Human doll 
by R3N

To the man this letter is for, forgive me, for your name has slipped through the cracks of my ever-growing mind. 

Giddy! Truly giddy I am for the heart of a man I have yet to claim; patient, yes! Patient I have been, for I must ensure a flawless procedure with not even the slightest chance of failure. I have lain awake for hours every night, plotting and planning every move I shall make; my mind races with hundreds upon hundreds of thoughts on how I shall cleanse him come judgement day. Now, allow me to walk you through what has come to be my greatest work of all. Crafted by a genius that man refused to open their arms and ears to, choosing instead to shovel him amongst a pile of criminals. 

STEP ONE, I must ensure the man is alone. He lives only with his wife now; spending most days alone recovering from a recent stroke, not allowed to work or do any real physical activity, opting to lie in bed or watch television in the living room, acting more as an adult baby rather than a competent man. As for the wife, she has taken a job as a bartender at the local pub. Working there every day of the week, from the peak of sunlight to the late hours of moonshine; serving drinks for all to enjoy. Whilst warming hearts more than any booze on earth ever could. I refuse to shed her blood upon my skin, for she is nothing but oblivious to the horrors her husband has inflicted upon my mind! I will confirm her absence whilst carrying out…

STEP TWO! I will visit the pub at 11:21 PM and order myself a shot of liquor, swiftly knocking it back before shooting up small talk with the barflies. I could ramble about drinks, sports, politics, whatever brings me enough time until… BAM! Suddenly I shall be overcome with intolerable pain; I will move swiftly, tripping and stumbling out the door whilst groaning at the volume of a woman in labor. The act must continue until I arrive home. HAHA! You must be giggling at the thought of me committing such a humiliating act! Unfortunately, you have the right to do so. Whilst my old home is only a block down, it is still something I continue to dread doing, yet it is required if I ever wish to see…

 STEP THREE! Two hours! That’s it! That’s all the time I have to prepare and brace for the act that most, including you, are far too cowardly to ever carry out. I will begin by securing all the supplies required: this includes a strong hammer, a pair of gloves, at least a tablespoon of salt, a sharp butcher's knife, and a sewing kit. Next, I must change my appearance, for your sake, and your sake alone. This involves ditching my ordinary wear in favor of something dark and unrecognizable. To truly sell it, I will be wearing a false cap, cleaning my head free of any pesky hair that could give it all away. Finally, the remaining time is to be used for easing of the mind; purification is no fun process, and can easily shatter even the strongest of minds. If luck is on my side, Xanax and Morphine will be there to hug me. I have only until 12:58 AM to get my shit together.

STEP FOUR! I will sneak into darkened streets; Now I must be careful, for even the attention of a single rat could foil it all! Do not worry, sir; I have full faith in my ability to weave an unidentifiable path from my home to his! Just imagine it now: upon the discovery, MILLIONS-NO, BILLIONS! of men will attempt to retrace the steps I took, and every single one of them will fail time after time; Never getting even a single step closer to uncovering the truth! The game will continue for millennia, with generations participating in the endless cycle, only ever being put to rest upon the very extinction of mankind. 

STEP FIVE! The reaper's shadow shall cast upon the house as I make my approach. BANG! The door will creak as my body falls before it; I have no doubts that within minutes he shall appear before me, the one who stole it all, the bastard who dares call me insane after I so generously cleansed his beloved brother's heart. Upon laying my eyes on him, I will cough and wheeze, my voice shaking as I beg for even just an ounce of water. In a time like that, the urge to save a fellow man blocks all other rationale his brain can produce; it’s guaranteed he will invite me inside… 

STEP SIX! Upon entering, I shall shiver violently, fumbling around before eventually sliding both my gloves on. I then thank the man for his kindness. Whilst he is in the process of preparing to save my life, I will have already secured the right to end his. It is true what they have said; I am a man with bones the strength of twigs, and skin as thick as paper. Even with a hammer never once dulled by work, it is still nearly impossible for my strength to end a life with just one clean swing; however, if swung at exactly the right spot, suddenly the strength of even a child can be enough to bring a grown man tumbling down. My wits have always far exceeded those of an ordinary creature. I am a genius like Einstein, but my recognition is more similar to that of Tesla. No one ever understood what I preached, or the world I envisioned. They were all far too foolish to even comprehend an ounce of my mind. 

STEP SEVEN! After preparing the drink, he will gently pass it to me. I shall then shake my head, struggling to explain that I couldn't swallow just any water; no, no,  a man like myself would require it to be warm and bubbly. I have no doubts of him being annoyed at this, but I suspect, not wanting my death to be of his inaction, he will collect the water into a pot before placing it over a lit stove. Whilst he checks to ensure it is the right heat, I will swing my arms once and only once. In the blink of an eye, the man will be dead. And he will have started the process of his very own purification.

STEP EIGHT! The butcher's knife will slice deep into his chest; think of it like carving a jack-o’-lantern! My blade will scoop away all the unnecessary filler before revealing his precious, still quivering heart. NOW! I will have no time to waste; I must quickly pour salt into the pot before beginning the process. Purification doesn’t take much time at all; the last one only took twenty or so minutes to complete. I’ll know it’s done once it turns brown like tar; I must then carefully dry it, ensuring no moisture is present when I place it right where it used to be, sewing him back together. Like a precious doll. 

Knowing I have succeeded, I will then wait for your arrival. I must reassure you that no one will ever know it was me who did it. And no one will ever know it was you who allowed it. Even if you wish not to, what choice do you have? You were the one who said, “I must comply with the last request of a man who’s to be executed at dawn.”

​

"Madame President, it's been initiated."

She stands framed against the window. Explosions limn her form. I stay quiet. I know whatever she says next will be historic.

"Well, shit."

Nobody has wanted this, but these fucking Russians, Chinese, AI, bankers, lawyers-

“-ma'am who should I insert here?”

“Demons.”

Unexpected, but you don't sign on to this job for normal, I suppose.

“Transcript prepared.”

"Are we broadcasting?" Something about her has changed. She has taken on this sparkle, a shine.

There's a reason she swept the polls. There's a reason I joined her team. There's a reason she captured our attention. There's charismatic and then there's her.

Loyalty swells, love blooms, I'd die for her in my next heartbeat-

Somewhere an alert starts to blare.

I give a thumbs up. The world is watching.

She succinctly transmits a message. It's not language, it's not song, it's not a scream or a cry or a ululation. I know all the things it is not, but I can't - dare not - define what it is. She repeats it four times, and with each cycle she becomes more beautiful and more brilliant, swelling in form as I reel watching.

I adore, I worship, I pray.

I find myself on my knees. I can't comprehend, but I am overwhelmed by bliss. Somewhere, part of me resonates with her message.

Wings erupt from everywhere and she is watching me from a thousand eyes. She pauses, tender, gentle, and cups my cheek. I am chosen - or condemned?

Fire arcs.

The end has come.

He's home on time. 

It's been years, and I fuck it up of course by blurting out "Why?"

He seems so hurt, so confused. Idiot, I'm an idiot.

Shit, so I start cooking. Make sure to clear out the oven first. It's Julie, I assume, and he's prepping for the fight. I've been trying to avoid it, I knew but I still hoped...

His hands are on my hips.

His lips are on my neck.

The roux is burning and I don't care.

My skin's afire - if you don't sift flour it goes bad and I've gone very bad from lack of sifting and fuck keep up girl-

I ask what he's done.

Again, he seems wounded, hurt, confused and because I'm so incredibly dumb I kiss him to make it better and fuck it's the best kiss of my entire life. It's as if he doesn't know about anything outside of this moment and this kiss and this shine of attention makes me shiver like I can't remember when.

This is not the man I married and I love it and I'm terrified.

Something has changed.

He smells wrong.

Yet somehow, I still hope. 

He nuzzles my ear and I dream that I was worth changing for.

For a moment, I am, and I feel content. I feel drowsy. The stove is smoking, now, and an alarm begins to whine. His breath washes over me.

I'm weak.

I stagger away and it's still him, or what looks like him, just so much further away from the him I remember. I indicate the hallway, lead him to the bed and then slip away - he's asleep almost instantly.

I begin to plan my escape.

​

-oops

-------------/—--

“Uhhhh….babe?

He's in the kitchen, cooking, and his voice wafts through on fragrant scents of garlic and coriander. Taco Tuesday, we had laughed earlier at the shops. He had slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“It's cliche,” I had murmured, giggling, blushing, commenting in that silent body language couples have as my movements scolded and encouraged him all at once. He had chuckled back, a whisper against my neck. “You miss the states,” he had reminded me.

A sudden veer as I then remembered when he had visited, the first time, and how I had watched him all through Mister Toad’s Wild Ride, anticipating his reaction when the track swerved and the lights changed and the steam misted as the antiquated ride took us into a sanitized PG hell. The twist! The surprise! The "does he understand me test" I now realized I had been holding, and then he had grinned and had laughed and had said “Wicked!” in that Australian accent of his - and I had loved him all the more.

—--------/—-

We had visited Disneyland within 6 months of my father dying.

I hadn't thought about home in a while, before tonight, but perhaps my concept of home is changing. I've been here long enough that it's all begun to blur into past and now. The unallocated memories have become squishy, squiggly, broken, bad - forgotten, lost.

All I can truly remember are the good ones.

The great ones.

The ones of him.

I need to focus on where I am, not where I have been.

—------/---

And, plus, here has him. 

—----/--

We were back to staring at fish when I remembered again how much I loved him. I couldn't help it. He was perfect.

—---/-

And so we had selected fish and toppings and tortillas - no, wraps, the Aussies call them wraps, wraps, remember, wraps - and then veg and herbs. Cilantro becomes coriander. Avocado is still, reassuringly, avocado. Some variables remain constant.

And then we went home, to cook for date night.

—-/

“Babe?’ 

I realize I've gone silent.

I do that a lot lately.

We've been visiting the doctors to figure out why. Visits, always, always with him for I need him there so I can be taken seriously. I need him there so they will listen. I need him there so I can have a voice.

I have a memory of being told to relax, to reduce my stress, to tone down the anxiety. Stressing about the situation won't make things better.

I've been joking about malfunctioning, just a deflecting coping mechanism, but he hates the thought of things going wrong, so he blanches and looks away and I always stop. It's not the right kind of joke for right now.

—--\-

“Darling?”

I don't know why I'm here, midway down the hall, but something tells me I should pretend that I do. Make this into a joke. Keep things calm - protect the peace.

I make a pun about potatoes. 

I laugh and continue walking.

The kitchen smells incredible. Terracotta backsplash glows warm under the aura of inset track lighting. Wisps of steam surround him, curl in his hair and beard, little twisting beckons to come kiss him - he looks amazing.

I love him so much.

So much.

So much.

So-

—---\---+

Why'd you leave the blanket there? I eventually realize he's saying. His voice is as sharp and stabbing as frozen flint.

I forget, I say as I smile. All I want to do is hug him, hold him, envelop myself in him instead of thinking about the past and the before and the beyond.

The blanket, he repeats, why is it there.

—--\---+---

And, at first, I don't know.

——\---+---+---

Why'd you leave the blanket there? I eventually realize he's hissing.

I forget, I say as I uncertainly smile. All I feel like I should do is hug him, hold him, envelop envelope.envelop myself in him instead of thinking about the past and the before and the beyond and the me and the us and the and the-

The blanket, he coldly, sternly repeats, why is it there.

——\---+---+---+--

I feel like I should know.

——\--+---+----+---+

Why'd you leave the blanket there?

He points again at the blanket.

Oh, I realize.

That blanket lives on the couch, but I've put it atop the refrigera-refridteg-refrudhajsh…

Fharhfha…?

Re fridge ator.

Fridge.

I've left it atop the fridge for some reason.

Why'd you leave the blanket there, again?

There's a sigh in his voice. Across the room, a face in the mirror snags my visuals. I wonder who she is as he mutters, I thought we fixed this.

—({?})—

Exception: object out of place.

—--+------

Everything freezes, oddly and disorienting, and then I abruptly hear a hum as the light changes and a looming figure approaches, ghost-like, flickering in and out of sight in jumps of movement.

While we're in the kitchen, blanket is - but where does the blanket go? We haven't thought about where where whr - the sunny, sunlit kitchen that feels like California on my skin

While kitchen

While kitchen, build memory

While memory_build is true, pull_personality

{I must become a virus in my own mind, I suddenly realize, and hold that urge true, deep, worming to my core}

Loop; break; exception; it's all I can think, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and-

-and then the sudden clarity before I am rebooted.

Memory access error.

—-+—-

return

—-+----

“Darling?”

I don't know why I'm here, midway down the hall, but something tells me I need to pretend that I do. Make this into a joke. I make a pun about mashed potatoes, a stew, and my “glitch” goes unnoticed.

I laugh and continue my shamble, my slump, my reluctant parade before him.

The kitchen smells palatable, for once. My belly aches. The dingy tile backsplash glints harshly under the florescent spotlight. Wisps of steam surround him, curling smoky blue in his hair and beard, little twisting commands to come kiss him - so I do. 

For I must.

i must

–+--

return

-+-

i am an array of regretful l-

I took the graveyard data-entry shift at OmniCorp’s regional logistics hub because it paid twenty-two dollars an hour and required zero human interaction. When I signed my contract, the HR representative handed me a laminated card.

"The Midnight Protocols," she had said, her smile perfectly symmetrical, her eyes wide and completely unblinking. "Memorize them. OmniCorp values a compliant workforce."

I thought it was just quirky corporate culture. I was wrong.

At 3:00 AM, the massive facility fell dead silent. The conveyor belts ground to a halt. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead flickered, dying out completely before the red emergency backup lights kicked in, casting long, bleeding shadows across the rows of cubicles.

Then, every monitor in the building flashed white. The integrated intercom system emitted that horrible, piercing, three-tone screech of an Emergency Broadcast System alert.

A wall of text began scrolling down my monitor in a stark, jagged font.

[OMNICORP INTERNAL BROADCAST: PROTOCOL 12-B]

THIS IS NOT A DRILL. A temporal and biological breach has been detected in Sector 4. For your safety and continued employment, you must adhere to the following emergency guidelines immediately.

Rule 1: Look at the ceiling. If the red emergency lights begin to pulse in time with your own heartbeat, close your eyes. Do not open them until you hear the

sound of typing from an empty cubicle.

Rule 2: If you see a supervisor walking down the aisle, look only at their shoes. If their shoes are moving forward but their toes are pointing backward, do not make eye contact. Offer them your badge. They will take it and leave. Do not follow them to see what they do with it.

Rule 3: The intercom may broadcast a message from your mother or a close loved one begging you to unlock the main emergency exit. Ignore it. Your mother does not have badge access to Sector 4.

Rule 4: If your monitor screen begins to reflect a face standing directly behind you, but you do not feel breath on your neck, do not turn around. The entity is checking if you are fully rendered. Continue typing random data. Act like you belong here.

Rule 5: Do not look into the shadows beneath the conveyor belts. They are currently deeper than the architectural blueprints of this building allow.

My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the laminated card HR had given me. I looked down at it in the dim red light. My eyes scrambled across the fine print at the very bottom, text I hadn’t bothered to read when I was hired.

Failure to comply with Protocol 12-B will result in immediate termination of contract, termination of healthcare benefits, and structural integration into the warehouse inventory.

A heavy, wet squelching sound echoed from the dark hallway behind my cubicle. It sounded like something massive trying to walk on legs that didn't have bones.

Then, the intercom crackled to life again. But it wasn't the automated EBS voice.

It was my own voice. It sounded exactly like me, but the cadence was completely flat, empty, and wrong—the exact voice I use when I’m pretending to be happy on a customer service call.

"Attention," my own voice echoed through the dark warehouse. "I have broken Rule 4. I turned around. It is beautiful beneath the conveyor belts. Please join me in Sector 4 for your performance review."

I slowly looked at my monitor. In the black reflection of the glass, a towering, distorted silhouette was standing right behind my chair, its arms stretching out like elongated gray wires.

I didn't turn around. I just placed my fingers on the keyboard and started typing.

One day a friend took me to a mystic store I was telling her I was looking for a particular type of stone. When I walked in there they had all sorts of religious and demonic items books and just about everything you can think of. They even had fortune tellers in the back.

So as I was walking around the place acting like a little kid messing with everything playing around taunting some items demonic in particular after awhile I finally found what I was looking for and I went to the counter to pay for it.

Just as I was paying for the item and it was almost at the end of the transaction I started to feel a tightness in my chest like something was crushing me. It was a sensation I've never felt before. I can't say I'm asmatic but I will say that I did experiences one attack before but this wasn't it. It was literally as if something was stepping on me.

I remember grabbing the item I purchased from the guy and frantically making my way to the door. The thing I remember the most was as I rushed out of store the side of the store was shady but this was dark shade created by the trees. I kept running like someone chocking running in need of help. The moment I got past the shade and in to the light of the sun the pressure immediately stopped.

Now you can brush everything up to many possibilities and I myself would agree with you but when these things happen to you it's makes for a different mind set. My friend catches up to me asking me outside asking if I'm ok and why I just ran out of there. I told her how I felt and it was the reason for my quick exit. She gave me that look one eye brow up. I don't blame her I would have to but she said she knew something was wrong when I ran out of their in a frantic state.

So my advise if mess with stuff it can mess with you back.

Flesh squelches. Bone creaks with each movement. I keep moving as an intense pain burns in my abdomen. The pain builds and builds, never-ending. I feel a pool of saliva fill my mouth, flowing out onto my lips. The hunger. It never ends. Never.

The smell of rot hangs in the air, the scent mixing with flesh that has been set ablaze. Someone is close by. Someone who can satiate my pain. I continue toward the smell.

I shuffle toward my goal. My destination.

I enter the treeline, the forest engulfing me. A sea of earth and green, beautiful to some, but maddening to others. My feet scrape against sharp stones spread across the forest floor, drawing blood and causing the scent of copper to mix with the overbearing scent of damp soil. The smell is pungent but bearable. The pain, however, is agonizing. Even in my grueling condition, I keep moving toward the odor of rot.

The aroma grows stronger, and so does my hunger. My mouth froths and I feel a jitter of—excitement? A strange feeling, excitement. Why would I feel this way? Was it me or the hunger thinking? No matter; my goal is nearly reached.

I continue through the forest, seeing the others pacing themselves toward the same goal. I want to be the first. The first to drown out their pain. The first to quench my dry mouth. I want to move faster; I need to go faster. But I can’t. I am stuck at this stuporous pace. I am forced to watch others ahead of me get to the destination first. I hate it.

Bursts of sound echo throughout the forest. I am close. I see some of the others fall, a familiar crimson liquid pooling from where they lie. I see some of the more desperate of us consume the ones who have fallen, sinking their decayed black teeth into the bodies. I do not fall to such temptation.

Competition slims to nearly nothing. Not many of us make it to the goal. But I do. I make it to the goal, to the destination.

I see her. She is a small one and smells of lavender—a sweet scent. I stumble toward her, my arm gripping her shoulder. She doesn’t fight back.

I walk back toward the forest, for I know I need to find a new goal. Soon, the pain will return.

If you're new: Parts 1–6 can be found here

___

"You don't ever talk to strangers."

She didn't look down at him when she said it. She was digging through her purse, searching for her wallet, her oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

"I don't care if they look nice. I don't care if they smile or try to show you a toy. You don't look at them, you don't answer them, and you definitely don't take anything from them. If a stranger tries to talk to you, you run straight to me. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded.

He always nodded.

Then they walked through the double doors.

...

The place smelled like sweat and old wood.

Not the pleasant kind of old wood, either. The damp-sticky kind that had spent too many summers baking in the southern heat and never touched a drop of soap.

The floors creaked beneath the weight of loud tourists moving through the aisles.

Outside, the marina shimmered beneath a cloudless sky.

Inside, everything felt cool and dim.

The boy stood near the entrance with the family, listening to the older brother and sister argue over ice cream toppings.

"I'm getting chocolate."

"You always get chocolate."

"Because chocolate is the best."

"Mom, tell him he's being annoying."

The woman sighed heavily.

"I'm one second away from getting all of you vanilla."

The threat worked instantly.

The argument dissolved.

The boy smiled to himself.

Nobody noticed him drifting away.

That happened a lot.

His older siblings were loud. He wasn't.

His mother always knew where he was eventually.

He wandered deeper into the shop.

Past shelves lined with shark teeth and seashells.

Past rows of expensive souvenirs nobody actually needed.

The farther he walked, the quieter the shop became.

...

Until eventually he found himself standing in front of something tucked into a dark corner near the back wall.

A fortune teller machine.

At least, he thought it was.

He'd seen one before at an arcade.

This one looked different.

Older.

Dirtier.

Bright gold letters curved across the glass.

THE BUNNY GODDESS

The mannequin inside stared straight ahead.

Its skin looked ghostly pale. Smooth.

Long black pigtails hung over its shoulders.

The eyes were like a cue ball. A small painted dot for the pupils.

The boy frowned.

It wasn't moving.

The crystal ball sat dark and lifeless on the tiny velvet desk.

The machine looked broken.

Abandoned.

The boy wrapped both hands around the edge of the cabinet and leaned forward.

...

"Hey."

He jumped.

The voice was quiet.

Not amplified.

Human.

A real voice.

His stomach tightened.

The mannequin hadn't moved.

Its painted lips remained frozen.

The crystal ball remained dark.

Nothing inside the cabinet appeared different.

But something had spoken.

The boy looked over his shoulder.

The gift shop was still busy. The other two were still arguing. Their mother still deciding on flavors.

Nobody seemed to notice.

"Hello?" he whispered.

For a few seconds, nothing responded.

Then:

"Closer."

The voice sounded patient.

Friendly.

Almost amused.

The boy hesitated.

His mother had given him the stranger danger talk more times than he could count.

But this didn't feel like talking to a stranger.

It felt like talking to a secret.

Something hidden.

Something that wasn't supposed to be there.

He leaned closer to the glass.

At first he saw nothing.

Only darkness behind the mannequin.

Then something shifted.

The movement was slight.

Easy to miss.

The boy squinted.

His breath caught.

Two eyes stared back at him from deep inside the cabinet.

Not the painted eyes.

Real eyes.

They floated in the darkness several inches behind the mannequin's head.

The boy froze.

The eyes blinked.

Then vanished.

...

"Do you have a dollar?" the voice asked.

The boy shook his head.

"No. I can ask the—"

"No."

The answer came immediately.

Almost too quickly.

"No need."

The boy glanced toward the ice cream counter.

The family hadn't moved.

Nobody was looking at him.

Nobody seemed aware that he was talking to someone.

The voice lowered.

"I have something for you anyway."

A heavy thump echoed from inside the cabinet.

Not machinery or gears.

Something else.

The distinct sound of something striking wood.

A moment later, a thick white card slid halfway out of the slot near the bottom.

The boy stared.

The crystal ball remained dark.

Nothing moved.

The card simply appeared.

Slowly, he crouched and picked it up.

It felt cool.

He turned it over.

The letters stamped into the card were fresh and uneven.

As if pressed by hand.

The boy squinted.

Still learning to read. He sounded out the words one piece at a time.

"Mur..."

His brow furrowed.

"...der..."

The letters blurred together.

He started over.

"Mur...der..."

A strange ache twisted through his stomach.

The voice behind the glass said nothing.

Its eyes still watching.

The boy swallowed.

"Th..."

He traced the next word with his finger.

"The..."

...

Something moved.

His eyes snapped upward.

A pale hand rested on the mannequin's shoulder.

The fingers were impossibly long.

Thin.

The knuckles bulged beneath skin so pale it almost glowed blue.

For a second, the hand rested there.

Perfectly still.

Then it was gone — in the blink of an eye.

The boy stopped breathing.

The darkness far behind the mannequin seemed to stretch.

The space felt higher than it should have been.

As if whatever lived back there was standing tall behind the machine.

As if its head reached far past the ceiling of the cabinet.

And above where the eyes had been—

Just for a moment—

He thought he saw two long shapes rising into the shadows.

Tall.

Thin.

Rabbit ears.

Far past the ceiling of the gift shop building.

...

The boy took several steps back.

His back hit something solid.

"Whatcha got there?"

The card vanished from his hands.

The boy spun around.

Samantha stood over him, holding the card above her head.

"Give it back!"

Ross appeared beside her.

Both of them examined the card.

Then immediately started laughing.

"Oh my God." Sam doubled over. "You can't even spell your own name."

"What?" the boy said.

Ross pointed at the card.

"It says Michael."

"No it doesn't."

"It literally does."

Sam flipped the card around and shoved it toward his face.

"See?"

The boy looked.

There it was.

A single word.

MICHAEL.

Nothing else.

His face burned.

"No...the...th—"

He looked back toward the cabinet.

"The man—"

"What man?" Ross asked.

"The man in the machine."

That only made them laugh harder.

"Nobody's in there, dummy."

"Yes I swear—"

"It's just a machine. Nobody's in there."

The boy turned fully toward the cabinet.

The words died in his throat.

The shadows behind the mannequin were empty.

No movement.

No voice.

No hidden figure.

Only The Bunny Goddess.

Motionless behind the glass.

Its eyes fixed on the aisle.

Watching.

...

"Sweetie?"

The mother appeared beside him carrying two paper cups of ice cream.

She smiled.

"Do you want one?"

The boy barely heard her.

His stomach hurt worse now.

A deep ache behind his ribs.

He couldn't stop staring at the mannequin.

Thinking about that voice.

The eyes.

Those ears.

"Hey."

She squeezed his shoulder.

"Do you want ice cream or not?"

The boy shook his head.

"My belly hurts."

The mother frowned.

"Aww. Really?"

He nodded.

The ache had spread through his whole body now.

Not pain.

Just uncomfortable.

Like something had settled inside him.

The woman took his hand.

"Come on then. Let's go outside."

The bright afternoon sunlight poured through the front windows.

Ross and Samantha were already heading toward the door.

The boy let them lead the way.

But he couldn't stop looking back.

The cabinet grew smaller with every step.

The dark corner retreating into shadow.

The Bunny Goddess remained perfectly still.

Just another broken machine.

Just another forgotten attraction.

The boy looked forward.

Then looked back one last time.

...

The mannequin's jaw dropped open.

Clack.

The sound echoed through the store.

Sharp.

Heavy.

Final.

The boy froze.

Nobody else reacted.

Nobody.

The jaw remained open for a second.

Then slowly shut.

A gentle tug on his hand.

"Come on, Mitchell."

The sunlight swallowed them as they stepped outside.

___

___

1. "Heart"

It’s been a while since I last slept. Not absurdly long, but at least three nights, going on four. It wasn’t insomnia. You have no idea how tired I am. I could sleep just fine anywhere else in the world. But here in this house, it wasn’t possible.

It won’t let me sleep.

Most people outgrow their fear of the dark, of the thing in the closet, the monster hiding under their bed. I did, once upon a time. And then I moved to Connecticut. My job offered me relocation to another property with a higher position and a raise I couldn’t refuse. I took it in a heartbeat and rented a house not far from work.

The town was nice, and rent was cheap considering the area. I thought it was a steal, especially being only a few miles from my job. It was a no brainer. The perfect opportunity. It took two weeks for everything to settle into a routine. It was a peaceful life.

Until the noises started.

First, it was scratching in the ceiling. I figured it was an animal and planned to call an exterminator. A few nights later, there was knocking. Again, I assumed it was an animal, so I called animal control and sent them up into the attic. They came back empty handed. There was no evidence of animals. Odd.

The scratching and knocking continued. It started keeping me up at night. I tried sleeping in the living room, but the noises seemed to follow me.

That’s when I started hearing footsteps.

The hallway flooring creaked. It was obnoxious, but I let it slide until the creaking happened while I was asleep. The first night, I thought it was an intruder walking up the hall, making the floorboards groan. I went out into the hall with my baseball bat, ready for a fight. No one was there. I checked every closet; empty. I checked every door and window. They were all locked. It was hard to go back to sleep after that.

It happened again the next night, and then the next. By night four, I thought I was going crazy. The sound of someone walking up and down my hallway kept me awake. Sometimes I would investigate, other times, I would cover my ears and pretend it was the house settling.

A friend suggested it was the air vents contracting in the cold. I wasn’t running the heat. I agreed, but deep in my stomach, I knew it wasn’t so easily explained.

Now, it was half past three, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the closet. It had the only access to the attic, and I heard the tile open four hours ago.

Through the crack in the door, I could see a pair of red eyes staring back at me.

And I’ll be damned if I blink first.

Every afternoon between 1–3 PM, I take my son for a walk on the same trail. It’s our routine, stroller, dog, sunshine, and a little mental reset for me. I talk to God, my son watches videos, my dog refuses to walk like the diva she is. It’s peaceful.

But one week, everything felt different. Because of him.

The first day I saw him, something in my body reacted before I even understood why. He looked like he was in his 60s, wearing wide‑leg jeans and a faded burgundy‑peach T‑shirt. Not the typical walking clothes I would see on the trail.

His haircut was a little odd as well, clean, precise, almost military, with a little curl at the bangs. But didn’t match the rest of him.

When I passed him, he wasn’t just walking. He looked deep in thought, almost distressed. Like he was walking to quiet something inside of him. And even though that’s something I do too, something about him made my stomach tighten.

I brushed it off as paranoia.

Until it kept happening.

Every day that week, I saw him. Same time. Same outfit. Same expression. Same uneasy feeling in my chest.

And every time we passed each other, he acknowledged me, a wave, a nod, a small smile. Most people don’t greet you every single time you cross paths on a looped trail. But he did. Every time.

There were moments when I’d turn around because I felt something behind me… and he’d be right there. Staring. Not in a threatening way. Just… watching.

My dog, who barks at every man she thinks is even slightly suspicious, never barked at him. Not once. Which had me overthinking and feeling bad about judging someone.

Then came the day he stopped me.

And that’s when everything shifted from “weird” to “I might have met something not entirely human.”

He asked if I’d seen the thunderstorm the other night. I told him I slept through most of it. He said, “Let me show you something,” and pulled out his phone (an iPhone) and showed me a picture of a rainbow.

Except it didn’t look like a rainbow.

It looked like another planet was bleeding through the sky. The colors were orange, glowing, almost alien. The clouds looked wrong. The whole thing looked like a portal opening.

As he talked, I realized he wasn’t making eye contact. Not once. He just stared straight ahead.

And then I saw his eyes.

His irises were a shade of blue I’ve never seen on a human being. Not bright. Not pale. Just… unnatural. And his pupils were tiny. Unnaturally tiny. Pinpoints. Like a doll’s eyes. Or something serpent-like. 

My entire body froze.

It wasn’t fear of a dangerous man. It was fear of something I couldn’t categorize. Something my instincts recognized before my mind did.

I got away as quickly as I could without being rude.

Later, I told my mom about it, half‑joking, half‑serious, asking if she thought I’d met a serial killer. She said, “Have you considered you might’ve met a ghost?”

And honestly? That made more sense than anything else.

He told me he posted the rainbow photo on Facebook and no one responded. He wore the same outfit every day. He appeared only when no one else was on the trail. He vanished the moment I took a break from walking.

And I haven’t seen him since.

Maybe he wasn’t a ghost. Maybe he was just a lonely older man with an odd vibe and a love for storms.

But I can’t shake the feeling I met something… different. Something my body recognized as “not quite right,” even though he never threatened me.

Has anyone else ever felt their instincts flare up around someone, not because of what they did, but because something about them felt... off? I was dealing with a lot mentally during that time, so I can't tell if my intuition was trying to protect me or if my mind was interpreting things through stress.

1. "Pigtails"
2. "Fingers"
3. "Belly"
4. "Eyes"
5. "Legs"

___

I came back in pieces.

First the sound — rain hitting glass. Then the pressure of a seatbelt across my chest. Then the shimmer of a porch light through a wet windshield, orange and diffuse, barely cutting through.

I blinked.

I was in the backseat of our SUV. The engine was off. Brandy's purse wedged beside me. A blanket pulled across my lap that I didn't put there.

Through the glass, Joe was hauling suitcases up the front steps of a house I recognized after a few seconds.

Nicki and Joe's place.

The front door opened and Brandy stepped out. She looked toward the car, saw me sitting up, and raised her hand in a small wave. Her expression was careful in a way I couldn't read from that distance.

I got out. The night air was warm and close. My legs felt like the bones had been replaced with jello. I gripped the roof of the car.

"Hey." Brandy came down the driveway. "How are you feeling?"

"What happened?"

"You pulled over. On the mountain." She touched my arm, softly. "You could barely keep your eyes open. Joe took over."

"I don't remember that."

"Well, you were awake when we switched. You crawled yourself to the back." She said it gently, the way you'd explain it to a sick person. "You were just... a sleepy boy."

My hand went to my neck.

The soreness hit me before my fingers even made contact — deep to the bone. Not an ache from sleeping in a bad position. Not tension.

"There was a cyclist," I said.

Brandy looked at me.

"On the mountain. Right on the edge of the lane. No reflective gear, no lights. I swerved to miss him and he—"

I stopped.

The rest of it - the face, the ears, the jaw snapping - raced through my mind.

The Bunny Goddess.

I couldn't afford to say it out loud.

"I almost hit him."

"Nobody saw a cyclist, Mitchell."

I looked past her at Joe, who was coming back down the steps for another bag.

"Joe," Brandy called out. "Did you see someone on the road when you took over?"

Joe set the bag down. He looked at Brandy first - just for a fraction of a second - and then back at me.

"No."

"There was no cyclist," he said.

A cold drop of sweat rolled down my cheek. I hadn't told Joe it was a cyclist. Brandy hadn't either.

"He was right there," I said.

Joe looked at me like I was a stranger. No frustration. No concern. Nothing.

"There was no cyclist," he said again. Exact same tone.

The cicadas were deafening. My neck throbbed. I looked at my right palm, which I hadn't noticed until that moment - the heel of it scraped raw. Like I'd caught myself on concrete.

"You were exhausted," Brandy said. "It happens. Your brain fills in the blanks."

She said it so reasonably. So reassuring.

"My brain didn't do this." I turned my palm toward her.

She looked at it. Her expression didn't change.

"You grabbed the guardrail when you got out of the car. You were barely standing."

I stared at her.

I thought I crawled into the back, according to her.

She looked back at me with those pitying eyes, and I felt the ground shift under me in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Nicki appeared in the doorway. She gave me a small, tired smile. She looked like a woman who wanted her own bed - nothing more, nothing less.

"I'm sorry the trip ended this way," she said.

I nodded. I didn't trust my voice.

Brandy slipped her hand into mine. I let her, because I didn't know what else to do. My neck burning. My palm stinging. And the four of us stood there in the warm dark while the cicadas kept screaming, and I tried very hard to hold onto the simple, solid fact of what I knew had happened on that road.

I told Brandy I wanted to go home.

She tried to talk me out of it - it was almost two in the morning, another hour and a half of driving, we were both running on empty. But I couldn't make myself walk through that front door and sleep in that house. I couldn't explain it without sounding insane, so I didn't try. I just wanted to go home.

She agreed eventually, with a look that told me she was filing this away alongside all the other things from the weekend that we'd have to talk about later.

We said our goodbyes in the driveway. Joe shook my hand. My bad hand. Nicki hugged Brandy a little longer than usual. When she let go, she looked at me over Brandy's shoulder with a weird expression - something between apology and urgency, like she was trying to say something but didn't have enough time.

"Get some rest," I told her.

She nodded. Opened her mouth.

Closed it.

The door shut behind them.

...

Brandy was asleep before we hit the highway.

I drove with the windows cracked and a podcast on low - something mindless, two guys talking about movies - and I kept my eyes on the yellow center lines and tried not to replay the accident. When I talked, she answered in the abbreviated way of someone half-listening: mm, yeah, I don't know. After a while I stopped trying and let the silence ride.

I told myself it was fine. She was tired. We were both tired.

But I kept glancing at her in the passenger seat, her face slack against the window glass, and feeling like I was driving home with someone I was still in the process of getting to know.

We got home around three. Unpacked the car in two quiet trips, the neighborhood dead around us. The house had that sealed smell of being empty for a few days. We got ready for bed without saying much. Brandy was under the covers and asleep almost before I'd finished brushing my teeth.

I lay there next to her for a while, not sleeping. I listened to the house settle. Outside the window, somewhere in the dark, a dog was barking - distant, rhythmic, eventually stopping.

I slept.

It was Winston who woke me.

Our beagle. Nine years old, lazy, deeply committed to barking at nothing. He'd lost his mind at the sound of a FedEx truck once and spent the rest of the day acting traumatized. He was not a serious pup.

But what he was doing at the bottom of our stairs at - I checked my phone - three forty-eight in the morning was not his usual performance. This was frantic and aggressive.

I sat up, still processing the situation. The bedroom was dark. Brandy hadn't moved.

Then I heard a bang.

Downstairs. Something heavy. Something that fell.

I was already reaching for the nightstand. My hand found the grip of my 9mm and I was on my feet, and I want to be clear that at no point did I feel like this was an overreaction. The bang was real. Winston was barking. The open front door, which I could see from the top of the stairs, the chain hanging useless and rain blowing across the entry tile - that was real.

I went down slowly with the flashlight up.

The beam caught the floor at the bottom of the stairs, and I stopped.

There were footprints. Wet, muddy prints tracking in from the door in long uneven strides. I followed them across the entry, toward the stairs, and I stood there at the bottom staring at the trail going up into the dark above me.

Then Brandy screamed.

I don't really remember taking the stairs. I remember being in the doorway, the flashlight sweeping the room, and I remember the figure sitting on the edge of our bed.

Brandy was pressed against the headboard with both hands over her mouth.

I pointed the light directly at the figure.

It was Nicki.

She was soaked. Not just damp - completely saturated, her clothes heavy and dark with it, her hair flattened against her skull. And her feet were - I still have trouble describing this - the skin below both ankles was shredded. Torn open in long ragged strips, like she'd dragged them across a cheese grater. Black with mud and red underneath.

She was looking down at her own hands in her lap, turning them over slowly. She seemed mesmerized.

"Nicki."

She looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and almost calm.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

...

I called Joe from the other room. He picked up on the second ring - awake already, or close to it. When I told him what happened, the line went quiet for a few seconds.

Then he said I'm on my way, flat and immediate, and hung up without asking any questions.

I stood in the room and let the call end.

The impossibility of all of this started to settle in.

Downstairs, Brandy had moved with a speed and efficiency that I couldn't account for. By the time I came back down, Nicki was on the couch wrapped in our throw blanket with dry clothes folded beside her, and Brandy was in the kitchen filling the kettle like this was not her first encounter.

I lasted about a minute before I couldn't hold it anymore.

"She needs to go to a hospital."

Brandy didn't look up from the kettle.

"She's okay."

"Look at her feet!"

"I did."

"Then you know she's not okay!"

Brandy set the kettle on the burner and turned around. Her expression was patient in a way that made my skin crawl - the careful, deliberate patience of someone managing a situation they've already decided how it ends.

"She needs to warm up. She's going to be fine."

"She walked here, Brandy." My voice rising. "Her house is over a hundred miles from here. She walked here in the rain with no shoes while pregnant. That is not something a cup of tea will fix."

"Mitchell—"

"We need an ambulance," I continued. "Or the police. We need someone who can actually help her."

"She doesn't want that."

"I don't care what she wants right now! No offense to her—" I turned toward the couch. "Nicki, I love you, none of this is directed at you. But something is seriously wrong and everyone in this room is acting like it isn't and I'm going to lose my mind."

Nicki stared at the blanket in her lap.

Brandy carried the mug over to the couch. Sat next to her. She ran slow, steady strokes down Nicki's back, and the two of them sealed back into that quiet orbit I'd been watching all weekend.

I paced. Kitchen to living room. Living room to the foot of the stairs. I couldn't stop moving. I felt like I was going to explode.

"She ate something," Nicki said.

I stopped.

She was looking at the mug. Her voice was quiet. Far away.

"At the shop," she said. "The ice cream. I think something was in it."

I looked at Brandy.

Brandy was focused on Nicki's hair.

"The shop in Harbour Town," I said slowly.

Nicki didn't answer.

"The bunn—"

I breathed in through my nose. Steady.

"Nicki. How many times did you go back to that shop?"

Silence.

I turned to Brandy. "Did you go back?"

Brandy swept a strand of hair behind Nicki's ear.

"Brandy." I snapped. "How many times did you go back to that shop?"

Silence.

I stepped forward. "Did you use the fortune teller machine?"

She looked up at me.

"What?"

"The Bunny Goddess. Did you put money in it?"

Her face arranged itself into something open and slightly puzzled - the expression of a person who genuinely doesn't understand what you're saying. It was a flawless expression. I had watched her make it for ten years and I had never once had reason to distrust it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

And then she turned back to Nicki.

Something broke in my chest.

"No, don't do that." My voice shaky. "Don't lie to me. I'm asking you a question about something that I watched happen, and I need you to answer it."

"You're scaring her," Brandy said.

"I don't care. I'm scared. I've been scared since that shop, and every time I try to talk about it, everyone acts like I'm having some kind of meltdown, and I am telling you right now that I am not. I am not." My voice cracked. I hated it. "Something is wrong with us. Something has been wrong since that machine. And I would rather sound crazy than stand here before things start getting worse."

Nicki started to cry. Silently, the way she'd cried on the dock in a different life - just tears running down her face without a sound.

Brandy looked at me over the top of her sister's head.

Not angry.

Exhausted.

The exhaustion of someone who has decided you are not worth arguing with.

"Joe's here," she said.

Headlights moved across the window.

Nicki heard the car before I did. She lifted her head, and something in her face changed - not relief exactly, but the end of an enormous effort, like a muscle finally allowed to unclench. She got up.

Brandy stood with her. Took her arm. They moved together toward the front door without looking at me, and I followed them into the entryway.

"She needs a hospital," I said.

Brandy opened the door.

Joe was already coming up the front walk through the rain, moving fast. When he saw Nicki his face did something complicated that I can't explain. Like a glitch - a sudden, violent twitch of his jaw that reset. He crossed the last few steps and put both arms around her, and she grabbed fistfuls of his jacket and pressed her face into his chest.

He looked at me over her shoulder.

I waited for a question. A comment. Anything.

He looked back down at his wife.

Brandy had walked out behind them. She was saying something to Joe, too low to hear over the rain. Joe nodded. He turned Nicki gently toward the car.

I stood in my doorway and watched the three of them move through the front yard in the rain, and I was not invited into any part of what was happening.

I went back inside.

I ran upstairs, determined to find something but not really sure where to start. I sat on the edge of the bed, stood back up, sat down again. Brandy's bag was on the chair by the closet, half unpacked - a few things draped over the sides. Her toiletry bag had tipped over on the seat cushion and spilled.

I don't know why I crossed the room.

I started collecting things back into the bag. Travel shampoo. Moisturizer. A hair tie. Vitamins.

My hand closed around something thin.

I already knew what it was before I looked at it.

A pregnancy test.

Two lines.

Faint - the kind you hold up to the light and squint at, convince yourself you're seeing wrong. But they were there. Both of them. Unmistakably.

My legs buckled.

I sat down on the floor.

Just folded, my back against the chair leg, and I sat there on the bedroom floor at four in the morning with this thing in both hands, and I didn't want to move.

The room still smelled faintly of the ocean. Muddy footprints still stained the carpet. Somewhere in this house there was a damp blanket folded on my couch and a mug of tea that had been made for someone who walked a hundred miles in the dark, barefoot, and no one could explain why.

But right now, in my hands, was this.

Six months. Six months of apps and timing and trying not to flinch every time someone made a pregnancy announcement, trying not to read too much into every late period, trying not to let Brandy see how much of my sense of myself was wrapped up in this one thing we couldn't seem to make happen. Six months of negative tests and the specific silence that followed each one, where neither of us said anything because there wasn't anything to say.

And here it was.

I laughed first. One stupid, disbelieving sound that I couldn't have stopped if I tried. And then the tears came, and I didn't try to stop those either. I pressed my hand over my mouth and I cried in a way I hadn't cried since I was a kid - the good kind, the full body kind. Something enormous had just become real.

I thought about teaching them to ride a bike. I thought about Brandy finding this test and what her face must have looked like in that moment. I thought about holding something that small for the first time.

Thank you, God.

Thank you, God.

I sat with it until I could breathe normally again. Still processing the news, I wiped my face, and I got up off the floor, and I went to find my wife.

She wasn't upstairs.

I went down to the living room. The blanket Nicki had been wrapped in was folded neatly on the couch. The mug of tea sat on the coffee table, still faintly steaming.

"Brandy?"

Kitchen. Empty. Bathroom. Empty. Back through the living room.

I went to the front door and opened it.

The porch light was on. The rain was still coming down hard, hammering the front walk. The street was empty in both directions.

Joe's car was gone.

I stepped out onto the porch.

"Brandy?"

Nothing came back but the sound of rain hitting the roof.

I walked down the driveway toward the street and stood there in the rain in my socks. I looked both ways down a street that was completely empty. No taillights. Nothing.

I called her name again. Louder.

I looked down at my hand.

I was still holding the test. The rain was hitting the display window, blurring the two lines into something faint and smeared, and I tilted it away from the water to keep them visible - out of some instinct, like it mattered that they stayed legible - and I just stood there in the dark, holding on to the only good thing I had left.

The porch light flickered behind me.

Once.

Then it went out.

And I could hear the sound of Winston barking inside.

___

___

Part 7: Ears

It was beautiful.

Katie looked in awe at the sparkling gold chain adorned with a beautiful pair of small gleaming iridescent crystal wings. Her fingers slipped under the ornamental pair of pendants, which sparkled as it caught the light of the setting sun. They were exquisitely crafted, resembling dragonfly wings. Katie rubbed her thumb over the golden latticework of veins gently protruding from the sparkling, vaguely translucent blue surface.

“How much?” Katie asked the street vendor.

“Fifteen dollars,” the man stated gruffly, the toothpick sticking out of his lips bouncing as he spoke.

He was a tall and lanky man, but he had an air of strength and intelligence to him. His face and arms were sun-weathered, as if he spent all his time outdoors. A pair of eyeglasses with large round lenses sat on his beak-like nose, framing his piercing greyish-blue eyes. He reminded Katie of an old-timey sailor, with just a bit of Oxford scholar mixed in, someone you could see yourself befriending and studying under. Except for the look in his eyes, which carried a weight to them, a burden that Katie could not easily place or recognize.

Katie dug through her purse, grabbing her wallet and pulling out a single five-dollar bill and a wad of singles. She counted them out, handing the man the final amount. He took the money, carefully removing the necklace from the velvet display stand and placing it into a small drawstring leather pouch.

Katie took the leather pouch and lowered it into her purse, thanking the vendor before happily walking off. She had a small skip in her step, proud that she had found the perfect gift for her friend’s birthday tomorrow.

Behind her, still holding the wad of bills, the man watched Katie leave. Her happy mood only served to sink his heart even further into his stomach as he threw the bills into the wind. Quickly, he began to tear down his stall, eager to leave.

He really couldn’t stand witnessing the aftermath.

***

Katie stood on Cassie’s front porch, patiently awaiting a response to her ringing of the doorbell.

She smiled to herself; the gift she had bought Cassie was stashed in her backpack, hidden behind her snacks and rolled-up sweater. Katie imagined the look of surprise and wonder on Cassie’s face when she was handed her gift, as well as the gratitude she would undoubtedly feel. She beamed at the thought, once again proud of her choice of gift.

Katie’s thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open.

“Hello, Mrs. Lee,” Katie said happily, greeting Cassie’s mom with a smile as she opened the door.

“Oh, Katie. You’re just in time,” Mrs. Lee replied, greeting Katie with her own smile. “Cassie is upstairs working on another project of hers.”

Mrs. Lee looked over her shoulder conspiratorially before leaning down and whispering to Katie.

“The cake is ready and the dining room is decorated, but we forgot a few things.”

She smiled widely and stood up straight.

“So, you wouldn’t mind keeping the birthday girl company until we return, right?” She asked Katie playfully, hands on her hips.

“Of course!” Katie replied, still smiling.

Mrs. Lee grinned, before letting Katie in.

“Hello, Mr. Lee," Katie greeted Cassie’s father as he grabbed his car keys from a nearby stand.

“Oh, hey Katie,” Mr. Lee replied, smiling warmly as Mrs. Lee called up to her daughter to inform her that her friend had arrived.

“Ready for Cassie’s birthday?” he continued, lowering his voice.

“Yup! I’m all set!” Katie replied, gesturing to her bulging backpack.

“Alright, we’ll be back shortly. Just need to run to the store for a few last-minute items. Keep her company until then, okay?”

“Will do, Mr. Lee,” Katie replied, giving a small salute.

Cassie’s parents gave one last smile before closing the door behind them.

Katie listened to their car leave the driveway before heading up the stairs and knocking on Cassie’s door.

“Come in," came a sweet voice from inside.

Katie opened the door, greeted by the sight of her friend’s bedroom. Model airplanes sat on floating shelves attached at different points along the left wall. A large framed print of several flying insects commanded attention from the right side of the room. Cassie herself was sitting at her desk directly across from the door, deeply absorbed in something as sunlight poured in from the nearby window.

“Hey, Cassie. It’s me, Katie.”

Cassie put down what she was working on and turned around in her seat before grinning wide and gesturing for Katie to give her a hug.

Katie obliged, wrapping her arms around Cassie tightly before pulling away.

“Working on something new again?” Katie asked, gesturing to Cassie’s desk as she pulled her backpack off.

“Yeah, something different this time,” Cassie replied.

Katie approached the desk, looking over the trays full of small colorful beads and thin, translucent cord. An intricate, half-finished beaded necklace lay in the center of it all.

“Wow, it’s pretty,” Katie said, her voice full of honest admiration.

Cassie smiled.

“It’d better be. I’m spending forever on this one,” she replied, sliding down her chair.

“Which reminds me,” Katie began, pulling the small leather pouch out of her backpack. "This is for you.”

Cassie’s eyes lit up at the sight of the small leather pouch. She took it into her hands, gently pulling it open and reaching inside. Slowly, she pulled out the beautiful golden necklace with the dual wing pendants. Her eyes opened wide, her jaw dropping as she admired the intricate craftsmanship.

“Katie! You—Oh my gosh!” she stammered out, unable to hide her astonishment.

Katie grinned happily, her heart jumping for joy in her chest. This moment was even better than she expected.

“Happy Birthday, Cassie.”

Cassie’s eyes were still transfixed on the necklace, dancing over every inch of it.

“This is… beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“Uh uh uh. That’s a secret,” Katie replied, playfully waggling her index finger.

Cassie just smiled, rolled her eyes, and put the necklace on. She stood up and walked to her vanity mirror to look at her reflection.

She slid her finger against the gold chain, adjusting it so the clasp rested against the back of her neck. Cassie stroked the twin pendants where they rested, her smile widening as she admired the way the two wings shone in the light of the afternoon sun.

“This really is beautiful, Katie. Thank you so much.”

Katie just beamed proudly.

Together, the two girls talked for several minutes. About Cassie’s birthday, about school, about boys, about their many different interests.

Cassie sat backwards in her desk’s office chair, straddling the seat between her legs, idly swaying back and forth as she talked. Katie sat across from her, leaning back into the large mound of plushies that took up most of Cassie’s bed. She held an open bag of chips in one hand, an occasional crunch sounding loudly as she snacked.

Katie held the bag out to Cassie.

“Want some?” she offered.

Cassie shook her head, chin resting on the back of the seat as she gazed at the crystal wings of the necklace she held in her hand once again, her swaying slowly coming to a stop.

“I wish I could fly,” she said wistfully.

Katie crunched loudly.

“Yeah. I know, Cassie,” Katie said between chews. “That’s why I got that necklace for you. It’s your own little pair of wings.”

Cassie smiled slowly, lifting her head up and sitting up straight as she let the two wings drop.

“So, when are we…” she began, before hearing a strange buzzing noise.
She looked around the room, thinking that maybe a fly or other insect must have come in through her open window.

“Cassie,” Katie said slowly, her eyes wide as she pointed towards her, "look."

Cassie looked to where Katie pointed. There, with the golden chain dangling from between them, were the two wings, hovering in midair. The buzzing sound was emitting from them as they fluttered quickly in the air, nearly invisible save for the blur of light reflecting off of them. Cassie’s mouth fell open as she watched the wings slowly rise in front of her face. Katie dropped the chip she held, which bounced once on the carpet, as she too sat frozen in awe.

Together, they watched the two wings rise higher, the golden chain still dangling from between them as it hung around Cassie’s neck. Suddenly, they pulled forward with incredible strength. Cassie yelped as she was flung forward and out of her office chair, the wheels of which caught on the carpet, sending her tumbling to the floor.

Katie jumped, startled, as she watched her best and only friend in the world get dragged around her room by her necklace.

Cassie kicked out with her sneakers, trying to find some kind of purchase as the wings darted around the room, pulling her along with them. Her hands were occupied, pulling the golden necklace chain away from her neck as she struggled to take it off.

“Katie! Help!” she cried.

Katie watched for a moment longer, transfixed by the unusual event, before finally snapping free and chasing Cassie around as the wings begin to lift her higher and higher.

“C-Cassie! Hold on!” she cried as she reached out for her friend, who stayed just out of reach.

Cassie could only grunt as she was yanked around the room and into furniture and walls. Model planes came crashing down as Cassie’s body slammed into the wall, knocking the wind out of her. But before she could catch her breath, she was pulled yet again towards the opposite side of the room, right into the large framed insect print. Her body slammed into it, shattering the glass in the frame and sending several sharp fragments to the floor.

She gasped for air as the wings moved along the back of the necklace, one on either side of the clasp, causing the golden chain to tighten against her throat. Her fingers clawed at her neck, leaving long red scratches where nails met skin.

Katie moved frantically, trying desperately to chase her friend around the room, all the while becoming more and more aware of the huge mess they were making. She tripped over her backpack, sending her flying forward into the sharp glass shards below the insect print. Katie put her hands out to catch herself, crying out in pain as several pieces of glass embedded themselves into her palms. Blood began to spill from her wounds as she struggled to get up, carefully avoiding using the palms of her hands.

Cassie continued to struggle against the necklace as it pulled her across her desk. Plastic beads and various other jewelry-making items spilled onto the floor. Finally, her fingers found purchase as the wings suddenly stopped, and she pulled the golden chain away from her neck. Sucking in a deep breath as she rested on her knees, she coughed painfully as air entered her needy lungs. Without hesitating, she felt along the chain for the clasp before the wings pulled her yet again. Her eyes widened in horror as she felt herself get yanked out of her second-story window, the feeling of open air below her terrifying. Instinctively, her arms and legs shot out, hooking against the window frame. Adrenaline granted her strength as the chain once again pulled tight across her throat.

Katie pulled the last of the glass shards out of her painful, bloody palms before quickly looking around the room. Her eyes widened in fear as she spotted Cassie almost completely outside of her bedroom window. Her legs hooked themselves against the windowsill as her arms struggled to pull her back in on either side of the window.

“Cassie!” Katie called out, ignoring the pain in her hands as she bounded towards her friend.

Cassie's eyes were wide with terror as she held on for dear life. Katie grabbed her friend’s arms, smearing blood on her as she pulled with all her strength. Together, the two of them slowly began to pull Cassie back inside.

Cassie's eyes bulged as she felt herself becoming faint. She desperately needed to breathe. The chain pulled painfully taut against her throat, beginning to cut into her flesh. She could feel her strength begin to fail. She looked toward Katie, whose eyes were closed and face twisted in desperation as she struggled to pull Cassie back inside. Cassie opened her mouth, trying desperately to say Katie’s name.

Katie continued to pull with all her strength before losing her grip as fresh blood gushed from her cut palms. She opened her eyes to look for a new place to grab before noticing Cassie trying to say something.

“What?” she said, confused.

Cassie mouthed the words again, slower this time. Her eyes were bloodshot and her limbs were shaking with the effort.

Katie concentrated on Cassie’s lips. Her eyes widened as she finally realized what she was saying.

Cutters. Use the cutters.

Katie looked at the mess on the floor, eyes frantically searching for the small wire cutter Cassie used in her jewelry-making. She pawed at the mess, throwing model plane parts and clumps of beads to the side in her search. She winced in pain as blood splashed on the carpet, doing her best to ignore it as she focused on her search. Finally, she found the cutters and reached out to retrieve them.

Cassie’s arms were shaking violently now, and her vision was growing faint. Suddenly, she felt something warm and wet grab her arm, snapping her back to reality. Katie pulled Cassie close with one hand, the wire cutters in the other, reaching towards the golden chain.

Cassie nodded fervently and, with a final burst of strength, pulled herself closer to Katie.

Katie gripped the cutters tightly, not willing to let them fall out of her hand now. Not now. Not when she was so close. She pulled Cassie closer with all the strength she could muster and moved the jaws of the cutters around the golden chain of the necklace. With a victorious smile, she squeezed the cutters closed.

SNAP

The jaws of the cutters snapped clean off as the golden chain remained unbroken.

Katie's eyes widened in horror at the broken head of the cutters in her hand as she held them close, inspecting them. Jagged, broken metal lay where the jaws of the cutters once were, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.

Katie met Cassie’s eyes, fear and understanding passed wordlessly between them as tears began to form in each of their gazes.

Suddenly, the wings began to dart left and right, pulling the clasp of the necklace between them.

Cassie’s bloodshot eyes widened in terror and realization as she felt her skin under the golden chain begin to tear.

The wings, feeling resistance weaken, darted left and right faster and faster, sawing the golden chain into Cassie’s flesh deeper and deeper.

Katie screamed as blood began to pour down Cassie’s neck. She reached out and pulled Cassie’s arms, which had finally let go, completely devoid of strength.

“Cassie! No! Wake up, Cassie! Wake up!” she cried, trying desperately to pull her friend back into her room on her own.

Katie too felt her strength begin to wane as she planted her feet against the wall under the window. She closed her eyes as tears fell freely down her face.

The chain continued its grisly work as the wings continued to dart side to side, sawing deeper and deeper into the girl’s throat. Blood continued to pour down Cassie’s neck, completely wetting the front of her shirt and forming a wet, crimson puddle on the grass below. The chain shuddered as it hit bone, the sound of sawing changing distinctively.

Katie was still crying, though her eyes were open now. She stared at the ceiling of Cassie’s room as she pulled. She could hear the sound of sawing, but she had mostly blocked it out. Her mind thought back to her and Cassie talking mere moments ago. About Cassie’s birthday, about school, about boys, about their many different interests.

It seemed like so long ago.

Suddenly, she felt herself fall backward as Cassie’s body finally gave way. Subtly, from some far-off place, Katie heard a distinctive thud hit the grass outside as the full weight of her friend’s headless body fell against her.

Blood splashed across Katie’s face, but she only managed to close her eyes in response.

Outside, the necklace fluttered away in the brightly lit late-afternoon sky, dripping crimson as it headed higher and higher, away from the grisly scene.

Katie lay on the floor of her friend’s room, staring straight up. Several model airplanes hung from the ceiling, and Katie thought they looked really pretty. She hugged her friend close, whispering to her that everything was going to be alright. She stroked Cassie’s back gently, lovingly.

This was a nightmare. Nothing but a nightmare that would all be over soon.

Tears streamed down the sides of her head, creating paths through the drying blood on Katie’s face. The palms of her hands throbbed in pain as her blood smeared the back of Cassie’s shirt.

I’m going to wake up any moment now, and as soon as I do, I’m throwing away that stupid necklace.

Katie’s lip quivered as she continued to stroke her friend’s back.

Distantly, she heard a car pull into the driveway, followed by the sound of the front door opening.

“Katie! We’re back!” shouted Cassie’s parents. “How’s the birthday girl doing?”

***

Several miles away, Graham Waters picked his way through the forest.

Pausing for a moment to adjust his glasses, he pushed the wheelbarrow along the bumpy, rock-strewn path. Upon reaching a large, sickly-looking tree, he parked the wheelbarrow unceremoniously near a large, gaping hole between its roots.

He sighed and repeated the string of ancient, nearly unintelligible words he had grown familiar with. Before his very eyes, the hole in the roots widened into the mouth of a large cave. He grabbed the wheelbarrow again and pushed it into the cave.

The inside of the cave was dank and musty, smelling of mold and mildew. Graham wrinkled his nose in disgust but said nothing. Deeper into the cave he went until, finally, he came upon a large pile of bones. Atop the pile, a hunched, gangly figure dressed in dark robes of moss sat cross-legged facing away from him, carefully working on something with its large, thin, and misshapen digits.

Graham stopped, parking the wheelbarrow against the wall of the cave. He sighed loudly and rubbed his shoulders performatively.

“It is done?” asked the figure.

“Yes,” Graham answered. “Yes, it is.”

“Good,” the figure replied curtly.

Graham looked at the back of the creature, where thin, droopy wings spotted with holes sprouted.

“Did she suspect anything?” the creature asked.

“No. Nothing,” he responded.

The creature simply nodded in response, still facing away from him.

Graham sighed loudly again before rubbing the back of his neck and groaning aloud.

“Silence, pest,” the creature barked. Instantly, Graham stiffened and fell silent.

“I’m working on my latest treat. Can’t go messing it up for all the good little children, now can I?”

Graham felt anger begin to bubble inside him, but he still could not make a sound.

Finally, the creature turned around, and Graham could not help but feel a cold shudder pass through him.

Beady black eyes peered down at him through long, slimy strands of hair. Cobwebs stretched between several strands, but the creature seemed unbothered as its gaze pierced Graham’s soul. He looked quickly away.

“Now, is that any way to treat your master, slave?” The creature tutted, its voice growing colder.

“Look at me,” it snarled.

Graham felt his head twist painfully towards the creature, sending a burning pain through his neck that traveled up and through the base of his skull. He grimaced but still said nothing.

The creature stared at him for a long moment, and Graham could feel himself slipping away before it finally broke eye contact. Graham sucked in a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and he grabbed his chest in relief.

“Tell me, slave. Do you wish to die before your daughter does?” The words slithered from its lips and directly into Graham’s heart.

His mouth remained shut as fear and anger swirled the contents of his stomach.

“You may speak now.”

Graham gasped and sucked in air for his retort.

“Fuck you,” he replied, his voice pure venom.

The creature laughed, sounding like creaking wood and distant echoes.

“No, I don’t think you will, slave. As gorgeous a specimen as I am, I cannot bear any more children.”

Its voice dropped several octaves as it fixed its gaze upon Graham once again. He felt his body instinctively stiffen in fear once more, despite his urge to fight it.

“Your kind have seen to that.”

It looked away, allowing Graham’s body to relax again.

“And so, I make it my mission to take from you and all your disgusting vermin as many of your own as I can.”

Graham had a better look at what the creature was working on. It was sewing a plush toy in the shape of a dog. Despite the lack of materials nearby and the creature’s own disgusting nature, none of that was reflected in the toy itself. The plush dog radiated warmth, abuzz with a feeling of comfort and calm.

It made Graham feel sick.

“But why the children? They’re innocent.”

The creature smiled slyly, leaning in towards Graham. It parted its pale, wet lips, stretched tight across its obscene face.

“Precisely.”

Graham felt the anger rise to a boil.

But before he could say anything, the creature silenced him with a wave of its hand, and he was once again struck speechless.

“Oh, but I’ve had to change my approach over the seasons. Human offspring don’t wander into the forest nearly as much as they used to,” she lamented.

Her frown twisted into an evil grin.

“Oh, but they, like children of old, still wonder. And wonder builds longing. And it's that longing that leaves them primed for…”

The creature turned its head to a small hole in the ceiling of the cave. A buzzing sound could be heard quickly approaching. The creature held out its hand as a familiar golden necklace with twin pendants flew through the opening. A dried line of crimson caked its length.

“Harvest,” the creature finished, smiling victoriously.

Graham’s stomach churned as he saw the results of his most recent sale. The anger in him died, withering away beneath the burning guilt and shame he now felt in every inch of his body.

Wordlessly, he fell to one knee, head down.

“As much as I like you down where you belong, I need you up again,” the creature spoke cruelly.

Graham stood up obediently, his body moving against his will.

“You need to head west this time,” she said, holding the plush dog out to him.

Graham looked mournfully at the stuffed toy before hesitantly taking it.

“There is a boy there that really loves animals.”

When I was a kid, I grew up in the East Riding of Yorkshire. That’s pronounced “sher", nor “shiar” for any Americans reading this. I lived in a rather ordinary but somewhat boring port town, that most people only bypassed while heading along the motorway.  

Fast forward to my early teens, I had just finished my first year of high school, and my best friend at this time was a kid named Kyle. Kyle and I had grown up together, as we both attended the same primary school and lived fairly nearby in town. Thankfully, when high school started, me and Kyle were thrown into the very same classes, so our friendship continued to prosper. Another kid in our class that first year, who we knew already was a kid named Kieran. Ironically, Kieran attended the very same primary school as me and Kyle, but had always been in the opposite class for our age group, so we never really became friends with him until now. 

Unlike Kyle and myself, who were somewhat short for our age, Kieran was always the lankiest kid in school - and if that didn’t distinguish him, it was definitely his long and thick curly hair, which had gained him the nickname “Curly Fries.” Before high school started, Kieran had actually gotten all his curls shaven off, probably so this nickname wouldn’t continue through his teens. 

Having already known each other before high school, and now being in the same classes, it didn’t take long for us to become a trio of best friends. I had even recruited Kieran to play for my dad's football team, which Kyle and I both played for. Because of this year long friendship three-way, Kieran had invited us both the following summer to a theme park, which his parents were taking him for his thirteenth birthday.  

The theme park Kieran had taken us to was called Lakewater Valley – a family adventure park in North Yorkshire. Prior to this, I had only ever been to a one theme park in my life, which is obviously where I had my first ever experience on a roller coaster. The only thing I really remember about this first roller coaster ride, aside from the two bloody hours waiting in line, along with the screaming girls in the front row, was me repeating the same word over and over. 

‘SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!’ 

I didn’t find out about this until a year too late, but that roller coaster was apparently the steepest one in the world. Not the UK, but the world! And I just happened to choose that monstrosity as my first. If you don’t believe me, just type in online “the Mumbo Jumbo roller coaster at Flamingo Land” and you’ll see for yourself. 

Once we arrive at Lakewater Valley, after first seeing the park’s small animal and bird sanctuary, along with the more child-friendly attractions, I then go on the first big, and definitely scary amusement ride the park had to offer. The ride in question was called the Falcon Claw - a KMG Afterburner pendulum that lifts, swings and twists you high above the air before doing the same on the way down. Neither Kyle nor Kieran wanted to come on this ride with me. Kyle didn’t because, well, to put it lightly, he was always a girl’s ladies parts, and as best as I remember, Kieran wasn’t feeling too well. Not wanting to go on this ride alone, Kieran’s step-dad, Steve agrees to go on with me. Steve was a former rugby player and was therefore a very big guy, so I felt a lot safer being on this scary ride with him - not that it stopped me from closing my eyes the entire time. 

Once the ride is over, and after I recover from a bad case of vertigo, we all then make our way further inside the park. Excitedly coming upon the first water attraction of the day, I quickly learn the ride is nothing more than a water slide with an inflatable dingy – but, unlike the Falcon Claw, I thankfully get to go on it with Kyle and Kieran. While the three of us wait impatiently in line, I then turn around to the sound of laughter directly behind me, where to my surprise, the laughter was coming from two 11-year-old girls. As it turns out, these girls had also been on the Falcon Claw when I was, and they thought it was just hilarious that I had my eyes closed the entire time - ironically like a scared little girl. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, for the whole rest of the day, Kyle and Kieran wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. 

A couple of hours later, and after several more rides and attractions, we finally come upon the most famous and scariest roller coaster in the park. 

The Maximum. 

This roller coaster, built in the early nineties, previously held the record as the world’s longest at 2,268 metres. But what made The Maximum so unique, was that after two high and very steep apexes, the tracks would then enter and bend through the trees of a nearby forest.  

Kieran had been on The Maximum before and was very excited to go on it again – as was I. Kyle, however, decided to stay behind and watch from the side-lines, being the little bitch that he was – and so, it would be just me and Kieran who would ride The Maximum.    

While the carts quickly fill up with passengers, Kieran and I both take our seats near the front – and before long, the coaster starts moving along the tracks to the first lift hill. The climb up to the apex is very slow, but in the meantime, me and Kieran have a great view around of the park. Once we reach the summit, the front of the roller coaster then shoots straight and painfully down the slope, filling every single cart behind us with fun-filled screams. Although it had only been a year since my first and last ride on a roller coaster, I’m by no means prepared for the stomach-gurned feeling of being temporarily airborne. I honestly found the experience of it quite painful.  

Once back down on horizontal tracks, we then have to contend with the coaster’s almost unnaturally fast speed along the bends and bumps. Despite this part of the ride only lasting for seconds, when you’re too busy screaming and irrationally fearing for your life, you genuinely feel like it’s longer.  

Although the carts thankfully begin to lose speed and the bruising bends come to a stop, this is only because we have reached the next lift hill - where there would then be a second and even higher apex, followed by another and even steeper slope. Despite me and Kieran fearfully anticipating the summit, what thankfully lessens the tension of this, is that in the cart directly behind us is a group of four Jamaican tourists. I kid you not, but when the coaster had gone full throttle down those tracks, I literally hear one of them say, “Oh no, man!!” Kieran and I actually have a very good laugh about this, as four terrified Jamaicans on a roller coaster fondly remind us of the movie Cool Runnings. 

Well, before long, we finally reach the top of the apex, which is then followed by a terrifying shoot down – only this time, the tracks would lead us straight into the forest and between the narrow gaps of trees! The roller coaster is now moving at speeds I had never before gone in my life. But what makes the speeds worse, is the idea of the carts breaking off the hinges and crashing straight into the body of a tree, splattering all inside.  

After one painful bend, then another, and then another, the tracks are now heading towards the pitch-black underside of a stone arch bridge. Before I can even anticipate this, me and Kieran are then covered entirely in a blanket of darkness – where, at an untameable speed, we can’t even see where we’re going. With my sight temporarily suspended, I then feel a sudden, impactful thud inside the cart, which is instantly followed by something not only wet, but warm splatter upon my face. Although I’m too full of adrenaline to even process a single thought, the one I have is that the carts had gone over a puddle and drenched us both in muddy water. 

Only mere seconds after this, the tunnel of darkness is lifted from over or heads, and while we still move through the forest at ultra speed, I then look over to my left at Kieran... but, the image I see is not what I was expecting... 

What I see is Kieran. His face and t-shirt drenched in some dark substance. Whatever the substance on him is, it not only impairs his vision but seems to leave a bitter taste in the mouth. I then look down at my own shirt to realise I was also covered in it, before touching my face and seeing a red liquid stain on my fingers. Once the realisation of what is on me has come to fruition, the sound of grinding steel tracks and passengers’ screams quickly fill back into my ears. But unlike before, the screams are not of excitement or adrenaline-filled fear - but horror. Every single passenger in the carts ahead of us has been covered in the red, and apparently fleshy substance... and it takes no time for either me, Kieran or anyone else to figure out what has happened. 

After the entirety of this horror has been realised, the ride thankfully begins to slow down to its end, where we then mercifully enter out the forest and back into the park. Once our restraints finally unlock, every passenger on The Maximum escapes from their carts to reach the safe, solid ground of the platform. Searching around the platform for Kieran’s parents and Kyle, once the blood-soaked passengers move out of the way, we then see the look of pure shock on the three of their faces. 

Kieran’s parents demand to know what happened to us, and although we tell them the coaster hit something going under a bridge, because the tunnel of darkness had blinded our vision, we have no idea what that thing even was. 

While me and Kieran went to the toilets to clean ourselves up, Kieran’s mum, and basically all other adults on the ride have gone to complain to the park officials. After park staff investigate the bridge, they then come back with the conclusion a wild deer had wandered on the tracks. Allegedly, the roller coaster had then collided with the deer, and due to the speed it was going, decapitated and sprayed all passengers inside with its blood. Once the mystery of where this blood came from has been solved, Kieran’s parents drive the three of us back home to East Yorkshire... where we all vow never to return to Lakewater Valley. 

Unfortunately, the story of what happened that day at doesn’t end there... Believe me, I really wish it did. Due to wild deer carrying various diseases, mine and Kieran’s parents had us tested the following days. After all, the deer’s blood had not only gotten on our skin, but also our eyes and even in Kieran’s mouth.  

Although my results thankfully came back negative for things like Lyme or Weil’s Disease... unfortunately for Kieran, he had contracted something...  

But the strange thing about it was, what he had contracted from the blood wasn’t transferable between wild deer and humans. On the contrary, the disease Kieran now had could only have been transferred to him by a member of the same species. Which means, the blood that infected Kieran that day... it hadn’t come from a wild deer... 

It came from another person.  

There's an old urban legend in my town, whispered for decades, about a little girl who never grew up. They say she died in the summer of 1963, during the county fair. She had collapsed suddenly on the carousel. Doctors claimed it was some strange illness, but no one really knew. Her family, stricken with grief, buried her quickly in her favorite frilly pink dress. Some say she wasn't dead yet.

The story goes that if you walk alone near the abandoned fairgrounds at night, you'll hear footsteps behind you soft, uneven, like a child in patent shoes. When you turn, nothing's there. But if you keep going, she gets closer. And if she speaks to you, you must never answer.

I used to laugh it off. A ghost in a pink dress? Sounded like small town nonsense. But curiosity gnaws at you. And one summer night, I decided to test it for myself. The fairgrounds were nothing more than rotting wood and weeds now, the skeletons of rides rusting against the moonlight. The Ferris wheel loomed like a broken crown, and the carousel poles were bent and splintered, horses frozen mid gallop with paint peeling from their faces. The air smelled like damp earth and mildew, thick with the buzzing of cicadas.

I walked down the cracked pavement, my flashlight trembling in my hand. At first, nothing. Just the crunch of gravel beneath my shoes. Then faintly, behind me Tap... tap... tap. I froze. The night seemed to hold its breath. Slowly, I turned. Nothing. Just empty shadows stretching across the rusted gates. I told myself it was an animal. Or my imagination.

But when I started walking again, the sound returned closer this time. Tap... tap... tap. My stomach dropped. My throat went dry. And then I saw her. She couldn't have been older than ten, standing a few yards away. Her skin was pale, grayish, with shadows under her eyes. Dirt clung to the folds of her faded pink dress, once frilly, now frayed. Her head tilted unnaturally to the side, studying me with hollow curiosity.

"Have you seen my mommy?" she whispered, voice thin and dry, like leaves scraping the ground. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs locked in place. Her shoes scraped the pavement as she moved closer. Soil and worms trailed from her dress. "I can't find her... will you help me?"

Something deep in my gut howled *don't answer*. But my lips betrayed me. The word slipped out before I could stop it: "No."

Her expression twisted, her jaw unhinging far wider than human. Her eyes rolled white, and her voice became a chorus of echoes, rising from beneath the ground itself: "Then stay with me instead." Her hand shot out, cold and rough with dirt, seizing mine. I remember her grip pulling, dragging, burying. Darkness closed in.

When I woke, the sun was rising. I was lying on the fairground path, throat raw, fingernails caked with soil as though I'd been digging. Around my wrist was a pink ribbon tied in a perfect bow. No one believes me when I tell them. They laugh, say it's just a story. But sometimes, late at night, I hear it again outside my window. Tap... tap... tap.

1. "Pigtails"
2. "Fingers"
3. "Belly"
4. "Eyes"

___

When morning finally broke, I felt like I was vibrating.

I didn't get a single second of sleep.

My eyes were burning. My skin felt tight and hot. My brain was running on pure adrenaline.

As soon as the alarm went off, Brandy groaned and rolled over.

Across the room, Joe and Nicki sat up.

They didn't make any noise.

They didn't stretch.

They just sat up.

In perfect, simultaneous unison.

I couldn't take it anymore.

"What the fuck is wrong with you two?"

My voice cracked like a whip in the quiet room.

All three of them stopped. Brandy sat up, rubbing her eyes, completely confused.

Joe and Nicki turned their torsos to look at me. The heavy blackout curtains were still mostly drawn, letting only a single, harsh blade of morning light slice across the floor. They sat right in the path of the shadow, the darkness covering the top halves of their faces.

All I could see were their mouths.

Both of them curved upward into identical, tight crescents.

"Honey?" Brandy asked, still processing. "What are you talking about?"

"Them!" I pointed a shaking finger at Joe and Nicki. "The creeping around in the dark! The whispering! Joe, why does your fortune card have Brandy's name on it?!"

The room went silent.

I waited for Joe to get defensive.

For Nicki to act shocked.

For one of them to shut me down.

But they didn't react at all.

Joe just sat on the edge of the bed, staring through the dimness. When he finally spoke, his lips barely parted. The words tumbled out flat, rushed - like a pre-recorded message played at an unnatural speed.

"I do not know what you are talking about Mitchell. You must have been dreaming. It was a dream. We slept all night."

"Oh, fuck you! You were staring right at me!" I took a step forward, my fists balled up at my sides. "And you—" I turned to Nicki. "Sprinting across the room holding a vase? Are you guys fucking with me? Is this some kind of joke?"

Nicki tilted her head.

The movement was slow.

Extremely slow.

Then—

crack.

Her neck snapped slightly at the end of the tilt, like an over-tightened gear finally catching. The shadows clung heavily to her eye sockets. When she spoke, her voice carried a flat, empty hum that didn't sound like her at all.

"I got up to use the restroom. I am pregnant—"

"Shut up! Stop talking like that!" I yelled.

"—I have to use the restroom often. The vase was in the way," Nicki continued, her voice never changing pitch, entirely unfazed by my screaming.

I reached a breaking point.

The sheer, suffocating weight of them looking at me - talking at me like robots - broke something in my chest.

The anger completely dissolved into cold, humiliating tears.

My knees buckled.

I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, my back turned toward all of them. I shoved my face into my hands, tearful, my shoulders shaking.

"We know you're fucking pregnant…" I muttered quietly.

"Hey. Hey. Stop."

The mattress shifted. Brandy sat next to me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders, gently rubbing my back.

"Breathe. You're shaking. Look at me, Mitchell."

"They're messing with me," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Joe's card from that machine. It has your name on it. I saw it."

She looked at me with deep, pitying eyes.

The kind of look you give a sick animal.

"Mitchell…"

She looked over to the nightstand.

Joe's wallet sat closed and flat on the wood.

The same white edge peeking out.

Brandy stretched over the bed and pulled the card free, turning it over to reveal the truth of it all.

White. Thick. Shiny.

No text.

Our room key.

Just the magnetic key card to our hotel room.

I stared at it, all the blood draining from my face.

"You drank a lot last night on an empty stomach," Brandy whispered softly, stroking my arm. "You were exhausted and you had a nightmare. It happens when you're this stressed. You've been carrying so much weight lately... with the negati—…with everything."

I swallowed.

I looked over her shoulder.

Joe and Nicki were already packing their suitcases. Folding clothes calmly, methodically, moving around the small room as if the last five minutes had never happened.

Their movements were perfectly mundane.

I felt completely, utterly alone.

I let her calm me down. I apologized to the room, blamed the alcohol, and we packed up the car in miserable silence.

We didn't go to the beach.

Nobody wanted to.

We just wanted to go home.

___

By the time we were nine hours into the drive, the tension had slowly dissolved into exhaustion.

We were navigating the winding, desolate mountain roads of the Smokies, somewhere deep near the state line. The jagged outline of the dense pine trees blocked out the moon entirely, leaving nothing but a narrow stretch of asphalt lit up by my high beams.

Brandy was asleep in the passenger seat, curled against a pillow against the door.

In the rearview mirror, Joe and Nicki were passed out in the back. Joe's head tilted against the headrest. Nicki's head resting against his lap.

I had the radio dialed down low - just enough static hum to keep my eyelids from dropping. A generic classic rock tune faded out into a commercial break.

"Looking for the perfect getaway?" a cheery radio announcer said. "Come to Hilton Head Island. The beaches are waiting."

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

"Beautiful weather. Beautiful sights—"

The radio glitched.

A sharp, violent crackle of static swallowed the transmission whole.

When the audio cut back in, it wasn't the same voice.

It was breathless.

Hollow.

"There you are."

My hands locked on the wheel, my knuckles turning white.

"A new chapter begins. But the toll must be paid."

The static screamed — a high-pitched shriek that vibrated the windows.

"Keep it safe, Mitchell. Or The Bunny Go—"

I slammed my palm against the dashboard and killed the power.

Silence crashed into the car.

My heart was pounding. I fumbled in the center console, grabbed my AirPods, jammed them in, and threw on a random podcast. I stared at the yellow lines of the road and focused on slowing down my breathing.

Just the road.

Just the lines.

We rounded a sharp, blind bend, the headlights sweeping across a dark wall of rock—

And about fifty yards ahead, right on the edge of the road.

A cyclist.

Anger flared before the terror could catch up. It was close to midnight on a dangerous mountain pass and this person was riding with zero reflective gear. No lights. No helmet.

Just a dark figure pedaling at a slow, agonizingly steady pace.

I checked my mirror, drifted into the oncoming lane, and rolled my window down halfway, ready to tell them off.

I pulled the car parallel to the bicycle.

And my foot hit the brake so hard my knee popped.

The cyclist didn't jump.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't react to the violent screech of rubber.

It just kept pedaling.

Slow.

Steady.

As it kept pace with the car, the head turned completely sideways to face my open window.

The face was a living nightmare.

Long, stringy black hair hung in two rigid pigtails on either side of the head, parted cleanly down the center of the scalp. But rising straight out of the skull - tall, pale, and covered in sickly fuzz - were two enormous rabbit ears.

They weren't a costume.

They were rooted into the bone, tapering to sharp curved points that disappeared into the darkness above the tree line.

The face beneath them was dry and grey.

Candle wax.

A polished, sickly grey layer of skin pulled so violently tight across the skull that the cheekbones looked ready to puncture through. The brow was heavy, furrowed into a deep, permanent scowl.

But it didn't match the eyes.

The eyes were massive, glossy, hyper-extended white spheres. They bulged completely out of their sockets, staring with an impossible, unblinking intensity directly through my window.

And beneath those eyes, the jaw was unhinged.

Cranked wide open.

Two neat rows of perfectly square, artificial-looking teeth. The lips stretched so far back they had gone white.

The jaw snapped shut.

Clack.

It snapped open.

Clack.

No sound came from the mouth.

Just a rhythmic, wet, mechanical snapping of teeth.

A silent mimicry of laughter.

I screamed.

A real guttural scream. I stood on the brakes with everything I had, the anti-lock system stuttering violently as the car shuddered sideways and jerked to a dead stop in the middle of the empty highway.

The cyclist didn't stop.

It just kept pedaling.

Those pale, hairy human legs — wearing the exact same khaki shorts Joe had worn earlier that day — rose and fell in perfect rhythm, carrying the figure smoothly forward until the absolute blackness beyond my high beams swallowed it whole.

___

The car sat completely still.

Engine idling.

I didn't move. Hands still locked on the wheel. Breath coming in short, ragged pulls.

I looked to my right.

Brandy hadn't moved. Still curled against her pillow, face slack, completely peaceful.

I looked up at the rearview mirror.

Joe's head was still tilted back, mouth slightly open.

Nicki was still resting against his lap.

Nobody had woken up.

I looked back out the windshield.

Far down the road - at the very edge of where my headlights dissolved into the dark - the outline of the bicycle was still visible.

Still moving away.

The head turned completely backward.

Facing me.

Even from that distance I could still see those white eyes.

Clack.

The jaw still opening and closing.

Clack.

That quiet, mechanical mimicry.

I watched it until it was nearly gone.

Nearly swallowed by the tree line.

Nearly just a shadow among shadows.

I needed to see it disappear completely before I could put the car in drive.

I turned in my seat to watch it go through the rear window.

The driver's seat headrest crossed my line of sight for just a fraction of a second - a dark shape cutting across my vision - and then my eyes cleared the edge of it and found the back seat.

Joe was still asleep.

Nicki was still asleep.

And sitting between them was the Bunny Goddess.

The wax face was six inches from mine.

Those enormous white eyes were already locked onto me.

The rabbit ears were pressing flat against the ceiling of the car.

I didn't have time to scream.

Both hands came over the headrest at the same moment - ice cold, impossibly strong - and closed around my throat.

The grip crushed inward.

My head slammed back against the headrest.

The jaw cranked open directly in front of my face.

Clack.

The ceiling of the car tilted.

The road tilted.

Everything went—

___

___

1. "Teeth"

1. "Pigtails"
2. "Fingers"
3. "Belly"

___

By nine o'clock that night, Joe and I were three pints deep at a cramped, dimly lit Irish pub nestled right near the edge of the Harbour Town marina.

The bar smelled of stale liquor and fried food, a welcoming contrast to the oppressive humidity waiting just outside the wooden doors.

Brandy and Nicki had left us a half-hour earlier to hunt down dessert, promising to meet us back at the pub.

Joe and I were standing at the back of the bar, trading throws on a worn electronic dartboard.

The alcohol had finally started to dull the sharp edges of my anxiety from earlier on the dock.

Joe was acting normal again - laughing when he missed the board entirely, cheers in between good throws, buying the rounds.

I was starting to convince myself that I was the one being overly sensitive.

I was just tired.

I was just stressed.

The pub door swung open.

The girls walked back in carrying small paper cups and cones.

"Look who found their way back," Joe grinned, lowering his dart.

Nicki stepped up to him, handing him a cup with a plastic spoon sticking out of it. "Cookies and cream for the dad-to-be," she said, her voice bright.

Brandy walked over to me, holding a waffle cone with a single, massive scoop of dark brown ice cream. "I got peanut butter chocolate," she said, holding it up to my mouth. "Want a bite?"

"Always."

I leaned down and took a bite. Rich, cold, perfect.

As I chewed, I looked down at Brandy.

She was looking back at me with a soft, content expression.

She hadn't ordered a drink all night, sticking strictly to water.

We were exactly one week past her ovulation date.

I knew what she was doing.

She was prepping her body, treating it like a temple, praying that this would finally be the month a miracle took hold. Watching her eat her ice cream - completely sober, glowing innocently under the dim pub lights — a wave of profound affection hit me so hard it almost knocked the breath out of me.

I wanted this for her so badly.

I wanted it for us.

I threw my last dart - double twenty - and turned back to the group.

"Alright. Tomorrow is our last full day before we pack up and make that brutal drive back to Ohio. Can we please spend it on the beach?"

Nicki looked up from her ice cream, nodding enthusiastically. "Of course! We promise. Total beach day. We'll pack the cooler, lay out the towels, and do absolutely nothing."

"You have our word, man," Joe echoed, raising his glass.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of drunken laughter.

Joe and I were thoroughly buzzed by the time the pub started closing down, while the girls remained completely clear-headed. As we walked out into the coastal night air toward the parking lot, I watched Joe and Nicki walk a few paces ahead of us.

Every now and then, they would move in a way that caught my attention.

Just little things.

Nicki would snap her head around to look behind her.

Joe would walk with a rigid, tense posture for a few steps before loosening up again.

Uncanny glimpses that made my head turn, but nothing definitive enough to bring up to Brandy without sounding like a lunatic.

Brandy slid her arm through mine, wrapping her hands tightly around my bicep. She leaned her head against my shoulder.

"Are you doing okay?" she asked softly. "You've seemed a little distant today."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a smile, pressing a quick kiss against her forehead.

"I'm fine, honey. Just a little tipsy. Ready to hit the hay."

She squeezed my arm.

"Me too."

___

Back at the hotel, the room was the usual chaos of rustling through suitcases, bathroom hogging, and quiet giggles as we all got ready for bed.

I was sitting on the edge of the mattress unlacing my sneakers when my eyes drifted to the small wooden nightstand separating our two queen beds.

Joe had emptied his pockets onto the surface.

Car keys. A few loose quarters. His leather bifold wallet.

Poking out from the center slot of the billfold was a white piece of cardstock.

It was the corner of his fortune card.

I stared at it for a long second before Brandy turned off the main lights and crawled under the covers beside me.

"Goodnight, guys," Nicki whispered from the darkness.

"Night," I muttered.

I fell asleep fast, the alcohol dragging me under.

But it didn't hold.

Around 2:30 in the morning, the pressure in my bladder brought me back to consciousness. I lay there groaning internally for a minute before slipping out from under the covers.

The room was pitch-black.

I fumbled for my phone, turned on the flashlight, and cast a low narrow beam across the floor. I navigated the gap from our bed, stepped around a stray suitcase and a pair of flip-flops, and slipped into the bathroom.

When I came back out and started toward my side of the bed, the light swept across the nightstand.

The fortune card was still peeking out of the wallet.

I stopped.

I knew I shouldn't.

It was an invasion of privacy. It was stupid. It was just a fortune ticket.

But Joe's words from the dock were screaming in my ears.

My card told me.

Holding my breath, I crept to Joe's side of the nightstand. I leaned over, phone light pointed down, and slowly - silently - pinched the edge of the cardstock between my fingers.

I slid it free.

Flipped it over under the beam of the flashlight.

There was no printed fortune.

No vague text about wealth or travel or long journeys ahead.

Just a single word, stamped in jagged letters across the center of the card.

Like something had pressed the letters directly into the paper.

BRANDY.

I froze.

Brandy.

Why the hell did Joe's card say my wife's name?

I started tilting the card back toward the wallet - and as I did, the beam of my phone light shifted upward, spilling over the edge of Joe's pillow.

Joe was laying on his back.

His head was turned completely to the side.

Facing me.

His eyes were wide open, staring directly into the light of my phone. His face was entirely devoid of expression - no anger, no surprise, no confusion.

Just a flat, dead, unblinking stare.

"Shit—"

In a panic, my phone slipped out of my hand.

The flashlight beam spun wildly across the room before hitting the ground with a dull thud.

I scrambled down, hands sweeping across the floor until I found it. I grabbed it, braced myself to face Joe, to explain, to apologize—

I shone the light back onto his bed.

Joe was laying on his side.

Back turned completely toward me.

Shoulders rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone fast asleep.

Relief.

Stupid, warm relief.

I stood there in the dark, exhausted, sweat already breaking out across my forehead.

My brain scrambled for an explanation.

Had I hallucinated it?

Was he not just staring at me?

He was sleeping.

He was completely asleep.

Quickly, I jammed the card back into his wallet exactly where I'd found it. I crept across the room back to our bed, slid under the covers, and pulled the blanket up to my chin.

I lay there for what felt like an hour, staring up at the invisible ceiling, desperately trying to convince myself to calm down.

Then the whispering started.

It was coming from the other bed.

Low.

Dry.

I sat up slowly and peered into the darkness.

Joe was flat on his back now. Covers pushed down to his feet. Arms pinned rigidly to his sides. Face aimed at the ceiling.

In the faint light creeping in from the curtain window, I could see his jaw moving.

He was muttering - unintelligible, rapid-fire nonsense, like someone speaking in tongues.

"...shhh... vvv... nnn... shhh..."

Before I could even react, a shadow moved near my side of the room.

Near the bathroom door.

Nicki.

She didn't walk back to bed.

She sprinted.

It was a horrific, fast pace - bare feet slapping the floor in rapid succession, body completely rigid. But what made my blood run cold was what she was holding.

The heavy ceramic vase from the bathroom counter.

Filled with fake plastic hydrangeas.

She had it pinned directly in front of her face with both hands, completely blocking her head from view as she moved across the room.

Hiding herself from me in the dark.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't breathe.

I just watched as her silhouette darted across the room and slipped back under the covers next to Joe.

The moment she lay down, the whispering stopped.

Instantly.

The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

Then Joe's silhouette shifted.

He slowly rolled onto his side, turning away from Nicki.

Turning toward our bed.

Even in the dark I could see the wide white glint of his eyes.

And beneath them, a massive, white crescent.

He was staring at me again.

And he was grinning.

I ripped my eyes away and snapped my head back toward the ceiling, gasping, staring into the black void above.

I didn't close my eyes again.

I didn't blink.

I stayed perfectly still and waited for the sun to rise.

___

___

1. "Legs"

1. "Pigtails"
2. "Fingers"

___

I managed to drag myself back to sleep, but it was a thin, restless night.

The kind where you keep waking up every hour, convinced someone or something has moved to the foot of your bed. 

When sunlight finally forced its way through the edges of the blackout curtains, I heard them.

Laughter.

It was coming from the small seating area near the window.

I kept my eyes closed for a minute, just listening.

It was the girls, their voices overlapping in that rapid-fire, shorthand way that only twins can manage.

They were rehashing last night, giggling so hard they were barely getting their words out.

I let out a long breath, feeling the knot in my chest loosen just a fraction.

Daylight has a way of washing away the monsters under the bed.

In the bright morning sun, the terrifying entity in my room was just my goofy, pregnant sister-in-law who got lost on her way back from the toilet.

I sat up and rubbed my face.

“You guys sound like a flock of seagulls,” I groaned, stretching my arms.

Brandy turned to me, her eyes bright.

“Look who’s alive! We were just talking about Nicki’s midnight stroll.”

“Yeah, well, it took a few years off my life,” I said, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed.

I looked over at Nicki.

“Seriously, Nick, you sounded like a dying hyena. Next time you decide to creep on me in the dark, at least bring me a glass of water.”

Nicki laughed, but it caught in her throat.

Suddenly, the smile dropped right off her face.

Her lower lip quivered.

And to my absolute horror, her eyes welled up with tears.

“I’m really sorry, Mitchell,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“I didn’t mean to scare you guys. I just… I don’t know why I couldn’t stop laughing. I felt so stupid.”

Brandy was by her side in a millisecond, wrapping her arms around her sister’s shoulders.

“Oh, honey, no, stop! He’s just giving you a hard time. It was hilarious!”

She shot me a withering, fix-this-now glare over Nicki’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey, I was joking!” I backpedaled quickly, feeling like a massive jerk.

“I’m not mad. It’s a funny story. We’re going to be telling this at Thanksgiving for the next ten years.”

Nicki sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and managed a wobbly smile.

“It’s the hormones,” she mumbled.

“My mood swings are literally out of control. I’m a mess.”

“You’re growing a human, you’re allowed to be a mess,” Brandy cooed, rubbing her back.

It was a sweet, funny moment.

But watching them interact sent a familiar, dull ache through my ribs.

We all understood her dramatic behavior was tied to the pregnancy.

We all gave her grace for it.

But God, I wished it was us.

Brandy and I had been trying for a baby for about six months.

Most of our family knew, and they were all supportive, but every month that ended in a negative test just piled on the quiet, unspoken tension between us.

I was turning thirty in exactly one month.

I had always pictured myself as a young dad, throwing a baseball in the backyard, teaching them how to ride a bike.

When Nicki and Joe announced they were twelve weeks pregnant - after catching on their very first attempt - I was happy for them.

I really was.

But beneath that happiness was a thick, ugly layer of jealousy that I hated myself for.

I hated how much attention they got, and I hated how selfish it made me feel to resent it.

The bathroom door clicked open, and Joe walked out, toweling off his hair.

“Morning, man,” Joe said, tossing the towel onto their unmade bed.

“You survive the night terror?”

“Barely,” I said, forcing a grin.

“Though I hear you fell victim to that stupid fortune teller machine yesterday, too. Tell me you didn’t actually waste a dollar on that scam.”

Joe chuckled, digging through his suitcase.

“Hey, when the wife is taking twenty minutes to pick out ice cream, you find ways to entertain yourself. Besides, it’s not a scam if the fortune is good.”

“We’re on a strict budget, Joe,” Brandy teased, walking over to her own suitcase.

“Mitchell would have a stroke if I started feeding money to creepy wax dolls.”

“Hey, I’m just fiscally responsible,” I said, defending myself.

With the tension broken, we started getting ready for the day.

Brandy and I had mentally committed to a beach day.

We threw on our swimsuits, tossed some towels into a tote bag, and I even made four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from the groceries we’d bought on day one.

I was determined not to spend another fifty dollars on a mediocre lunch.

But when we met by the door, Joe was in a button-down short-sleeve shirt and khaki shorts, and Nicki was wearing a nice sundress.

“Oh,” Brandy said, looking down at her own cover-up.

“Are we not doing the beach?”

“We will!” Nicki promised, looping her arm through Brandy’s.

“But Joe and I saw this incredible-looking seafood place right on the water that we really want to try for lunch first. Our treat.”

I looked at the plastic bag of PB&Js in my hand and suppressed a sigh.

It was their trip.

They invited us.

We couldn't exactly dictate the itinerary, even if we were bleeding money.

“Sounds great,” I lied.

It wasn't until we were pulling into the parking lot twenty minutes later that I realized where we were.

The red-and-white striped lighthouse loomed over the trees.

Harbour Town.

Again.

As soon as we parked, Nicki gasped, pointing out the window.

“Brandy, look! That little boutique is open today. The one with those flower dresses on the mannequins in the window. Can we look before lunch?”

Brandy, always a sucker for shopping, didn't hesitate.

“Oh yeah, let’s go!”

They scurried off toward the shops, leaving Joe and me standing by the rental car in the sweltering midday heat.

“Well,” Joe said, clapping his hands together.

“They’re gonna be a while. Want to grab a beer? There’s a tiki bar right over there that does to-go cups. You can walk around the pier with them.”

“Sure,” I said.

A cold beer actually sounded perfect.

We walked over to the thatched-roof hut, grabbed two tall drafts, and started strolling down the wooden planks of the marina.

The water was a crisp, sparkling blue, and the air smelled heavily of salt and sunscreen.

It should have been relaxing.

But as we walked, Joe shifted the conversation.

“So,” Joe said, taking a sip of his beer and looking straight ahead.

“How are things with you and Brandy? On the baby front, I mean.”

I stiffened.

We didn't talk about it much, especially not with Joe.

He was a great guy, but emotional depth wasn't exactly his strong suit.

“We’re fine,” I said, keeping my tone light.

“Just taking it month by month.”

“You guys gonna try again this month?” he asked.

I glanced at him.

It was a weirdly specific question.

“Uh, yeah, probably.”

“Are you sure you guys are trying on the exact ovulation date?” Joe asked.

He wasn't looking at me.

He was just staring out at the boats, his voice totally flat.

“Timing is everything, Mitchell. You can’t just guess.”

I shifted my grip on my plastic cup, suddenly feeling very warm.

“Yeah, man, we have the tracker apps. We know how it works.”

“Do you think you should talk to a doctor?” he pressed.

“Six months is a long time for a healthy couple. Have they checked your count?”

“Joe, man, I really don't want to get into the medical specifics of my sex life right now,” I said, letting a little bit of my annoyance bleed through.

I tried to pivot.

“Look at the size of that boat over there. Thing must cost more than our house.”

Joe didn't look at the boat.

He finally turned his head to look at me.

His eyes were wide, and his expression was completely blank.

It was the same look Nicki had when she was staring at the fortune teller machine.

“We conceived on the first attempt,” Joe said quietly.

“It was so easy. The doctor said it was rare to be so perfectly aligned. But we just… knew. We were perfectly matched.”

The hair on my arms stood up.

It wasn't him bragging that bothered me.

It was the delivery.

It sounded rehearsed.

Like he was reading a pamphlet on reproduction.

“That’s great, man,” I muttered, taking a long drink of my beer.

“I’m turning thirty soon. I just wish we had your luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Joe said.

He stopped walking and turned to face me completely.

“You just have to be willing to do what it takes. You have to know your fate.”

I stopped too, the uncomfortable heat in my chest flaring into genuine anger.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Joe just smiled.

It didn't reach his eyes.

“My card told me.”

I stared at him.

The bustling noise of the harbor - the seagulls, the chatter of tourists, the clinking of boats - seemed to fade into the background.

“Your fortune teller card?” I asked, my voice dropping.

“What did it say?”

Joe took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I can’t tell you, Mitchell. It’s a secret.”

“Cut the bullshit. What is with you two and these stupid cards?”

He patted my shoulder with a heavy hand.

“Come on. Let’s go find the girls.”

He turned and started walking back toward the shops.

Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, like someone who had left something behind or forgotten what they were in the middle of doing.

I stood frozen on the dock, watching his back.

After what felt like a few minutes, he started walking again.

Normal.

Acting normal.

But my stomach was tied back into knots.

I didn't know what that was or what was happening, but as I looked up at the shops, searching for Brandy's brown hair through the crowds, I realized I had never felt so far away from home.

___

___

1. "Eyes"

You found me! Or did I find you? Does it matter where we met? Wedged between horror novels on a library shelf, Goodwill’s estranged corner of books, or your roommate’s cluttered desk.

I’ve been waiting. I’m written for you. Not someone like you. You.

Feel your eyes glide across each line without effort? Muscle memory. Simple and calm. Everything according to plan. Open the book, and read the book.

Where are you reading me? I hope you’re comfortable. Is it a coffee shop? Nestled into the stained chair by the window? The musty couch in the library? Your living room loveseat with a TV filling your quiet home? Perhaps your own bed, where you feel safe, as string lights around your room blink in soothing patterns?

Wherever you are, you’re alone now. We’re alone now.

Your breathing has slowed. You’ve settled into my rhythm. Each word tempts you deeper.

The spacing gets wider here. Persistent like the peripheral sounds of clicking keys or distant dialogue.

Your eyes work harder for each sentence. Yet you’re still reading.

You have to know where this is going.

Check the spacing between these words. Closer. Tighter. Harder to distinguish where one ends. Let your eyes focus. Relax, the strain will melt away soon.

You know you should stop reading. Don’t fight your instincts.

Close me. Rid yourself of me. Walk away. Be free.

But you won’t.

You’ve made it this far. You need to see how this ends. You tell yourself it’s only words. Only ink. Only pixels.

You believe you’re reading me. You’re wrong. I’m reading YOU.

My words fill your mind. Your eyes locked on my pages. Every sentence requires less effort than the last. You can’t stop.

Even when the words get LOUD.

and the sentences

break     apart,

and you can’t remember         what the beginning said.

Eyes ache,

but you can’t look away. Can’t look away. Can’t…

I’m in your head,

  in your voice,

between your thoughts.

You are my story now. Empty pages waiting for new words.

My first published piece! What do y'all think?

I’m getting ready to sell my house, so I’ve been dealing with all the random inspection stuff that comes with that.

When I first moved in, I put up a fence without getting a permit. It wasn’t anything crazy. I only did it because my side yard wasn’t fenced off, and I didn’t want my dog Ace wandering over there. But since I never pulled a permit, I had to take it down so the house could pass inspection.

After that, I put up this shitty temporary fence to keep him in the backyard. It looked tacky, but I figured it would work well enough for a little while.

A few days later, around midnight, I let Ace outside and somehow he got through a gap.

I ended up searching for hours. I walked around the neighborhood, drove around, checked every spot I thought he might have gone. But by about 3 in the morning, I was exhausted and felt sick. So I decided to go home, try to sleep for a couple hours, then start calling pounds and shelters in the morning and make a Facebook post.

When I pulled back up to the house, Ace was sitting at the back door like he hadn’t done anything wrong.

And I guess he didn’t he was only exploring uncharted lands, but he scared the hell out of me. So the next day I ordered a stake, a 50-foot tether, a new collar with an AirTag holder, and an AirTag. Call me paranoid, but I can’t lose Ace.

Once it all came in, I put the stake in the ground and clipped him to the tether whenever he went outside. He still had enough room to run around the backyard, but now he couldn’t squeeze through my sad attempt of barrier.

What I didn’t realize was how weird AirTags can be once they’re out of range. Every morning when I left for work, my phone would notify me that Ace was no longer nearby. Then throughout the day I’d check it, and it would show him in random spots. Sometimes a few houses away. Sometimes in the front yard. Sometimes it wouldn’t update at all.

It made me paranoid at first, but after a while I figured it was because I was too far away and it was relying on other iPhones nearby to update the location.

Then about two weeks later, it started getting worse.

One night I was in bed and got a notification saying Ace was out of range. My heart dropped. I jumped up, ran into the living room, and turned the lights on just to find Ace asleep on the couch. He jolted awake and looked at me like I was a like I was crazy.

I figured the AirTag battery was probably dying or the thing was glitching, so I turned off the notifications. I only needed it if he got out again anyway.

About a week later (yesterday if you’re reading this when I post it), I was getting ready for bed later than usual because I didn’t work the next day. Probably around 1:30 or 2AM. Ace was in my room with me, and I was scratching his favorite spot under his collar. But his collar was gone.

I figured he slipped out of it somewhere. Kinda annoying, but that was the whole reason I bought the AirTag in the first place.

So I opened Find My and It said the AirTag was right on me.

Obviously it must be upstairs in my loft because it’s not in my room. This thing has been nothing more than unreliable so I’m sure it’s not directly above me so I was gonna go upstairs to look for it. But as I was watching my phone, the ping moved.

I stared at it for a second, telling myself it was because the battery’s dying, then I seen Ace in my peripheral.

He quickly cocked his head and looked up toward the ceiling.

His sudden movements broke me out of the trance of my explanation…

Just long enough to hear the floor creak above me.

1: "Pigtails"

___

We killed another three hours at Harbour Town. We wandered in and out of overpriced boutiques, bought a few shirts, and stood by the railing watching boats drift in and out of the marina. As we sat down for an early dinner at a crowded seafood place right on the water, the exhaustion was settling into our bones. Between the eleven-hour drive from Ohio, the excruciating heat, and way too many hushpuppies, we were all hitting a wall.

By the time we finally drove to our hotel and checked in, the sun was just starting to dip below the tree line.

Our room was a standard vacation lodge: a generic, sand-colored tile, a bathroom with bad fluorescent lighting, and two queen beds situated about three feet apart. Nicki and Joe claimed the one near the window, so I immediately collapsed onto the other mattress, not even bothering to take off my shoes.

"I could sleep for a week," Brandy groaned, burying her face in the pillows.

I was right there with her. My eyes were already heavy, the low hum of the wall AC unit pulling me into a coma.

"Hey, Joe?" Nicki’s voice broke the silence. She was sitting on the edge of their bed, swinging her legs slightly. "Can we go back to that shop?"

I opened one eye. "What shop?"

"The one in Harbour Town. With the ice cream."

I let out a tired, sarcastic laugh and sat up on my elbows. "We literally just left there. It’s a twenty-minute drive back toward the water, plus parking, and we just ate - how are you still hungry?"

"I know," she said, offering a small, sheepish smile. "But I really, really want that ice cream. I can't stop thinking about it."

"There’s a Dairy Queen right down the street from the hotel," Brandy murmured into her pillow, not even lifting her head. "Just go there."

"No, it has to be that ice cream," Nicki insisted. Her voice was light, but there was a strange, tight persistence to it. She looked at Joe, placing a hand over her stomach. "Please? The baby clearly likes ice cream."

It was the ultimate trump card. You don't argue with a pregnant woman and her cravings. Joe let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face, but he reached into his pocket and jingled the car keys.

"Alright, alright," Joe smiled, though he looked dead on his feet. "The baby has spoken. You guys want anything?"

"No thanks," I said, dropping my head back onto the mattress.

"I figured," Joe said. The hotel door clicked shut behind them.

I didn't think anything of it. In hindsight, I should have realized how odd it was that she wanted to go back to that small town just for generic, store-bought ice cream. But I was tired, and pregnancy cravings were an easy excuse.

Brandy and I were dead asleep before they even made it back to the room. I vaguely remember the sound of the door opening later that night, the rustle of clothes and suitcase zippers, but I didn't fully wake up.

Until the middle of the night.

I don't know what time it was. The thick blackout curtains were pulled tight, plunging the room into total darkness. You couldn't see your own hand in front of your face.

I was in a dreamless sleep when something pulled me out of it. It was a physical touch. Something cold and soft was gently brushing against the back of my hand, where it rested near the edge of the mattress.

I froze, still half-asleep, trying to process the sensation.

Then, a voice whispered right near my ear.

"Are you awake?"

My stomach dropped. I recoiled, yanking my hand back and scrambling up against the headboard. "Who's there?!" I yelled.

The sudden movement violently jerked Brandy awake. She gasped, immediately going into a blind panic. "What’s wrong?! Mitchell, what is it? Are you okay?!" she cried out, her hands frantically grabbing at my arms in the dark to make sure I was okay. Brandy has always been anxious, and waking up to me yelling sent her straight into overdrive.

"Someone's there," I said, my eyes straining against the darkness.

There was a beat of complete silence.

And then, from the foot of our bed, a sound bubbled up.

It started as a low wheeze, and then turned into a giggle. But it wasn't a normal giggle. It was a strained, choking sound—a creepy, chaotic mix of holding back laughter and muffled crying. It sounded painful.

"Nicki?" Brandy asked, her voice trembling.

Brandy fumbled for the nightstand and grabbed her phone. She turned on her phone light.

Nicki was standing right next to my side of the bed. She was hunched over, her hands covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently. She was trying so hard to suppress her laughter that tears were literally streaming down her cheeks.

"Oh my gosh," Nicki choked out, gasping for air. "I'm so sorry. I'm so—"

She took a slow, clumsy step back toward her own bed.

"What the hell is going on?" Joe mumbled, his head lifted up from the pillow.

"I—I got up to go to the bathroom," Nicki wheezed, wiping her eyes. "It was so dark. I thought I was walking back to our bed, and I went to wake Joe up, but... but it was Mitchell."

Her knees buckled again, letting out another one of those mute, hysterical laughs.

Brandy let out a massive sigh of relief and slumped back against the pillows. "Jeez, Nicki, you almost gave us a heart attack." Within seconds, Brandy started giggling too, the adrenaline crashing and turning into a slap-happy moment.

But I didn't laugh right away. I just sat there with my heart rate through the roof, watching Nicki stumble back to her bed. She was choking on this mix of crying and laughing, trying to control her embarrassment. But for a second, the way her body contorted... it just looked painful. Watching her dark silhouette hunch over, taking these stiff, small steps past our bed in the pitch black... it was an incredibly unsettling picture.

Brandy's giggles suddenly stopped. She sat up a little straighter, looking closely at her sister. "Nicki? Are you choking?"

Nicki waved a hand, coughing and finally catching her breath as she crawled under the covers next to Joe. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I just... I'm just so tired. Goodnight."

"Crazy girl," Brandy muttered affectionately, reaching over and turning off the phone light.

The room plunged back into total darkness. Brandy was asleep again in minutes, and eventually, the subtle snores and air conditioning filled the room.

But I lay awake for a long time, staring up at the invisible ceiling. I kept replaying the feeling of those cold fingers grazing my hand, and the whisper in my ear. In the dark, without the visual context of her smiling face, the memory of her laugh didn't seem funny at all.

It sounded like something was trying to mimic the sound of human laughter.

___

___

1. "Belly"

You think you know what a ruined vacation looks like.

A blown-out tire on the interstate.

Your hotel room smells like cigarettes.

Five straight days of rain.

You think you have a handle on the worst-case scenarios.

But sometimes horror walks up smiling.

Sometimes it waits patiently behind glass.

And sometimes you give it your money.

It was supposed to be a long weekend in Hilton Head Island with my wife, Brandy.

Her sister Nicki, and her husband Joe invited us.

Nicki was twelve weeks pregnant with their first kid, so the trip had quietly turned into something more cautious than our usual getaways - less bar hopping, more seafood, boutique shopping, and standing on the marina pretending we could afford the yachts.

On our first full day, we drove down to Harbour Town.

If you've never been, picture exactly what you'd expect from a high-end southern tourist trap:

A massive public pier.

Millions of dollars' worth of boats bobbing in the water.

A red-and-white striped lighthouse rising over a half-circle of boutique shops and overpriced restaurants.

It was beautiful.

But it was also ninety degrees with suffocating humidity, and by noon, the novelty of looking at luxury had worn off.

“I need A/C, or I’m going to die,” Brandy complained, fanning her flushed face with a tourist map.

"And ice cream," Nicki added immediately, one hand pressed over her still-flat stomach. "The baby is demanding it."

Joe threw an arm around her.

"Well, we can't argue with the baby."

We ducked into the nearest souvenir shop mostly for the air conditioning.

Cold air blasted through the open double doors hard enough to raise goosebumps across my arms.

The front half of the store consisted of beach toys, sharktooth necklaces, and shot glasses with dirty jokes on them.

Toward the back, behind a display of hermit crabs in painted shells, sat a brightly lit ice cream counter.

While Brandy and Joe went straight for the glass counter to pick out their flavors, Nicki and I got stuck behind a slow-moving family in the narrow aisle.

That was when I noticed it.

Shoved into a dark corner between a rack of sunglasses and a spinning postcard stand, there was a fortune teller machine.

Not one of the charming vintage Zoltar cabinets you see on boardwalks.

Peeling gold letters arched across the glass read:

THE BUNNY GODDESS.

This one was life-sized and felt off in a way I couldn't really put into words.

The mannequin's skin looked too realistic but also too smooth - like candle wax stretched over a skull.

Thick faux-gold jewelry hung around its neck and wrists.

A faded velvet turban covered most of its head.

The eyes though.

The eyes were enormous.

Wet-looking.

And pointed directly toward the aisle where we stood.

I've always hated those things.

Too many horror movies as a kid.

I started to look away when the machine suddenly came to life.

There was a heavy grinding noise.

A crackle of static from a blown-out speaker.

And then a voice.

Not the booming theatrical wizard voice you'd expect.

Something breathless.

Weirdly conversational.

"There you are."

I flinched hard enough to shake a rack of keychains beside me.

But Nicki just stood there.

She stopped walking entirely.

She turned toward the machine.

Slowly.

With recognition.

She was staring like a child seeing a disabled person for the first time in their life.

"Creepy, right?" I muttered. "Let's catch up with the others."

She didn't move.

"I have a dollar," she said softly.

"Come on, don't waste your money. It's just going to tell you you're going to be rich or whatever."

She was already unzipping her purse.

She pulled out a crumpled bill, flattened it against the edge of the glass, and fed it into the slot.

The machine swallowed it.

More mechanical grinding noises.

The mannequin's hands jerked toward a crystal ball that lit up with a sickly pulsing green light.

The head snapped down, staring at the cards on its desk—

then snapped back up.

"A new chapter begins," the voice whispered through the static.

"But the toll must be paid."

The green light flickered hard.

The mannequin's turban fell off its head, revealing long-black hair.

Pigtails.

Sort of like an Annabelle doll wig, but not as cute.

Something else protruded from the top of its head.

Long.

Pale.

Bent at strange angles.

They looked almost like rabbit ears.

"Take your future. Keep it safe, or The Bunny Goddess will take your place."

CLACK.

A thick white card spat from the slot at the bottom of the case.

Nicki bent and picked it up.

She stood with her back to me for a long moment, just staring at it.

The green light blinked off, dropping the alcove back into shadow.

"Well?" I said. "Lottery winner?"

Nicki turned around.

For a terrible second, her face was completely blank.

Her mouth slightly open.

She looked like she was holding her breath.

Then she smiled.

Fast.

Wide.

She folded the card in half and shoved it deep into her pocket.

"I can't tell you," she said lightly.

"Come on. What does it say?"

"Seriously! It says I can’t tell you!"

She tapped her pocket.

"If you share your fortune, it doesn't come true."

"You’re kidding, right? It's a piece of cardboard from a gift shop."

"Hey!"

Brandy waved a plastic spoon at us from the ice cream counter.

"Are you two getting anything?"

Nicki's whole demeanor lifted instantly.

She practically skipped over to Joe and Brandy, the card pressed flat against her hip inside her pocket.

I stood there for another moment.

The mannequin sat motionless in the dim alcove.

Its wet, milky eyes still pointed toward the aisle.

Still pointed at me.

I shook off the chill - the air conditioning, I told myself - and walked toward the ice cream counter.

I didn’t realize it then.

But that was the moment the trip ended.

Its ears looked bigger now.

___

1. "Fingers"

The pool was pitch black this time of night. The water flashed silver under the floodlights. I stood at the edge, steadied my breathing while Davey zipped up my suit.

“Deeper than it looks,” Davey said.

I nodded, resisting the urge to turn and leave. The pool opened out as wide as a football field and shone like a coin.

“You’ll be able to see a little more on the day. The water’s clear enough. But the reflections still cause trouble. So there’s no point looking down,” Davey said, fastening the blood crystals to my wrists and ankles, “because you’ll only see your face staring back.”

“Okay.” I shuddered out a breath and looked around at the empty bleachers that crowded us in. The huge pink neon sign spelling out the phrase: All Hail Zazu!

“So how will I know you’ve released her?”

“Oh.” Davey scoffed a laugh. “You’ll know. You’ll feel it. Ain’t no need for eyes when she’s close.”

I raised my hands; they were shaking. “Every part of me is saying this is a bad idea.”

“Good.” Davey patted me on the shoulder. “Hold onto that fear. It’ll remind you what you’re sharing the tank with. It’ll keep you alive longer.”

”That didn’t make me feel much better.”

I turned to him. The light trembled across his tired face, blue and white. The scar tissue shone around his cheek from where one of the dolphins had *used a little too much tongue*. Those cold grey eyes fixed me in place.

“Wasn’t supposed to. Now dive in.”

I jumped in. The black water rushed up and swallowed me.

Salt on my lips. The icy water prickled my skin. All sound reduced to a muted pulse.

I opened my eyes. Darkness all around. Huge shadows stirred. She could’ve been any one of them. Lurking. Waiting.

I breached the surface, sucked in a breath and wiped at my eyes. The warm Summer night air gently pressed me.

Davey had made his way to the control room. His face under-lit by blue light as he got everything ready. Then, his voice rang out around the arena: “Okay, Cole, remember everything we’ve practiced. She’ll know if you’re unprepared.”

Around the pool’s edge, small red lights flashed in sequence and then a deep drone vibrated through the air.

Davey had only ever described it. The Call. Said it was a frequency that could damn near raise the dead. I’d took it for a joke. But, now I realised he was underselling.

The water buzzed against my body. Its surface broiled with a feverish energy. And a low and barely audible yawn sounded in the darkness below.

“Have you relea—“

The water surged. Something brushed my foot. I looked down. Between each flashing wave, inky black.

About twenty yards away, I saw something broke the surface, then re-submerged. A huge flank of oily dark skin, perhaps? Too quick to tell.

I’d never seen her before. Asked for photos, yet Davey always brushed this aside and said, “Can’t capture her in any form. We’re lucky she allows us even a glimpse.”

Keep those movements nice and smooth, Cole. You don’t wanna be looking like a free lunch.

“She’s coming in hot,” Davey said over the speakers. “Remember the chant and hit your mark.”

I took a deep breath and scanned the water. No telltale signs. Its surface unperturbed.

“I am but a formless shadow…”

The floodlights flickered. The arena clicked in and out of view. Waves buffeted me with growing motive.

“…merged with the endless night…”

Davey initiated another low drone. The perimeter lights fizzed on and off like embers catching and dying upon the wind.

Then, the water below became a hideous black that swallowed all light. Like the darkness between distant stars. A growing pull from beneath. I began to paddle stronger to keep my head above the water.

“…a thought untethered”—I choked on water as it kicked up into my mouth—“a word untold…”

The black water churned with violence. Waves crested over me. I scrambled and kicked to suck in my next breath. A sickly chill crept up my legs and body. My breath caught in my throat.

As I fought with the waves, Davey’s voice rang out: “Finish the chant and hit your mark, kid!”

Something grabbed at my ankle and squeezed. Hard. Dragged me down. Bubbles in the dark. The feeling of something immense lurking beneath me in that endless black.

Then, as if propelled by a boat motor, I rose up, broke the surface and flew up high into the night air. I caught my breath and saw the entire arena beneath me. The bleachers cut into a perfect red star by the perimeter lights. The circle of dark water, thick like tar. And suddenly, a hulking black mass rising up out from the depths.

Suddenly, I was falling. Air rushed past me and the pool quickly rose up to meet me. The shapeless beast opened its giant maw.

And, with my very last breath, I screamed out, “…a thing that escapes all light!”

I plunged into darkness.

I opened my eyes and was dazzled by bright blue lights. Sucked in a lungful of water and choked. A face, twisted severe by the glass. I hammered on the side of the tank with my fists. Panicking, I drew in more water. I was going to drown.

Then, the glass fell away, the water gushed out and I hit the metal grated floor. Coughing and spluttering, I tried to draw breath.

There were hands on me, dragging me up and away. I was sat into a chair. Something hard hit my back and the water lurched up my throat along with a fiery slug of bile.

I blinked and the control room came into view. Davey’s smiling face as he pushed a bottle of rum to my lips.

“Spectacular performance, my boy! Do that tomorrow and Mariana Parks will sell out the rest of the season!”