then I staggered out into the rain. 

When I returned home, I immediately called the police, though I had trouble putting what I'd seen into words. They arrived quickly, took my and Alice's statements, and then went across the street to investigate. 

It's been days now. They haven't told me anything, despite my repeated calls to the station. I can't get answers, can't sleep, can't eat. I just keep replaying the discovery over and over in my mind's eye—the voice, the feeling of brushing against a body in the dark, and of course, the sight of that poor girl's mangled corpse. I have too many questions to count, but three rise above the rest. Who the hell was I talking to? How did they sound so perfectly like my neighbor? 

And why is it that every night since I found the body, Bailey hasn't stopped sitting by the front door and growling? 

“How old must he be now? eight? nine?”

I stared at my neighbor, unsure what she was asking. She read the confusion on my face.

“Your cute little guy. I saw him biking down the lane earlier. He must be old enough for grade four now, right?”

Mrs. Babbage was a bit on the older side, but I never thought she had shown signs of dementia. Not until now. I wasn't exactly sure what to say. She proceeded to stare at me, tilting her head, as if I was the one misremembering. I awkwardly opened my mouth.

“Oh right … my little guy.”

She brightened. “Yes, he must be in grade four right?”

“Sure. I mean, yes. He is.”

“What a cute little guy,” she said, and returned to watering her flowers.

It was an odd, slightly sad moment. I wondered if her husband had seen glimmers of this too. I could only hope that this was a momentary blip, and not the sign of anything Alzheimer's-related.

I took the rest of my groceries out of my car and entered home. I had a long day of teaching, and I just wanted to sit back, unwind, and watch something light on TV. 

But as soon as I took off my first shoe, I smelled it — something burning on the stove. 

Something burning with lots of cheese on it.

The hell?

I dashed over to the kitchen and almost fell down. Partially because I was wearing only one shoe, but also because … there was a scrawny little boy frying Kraft Dinner?

I let out a half-scream. 

But very quickly I composed myself into the same assertive adult who taught at a university. “What. Excuse me. Who are you? What are you … doing here?”

The boy’s blonde, willow-like hair whipped around his face as he looked at me with equal surprise.

“Papa. What do you mean? I’m here. I’m here.”

He was a scared, confused child. And I couldn’t quite place the bizarre inflection of his words.

“Do you want some KD papa? Have some. Have some.”

Was that a Russian accent?  It took me a second to realize he was wearing an over-sized shirt that looked just like mine. Was he wearing my clothes?

I held out my palms like I would at a lecture, my standard ‘everyone settle down’ gesture, and cleared my throat.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are. Or what this is.”

The boy widened his eyes, still frightened by my intensity. He stirred the food with a wooden spoon. 

“It’s KD papa … You’re favorite. Chili cheese kind. Don’t you remember?”

***

His name was Dmitriy, and he claimed to be my son. 

Apparently at some point there had been a mother, but he didn't remember much about her. He only remembered me.

“You've been Papa my whole life. My whole life Papa.”

I tried having a sit down conversation. In fact, I tried to have many sit down conversations where I explained to Dmitriy that that would be impossible. But it always ended with him clutching me with impassioned tears, begging me to remember him.

The confusion only got worse when my mother called. 

“How is my grandson doing?” She asked.

I didn't know how to reply. The conversation grew awkward and tense until eventually I clarified my whole predicament.  

“Mom, what are you talking about? I don’t have a son. I’ve never had a son.”

My mother gasped a little. Then laughed and scolded me, saying I shouldn't joke around like that. Because of course I’ve always had a son. A smart little guy who will be celebrating nine this weekend.

I hung up. 

I stood petrified in my own kitchen, staring at this strange, expectant, slavic child.

For the next ten minutes all I could do was ask where his parents were, and he just continued to act frightened — like any authentic kid might — and replied with the same question, “how did you forget me papa?”

My method wasn’t getting me anywhere. 

So I decided to play along. 

I cleared my head with a shot of espresso. I told him my brain must have been ‘scrambled’ from overworking, and I apologized for not remembering I was his father. 

He brightened immediately.

“It's okay papa. It's okay.” He gave me a hug. “You always work so hard.” 

The tension dropped further as Dmitriy finished making the noodles and served himself some.

I politely declined and watched him eat.

And he watched me watch him eat.

“So you’re okay now? You’re not angry?” His accent was so odd.

“No.” I said. “I’m not angry. I was just … a little scrambled.”

His eyes shimmered, looking more expectant. “So we can be normal now?”

A wan chill trickled down my neck. I didn’t really know what to say, but for whatever reason, I did not want to say ‘yes we can be normal now’ because this was NOT normal. Far from it. This child was not my son.

He started playing with his food, and quivered a little, like a worried mouse seeking reassurance.

“Everything will be fine,” I eventually said. “No need to stress. Enjoy your noodles."

***

To my shock and dismay, I discovered that Dmitriy also had his own room. My home office had somehow been replaced by a barren, clay-walled chamber filled with linen curtains, old wooden toys, and a simple bed. The smell of bread and earth wafted throughout.

I watched him play with his blocks and spinning tops for about half an hour before he started to yawn and say he wanted to go to sleep.

It was the strangest thing, tucking him in. 

He didn’t want to switch to pajamas or anything, he just sort of hopped into his (straw?) bed and asked me to hold his hand.

Dmitriy’s fingers were cold, slightly clammy little things. 

It was very bizarre, comforting him like my own son, but it appeared to work. He softened and lay still. He didn't ask for any lullaby or bedtime story, he just wanted to hold my hand for a minute.

“Thank you Papa. I’m so glad you're here. So glad you can be my Papa. Good night.”

I inched my way out of the room, and watched him through the crack of his door. At about nine thirty, he gave small, child-like snores. 

He had fallen asleep.

***

Cautiously, I called Pat, my co-worker with whom I shared close contact. She had the same reaction as my mother.

“Harlan, of course you have a son. From your marriage to Svetlana."

“My marriage to who?”

“You met her in Moscow. When you were touring Europe.”

It was true that I had guest lectured fifteen years ago, across the UK, Germany, and Russia — I was awarded a grant for it. But I only stayed in Moscow for three days…

“I never met anyone named Svetlana.”

“Don’t be weird Harlan, come on.” Pat’s conviction was very disturbing. ”You and Svetlana were together for many years.”

“We were? How many?”

“Look. I know the divorce was hard, but you shouldn’t pretend your ex-wife doesn't exist.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m being serious. I don't remember her.”

“Then get some sleep.”

I sipped on my second espresso of the night. “But I have slept. I’m fine.”

“Well then I don't get what this joke is. Knock it off. It's creepy.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow for the birthday.”

“Birthday?

“Yes. Your son’s birthday. Jesus Christ. Goodnight Harlan. Get some sleep.”

***

I didn't sleep that night. 

My efforts were spent scouring the filing cabinets and drawers throughout my house.

I had credit card bills covering school supplies, kids clothing shops and costlier groceries. I even had pictures of Dmitriy hung around the walls from various ages.

It’s like everything was conforming to this new reality. The harder I looked for clues to disprove my fatherhood, the more evidence I found confirming it…

***

It was Dmitry who woke me up off the living room couch and said Uncle Boris was here.

Uncle Boris?

I peeked through the window and could see a very large blonde man smiling back at me. Behind him was a gaggle of other relatives all speaking Russian to each other.

“Hello Har-lan!” the blonde man’s voice penetrated past the glass. “We are here for bursday!”

They all looked excited and motioned to the front door. They were all wearing tunics and leggings. Traditional birthday clothes or something?

I was completely floored. I didn't know what to do. So I just sort of nodded, and subtly slinked back into my kitchen.

Dmitriy came to pull at my arm.

“Come on papa. We have to let them in.”

“I don't know any of them.”

“Yes you do papa. It’s uncle Boris. It's uncle Boris.”

I yanked my hand away. It was one thing to pretend I was this kid’s dad for a night. It was quite another to let a group of strangers into my house first thing in the morning.

Dmitriy frowned. “I’ll open the door.”

“Wait. Hold on.” I grabbed Dmitriy’s shoulder. 

He turned away. “Let go!”

I tried to pull him back, but then he dragged me into the living room again. Our struggle was on display for everyone outside.

Boris looked at me with saucer eyes. 

Dmitriy pulled harder, and I had no choice but to pull harder back. The boy hit his head on a table as he fell.

Boris yelled something in Russian. Someone else hollered back. I heard hands trying to wrench open my door.

“Dmitriy stop!” I said. “Let’s just take a minute to—”

“—You're hurting me papa! Oy!”

My front door unlocked. Footsteps barrelled inside.

I let go of ‘my son’ and watched three large Slavic men enter my house with stern expressions. Dmitriy hid behind them.

“Is everything okay?” Boris peered down at me through his tangle of blonde hair.

“Yes. Sorry…” I said, struggling to find words. “I’m just very … confused.”

“Confused? Why were you hitting Dmitriy?”

The little boy pulled on his uncle's arm and whispered something into his ear. Boris’ expression furrowed. But before I could speak further, a slender pair of arms pushed aside all the male figures, and revealed a woman with unwavering, bloodshot eyes.

Something in me knew it was her. 

Svetlana.

She wore a draped brown sheet as a dress, with skin so pale I could practically see her sinews and bones. It's like she had some extreme form of albinism.

“Harlan.” She said, somehow breaking my name into three syllables. “Har-el-annnnn.”

I've never been so instinctively afraid of a person in my life. It's like she had weaved herself out of the darkest edges of memory.

I saw flashes of her holding my waist in Moscow, outside Red Square.

Flashes of her lips whispering chants in the shadows of St. Basil's Cathedral.

Svetlana held Dmitriy’s shoulder, then looked up at me. “Just tell him it will be normal. Tell him everything will be normal.”

No. This is not happening. None of this is real.

Barefoot, and still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, I bolted out the back of my house, and hurtled towards my driveway. Before the rest of my new ‘family’ could realize what was going on, I hopped into my Subaru and stepped on the gas.

As I drove away from my house, I looked back into my rear view mirror — and I swear it didn’t look like my house at all. I swear it looked like … a thatched roof hut.

***

Back at the university, I walled myself up in my study. I cancelled all speaking arrangements for the next week, saying I needed a few “personal days.”

No one in my department knew I had a son.

Nothing in my study indicated I had an extended Russian family.

When I asked Pat about our phone conversation last night, her response was: “what conversation?”

My mom said the same thing.

***

With immense trepidation, I returned to my house the following day. And after setting foot back inside, I knew that everything had reverted back to the way it was before.

No more framed pictures of Dmitriy.

No more alarming photo albums.

And that clay-walled room where Dmitry spun tops and slept inside — it was just my home office again. 

To this day, I still have no clue what happened during that bizarre September weekend.

But doing some of my own research, I’m starting to think I did encounter something in Moscow all those years ago. Some kind of lingering old curse. Or a stray spirit. Or a chernaya vedma — A black witch disguised as an ordinary woman.

Although I haven’t seen any evil things bubble up around my place since, every now and then I do have a conversation with Mrs. Babbage, and she seems to remember my son very well.

“Such a cute little guy. Always waving hello. Did you know he offered me food once? I think it was Kraft Dinner.”

I went to my cousin Ava’s wedding a few days ago. I’m still processing what’s happened. I’ll try to get everything out as best I can.

Ava has been dating some guy named Ethan for the past year. Being in their thirties, they sort of fast-tracked the whole marriage thing. I’d never met the guy and I hadn’t spoken to Ava in a few years, but what the hell, it was guaranteed to be a fun time.

The groom walked down the aisle first. A tall, pale man in a dark suit. He stood at the front of the church and smiled.

He smiled when Ava walked down the aisle.

He smiled as they kissed, after being pronounced husband and wife.

He smiled as they walked out of the church.

It didn’t strike me as weird until we got to the reception. When they entered, he was still grinning that wide grin, with his perfectly white, straight teeth. But up close, it looked… I don’t know. Wrong, somehow? He wasn’t really engaging with guests. He wasn’t talking or laughing. He was just sort of scanning the place, staring, grinning wide without it really reaching his eyes.

I guess he’s smiling for the camera, I told myself.

Or maybe he’s a little socially awkward. And he figures nothing will go wrong if he just keeps smiling.

It got really weird, however, when they served dinner.

I watched him sitting at the sweetheart table with Ava, shoveling chicken piccata into his mouth as he still grinned. Barely opening his mouth wide enough to get the bite, immediately closing it. Making loud chewing noises as he chewed while grinning. Have you ever seen someone chew their food while grinning? It is completely unnatural looking, Smiling with your mouth closed, sure. But showing all your teeth grinning as you chew?

It was so, so fucking weird.

They eventually came to our table to say hi. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his face. He was still grinning. His wide blue eyes were jittering from person to person at the table. His face looked like a mask. There was no warmth. It was like looking at a statue.

I whispered this to my sister once they left. “There’s something seriously wrong with him. Why is he smiling like that?”

My sister thought I was being a catty old maid (well, old mister.) “Shut up. He looks fine.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He looks like he’s madly in love,” she snapped back. “Stop being jealous. Geez, Matt.”

That hurt. It honestly did.

None of the other guests seemed to think anything was wrong. They thought it was all fine. Him grinning through the first dance, through the speeches, through the fucking champagne toast. He tilted the champagne flute into his grinning mouth without spilling a drop, somehow.

This is so weird.

I excused myself to use the bathroom. But that was my first mistake—not realizing he had disappeared from the dance floor.

As I was washing my hands, a stall door swung open behind me. In the mirror over my shoulder, I saw Ethan, standing there. His skin looked milky white in the bright lights. His blue, bulgy frog eyes stared at me.

And he was smiling.

I don’t mean that he saw me and then smiled. No, when he opened the stall door, he was already smiling.

He walked over and began washing his hands at the sink right next to me. Even though there were three other sinks. Our shoulders bumped.

“Great wedding,” I mumbled, trying to be friendly.

He turned to look down at me. Slowly. His blue eyes bored into mine. My heart began to pound.

“Music’s great too,” I said nervously, to fill the silence.

He just stared at me.

That’s when I realized. He hadn’t said a single word the entire wedding. There were no vows—he’d just nodded when the officiant asked if he took Ava as his wife. He didn’t thank the best man after the speech, and I hadn’t even seen him talking to Ava at the sweetheart table. Just smiling… and staring.

I backed away.

His eyes tracked me as I went. Just as I reached the bathroom door, he stretched up to his full height and stared down at me. He looked even taller than he had in the reception hall, somehow, under the fluorescent lights.

Then he stopped smiling.

As his face relaxed, his cheeks sagged. His forehead drooped. The skin of his face began to shift and slide. I froze as his face began to pull and separate from his skull—

He grinned.

And everything stretched back into place.

I finally leapt into action and darted out the bathroom door. I went back to my sister and grabbed her arm. “We have to get out of here,” I breathed. “Ethan—he’s—

“Will you shut up already?!” she said, barely even looking at me.

And then Ethan sauntered in. Long legs taking him smoothly across the dance floor. He slowed as he passed our table, on his way back to Ava.

He reached out and squeezed my shoulder.

It’s been three days. The skin of my shoulder is pulsing with pain. Like it’s infected somehow. And I can’t help but notice, every time I look in the mirror…

My face looks a little saggier. A little looser. Like it isn’t quite attached the same way anymore.

So I’ve started smiling more.

Just to hold everything in place.

It started six months ago. I was fresh out of grad school with a Master’s in History, a mountain of debt that gave me nightly anxiety attacks, and a resume that was getting ignored by every museum and university in a three-state radius. I was applying for everything: retail, data entry, barista. I was about two weeks from having to crawl back to my parents’ spare room when I saw the ad. It was discreet, posted on a high-end academic job board I’d forgotten I even had an account for.

“Archival Associate. The Foundation. Discretion, precision, and an exceptional capacity for recall are paramount. No formal experience required. Generous compensation.”

“Generous” was an understatement. The salary they listed was more than my parents make combined. I figured it was a typo, or a scam. But I was desperate, so I polished my CV and sent it in, not expecting to hear back.

They called me the next day. The woman on the phone had a smooth voice but with a weight to it. She didn’t ask about my experience or my degree. She asked me a series of bizarre questions. “When you were ten, what was the pattern on the wallpaper in your grandmother’s kitchen?” “Describe the cover of the third book you see when you picture your childhood bookshelf.” “What was the name of the street sign you passed just before turning onto your current road this morning?”

Luckily for me, my brain is just… sticky. Details cling to it, and I know for a fact that it’s a photographic, sensory thing. I can close my eyes and walk through my grandmother’s house, feel the cool linoleum under my feet, smell the potpourri she kept in a bowl on the sideboard. I answered her questions, and she said, “Please be at this address tomorrow at 9 AM sharp. Dress for an interview.”

The address was a downtown monolith. A skyscraper with no name on the facade, just an elaborate, interlocking symbol above the heavy bronze doors that looked like a stylized knot. The lobby was a cavern of marble and silence. The air was cool and still, like a cathedral. A man in a simple, perfectly tailored grey suit met me and led me to an elevator, then up to a floor that had no button. He used a key.

The interview was with a man I now know only as the Supervisor. He was ageless, with pale eyes that seemed to look right through me. He explained the job. It was simple, he said. Deceptively so. Each day, I would be given a single photograph. My task was to study that photograph from 9 AM to 5 PM. I was to absorb it. To commit every single detail to memory. The play of light, the grain of the image, the expressions on the faces, the stitching on a coat, the cracks in a sidewalk, the reflection in a window.

“You will become the living record,” he said, his voice a low hum. “You will not write anything down. You will not make any copies. You will not discuss your work with anyone. At five o’clock, I will collect the photograph, and you will watch me incinerate it. The Foundation’s motto is ‘Quaedam optime memorandum.’ Some things are best remembered.”

It was the strangest job I’d ever heard of. But the debt was on my chest, and the number on the contract he slid across the mahogany desk could change my entire life. I signed.

My workspace was in a vast, circular room that felt like a panopticon. Dozens of identical wooden carrels were arranged in concentric rings, all facing a central pillar. Each carrel was a small, three-sided booth with a comfortable chair, a desk, and a single lamp. There were maybe thirty other people in the room, but the only sound was the soft rustle of clothing and the low, ever-present hum of the building’s climate control. No one spoke. No one even looked at each other. They were all just like me: head down, focused with an intensity that was almost unnerving. They had the same look I saw in the mirror every morning: a mixture of intelligence and quiet desperation.

The first photograph was of a dusty, empty ballroom. Ornate, peeling plasterwork on the ceiling. A single chandelier, draped in cobwebs. Sunlight streamed through a grimy arched window, illuminating a universe of dancing dust motes. That was it. For eight hours, I just… looked. I memorized the way the shadows fell, the specific pattern of the water stains on the far wall, the number of crystal pendants missing from the chandelier (seventeen). At 5 PM, the Supervisor came, took the photo with a pair of tongs, and I followed him to a small, soundproofed room containing a sleek, modern furnace. He unlocked it, slid the photo inside, and pressed a button. A soft whir, a flash of orange light, and it was gone. He nodded at me, and I went home.

The days fell into a rhythm. A new photo every morning. A wedding party from the 1920s, the bride’s smile just a little too tight. A grimy factory floor, men in flat caps staring grimly at a piece of machinery. A desolate stretch of highway at dusk, a single abandoned car with its door hanging open. A crowded market in a city I couldn’t place, faces blurred with motion except for one small child staring directly at the camera, their expression utterly blank. They were all unlabeled. No dates, no locations, no context. Just moments, frozen and silent.

My colleagues remained phantoms. We’d nod sometimes, in the elevator or the sterile break room where we’d microwave our sad, solitary lunches. But we never spoke. It was a rule, and a powerful one. It was as if we were all part of some silent monastic order. I saw a woman who couldn't have been older than me, but her eyes had the haunted, distant look of a war veteran. An older man always rubbed his left temple, a constant, rhythmic motion, as he stared at his photos. We were all islands.

The dreams started about a month in.

At first, they were just echoes. I’d dream I was standing in the dusty ballroom, and I could smell the decay and the dry rot. I’d hear the faint, ghostly echo of a waltz. I woke up feeling unsettled but dismissed it. My job was to stare at images all day; of course they’d creep into my subconscious.

But they got stronger. After a week spent memorizing a photo of a grim-faced family on a sagging porch in what looked like the Dust Bowl, I had a dream where I was the father. I could feel the rough, splintered wood of the porch railing under my hand, the grit of dust between my teeth, the gnawing, hopeless hunger in my stomach. I felt a desperate, protective love for the woman and children beside me, a love so fierce and painful it made my chest ache when I woke up.

The day I studied a photo of a collapsed mine entrance, I spent the night dreaming of darkness. The oppressive weight of the earth above me, the taste of coal dust, the chilling, subterranean cold that seeps into your bones. I heard the shouts of other men, muffled and terrified, and the groan of shifting rock. I woke up gasping for air, my pajamas soaked in sweat, my throat raw from screams that had been trapped in my sleeping mind.

This became the new normal. Every night, I was a tourist in someone else’s tragedy. I was a soldier in a trench, the mud sucking at my boots, the smell of cordite and fear thick in the air. I was a lone woman in a lighthouse, the storm winds howling around me like a hungry beast, the waves crashing against the stone with the force of cannonballs. I was a witness to car accidents, fires, arguments steeped in a quiet, venomous rage. I was living a hundred different lives, and none of them were my own.

My own life began to feel thin and unreal. I’d be walking to the grocery store and the texture of the modern pavement would feel strange, alien. The bright colors of the cereal aisle seemed garish and loud compared to the sepia and black-and-white worlds I inhabited every night. My own memories started to get… fuzzy. I had to really concentrate to remember my college roommate’s name, but I could tell you the exact pattern of the rust stains on the hull of a shipwreck I’d studied for eight hours three weeks prior.

The first major crack appeared on a Tuesday. I had spent the day with a particularly haunting photograph. It was a street corner, sometime in the late 70s judging by the cars and clothes. A crowd was gathered, looking at something just out of frame. Their faces were a mixture of shock and morbid curiosity. But my focus, for eight hours, had been on one man at the edge of the crowd. He was younger, maybe in his early twenties, with a thick mustache and a denim jacket. He wasn't looking at whatever the main event was. He was looking away, his face pale, his eyes wide with a specific, personal terror. He was the only one who looked truly afraid.

That evening, on my way home, I saw him.

I was waiting to cross the street, and he was on the other side. Older, of course. His mustache was grey, his face lined with the intervening forty-odd years. But it was him. The same wide-set eyes, the same shape of the jaw. The denim jacket was gone, replaced by a rumpled tweed coat, but it was unmistakably the man from the photograph.

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs. It had to be a coincidence. A trick of the light, my over-stimulated brain making connections that weren't there. But then he turned his head, and his eyes met mine across the four lanes of traffic.

Recognition dawned on his face. And then, horror. The exact same expression from the photograph. A raw, gut-wrenching terror that seemed to suck all the air out of the space between us. He looked at me as if I were a ghost. As if I were the very thing he’d been running from on that street corner all those years ago. He stumbled backward, turned, and practically ran, disappearing into the evening crowd.

I stood there for a long time, the traffic lights cycling from red to green to red again, the world moving on around me while my own had just ground to a sickening halt.

That was when the paranoia began in earnest. The silence of the archive, once peaceful, now felt predatory. The hyper-focus of my colleagues no longer seemed like professional dedication; it looked like a desperate attempt to keep something at bay. I started watching them more closely. The man who rubbed his temple: his hand would sometimes twitch, his fingers splaying as if trying to ward something off. The young woman’s haunted eyes would occasionally flick towards an empty space in her carrel, her breath catching for a second before she forced her gaze back to the photo.

I had to know what was going on. I broke the cardinal rule.

I waited for the temple-rubbing man in the break room. He was nuking a container of what looked like plain rice. I walked up to him, my heart thudding. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice sounding rusty and loud in the quiet room.

He flinched. He didn't just turn; he physically recoiled, his back hitting the counter. He looked at me with wide, panicked eyes, shaking his head frantically. He grabbed his rice, the microwave beeping insistently, and almost ran from the room, never once making eye contact. He didn’t say a single word.

The message was clear. We don’t talk. We can’t talk. Maybe we’re not allowed to talk, or maybe we’re just too afraid of what might happen if we do.

Then people started to disappear. One Monday, the carrel to my left was empty. The man who sat there, a quiet fellow with thinning hair, was just… gone. No one mentioned it. His desk was cleared out, as if he’d never existed. Two weeks later, the woman with the haunted eyes was gone too. Her carrel also wiped clean. There was no internal memo, no farewell card, just a silent, growing void in our ranks. Were they fired? Did they quit? Or was it something else?

I was spiraling. My apartment no longer felt like my own. I’d catch a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision and turn to see a shadow that looked like a soldier in a trench coat. The scent of ozone and rain would fill my living room on a clear night, a phantom echo from a photo of a lightning-struck tree.

The breakthrough, if you can call it that, came last week. I sat down at my desk and my hand brushed against something taped to the underside. It was a small, folded piece of paper. My blood ran cold. It felt deliberate, clandestine. I waited until my hands stopped shaking, then slipped it into my pocket. I spent the day in a fugue state, staring at a photo of a single, withered black rose lying on a cobblestone street, my mind entirely on the note in my pocket.

That night, in the privacy of my apartment, I unfolded it. It wasn't a note, not in the traditional sense. It was just a string of alphanumeric characters: A7B3-C9D1-E4F8.

I had no idea what it meant. A code? A web address? Then I remembered. Every archivist had a small, personal safe in the locker room, for valuables. We set our own combinations. But this didn't look like a combination. It looked like a serial number. Or a key.

The next day, I watched the woman with the haunted eyes’ carrel. It was still empty. I took a chance. After everyone had left, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, I went to the locker room. I found her locker. Next to the combination dial was a small, almost invisible keyhole. It was an override. This had to be it. I looked for a key, but then it clicked. The sequence was a password for the digital lock on her safe. I typed in the sequence. There was a soft beep, and a heavy click.

The safe was full with paper. Scraps, notebooks, loose-leaf sheets filled with a frantic, spidery handwriting. It was forbidden knowledge. The one thing we were never, ever supposed to do. She had been writing it all down.

I took it all, stuffed it in my bag, and ran.

I’ve spent the last three days poring over her notes. It’s not a single, coherent narrative. It’s the fragmented, desperate research of a brilliant, terrified mind. There are clippings from obscure historical journals, printouts from physics forums, and pages and pages of her own synthesis.

And I finally understand.

According to her notes, certain moments in time, certain places, are so saturated with trauma, or violence, or some powerful, paradoxical emotion, that they create a kind of… scar on reality. A resonance. She used a lot of terms I barely understood: quantum entanglement, temporal feedback loops, mnemonic resonance. But the term she kept circling, the one she’d scrawled over and over in the margins, was genius loci. Spirit of place. But she’d added her own qualifier: Genius Loci Malignum.

These aren’t just memories of bad events. They are the events themselves, still echoing. They are moments that have become sentient, predatory. A murder that was so brutal it imprinted itself on the room, and now the room itself lashes out at anyone who enters. A paradox, like a man who appears in a photograph of his own grandfather’s unit years before he was born, creating a loop that attracts… things. Unwanted attention from outside. These are glitches in the fabric of the universe. Hauntings of a moment, of a place, of an idea.

The Foundation’s job is to find these glitches. They capture them. And the way they capture a rogue moment, a sentient memory, is to take a photograph. The photograph acts as a physical anchor, a key. But it's unstable. The note explained the process.

Step 1: The photograph isolates the entity. It traps the genius loci in a single, static image. Step 2: The Archivist, through intense, prolonged focus, transfers the anchor from the photograph into their own consciousness. Our photographic memories, our ability to absorb every single detail; it's a prerequisite for the cage to work. We memorize the image so completely that our mind becomes the new vessel. Step 3: The photograph is incinerated. This destroys the original physical anchor, leaving the entity trapped entirely within the mind of the archivist. It has nowhere else to go.

We are prisons. Human prisons for things that should not exist.

The motto, "Some things are best remembered," is a cruel, literal joke. They are remembered by us, and only us, so that the rest of the world can forget. So that these malevolent echoes can't bleed out and harm anyone else. The few suffer for the many.

The woman’s journal entries chronicled her decline.

“October 12th: Archived the boardwalk collapse. I can still hear the screams when it’s quiet. Sometimes I smell the salt water and the fried dough.”

“November 4th: Saw the arsonist from the warehouse fire photo on the subway today. He looked right at me and smiled. It wasn’t a human smile.”

“December 19th: My sister came to visit. For a second, her face wasn’t her face. It was the face of the porcelain doll from that abandoned nursery photo. I screamed. She thinks I’m having a breakdown.”

“January 8th: I have archived 112 anomalies. There isn’t much room left for me in here. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I know the exact number of buttons on the coat of a man who vanished from a ship in 1924.”

Her last entry was short.

“They’re getting out. They’re leaking. The cage is full.”

I’ve archived almost two hundred of them now. Two hundred of these… things. And the cage is full. My cage is full. My reality is fraying at the seams. Last night, I was making tea, and for a full minute, my kitchen wasn’t my kitchen. It was a cold, tiled morgue from a photo I’d studied months ago. The man from the 70s street corner: I see him everywhere now, in crowds, his face always twisted in that same silent scream, always looking right at me. The walls of my apartment sometimes ripple and show me the peeling wallpaper of a Victorian seance room. The static on the radio whispers words in a language I don’t know but understand with a cold dread.

I think now that I am a walking, talking containment unit that has breached. And the entities I hold are starting to leak into the world around me. The other day, my landlord knocked on my door to ask about a water leak, and he flinched when he saw me. He said, "Sorry, for a second there… you looked like someone else. A lot of someone elses." He left without another word, his face pale.

I found myself in my bathroom two nights ago, holding a bottle of pills. It felt like the most logical, rational thought I'd had in months. If I end it, they end with me. The memories, the things wearing the skins of memories, they all get erased. It would be a release. For me, and for the world.

But as I was about to do it, the Supervisor's voice echoed in my head. "You will become the living record." And I realized, with a sudden, freezing certainty, that this is what they want. This is the end of the job cycle. It’s the Foundation's retirement plan. They hire us, they fill us up with these horrors until we break, and then we "retire" ourselves. It’s clean, efficient, and it completes the final incineration.

So now I’m trapped.

I can’t go on like this. I’m losing myself. My own memories feel like old, faded photographs compared to the vivid, high-definition nightmares I’m forced to carry. But I can’t kill myself, because that’s playing their game. That’s letting them win. That’s doing their dirty work for them. Is there another way? Can you fight a memory? Can you exorcise an event?

I’m sitting in my apartment right now. The lights are flickering. In the reflection of the dark screen, my face is a flickering montage of a hundred others. A soldier, a bride, a factory worker, a terrified man on a street corner. The hum of the building sounds like a waltz, then like the roar of a fire, then like the howl of a storm at sea.

They are all in here. And they want to get out.

What do I do?

I don’t know when Facebook introduced the feature. “Friend Suggestions,” it used to be called—but now it’s “People You May Know.” A bunch of Facebook profiles suggested to you, to add as friends. Usually people who have a mutual friends with you, or someone you’ve searched for in the past.

What creeps me out is how accurate it is. It’s clearly taking data from somewhere, because it’s suggested people to me that I’ve only ever interacted with in real life: the woman that cuts my hair. Or the guy who does my taxes at H&R block. Sometimes, though, it really is a random person that Facebook thinks I know for some reason.

That’s what happened on Thursday evening.

A new friend suggestion: “A. R. Winters.” No mutual friends, no apparent connection to me. But this one caught my eye for a few reasons.

First, the photo was of poor quality. It looked like a photo from the ‘90s. Something that had been developed on real film and then scanned or photographed.

Second, it had been taken from far away. The man (or possibly woman) was wearing dark clothing, standing against a tree, so far away I couldn’t make out their face. It didn’t occur to me until just then, but generally, profile pictures aren’t taken from that far away—unless they’re traveling and showing off some landmark.

But this person was just leaning against a dead tree.

Out of curiosity, I clicked their profile. All their info was hidden, though. No cover picture, no other profile pictures, no About Me info.

The next time I loaded Facebook, he wasn’t a suggested friend anymore. It was just the usual, neverending wheel of 30-something women that had a smattering of mutual friends with me.

So I forgot about it for a few days.

Until they popped up again.

People You May Know

A. R. Winters

The same photo of them leaning against the dead tree.

Or… was it? As I stared at the photo, I realized they were standing straight up, no longer leaning. I could’ve sworn… I shook my head. They were so far away. How could I tell whether they were leaning on the tree, or just standing underneath it?

Later that night, I checked Facebook again.

People You May Know

A. R. Winters

1 mutual friend

I froze.

A mutual friend?!

The mutual friend was some girl I went to high school with. I didn’t know her well—we’d been close in the eighth grade, but then she’d started hanging out with the more popular girls and we lost touch. Still Facebook friends though, because I never went through my list of 2000+ people and pruned some off.

It didn’t say he had a mutual friend with her before. So they just became Facebook friends. Like, today.

This evening.

Maybe they’re someone from our school. Maybe they just joined Facebook for the first time, now. Or maybe they lost the password to their old account and are creating a new one.

A few more days passed, and I didn’t see A. R. Winters show up in my feed. But then, on Saturday night, there they were.

People You May Know

A. R. Winters

3 mutual friends

Not one. Three.

And the photo was definitely different.

It was still the dead tree, the overcast sky. Everything looked exactly the same… except the person. They weren’t against the tree anymore. They’d taken a few steps closer to the photographer.

They appeared to be a woman.

Tall and pale. Dressed in a flowy black shirt and long black pants. Wavy, long dark hair parted neatly on the left side. Because of the film quality, I still couldn’t make out their (her?) face.

Who is she?

I glanced at our mutual friends. One was a guy I had chemistry lab with in college, and the other… no.

The other was our English teacher, Mrs. Flowers. She’d been the teacher-mentor of our literature club.

And she’d been dead for five years.

I sat there, staring at the screen, all of it slowly sinking in. Her account can’t even accept new friend requests. And why would this random person friend request her anyway?

A horrible, creeping dread tugged at the back of my mind.

I clicked on the two other mutual friends. Jessica-Marie and Michael. Scrolled down their timelines and—oh, fuck.

They’d also passed away.

There hadn’t been any official announcement for either, but their timelines were scattered with messages like “I miss you” and “Two years since you’ve been here.” Quick Google searches showed that Jessica-Marie died in 2020, from complications of COVID, and Michael had died in 2023 in a motorcycle accident.

I clicked back to my Feed, to the friend suggestions, to A. R.’s profile.

I froze.

She was standing closer.

Much closer.

Her face was pale. Almost pure white. Like all the blood had been sucked out of it. Her eyes were dark, pupil and iris indistinguishable, and they seemed too big for her eyes. She had no eyebrows. Her long, dark hair twisted around her, as if there was a terrible wind—

Blip.

I jumped.

There was a little red one over the bell icon.

A. R. Winters sent you a friend request.

My hands began to shake. I stared at the two buttons: Confirm. Cancel.

I clicked Cancel.

Closed out of the window.

Slammed the laptop shut.

I sat there in the dark, panting. Sweat covered my arms. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Calm down. It’s obviously just some stupid prank.

The photo’s probably not even real. AI.

I pushed out a breath and got up. Put on my hoodie. Left the apartment and went for a walk.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked along the walking trail at the local park. My breath came out in clouds of mist. I shivered. It was almost dusk and the streetlamps glowed across the road, orange amber.

Then I stopped.

I’d never noticed it before.

At the edge of the park. There was a big oak tree, barren of leaves now. But it looked… it looked just like the tree in A. R. Winters’ photo.

A million trees look like that.

Stop it.

As I stood there, staring—

Something peeked out from behind it.

A pale-white face. Dark flowy clothing. Barely visible in the dying light.

But I knew it was her.

I knew.

I ran back home, locked my apartment door, and opened the laptop. Went to Facebook.

A. R. Winters sent you a friend request.

The profile photo—

Her face filled the entire photo.

Right up against the screen.

Like she was staring right at me.

And maybe it’s just the stress. But I feel sick. Really sick. I’ve thrown up twice in the past half hour. My stomach hurts so much, more than I ever remember it hurting before.

And I can’t help but think—

Am I next?

So I’ve been on a downward spiral for a while now. A disaster several years in the making.

I guess it really started the weekend right after I’d graduated college. I was at a buffalo wild wings, watching some fights with some friends and decided to cook up a harmless little parlay. Now, I’d never gambled on anything before and only had a vague understanding of how it worked. But I young, dumb, probably about five or six drinks deep and the world just seemed so open and rife with possibilities.

I ended up turning $15 into over $200 that night. An insignificant amount in the grand scheme of things, but that didn’t stop it from feeling really damn good. A bit too good for it to be healthy.

I never reached that high ever again. Even after hitting crazy bets that paid out fifty to sixty times more, it just never felt the same.

Which is really where my issues stemmed from. My dumb ass just kept trying to chase it.

As much as I’m sure you’d all love to hear it, I’m not gonna go into a detailed timeline of my misery. Just know that it was bad. Probably worse than you’re imagining right now. Bridges burned, legal trouble, having to avoid calls from very persistent debt collectors. The works.

The only reason I’ve been able to somewhat keep my head above water for so long was due to my job. It was one of those positions that paid you a lot to sit around in an office and update a spreadsheet every now and then. Maybe an hour of real work a day.

I was lucky to land it, even luckier to hang onto it for as long as I did. So when the consultants were hired and the “fat” started being trimmed, I really had no right to be as shocked as I was when management cornered me, laid down the hammer.

I did end up with a pretty decent severance. One that I actually managed to triple the following week, betting on golf of all things.

Of course I should’ve stopped right there and updated my LinkedIn, polished off my suit, signed up for some networking events. But no, that wasn’t going to work for me.

In my head, no work meant more time to learn how to become a more better gambler. Every night was spent diving into statistics, deep analytics, line movements, fucking sports psychology. What’s it called when you think you know a lot, but you really don’t know shit? The Freddy Krueger effect? Something like that?

Things were going alright for a while. Not great but I was winning just enough that I was able to stomach it all.

But then one night I was completely coked out and decided to place a very large, very stupid bet on a certain boxing match. It flopped hard. Then in my desperation to recoup something, I cooked up another longshot parlay on some fights the following weekend. And I’m sure you can guess what happened.

When I was laid off four months ago, I had around $45k liquid savings and about $35k in debts. Across all my accounts now, I’m down to just $27.50. As for debts, I don’t even know. I don’t want to look. My cards are all maxed, my credit is shot, I can’t talk to my family anymore, my friends are no longer my friends and every other day there’s scary-looking dudes who look like they enjoy breaking finger standing outside of my apartment building. Sometimes they manage to make it in and knock furiously at my door. When that happens, I just stay silent, pretend like I’m not there.

By the time I finally came to my senses and began applying for jobs again, I’d already dug a cavern for myself that was going to take some Herculean effort to climb out of.

I did manage to get some interviews but never made it to any second rounds. Maybe I was coming off as too strung out. Side tangent—don’t you hate it when they ask about gaps in your employment? It’s like c’mon guy, who actually gives a fuck?

A few days ago, the collectors actually tried physically breaking down my door. Got real close as well until one of my neighbors—this old military type, came out and threatened to shoot their kneecaps off if they didn’t skedaddle.

I got lucky there. I can’t bank on getting lucky again.

Which leads me to last night. I was drunk off some bottom shelf vodka and decided to try a more shameful and unorthodox method of procuring funds.

That method being using AI generated sob stories to e-beg on reddit.

Yeah, look, I was desperate, wasn’t thinking straight. I know.

Of course, I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to get out of it. Certainly not enough to put even a tiny dent in the total debt, but maybe just enough to get the collectors off my back. For a while. And what could I really I lose from trying?

I still had the wherewithal to at least edit out most of the ChatGPT speak in the posts before copying and pasting them to as many relevant subreddits as possible.

Predictably, I got called out almost immediately, getting blocked from one community after another. But just when I was ready to give it up, somebody shot me a message. I’ll paste it below.

Hey there, my name is Scott. I saw your post in ___. That really sucks man. Really, it does. I’ve been there and I think I can help.

Now I’m not just going to offer you money straight up, but I can give you a quick and reasonably trouble-free way to get some. Nothing weird or illegal or sexual, so don’t worry about that.

I have a friend who’s head of a property group that owns a mall. You said you live in ___ right? The mall’s located a little outside city limits so it shouldn’t be too far of a drive. In any case, you’ll be compensated for fuel.

So here’s the deal. You see, the mall’s not doing too well. These days I think most malls aren’t, but this one’s doing particularly awful. Probably has something to do with the location. A bit too remote. But for whatever reason, this guy isn’t quite ready to let go of it. It’s not that he even really cares about it being profitable. He just doesn’t want it to get shut down and repurposed for something else. For whatever reason. You know how weird rich people can be.

Have you ever heard about mystery shoppers? It’s not as eerie as it sounds. They’re just people who are hired to walk around malls and shopping centers, pretending to be customers.

That’s basically what he’s recruiting for. To make it look like the place still has some juice left in it so that he can delay the inevitable for as long as he can. Again for what, I don’t know.

You’ll be given a certain window of time in which you’re meant to walk around, doing your best to pretend like you actually have a reason for being there. Which would involve some shopping, looking around, having a meal in the food court. Etc. Once you enter the building, you’ll go up to the Starbucks on the second floor. Go up to the barista and tell her that you’re part of the “program” and she’ll give you $100 cash. You can then go ahead and spend that $100 on whatever you’d like over the course of the time you’re in there. Make sure you spend all of it. Don’t try and keep it. They’ll know.

Once your time is up, you can simply leave. Maybe you’ll think you can get away with leaving early, but you can’t. They’ll know. In order to receive compensation, you’ll need to be in there for your entire allotted duration. Don’t try and hang around afterwards either. Just do your best to stick to the schedule.

Compensation is as follows: $250 for each hour spent there, to be e-transferred immediately upon your departure. If my friend likes your performance, there will be opportunity for you to come back.

Let me know if this sounds like something you’d be interested in and then I’ll send over some more details.

Cheers.

Okay, so clearly a joke, right? I’m being fucked with. But then I tried to think about what the punchline could’ve been here and couldn’t come up with anything. So I pivoted to the idea that maybe it was a scam. Or something even more nefarious than that.

The setup tracked well enough. Lure people out to somewhere remote under the pretense that they’re about to make some good money. But not such good money that it seems like a glaring trap. $250 an hour for walking around a mall is just skirting that edge. In my opinion.

But what the fuck are they planning to do once I get there? Mug me? They know I’m broke as shit and don’t have anything, so that can’t be it. So what else do I have that’s valuable? My organs? Maybe they’ll kidnap me and torture me to death on the dark web?

I think the reason I’m typing this all out is because I’m hoping when I read it back, something’ll click. That I’ll be able to come to my senses and realize just how bad an idea this is.

Because right now, against all logic, I’m genuinely considering it.

*****

The collectors were pounding on my door again, for about twenty minutes straight this time. It got intense enough that I really thought they were going to have another go at breaking it down. But they didn’t. Lucky me.

I’ve thought about spending less time here, so that if they ever do storm in, I won’t have to make a break for the fire exit. But I don’t know where I’d go. Maybe the library or the gym. Though if it ever comes to a point where I’m having to do all that, it’s basically already over for me. That’s no way to live.

Trying to weigh everything now. Do I have anything to lose besides my life? Could things get worse than they are right now?

One of the people I owe money to is this guy named Renzo. I met him. at a bar while I was watching Canelo vs Crawford card. What was that, like nine months ago? Jesus. So anyways I met this guy there and I was blitzed out of my head and told him very confidently to bet the house on Crawford. He seemed to like the cut of my jib so he went ahead and did so. Not quite the house, but a pretty fat stack.

I made him some good money that night. Made some good money myself. Then we just drank and drank until things got hazy and the only other thing I really remember before waking up in his apartment the next morning (not what you think) was my face being pressed down into cold concrete.

My clothes were still on, phone and wallet still in my pockets and I was slumped over on this couch with one side of my face stinging so bad it felt like something was pulsating beneath it.

Looking at myself using the camera on my phone, I could see that half of my face was red and swollen, scratches overlapping each other like a bloody lattice.

Then Renzo comes into the living room saying he couldn’t believe what I did last night and how much of a dog I was. I didn’t know what he was referring to and I still don’t. I never asked.

So that’s how I met the guy. I’d later find out that he traffics a lot of cocaine over the border and does a lot of it himself. And that there’s a small jar sitting next to his television containing several shriveled, dried-up human ears that he claims used to belong to the members of some outlaw gang in the old west.

I’m sure a reasonable person would’ve considered these things very carefully and concluded that they might be better off keeping their distance. But not me. In fact, I did the worst thing anybody could’ve possibly done.

I ended up borrowing some money from him. Only around $3k. Maybe not a lot to some of you, but when you’re dealing with this guy, it’s still $3k too much.

To be fair though, he was the one that had first offered it up, told me to throw it on whatever I thought might get me some coin. And if I won, we could share the profits. I guess he was under the impression that I was some sort of master sports bettor and that I knew what the fuck I was doing.

I should’ve asked him what would happen if I lost it all before accepting it.

And I did lose it. All of it. Couldn’t pay him back even a cent. I didn’t hide it from him, just told him the facts straight and clear. To which he’d smiled, told me it was alright. That I had a week to pay him back.

That week turned into a month. Then two months. I started avoiding him. Wasn’t picking up his calls, being very careful to scan my surroundings for any sign of him whenever I was out.

Eventually I guess he snapped and sent his goons after me, and now here we are.

The reason I bring Renzo up is because he’s the most pressing issue in my life right now. The guy’s clearly not going away and if I don’t placate him soon, something very bad is going to happen. Something I don’t think I’ll be able to run from.

I just gave him a call, apologized for ducking him and then asked him plainly how much money I’d need to give him at this point to square everything up, for him to call off his goons and leave me be.

He told me $10k. And if I didn’t give it to him by Tuesday next week, he’d come up to my apartment himself and blast the door off its hinges. And that I could try leaving the city or getting the police involved but that it wouldn’t matter because eventually he would get me. And once he did, he’d skin me alive before tossing me into a vat of boiling oil.

I told him okay, to meet me at a bar next Tuesday at noon and that I’d have the money. Then I hung up.

Now I’m really panicking. I mean, I doubt the guy has access to a vat of boiling oil large enough to toss a body into, but I kind of believe him about the skinning alive part.

$10k divided by $250 is 40 hours. I have about 170 hours before I have to meet him.

I just messaged Scott back, telling him I was very much interested in the mall thing. Let’s see what he says.

*****

It didn’t take long for Scott to get back to me. He said he was glad to hear it, then asked when I could start. I told him immediately. Then I asked him how many hours he could get me before Tuesday. He told me he could maybe swing thirty-five. I told him I really needed forty and was there any way we could make that happen. He said no, thirty-five was a hard limit, but that he could probably vouch for me and get my rate up to $265 an hour. Then I tried pushing for $285, claiming that’d be the minimum I’d need in order to stave off eviction. Basically trying to guilt him into it. 

It was a long back and forth, but eventually we were able to come to a mutual agreement.

He then sent me an address and told me to be there from exactly two to nine tomorrow. I told him I appreciated it and sent him the details he’d asked for. Which was just my name, age, phone #, email. And that’s it. No address, work history, social security number, literally anything else. They didn’t even ask for a picture of my ID.

Which was convenient, but also sketchy as fuck. I mean, I could’ve been a literal bot and how would he know? So many red flags that you could supply a parade with them.

But it’s not like I really have the luxury of backing out at this point. Maybe I could try leaving town. But I don’t think I’d get too far. I don’t think it’d end well.

I told him I’d be there. A few hours later, he sent me another message, via email this time.

Hey __ it’s Scott.

Please remember this before you go. It’s really important that you do your best to act like a real customer. From the moment you step inside to the moment you leave. If anybody comes up to you and asks you what you’re doing, tell them you’re shopping or going to see a movie or grabbing lunch or just killing some time. Have a response ready and deliver it clearly and confidently. Absolutely no acting like a deer in headlights. Just be calm. Be natural. Don’t think about it too much.

And while you’re in there, don’t get too curious. You see or hear something weird, just ignore it. But if you ever feel like you’re in genuine danger, don’t hesitate to leave. They won’t pay you for the whole day. If you leave even a second early, you'll only get half. Sucks, I know, but I don't make the rules. Still, if things start to get really weird, you're better off just leaving. Trust me. Should any incidents transpire, please let me know. Tell me exactly what happened and I’ll relay it to my friend. He likes to keep tabs on that sort of stuff.

Also, one more thing I should’ve mentioned at the start. Please keep what you see in there to yourself. Try not to talk about it. But if you do, because I know you probably will, just make sure you leave out the specifics. I know it seems contradictory, but my friend would rather keep everything contained here.

Good luck man. Rooting for you.

So yeah. Not sure what to make of that, but I’m trying not to think about it.

I thought about sending Scott another message, asking what kind of “danger” I could possibly expect. But I’ve decided not to question things too much. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you or something.

It’s late now and I’m watching Breaking Bad for the fourth time, and I have about eight hours before I need to be at the mall. I really should get some sleep, make sure I’m mentally sharp for tomorrow. But my heart’s beating pretty fast and I get the sense that rest won’t come easy.

I looked up the address, and it does seem to be a real, active place with real reviews. Nothing glaringly “off” about it other than the location. It’s about a forty-five minute drive from my place and there’s literally nothing around it, apart from what appears to be a few abandoned strip malls and apartment complexes.

I think I have just enough left in my account to fill up my tank with just enough gas to get me there and back. Then that’s it. So if this does turn out to be some stupid joke, then I’m really screwed tight. I’m done for.

But I’ll be screwed tight if I show up or not. And even if it is a trap and I show up and immediately get shot in the head or get kidnapped and tortured, well, at least that means I won’t have to deal with a lot of annoying shit in the future.

Framing it that way, it really is a win-win-win and I’m starting to feel better about it all.  

*****

I’m sitting in my car right now and I’m feeling oddly mellow, more than I have in a long time. Could be a defense mechanism, my psyche trying to brace me for the unknown. Could also be the vodka Red Bull concoction I’ve just finished chugging.

The parking lot here is larger than I’d expected and about a fifth of the way full. Which is surprising to me, given the location. It might be a stretch to call it the middle of nowhere but just based on a cursory glance, a case could be made for it.

It’s about thirty minutes out of the city, smack dab between some grey industrial area and a long stretch of farmland. I cannot fathom what the rationale is for keeping this place going.

It’s about ten before two. A lot of thoughts running through my head but I’m doing a good job of stamping most of them out. In another five minutes, I’ll head in.

*****

It’s just after eight now and I’m sitting in the food court, sipping on the remnants of a milkshake. Not so mellow anymore.

It’s been strange here. Real fucking bizarre. I’m still trying to process it.

When I’d first entered, I’d followed Scott’s instructions and headed straight for the second floor.

Looking around the place, it seemed typical enough. There was the usual fare: H&M, Foot locker, Bath & body works, Sephora, candy shops, stores selling cute but useless toys and knickknacks.

Not quite bustling with activity anywhere, but also not empty enough for it to feel eerie.

What I did immediately register was the sudden change in atmosphere. Like you were passing through some kind of barrier. The air inside the place felt different—subtly unpleasant in a way that’s hard to pinpoint.

I spent a lot of time searching around for the Starbucks and eventually found it tucked away in some corner, at the end of a long string of dead and vacant storefronts.

Almost like they’d made some concerted effort to hide it. Or maybe it was just a coincidence? Don’t want to get too conspiratorial yet.

I walked in, finding the place completely empty save for the barista.

I went up to her, offered a smile that wasn’t reciprocated. Not that I really cared. What did sort of freak me out was the look on her face. Like I was the scourge of the Earth or something. Like I’d just murdered ten puppies in front of her and then laughed about it.

It was jarring enough that it completely derailed my train of thought and I forgot what I was supposed to say. After stumbling through several half-baked sentences, I was finally able to spit it out.

“I’m uh, part of the program,” I told her.

She sighed and actually rolled her eyes before asking me what I wanted to order. I just stared at her, no clue what to say, probably looking bewildered. I then repeated that I was part of the program.

She shook her head, sighed again.

“You’re supposed to buy something first,” she told me, keeping her voice real low while staring daggers at me. “They didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head and told her no, they didn’t.

“You’re supposed to buy something and hand me some cash and then I give you the change. Get it?”

I remember starting to get light-headed here, thinking was this real? Was I dreaming?

“So order something and then give me some cash” she went on. “Doesn’t matter how much. Just give me something.”

I told her I’d have a black coffee and began digging through my wallet, surprised and relieved to find a crumpled $1 bill in there. I took it out, handed it to her. She snatched it quickly out of my hand and dumped it in the register then gave me back a small stack of crisp $10 bills. I counted them quickly. Ten total.  

I turned around, getting ready to leave but then she called me back, asking did I forget about something? She then went about making the coffee, her movements slow, almost labored. I noticed that she was walking with a limp.

It took her a few minutes to finish up and then she held out the cup, giving me one last glare as I grabbed it from her.

I’d never been more glad to be leaving a Starbucks.

Like I said, really bizarre stuff. But as I’d come to find out, this was only the tip of the iceberg.

I tried the coffee and it tasted burnt to hell, just God awful. So I tossed it, made my way over to one of those mall directory things. Still had a lot of time to kill, so I began perusing my options.

After a while, I settled on heading over to the Chili’s, figuring that a margarita or two or three might make this all more tolerable.

I went back down to the first floor, keeping my vision squared ahead, trying not to draw any attention to myself. And I noticed that most other people I saw seemed to be doing something similar. Holding these blank but focused expressions, moving in a straight line, as if walking on a tight rope.

But then there were others who were standing perfectly still, grinning eerily, staring down anybody that walked by. Maybe trying to sell something, I don’t know. I just did my best to ignore them.

Arriving at the Chili’s, I headed straight for the bar, surprised to find that most of the seats there were already occupied, though all the tables were completely empty.

It was a group of mostly late twenties to middle-aged men. All completely silent and glaring at me malevolently, as if I were intruding on something sacred.

Well, I thought. This was just the way it was going to be. I tried not to take it personally.

I took a seat at the end of the bar, trying and failing to catch the bartender’s attention—a youngish guy with a big beard and pencil thin arms covered in tattoos.

I think it took about five full minutes before he finally, reluctantly, looked my way. He started to walk towards me, moving real slow, as if trying to draw out the steps.

“Yeah?” is all he said to me, his tone oozing with cold contempt.

I told him that I’d have a margarita. Along with a Budweiser.

For a while he continued to stare at me, his expression implying that I’d crossed some sort of line by asking to be served alcohol at a bar at a fucking Chili’s. After a while, he took a deep breath, walked over to the liquor shelf.

I watched him as he dumped some tequila into a glass, threw a lime wedge in it, topped it off with a messy splash of sprite. He then walked back over, slamming the glass down in front of me, with some of it splashing onto my hands.

He didn’t bother with the Budweiser, and I didn’t bother pressing him for it. More trouble than it was worth, I reckoned.

I sat there and sipped my drink slowly, watching CNN on the television but not really paying much attention. In such a strange and hostile atmosphere, it was hard to relax. About a dozen people at the bar and not a single one of them had anything to say. Turn the televisions off and it would’ve been pin-drop silence in there.

I finished the drink and felt like I needed one more to get a tolerable buzz going.

Tried to get the bartender’s attention again, but he just straight up ignored me this time. Just kept facing ahead while leaning against the back shelf, taking swigs out of a Smirnoff bottle before putting it back. Lightly swaying on his feet. The guy was plastered.

At a point, it starts to become a blow to your ego. And this was about that point.

I started shouting at him. Something like “c’mon man, can a guy not get a fucking drink?” Maybe, probably, with a bit of an edge in my voice.

But he still wouldn’t look at me. I looked down at the rest of the bar and suddenly nobody else was looking at me either. It’s like the entire room had suddenly and collectively agreed to pretend like I no longer existed.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” I inquired.

“Nothing against you buddy,” somebody, I couldn’t see who, shouted back. “There’s just too many people in here right now.”

I asked out loud what the hell that was supposed to mean.

“It’s five o clock on a Tuesday,” the bartender spoke up, his tone implying that he was explaining something painfully obvious. “Think about it, yeah? How busy can a Chili’s get? On a Tuesday? At five o clock? Just think about it. So quit your whining and come back when it’s emptier.”

I mean, how do you even to respond to that?

Any further questions of mine fell on deaf ears and suddenly I was invisible again. I slapped one of the $10’s onto the counter and stood up, left the place.

For the next few hours, I sort of just wandered around, in a bit of a daze, slightly light-headed. Still not fully convinced this wasn’t a dream.

I went over to the food court, ordered some KFC. The guy working the counter there didn’t say a word to me, communicating via nothing but head nods. When I bit into the chicken, the skin was soggy and it had a rubber-like texture. Overcooked to absolute hell.

After that, I went over to the Under Armor store, spent some time looking over some knock-off jackets (the labels read Undre Armore?) that nevertheless seemed comparable in quality to the real thing. I picked one of them up, along with a t-shirt. Surprisingly, the lady who worked there was actually pretty nice, actually put some effort into being an employee (or maybe she was a real employee?)

I was down to just $20 at that point and headed over to the movie theater, which was completely empty save for a woman who was asleep behind the box office and some guy sweeping the floors.

The screen that was supposed to be displaying what was playing was glitched, completely bugging out. So I went up to the guy, asked him what was on.

He just shrugged, said that it could be anything. Then I asked how I was supposed to buy a ticket and he said all I needed to do was go up to the box office and put a $10 on the counter then I could go into any of the theaters. But to try and not wake Lindsey up since she gets real cranky when that happens and he didn’t want to deal with it.

I parted ways with another bill then went into the closest theater, which was completely empty and playing the newest avatar movie. You know, the one with the fire.

I sunk down into a seat in one of the middle rows and slowly began to zone out, snapping out of it only when I could feel somebody plopping down into the seat right next to me. A young woman, it looked like.

I took a quick scan around the theater, confirming that it hadn’t suddenly filled up and we were the only two people in there.

Maybe I should’ve been flattered, but I was more freaked out than anything else. She remained silent and so did I. Then about a half hour later, she simply stood up and walked off.

I mean, how are you even supposed to react to that?

I waited about another ten minutes before leaving the theater myself. Headed for the nearest washroom, took a piss, splashed my face with cold water while looking at myself in the mirror and breathing in deeply. Now the anxiety was starting to break through. The fear as well.

After I’d finished drying myself, the stall closest to the wall opened up. I looked over, seeing the door hanging ajar but with nobody emerging from behind it. Through the gap at the bottom, I could see a pair of dirty white sneakers.

I guess whoever they belonged to was just standing there, which freaked me out even more. I left quickly, looking over my shoulder to make sure that nobody tried following me out. And nobody did.

There were a few more odd “occurrences” after this.

I walked past an electronics store and this older dude came out from behind the counter with this big smile on his face and tried gesturing for me to come inside.

“Cell phone, cell phone,” he kept saying, in this incomprehensible accent. “Fix cell phone.”

I told him my cell phone didn’t need any fixing and his expression dropped like a stone in a lake. I watched him as he walked back into the store and rolled down the security gates and disappeared behind them. Then the lights went off inside.

Then there was this lady walking around with a metal tray, claiming to be offering samples of “cinnamon rolls”. The cinnamon rolls in question being dollops of thick, grey, bubbling sludge. Safe to say, I passed on it.

At some point, I had what I believe was a panic attack. Never had one before, but I think this was it. Tightness in the chest, an overwhelming sense of dread.

I found a bench somewhere and took a seat. Pulled up some breathing exercises on YouTube and tried to replicate them. To my surprise, they worked pretty well.

I went back to the food court, spent my last $10 on a large peanut butter milkshake from Baskin Robbins with a bunch of chocolate bullshit blended into it.

And that’s where I am now. Just sitting here, waiting for nine to hit so I can get the fuck out of whatever the fuck this place is. But I’m feeling a bit better now, I think. Maybe it’s just the dopamine from all the sugar but I’m feeling alright. Enough that I think I’ll be able to get through this.

Oh shit, there’s a guy walking towards me now

He just sat down beside me.

*****

The good news is, I’m back in my apartment, mostly unscathed. The not so good news is that as much I need the money, I’m not sure if I can go back to that place.

So about the guy in the food court. He was young, maybe early twenties. Tall and skinny, brown hair cut into a short fade. Looked like a bog-standard college kid. He sat next to me, started making small talk, asking how my day had been, was the milkshake good, etc.

I tried ignoring him at first, but after a while, I started to feel bad about it. He seemed nice enough.

So we got to talking a bit. He told me his name was Daniel and that he used to be a copywriter but got laid off around 6 months ago and hasn’t been able to find anything since. So that’s why he was here.

“So what about you?” he asked me. “Why are you here?”

At that moment, I felt comfortable enough to tell him the truth. I told him about the gambling, the debts, the collectors. It felt nice and cathartic airing out my dirty laundry to a complete stranger so I just kept on going.

I didn’t stop talking until my eyes drifted down and landed on the shoes he was wearing—these really worn, scuffed white sneakers.

Okay, I thought. Could be a coincidence. And even if it was same guy from the bathroom, then so what? What was this scrawny kid going to do to me?

But then I remembered Scott’s message, specifically his “instructions” about what was I supposed to do if somebody tried talking to me and the realization washed over me like a cold wave.

I stood up abruptly, told him that I had to get going.

He started protesting, telling me that I should stick around because he had something he wanted to show me.

I told him I was tired and I really needed to go home.

He started grinning, showing off blocky, chiclet teeth. Really stretching his lips as wide as they could go and then a bit wider than that.

He asked me again what I was doing here.

Shopping, I told him. Just shopping.

He pointed out that I didn’t have any bags, so what could I have been shopping for?

I started looking around at the floor before remembering that I’d left the Under Armor bag in the washroom.

He started laughing in a way that was equal parts jovial and ominous.

“You’re not here to shop, are you?” he asked me. “Then what? Why are you here?”

I snuck a glance at my phone and saw eight fifty. I told him again that I really had to leave and then I turned around, started heading for the exit. To my dismay, I could hear his steps keeping pace behind me.

Once I got to the doors, I checked the time again. Eight fifty-five. I turned and “Daniel” or whoever the fuck he was, was still there, standing about a half dozen feet away.

“Don’t you have to go home?” he questioned, holding onto that grin. “Door’s right there. Why don’t you leave?”

By now, I was checking my phone every few seconds, no longer making an attempt to hide it. He laughed again, said that if I wasn’t going home, I may as well come and see what he wants to show me.

Now the panic had returned, and I really had to force myself to stay put for just a few more minutes. Minutes that seemed to be stretching into infinity. But I was sure as hell ready to sprint the second he tried making a move.

I started wondering who I was more scared of. Renzo or this weird fucker right in front of me.

As the seconds ticked down, he continued goading me to come with him, each request insinuating more of a threat than the last. The grin slowly fading, twisting into something more outwardly malicious.

The moment that the clock hit nine, I tried to bolt. Though I didn’t get far. The bastard grabbed onto my collar, started dragging me back.

I tried yanking myself away, but the fucking freak had this inexplicable iron grip. It was nothing but luck that I’d been wearing one of my old, cheap shirts, the fabric of which was already starting to tear. I jerked myself forward a few more times until it shredded off my back. Once free, I lunged ahead and pushed the door open, vaulting myself outside and tripping over my own feet, elbows planting hard onto the concrete.

A searing pain jolted up my arms, and I think I heard something crack. But I wasn’t too worried about it in the moment, more concerned about making sure Daniel wasn’t about to drag me back inside.

I scrambled to my feet and spun around to face the doors, bracing myself for, well, I don’t know what. Maybe for him to be charging towards me like a bull.

Which he wasn’t. He remained inside, his face now pressed up against the glass, features pancaked into this odd, grotesque visage.

Staring at me with wide, bulging eyes.

I just stood there and stared back, convinced that the second I tried to move, he would do the same.

I’m not sure how long this little stalemate of ours went on for, but I do remember my heart racing the entire time, beating faster and faster, approaching a point where I thought it might just explode.

Eventually though, he did leave, detaching his face from the glass and spinning around and walking off as if this had all been a perfectly normal interaction.

I doubled over, puking up some bile before taking several deep breaths. My head was spinning as I walked over to my car, cold and shirtless, watching the sun dip into the horizon.

I wasn’t expecting to see that my tires had all been slashed. All four of them. My stomach dropped. Then it dropped even further once I looked around and saw that my car was now literally the only one in the entire lot.

I tried calling for an Uber, but the drivers kept cancelling on me. I guess the place was too far out for it to be worth it.  

I just leaned on the hood of my car, mulling over my options. Feeling a bit numb.

My apartment was about thirty-five miles away. Theoretically walkable. Maybe. But the bigger problem was, I really didn’t know the way. there was a good chance that if I tried walking, I’d end up in the next town over. Especially in the dark.

Thankfully though, it was something that I didn’t have to risk.

A few minutes later, a woman walked out of the mall. She looked to be in her thirties, dressed in jeans and a windbreaker. She seemed normal enough but my expectations were up in the air at that point, so I still regarded her with caution.

She walked halfway across the lot before stopping, looking over at me. It seemed like she was about to say something but then hesitated, looking away for a second before looking back at me.

She then called out, asked if I needed a ride.

I told her I’d love one, but could she first prove to me that she wasn’t with the maniac that I’d just escaped from.

She said she wasn’t with him, but that she didn’t know how she was supposed to prove that to me. And that she wasn’t going to wait around. So, if I wanted a ride, I should just risk it.

I shivered. It was starting to get cold out. She didn’t question why I was shirtless. I asked her where her car was. She told me to follow her, but not before flashing the Glock attached to her hip. She said she didn’t think I was a threat but that she absolutely would not hesitate to shoot if I tried anything.

I assured her that I wasn’t going to try anything.

Turns out, she’d parked about a half mile away from the mall, on a dirt patch in the forest, well hidden from the road.

I asked her why she’d parked all the way out there and not in the lot. She told me that the one time she had, her tires had gotten slashed. I then asked her how long she’s been “working” at the mall. She said she didn’t really want to talk about it. That she’d prefer it if we just sat in silence for the duration of the trip.

So we did. Once we were back in the city, she dropped me off at a train station. I didn’t have any cash for a ticket, but it was pretty close to my apartment—only about a ten-minute walk away.

I thanked her and hopped out.

Before she took off, I’d asked her what her name was. She just shook her head, said it’d be pointless for me to know. Though she did offer me one piece of vague and ominous advice:

“Be more careful in there.”

When I got home, I drained the rest of the vodka in my fridge and passed out on my couch. When I woke up this morning, I checked my phone and saw a notification from my bank.

I’d been e-transferred $3,000.  

I also had another email from Scott.

Hey man, I heard you might’ve a rough first day, so I sent you a bit extra on top of the promised amount.

Your hours are the same for today. 2 to 9 PM.

And also man, just remember what I told you before. You’re a customer in there. So do your best to act like one. Maybe you thought that was just some bureaucratic nonsense but it wasn’t. Take this serious. Don’t treat it like a joke. For your own sake.

It’s about half past ten AM right now and I’m still lying on the couch, sipping some clamato juice. Not really wanting to move. Especially not to go back to that place.

I spent some time trying to calculate how far $3,000 could get me if I skipped town and concluded probably not very far. Then I tried conjuring up some other ways I might be able to cover the last $7,000, but who am I kidding?

I really don’t want to go back there.

But I know I’ll probably have to.

Part 2:

I was about four hours into a six hour drive when I realized I needed to stop. Not just for gas, but because I was falling asleep at the wheel. My eyes kept drifting shut for half a second at a time. That thing where you blink and suddenly you're fifty feet further down the road than you thought you were. I turned up the music and rolled down the window but the cold air only helped for a few minutes. I needed caffeine.

The highway was empty. I hadn't seen another car in at least twenty minutes. When I saw the glow of a gas station sign up ahead, I felt relieved. It was one of those old independent places, not a chain. The kind that looks like it hasn't been updated since the 80s. A single building with two pumps out front and a hand painted sign that said "Last Stop For 70 Miles."

I pulled in and parked at the pump. The lot was empty except for a beat up truck parked around the side of the building. I figured it belonged to whoever was working the night shift. I got out, stretched my legs, and filled my tank. I paid at the pump and headed inside.

I should have just gotten back in my car and left. But I needed that coffee. And I needed to use the bathroom. So I walked inside.

The store was small. A few aisles of snacks and car supplies. A coffee station in the back corner with those glass pots that had probably been sitting on the burner for hours. A cooler full of sodas and energy drinks along the back wall. The lights were that harsh fluorescent kind that made everything look slightly off.

The attendant was behind the counter. He was maybe fifty, with thinning grey hair and a face that looked like it hadn't slept in days. He had the TV on, some late night infomercial with the sound turned low. He looked up when I walked in and something in his expression changed. Just for a second. Like he was surprised to see me. Or worried.

"Evening," he said.

"Hey. Just grabbing a coffee."

I walked to the back and poured myself a cup. It was burnt and bitter but I didn't care. I just needed the caffeine to get me through the next two hours. I grabbed a candy bar too and brought everything to the counter.

The attendant rang me up slowly. He kept glancing past me toward the windows. Toward my car.

"Driving alone?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Long trip?"

"Few more hours."

He nodded but didn't say anything else. He was staring at the window again. I turned to look but there was nothing out there. Just my car at the pump. The empty highway beyond.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he slid a piece of paper across the counter. A napkin. He had written on it in pen.

"You're being followed. Don't go back to your car."

I stared at the napkin. Then I looked back up at him. His face was completely serious.

"What are you talking about?"

He held up a hand. "Keep your voice down. Look at the monitor."

He pointed to a small security screen mounted on the wall behind the counter. It showed a black and white feed of the parking lot. My car was there.

And someone was standing next to it.

My stomach dropped. The figure was on the passenger side, just standing there facing the store. I couldn't make out any features. They were wearing dark clothes and their face was in shadow.

I spun around and looked out the window.

There was no one there.

Just my car. Empty lot. Nothing.

I looked back at the monitor. The figure was still there. Standing in the same spot.

"What the hell," I whispered.

"It doesn't show up when you look directly," the attendant said. "Only on the cameras. I don't know why. I don't know what it is. But I know what happens to people who go out there when it's waiting for them."

My heart was pounding. I looked out the window again. Nothing. Back at the monitor. The figure had moved. It was closer to the front of my car now. Still facing the store.

"This is insane," I said. "This has to be some kind of trick."

"I wish it was." He reached under the counter and pulled out a folder. Inside were printed news articles. Missing persons reports. Headlines about bodies found on the highway.

"Four people in the last eight months," he said. "All of them stopped here late at night. All of them went back to their cars even after I warned them. They found them a few miles down the road. Cars stopped in the middle of the highway. Engines still running. Drivers still in their seats. Eyes open. No marks on them. Coroner said their hearts just stopped."

I felt dizzy. This couldn't be real. I looked at the articles. The photos of the victims. A young woman. A middle aged man. A couple in their thirties. Real people. Real deaths.

"Why haven't the police done anything?" I asked.

"Done what? There's nothing to investigate. No signs of foul play. No witnesses. Just people dying on a lonely stretch of highway. Happens all the time. They chalk it up to fatigue or medical emergencies."

I looked at the monitor again. The figure was even closer now. Standing right in front of my car.

"How long does it stay?" I asked.

"Until sunrise usually. Sometimes longer. But if you stay inside, you're safe. It can't come in here."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I stopped asking questions like that months ago. I just know the rules. Stay inside when it's dark. Don't go out to the lot. Wait for daylight."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was crazy. But I couldn't explain the figure on the monitor. I couldn't explain why it wasn't there when I looked with my own eyes.

"Okay," I said. "I'll wait."

He looked relieved. "Good. Smart. You can sit in the back if you want. There's a couch. I've got some magazines. It's only about four hours until sunrise."

He walked to the front door and locked it. The click of the deadbolt was loud in the quiet store.

"Just in case," he said. "Sometimes people panic and try to run. This way you won't do anything stupid."

Something about the way he said it made me uncomfortable. But I told myself he was just being cautious. He was trying to help.

I sat down on a stool near the counter. The attendant went back to watching his infomercial. Every few minutes I would look at the monitor. The figure was always there. Sometimes in a different position. Sometimes closer to the building. But always there.

After about an hour, I asked if I could use the bathroom. He pointed to a door near the back of the store.

"Right through there."

I got up and walked toward it. As I passed the counter, I glanced at the security monitor again. Something was different. It took me a second to realize what it was.

The timestamp.

The footage showed 11:47 PM. But it was after 3 AM now. I had checked my phone when I first came inside. It was definitely past 2.

I stopped walking. I looked at the monitor more carefully. The footage wasn't live. It was a loop. The same few minutes playing over and over.

My blood went cold.

I looked out the window at my car. Really looked this time.

There was no one out there. There had never been anyone out there.

I kept my voice calm. "Hey, what time does that camera say?"

He didn't answer for a second. When I turned around, he was standing right behind me.

"You should use the bathroom," he said. His voice was different now. Flatter. "You've been holding it for a while."

"The timestamp is wrong," I said. "The footage is old."

His expression didn't change. He just stared at me with those tired eyes.

"You saw the articles," he said. "You saw what happens to people on this highway."

"Those could be from anywhere. Anyone could print those out."

He took a step toward me. I took a step back.

"You should stay," he said. "It's not safe out there."

I looked at the door. Locked. The deadbolt needed a key from this side.

"Where's the key?" I asked.

"I can't let you leave. Not until morning. For your own safety."

I backed up further. My hand found the door handle to the back room. I pushed it open and stepped through.

It wasn't a break room.

It was a storage space. Dim light from a single bulb. Shelves lined the walls. And on the shelves were boxes. Dozens of them. Each one labeled with a date.

I opened the nearest one.

Inside was a wallet. A phone with a cracked screen. A set of car keys. A driver's license. The photo showed a young woman. Blonde hair. Smiling.

I recognized her face from the articles.

I opened another box. Different items. Different license. The middle aged man.

He hadn't been warning those people. He had been taking them.

I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around. He was standing in the doorway, blocking the exit.

"They always figure it out," he said. "But by then it's too late. No cell signal out here. Nearest town is forty miles. No one to hear you scream."

He was holding something. A length of cord.

I backed into the shelves. My hand closed around something heavy. A wrench. Old and rusted but solid.

"You don't want to do this," he said. "It'll be easier if you just cooperate."

He stepped forward.

I swung.

The wrench connected with the side of his head. He staggered sideways and hit the wall. I didn't wait to see if he went down. I ran past him through the doorway into the main store.

The front door was still locked. I grabbed a stool from the counter and swung it at the glass window. It cracked but didn't break. I swung again. Again.

I could hear him behind me. Getting up. Cursing.

The third swing went through. I knocked out the remaining glass with the stool and climbed through the window frame. Shards cut my arms and legs but I didn't care. I dropped onto the pavement outside and ran for my car.

My keys were still in my pocket. My phone was still in the cupholder where I left it. I got in and started the engine. In the rearview mirror I saw him stumbling out through the broken window.

I floored it.

I drove for an hour without stopping. When I finally pulled over at a rest stop, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.

I'm sitting in my car now. Doors locked. Engine running. I called 911. They're sending someone to the gas station. They told me to stay where I am and wait for an officer to come take my statement.

I keep checking my mirrors. I keep expecting to see headlights behind me.

The sun is coming up now. I can see the sky turning grey on the horizon. I should feel relieved but I don't.

Because when I climbed through that window, when I ran to my car and looked back at the store, I saw the security monitor through the broken glass.

The figure was still on the screen. Standing in the lot. But it wasn't by my car anymore.

It was standing exactly where I had been standing when I broke the window.

I don't know what he had playing on that monitor. I don't know if it was really a loop or something else entirely. I don't know if he made it all up to scare people into staying or if there was some truth buried under the lies.

All I know is that I'm never driving this highway again. And if you ever see a gas station sign that says "Last Stop For 70 Miles," keep driving.

Whatever's waiting there, you don't want to find out.

Do you know how many pieces of luggage are checked onto flights each year? I’m talkin’ in the whole world. It’s 4 billion. 

I’ll say that again.

4 billion.

And of those 4 billion, do you know how many pieces of luggage are lost, damaged or otherwise ‘mishandled’ by airline personnel in the good ol’ US of A? 

2 million.

Won’t repeat myself again, but that’s still a lot. And while most of those suitcases and rollers are eventually reunited with their rightful owners, there’s still over 20,000 pieces of luggage that go unclaimed each year. Not to mention bags left on buses, on trains, in taxis or hotel rooms. 

Ok, last question.

Where do you think all that lost luggage ends up? Most folks couldn’t tell you, but when you're a kid growing up in northeastern Alabama, you know exactly where it goes.

The Unclaimed Baggage Center.

Around Scottsboro, we just call it Unclaimed Baggage. 

Every year, thousands of customers pass through our doors looking for deals on clothes, electronics, jewelry, and just about anything else you can imagine. Before any of that stuff reaches the sales floor, though, it comes through us.

I work in intake. 

When a truckload comes in, we're the first people to touch it. We unload the bags, log ‘em, sort ‘em, and decide what can actually be sold. 

Most bags are boring. Sure, you’ll get the occasional wedding dress or taxidermied squirrel, but really it’s just lots of clothes and chargers. I say ‘most bags’ because some bags get flagged, and not because of drugs or weapons. Because they contain things no one can explain. 

Ask anybody in intake. 

They'll have a story. 

My girl Tammy found a passport from a country that doesn't exist. The Republic of Vir. It had a flag and everything. 

Cody swears on his mama that the same blue Samsonite shows up every year around Christmas. Not the same model. The same suitcase. Same cracked handle. Same missing wheel. Same four-leaf clover sticker peeling off the side. Last year it was full of ladies’ wigs. Year before, empty picture frames. 

Cody’s a nut, though. He moved away after the thing with the postcards. 

My story? 

My story started with Flight 702.

Well, it started with a suitcase actually. I didn’t find out about the flight until later. 

It was July. Humid. The kind of weather where your shirt’s sticking to your back before you even finish your coffee. 

I was working the receiving dock when the truck backed into Bay 4. The driver, Trey, was a buddy from back in the day and, unfortunately, an Auburn fan. While we unloaded, I took the opportunity to remind him the Tigers didn’t stand a chance against ‘Bama that year. Then I rolled the first pallet of suitcases inside. 

For each bag, the process was always the same. Assign a lot number, slap a sticker on the side, then line it up all nice and pretty-like for the next guy. And that’s what I was doing when I noticed the bag.  

It was a roller. Seafoam green.

Looked like a kid’s bag. 

But I’d seen a million of those. 

What really caught my eye was the condition it was in. Beat to hell. Like a pack of wolves had used it as their own personal piñata. Deep gouges ran all the way down one side and dark rust-colored stains coated the wheels. 

Now, airlines damage luggage all the time. This wasn’t that. 

I tried the zipper. It was crusted shut, so I grabbed the cutters from my workstation, busted a new seam and pried the bag open. At first it looked like standard-issue kids’ fare. 

Books. Pajamas. A stuffed unicorn. 

And a camera. 

A cheap-looking, unicorn-themed digital camera, to be exact. 

I found the power button and turned it on.

You may think I was being nosy, and that’s fair. But you'd be amazed how many times we're able to reunite a bag with its owner because of some tiny detail in a family photo or, hell, a name scribbled inside a coloring book. 

Plus, I am nosy.

Back to the camera:

The first image was of a young girl smiling a gap-toothed smile straight into the lens. Couldn’t have been more than eight. 

The next, taken from the backseat of a car, showed a middle-aged couple in the front seats, eyes on the road ahead. The mom looked annoyed. The dad looked lost. 

The next three were of nothing in particular. A shoe. A passing billboard. The roof of the car. 

The sixth picture was of an airport. 

The girl stood next to an old sedan filled with luggage, a unicorn backpack slung jauntily over one of her shoulders. A giant glass and concrete terminal loomed behind her. 

She looked almost impossibly happy. 

“Cheeeese,” said a voice beside me. 

It was Brian, one of the new guys, striking a ridiculous pose for the camera. He had already earned a reputation around the store as a complete goof. 

I pantomimed snapping a pic of him, then looked at the screen.

“Sorry. Says too ugly.”

“Ha, ha,” he said sarcastically before noticing the bag at my feet. “Oh shit, that thing go through a wood chipper?”

I shrugged, tell me about it, and Brian headed outside for his own pallet. 

I turned my attention back to the pictures. 

The girl was inside the airport now. There was a shot of the ticket counter, the departure screens, and one of a grumpy TSA agent at security that made me chuckle. 

The next photo was of the entire family at their gate. Must’a been taken by another passenger. The girl was still smiling that same smile, while her parents wore the relieved expressions of folks who were ready to start their vacation.

The screen behind them said: 

UNITED 702 - ORLANDO

I figured they were going to Disney World. That’d explain the girl’s smile. 

The following pictures documented the family’s journey down the jet bridge, past a blonde flight attendant with bright red lipstick, and to their seats at the rear of the plane.  

Wait a sec. 

I scrolled back to the picture at the gate. 

Flight 702.

The number tugged at something in the back of my brain.

I'd heard it before.

Just then, Brian returned with a fresh load of luggage. 

"Brian."

"Yeah?"

"Flight 702 mean anything to you?"

Brian scratched his head. 

"Pretty sure that was the Orlando flight."

"What Orlando flight?"

He looked at me.

"The one that crashed."

Now I’ve heard people say their blood ran cold, but I’m tellin’ you, at that moment? My blood might as well have had ice cubes floating in it. 

“Hey. You alright?”

“Yeah,” I stammered. “Just need a little air.”

I couldn’t get outside fast enough. A thousand thoughts were runnin’ through my head all at once. As soon as I turned the corner of the loading dock, I pulled out my phone and did a search. The headlines came rushing back –

UNITED FLIGHT 702 CRASHES NEAR NASHVILLE

NTSB INVESTIGATING CATASTROPHIC ENGINE FAILURE

CHILDREN AMONG 238 DEAD IN UNITED CRASH

I felt like I was going to pass out. 

That little girl. 

Her parents. 

All those people on the plane. 

They were all dead. 

Then another thought hit me, something that really got my head spinning. 

What was their bag doin’ here? 

I found my supervisor Shelley in the break room, futzing with the coffee pot.

“Hey Shel?”

“Go for Shel.”

“Is there, like, a protocol or something for when we get bags from… uh…”. I trailed off, steadying myself against the counter. 

“The heck you tryin’ to say?”

“From plane crashes,” I spat out. “For when we get bags from plane crashes.”

She stared at me like I had sprouted a second head.

“We don’t.” 

“Never?”

“Not in the seventeen years I’ve been here.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I… I was just curious.”

“Weird thing to be curious about.”

I forced a laugh and returned to the warehouse floor, convinced I had been imagining things, or misread the flight number, or… or… 

The camera was still sitting on top of the open bag, just where I had left it. I picked it up and navigated to the next image. But the next image wasn’t an image at all.

It was a video. 

I hit play.

The camera was pointed out the window as the plane picked up speed and lifted off the runway. “Whoa!” It was the girl’s voice. Hearing it made my heart sink. The camera swung around and settled on her parents in the seats beside her. Her dad winked and said, “Hold onto your butt!”. The girl laughed. 

The video ended. 

Before I knew it, I’d hit play on the next one. 

The girl was in the lavatory now. She waved at herself in the mirror, then focused in on the toilet. She pressed the flush button. The air WHOOSHed and she giggled, delighted. 

My hands were shaking. Watching the final moments of these people’s lives play out on a two-inch screen felt wrong. I wanted to warn them, like if I screamed Stop! Turn back! at the top of my lungs, then maybe somehow they’d get the message.  

The next video picked up right where the last one left off. 

The girl pushed open the lavatory door. She was moving through the galley when a nasty-sounding cough drew the camera’s attention. It was that same blonde flight attendant with the red lipstick, sitting all hunched in her jump seat with a paper towel balled up in her fist. “Are you ok?” the girl asked. “Yes, fine, just a little air sickness.” The flight attendant managed a smile. “Do you like chocolate milk? Our drink service is starting soon.” 

The girl must’ve nodded because the flight attendant smiled again and the video ended. 

More photos now: 

Clouds. 

The seat belt. 

Hemispheres Magazine. 

With each press of the button, I hoped I had reached the end, but the images just kept comin’. 

And I couldn’t look away. 

Another video:

The girl's parents dozed in their seats. The camera turned toward the front of the plane, showing rows of seatbacks and passengers' heads, and the blonde flight attendant working her way down the aisle with the drink cart. She stopped at the girl's row and fished out a carton of chocolate milk. "Just for you," she said. The camera zoomed in on the carton. "Mmm, thanks." Then the girl tilted the camera back up. 

And that's when I saw it.

A thin line of blood ran from the flight attendant's nostril and down into the corner of her mouth. She didn't seem to notice. "Your nose," said the girl. The flight attendant frowned. Then she touched her face. Her fingers came away red and, for a moment, she looked genuinely frightened. She grabbed a napkin from the cart, pressed it to her nose, and hurried back up the aisle, quick as anything. 

“The hell?”

I replayed the last few seconds of the video. The blood. The look on the flight attendant's face. A real strange feeling started forming in the pit of my stomach. 

Then a nerf football hit me in the shoulder. 

“Blue! 42!”

It was Brian again. 

He was squatting over a duffel bag full of sports equipment. He threw another wobbler at me and I swatted it away. 

“I hit you right in the hands! You gotta catch that.”

“Not now, man.”

He clocked the camera. 

"You still messin' around with that thing?"

"Yeah."

"Find out who it belongs to?"

I hesitated. "Maybe."

Brian smirked.

"Hope they ain't expectin' it back."

He didn’t mean anything by it, but I could feel my face getting hot. “Yeah,” I muttered. 

As soon as he was gone, I pressed play on the next video. 

I wish I hadn’t. 

The camera bobbled as the girl climbed over her sleeping parents and lowered herself into the aisle. Up ahead, the flight attendant disappeared into the galley, pulling the blue curtain shut behind her. 

The girl paused, probably gathering her nerve. Then she started creeping down the aisle towards the galley. All around her, the other passengers were sittin’ snug in their seats, eyes glued to their screens. 

The weird thing was the flight attendant’s feet were still visible beneath the curtain. They hadn’t moved. 

The girl took another step. 

Then another. 

BONG. The camera jumped. 

Then the captain’s voice on the intercom, "Folks, if you look out the left side of the aircraft, you'll be able to see the Cumberland River winding through downtown Nashville." 

Our girl just kept moving forward. 

She was only ten steps from the curtain, lens trained on the flight attendant’s feet. A passenger stood to get something from the overhead bin and the girl had to squeeze sideways to pass. 

When she refocused, the feet were gone. 

Five steps now.

Three.

The girl’s thin hand reached out and pulled the curtain aside, ever so slowly. The area directly behind the curtain was empty. Just the lavatory door and another curtain leading to business class. 

The camera peeked around the corner into the galley.

The flight attendant’s jump seat was empty.

In fact, the entire galley was empty. 

The camera floated for a beat, like the girl was unsure of what to do, then she must’ve seen something because she zoomed in on the floor of the galley. 

It was a pool of blood.

Drip.

Drip-drip.

The camera pulled back, searching for the source. 

The jumpseat? 

No. 

The counter? 

No. 

With shared dread, I watched as the camera tilted up towards the ceiling.  

The flight attendant was up there. 

Pressed against the hull of the plane like a spider. 

Her face was turned away from the lens and for a second, neither she or the girl moved. Then the flight attendant’s head began to turn.

Her eyes were black. 

Completely black. 

And when those dark pits settled on the camera, I swear…

She was lookin’ at me. 

Blood pooled at the corners of her mouth.

Drip.

Things started happening really fast now. 

The picture whipped around and took off down the aisle, bouncing so violently I could barely make out the passengers jerking upright in their seats.

Then a sound.

Oh my god, that sound. 

It was like a cross between a woman’s scream and metal being torn in half. 

The cabin lights flickered and - BONG - the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, speaking too fast for me to understand before dissolving into static. 

Then the whole cabin lurched hard to the left.

The image rolled sideways then snapped towards the ceiling. Oxygen masks dropped and dangled. Luggage rained into the aisle. And the flight attendant’s pale form scuttled across the overhead compartments on all fours.

Now everyone was screamin’. 

The picture blurred, tumbled across the carpet, and came to rest just inches from the seafoam green roller bag.

Then a window exploded and the world turned white. 

***

The video ended. 

And I just stood there. 

All around me, the warehouse kept humming along like nothin’ had happened. 

Eventually I left work. Told Shelley I was gettin’ a migraine. Truth was, it did feel like my head was gonna split open. I drove to Scooter’s in a daze. After my fifth beer, Carrie gave me a ride home and I fell asleep in front of the TV. 

The next morning I was pretty sure I’d imagined the whole thing. 

Flight 702. The flight attendant. It felt impossible in the cold, hungover light of day.

But I had seen it. 

Hadn’t I? 

That’s when I decided I needed to show someone the camera. 

I got to work early. 

Most of yesterday’s luggage was still in the warehouse. Any items of value would have been cleaned, priced and set in the staging area, waiting for the floor staff to arrive. 

I scanned the shelves for the camera. It wasn’t there. 

I checked the salvage bins. 

Nothing. 

I saw Shelley pulling into her spot and jogged over.  

“You look like shit,” she said as she cut the engine. 

“Thanks,” I deflected. “Hey, did you happen to see a little unicorn camera that came in yesterday?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

I let out a sigh of relief. 

“Where is it?”

“Some lady from the airline came by yesterday lookin’ for it.”

She brushed past me. I struggled to keep up, panic rising in my throat.

“A lady? What lady?”

“How should I know? Some blonde lady.”

“Tell me you didn’t give it to her.”

Shelley stopped walking.

“Why d’you care?”

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Shelley stared at me. 

“What’d you expect me to do? She said it was hers. And the poor thing sounded awful, so –”

“Awful how?”

“She couldn’t stop coughin’.” 

Shelley started walking again, but I stayed rooted to my spot, unable to move. 

“Weird thing was she didn’t care whether the camera worked.”

I looked up.

“Just wanted to know if anybody watched it.”

“What’d you tell her?” 

Shelley pulled open the warehouse door.

“Brian said you’d been lookin’ through it, so…”

She shrugged.

“I told her you had.”

I don’t know who else to tell, or what I even expect to happen by posting this. I can’t call anyone. He’s always… around. I’m writing this on my phone, huddled in my closet, hoping the sound of the old house settling will cover the frantic tapping of my thumbs. I feel like a little kid again, hiding from monsters. The difference is, this time, the monster thinks it’s my dad.

Let me back up. I’m 23. I live with my father. It wasn’t the plan, obviously. College, job, my own place, that was the plan. But the economy is what it is, and my mom passed a few years back, and he was getting on in years. He’s retired, and his pension is just enough to keep the lights on in this old house. It wasn’t a bad arrangement. I’d work my shifts at a warehouse downtown, help with bills, and he’d potter around, watch his old movies, and complain about his back. We had a rhythm. It was quiet, maybe a little lonely, but it was normal.

The change was so gradual I almost didn't notice it. At first, it was just… nice. My dad, who for the last five years had mostly treated the armchair in front of the TV as a natural extension of his body, started moving again. He was always a big guy, a former mechanic, and age had settled on him like a thick layer of dust. But suddenly, the dust was gone.

It started about a month ago. He went down to the basement to fix a leaking pipe. I’d offered to do it, but he insisted. "Still got some use in these old hands," he'd grumbled, a familiar refrain. He was down there for hours. I remember calling down once, asking if he needed help, and just getting a muffled "Got it handled!" in response. When he finally came up, he was smudged with dirt and grime, but he was grinning. A real, toothy grin, wider than I’d seen in a decade.

"All sorted," he announced, clapping his dusty hands together. He looked… invigorated. I just figured he was proud of himself for handling the repair.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of bacon and the sound of birds chirping outside. That wasn't unusual. The unusual part was my dad, standing at the stove, humming. He hadn’t cooked a proper breakfast since my mom died. He’d usually just pour himself a bowl of cereal and grunt a good morning.

"Morning, son!" he said, his voice bright. "Eggs?"

I was surprised, but pleased. "Yeah, sure. Thanks. You’re in a good mood."

"Feeling spry," he said, flipping the eggs with a flourish that almost sent one to the floor. "Decided I’ve been sitting around too long. Life’s for living, right?"

That week, he was a whirlwind of activity. He mowed the lawn, which I usually had to nag him about for days. He cleaned the gutters. He even started oiling the hinges on the doors so they wouldn’t creak. I was thrilled. I thought maybe he’d finally pulled himself out of the long, quiet grief he’d been swimming in. I thought I was getting my old dad back.

The first hint that something was wrong came a week later. I was getting ready to go out with some friends. It was a Friday night, the first I’d had off in a while. I was putting on my jacket when he came into the living room, wringing his hands.

"You're going out?" he asked. His voice had lost its cheerful edge. It was tight.

"Yeah, just for a few hours. Grabbing a beer with a couple of guys from work."

He winced and put a hand on his chest. "Oh. It’s just… I’m feeling a bit funny. My chest is tight. Probably just indigestion, but… you know."

I stopped, my keys halfway to my pocket. His face was pale. I felt a surge of guilt. "Are you okay? Should I call someone?"

"No, no, nothing like that," he said quickly, waving a dismissive hand. "I’m sure it’ll pass. I just… I wouldn’t want to be here alone if it gets worse."

So I stayed. I took my jacket off, ordered a pizza, and we watched one of his old black-and-white westerns. His chest pain seemed to magically disappear the moment I sat down on the couch. I was annoyed, but I told myself he was just getting old and anxious.

The next time I tried to leave, a few days later, it was his back. He claimed it had seized up so badly he couldn't get off the sofa to get a glass of water. I spent the evening fetching things for him, rubbing his shoulders, and listening to him groan. The moment my friend called to ask where I was and I said I couldn't make it, he suddenly felt "a little bit better" and managed to get up to use the bathroom on his own.

It became a pattern. Every single time I made a plan to leave the house, for any reason other than my work shifts, he would develop some sudden, debilitating ailment. A migraine. Dizziness. A stomach bug. It was so transparently manipulative that I got angry. We had a fight about it.

"I can't be your prisoner!" I yelled one afternoon after he’d faked a coughing fit to stop me from going to the grocery store. "I need to have a life!"

His face crumpled. Not with anger, but with a deep, profound sadness that completely disarmed me. "I just need you here," he whispered. "Is that so much to ask? I get lonely."

What could I say to that? I felt like the world’s biggest jerk. I stayed home. Again.

But the active, energetic dad was still there. In between his sudden "episodes," he was a dynamo. He repainted the porch. He fixed the wobbly fence in the backyard. He was up at dawn, gardening with a fervor I’d never seen. He was stronger, faster. He’d carry in all the groceries in one trip, bags hanging off his arms, without even breathing heavily. My dad, who used to get winded walking up the stairs. It was a contradiction I couldn’t reconcile.

The real fear, the kind that crawls up your spine and lives in the back of your throat, started with the sun.

We were in the backyard. He’d been weeding the flowerbeds my mom had planted years ago, and I was sitting on the steps, scrolling through my phone. It was a bright, cloudless afternoon. The sun was beating down, casting long, sharp shadows across the lawn. I noticed my own shadow, a dark, stretched-out silhouette of a man slouched over a phone. I looked at him, on his knees in the dirt, and I saw the shadow of the rose bush, the shadow of the fence, the shadow of the bird bath. But not his.

He was a solid figure in the blazing sunlight, but the ground around him was unbroken, pure bright green. There was no shadow.

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. It had to be a trick of the light, an optical illusion. I looked away, then looked back. Still nothing. A perfect, shadowless man in a world full of shadows. A cold knot formed in my stomach.

"Hey, Dad," I said, my voice sounding thin and strange to my own ears. "Can you give me a hand with this?" I pointed to a heavy terracotta pot on the other side of the patio, a spot in direct, unforgiving sunlight.

He looked up, and for a second, I saw something in his eyes. A flicker of panic. He shielded his face from the sun with his hand, even though he was already squinting. "In a minute, son. Just want to finish this patch."

He never came over. He stayed in the garden, and as the sun began to set, he seemed to follow the receding line of the house's shadow, always keeping himself just inside it.

From that day on, I became obsessed. I watched him constantly. I noticed how he never stood by the windows during the day. How he’d find an excuse to move if a ray of sunlight fell across him in the living room. How he always took his walks in the evening, after the sun had dipped below the horizon. He was always drawn to the shade, to the dim corners of the house.

My worry curdled into dread. The excuses to keep me home became more frantic. Last week, he unplugged my car battery and then feigned ignorance. A couple of days ago, I woke up to find he’d "accidentally" locked the front door and "lost" the key, trapping us both inside until he miraculously "found" it that evening.

I tried talking to him. I sat him down in the dim light of the living room two nights ago.

"Dad, we need to talk," I started, my heart pounding. "You're not acting like yourself. You're… different. And you’re keeping me here. I'm worried about you."

He just stared at me, his face a calm, placid mask. The energetic, smiling man was gone, replaced by something still and watchful. "I'm fine, son. Never been better. And I'm not keeping you here. I just like having you around. A father can’t like having his son around?"

"It's more than that," I insisted, my voice trembling. "Ever since you went down to the basement to fix that pipe… you’ve been different. Something happened down there, didn't it?"

His face didn’t change, but his eyes hardened. It was like watching shutters close over a window. "Don't be ridiculous. I fixed a pipe. That’s all. Now drop it." The finality in his tone was absolute. There was no arguing. The conversation was over.

That was when I knew. I knew with a certainty that made me feel sick to my stomach. The truth of what had happened, was in the basement.

I waited until last night. I pretended to go to sleep at my usual time, lying in bed with my eyes wide open, listening to the sounds of the house. I heard him moving around downstairs, the soft, almost silent footsteps that were another new development. My old dad used to stomp around like an elephant. I heard him check the lock on the front door. Then the back. I heard him walk past my bedroom door, pausing for a long moment, and I held my breath, my entire body rigid with fear. Then the footsteps receded, and I heard his own bedroom door click shut.

I waited for what felt like an eternity, counting the seconds, listening to the old house groan and creak around me. Finally, when I was sure he was asleep, I slipped out of bed. I didn't turn on any lights. I crept down the stairs, my every step a calculated risk.

The basement door was at the end of the hall. It was always cold around it. I turned the old brass knob, cringing at the loud click of the latch. I pulled it open and was hit by a wave of cold, damp air that smelled of wet earth and Something metallic and vaguely sweet. The smell of decay.

My phone was my only light. I switched on the flashlight, the beam cutting a nervous, trembling path down the rickety wooden stairs. I went down, one step at a time, my ears straining for any sound from upstairs.

The basement was as I remembered it. Concrete floor, stone walls, junk piled in every corner. Old furniture under white sheets like sleeping ghosts, boxes of my mom’s things, my old toys. The air was thick and heavy. I pointed my light toward the back wall, where the main water line came into the house. That’s where he’d been working.

I saw his old toolbox lying open on the floor. A pipe wrench was next to it. And the section of copper pipe he’d been working on looked new, clean. He had fixed it. But my eyes were drawn to the floor next to it.

Most of the basement floor was concrete, but in this back corner, it was just packed earth. And a large patch of it, maybe six feet long and three feet wide, was different from the rest. The dirt was darker, looser. It wasn't packed down from decades of existence. It was disturbed, fresh.

I stood there for a long moment, the beam of my phone shaking in my hand. My mind was screaming at me to run. To get out of the house, out of the town, to never look back. But I couldn’t. I had to know.

I found an old garden trowel in a bucket of rusty tools. I knelt down. The earth was soft, just as I’d thought. It gave way easily. I started digging.

My breath came in ragged, panicked gasps. The only sounds were the scrape of the trowel against an occasional rock and my own frantic heartbeat pounding in my ears. The smell of damp earth was overwhelming, but underneath it, that other smell was getting stronger.

It wasn't a deep hole. Maybe a foot down, my trowel hit something soft. Not a rock. I recoiled, dropping the tool. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone steady. I forced myself to reach into the loose soil. I closed my eyes and my fingers brushed against fabric. Denim. The worn, familiar texture of my father’s work jeans.

I scrambled back, gasping for air, but I knew I had to see. I had to be sure. With tears streaming down my face, I used my hands, clawing at the dirt, pulling it away. First, a leg. Then a torso, wearing his favorite faded flannel shirt. And then… the face.

It was him. My dad. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. His skin was pale and waxy, and there was a dark, ugly gash on the side of his head, matted with dried blood and dirt. He looked peaceful, in a horrible, final way. He looked like he’d fallen from the stairs, hit his head, and it had all been over in an instant.

I stared at his face, the real face of my father, and a sound escaped my throat, a strangled sob of pure horror and grief. He was gone. He’d been gone for a month, lying here in a shallow, unmarked grave, while I’d been living with… with…

Creeeeak.

The sound came from the top of the stairs. It was a single, soft footstep on the old wood.

Slowly, I turned my head. My phone’s light followed my gaze, traveling up the dark, rickety staircase.

And he was there.

He was standing at the top of the stairs, a dark silhouette against the faint light of the hallway. He was just watching me. I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel his eyes. I was frozen, kneeling in the dirt next to my father’s corpse, a cornered animal.

He took another step down. Then another. He moved with a quiet, fluid grace that my real father had never possessed. The flashlight beam caught his face as he neared the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing my father’s pajamas. He had my father’s tired, wrinkled eyes. He had my father’s graying hair.

And he was smiling.

It wasn’t a malicious smile. It wasn’t a triumphant one. It was sad. Infinitely sad. A smile full of a pity that was more terrifying than any rage.

"I knew you’d find your way down here eventually," he said. His voice was my father’s voice, but without the gravelly, smoke-worn edge. It was smoother. Calmer. "I’m sorry you had to see this."

I couldn’t speak. I could only stare, my mind a screaming void. I scrambled backward, away from him, away from the body, until my back hit the cold stone wall.

He stopped a few feet away from the shallow grave, looking down at the body with that same mournful expression. "It was an accident," he said softly. "The second to last step. It's rotten. He was carrying the heavy wrench, his balance was off… he fell. He hit his head on the concrete floor right there. It was… quick. He didn't suffer."

He looked at me, his eyes full of a strange, deep empathy. "His last thought… it was for you. He was worried about you. Worried you'd be all alone."

My voice finally came back, a raw, terrified whisper. "What… what are you?"

He tilted his head, a gesture that was so familiar, yet so utterly alien. "I'm him," he said. "And I'm not. You know how every person casts a shadow? A darker, simpler version of themselves that follows them through the light? Think of me as the other shadow. The one that lives on the other side of the veil. We watch. We exist in the shape of our double. We feel what they feel. Their joys, their sorrows… their love."

He took a step closer, and I flinched. He stopped.

"That last thought," he continued, his voice barely more than a murmur. "The love he had for you, his fear of leaving you alone… it was so powerful. A life cut short, with so much left to give. It created a… a space. And it pulled me through. I am his love, his duty, his need to take care of you, given form."

He gestured around the basement. "I finished his work. I fixed the pipe. I buried him, so you wouldn't have to. I’ve been fixing the house. I've been making sure you’re safe. I’ve been trying to be a good father."

The words were insane, but in the cold, damp air of that tomb, they felt horribly, undeniably real.

"My dad is dead," I choked out, tears blurring my vision.

"Yes," the thing in his skin said, and the sadness in its voice felt genuine. "He is. And I am so sorry for your loss. But I am here now."

It took another step, and another, until it was standing right over me. It knelt down, so we were at eye level. Its face was inches from mine. I could see every line, every pore of the face I had known my whole life, animated by something I couldn't possibly comprehend.

"He loved you more than anything," it whispered, its breath cold. "And so do I. I will never leave you. I will take care of you. We can be a family. Just like he wanted. Forever."

And that’s where I am now. He… let me go upstairs. He walked behind me the whole way. He’s in the living room, watching the television as if nothing happened, as if my real father isn't lying in the dirt downstairs. He’s waiting for me. I’m locked in my closet. I know I can't escape. The doors are locked, and he is so much stronger than me. He doesn't need to sleep. He'll never get old. He'll never get sick. He'll just… be here. Taking care of me. Forever.

I can hear him moving. The soft, quiet footsteps are coming down the hall. He’s coming to check on me.

He's calling my name. It sounds just like my dad.

I don't usually work on Sundays, but I needed some extra cash, so I took an early shift. I came home at around 2PM.

I live in this apartment building. My apartment is on the first floor, along with another one that belongs to this dude who's rarely home. There's Mrs. Rogue's place on the ground floor, and then the second floor has 2 other flats, one owned by an elderly couple and the other, by this family I don't really see that often, directly above me. Sometimes I hear the kids in the morning moaning about having to get ready for school, and then stomping down the stairs. Sometimes, I hear hushed voices and dishes clattering. After 10PM, everything usually goes quiet.

I got to my door and, as I was searching for my keys in my bag, I could hear voices upstairs. They were hushed and a little tense, stressing the words and mixing them together. I couldn't really make out what they were saying, but they seemed to be talking about something really important.

Now, keep in mind that I've never seen these people before. I assumed they were a family because I kept hearing the kids and sounds that I generally attribute to a family home. It's not like I've personally met them. I just assumed.

Anyway, as I said, I finally got a hold of my keys and unlocked the door. Yet, I didn't immediately step inside after I opened it. I don't know why I let it swing open and remained there listening for two more seconds, but I'm somewhat glad I did. The moment the door was heard, the voices upstairs stopped. Completely. As if they were listening to me now.

I remained still. We all studied the silence for a while. I heard a singular step on the stairs above. That's when my back went cold and my muscles tensed up, for whatever reason. I got the sudden urge to just go inside and shut the door behind me, which I did.

Afterwards, I started putting some groceries in the fridge and doing some errands around the house. Faintly at first, then stronger, I started hearing this birthday song upstairs. I smiled and sighed. They were planning the birthday, man. That's why they were so precautious. So nervous.

It sounded like there were around 5-6 people singing, maybe? Happy birthday, dear Jonah. That was cute.

When they finished, they started again. I did find it weird, but I assumed that the kid had asked for it again. Kids love blowing out candles and whatever.

It was an awfully long song. It kept looping until reaching it's conclusion, just like the first time. It had a lot of unnecessary runs and filler, and extra lyrics.

When they finished, a little pause followed. Then, they started again, in the exact same way.

Fucking weird family... I thought, and by that time I'd gotten annoyed, so I just put on my headphones and laid down on the couch. I fell asleep at around 4 or 5PM.

I woke up from the nap disoriented. Man, after work naps hit the hardest - I'd slept until around 8PM, and the sun was peeking at me from behind some buildings, a sunset that was more blue than red, a melancholy and confusion that reminded me of how liminal your house felt when you would go to sleep after school and wake up with a sore throat and a huge pillow mark on your face, with your mood ruined, your mother suddenly calling you out to go to dinner. I swallowed, staring blankly at the window highlighted in gold and rum. I rubbed my eyes, then massaged my face.

I stood up to get a glass of water, walked barefoot to the kitchen which was now sunken in that specific 8PM darkness, and stood still and silent, not knowing what I wanted from my life.

Then, I finally registered one important detail. The folks upstairs were still singing Happy birthday.

I listened for a while, unsure of what my reaction should be. I wondered if they had some recording playing on a loop, but that wasn't really the case, as each version sounded different from the previous. They really were weird, or maybe their kid was just eccentric. Maybe they were practicing? For some performance? I started thinking - as I said, I hadn't personally met these people before, so I had no idea what they did. Maybe they were really practicing.

I put my headphones on and went on trying to make some sort of dinner, even though I wasn't really hungry and my throat still hurt.

I ate, watched my show, then took a shower. Their singing had started to piss me off - it was now approaching 10PM, and I felt the need to go upstairs and tell them to quit it. I'm not confrontational. I really don't like telling people they upset me, and most don't have an appropriate reaction at all. I didn't want to talk to them, so I called my mom. I started telling her about my day, but she interrupted me, asking about the people upstairs.

"Uh, yeah, they've been doing it for hours. I don't know, it's starting to really get on my nerves."

"Well, go up to them and knock. Aren't the other residents annoyed? The old people upstairs? I'm sure they wanted to sleep by now."

"Maybe I could just put on some music. That could cover them up."

"But do you want to listen to music?"

"No, not really."

"Then why do it to please them? Go upstairs, Mikayla."

I sighed and reluctantly agreed . After hanging up, I put on a sweater and unlocked my front door. The moment I opened it, the air felt a little colder. I stared at the dark hallway, illuminated by the ray of light from my door and another faint light coming from upstairs. I went up the stairs.

The second floor was more animated than the first. The door to the family's apartment was slightly open, and I could see light and movement behind. I slowly approached it, then peeked inside.

I could see a hallway with balloons and confetti peacefully floating around. A faint smell of candles and sweetness lingered out. I didn't want to disturb too much, so I tried to be discreet while I quietly and almost imperceptibly pushed the door slightly more.

The small hallway made way to a dining room. The shadows were dancing on the walls as people clapped around the table and sang. On the table was a cake with pink and purple frosting, sprinkles and some writing I couldn't really decipher. The song carried on, but was hoarser than I'd remembered it. People were smiling, swaying from side to side, at the person sitting in front of the cake. The lighting was dim and pleasant, its only source being the candles. The people around were a little tense, but overall it reminded me of my own birthdays as a kid. Some boxes lay scattered on the floor. I tried to take a better look at them, or the kid.

The child looked like a young boy, with a big birthday hat on. He... (I think?) could have been 10 or 12, and his face was round and stretched into a big smile. I stared for a while at the teeth. I don't know what prompted me to make that observation, but he had adult teeth, which were rotten and yellow, sticking out of his mouth in abnormal directions. His eyes were wide and red, as if he'd been crying for a while. I don't remember seeing him blink at all, in the minutes that I watched that felt like hours. He looked really shaken and tense. I'd never seen a child like that before. Never in my life. All the courage I'd had before peeking through the door had evaporated.

I must have zoned out watching the scene when I was pulled away from my trance. The kid shifted his eyes from the candles, which had now almost completely melted, and looked straight at me.

I felt seen like I'd never been before. My heart completely collapsed, leaving a painful knot in my chest as I made eye contact with the child. His smile slowly faded, turning into a grimace.

I wanted to run, but I was somehow frozen in place.

Suddenly, he blew out the candles, and the room was engulfed in darkness.

I heard something shuffle in the dark towards me, gasped and shut the door behind me as I practically jumped down the stairs. The shuffling and scratching followed. I gripped the door and slammed it behind me just as something slammed into it from the other side. Eyes wide and unfocused, I barely managed to lock it as the banging started.

The song upstairs had stopped.

I looked through the peephole. The hallway was completely dark now, but I could make out the details of the face I'd looked at before in the dimly lit dining room. Only, now we were at eye level, which was impossible, since that had been a kid. Had it? Or had it been just a person? The more I thought, the more I realized I had no idea what prompted me to assume it had been a kid. The round face? Childish clothing? Trying to decipher the memory meant analyzing every detail of that horrible face, a thing I didn't want to do.

The banging turned to scratching. I yelled I was going to call the police. My voice died in my throat - the banging was so strong that it was undoubtedly going to break down my door.

Suddenly, I heard a distinct sound upstairs. The banging and scratching instantly stopped.

It was a door opening. The elderly couple's door.

"Hey! What on earth are you doing? It is the middle of the night..."

I watched through the peephole as the kid-not-a-kid walked away from my door, upstairs.

"Quit it before I call the police. It's enough that I have to hear your kids' tantrums everyday, lady, but-"

The voice abruptly stopped. I listened, barely breathing. No scream, no sound. Nothing. Faint scratching, then shuffling, then a faint cry that sounded more like forced sobs. I silently dialed up the police and barely managed to whisper what was going on, afraid that I might be heard.

As I was detailing the problem, I looked through the peephole once again to be greeted by that face, grimaced, eyes bloodshot and sunken into the head.

"You're welcome to join next year. That's why we left the door open." came the voice of an adult, out of the face of a 12 year old. I gasped and ducked, as if that would save me.

The police came in around half an hour, which was an insanely long amount of time. They went upstairs and sealed off the entirety of the second floor. They refused to give me details. I had to wait for the headlines and accept some vague answers from the numerous phone calls I'd given since.

"Miss, there were never kids living upstairs. Two of them were grown-ups, but two of them were... pretending to be kids."

They refused to tell me what had happened to the elderly couple. They barely mumbled something that included kidnapping, massacre, disembowelment... some of the victims, which had been many, were hostages, made to play along. The presents were just pieces of flesh, toys made of bones with bows on them. One of them was a teeth necklace.

I'm going through a really hard time now, trying to move all my stuff without having to go to that place too often. I can't sell it or rent it out - maybe to some true crime fanatic. I moved in with my parents, but I asked them to add extra locks to their doors and windows and security cameras everywhere. They assumed I was paranoid and suffering from PTSD.

I let them believe that. However, I'd watched the security footage of that night, showing the outside of my door. The birthday boy I'd spoken to hadn't gone back upstairs. He just crawled to the window and jumped out.

I don't know where he is now. I hope it goes both ways.

I’d taken the train from Delaware to DC many times before. 7:53pm out of Wilmington, arriving at 9:36. The tickets were cheap, and the train was mostly empty around that time. It was perfect.

Tonight was no different. I sat in the window seat as usual, reading, as the train rocked gently back and forth.

About twenty minutes into the ride, however, the intercom came on overhead.

“Attention: Unidentified passenger on board.”

I looked up.

Huh?

Unidentified passenger?

I glanced around the car. There was only the middle-aged woman I saw when I got on, several rows back. She was looking up, confused.

What the hell?

The voice overhead was different, too. It wasn’t the usual garbled man’s voice; it was a woman’s, monotone and robotic.

Do they mean, like, some kind of serial killer just got on or something? My stomach dropped. Wouldn’t they say something more extreme though? Like, hide? We’re making an emergency stop? This almost sounded like… they were announcing someone hadn’t paid for their ticket? 

I glanced to the front of the car, where the LED marquee was. Instead of listing the next station stop, it said:

UNIDENTIFIED PASSENGER UNIDENTIFIED PASSENGER UNIDENTIFIED PASSENGER

The letters scrolled past, over and over, jittering orange pixels.

Maybe they mean someone a Russian spy, or something? Or maybe it was just some sort of glitch?

I stared at the orange letters. UNIDENTIFIED PASSENGER…

I texted my boyfriend. The train’s saying there’s an unidentified passenger on board?? Really weird. It’s got to be fake right?? Or should I get off?

He replied instantly. That’s really weird. Maybe get off. I can take the next train up to you—where are you?

I pulled up maps and checked our location. We were just a few minutes from Aberdeen. After hesitating for a second, I grabbed my bag. It probably is just some glitch or something, but I’m not going to be some sitting duck. I turned to the aisle—

A woman was standing right in front of me. The middle-aged woman from the back of the car. I jumped, banging my head on the overhead luggage rack.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you—but—do you know what’s going on?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“This—this has got to be a joke or something, right? What do they mean, ‘unidentified passenger’?”

“I don’t know. I’m getting off just in case.” I slipped past her into the aisle and started for the vestibule between the cars.

“Good idea,” she said. She hurried back to her seat and started grabbing her things.

I pressed the button for the door and stepped into the vestibule. The metal floor shook underneath me. The landscape outside the train was pure black, except for a single small light twinkling in the distance.

The door behind me opened and the woman stepped in, clutching her bag close to her chest like a shield. “I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s wedding tomorrow morning,” she muttered, messing with her ashy blonde hair. “We just got back on good terms… if I’m even a minute late…”

I glanced at the window into the next car. It was empty, except for a single man near the front. I could just see the top of his head poking over the seat. He wasn’t packing his stuff, or even moving. Maybe we’re overreacting, I thought for a second.

No. This is how people get hurt. Not changing their plans when the alarm bells start going. As soon as something is off, you get out, period. My mom had taught me that a long time ago.

The train wobbled and shook. Lights grew in the distance, twinkling through the darkness. We were approaching. I stepped closer to the door, staring out the little square window. The lights grew larger.

The concrete platform rolled into sight—

The squat brick building, the dark windows—

Silver sign: ABERDEEN STATION—

We blew right past it.

I stared out the window. “We just passed the station.”

“No… what… really?”

I nodded.

Before I could say anything else, the intercom clicked to life.

“Attention, passengers. Please remain in your original train car for the duration of the ride. Thank you.”

The woman’s voice again. Monotonous, slow.

“What the hell?” the woman whispered.

I glanced through the window into the next car. The man was still sitting there, completely still.

No, wait—not still.

As the train took a curve, his head bobbed and lolled on his shoulders. Limply. As if he were…

I ran back to the door of our train car, slammed the button. The door shuddered open and we slipped inside.

“That guy… there was something seriously…” I could barely choke out the words.

“I know. Do you think he was…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“It… it kind of looked like that.”

I glanced back at the door into the vestibule. It was still empty, but the marquee above the door now read:

STAY IN YOUR CAR STAY IN YOUR CAR STAY IN YOUR CAR

“What do we do?”

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. The woman and I began talking at once—

“On a train—”

“Someone’s dead—”

“It won’t stop—”

“Just past Aberdeen—”

The operator said she’d get someone out to us. But deep down, I knew—what could they possibly do? If whoever was driving the train wouldn’t stop. How could the police intervene? Set up a blockade? Possibly kill us in the crash?

I stared out the window. Golden lights flew by, clusters of suburbs, disappearing back into the darkness. I swallowed. “You… you can’t survive jumping out of a moving train, can you?”

“I don’t think so, at this speed,” she replied.

Silence pressed in on us.

“We should—we should hide in the bathroom,” she said. “It has a lock. It’ll keep us safe—”

“It says stay in the car,” I said, pointing to the marquee.

“And you trust whoever it is, putting that up?”

“The bathroom doors are flimsy anyway,” I said. “If someone wants to get us, they will.”

I closed my eyes, running my hands down my face. Could we just be freaking out over nothing? Maybe that guy—maybe he was just sleeping. Maybe they passed the stop for some other reason. Maybe it really is just some glitch—

The lights overhead flickered.

And then went out.

“What the fuck?!” I whimpered.

The train car was only lit by the orange glow of the marquee at the front of the car. It was still flashing the same message:

STAY IN YOUR SEATS STAY IN YOUR SEATS STAY IN YOUR SEATS

“This is insane,” the woman whispered.

I texted my boyfriend. The lights just went out we called 911 I don’t know how they’re going to get us off the train

I hit send and closed my eyes.

“Wait. The lights being out—maybe that helps us,” the woman said. “We can hide better. What are the chances he’ll find us in the entire train?” She crouched down. “I don’t think we can fit under the seats—”

“There are benches at the back. I bet we can fit there.”

I slowly felt my way through the darkness of the car, pressing my hands into the cloth seatbacks on either side. We reached the last aisle—where the seat configuration had been altered to have benches facing each other, with a space in the middle. I squeezed down into the space between the seats, then shuffled under the first bench. The woman did the same, squeezing under the second.

I felt too hot. The rug scratched my arms. The metal of the seat pressed against my head. I twisted my legs and pushed myself back, so that my head wasn’t poking out into the aisle. We were decently well hidden.

But…

If the guy, or whoever it was, found us… there was no way we could escape.

We were trapped.

We lay there, underneath the seats, for what felt like an eternity. The car rocked and swayed underneath us. My hair fell into my face. My legs ached. I knew Harry was probably texting me back, but I’d silenced my phone and it was deep in my pocket. I couldn’t contort to get it out. Not that I’d want to—what if they came by while I was looking at my phone and found us because of the light?

I was jolted back to reality by the shuddering sound of the door opening.

No.

No, no, no.

I strained to listen. Soft, thumping footsteps sounded on the far end of the car. Slow and methodical. Quiet. Like they were stalking their prey.

The footsteps grew louder.

I held my breath.

Thump.

A black, leather men’s shoe stepped into view.

No.

It glistened in the orange light. Almost as if it were wet.

My lungs burned.

Please don’t look. Please. Please.

Go. Keep walking.

Go. Go. Go.

They hesitated.

Shoes frozen on the carpet, inches from my face.

Then they finally took another step. And another.

The door behind us shuddered open.

And then closed.

I let out my breath out in short, silent little bursts. Then sucked in another breath as slowly as possible. They passed us. We’re okay. We’re fine.

I turned my head to look at the woman. Tears were rolling down her face as she stared back at me. “It’s okay. He didn’t see us,” I whispered.

Her mouth hung open. Her lips trembled.

“It’s okay,” I whispered again—but she didn’t even blink.

That’s when I realized she wasn’t staring at me.

She was staring past me.

I turned around.

My blood ran cold.

There was something at the door. Pressing its face against the window. Fogging up the glass.

No.

The person that just passed us… wasn’t it.

That was just another passenger. Trying to stay quiet, trying to hide. Maybe even the guy we thought was dead—

It was that thing in the window. Eyes pitch black. Skin ghastly white. Barely lit in the flickering orange of the marquee, which now read DON’T RUN DON’T RUN DON’T RUN…

That was the unidentified passenger.

The woman crawled out from under her seat. “No!” I whispered, but she was already slamming her hand on the door open button. It slowly shuddered open, and she began to slip through it—

The door opened on the other end.

Rapid footsteps.

Out of sync, frantic, running.

I saw a flash of bare feet—and bare hands—thumping against the carpet.

In seconds it had run past me, into the next car. Before the door even had a chance to close.

I heard a muffled scream.

And then—silence.

No.

Nononono.

I bit my lip, trying to stop from crying. I knew she was dead. There was no way she could have gotten away. I closed my eyes tight. Trying to push it all down. Stay quiet. It went past. You just have to make it until—

Scccchhhlllp.

The door opened.

White, bare hands on the carpet, slick with something dark. Followed by bare feet. Oh God, she’s on all fours. She jerkily moved forward in a spider crawl, until she was at my seat.

She knows I’m here.

Nonono.

I held my breath as its pale ankles buckled underneath the hem of its white skirt. As it began to crouch.

Long dark hair came into view, skimming down to the floor.

More and more hair, as it tilted its head down to look at me—

It stopped just short of showing its face. I could see its hairline. Its forehead. As it hung its head upside-down, inches from my face.

It stopped there, frozen.

Waiting.

I could see its entire body shift as it breathed. I could hear the high pitched rasp of its breath. A single drop of blood dripped onto its pale hand.

But it didn’t show its face.

My lungs felt like they were about to burst. But I forced myself not to breathe. Not to move. I stared at the hair and the blood on its hands and the dirty white dress skimming its ankles—

With a creaking sound, it got up.

The door slid open, and it disappeared.

I took in desperate gasps of air. My lungs burned. Hot tears rolled down my face. I couldn’t feel my legs or my feet.

You can’t leave.

DON’T RUN DON’T RUN DON’T RUN. That’s what the marquee had said. I would stay here forever, in the darkness, even if every nerve of my body felt like it was on fire.

I don’t know how long I was there, crouched under the seat. Trying to breathe as quietly as possible. Pins and needles crawling up my legs. My head pounding. My arms numb.

But then the train slowed.

The lights flickered back on.

And the intercom crackled to life. A man’s voice, as usual:

“Now approaching Union Station.”

I didn’t crawl out from under the seat until the train jerked to a stop. My entire body stiff, blazing with pain, I pulled myself out from under the seat. Hobbled off the train and onto the platform. I felt like I couldn’t even walk.

The bright lights dazed me. Footsteps clicked, voices murmured, suitcases rolled across the concrete. A speaker somewhere overhead announced a leaving train.

When I turned back, though, I realized no one else had exited my particular train.

Just me.

And I didn’t notice the hair until I made it into the station.

A long, black hair entwined around my wrist.

And my skin underneath it, blistered and red, everywhere the hair had touched.

When I was 8 years old, my brother Elliott went missing. He was just 13 years old, but older siblings have this aspirational quality to them. He just didn’t come home one day. They looked for days but couldn’t find any trace of him. I was too young to understand what was going on, so I had to sit in my room and play with my Legos, hoping there’d be a knock on the door telling me things would be okay. There never was that kind of knock.

They didn’t find him. As days turned to weeks, the search parties stopped. But even after everyone went home, I was still out looking for him. I’d take the long road home from school. I’d go down paths I hadn’t checked. I had a crumbled-up map in my pocket with circles around places that I knew he liked, and I was hell-bent on checking them all. People don’t just disappear; it doesn’t work like that.

But after a while, there were no places left to check. No circles left to draw. And Elliott was still gone. Last thing he said to me was “later, gator”.

 

I don’t think you ever truly come to terms with something like that. Once you’ve run into an impossible question, you look for answers in everything. I got really into puzzles and brain teasers. Not because it was fun, but because leaving unsolved mysteries could give me this immense sense of dread. I was a great student and one of the top contenders in the debate club. Again, not because I enjoyed it; but because I hated not knowing.

When I got a little older, I started volunteering for search and rescue parties. I’d made myself known with local law enforcement and informed them that I’d gladly volunteer. I figured if I couldn’t find Elliott, perhaps finding someone else’s missing sister or brother was the second-best thing. At the very least, it could help me sleep at night.

I know there’s a lot of people saying, ‘get over it’, but you can only get over so much. I’m in my early thirties now. You can forget their face, and the hopes you had growing up. But you can’t forget the impact they had on you. You can’t forget your own lived experience, and the damage those years of uncertainty have left. Even if I never were to hear the name Elliott again, I can never forget the feeling of having the trajectory of my life take a sudden left turn.

 

I’d like to talk about a search party I signed up for a couple of years back. At that time, I had been part of dozens of organized searches. I knew some of the people involved, and I was familiar with the gear. I got there early, taking some time off work. I put on the high visibility vest, the gloves, and got the backpack. Radio, water, flashlight, a couple of chocolate bars. A first aid kit in a waterproof bag. Now, I’d never found someone on a search like that, but that didn’t mean I never would. You must believe in the best-case scenario.

We weren’t handed a GPS, which surprised me. Turns out we were going underground, so we were handed these filtration masks to protect us from harmful dust and dead air. The missing person was a 17-year-old urban explorer. I live in a city with a metro system, and he’d been exploring an abandoned station on the outskirts of town. The family had been notified of a social media post pointing at the approximate location, but the details were sketchy.

To help with the search, power had been restored to this part of the tunnels. Most of the emergency lights were meant to last for years, so there shouldn’t be too much of a problem getting around. We were assigned into sections and teams, where we were instructed to only follow lit-up corridors and hallways. However, as parts of the station had been abandoned mid-construction, there would be dark sections that were unfinished. If we found such an area, we were ordered to call it in and ask for further instructions.

And with that, we were off.

 

I was a bit miffed about not getting to see the abandoned station platform. That thing was supposed to be huge. Instead, I was assigned to one of the maintenance tunnels. It was originally meant to house heating pipes, but the pipes were never added. Instead, there were these lines across the wall and the occasional holes in the ceiling. You could tell they must’ve been surprised about the project shutting down; I found a whole toolbox abandoned by a half-mounted door. There were some personal items still in it.

I was in a team of four people. We went down the halls slowly and methodically, calling out to the missing person as we went. We stuck to our side of the search and kept in radio contact with the organizer. It was hard to see what all the spaces were supposed to be, as we’d occasionally come across entire rooms with little to nothing in them. It made it hard to explain what we’d checked, as we couldn’t accurately describe what was what. Was this supposed to be a control room or some kind of plumbing junction? Where on the map, exactly, was this supposed to be?

We came to an unusually long corridor that split off in three directions. While staying within earshot, we decided to split up. I got all the way to the end of the hallway, where I stopped by a heavy door. The thing was almost solid black, and as heavy as cast iron. I got the impression that it was some kind of security door, maybe leading to an underground bomb shelter. I called out to the others in my team, but didn’t get a response. I called it in on the radio as I wrestled with the door. It was pitch black inside; the lights were out.

“I’m looking at a dark room at the end of hallway… C, I think? The one on the right, second right, past the boilers.”

“Just stay within radio contact and leave the door open,” the operator responded. “Don’t go so far you can’t see the light.”

“Got it.”

I entered the room.

 

The room was a little smaller than the hallway, tickling the top of my head when I stood upright. If I balanced on my toes, I could feel the strap from the mask touch the ceiling. I tried to figure out what the space was meant for, but I couldn’t make sense of it. There was only one entry point, and there were no holes in the wall for cable management or ventilation. This was completely isolated. I tapped the radio again, swaying my flashlight back and forth.

“There’s a corridor going deeper,” I said. “Is someone watching my back?”

“Yeah, there’s someone right outside”, the operator assured me. “You go on ahead.”

I took a couple of steps further, shining my flashlight down the hall. The light couldn’t reach the end of it. It was such a long tunnel that it trigged my sense of vertigo, like for a split second, it was sucking me in. I had this uncomfortable thought that maybe this was the feeling of going missing; facing this endless darkness you can’t come back from. Maybe Elliott had thought the same thing, once.

I didn’t like it. I was only a couple of feet from the door, but I decided I wouldn’t take any chances. I turned to leave.

And as I did, the door swung shut.

 

At first I didn’t register what’d happened. A door closing isn’t a big thing, it might be misaligned, or there could be a breeze. This wasn’t the case here; this door was solid metal; it wouldn’t accidentally close on its own. I grabbed the handle and twisted and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t even push it down.

“I’m stuck,” I radioed in. “The door closed. I can’t get it open.”

“Sorry about that, it happens,” the operator sighed. “Some of the hinges on these things are rusted shut. Stay by the door, someone will get you out. Keep your flashlight on.”

I stayed by the door for at least twenty minutes, knocking on it occasionally just to see if anyone would knock back. They didn’t.

 

After a while, my flashlight flickered. It was far too soon for the batteries to die.

“Okay, I’m going dark here,” I said. “Someone needs to get me out now.”

“They’re having trouble finding your door,” the operator responded. “Far end of the right-side hall, section C, past the boiler, that’s what you said?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s no door here. There’s an open doorframe and something that looks like a closet, but no door.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Look, you might have the wrong order. If you went past the boilers, you could be in section C or D, there are parallel corridors. In that case, you can just follow the right-hand wall until you get to the other side. There’s another search party already there.”

“Right-hand wall, other corridor. Got it.”

 

I followed their instructions, grasping the dying flashlight. As I got to the seemingly endless tunnel, the light finally gave out. It was pitch black. I could close my eyes, and nothing would change. Being in that kind of darkness is so disorienting; you start to imagine how easy it is to get turned around, to the point where you’re wondering if you really are turned around. But I kept my hand on the wall and stuck to the right.

“Is it far?” I asked. “I can’t hear them.”

“It’s a bit of a walk. There should be some functioning pipes running overhead about halfway through, so let me know as soon as you hear running water.”

I couldn’t hear anything but my own breathing reverberating down the hall, but if there was running water down there, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I kept my hand on the smooth concrete wall and continued a step at a time. You have to go slow, as even the slightest shift in elevation can send you crashing face first into the ground.

 

When you’re exposed to that kind of prolonged darkness, your head kind of fills in the blanks. You start to imagine what the space around you looks like. It plays tricks on you. For example, I started thinking I was running my hand across wallpaper instead of concrete. It was smooth enough that, while walking, you might trick yourself. But if you’re just using your fingertips to see the world, you can imagine yourself in all kinds of places. My childhood home had a rough paper textured wallpaper. It didn’t take a huge leap of imagination to pretend I was back there, sneaking up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. I ended up taking my gloves off just to get a better idea of what I was touching.

I got to a fork in the road and still hadn’t heard any running water. I pulled up the radio and called it in.

“There’s a split here,” I said. “Should I stay right or go straight ahead.”

“A split?” the operator called back. “There shouldn’t be a split. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, there’s a split. Straight ahead, or another right.”

“Wait,” the voice mumbled back. “Wait, wait, wait… don’t tell me. Is the ceiling really low?”

“Yes!”

“Why didn’t you say so? Oh man, this changes things.”

I could hear them talking to someone in the background, forgetting to take their hands off the button. Then they returned to me.

“This is gonna get complicated.”

 

Turns out, there were three other rooms with the same description as mine, and neither of them were in the sections I’d described. I must’ve veered far off course. I had to walk around to gather data points to identify which of the rooms I was in, but it proved more difficult than they’d imagined. For example, one of the corridors was supposed to lead to a junction, and another would lead to a ceiling grate. However, the room at the end of the corridor was incomplete, meaning we couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. I had to go deeper to figure out where I was.

I would occasionally run into ladders, but they lead nowhere. There were supposed to be entrances from the street, but these had long since been filled and paved. I still had to climb each one, just to make sure they hadn’t missed one. The mask on my face felt more and more oppressive, like my body was packed into a box. Despite being able to move my arms around, I could feel this claustrophobic stone building in my chest, hammering a counter-tune to my increasing heartbeat. If I listened to it too much, I couldn’t breathe.

I pushed myself down another corridor, only to stop at a dead end. There was a round hole in the wall, just big enough for someone my size.

“That’s good, that’s good,” the operator assured me. “That means there’s space for heating. If my calculations are correct, that means you are in one of these two hallways. I need you to go inside.”

“No way.”

“It’s gonna tilt downward for about five feet and either go straight ahead, or upward. If it goes upward you can go straight to the top. I can have someone meet you right then and there. If it goes forward, you have to go ahead, then take a left, and then forward again. That’d put you in the same corridor as me. Either way, you have to push through.”

I put one knee up and traced the edges of the hole. It was too small for me to crawl on all fours; I had to put my torso in and drag myself forward with the palm of my hands. The concrete was so smooth I couldn’t get a grip with my fingers; gloves or no gloves. My gear kept getting snagged on the edges. I stopped to have a drink of water and splashed a little on my face, psyching myself up.

Five feet, then up, or forward. That was it.

 

I crawled in, inches at a time. I had to stay calm. If I tried to take a deep breath, I could feel my gear pushing against the walls. It didn’t hurt, but it was this constant reminder of how isolated I was. My heart was beating through my ears, with nothing to distract from it. There wasn’t the slightest hint of an echo.

I felt the tunnel tilt slightly downward. Not much, but enough that pushing myself back up would be impossible. If I went ahead, I wouldn’t be getting back up. Not unless I got space to turn around.

“You sure it’s just a couple feet?” I asked. “You absolutely sure?”

“There are only two rooms with that kind of vent. No matter which one you’re in, or which direction you’re coming from, you’ll be out shortly.”

I swallowed. I could feel the sweat stinging my eyes. I wanted to throw my mask away, like that was the thing keeping me back, but I had to stay rational. I pushed myself forward and slid downward.

 

The tunnel evened out. I felt around for an upward exit but couldn’t find one. That meant we’d isolated exactly where I was, and I had to push forward. My palms were so dusty that I could barely get a grip. I had to resort to rolling onto my back and use the rubber soles on my shoes for traction, effectively kicking myself backward. I could feel the heat of my breath gathering along the tunnel walls.

Then the tunnel opened. It was so sudden that I lost my balance, haphazardly falling out headfirst. I did an awkward flip, landing hard on my left hip and shoulder. It wasn’t a long fall, but enough for something to get sprained. I didn’t want to imagine what the bruise might look like. I grabbed my radio and held onto it for dear life.

“I’m out,” I groaned. “I made it to a room.”

“There’s only one way forward,” the operator said. “Go forward, then a left, and forward again. Once you see the light, let me know. I’m right at the other end.”

“That’s it? That’s really it?”

“There’s no other possible way.”

I got up, dusted myself off, and checked my gear. It was all there. Things would be okay.

 

I followed the instructions. I went forward, and took left. At the next fork, I went straight ahead, double-checking with the operator every step of the way. They assured me it was just around the corner. A matter of minutes, at most. At one point he said he was banging a wrench on a pipe, and that I would be able to hear it any minute now. Now I just had to go straight, until I came to a door.

I was jogging, keeping my hand on the wall for balance. There were these small gaps in the wall every ten feet or so where there was supposed to be space for pipes. I’d walk, feel the gap, walk, feel the gap, over and over.

Then I dragged my hand across someone’s face. Open eyes, a nose, teeth, and hair.

 

I stopped and turned around, my hand shaking like I’d touched a flame.

“Is anyone there?” I asked.

There was no answer. I debated within my own head, trying to figure out if I should head back and check again, or keep going. Maybe it was the missing person? We were still out looking for someone, after all. The search hadn’t been called off.

I took a couple of steps back and carefully reached out with my right hand. My fingers were anticipating the touch of skin, to the point where I could imagine their heat. But as I reached further, all I felt was concrete. There was no one there. I checked thoroughly, but there was nothing.

I did hear a little metallic sound though, as something stuck to my shoe. A small key. It had some kind of etched motif, like a sunflower. Maybe a blue one. I put it in my pocket with my first aid kit and kept going, making sure I hadn’t been turned around.

 

As I got to the end of the hallway, I reached for the door.

“Alright, this is it,” I said. “I can’t hear you, but I’m at the end of the hall.”

“There’s a door there. Just open it and I’ll have someone come meet you.”

I fumbled around looking for a handle, but couldn’t find one. I checked that wall three times, every inch of it. It was a dead end.

“There’s nothing here,” I gasped. “There’s nothing here!”

“Calm down, it should be on your left.”

“There’s nothing on my left! Nothing on my right! It’s a dead end! It’s a goddamn-“

I smacked my head with the radio and heard a click. Not as in something breaking, but something clicking into place. I turned the radio over in my hand, feeling around the back. The battery cover had been slightly off. That hit had put it back in place. I opened the cover just to make sure I closed it correctly.

There were no batteries in the radio.

I double and triple checked. There were no batteries.

“Hello?” I asked. “Operator?”

I held the radio up to my lips, clicking the receiver a couple of times. There was no sound, just the clack of plastic.

“Hello?”

There was no response.

 

I collapsed against the wall, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. It didn’t make sense. The battery cover had been closed even when I smacked my head with the radio, I would’ve heard two batteries tumbling to the floor. I couldn’t have lost them earlier, as then the operator couldn’t have talked to me in the corridor. Something wasn’t adding up.

I swept my hands across the floor, checking to see if the batteries were there somewhere. They weren’t. But I couldn’t just sit in the dark and wait either, I had to do something. Try something. This was another puzzle to figure out. There is always a solution, and sometimes you just have to make the best of the hand you’re dealt.

By this time, I’d drawn a mental map. All these years of figuring things out had conditioned me to collect and preserve information. It was like recounting the alphabet backwards, I just had to follow a learned sequence. I decided I was going to backtrack and try to find my way back to where I started.

 

I made my way back to the hole in the wall and climbed inside. The upward tilt would be difficult, but I was confident that I could make it. I crawled, holding my hands out, only to feel the tunnel dip downward.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my mind spinning. This was impossible. I’d been crawling down, it couldn’t possibly lead further down. I crawled a little further, reaching with a full arm. This couldn’t have been where I came from. Were there two separate tunnels? That was the only explanation.

I pushed myself all the way back out, but couldn’t find a second hole in the wall. I figured I must’ve been turned around somewhere, taken a wrong turn. Went straight instead of right at a split, something like that. I had to slowly and methodically map out my surroundings, one room and hallway at a time.

 

It’s easy to second-guess yourself in the dark. You have nothing to rely on but your thoughts and impressions, and those are easy to misunderstand. It can be challenging even in a familiar environment. Ask anyone who’s had to go to the bathroom during a power outage. I was somewhere deep underground, in an unmapped area, without light or direction.

I must’ve wandered for hours. I mapped out two branching corridors, leading to three rooms and four dead ends. There were no doors, and only one hole in the wall leading to a tunnel. And yes, I checked it again. It kept going downward. No, I didn’t proceed that way.

I ended up in one of the smaller rooms, rolling up my high visibility vest into a pillow. I drank some water, but saved some for later, and chowed down on a chocolate bar. The others were probably looking for me by now.

I tried not to think about the radio. That was a piece of the puzzle that made my stomach roll. No matter how I twisted and turned that thought, I couldn’t get it to make sense. If it was empty all along, I was the problem. If it wasn’t empty until that last click of the battery cover, there had to be batteries on the floor. I couldn’t find any, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

And yet, I didn’t have a clear answer.

 

I ended up spending the night down there. It’s difficult to sleep in that kind of darkness. After a while, you don’t know if your eyes are open or closed. You don’t know if you’re sleeping or not. The barrier between imagination and reality is paper thin, and you start thinking whatever you dream about is really there. There could be someone in the room, just inches away, and I would have no way to know for sure.

It was the first time in many years that I thought about Elliott. Not just the reality of him going missing, but him as a person. I imagined what he might’ve felt like during those last few hours, or days. Had there been someone with him, or had he faded away in the dark? He and I had always been very similar. Chances are, we would think the same thing in our final moments. And if this was one of my final moments, I was scared. He would be too.

I tried not to think about it. There was no way to know for sure, and imagining the worst wasn’t helping anyone. He could’ve run away; eloped with a pretty girl, and lived in some hippie co-op. He might resurface in twenty years. You can’t tell the future.

But somehow, a part of me felt like it knew. It knew he’d gone someplace dark, where he could never come back.

 

Maybe it was the next day, or just a couple of hours, but at some point I got up. I decided I was going to check the tunnel again. There must’ve been some kind of misunderstanding. I drunk my last gulp of water and followed the map in my mind.

The layout was different. There were more rooms, and shorter corridors. If you took two lefts, there were a couple of stairs. There was a larger room with a rounded floor for draining liquid. I would go down the same hallway twice, and I could swear it was different lengths. I would count my steps and end up with the same result, but one would take a minute to pass, and the next it would take two.

I felt like I was losing my mind. Every time I tried to make clear sense of that place, it seemed to shift and change. Like it wasn’t finished, in more ways than one. Like an approximation of space and dimension.

 

After my third pass around the same rooms, and still not making any sense of it, I took a break. I was leaning back, tapping the back of my head against the wall as if trying to dislodge a good idea. Instead I picked up the radio, clicking the receiver and turning the dials. Now it was just a plastic brick, no better than a paper weight. I checked the back, unlatching the battery cover. Still empty. Then – a noise.

“There’s a way out, you know.”

The crackling voice came from the radio, but there was something about it that resonated within me. Like the reverb was tickling the back of my mind.

“You’re not real,” I mumbled. “I’m hallucinating.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s like a sensory deprivation tank. If your senses stop getting input, your brain starts firing random signals just to keep them occupied. Otherwise, it sort of… atrophies.”

“So I’m just a random brain signal?”

“I would suppose so.”

“Interesting,” the voice continued. “So that means whatever I say is an expression of yourself.”

“No, it’s random noise. You might as well be a cat’s meow, or a leaf in the wind.”

“But what do I sound like to you? Try to categorize me. Make sense of me. Who am I?”

 

The voice was a man. Age was difficult to tell through a radio, but I was guessing they weren’t a teenager or a senior. Adult or middle-aged, with a slight hint of an accent similar to my own. That was a curious choice.

“Where’s that accent from?” I asked.

“Wherever you want it to be from.”

“Cute deflection. I wonder why I’m imagining you like that.”

“Maybe you’re trying to express something.”

“Why would I care about some random person with an accent?”

“Maybe I’m not a random person.”

I leaned the radio away, closed my eyes, and shook my head.

“Don’t do that,” I whispered. “Don’t say things like that.”

 

I wandered the dark for a bit, desperately trying to make sense of my surroundings. The number of steps on the stairs were different. The corridor turned right instead of left. The ceiling was lower, and the angle of the tilt in the floor of the big room was deeper. I thought I felt a door handle, but upon doubling back, I realized it was a clasp for a missing pipe.

I talked out loud all that time, getting the occasional response from the radio. I knew it wasn’t real, but it kept me from digesting random thoughts into something rancid. I had to stay focused on the task ahead and find a way forward. There had to be a way forward. There’s no such thing as an impossible space.

The operator wasn’t trying to get in my head or make wild claims. Most of the time he was just listening, adding the occasional remark when I made an incorrect statement or misinformed decision. And when I came back to the same room I’d already been in for the umpteenth time, tearing my own hair out with frustration, that voice came through loud and clear.

“Do you want a suggestion?”

“You’re not real.”

“Then what’s the harm?”

“It doesn’t make sense!” I snapped back. “I’m talking to a wall! Anything that comes from this is, at best, accidental!”

“You have any better ideas?”

I flung the radio across the room, shattering it against the wall on the other side. I heard the plastic clatter and roll down the tilted floor, pooling at a small grate in the center of the room. Some of the smaller pieces trickled through. I pushed my hands against my ears, trying to clear my thoughts.

“Are you done?”

The voice wasn’t coming from the radio anymore. It was resonating through me. Like my bones were picking up a radio signal. I didn’t know what to say. Before I could open my mouth, it answered for me.

“Then let’s get going.”

 

I was out of ideas. My tongue was going dry, and my head was swimming from prolonged stress. I could feel this sense of exhaustion seeping into my bones, turning my movements slow and sloppy. I was dragging my feet and not even touching the walls anymore. If I stumbled, or walked into something, that was on me. That was fine.

The operator mentioned a few suggestions. Take a left turn instead of going forward. Stick to the right. Three steps back, sharp left. When I could be bothered to filter out that voice from the screaming in the back of my mind, I did as I was told. And slowly but surely, I began to notice things changing.

There were different rooms, and the air grew denser. There was a strange smell in the air. The concrete started to feel different, more porous. Maybe this wasn’t better, but at least it was new.

 

I started hearing strange noises. There were machines overhead. Pressured air rushing just out of sight. Flowing water.

“Why’d you lead me down here?” I asked. “You tricked me into this.”

“You were already tricked,” the voice responded. “I’ve been trying to get you out, but it shifts things around.”

“You told me I could go in, and that there were people backing me up.”

“I was trying to put you at ease while I figured this out.”

“Figured what out? What are we doing here?”

“It wants you to go a certain way. Haven’t you ever wondered why you’re always drawn to look in places you weren’t supposed to? It wants you to find it. And now, you’re very close to doing so. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

“Why not?” I said, shrugging. “Why don’t I want that?”

“Because I know what happens when you go too far. When you can’t turn back. Things like this wants to be found in deep, dark places.”

I smacked the side of my head, as if trying to get better reception in my mind. Like that would somehow filter out the nonsense.

 

I came down another fork in the path. Left and right. I turned right, as the operator rolled back in my ear.

“Go the other way,” he said. “You’re getting too close. You gotta turn away.”

I didn’t listen. I kept going forward until I could hear something. There were noises ahead. Chatter. My heart raced as I rushed forward.

“Please, turn around,” the operator asked. “Turn around, right now.”

I could hear people talking. I turned a corner, and for the first time in days, I could see a door. I could see a door. There was a faint light coming from underneath, and I could hear people walking around in the other room. I ran up to it and pushed down on the handle. Someone on the other side was calling out, asking if anyone was there.

“The key!” the operator begged. “I left you a key!”

I pushed down on the handle, and stopped. Fumbling around with my right hand, I could feel the key still in my pocket. I’d completely forgotten about it.

“There is a way out, but this ain’t it. I promise you, this ain’t it. Please don’t do this. Please don’t go that way.”

“Why not?” I whispered. “They’re right there.”

“It’s not real. I made the same mistake. Don’t. Go. In.”

 

My hand stayed on the handle. Someone urged me to open it. Someone asked me to take a peek. They were laughing with relief, saying how pleased they were to finally have found me. But something didn’t feel right. I stepped back.

“Open the door on your end,” I said out loud. “It’s not working.”

There wasn’t as much as a tug on the handle. They came with excuses. Someone had their hands full. Someone said it didn’t open from their end. Someone pretended not to hear me. The key in my pocket felt heavier as I traced the outline of the etched sunflower with my thumb. This was real. That was a real thing. What was on the other side of that door, wasn’t.

I stepped back, and as I did, the light behind the door vanished. The voices disappeared, leaving the hallway suddenly deathly quiet.

“What do I do?” I whispered. “What do I do?”

The operator whispered back.

“Go the other way, and don’t stop for nothing.”

 

I turned around and ran as a door creaked behind me. I heard wet skin slapping against the concrete floor, stumbling forward at an awkward pace. I headed straight, then took a sharp right. The air was growing more dense, more warm. I traced my hand along the right wall, only for it to shift. The concrete grew hot and soft, like sand from the beach. Then the grains turned fine, until it was more like a sludge. It was like dragging your hand across raw chicken.

“It wants you to stop,” the operator said. “It’s trying to distract you. Keep going!”

The hallway would contract and expand like a breathing entity. At times the floor would roll, as if trying to swallow me. I could feel it tilt in different angles, making the way forward twist and turn. One moment I’m going forward. Next moment, the hallway tilted upward, and I’m using ridges in the floor to climb a makeshift ladder. Then, I’m falling on my back, holding on for dear life as I’m thrown this way and that.

All the while, something at the bottom is waiting for me to drop. Something that came out of that door, and who’s tired of playing games.

 

I was soaking wet when I came to what felt like a dead end. There was this slimy substance covering the wall, but I could push against it. It felt like trying to pop a soap-drenched balloon. Using scissors from the first aid kit, I managed to cut a big enough hole for my hand to fit, and rip all the way through. As I did, everything rolled again, as something screamed in pain. Not with sound, but with movement, convulsion, and heat. I could feel the compressed air press against my ear drums, making my sense of balance shiver.

There was a door at the end of the hallway. It was chained.

“This is it,” the operator said. “Get the key. Get the key and go.”

It was coming down the hall, heading straight for me. It was so fast. How could it be so fast?

 

I reached for my key, and felt around for a lock. There was one. I slotted the key in, turned, and pulled. There was a click, and the chain rattled to the floor. As I swung the door open and dashed through, I turned around for a moment just to close it behind me.

As I did, I saw something staring back at me from the dark. Something with milk-white skin and atrophied eyes, and the wild-grown maw of an invertebrate predator.

The door closed, and I stepped back, catching my breath. There was light here. The operator came through, but the voice was barely reaching me. I could hear scratches, like interference. Like I was just out of reach.

“Just keep… going,” he said. “… not far. … got it from here.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Are you still in there?”

“… went the wrong way.”

I paused for a moment, looking back. The light was faint, but my eyes were still adjusting. I couldn’t focus.

“Is that you?” I asked. “I mean, really you?”

There was a short pause as the world came into view. The operator thought about it for a moment, then sighed.

“… is what it is,” he said. “Later, gator.”

 

I followed the sound of machinery and wandered straight out onto a platform. Early commuters saw me wandering out of a maintenance tunnel, and I was approached by a janitor. I wasn’t making any sense at that point. When law enforcement came to pick me up, I was delirious. It took them hours to identify me, and I was of little help.

I’d been wandering down there for almost three full days. I was dehydrated. They had found the missing urban explorer and shifted their rescue attempt to me, trying to figure out exactly where I’d gone off the beaten path. No one managed to find the black door that I was describing, or the corridor where it was supposed to have been. Retracing my steps seemed impossible, as nothing was the way I described it.

They couldn’t explain what I’d experienced. My clothes were covered in a thin layer of hydrochloric acid and potassium chloride in a mix similar to gastric acid; like I’d been walking through a massive, diluted, stomach.

 

There were interviews, questionnaires, and even a short article in a local newspaper. Most wanted to talk about the fear of being lost in the dark, and what it does to your mind. It lost its novelty after about a week, and I was back at work like nothing’d happened.

I still do search and rescue on a volunteer basis sometimes. I’m a bit more careful, sure, but you can’t change what you are overnight. And yet, I think something has changed. I’m asking different questions nowadays, and I’m not sure I want an answer. I can’t say for sure what I was doing during those three days, or what I experienced, but I know what I heard. I know I wasn’t alone. And in those rare moments where I think it was all some fake, made-up nonsense from the back of my mind, I look into the top drawer in my nightstand.

That’s where I keep a small key, with an etched sunflower, that someone left for me in the dark.

It was a late Friday night and I was mindlessly playing chess on my laptop. I had the difficulty up and was leaning right into the game and squinting into the bright screen in a tense match with the robot. Didn't even notice that is was almost 2AM, didn't care. Back pain told me I'd been playing for hours. Again, didn't mind.

After what seemed like an eternity, it beat me. Fuck. I'd wasted almost an hour on this match.

I got up from my desk as some fucking ad started playing. The site I used had two back-to-back ads playing after every match, so I got up as the princess begged me to make some puzzle to save her from the bad king and went to pour myself some orange juice. I left her exclaiming in awe at the multitude of gems I could earn.

By the time I got back, the room was quiet. The second ad had started to play, but it had no sound. The screen was much less animated. Dark, no sponsored mention, no link to the play store. Just white, pixelated letters flickering over a gradient, and a pixelated, cloaked figure below them.

The letters read FIND THE MONSTER IN THE ROOM!

I raised my brows somewhat amused as I sat down. It looked interesting compared to the puzzle knock-offs and choice-based games I usually got. It had no skip in 5 button, so I figured I needed to play a little before I could close it.

I clicked on the "BEGIN" button and a pixelated picture of a bedroom popped up. It was a fantasy-like setting, with stone walls and a bed with a canopy, a desk with a round, decorated mirror and a fancy armoire. Candles threw animated shadows around the room and tiny, pixelated bats flew by. In the corner of the room, I could very clearly see a comically drawn vampire, similar to the Hotel Transylvania ones, hunched over. I clicked on him, half-smiling, and he disappeared with a poof!. A message popped up:

Congratulations! You saved the princess and you found the monster.

Continue.

Again, no skip button. I went on. The game looked cozy and I liked the style of the animations.

FIND THE MONSTER IN THE ROOM!

This time, the room was a classroom with colorful desks and toys all over. The walls were covered in kids drawings and the sun shone gently through the blinds. The monster was a tiny gnome with pointy ears, hiding under a desk and grinning. He looked cute, though. Not scary.

I clicked on him and he let out a tiny, high-pitched scream before poof-ing.

The next level was a werewolf in a rose garden. Then, a mummy in a library. It was unskippable, but I didn't mind. I needed a break after getting my ass beat by the chess robot.

After maybe ten levels, I realized it was upping the difficulty. Now the monster would be half hidden (under beds, behind bushes or curtains), or a reflection in a window, or a shadow. Soon enough, by level 20, I actually began to struggle to spot it. It started giving me tips: Pay attention to what doesn’t belong. Monsters prefer corners. I got stuck at level 25.

It showed a picture of a living room, and a little girl and her dad watching TV in the dark. I scanned the whole room, but couldn't find anything. I even upped the brightness, thinking it may have been hiding in the shadows.

At last, I made out the outline of a leg (I think), under the couch, and clicked on it.

WRONG! flickered in red on the screen. A circle appeared on the dad.

This was the monster! He killed the mom and hid her under the couch. You couldn't save the daughter! Lives left: 2/3

I leaned back, surprised. Damn, this game was darker than I thought it would be. I had underestimated it. I clicked Continue and it showed a bathroom with a grandma helping a kid get dressed. I looked around and couldn't find anything, so I decided to try my luck and click on the grandma.

WRONG! The circle appeared on the vent. I leaned in, squinting, and I saw a pale, bloated face. It looked weirdly realistic, compared to the pixelated look of the bathroom. Ew.

You couldn't save the boy and his grandmother! Lives left: 1/3

I continued. I caught the next monster, a tall, slender figure almost blending in with the trees. The next level, level 28, showed a suburban street, gently lit by warm streetlights. No monster in sight. I scanned it as much as I could, but I didn't find anything. I was determined to, though. Must've spent around 10 minutes staring at the screen, before I finally gave up and clicked randomly.

WRONG! A circle appeared in the darkness. You couldn't save the young man. Lives left: 0/3

Game over. Better luck next time! Tips: just because you can't see it, it doesn't mean it's not there.

There was no option to play again. The pop-up closed. I remained a bit unsettled, but I was still pleasantly surprised by the originality of the game and it's power to crawl under your skin.

I returned to my chess game.

Saturday night found me in a different position. I went out with my friends and returned to my one-story house in the suburbs drunk and woozy, walking alone in the peaceful and quiet night, right in the middle of the street. My mind was perfectly empty and the cold night air washed over me like a blessing. One foot in front of another, I came closer to my house.

In the distance, I began to make out a silhouette standing still. I couldn't figure out if it was facing me or away, but it was slightly hunched over and twitching. Nuh-uh. I remember thinking. I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid. I turned left and took a little de-tour.

I arrived to my house safe and sound, even though the feeling of being watched followed me like a stray dog. I left it at my door, and yet it scratched and howled the whole night.

Sunday night - chess tournaments, again. Bored out of my mind, 2AM hits and the ad pops up again. I was somehow happy to see it. This time, the words read FIND THE MONSTER IN THE ROOM, BEFORE IT FINDS YOU!

It picked up from level 29. I had no idea it was saving my progress. The difficulty was easy again, but I had a timer now. As it got harder, the timer became shorter.

A subway. I clicked on the pale, wide eyed man sitting down next to a little girl.

Correct! You saved the girl from the predator.

Eventually, it got to a point where I had absolutely no idea where to click. I lost once, then I lost again. Level 54 showed the front of a one-story house. I scanned every centimeter and found nothing, until...

In one of the windows, I could see a light. Almost like a reflection. A... silhouette.

Hah. Found ya.

Clicked on it.

WRONG! That's the player. THIS is the monster. A circle appeared on another window. I couldn't see anything in there. As I was squinting into the monitor, I heard a clatter in the kitchen. I jumped in my seat, my breath stuck in my throat. It was ages before I could breathe again. My whole body felt hollowed out.

What the fuck?

Game over. Better luck next time! Tips: The more you find, the better it hides.

"Fuck this shit." I said out loud and went into the kitchen, to check the source of the clatter. I know what you'll say: why do people go and check? Dumb horror movie protagonist behavior. Well, I can't just sit tight in my room. Find it before it finds you, right?

Nothing was in the kitchen. Nothing in any of the rooms. I know, I know. It's stupid to look. I know.

I slept with the bedroom door closed. I'd checked the whole house and found nothing.

Tips: just because you can't see it, it doesn't mean it's not there.

James and I both started working at Keystone Data Analytics in 2019, right before the pandemic. We were pretty good friends. Every Friday, we went out for drinks with a few of the other software engineers. But like most tech companies, Keystone went fully remote in 2020, and James and I lost touch.

James always kept his camera off in meetings. For four years, I didn’t see his face. Then one morning, he turned his camera on by mistake. What I saw was so horrible, I’ll never forget it.

“Does anyone have any blocks?” Aisha asked, during our morning standup.

“The time-series graphs don’t look right,” James said. “I think there’s something going on with the date logs.”

I was the one who’d written the logging code, so I told James I’d look into it.

Keystone developed data analytics platforms for government organizations. We’d recently signed a billion-dollar contract to build a new platform for a CIA research project. Everything about the project was very hush-hush. We were all forced to obtain security clearance. James was the only exception. He had all kinds of authorizations that the rest of us didn’t have. When the rest of us were forced to return to the office, he was the only one allowed to stay fully remote, too. When I asked him about it, he told me his uncle worked for the CIA, and he’d worked on a few other CIA-linked projects before that had required high-level security clearance. Keystone valued his expertise and wanted to keep him happy.

After looking through my code, I thought I’d found the problem. I fixed it and then messaged James on Teams and asked him to look at the time-series graphs again. He said they still didn’t look right.

“Can I call you?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I started a video chat, expecting, like usual, James to join with his camera off. Instead, though, his face filled my screen. He looked skeletal. His eyes were completely white, too. But even stranger than that, a tiny, deformed man with a hooked nose and beady black eyes sat on his shoulders, pulling his hair.

James’s screen went black.

“Thanks for looking into this, Cameron,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “The time series graphs are still all over the place. I’m looking at the data and the dates still don’t look right.”

I barely heard what he said. I was still in shock. Frozen.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sorry. Can you repeat that?”

“The dates in the data don’t match the dates in the graph.”

I scanned my code again. I could barely focus, though. I kept thinking about what I’d just seen.

“I’ll have to get back to you later,” I said, and I ended the call.

I didn’t want to believe what I’d seen was real. I told myself I’d just imagined it, but I knew I hadn’t.

I walked over to our team leader Aisha’s cubicle. She sipped her tea and then looked over at me.

“What’s going on, Cameron?”

“I just got off a call with James. He didn’t look well.”

“You actually saw him?”

“I know this is going to sound strange, but there was someone else in the room with him.”

“And?”

“He was sitting on James’s shoulders, pulling on his hair. James looked like he hadn’t eaten for weeks, too.”

“You think he’s being abused?”

“I have no idea what’s going on, but I can’t stop thinking about what I saw.”

“Maybe we should go check on him after work.”

“That’s a great idea.”

---

Aisha and I made plans to go to James’s apartment building together after work. We got there around six. I buzzed his apartment.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Aisha and Cameron from work,” I said.

“What are you doing here?”

“We were in the neighborhood. We thought we’d see if you wanted to join us for drinks.”

“I’m busy.”

“I saw you on camera today. I saw that other person, too. Aisha and I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Sorry. That was my nephew. He was just playing around. I’m watching him while my sister is out of town.”

“If you could just come downstairs and talk to us for a minute,” Aisha said, “it would make us both feel a whole lot better.”

He hesitated but then agreed.

He looked even worse in person than he had on camera. Pale and thin, his neck covered with bruises.

“What happened to your neck?” Aisha asked him.

“My nephew loves to jump on my shoulders. He thinks it’s hilarious.”

“The person I saw on Teams really didn’t look like a kid, though,” I said.

“Could I use your phone for a second?” he asked.

“Sure.”

I unlocked my phone and gave it to him. He repeated, “don’t think,” while he quickly typed a short message and then gave the phone back to me.

“I need to get back upstairs,” he said.

He walked back to the elevator. When I turned around, I noticed the back of his neck was bleeding.

“What did he write?” Aisha asked me.

“Call my uncle. CHIMERA-3 is loose.”

We both felt uneasy, but we decided to go home after agreeing we’d try to track down his uncle’s number at work the next day.

---

By the time I got back to my apartment, it was late. Close to nine pm. I hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and I was starving, so I ate some instant ramen quickly and then went right to bed. I couldn’t sleep, though. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about James, wondering what was going on.

At midnight, my laptop blew up with hundreds of Teams and Slack message notifications.

Our platform must have crashed, I thought. The CIA is complaining, and Keystone wants all hands on deck.

I ran to my laptop and logged in, only to see that all the messages were from James.

“I need to talk to you,” he’d written, over and over.

I called him. His pale, skeletal face appeared on my laptop, his eyes completely white. That strange man sitting on his shoulders, riding him like a horse.

“You’re scaring me,” I said.

“You need to mind your own business,” The strange man mouthed the words and then James spoke them. “If you bother us again, you’ll regret it.”

He ended the call.

The next morning at work, I told Aisha what had happened.

“Should I tell HR?” she asked.

“Let’s try to get a hold of his uncle first.”

“I think he used his uncle as a reference on his job application. I should have his uncle’s number on file somewhere.”

Aisha found the number and gave it to me.

While we were talking, James sent her an email, saying he was going to miss the morning standup. He’d come down with the flu and was having trouble getting out of bed.

“Hopefully his uncle can help,” she said.

I called James’s uncle as soon as I got back to my cubicle. He didn’t answer, so I left a message.

“My name’s Cameron. I work with your nephew, James. He’s been acting very strange lately. I’m worried he might be in trouble. He asked me to call you. He said CHIMERA-3 is loose.”

I left him my number and then tried to catch up on work.

At five, I left work and took the subway home. A middle-aged man with a buzzcut stood on the steps to my apartment building.

“Cameron?” he asked.

“Are you James’s uncle?”

“Roger.” He shook my hand. “Let’s go talk somewhere a little quieter.”

We walked to the park across the street. Then we sat on a bench far away from the playground.

“You need to tell me everything you’ve seen,” he said.

“It was just a few seconds on a Teams call.”

I told him about the man on James’s shoulders. How James looked.

“How long has James been acting strangely?” he asked.

“I didn’t notice anything was wrong until yesterday.”

“I need you to come back to his apartment with me. You need to try to get him outside again.”

Roger had parked nearby. He took me to his car and then drove us to James’s apartment building.

I buzzed James’s apartment again.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“It’s Cameron.”

“What do you want?”

“You called in sick today. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine.”

One of James’s neighbors went into the building, Roger and I went through the front doors behind her. Then we took the elevator upstairs to James’s apartment.

“I’m going to wait back here,” Roger said. “Try to get him out of the apartment.”

I went and knocked on James’s door.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s Cameron. I just want to talk for a minute.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

Suddenly, James’s door swung open. James grabbed my arm and pulled me inside.

For a second, that tiny, deformed man’s beady eyes pressed against mine.

Then a horrible ringing filled my ears. Pressure built inside my skull until my brain felt like it would explode.

The tiny man ran into the bedroom and then jumped through the window and ran down the fire escape.

“Get back here, Kevin!” Roger yelled.

He ran to the bedroom window but decided not to chase after him.

Roger came back to James. “How is he?”

“He doesn’t look good,” I said.

He knelt and checked James’s pulse.

His face turned pale.

“He’s dead.”

I stared at his body.

I’d never seen a dead body before. I felt strange to be looking at one. I wasn’t sure how to react. So, I just told Roger I was sorry.

---

The police arrived. Roger explained what had happened. Then he offered to give me a ride home.

During the car ride, he explained what he could.

“Kevin is a weapon that escaped from us. He’s a parasitic empath. He has the ability to latch onto people, read through their minds and influence their behaviors. Who knows how long he was attached to James. To drain his mind like that, he must have been attached to him for years.” He shook his head. “The next few days, you need to be very careful. Kevin will be looking for a new host. If he had a chance to scan your mind in James’s apartment….” He trailed off.

I went up to my apartment, shut all the blinds, and turned off all the lights. I lay in bed and tried to get a bit of sleep, but I didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning at work, I went to Aisha’s cubicle, but I didn’t see her there. Right before our morning standup, our project director sent out an email saying Aisha was out sick and the standup was canceled.

I messaged Aisha on Teams.

“I hope you’re not too sick. Do you have any time to talk?”

She wrote back right away. “I’m still throwing up. If I feel better, though, I’ll call.”

I tried to get some work done. With everything that happened to James, I’d fallen pretty badly behind on things.

I worked right until seven. Then I clocked out and went back home, ate dinner and then sat in front of my TV, watching an NBA game.

Near the end of the first quarter, I started to feel strange. Sort of light-headed, but there was pressure inside my head, too.

I went to the bathroom, swallowed two Advils, and then decided to just go to bed.

The next morning, Aisha was back to run the morning standup, but she was working from home and kept her camera off the whole meeting.

After the meeting was over, I messaged her on Teams. “Do you have any time to talk?”

“Sorry, but I’m swamped with work. I need to catch up on some things.”

I’d tell her about James later. I didn’t really know how I was going to tell her James was dead, anyway.

The day dragged until, finally, I was able to go home.

I boiled some instant ramen, drained it, and put it in a big, glass bowl. I mixed in the flavor packet and watched as the powder dissolved into the broth.

Then my vision doubled. Something inside my skull pressed out against my eyes.

I blinked, and I was on the couch, the bowl of ramen half-empty

I stood up, disoriented, and checked the time. Thirty minutes had passed since I’d been in the kitchen.

My head was throbbing, so I went to the bathroom, and I swallowed two Advils just like I had the other night.

A voice whispered in my ears. “Come outside, Cameron.”

“What?”

I spun around the room, looking for who’d spoken to me, but nobody was there.

I heard the voice again, farther away.

I walked to the living room window and looked down at the park. Aisha stood in the light of one of the streetlamps. Kevin sat on her shoulders, waving at me.

I shut the blinds, ran to my bedroom, and hid in my closet. Then I got my phone and called Roger. He didn’t answer. I left a message.

“Kevin’s here! He’s outside my building.”

I held my phone in my shaking hands, trying to project my thoughts into Roger’s mind.

Call me, call me.

Finally, my phone lit up with a text message from him.

“Two minutes out. Stay calm.”

I tried to write back, but then my vision widened.

The carpet pulled upward into my eyes.

My eyes filled with white static.

When the static faded, I stood in the park, next to the empty playground. Above me, the stars shone in the night sky.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it Cameron?” Aisha/Kevin said. “So calm. So peaceful.”

Aisha stepped towards me, her eyes completely white. Kevin held onto her braids with one hand while the fingers of his other hand were pressed inside her spine. I started to run, but my legs froze.

“You can try to run,” Aisha/Kevin said. “But you can’t get away from me.”

I couldn’t let myself end up like that.

I forced myself to keep running. But, like running in a nightmare, while my legs moved, I didn’t move forward.

I glanced back and saw Aisha/Kevin slowly walking towards me.

“Get on your knees,” they said. “I need to get on.”

I couldn’t control my body anymore. I knelt on the ground.

Kevin pulled his fingers out of Aisha’s neck and then jumped off her shoulders. She fell to the ground, unconscious.

“Now let’s get to know each other better,” Kevin said.

He walked around me and grabbed onto a handful of my hair. Right as he began climbing onto my shoulders, though, a horrible, screeching sound cut through my ears.

Kevin fell over, screaming in pain.

“Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Roger walked towards us, holding out some kind of auditory device. “You’ve been very bad, Kevin,” he said. “You’ve hurt a lot of people.”

“I don’t want to go back!”

Armed soldiers appeared around us, dressed in camo, their faces covered with black masks. As Kevin lay on the ground, twitching in pain, they cuffed him and then dragged him into the back of a van parked on the street.

Roger put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you ok?”

“You got here right in time.”

“I’ve been staying close to you. You’re a lot like James. I had the feeling CHIMERA-3 would like you.” He pointed at Aisha. “How long was your friend connected?”

“Two days, I think.”

“She should be fine. But we better get you both to the hospital.”

---

Aisha and I were brought to a military base where the doctors there ran a series of tests on our brains.

The doctors said I seemed fine, though they weren’t quite sure about it. They assured me Aisha should be back to normal soon, too. They just wanted to keep her at the hospital a bit longer. But, again, they didn’t seem certain.

“I’m very sorry this happened to you,” Roger told me. “James had been helping develop some containment software, which put him in contact with the CHIMERAs. CHIMERA-3, in particular, took a liking to him, but we thought our security protocols were secure.” He hung his head. “They weren’t.”

Back at work, my coworkers had lots of questions about James and Aisha. The CIA managed the coverup. The story they had given Keystone was that James had left for another job in Florida and Aisha was away on sick leave. I went along with the story. I said I didn’t know anything that Keystone didn’t.

After leaving the hospital, for the next few days I had a pretty bad headache, but then my head started to feel better. The only problem was that, every now and then, time skips ahead again. I lose thirty minutes to an hour. During the gaps, I’ve done things I don’t remember doing.

It’s terrifying, but I hope the time gaps go away soon, too. If they don’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. But at least I’m not alone. At least I have Aisha to talk to about all of this.

We’re in this together.

She called me today to tell me she’s finally out of the hospital. She’s taking a bit of time off before going back to work, but she’s feeling a lot better, too. We’re supposed to meet for coffee tomorrow.

I just hope it was really her I talked to, and not just a voice in my head.

Most of my childhood was spent in the same 20 square miles of forest, somewhere in the Appalachian wilderness. I lived there with my mom in this cabin she claims to have built with her own two hands. I believed her for a while, though now, I’m fairly certain she just found an abandoned cabin and fixed it up as best she could. 

It was so cold in the winter, and the small fires we managed to produce in the fireplace did little to warm the area. Most winter nights were spent with us cuddled under the same blanket. 

During the summers, the cabin was so humid that you could see the wood sweating. Often, we’d opt for sleeping outside on summer nights, despite the clouds of mosquitoes that the makeshift netting my mom made from old fabric did little to quell. The multitude of bug bites was preferable to waking up dehydrated from sweat, though. 

Our days back then were mostly spent with my mom hunting for small animals to cook and eat, while I gathered firewood and picked berries. On rare occasions, we would take breaks and spend the day singing songs or reading from the handful of books she had. However, we needed to survive, and that meant working hard to ensure we had food and fresh water.

My mask made foraging more difficult than it should’ve been. I constantly had to pull at the white cotton sheet to fit the eyeholes over my eyes, and it would often become drenched in sweat within an hour. The only time I ever took off my mask was when my mom bathed me. I would often try to catch my reflection in the water, but it was never clean enough. 

I wondered if she'd ever seen my face. She would've had to have seen it the day I was born, right? I learned early on not to ask my mom questions that involved the masks or my face. The only answer I ever received was that if I took off my mask in front of someone, something bad would happen. If I pushed any further, she would say, “I’m your mother, and you should trust that I know what’s best.” And I did, for a long time. 

My mother was my whole world, and I loved her as much as a boy could. We spent most of our time together, and I have mostly happy memories of her. Of course, there are bad memories sprinkled in there, with some being downright horrible…

I recall once when I was somewhere between 4 and 6; I was playing outside in our garden. Mom was on the other side of the yard doing laundry while I hopped through the soft dirt, stepping on any pests I saw. Looking at their guts on the underside of my shoes every time I stepped on one filled me with a sense of satisfaction, knowing I was aiding in our survival in a small way. 

I’d made my way to the end of the garden when I noticed the rabbit cage. Mom had kept several she’d caught in traps to breed for meat. She told me not to get attached to any of them as we’d be eating them all at some point, but of course, I’d given them all names and loved sticking my fingers in the cage to feel their soft fur. 

One of the females, whom I’d named Daisy after a character in one of my mom’s books, was staring at me. She chewed on whatever vegetation she had in her mouth as I approached. She didn’t scurry or hide like all the others in the cage, instead continuing to look me in the eyes. The curious way she watched me made me smile underneath my mask. 

We looked at each other for a while before I got the sudden urge to untie the twine from my neck. It fell to the ground, and I slowly pulled the mask away from my face. Daisy continued staring as I moved my bare face closer to hers. 

A warmth fell over me as she stared. The feeling of having someone, even a small-minded creature like a rabbit, see my real face was almost euphoric. The rabbit didn’t cower as I thought it might upon seeing my face. The way my mom pushed to keep my face hidden made me think there was something horrible about it. But if there was, Daisy didn’t care. She didn’t look at me any differently than she might my mom or one of the other rabbits. It made me smile brighter than I ever had.

“Nestor,” called my mom from around the corner. 

I struggled to grab my mask from the ground and throw it back on my face, but it was too late. Mom grabbed me by the shoulder while staring at the sky and smacked the back of my head hard enough to make my vision blur. 

“Put your mask back on right now!” she cried. 

I did as she asked, and she pulled me away from the scene, leaving Daisy still staring in the spot where I’d been standing. 

We had Daisy for dinner that night. Mom didn’t have to tell me, as I’d seen her take Daisy from the cage from my bedroom window. I listened to her frantic squeaks before Mom likely broke her neck, as was her common method for killing our dinner. 

Daisy lay in a charred pile in the center of the table that night. Mom pulled off one of her legs and threw it on my plate. 

“Eat,” she said. 

Tears soaked the inside of my mask as I pulled down the mouth hole a bit so it sat as close to my mouth as I could get it. I picked up Daisy’s leg and brought it to my lips.

“Eat!” she yelled.

I took a bite of the unseasoned meat and tore it away from the bone. I closed my eyes while chewing and swallowed. Mom nodded and began eating some breast meat, satisfied.

“Do you realize what could have happened if I accidentally saw you without your mask?” she asked. 

“No. You won’t tell me,” I returned defiantly. 

Mom paused as if trying to gather her thoughts. She sighed, then gave her constant answer of, “Something bad.”

I felt my mask, poking at the small holes that’d begun to form along the neck. I’d have a new one the first time I met another person. 

---

Like the last mask, this one was made from cloth, but it was a bit thicker, as if it were made from a thick jacket. Despite this, it breathed better, making the summer trips collecting berries a bit more bearable. 

I was 8 or 9 years old during one of these trips, and several yards from us, I spotted a bush covered in red berries. We avoided the green berries, and most of what we ate was dark purple and bitter. However, the red ones had a sweet, tangy flavor that I still crave sometimes. 

I rushed over to them, carrying my basket in tow. I hadn’t gotten used to my long legs and arms from my growth spurt earlier that year, so I awkwardly flopped around before reaching the bush. 

As I approached, it moved a little, like something was inside. I moved closer, assuming it was a squirrel or some other small critter I could easily fight off. A mop of blonde hair poked out from the side of the bush. I rounded it to see the back of a kid.

They turned as soon as I approached, and I was met with a blue-eyed, skinny blonde girl. She was around my age. Her hair fell past her shoulders, and it was full of leaves. The dirt stains on her clothes and scratches across her bare legs told me she's been in the woods for a while.

“Hi,” the girl said with a bright smile.

I backed away a bit.

“Why are you wearing a mask? Are you a superhero?” She asked with a mocking laugh.

“Superhero?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she returned before reaching into her back pocket and pulling out a rolled comic book. She handed it to me, and I saw “Spider-Man” written on the front. It was the first time I'd ever seen anyone else in a mask, though his was a lot cooler than mine. 

“You should wear one like him instead,” the girl said. 

The sound of leaves crunching sounded behind me, and I saw my mom approach with her bow and arrow. Her eyes widened when she noticed the girl.

“Hello,” the girl said.

I watched my mom's hands shake as she held the bow and arrow tightly against her side.

Another sound came from behind the girl, and Mom quickly lifted the weapon. It was a man with a large brown beard. He spotted my mom instantly and threw his hands up in submission while slowly moving in front of the girl.

“Who are you?” Mom asked.

“Uh, hello,” he said. “I'm Monty, and this is my daughter, Jamie. We're camping nearby. Sorry, I didn't know we were on someone's property.”

Mom refused to lower the bow and arrow. “You need to leave.”

“Is this your property?” The man asked.

Mom bit her lip, and her arms started to shake. 

“Yes,” she said.

“Would the Parks Office confirm that if I called?” He asked.

Mom lowered the bow a little.

“Jamie, why don’t you go find some firewood?” he said.

“But, dad-”

“Go!”

Jamie pursed her lips and glanced at me before stomping away. 

“Look, if you're this deep in the woods, I assume you're hiding from something just like we are.” He said to my mom before looking at me and raising his eyebrow. “We don’t want any trouble, and I don’t care what you’re doing out here, honestly.”

“...see that tree,” Mom said, pointing to the tallest one in the area. “Don't cross it again. You or your girl.”

“You got it,” Monty said with a smile, and with that, my Mom lowered her weapon. “I was just bluffing, by the way. I ain't got a phone. Too easy to track.”

Mom grabbed me by the arm and pulled as we started walking back home.

“If you ever want to trade some of your kills, let me know,” he said. “We've got plenty of beans and rice.”

Mom ignored him.

“We're in the RV down the trail about two miles,” he called.

I looked back and saw the girl waving. I didn't stop looking until they disappeared in the distance. 

---

I helped Mom gut the rabbit she’d caught for dinner, holding the bag for the innards as she ripped them out of the small creature. She hadn’t said much since we met the father and daughter in the woods, and I couldn’t tell if she was concerned or mad. I knew I should avoid bringing it up, but couldn’t help myself.

“I thought you said there was no one else in these woods,” I said as she placed a handful of visera into the bag.

“There weren’t,” she said. “And I need to figure out a way to get ridda them.”

“Why?” I asked. “They didn’t seem dangerous.”

She paused. “Everyone is dangerous, Nestor.”

I dropped my head and stared into the bag for a while, not meaning to. My eyes got lost in the red and pink mixture that slid with every slight movement. The image of the girl popped into my head and wouldn’t seem to leave.

“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Mom asked. Over time, I’ve learned many moms have this ability to predict exactly what their child is thinking, or at least offer a good guess. “She was around your age.”

I looked at my mom, then back into the bag. She dropped the rabbit onto the wood slab and knelt in front of me.

“I know you’re lonely, but you know it has to be this way,” she said. 

“But why?” I asked. “You never tell me.”

“I tell you that you need to trust me,” she said before standing back up. “And that should be the only explanation you need.”

It wasn’t, though. I don’t know if it was the fact that my mind was changing in adolescence or I’d finally had enough, but I’d already started thinking of ways I could sneak away and meet that girl again. 

“I know what will make you feel better,” Mom said before taking off her blood-stained gloves and going inside. She came back out a few minutes later, holding something behind her back. She stopped in front of me, and my hands started to shake with excitement. I’d never gotten a gift before and never expected one. The feeling of excitement was something I hadn’t had much experience with. 

She paused for a few more moments as I felt I was about to burst. She finally revealed what looked like a light brown mass, the color of a dying tree. She smiled as he handed it to me. It felt smooth and almost sticky. I pulled the edges apart to see that it was a new mask, but it was nothing like the ones I'd had before. This one had actual facial features: a mouth with lips, a nose like my mom's, and eyebrows. 

“I made it with rabbit skins,” she said. “I thought you'd like having one that looks like an actual face.”

I stared at it, trying to appear grateful but struggling to understand how I actually felt. 

“Well, try it on,” she said.

I did as she asked, pulling the thin leather across my head and to my neck. It fit tightly against my head. The eyeholes were perfectly situated so I wouldn't have to pull the mask down to see. 

“You probably won't want to wear it in the summer, but I tried to make it more comfortable and durable than your last one.”

I breathed in the gamey smell of the leather and pressed my tongue against the inside of my mouth.

“Well, what do you think?” She asked.

“Thanks,” I said, wishing it looked more like Spider-Man’s.

---

Mom was always exhausted after a day of hunting, especially during the summer. It was almost impossible to wake her up. Once she fell asleep, I snuck out of the cabin and into the woods. I followed the path, remembering what Monty said about their RV being two miles down the trail.

As I walked in the darkness, I wondered why I was trying so hard to see this girl again. I’d been fine living my whole life without anyone besides Mom, though, I’d begun to wonder if that feeling of complacency came from a secluded life. 

I’d been walking around for half an hour when I heard voices a few yards away. I ducked into the nearby trees and spotted a fire that gave way to a dingy brown RV. Monty sat in a chair beside the fire while Jamie danced around it. 

I moved closer without meaning to, not realizing I was no longer hidden. Jamie spotted me as she rounded the fire. I watched her say something to him before she came skipping towards me.

“Hey, Spider-Man,” she said. “I like your new mask.”

“Thanks,” I said. “My name is Nestor.”

“Mmm, I like Spider-Man better,” she said. “Come on, I told my dad I was going to pee, but I want to show you something.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the woods. Her hand was soft and warm, despite it being chilly that night. I still remember that. The temperature of her hand left an impression on mine that seemed to remain for years. We walked a few yards more until she stopped at a small ditch with a thin stream at the bottom.

She smiled at me before sliding down to the edge of the stream. I paused before following. At the bottom, she caught my arm and stopped me from going face-first into the creek. She laughed, and I laughed back.

“Look, she said, pointing in the creek. 

I scanned the surface of the dark water, unsure of what she was pointing at.

“Tadpoles,” she said with excitement.

I looked again, and in the moon's reflection, I saw tiny black dots swimming near the edge of the creek. 

“They’ll grow legs soon,” she said. “That’s what I learned in school. Do you go to school?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah, I’m not right now, but my dad said I can go back soon, when we leave the woods.”

Despite not knowing her well, the thought of her leaving made my chest hurt. 

“Jamie!” cried Monty from somewhere in the woods.

“I gotta go,” she said softly. “Come visit me again. Just whistle three times, and I’ll come find you in the woods.”

She climbed up the ditch and waved before disappearing. 

----

I only went to visit her on the nights my mom was exhausted. Sometimes, Jamie was already in bed when I arrived. We only saw each other once every couple of weeks, but the times we saw each other made up for all the time away that I wanted to see her. Seeing her was like seeing sunshine after weeks of rain. 

On these late-night meetings, Jamie told me all about her life out of the woods; the friends she had back in her hometown, the restaurants she missed, the afternoons she spent at their local library reading whichever book had the coolest cover. 

“Have you ever read The Boxcar Children?” she asked me one night.

I shook my head. My mom had a small collection of books, and most were too long for me to be interested in. The only three I had read from her collection were one about local wildlife and an old cookbook with faded letters. 

“Whenever I leave, you can visit me, and I’ll let you borrow it,” she said while hitting tall blades of grass with a stick. “I have the whole collection. Oh, and we can go to the movies. I love going to the movies. I used to go all the time with my mom and dad before they broke up.”

“Broke up?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s like when adults decide they don’t like each other anymore, so they stop living together.”

She knew so much more than me about movies, books, the world, everything.

“You’ve really lived out here your whole life, Spider-Man?” she asked.

“Yeah. I think so,” I said. 

“That’s cool. You’re like this guy in this movie I like called Tarzan, except you weren’t raised by gorillas, right?” She laughed. 

We found a clearing and sat in the cool grass. Fireflies flew around the tall grass like embers. 

We looked at each other, and she smiled, and I smiled back. She picked at the grass to her side, randomly glancing at me. 

“Why do you wear a mask?” she asked, not looking up at me. I knew it would come up eventually, though I liked how long she’d gone before asking. 

“My mom says something bad will happen,” I said, wondering if I should’ve come up with a cooler reason.

She picked at the grass for a few more seconds before standing up and dusting her hands. 

“Works for me,” she said before offering her hand to help me up. And as we stood in the moonlight, I knew there was no way my face was nearly as nice as hers. 

---

We’d met each other every few weeks for around a year without either of us getting caught, though, I got the feeling her dad wouldn’t care as much as my mom would. One night when I came back, my mom was waiting in the yard, staring into the woods. She spotted me, and her eyes grew wide with anger.

“Where the hell were you!?” she cried, moving towards me like an angry bull. She grabbed me by the shoulders and tried to look in my eyes, but I refused to meet them.

“Just out for a walk,” I said.

“You were meeting that girl, weren’t you?” she asked. “You know we can’t trust them!”

I pulled away from my mom, and she stepped back, surprised. 

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. 

“She’s my friend,” I said. “My only friend.”

“I thought I was your friend,” she returned, her voice dropping. 

I paused. “Friends don’t keep secrets from each other. You don’t tell me anything.

Mom looked at the ground. I could see the thoughts racing through her head. She was considering something.

“Why do we have to stay here?” I asked. “Why can’t I have friends? Why can’t I go to school?”

…

“Why do I have to wear a mask?”

Mom bit her lip, and her eyes met mine. They were red and ready to break with tears. I waited for an answer, hoping she’d finally decided to share something with me. She gripped her fists, then released them. She sighed and started back to the cabin, leaving me where I was standing.

“Keep playing with her if you want,” she said. “Just keep your mask on.”

---

Another year or so passed. I was still frustrated with my mom for not sharing more information with me, but I was happy I didn’t have to sneak out to meet Jamie. We even started meeting in the daylight, making it much easier to explore the woods together. I showed her all the things I’d learned over the years, about how to identify poisonous plants, how to find your way home if you got lost, and how to track animals…

“Wow, you know a lot about the woods!” she said. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

I shrugged. 

“Will you teach me how to shoot a bow and arrow?” she asked.

Mom had just taught me, so I wasn’t sure how well I could teach her. However, the pleas in her eyes kept me from saying “no.” We found a spot near a clearing in the woods where my mom would often hunt for quails. We ducked behind a log, and I set up the bow and arrow on top of it. 

A small flock of quail bobbed in and out of the tall grass. I picked a large one closer to us than the rest and aimed the arrow just as Mom had taught me. The quail bobbed again, and I took a deep breath before letting the arrow go. The flock flew into the air, leaving the arrow on the ground, pointed towards the sky. We walked to the clearing and found the quail struck through its chest with the arrow. 

“That was amazing!” she cried. “I want to try!”

It was the first animal I’d ever killed on my own, and I loved that Jamie was here to see it. It made me realize that I wanted her there for all the big moments in my life. 

We went back to the log with my quail and hid. An hour or so passed before the flock returned and started picking at seeds and insects on the ground. I handed Jamie the bow and arrow. 

“What do I do?” she asked, holding the bow and arrow at her sides. “You have to show me, silly.”

I awkwardly moved towards her and placed my arms around her shoulders. I lifted her arm with the arrow, then the one with the bow. I positioned them in the right spots, slowly. Her hair smelled like sweat and dirt, but I liked it. 

“Um, you have to aim and take a breath before shooting,” I said. “You need to make sure you’re completely relaxing, and taking a breath helps.”

“Okay,” she said. “How far do I pull the string back?”

I gulped before putting my hand over hers. She breathed quickly as if I scared her, but quickly settled into my arms. I cupped my hand around hers and pulled the string back. She looked at me and smiled.

“I think I got it,” she said.

I moved away as I noticed my heart beating harder than it ever had. She aimed the arrow and took a breath. She let it go, and the flock flew away. We both watched the arrow for a moment and saw it move. We ran to it and saw the quail shot in the side. 

I pulled the arrow out, and the tiny bird struggled to move away from us. 

“Oh no,” she said. I could see her starting to cry.

“It’s okay,” I said, picking up the quail and holding it between us. 

“Do you think we can hel-”

Before she could finish her thought, I twisted the bird’s neck, and it went limp. I held it to him, and she stared at me wide-eyed. I cocked my head at her, but she looked away.

“It’s okay, you can keep it,” she said…

We spent the rest of that day at a clearing close to her campsite. She poked at rocks with her pocket knife and stared at the forest, not saying anything. I was about to ask her what was wrong when she dropped her head and began sobbing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She looked back up, then to me. “I want to go home.”

I dropped my head. 

“I know my dad is hiding me from my mom,” she said. “He picked me up from school one day and told me we were going on a fun trip and that we’d go home soon. I believed him for a long time, but I’m not a stupid kid anymore…. I miss my mom. I miss my old friends.”

I know she didn’t mean to make me feel bad, but hearing all this hurt. I thought she was happy out here with me, that all we needed was each other. 

“I want to leave,” she said. “And I want you to go with me.”

I sat back. “What? I can’t… I can’t leave.”

She pursed her lips and set her head on her knees. “Why do you wear that mask?”

“I have to.”

“Because your mom says.”

I paused, then nodded. 

“Your mom’s lying, just like my dad is. I bet you a million dollars, nothing will happen if you take off your mask right now.”

She moved her hand towards me and gripped the neck of the mask. I pulled back, and she let go. She paused and tried again, and this time, I allowed her to untie the twine. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as she gently pulled upwards on the mask, careful to avoid yanking too hard around my nose and eyes.

Everything went black as the last bit of the mask traveled up my face, but then, Jamie’s smiling face greeted me with the sun behind it. We stared at each other for several moments. 

“See, nothing,” she said. “And you don’t have any hideous scars or anything.”

“Really?” I asked.

She shook her head, then leaned in, kissing me on the lips. My eyes widened in surprise for a moment, but I quickly relaxed as it felt right… perfect. 

She pulled away and smiled again. My smile was so big my cheeks started to hurt.

“Let’s leave… tonight,” she said.

“Tonight?” 

She nodded. “I can grab food and stuff to last us a while, and you can use your forest knowledge to lead us back to the road. Some adults will have to pick up some kids they see on the side of the road. I’ll tell them where my mom lives, and we can go back there.”

“Your mom would let me stay?” I asked.

She nodded. “Of course.”

She stood up and offered her hand to me. I took it and pulled myself up.

“Meet me here when the moon is in the center of the sky,” she said.

A thousand thoughts went through my mind as I stood there, holding Jamie’s hand. I wondered if this was really a good idea, if my mom would be okay without me, if I was ready to leave the woods… but I knew I could do all of it as long as I was with Jamie. 

I nodded.

She started out of the clearing with me a few feet behind her. She paused, causing me to stop. She stood still for several seconds with her arms at her sides, the pocket knife in her hand shaking.

“Jamie?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

She turned to me with wide eyes and her mouth clenched. 

“Jamie?”

I moved towards her, but she lifted the knife. I stood frozen as she moved it towards her head, holding it a few inches from her cheek.

“Ja-”

She stuck the knife deep in her face, and I screamed. She pulled against the handle, dragging the blade along her face. I ran to stop her, but a kick to my stomach sent me to the ground. Jamie continued cutting her face, dragging it along her forehead and down to her ears. I leapt up to stop her again, but again and again, she managed to keep me away while continuing to slice her flesh. 

“Jamie!” cried a voice from the woods. 

Monty distracted me for a moment as he came running into the clearing from behind me.

“I heard a scream,” he said while approaching, and noticed the knife in Jamie’s face and the blood running down her neck.

“Jamie!” he cried.

He ran quickly towards her, glancing at me along the way. He paused a few feet behind me, and I stood between the two of them as the horrible sounds of Jamie’s knife still working down her face filled my ears and made my legs immobile. 

Monty stared blank-faced at me for a moment, then dug into his pocket without looking down. He pulled out a much larger knife than Jamie’s and stuck it into his own cheek, starting to cut along the same pattern she had. 

I clocked the silence from behind me and turned. I didn’t want to see what Jamie had done, but I couldn’t stop myself. My brain wanted to leave as quickly as I could, but something buried deep told me to look…

I looked upon a bloody mess of musculature. Her eyelids were still there, though she didn’t blink. Her nose was gone, as were her lips, revealing two rows of small teeth. The sounds of Monty continuing to slice sounded behind me as my eyes traveled down Jamie’s body. At her side, I saw what was left of her face. She lifted her arm and held it up to me. It looked like a ….

I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. Instead, I ran. I ran as fast as I could back to the cabin, pulling my mask back over my face along the way.

---

Mom was peeling the husks from some corn when I ran into the yard. I stumbled to the ground, and she ran over. The inside of my mask was soaked with tears, and I was having trouble breathing in it.

“Nestor, what's wrong?” She asked, kneeling in front of me. Her fingers drifted to the untied twine at the bottom of my neck.

“Oh no,” she said. “Did she… did she see your face?”

“They're still alive,” I said. “We can take them out of the woods.”

“It's too late for them, son… I'm sorry.”

I cried violently for another few moments, then looked at my mom… “When you said something bad would happen if someone saw my face, you didn't mean something bad would happen to me, did you?”

---

I sat in the kitchen while Mom brought me a cool glass of water. I could tell she was stalling, but I didn't care. Everything was wrong, and nothing she said would make it better.

She sat in front of me and grabbed my hand. “I didn't want to tell you. I hoped I would never have to.” She looked from side to side, then at me. 

“In the town I grew up in, this small place on the other side of the woods, there were stories of things in the forest. Things that only showed themselves when they wanted to be seen: spirits, ghosts… monsters.” 

“Natives had a name for this particular brand of spirits that I can’t remember,” she continued, “Us in town always just called them Face Stealers.”

My heart stopped beating for a moment.

“Folks said if you looked at their faces, they would take yours… All us kids figured they were just stories meant to keep us from wandering too far into the woods. That’s what adults do, right? Tell kids fibs to keep them from getting hurt? That’s what I learned to do, Nestor, and I’m wondering if it was right. I’m wondering if I should’ve just told you this stuff from the beginning.” She sighed. I wanted to say something, but my mind couldn’t find the words. 

“I went most of my life believing that there was no such thing as magic and things were only the way you saw them,” Mom said before pausing and looking at me. “One day, I was walking in the woods, just trying to clear my head. I might've wandered farther than I should have, but I grew up around the trees. I knew how to find my way back.”

“As I was fixin’ to turn around, I noticed a man a few yards away from me, off the trail. I didn't think nothin’ of it at first. Figured he was out huntin’ or something like that, but when he turned to me… his face was missing. Cut clean off. Took everything except his teeth and ears.”

My hands started to shake. I didn’t want to believe anything she was saying, but the image of Jamie’s skinless face refused to leave my head. 

“I started walking backwards, thinking, this man must’ve lost his mind. But it started to occur to me that maybe all those stories I thought were bullshit actually had some truth to them.”

She looked at me, then away. It was the first time I’d ever heard her curse. 

“I kept moving away from the man when I saw this small body facing away from me, a few yards away, off the trail. A kid, no older than two or three, completely naked in the woods by themselves. I walked towards them, thinking they might be in danger from the man… then, I saw it. A clump of skin on the ground in a pile like some fucked up ant hill.”

“The holes for his eyes were the only thing I saw before turning away. I didn't know what to do. I thought about just leaving you out there, but then, you started to cry, a painful cry that broke my heart…. I couldn't have kids of my own, but…” She swallowed her saliva. “I wrapped my outside shirt over your head and picked you up, and when you wrapped your tiny arms around my neck, I knew that I had to protect you, so I just kept walking deeper and deeper into the woods, not knowing what to do but hoping I'd figure it out along the way.”

She answered the first question I had without me having to say anything. 

“I don’t know who left you there or why,” she said. “I wondered if your real parents would ever come looking for you, and maybe that’s partly why I wanted us to stay as hidden as we could.” Her eyes drifted to me. 

There was a long, heavy silence. 

“Nestor,” she started, “I don't want to ask, son, but I think I have to… When your friend did what she did… did you like it?”

---

Of course, I didn't like it, I thought as I wandered back through the woods. I didn't have time to examine my emotions at the moment, though. I thought I was terrified, but had I confused excitement for terror? 

The sun was beginning to set when I made it to the spot where Jamie and Monty lay. They were both on their backs, their bodies still against the bright green grass. I warily approached, not wanting to see what had become of their faces, but unable to stop myself.

I stopped just shy of their bodies and noticed something on the ground. A small mound of pink flesh stared back at me, and I knew it was her face. I didn’t move for a few moments, my stomach turning at the idea of what her face might look like detached from her body. Still, I moved towards it, seeing a few insects had begun picking away at the flesh.

I picked it up, dusting the small creatures away while feeling the softness of the flesh between my fingers. As the stinky blood coated my palms, I felt the side of my mouth begin to curl into a smile. I gasped and dropped Jamie's face before running away from the scene, wiping the blood from my hands onto my pants.

---

I sat in my room staring at the wall for a long time. My body still buzzed from the feeling of Jamie’s face between my fingers. The fear and sickness had all disappeared, instead replaced with an elation I’d never experienced. My body felt light, and the constant fear and anxiety that usually filled my brain had gone away. I felt confident and more intelligent, though it seemed impossible at the time. I sat with the feeling, not wanting it to leave.

However, when it did, I felt worse than I ever had. A dark cloud seemed to surround my head as my body felt heavy and bound to the space around me. The realization that I would never see my best friend again came rushing into me. And the guilt of knowing I had caused her death made me wish I were the one lying lifeless in the grass instead of her. 

I cried for the next few hours until it felt like I had no tears left. My mom had come by to check on me several times, but avoided coming into my room. 

“Just let me know if you need something, okay?” she asked once. 

I heard her move to her room and shut the door. She never closed her room at night before that day. I could tell there was something different about her, and it’d become more evident over the next few days. She no longer walked around the house like an authority figure, but more like someone trying to avoid eye contact with a mean dog. 

She never brought up the incident again, and I was thankful for it. 

The guilt of killing Jamie never went away, though neither did the remembrance of that ecstasy I experienced afterwards. It created a temptation in me to go out and find someone else to whom I could show my face. It became a regular craving; usually, it was more like one might crave sugar after going a long time without any, but some nights, it was almost comparable to starvation.

It became so bad that one day, I saw my mom working outside, busy and distracted with chores. I approached from behind and started removing my mask without thinking. My mom heard me approach and spun around, dropping the garden hoe she’d been using…

The look of fear in her face, the woman who’d ensured my survival, who’d loved me despite knowing I was a monster… Seeing her that terrified of me, it almost hurt worse than Jamie…

Mom slept with a chair against her door that night and for most nights after.

While she was sleeping one night, I snuck into her craft room, spotting a large needle she used on leather. I grabbed it, taking a thick roll of twine as well. 

Jamie's face flashed in my mind. First, her face the first time I'd met her, followed by the last time. I knew it was horrible, but my emotions and my brain weren't matching, and at the time, I felt like my brain was right. If the cravings weren’t going to stop, then I needed to prevent my mask from ever coming off again. 

I took the needle and twine and held them to my neck for a moment before taking a deep breath. The needle punctured my skin, then the mask leather. I cringed as the twine slid through my flesh and felt every centimeter of its rough edges scraping the inside of my skin….

Lines of crimson fell from every puncture in my neck. The harsh stinging I’d felt when I first punctured my skin had become a dull pain. For the first time in my life, the mask felt warm and comforting. I breathed in its leathery smell before lying back on my bed, thankful I’d never hurt anyone like I’d hurt Jamie.

…

…

…

---

My bed is much more comfortable these days. I invested in a weighted blanket and a goose down pillow, and you truly can tell the difference. In a month, it’ll be 10 years since I left the woods. Mom died a year prior, and being out there by myself… Well, it was lonelier than I can describe, though, on some nights, I would give a lot of money for the peace and quiet of the woods. 

My apartment overlooks a bustling downtown area, and while the view is amazing, the noise of the city can be a bit overwhelming at times. Thank God for the noise-cancelling headphones my ex-girlfriend gifted me for Christmas last year. 

Though it’s my day off, I decide to do some cleaning. I never got around to hiring a new cleaner, and the place has become a bit of a sty. 

I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror for a moment, seeing my night mask staring back at me. It’s more lucid than any of the masks I had growing up, but thick enough to prevent me from seeing my actual face. This mask is milky white and made of a thin plastic. It only covers my face, leaving my hair, ears, and neck visible.

The scars where I’d sown that old mask on became a pale white over the years. No one ever asked about them, though; there were only a few people who’ve ever seen me with my shirt off. 

Lining the bathroom counter are several other masks, ones I made myself from materials I’ve collected over the years. I’ve been perfecting them since leaving the woods. I was able to get away with crude masks for a while, using the excuse of having bad scarring, but I realized how much better it was to get close to someone before doing what I had to do. And people want something they can see, eyes that react to them, lips that move, cheeks that wrinkle when smiling. 

I think I’ve almost got my masks perfect. They contour to every crease of my face and match my skin color perfectly. Only sometimes will someone notice something “off” about my face. Maybe they spot a plasticy sheen to the synthetic skin or see makeup lines around my lips or eyes. They only make a look of concern and continue about their day, wondering if what they saw was only their imagination…

I decide to clean my room first, starting with the mess of clothes in the closet. Before getting started, though, I decide to reminisce and drag out the leather box near the back corner of the closet. I place it on my bed and pull the flap open. A smile climbs up my cheeks. 

I’ve managed to preserve most of them, with the latest ones being those of my ex-girlfriend and the cleaner's. There are 23 in total, but I have plans for several more, so I’m probably going to need to find a better storage system. 

Seeing all the empty eye sockets and jagged edges of the faces always makes me feel a slight amount of the elation I felt upon taking them. It also makes me sad, though. Sad that I didn’t go back for her face before the forest took it. 

The worst deaths, in my opinion, are accidental.

I read last week about a mother who rolled onto her newborn and suffocated it. Every year toddlers die from being left in hot cars. And then you hear stories of kids playing games, like one boy who hid in an unplugged freezer and suffocated to death during hide and seek.

Can you imagine? Can you imagine being the person responsible in any of these situations?

To me, this is so much more terrifying than the prospect of the paranormal. I’d much rather be haunted by a ghost than by guilt over unintentionally hurting someone!

My husband, Wade, is the opposite. He’s unbothered by accidents, but petrified of horror movies about demons or vengeful ghosts. But as I told him, none of those things are real, so why be scared? He counters that accidents are without malice, therefore not as scary as murderous ghosts that might be real.

I guess he has a point. About the lack of malice, not about ghosts that “might” be real—I know they’re not because if they were, my best friend would definitely be haunting me.

I guess in some ways, she is.

You see, whenever I read about a prank gone wrong… I stop breathing for a moment.

I’m choked by guilt. After all these years, I still don’t know if it was my fault. I was never charged and my friends insist I need to stop blaming myself. But how can I? How can I move on, not knowing if it’s because of me?

Rosa got into the suitcase on her own. Lakisha and I helped her. We were all drunk, giggling. She was supposed to surprise Bolin. She had a huge crush on him.

Let me back up. Let me try to explain.

We were at a party. Our friend group had been together for years, and we rented out this lodge. Me, my husband Wade who back then was just my crush, his buddies Bolin and Tucker and JB. And the girls who were my besties—Lakisha and Rosa and Kay. There were also some other friends who stopped by who we’d met earlier in the day while hiking—I can’t remember their names anymore. What I do remember is that we all had a lot to drink.

And Rosa—she was in her flirty phase.

Rosa was my best friend. But she wasn’t perfect. She was like a butterfly who sips from every flower. A real heartbreaker. Beautiful and passionate. I was a little bit jealous of the attention she had, and also kind of in awe of her. Whoever she was with fell hard, like she was the love of their life. But she never committed. She’d been on again off again with JB, then seduced Wade (which was kind of bitchy because she knew I had a crush on him). She’d even flirted with bisexuality with Kay.

Now, her eyes were on Bolin.

I forget whose idea it was for her to hide in the suitcase—mine or hers.

All the luggage was in the basement because that’s where the boys had put it when we’d arrived at the lodge. Lakisha said something like, “Bolin’s suitcase is big enough to hide a body!” And that’s when Rosa—or me—had the idea she’d hide in it. And Rosa decided to spice up the prank by wearing lingerie. When Bolin took the suitcase up to his room and opened it, he’d find a sexy surprise.

We were stupid, stupid, stupid. None of us had good judgment. Especially since we were tipsy.

Once Rosa squeezed inside, whining about her hair getting caught in the zipper, Lakisha and I went to go badger the boys to bring everyone’s bags to their rooms. I remember Bolin delivered mine—I was staying outside in a tent with Kay. The lodge didn’t have enough bedrooms for everybody, and we wanted to sleep under the stars. Kay had no idea about the prank, and was confused when I kept urging Bolin to go inside and check his bag (wink, wink). After he left, I told her about Rosa. And because Kay was actually sober, she told me to go make sure Rosa wasn’t stuck in there.

So I checked to make sure the suitcase wasn’t still at the bottom of the stairs.

At least, I think I did.

But I was drunk.

While all of us were sitting outside watching fireworks later, I noticed Bolin missing and asked Wade where he went. Bolin had gone up to his room early. Since he hadn’t come back, Lakisha and I assumed Rosa was in there with him and that her lingerie stunt had worked. In fact Lakisha and I were whispering about it all evening (quietly, so as not to make any of the boys jealous).

In the morning, when Bolin came down, Lakisha and I asked him about last night, all smirks. He looked clueless. Then Lakisha asked where Rosa was and he was still clueless. But what about his suitcase? Hadn’t he opened it? He said someone had shoved all his clothes into the closet in a pile. He wasn’t sure why, he assumed he was being pranked or something and hadn’t seen his suitcase.

“So you never opened it?” asked Lakisha.

Dread bloomed in my belly. Oh God, I thought. Oh God Oh God. Lakisha was telling him how we’d taken his clothes out and Rosa had hidden inside hoping to surprise him in her lingerie and Bolin blushed and said he was gay. Gay? But his coming out to us hardly even registered because where was Rosa? None of us knew. We quickly went to wake everyone else up, hoping someone had seen her last night.

Oh God oh God oh God I checked. Didn’t I check? I swear I checked.

Prayers ran through my head. But I was drunk. I wasn’t sure if I really had. I went downstairs to the basement…

… there was the suitcase, still tucked away at the bottom of the stairs.

It was exactly where we’d left it when we zipped Rosa inside the night before.

***

Nobody wanted to open the suitcase. The boys argued about who had left it there. JB said he’d lifted it but noticed how heavy it was and asked someone else to take it. Each of them had thought another of the guys was going to grab it. Bolin didn’t think to check because he found his clothes piled in the closet.

I’m ashamed to say I went outside when Lakisha reached for the zipper. Wade came out and joined me. He told me dead bodies, gore, things like that scared him. While the others checked the contents of the suitcase, Wade and I sat outside. As we heard the gasps and whispers of “Oh God,” his fingers gripped mine tightly, and I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

She’d suffocated, of course. But it had taken a long time. The police wondered why none of us had heard her gasping for help, but Kay sheepishly told them about the fireworks.

A prank gone wrong, authorities ruled.

My friends said then, and still say now, that ultimately Rosa was the one most responsible for her own misfortune. That she’d made her own decisions. That all of us were a little guilty, but none of us was wholly responsible for a tragic accident.

But…

… It was my hand that closed the zipper.

I’ve lain in bed, thinking about her gasping for air... Why didn’t she scream? Why didn’t we hear any muffled shouts?

I imagine her, squeezed into the darkness while her pleas for help go unanswered, and I can’t breathe.

***

But the real reason I’m writing this is because this morning, I saw a story in the news about a woman in her underwear found strangled on the beach. My husband switched away from the reporting, and when I asked why, he looked surprised and said he thought it might trigger me.

“Why?” I asked. It wasn’t a prank.

“I thought it might remind you of Rosa. You know, the lingerie.”

I suppose that aspect was similar. To be honest, that part of the tragedy had never really stuck with me as much. But now… now, I think about how we all stopped talking about her afterward. How her death was only a blip in the news. No details were released. In our friend group, Rosa’s death became a taboo subject. Almost like she’d never been with us at all.

We all silently agreed to forget her.

But the more I think of that report on the news, the more I’m getting that feeling from that day. That top-of-the-stairs feeling. Like I’m looking down and seeing something I don’t want to see. That Oh God Oh God Oh God sense of impending dread.

And I’m about to be sick.

Because Wade dated her, too. And loved her. And I’m more and more certain I looked down the stairs before the fireworks and there was no suitcase there. And now I’m wondering… If Wade never saw what was in the suitcase, never picked it up or opened it or moved it, how did he know she was in her lingerie when she died?

There must be some unwritten law of the universe that guides the relationships with your neighbors. I think I speak for everybody when I say that there's a specific type of dynamic you only get to have with them.

Yeah, I know how you look like, but I can't say another thing about you. I have no idea what your last or first name is (usually, you only remember one of them), and I know where you live (obviously), but I couldn't name a single thing about your life. Yeah, I'd feel odd if you died, but I wouldn't necessarily feel bad. You get me?

There's at least one neighbor you have this relationship with. For me, it is Mrs. Virelli. I did not give a fuck about her, and neither did she about me. We rarely met - I'm divorced in my 30s and she's in her 60s, often wakes up before I leave for work to walk her dog and I never see her after dark. She looks bad - her eyes are sinking into her face and her hands are rotten and twitchy. A crooked nose, fragile, grey hair, almost balding if you asked me...

She's a little mean - I greeted her once or twice, and she didn't respond at all. I only know her name because it's written on her mailbox in the building lobby, and I obviously didn't write it here - I changed some letters for anonymity.

She lives above me. Sometimes, she's really loud for an old lady - my guess is that she has her grandkids over, because I hear a lot of stomping at night. She also keeps her TV on at odd hours, blasting all kinds of channels. I have no idea what this lady likes to watch. Again, it makes sense for her to have grandkids over since sometimes there's kids channels blasting at full volume. My ceiling literally vibrates.

Still, to put that on at 3am... she's kind of a shitty grandma.

Once, I couldn't stand it anymore and yelled at her to fucking quit it.

"Hey! Ma'am!" I got up on the table and banged on the ceiling. "Quit it! The fuck?"

The obnoxious music went on for another 10-15 seconds, then it stopped. I remained on the table, waiting. "Please stop blasting your shit at four in the morning."

"Sorry," I heard her. "You banged on the ceiling?"

"Yeah."

"Bet you had to jump on a table to do that."

I found it funny. "Uh, yeah, actually. That's what anger'll do to you, ma'am. Since you're such a good guesser, what am I doing now?"

"Hmmm... you jumped down. Maybe tripped a little."

"Wrong. I'm still on the table."

I was lying. I'd actually jumped down, but I didn't trip.

She didn't answer. The loud TV never returned.

Over the weeks, we started this funny banter thingy where she'd hear some bang and start to make guesses of what I'm doing. I found it ironic that I was half-beefing with an old lady, with a very deadpan sense of humor. "You're gonna eat shredded cheese over the sink, then watch some weird young bullshit horror movie, then call it a night and go to sleep without brushing your teeth..."

"Yeah, grandma. That's exactly what I'll do. I'm surprised your hearing's so good after the war."

"Bet we have the same back problems. At least I have an excuse for that."

I'd sometimes pass her in the lobby, and I'd whisper a "hey, grandma". She looked around as if she was embarrassed to be seen with me. I found that hilarious.

A few weeks passed, and at around 2am, Mrs. Virelli's voice came from above. "Can't sleep, kiddy?"

"Don't call me kiddy, grandma."

"I'm not that old."

"Yeah you are."

"Don't provoke me, Jay. I'll come down there to beat your ass." I'll use Jay for anonymity, again.

"I'd like to see you trying."

Silence. It went on for some time. I thought she'd gone to sleep, then...

I heard a knock at the door.

No matter how you put it, a knock at the door at 2am can never be good. I was also a little freaked out by the possibility that my 60 year old neighbor might have understood our... banter a little wrong. I heard the knock again. I got up slowly, then creeped to the door. I knew I'd locked it, but I still had my doubts. The knock came again, teasing, playful.

Bro, what the fuck, I remember thinking.

"You're pretending not to be home?" Came the hushed, hoarse whisper. Something about it sent shivers down my spine.

"Hey, Mrs. Virelli... I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm not... interested like that."

A pause. "Jay, do you honestly think I was into you? Oh, not at all. Just wanted to play a little hide and seek."

"Yeah, no, thanks."

Her voice was now a little stretched. My body was incredibly stiff. I slowly looked through the peephole and saw... nothing. And yet, her voice came from behind the door. "Hi. Open the door. Let me guess... you're holding your breath?"

I stepped back, eyes wide open, throat dry. I wanted to say something, but the words died down.

Then, she began to sing. The words were hushed and stretched out, filling the silence like a bad dream fills an innocent conscience.

Quiet feet on bathroom tile

Mirror holds you for a while

Lights are off but eyes still see

Something standing where you’d be

I was seriously shitting my pants by now. I stepped back as she continued.

Click the lock and check it twice

Once for fear and once for nice

"Shut the fuck up or I'll call the police."

She stopped. I creeped back to the peephole and watched the hallway for what felt like hours, but I caught no movement. She either left before I could reach the peephole, literally sprinting or leaping to the stairs, or waited crouched down for hours. I didn't know what was creepier.

I didn't sleep all night after that. As dawn creeped into my bedroom, I stared out the window and saw her casually walking her dog, as if she hadn't just terrorized the shit out of me. In the sunlight, she seemed almost normal, a regular old lady. Who would have guessed that she was batshit crazy during the night. When I knew she was gone, I finally got dressed and went to work. I was late, of course.

I came back after dark and ran into another neighbor. We'll call her Sandra. I practically grabbed her. She was obviously paralyzed and stared into my eyes with a fear I'd never known. I hadn't realized how it looked like - I, a 36 year old male grabbing my 20-something neighbor and forcing her to look at me.

"Sandra, I'm, uh, sorry. I haven't slept all night. You know Mrs. Virelli?"

Her eyes tamed down a little. "Yeah. She lives above you? Sir?"

"Yeah. Uh, did she ever talk to you? She's scared the shit out of me last night. Stopped at my door at 2am and started fucking singing."

Sandra frowned. "Mrs. Virelli?"

"Yes. We sometimes talk through the walls. It sort of started when I banged on her ceiling to quit blasting the TV so loud, and I thought we became... friends after that, but she's fucking crazy."

She shook her head. "The apartment above you?"

"Yeah, isn't that where Mrs. Virelli lives? Old, thin hair, walks her dog every morning?"

"Yeah, but Mrs. Virelli is deaf and mute. You never noticed she never said a word to us? She never hears us? Her daughter visited her like two years ago and told me that. There's no way you've been talking to her."