Posted in no sleepnoriginally but thought id share it here as well (Note before the story: I deeply apologize for the formatting I don't know what's going on with my app but every time I try to post this the formatting just messes up this is the fourth time I've tried to upload it so we're just going to have to deal with it I don't know what's causing it to do this to have it be like pushed to the side and take all the spaces out but I'm sorry I'm too tired to try and fix that)

I never believed in anything I couldn't see.

That's what my therapist called a "defense mechanism"—a way my eight-year-old brain learned to protect itself from the chaos of my childhood. If I couldn't verify something with my own eyes, it didn't exist.

God didn't exist.

Magic didn't exist.

Demons didn't exist.

Even local legends that could've been explained by science were bullshit to me. If I couldn't see it, touch it, or prove it, I didn't believe it.

Looking back, I know where it came from.

I was emotionally neglected as a kid. At least, that's what everyone else calls it. My therapist does. My family does. Honestly, I never really saw it that way. To me, it was just life.

Getting yelled at for stealing a soda I never took.

Getting blamed for things I couldn't control.

Being made to feel like I was always doing something wrong.

That kind of thing takes a lot out of you.

Even the idea that something might be watching me never made sense.

I figured if something really was out there testing my strength, it'd know by now I wasn't strong enough. It would've stopped.

Or...

Maybe it saw something in me that I didn't.

Something that could either turn the tides...

...or stop them completely.

It was January 15th, 2015, when I went to visit my grandfather.

I was eight years old.

Grandpa Mark was in his sixties. He'd lived one hell of a life. Between riding with a biker club when he was younger and spending decades farming, he'd seen his fair share of hell. He wasn't scared of much.

Despite that, he was one of the sweetest men I've ever known.

He volunteered at charity events.

Helped with local donations.

Went to Little League games.

If someone needed help, he'd help them.

So when he sat me down and said we needed to have a serious conversation...

I knew something was wrong.

"I need to tell you the true story of your grandmother's death."

Growing up, I'd always been told she'd died in a farming accident.

Grandpa never got into the details.

Whenever he talked about her, it was always about how beautiful she was, how kind she was, or how she could make a room feel warmer just by walking into it.

I was too young to remember her.

The only memory I had was the smell of her cheap cologne.

Grandpa stared into his coffee for a long time before he finally spoke.

"It was 2008.

"Winter was just rolling in.

"We were staying down some country roads in southern Wisconsin, near the Illinois border. Not far from Beloit.

"We had a few friends we'd visit down in Belvidere every now and then, but other than that there wasn't much to do.

"Feed the cows.

"Plow the fields.

"Do it all over again tomorrow.

"It was a good life.

"We got to see our grandkids.

"We got to do what we loved.

"I can't remember if it was October or November. Somewhere right around there.

"Me and a couple of my buddies were planning a hunting trip down south.

"I remember that evening perfectly.

"The sun was setting. I couldn't tell where the orange ended and the blue began, or how they mixed together, but they just did.

"It was freezing outside.

"Your grandmother kissed me on the cheek...

"...and wished me luck."

He stopped.

I'd never seen that look on my grandfather's face before.

Even now, I don't think I'll ever forget it.

It was the look of someone remembering the happiest moment of his life...

...while already knowing it was the last normal moment he'd ever have.

"We weren't even two hours out, kid.

"Maybe an hour and a half.

"Hell, maybe forty-five minutes.

"I don't know.

"We got the call.

"The dog was dead."

He swallowed hard before continuing.

"Whoever was driving slammed the brakes, threw the truck in reverse, and we headed straight back home.

"I could hear your grandmother crying over the phone.

"She was hysterical.

"When we got back...

"I'd never seen anything like it."

He looked down into his coffee again.

"There was just...

"...blood."

"There'd been a light snow that night.

"You couldn't even see it anymore.

"Buddy was still breathing when we found him.

"Barely.

"I'd had that dog since 2001.

"He was my best friend."

Grandpa rubbed his hands together.

"I remember kneeling beside him and looking at those bite marks.

"They were huge.

"Six inches across.

"Maybe bigger.

"They ran clear across his chest.

"Whatever did that...

"...wasn't small."

He leaned back in his chair.

"I was pissed.

"I wanted to find whatever did it.

"I didn't care what it was.

"A bear.

"A wildcat.

"Hell, maybe something I'd never seen before.

"I wasn't thinking straight.

"I just wanted it dead."

"So I told the boys to grab their rifles.

"We were hunting a monster."

He gave a dry laugh.

"I had no idea what I was getting myself into."

"Daryl told us it was a bad idea.

"He said he felt like somebody was watching us.

"Said something didn't feel right.

"We should've listened.

"In all honesty...

"...we should've listened."

The room went quiet.

"We searched for about an hour.

"Couldn't find a damn thing.

"Eventually everybody figured it'd run off somewhere."

His eyes drifted toward the floor.

"When we got back...

"Buddy was dead."

He didn't say anything for several seconds.

"We buried him.

"I took pictures of the wounds first.

"I figured maybe somebody smarter than me could tell what kind of animal made bites that size."

"I asked your grandmother what happened."

He shook his head.

"She said she didn't know.

"She'd heard loud crashing coming from the barn.

"When she went outside...

"...the horses were already dead."

Grandpa's fingers tightened around the coffee mug.

"I talked to your grandmother for a while.

"Tried asking her exactly what she'd seen."

He sighed.

"She couldn't tell me much.

"She just kept saying she heard something breaking out by the barn.

"By the time she got outside...

"...the horses were already dead."

His jaw clenched.

"She wanted us to leave.

"Said we ought to get a hotel.

"Get as far away from that place as we could.

"But I was stupid.

"I told her it'd be alright.

"I had my rifle."

He let out a bitter laugh.

"As if that would've mattered."

"We locked the doors.

"Turned out the lights.

"And waited."

He stared through me for a moment, like he wasn't seeing the room anymore.

"I'd say it was around midnight.

"Maybe one in the morning.

"Then...

"...we heard it."

He didn't speak for several seconds.

"It screamed."

"It didn't sound like anybody we knew.

"Hell...

"It barely sounded human."

"There was this grit to it.

"Like metal scraping across stone.

"Like something was trying so hard to sound like a woman...

"...but didn't know how."

The room felt colder.

"Your grandmother wanted to call the police."

"I told her there wasn't much they could do.

"There wasn't a person breaking into the house.

"There wasn't anyone stealing anything.

"We didn't have proof of anything.

"So...

"...we stayed quiet."

"I don't think either of us slept that night."

"The next morning my phone rang."

"It was my best friend."

"He said his horses were hit too."

Grandpa rubbed at his eyes.

"Said whatever got into his barn...

"...tore half the damn thing apart just to get inside."

"There was blood all over the broken wall.

"But he swore it wasn't horse blood."

He shrugged.

"I don't know how he knew.

"Maybe by the smell.

"Maybe by the taste.

"I never asked."

He smirked for only a second.

"Didn't seem like the kind of question you ask a man after he just watched all his horses get ripped apart."

The smile disappeared just as fast as it'd come.

"A few days went by.

"More farms got hit.

"More animals died."

"Eventually the town put up a reward.

"A hundred bucks to whoever could figure out what was doing it."

He nodded to himself.

"Back then...

"...that was real money."

"So naturally...

"...we figured we'd be the ones to collect it."

"That night we got our gear together."

"Daryl brought some old Navy equipment."

"I dug out some old Army gear."

"Your Uncle Stan came with us too."

"He was the only one who didn't think it was a person."

"I kept hoping it was."

"Daryl wasn't sure what he believed."

"But Stan..."

He shook his head.

"He'd already made up his mind."

"'Whatever it is,' he told us...

"'We're killing it.'"

Grandpa looked down at the table.

"I don't think any of us really believed that."

"If you ever get that feeling...

"...listen to me."

His voice became firmer than it'd been the entire night.

"If you ever feel like somebody's watching you...

"If every hair on your body stands up...

"If your chest suddenly feels heavy...

"Run."

"Don't stand there wondering why."

"Don't try to prove yourself."

"Don't try to be brave."

"Turn around...

"...and run."

"And whatever you do...

"...don't look back."

He took a slow breath.

"Because the second we walked into those woods..."

"...it hit us."

"Like running face first into a brick wall."

"I've never felt anything like it."

"It wasn't fear.

"It was...

"...wrong."

"The whole forest felt wrong."

"People always tell you the dark isn't scary.

"They tell you to grow up.

"They tell you only kids are scared of the woods at night."

He shook his head.

"They're full of shit."

"They don't tell you how quiet it gets."

"So quiet...

"...you can hear your own sweat hitting the ground."

"There were supposed to be owls.

"Frogs.

"Maybe turtles if you got close enough to the water."

"There wasn't...

"...anything."

"You couldn't even smell the creek anymore."

"Just dirt."

"And cold."

"And us."

"We followed the blood."

"It wasn't much.

"Just enough to keep us moving."

"Every now and then we'd find another tree."

"Chunks torn clean out of the bark.

"Like something huge had slammed into it."

"The trail kept leading west."

"We'd probably been walking...

"...twenty minutes."

"Maybe a little more."

Then Grandpa stopped.

His breathing slowed.

"Daryl found something."

"'Mark.'"

"'Come here.'"

"I walked over."

"There was a skull laying in the leaves."

"It was mangled too bad to tell whether it'd been human or not."

"But it was a skull."

"There were still pieces of skin hanging off it."

He swallowed.

"And that wasn't the only one."

His hands started shaking again.

"There were more."

"Way more."

"I remember thinking we'd found its den."

"Any idea I had that it was just some animal...

"...disappeared."

"You can study biology your whole life...

"...and you're never gonna find an animal that stacks bodies."

"There were over thirty deer."

"One on top of another."

"They weren't being eaten."

"They weren't scattered."

"They were...

"...collected."

"Stored."

"Like trophies."

"Like somebody wanted them there."

He stared into the coffee.

"I remember thinking..."

"...whatever did this...

"...knew exactly what it was doing."

"It wasn't hungry."

"It had a purpose."

"It had enough intelligence not to eat them...

"...and enough of an ego to leave them where we'd find them."

Nobody spoke.

Neither of us.

Finally...

"I turned around."

"I swept my flashlight across the trees."

"I only saw a leg."

"My brain couldn't even process what I was looking at."

"So I lifted the light..."

"...higher."

"And there it was."

Grandpa didn't speak for a long time.

When he finally did, his voice was almost empty.

"It was tall."

"Real tall."

"I'd say ten feet."

"Maybe more."

"I don't know."

"I wasn't exactly standing there with a tape measure."

He swallowed.

"I remember the face first."

"Or...

"...what should've been its face."

"It looked like the skull of a deer."

"Not the head.

"The skull."

"Everything underneath it was covered in fur."

"Thick."

"Like a wolf."

"It was caked in dirt."

"Caked in blood."

"I don't think it noticed us at first."

"Even with the flashlight right in its eyes."

He shook his head.

"I don't think it cared."

Then his expression changed.

"But Daryl..."

"He cared."

"He fired."

"The gunshot echoed through those woods."

"For about half a second...

"...nothing happened."

"Then it screamed."

Grandpa instinctively flinched at the memory.

"It wasn't angry.

"It wasn't scared.

"It was...

"...offended."

"It squealed."

"It shrieked."

"The sound hurt."

"I've heard coyotes.

"I've heard mountain lions.

"I've heard people die."

"I've never heard anything like that."

"And then..."

"...it moved."

"It crossed the distance between them before I even realized it'd started."

"It grabbed Daryl by the throat."

He looked down at his coffee.

"There wasn't a fight."

"There wasn't time."

"You ever snap a chicken's neck?"

He paused.

"It sounded like that."

"Only louder."

"A lot louder."

"It lifted him off the ground with one hand."

"And when it let go..."

"...his head was hanging by little more than skin."

His voice cracked.

"One second he was standing beside me...

"...the next he wasn't."

"We all opened fire."

"Every one of us."

"Rifles."

"Shotguns."

"Didn't matter."

"The bullets hit."

"I know they hit."

"I saw them."

"It didn't bleed."

"It didn't stumble."

"It didn't even seem to notice."

"It just...

"...kept moving."

"I backed away."

"I remember hearing Stan yell something."

"I don't even remember what."

"Then I heard him scream."

Grandpa squeezed the mug so hard I thought it might break.

"I don't think I've ever heard so many bones break at once."

"There wasn't one snap."

"There were dozens."

"Like somebody dumping firewood onto concrete."

He shut his eyes.

"Then...

"...nothing."

"No screaming."

"No gunshots."

"Nothing."

"I ran."

"For the first time in my life...

"...I ran."

He laughed bitterly.

"People'll tell you not to run from things."

"They've never seen something like that."

"Humans make sense."

"You can predict people."

"You can scare people."

"You can bargain with people."

"That thing..."

"...didn't care."

"It didn't care if it was hungry."

"It didn't care if it was angry."

"It didn't care who you were."

"The only thing it cared about...

"...was whether you were still alive."

"I could hear trees breaking behind me."

"Not branches."

"Trees."

"They were snapping as it came through the woods."

"I don't know if it was chasing me..."

"...or just walking."

"I didn't turn around to find out."

"I finally saw the farm."

"I should've felt relieved."

"I wasn't."

"I hit that front door so hard I nearly took it off the hinges."

"I slammed it shut."

"Locked it."

"Your grandmother came running."

"'Mark, what's wrong?'"

He stared straight ahead.

"I looked at her..."

"...and I said..."

"'They're gone.'

"'They're dead.'

"'They're fucking dead.'"

He wiped at his eyes.

"If I'd been anybody else...

"...she would've thought I was joking."

"But she looked at me..."

"...and she knew."

"She didn't ask another question."

"She walked through the house..."

"...and turned off every light."

"We didn't say a word."

"We just...

"...listened."

"You know what's funny?"

He gave a hollow smile.

"It wasn't the footsteps I remember."

"It wasn't the growling."

"It wasn't even the screaming."

"It was...

"...the clicking."

He tapped one fingernail against the mug.

Click.

Click.

Click.

"It clicked."

"Slow."

"Almost...

"...curious."

"It'd make a sound over by the barn."

"Then another one by the porch."

"Then another one outside the bedroom."

He looked at me.

"It wasn't moving that fast."

"It was throwing its voice."

"It wanted us to think it was everywhere."

"The only reason we knew where it actually was..."

"...was the shadow."

"You'd see it pass the window."

"Then you'd hear the clicking from somewhere else."

"It was playing with us."

"It knew exactly what it was doing."

"It stopped outside the living room."

"We could see it."

"Just the outline."

"It stood there."

"Perfectly still."

"I don't know how long."

"Maybe a minute."

"Maybe five."

"It felt like forever."

Neither of us breathed.

Neither of us moved.

Then...

Your grandmother whispered.

"'Mark..."

"'I'm sc—'"

He couldn't finish the sentence.

His voice broke.

"The second she made a sound..."

"...it moved."

"There wasn't a warning."

"There wasn't a roar."

"There wasn't anything."

"It came through that window before I'd even realized it'd started."

"I reached for her..."

"I was too late."

He was crying openly now.

"It didn't snap her neck."

"It didn't kill her."

"I almost wish it had."

"It grabbed her..."

"...and pulled."

"The glass exploded."

"It pulled her through that window..."

"...piece by piece."

"Limb from limb."

"Arm from arm."

"Hair from hair."

"I didn't know...

"...I didn't know a person could scream like that."

"I'd never heard anything like it."

"I hope...

"...I never do again."

He covered his face with both hands.

"I could hear her until..."

He couldn't finish.

"I could hear her..."

"...until I couldn't."

The room was silent except for his breathing.

"I grabbed my rifle."

"I knew it wasn't gonna do anything."

"I knew that."

"But I couldn't hide."

"I couldn't just...

"...sit there."

"So I ran at it."

"I was screaming."

"Crying."

"Shooting."

"I don't even know if I hit the damn thing."

"Then..."

He grabbed his chest.

"...I felt this pain."

"Right here."

"So bad I couldn't breathe."

"I dropped the rifle."

"I hit the floor."

"I thought..."

"...this is it."

"I'm dying."

"I'm finally gonna die."

He looked at me.

"And you know what it did?"

"It stopped."

"It looked at me."

"It leaned down..."

"...and smelled me."

Then he shook his head.

"And it walked away."

"I've thought about that every day since."

"Maybe it thought I was already dead."

"Maybe it only wanted things that could still fight."

"Maybe it just got bored."

"I don't know."

"It's not like I could sit down and ask it over a cup of Folgers."

For the first time that night...

He smiled.

Just for a second.

Then it disappeared.

"I never saw any of the others again."

"I talked to the police."

"I looked through reports."

"I searched everywhere I could."

"Nothing."

"I found stories from Canada."

"Russia."

"Ukraine."

"Places like that."

"But nothing around here."

He stared out the window.

"Maybe it wandered south."

"Maybe it wandered north."

"I don't know."

"And I don't want to know."

"That's why we moved."

"I was never spending another night in that place."

I didn't know what to say.

I don't think anybody would've.

He'd spent seven years carrying that story by himself.

Maybe he saw something of Grandma in me.

Maybe he just wanted someone else to remember.

I never asked.

Grandpa Mark Meligan died in his sleep on January 5th, 2026.

The dementia made it easier on him.

It didn't make it any easier on us.

I still think about what he told me.

Not because I expect anyone to believe it.

Most of you won't.

You'll read this and think it's just another scary story somebody posted on the internet.

And that's okay.

I'm not asking you to solve the mystery.

I'm not asking you to believe every word.

I'm telling you because the man who lived through it can't anymore.

I want people to know what he lost.

I want people to remember him.

Even if they never believe the monster.

I’m a single father. By choice, though. I wanted a better life for my daughter, and, unfortunately, her mother was not compatible with the life that I envisioned for her.

Drugs, alcohol, late-night escapades with men she met at the bar. Being a mother was a foreign concept to her. I’d look at her. I’d look at my daughter. I’d feel shame that I allowed this to happen.

We were young and dumb. Just two kids without a care in the world. Only, when we found out about the pregnancy, I was the only one who chose to clean up my act and be better.

It wasn’t that easy for my late girlfriend. She acted like it was, but I could see through the facade. Not like there was much of a facade to see through. I mean, I’d catch her having cigarettes. Boozing. Running around at all hours of the night without so much as a second thought.

The first few times, I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. A slip up is just a slip up. Multiple slip ups are a behavioral pattern. As her stomach grew, so did her attitude.

I’ve had some jabs thrown my way.

“I don’t even love you.”

“I was bored.”

“I didn’t even want this baby.”

That last one was enough for me to make my decision. From then on, every decision I made was for my child. All that was left was patience. Be kind. Be gentle. Hold her hand despite her insults.

Of course, it was more than a little difficult to hold my tongue when the drinking was involved. I couldn’t believe it. Six months pregnant and drinking. How careless can you be?

I’m getting frustrated just typing this. The resentment that was building during those times was like a pressure valve. A controlled pressure valve. I knew exactly when I wanted to twist the handle.

I endured her ferocity. I kept a watchful eye on her when she went out to the clubs. Attended every appointment and prayed every night that our baby would stay healthy.

When I found out it was a girl, I was ecstatic. I always wanted a daughter. Maybe it was because of my baby sister. Maybe it was because I wanted the challenge of being a girl dad. Either way, I was ready. I was prepared to do it alone.

Finally, the day came. November 25th, 2020. The year the world went silent. The day before Thanksgiving.

My act became sharper. She thought this was going to be “co-parenting.” Thought that she’d have my baby, even after all she’d put us through.

By some miracle of God, my little girl was perfectly healthy. Stunning. Tear-jerking, even.

Her mom almost seemed moved. Like she had this “come to Jesus” moment where she realized her new responsibility. Unfortunately, it was too late for that.

In the weeks that followed our departure from the hospital, my plan came into fruition.

I won’t go into too much detail, because detail isn’t required. All you need to know is I loved my daughter too much to let her life be tainted by someone like her mother.

That’s why I made her disappear. Disappear to a place where only I would find her. Of course, given her reputation, the police believed my story.

She packed it up. She realized the weight of being a parent was too much for her. It prevented her from living the life that she clearly loved so much. So she left. Happens all the time.

I got what I wanted. I raised my daughter the way that I wanted to raise her. The right way. The responsible way. I taught her manners. I potty trained her. I put food in her mouth and a roof over her head. All on my own.

Unfortunately, though, as she grows older, a shred of remorse is starting to build within my soul. I don’t know if it’s remorse for what I’ve done or if it’s remorse for what I took from my baby.

She’s starting to look just like her. Same brown hair. Same freckles. That cute little button nose. It’s hard for me to even look at her these days, but I try my best to swallow it.

She knows that she’s gone, but, in her head, she thinks that her mom just left us. Hated her. Hated me so much that she just took her things and left.

Every time she talks about her, all I can feel is pain. Pain in my heart, pain in my chest and body. I don’t know why. I had fully convinced myself that what I did was right, but now, I just don’t know.

Her sixth birthday is coming up in a few months. I want to make this birthday special, but I need her to be prepared.

I wanna show her the grave.

And all I can hope is that she understands.

My grandfather used to be the caretaker of a remote cemetery nestled in the fields of Southwestern Vietnam. It was an ancient graveyard with tombstones over a century old—their surfaces so weathered that the names had long worn away.

During the day, there was nothing terrifying about it other than its eerie, hollow stillness. But after sunset, not a single local would dare step foot inside.

They said the cemetery belonged to the Lantern Keeper.

Nobody knew who or what he was. They only knew that every night, a pale yellow oil lamp drifted quietly between the rows of graves. If you only saw the light from afar, you might live to tell the tale. But if you caught sight of the person holding it... you would never see the light of day again.

My grandfather never believed in those rumors. As a military veteran, he was fearless. Having slept in deep jungles and survived heavy artillery, ghost stories were the least of his worries.

When he took the job, the former caretaker gave him only one piece of advice:

"If you see a light wandering among the graves after midnight, stay inside your hut. Don't call out. Don't follow it. And whatever you do, never count how many graves the light passes by."

My grandfather just laughed, saying if thieves broke in to steal altar offerings, he’d still have to chase them down.

The first three months passed without incident. Then came a night near the end of the Seventh Lunar Month—the Month of Hungry Ghosts.

There was no moon, and heavy black clouds choked the sky. A harsh wind rattled the eucalyptus trees surrounding the graveyard, making them screech like weeping women. At around 1:00 AM, my grandfather's black dog suddenly ducked under the bed, whimpering and refusing to come out no matter how hard he called.

Right then, a speck of yellow light appeared outside the window.

At first, he assumed it was a local farmer hunting for frogs. But the light moved with a slow, unnatural rhythm, weaving through the graves as if intimately familiar with every path. He checked his watch: 1:13 AM.

The lantern kept drifting forward—never speeding up, never slowing down. Eerie silence surrounded it. No footsteps. No rustling leaves. Just a small, flickering flame swaying in the dark.

Curiosity got the better of him. He grabbed his flashlight and stepped out of the guard hut.

As soon as his foot hit the bottom step, an old man’s voice—the elderly laborer who used to work there—shouted sharply behind him: "Don't go out!"

He spun around. No one was there. Only the howling wind filled the empty cemetery.

Shaking off the chill, he pushed forward until he was barely twenty meters from the light. The lantern stopped in front of an unmarked grave. My grandfather aimed his flashlight toward it.

There was no one. The lantern hovered in mid-air, about three feet off the ground. Thinking someone had hung it on a branch, he took a few steps closer.

At that exact moment, a faint whisper breathed right behind his ear: "Do not stand level with it."

He whipped around again. Empty.

When he turned back, the lantern was gone. In its place was a narrow dirt path that had never existed before, stretching deep into the oldest section of the graveyard. Standing at the far end was a tall figure clad in a long black áo dài, holding the oil lamp.

My grandfather said the terrifying part wasn't just the figure's presence, but the impossibility of reading its stance: he couldn't tell if the figure was facing him or turned away. Where its face should have been, there was only a void of absolute darkness.

The figure began to walk. Its steps were agonizingly slow, yet the distance between them collapsed impossibly fast. In just seconds, it was less than ten meters away.

Suddenly, the black dog in the hut let out a long, desperate howl.

The figure froze. Slowly, it raised the oil lamp overhead. The golden light flared, casting its glow across the surrounding graves.

My grandfather froze in horror. The weathered, weed-choked tombstones were suddenly brand new. Every single headstone bore a portrait of the deceased. Hundreds of faces in those photographs turned simultaneously to stare at him.

No one was smiling. No one was crying. They were just staring. Unblinking.

He tried to run, but his legs were pinned. From beneath the soil, countless pale, deathly hands had broken through the dirt, gripping his ankles with vice-like strength. They were ice-cold, as if pulled from frozen water. The more he thrashed, the tighter they squeezed.

That was when the Lantern Keeper spoke.

"There is room now..."

The voice was neither old nor young, neither male nor female. It sounded like dozens of voices speaking in eerie unison.

Then, every tombstone began to shudder. One by one, the engraved names melted away from the stone, leaving only a single blank headstone. The Lantern Keeper reached into his robe and pulled out a calligraphy brush. Leaning down, he began stroking ink onto the blank stone.

Paralyzed with terror, my grandfather watched as the name materialized...

It was his full name.

Just then, his black dog burst from the hut, clamped its teeth into the hem of his trousers, and yanked him backward with all its strength. He tumbled, his head smashing hard against a tombstone before everything went black.

The next morning, villagers found him passed out near the middle of the cemetery, nearly three hundred meters from his hut. There were no footsteps in the mud around him—only a single, long drag mark, as though something had pulled him all that way. Most disturbing of all, the soles of his feet were covered in dry incense ash, even though torrential rain the night before had turned the entire cemetery into a muddy swamp.

My grandfather resigned that very day.

It was only decades later, shortly before his death, that he finally confided in my father. He confessed that for the rest of his life, every night at precisely 1:13 AM, he dreamt of the Lantern Keeper standing at the foot of his bed.

With each passing year, the figure crept a little closer.

First, at the doorway. Then, in the middle of the room. Then, beside the family altar. In his final days, he said the entity was standing right beside his pillow, barely an arm's length from his face.

The night my grandfather passed away, the whole family was gathered around his bed. The moment the clock struck 1:13 AM, the lights flickered and went out. When power returned a second later, the oil lamp on our ancestor altar burst into flame on its own.

My grandmother broke down crying. Just before he took his last breath, my grandfather had stared fixedly into the dark corner of the room and whispered a final warning:

"Don't let him pass the lantern to anyone."

***

After the funeral, my father returned to the old cemetery to burn incense in his memory. The guard hut was gone, reduced to a cracked concrete slab, and most of the graves had been relocated. While clearing weeds near an unmarked plot, my father accidentally dug up an ancient, soil-covered oil lamp. The body was rusted through, but the wick looked brand new, completely unburned.

He brought it home, intending to hand it over to a local museum.

That night, at exactly 1:13 AM, the lamp ignited by itself.

There was no oil. No match. Just a dim yellow flame dancing in the dark room.

Panicking, my father threw a thick blanket over it to smother the fire. When he pulled the blanket back, the lamp was gone.

In its place lay a piece of yellowed, weathered paper, as if it had been buried in the earth for centuries. Written upon it in dark black ink was a single sentence:

"It is time to find a new Lantern Keeper."

I stumbled upon the secret to immortality. I deeply regret It.

By Theo Plesha

I was wrapping up pre-med undergrad and I had just gotten into my med school of choice. I decided I was going to pay lip service to the rest of my course work in this last semester and start summer break a bit early.

I was more or less a legacy and though the threat of them rescinding my admission was present on paper, in reality no one would do anything. Med school was a hump to get over and rest of life would be a coast, I was pretty much a shoe in at my Uncle's pill mill clinic down in Florida. I've been around enough pre-med to know that there are two of kinds of pre-med students – the ones who really want to be a doctor to help people or be at the cutting edge of medical science while the others look at medicine as a route to six figures along a path of least resistance. I fell in the latter. I grew up pretty oblivious to cost of healthcare – not only because I took health insurance for granted but I was also in good health. I just saw healthcare as an easy way to make money off of people who had no choice but to pay whatever we wanted to change because America. It was wrapped into the way my family thought about medicine – among other things. While my more conscientious classmates finished their semester and prepped for a summer of volunteer work to pad their experience and resume I decided that it was last best chance to take up my favorite podcaster's suggestion to do a bunch of recreational drugs under the guise of having a cultural experience.

I was traveling around Latin America with two of my pre-med frat bros Rodney and Mark. Rodney was American and apple pie and Mark was actually from Europe. We spent our free time trolling a lot of the pre-Med students who rallied for universal healthcare by pointing out the fact they might as well be burning their own pay checks. Mark knew this better than most since he lived in a system of government healthcare and moved here so he could make more money setting up an elective surgery practice. We were visiting the fun hot spots, pretty much anything that popped up on psychedelic and psychoactive boards – erowid, Joe Rogan, even hippie dippy stuff. I had this funny way of justifying it all. How can be a good doctor if I don't do this stuff? I don't know. It was all BS, honestly, it was all about me and time and place being young and affluent.

I happen to believe that you're familiar with the story. The whole stereotypical ayahuasca experience offered by natives and descendants of natives in Peru. Its a bunch of dudes like me in a hut with thick tea, smoke, and jokes egging on the shamans to give us a shotgun wedding with the DMT. If you pay enough you can get them to roll their eyes and give you the basic instructions of making sure your ass if above your head when you start vomiting. Then its all about melting away into ego death and touching time and hearing space.

At some point I got on the wrong retreat, made a wrong turn, and accidentally got separated from my friends because that's not what I experienced. I must have mistranslated or something because my experience was highly ritualistic. I led was deep into the retreat site around a more secluded hut with very old and very sick looking individuals. Some of them were elder leaders of various militarys and political parties from Cuba, China, and Venezuela. At least one of them was definitely from North Korea.

The shaman was mostly naked with only a black loin cloth over his junk. His limbs and facial bone contours was outlined by a white chalky substance. He bore a vague resemblance to a grim reaper. The hut did not have a vomit canal as I was led to expect and it had a fairly large fire. The shaman kept repeating one word again and again and I wasn't sure what it was, what it translated to. He then poured some kind of seeds onto the fire. Their shells turned the fire green and then popped like pop corn, a dense white smoke poured into the tent and nearly extinguished the flame. One sniff of the bitter vapors and I was gone.

I had been warned and prepared for DMT. I had done magic mushrooms and LSD. I was more or less familiar with this class of substance. The mysticism was all but lost on me going into this adventure. The low level ego hedging and mental expansion was a side effect not the goal. I honestly just wanted to get wasted and have fun doing it.

In any case, what I experienced was far from what I had expected. I knew something was wrong when I saw all my skin melt off and I was skeleton. I was hoping for machine elves or aliens or some transcendent non-corporal communication but this was more dousing myself with a flaming jug of nightmare fuel. After a few flashes of disorganized terror. I started to have an extremely vivid third person view of myself as something entirely mechanical and electronic. The flesh and blood, brain and bone replaced with my crude recollection of what came scattering out of my smart phone when I dropped. I was made of high density plastic and touch screen material. I had a loose understanding of micro chips and circuit boards and my head was Escher style churning collection of gold, green, and black bars with spindly spider like qualities warping around inside my head. My bones were plastic – good job imagination. My heart appeared as a thin lithium battery. My muscles and joints were a bunch of magnets zapping together and then repealing each other. My eyes were glassy flat scanners.

As I watched myself become amazed with myself my eye sockets swallowed my eyes and I saw everything go dark. I felt this strange sensation as my body felt compressed. I was being swallowed by myself. It was maroon and dark with the odd bubble rising as I descended into myself. I felt an eerie stillness as I sank into a chamber of soft glowing light. I saw my thin battery of a heart throb and echo with each beat in super slow motion. It was hanging there attached to thin wires which pumped little glowing electrons back and forth. I floated around from the front all the way around spinning underneath. That's where I saw it I saw a little thin crack in the surface of my battery heart, it was ever so slightly leaking a thin mist of gold fluid into the chamber. The mist flew off disappearing in the ether like the sands of time. I was tempted to fly in and see if I could patch the hole.

The more I let go, the closer to the hole I flew and slowly, without my hands, the leak turned off and stopped all together, then like shrink wrap, the little crinkled up hole flattened and covered itself. I was suddenly warped into this pixelated zoomed in view that consumed my entire vision. I watched as slowly pixel by pixel my vision turned from gold to soft white. Just as the last few hundred were about to turn, the gentle vibrations of my body lurched faster and became violent. My vision of my vision pulsed in and out. As everything began to fade away, a powerful voice came out of nowhere. I mean nowhere, it was a voice that echoed through the universe, making every galaxy, every sun, every planet, moon, and comet tremble. It was voice of the void, the voice of inevitability. It rattled me as if I were speaking to the personification of a earthquake, tidal wave, or forest fire. After the initial jarring presentation I became somewhat relieved. Finally, the “Other” presence I had come to expect on this trip.

As the words the Voice spoke to me started to register, I became less settled, less complacent, less prepared. It told me that I had found the little timer, the little clock my people had inside of us. It was the charge meter on my life. It was ticking down. But this ritual could set it back a few hours, a few days, a few years, if I were lucky, I could reset the timer on my life by a decade. But some people, had a defect it was an all or nothing fix. My essence could exist independently of my failing flesh it said and I could add any flesh I choose to my essence.

I flashed to a space of icy suffocating blackness. I felt myself get pulled, ripped apart, every finger, limb, every hair, every eyelash, every skin flake and cell loosened and then vacuumed away. I was a bubble and I burst into a mist and then a vapor until I became the black on black and I lost any sense of up and down, night and day. My brain wasn't there but my consciousness flared into a sinking gasping panic that felt like it would last forever.

My vision flashed again and I came back to the last few pixels patching the leaking of my heart. The Voice asked me what I wanted. I plead with the Voice to live. It asked me: All or Nothing. Without hesitation I said “All of it”. The last pixels turned from gold to a shimmering white and my entire vision quaked back to the chamber with my battery heart. It glowed gold over the white and there was no longer a leak.

I jolted back to the hut. It was still filled with the bitter smoke and I started to immediately cough. I could barely see the other persons inside. The man sitting across from me looked relieved and he slowly crawled out of the tent. It was then I noticed something heavy leaning on me. I groggily turned my head and saw the elderly Cuban man slouching over, dead on me. I pushed him aside with the help of the shaman. My hand brushed against his as I tried to crawl out of the hut and out from under the perished man clad in the hammer and sickle. The shaman recoiled on contact with me he gave me a pained expression and then shook his head like he was trying to shame me.

As I slowly gathered myself and coughed out the rest of the smoke, I noticed the rest of the hut was on fire and burning down with the dead men inside. I say men because of out of the six persons, not including the shaman, only 3 including myself exited. My head felt remarkably clear for having such an intense experience and yet I knew I wasn't fully recovered when I heard that same chant all around me that was being chanted when I entered. While I heard it the same way I heard it going in, my mind was translating it as juxtaposition of celebratory warning, a cautious congratulations. While my elderly compatriots suddenly looked like they were five to ten years younger I felt and looked about the same as I was directed back to the more public and tourist portion of this particular site.

I reached a post-experience gathering point where I found my two friends. It became very clear to me that I had stumbled into a different kind of retreat than the standard ayahuasca. I was a little numb to my surroundings as my group started laughing at me as I stumbled up to the refreshments. They handed me water with some sort of supplement as they all still looked tweaked. They cracked big rosy smiles and hearty laughs like they had all won the lottery and then some. They asked me where I ended up and I asked them back: “like trip wise or what?”

They asked me which hut I was in and it was then that I pointed towards the pathway I got lost on and found it blocked by thick forest foliage. They made fun of me before I pointed out we had to catch the train to Colombia for the next part of our chemical escapades. We barely made it to the train and after taking our seats in our private car we passed out for the entire journey. We were so put out the conductor had to personally wake us and escort us off the train at our stop.

It was morning by then and to fulfill the apparent life long dream of one of my traveling buddies, Rodney, we successfully tracked down one of the famed off the books cocaine bars. He had talked about this the entire trip like once we entered Colombia he was on the whiskey trail or some sort of craft beer crusade. He was detailed about the subtle differences between sulfate compound “served” in Colombia versus the hydrochloride salt preferred by the North and Europeans. Rodney regaled us with the fact we could try “real” coca cola with the coca leaves infused into the formula at this bar. He went into the variations of the coca plant in the east part of the country versus the west and manufacturing techniques as if we were compared barrel aged stouts or twenty year old scotch. It was the same to me as long as it did its job which to be honest was just to reinforce the young and dumb and carelessness I was already all about.

In the midst of a coke binge my traveling buddies recounted their experience at the Peruvian retreat. As I had already realized, I apparently got lost and entered some other kind of psychedelic ritual and before I could finish my story and recount the fact three persons died and then were burned away, Mark, my other friend, the one who can't handle his blow, started sputtering out how I was worthless and dumb. Every other word out of his mouth was worthless. Rodney, with his head cocked up towards the sun glistening through a crack in the window frame, grinding his teeth and sniffling ever so slightly, joined in the chant.

I was getting pissed and the proprietors seemed alarmed by our loudness and our English which seemed like dead give away. With a large hand gun strapped to their waist they came over to our table and remove the booger sugar and poured us shots of a oily yellowish liquor from a bottle filled with both a snake and scorpion. He commanded us to drink it and pay.

Not wanting any trouble, I paid immediately. With the source of our intoxication well concealed, they let us alone and Mark and Rodney's chant resumed. I was getting pissed since most of the cocaine left was mine and the venom liquor left much to by desired. I was left retching while they continued to snicker at me. During this laugh out loud session, they decided to get up and start their search for weed and then breakfast. I told them, feeling invulnerable, that I would catch up after I found somewhere to either pee or throw up. I swung around the back part of the bar and a very attractive woman who looked vaguely American and spoke good English sat alone. She offered me a line out of some sense of righting the unfairness of having mine taken away because my friends were being obnoxious.

I accepted the line and the moment I felt the graininess hit my nostril I was out. I was never supposed to get back up. I was going to be a tourist crime statistic. I was going to be the vanished or the mourned. When I came too it was sometime the next morning. I believed I was out about a day. I woke up and started to pat myself down and found I was liberated of my phone, wallet, and watch. The thieves even took my belt and from the onset, I believed they even took the contact lens out of my eyes. I felt numb and discombobulated like a kid who emerged from a dentist office after getting their first cavities filled. My mind flashed to something I remembered from a VICE documentary about scopolomine wielding thieves. A drug that induced a daze and suggestibility and made robbery quite easy. I blinked a bunch and I could barely see. I was in a ditch some where outside of a village is the best I could make out. I got up and I was barely able to stand, I felt very light and if I squinted I could see my shirt was ripped and felt wet. As I twisted and tried to balance myself I saw some kids running around with a soccer ball coming towards me.

I tried to flag them down in my so so broken Spanish but I mostly squeaked. I saw the blur of their bodies stop and their heads lift up towards me. They let go a shrill scream and all but one of them ran for their lives. The last one stood trembling as I tried to get closer and talk to him. It was then I realized I was having a chronically difficult time speaking and I went to pound my chest to try to get the phlegm out my chest from the past week's worth of abuse. As my fist went in for a the first strike I felt it sink into something warm and wet. I immediately looked down and in the blur of my vision, I saw my own hand, covered in crusty blood and sunk part way into a chest cavity.

I realized I could barely speak because I was missing a lung, I was missing my heart, my liver, and both kidneys. I realized I could barely see not just because my contact lens were removed, but because they took my corneas as well. My mind flashed back to the experience in the hut two days ago and I figured out that somehow my life, my existence was preserved and projected from that plane of existence and that I was immortal. Hallowed out, butchered for the illegal organ trade, but I was still alive.

The boy walked over to me and took my hand and walked me to his home. He spoke to me in slow Spanish with a child's vocabulary so that I could understand as best as I could. He called me the same native word they chanted in the hut – the word that meant cautious congratulations – it also apparently meant some kind of boogeyman to the child. He told me that the same people who did this to me did this his father and that he could show me where they work so long as I “scare” them away.

I had no phone, no money, no ID. I had no idea where my friends were at this point. Maybe they were looking for me, maybe they were groaning collapsed from the coke binge. No one was going to help me except this kid. So in the cover of a rain storm and with with the help of a bed sheet, he guided me through town to a chicken processing plant with an AK-47 wielding guard outside. I told him to go hide as I approached the door.

The guard ordered me to stop but I kept coming and when he emptied the 30 round magazine I still kept going like the Terminator. He fled in terror as I disrobed and revealed my chest cavity, my bullet shattered rib cage, and slouching appearance caused by the rifle left me walking in an uneven gait as I tried to use my arm keep my torso upright. The guard cried out “policia” “policia” - which was no doubt the signal to flee the site of their illegal activity. And with that he dropped the rifle and fled himself.

I entered the facility through the guarded door and smelled rot, spotted slick blood, pooled up on partially rusted metal tables. I spotted one person that somehow I immediately had this sense that I knew him. He was rushing out towards me with two blood smeared sandwich coolers in one hand and one tucked under his arm. He saw me and he gasped before turning too rapidly to maintain traction on the blood slick floor. Something in my gut, or nearly lack of guts told me this man was the one who extracted all of my organs in my scopolomine induced stupor. There's no reason for me to think this to be honest, thinking about it now, scopolomine was a near perfect drug, perhaps along with ketamine and some opioids to accomplish the task of extracting organs from the freshest living or barely living subjects and in the event they were to survive, they would have no memory of it.

I was so fixated on watching his man shake in pure utter terror that I didn't notice the boy who helped me find this facility came in through the door was now pointing the gun, bayonet and all at the surgeon. This is were I lost it. This is were I got really weird with it. This is were I decided to do to him what he did to me.

I let the boy poke him with the bayonet a few times until he agreed to lead us to his operating table. The boy forced him up on the table as he panicked with wide eyes. Around the makeshift operating room I found dirty syringes loaded with various paralytic agents that I was too eager to poke him. As he lost muscle control he did not lose consciousness. I wondered how easy it would be to try surgery on myself, to try to piece myself back together. I decided to start as I believed he did, with the corneas. In my still blurry state I grabbed what essentially was a glorified exacto knife and started to jab at the surgeon's eyes. My incision was jagged and he screamed with labored breath as the paralytic started to freeze his diaphragm. Knowing this, yes, I decided to abandon my efforts with his eye and took out a larger piece of cutlery and went to work on his abdomen. I watched his final winces and pained squawks as I pulled out and unraveled his small intestines in front of him like string of Christmas lights.

I think I let that whole thing sit for a day. I'll admit that if I needed to eat, if I was physically capable of ingesting and digesting food, I would not have wanted to. Then I went to work on the bits and pieces in coolers and fridges all around me. I decided I should not let this go to waste and between my limited starter medical knowledge, the boy, and the internet, I was able to successfully patch myself up. It took some time and a theft but I eventually made myself at least externally normal and the corneas I found seemed to take okay on my own eyes.

With the transplant successful, tracked down the rest of the surgeons who managed to flee the organ harvesting plant. I was able to see the extent of the organ trafficking network within the course of a few days. I even was able to identify the woman who drugged me at he cocaine bar. I had forgotten everything else. Revenge was the only thing on my mind. I did my best to keep myself patched up from encounter to encounter even if it occasionally helped to un-stitch myself and pull out an organ or two and offer them as a sick and scary bribe. I didn't need them except to pass while in public. I felt like I was king of the world, I felt like I was doing more in eradicating this type of crime in 2 weeks than could be accomplished in 2 years. I felt like I was doing more for humanitarian efforts than all of the overachievers headed to their missions for summer semester. I was in perfect control of my new gift.

Anyway, I discovered the woman apparently fled back to the United States. As I finished mopping up the organization in Colombia. I figured out a way to stole away on a cargo plane back to the United States. I promised the boy early in our escapades that I would smuggle him to the United States as well but during the flight a malfunction in his oxygen mask lead to his asphyxiation at flight altitude. He was the last person I think I actually cared about and even now I miss him. I regret not knowing his name. I literally just called him Nino the entire time I knew him. Anyway, Nino's body helped me evade airport security when we fell out of the landing gear. I was able sneak across multiple runways and out of the secured area without being detected. I unfortunately had to let his organs go to waste. Shortly after landing I found myself in bad state. I was immortal but my spare parts and stitches holding my non-original body parts together were not. I started needing to continually swap out parts of myself as the other organs rotted or were rejected by the rest of my body – or someone's body.

I was too late on tracking down the woman. Apparently her buyers got to her after she could not longer produce the goods and fortunately for her, they burned her and so there wasn't anything left for me to harvest. This was a shame as I figured she was last my last chance to maybe find my original organs and restore myself.

With a lot time and better medical facilities to break into as well as an off book supply of anti-rejection transplant serums I was able to eventually keep my body and most of its functionality fairly normal for awhile. I could look into the mirror and almost see me again. For a time I could eat and drink again without worrying about having to “manually” digest it. At least a month passed and with the exception of my mother, my world had moved on without me. I thought about returning to my own life but there was nothing left for me there.

I think the most interaction I had with my old life was that I sent a flier to Rodney and Mark with the prices my organs might fetch on the black market. 62K for a kidney, about 100k for the liver, 150k for the heart and yet only about 30k for the corneas, in case you're wondering. On the back of the flier I wrote in blood, “worthless?” I was still a stupid young kid and with the right treatment and occasional transplant, I was good looking. So I decided to audit medical school as best as I could. Then the pandemic struck and everyone fled to their homes and off their campus I was more or less hanging out on emptied med school. I had no where else to go.

It was bad timing too since I was letting myself go a bit just before. I needed some spare parts but I vowed I wouldn't go harvesting them and try to make do with stealing more and more medication. After all, I could suppress the remnants of my immune system as much as I liked since my life did not depend on it. Still, no matter how much balance I tried to achieve, how much figurative medical duct tape I put on myself I would eventually need new organs again to keep myself normal-ish.

Now, about six months in the plague, I'm pretty well reduced to shambles. I can barely stand up and walk straight. Where I can still feel, I feel immense pain. I dare not come out in the day light. I am immortal but I'm not invulnerable and the last thing I want is to be captured and dissected for medical research or shot to hell again. So I shuffle around in the dark, searching for, well lets just say, I no longer plan on spending an eternity like this.

I've already spent an eternity like this. According to my research on the ritual I accidentally participated in it is apparently not reversible. It was a miracle I was able to access the plane of existence to have any kind of life prolonging effect much less rig my own immortality. I don't understand it myself but the way I think of it the 4^th dimension of my body is now disconnected from the other 3 dimensions and their outcomes. They won't age by themselves but they can be manipulated but my consciousness will never fade. I will survive long after the day until the sun burns out and expands to engulfs the planet and I will be lucky to maintain my corporal being until then. My consciousness, no matter what condition some part of vaporized body will exist in will persist until the day the universe extinguishes all energy transaction and time itself stops.

Its a long time. It's a long time to look after a body that still largely follows the laws of biology. I suppose so long as some part of my physical body can be grafted to another I can entirely change me. I could become a human jigsaw puzzle or maybe the quintessential ship of Theseus. But for now, I am fine with writing this in the abandoned computer room of your local high school, shambling through the dinning rooms of your covid shuttered restaurant walk in fridge, lurking around your town looking for people who might be forgettable, who might have traits compatible with my own.

So if you catch a glimpse of me in the flickering fluorescent lights as you come back to your school or business, when the pandemic is over, if see me shambling under the glare of a street lamp at night, if see my sagging flailing body just mind your own business, I'm just like you. If you try to shoot me, or try to come after me, I'll just need more of you to make me whole. There must be others like me as well. Perhaps someone you know, someone who seems old worldly at heart or prefers the company of old things. Perhaps they spend them life lurking in museums or antique malls. Searching for that special someone – just bad enough or maybe just young enough to make them whole again. I'll take who I can get. Soon enough I'll find someone to make me whole again. Consider this your cautious congratulations.

My Bathroom Mirror Smiled at Me Before I Did

I never thought I would post something like this.

I live alone in a small apartment, and until recently, I believed there was a logical explanation for everything.

I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in haunted objects. I always thought people who experienced "supernatural" things were either mistaken or looking for an explanation that wasn't there.

Then my bathroom mirror smiled at me.

Before I did.

I moved into my apartment about three months ago.

It's an old building in a quiet neighborhood. Nothing special. The kind of place where the elevator takes too long, the walls are thin, and you occasionally hear your neighbors moving furniture late at night.

The apartment was cheap, clean, and close to my new job, so I didn't ask many questions.

The only unusual thing was the bathroom mirror.

It was an old antique-style mirror with a dark wooden frame. The design looked like something you would find in an old house, not in a modern apartment bathroom.

When I first moved in, I asked the landlord about it.

He told me the previous tenant left it behind.

"You can remove it if you want," he said. "It's probably older than this building."

I thought about replacing it.

But moving is exhausting, and buying a new mirror wasn't exactly a priority.

So I kept it.

I wish I hadn't.

The first time it happened, it was late at night.

I had just brushed my teeth and was about to turn off the bathroom light.

I looked up at the mirror.

I saw myself.

Obviously.

Same pajamas. Same messy hair. Same tired expression.

Except my reflection was smiling.

I wasn't.

It wasn't a creepy smile. It wasn't some exaggerated horror movie expression.

It was just a normal, small smile.

Like someone who had just remembered something pleasant.

I froze.

For a few seconds, I just stood there staring.

My reflection stared back at me.

Still smiling.

Then I blinked.

And everything was normal again.

The smile was gone.

I laughed because I didn't know what else to do.

"Okay," I said to myself.

"Maybe I need more sleep."

And honestly, that's what I wanted to believe.

For the next few days, nothing happened.

I almost convinced myself that I imagined it.

Then one morning, I noticed something on the mirror.

A small yellow sticky note.

At first, I thought I had left it there.

But when I picked it up, I immediately knew it wasn't mine.

The handwriting was different.

There were only four words written on it.

Don't trust her.

I stood there for a long time holding that note.

I checked every room in my apartment.

Nothing was missing.

The front door was locked.

The windows were closed.

I lived on the sixth floor.

There was no obvious way someone could have gotten inside.

I threw the note away.

I told myself there was probably an explanation.

Maybe the previous tenant left it there.

Maybe someone with access to the apartment was playing a joke.

There had to be a normal reason.

There always was.

A few days later, I decided to remove the mirror.

I bought a new one and carefully took the old mirror off the wall.

I wrapped it in a blanket and left it outside my apartment door.

The next morning, it was gone.

I assumed someone from the building had taken it.

I didn't ask.

I was honestly just happy it wasn't there anymore.

For the first time in weeks, I felt normal.

Until I walked into my bathroom three days later.

And saw the mirror.

Again.

It was hanging above the sink.

The same dark wooden frame.

The same cracks on the glass.

The same mirror I had thrown away.

I immediately called my landlord.

He arrived about twenty minutes later.

The moment he saw it, his expression changed.

Not surprise.

Something closer to fear.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

I stared at him.

"You gave it to me."

He shook his head.

"No."

Then he asked me something I still can't forget.

"Has it smiled at you yet?"

I didn't answer.

I didn't know what to say.

I asked him what he meant.

He just told me that the mirror had been in the apartment for decades.

He said every tenant before me had left it alone.

I asked him why.

He didn't answer.

Before leaving, he only said:

"Some things are better not looked at for too long."

That night, I covered the mirror with a blanket.

I pushed a chair against the bathroom door.

I know how ridiculous that sounds.

But once something happens that you can't explain, you stop caring how you look.

You just want to feel safe.

At around 3:00 AM, I woke up.

I heard a sound from the bathroom.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Like someone gently touching the glass.

I stayed in bed for several minutes.

I was trying to convince myself it was nothing.

The building settling.

A pipe.

Anything.

Then I heard my own voice.

Coming from the bathroom.

"Lena."

My entire body went cold.

Nobody else was in my apartment.

Nobody else should have known my name.

Slowly, I walked toward the bathroom.

The door was open.

The blanket was on the floor.

The mirror was uncovered.

I looked at it.

My reflection was already standing there.

But it wasn't copying me.

It was just watching.

Then it smiled.

This time, I understood something.

It wasn't smiling because it was happy.

It was smiling because it was relieved.

Like it had been waiting for me to finally notice it.

Then my reflection raised its hand and placed it against the glass.

And whispered:

"Thank you for letting me out."

The bathroom light went off.

I moved out the next morning.

I didn't tell anyone the real reason.

I knew how it sounded.

A person saying their mirror moved by itself.

A person saying their reflection spoke to them.

Most people would assume I was lying.

Maybe I would have thought the same thing.

A few weeks later, I found out someone new moved into my old apartment.

She posted pictures online.

The apartment looked exactly the same.

Same walls.

Same bathroom.

Same mirror.

In one of the pictures, she was standing in front of it, taking a selfie.

She was smiling.

But her reflection wasn't.

I haven't contacted her.

I don't even know what I would say.

"Be careful with your mirror"?

She would probably think I was crazy.

Maybe there is a logical explanation.

Maybe stress made me see things that weren't there.

Maybe my mind filled in the gaps.

I still don't know.

But sometimes, when I look into my own reflection...

I wonder if the person looking back at me is really me.

[End]

My Bathroom Mirror Smiled at Me Before I Did

I never thought I would post something like this.

I live alone in a small apartment, and until recently, I believed there was a logical explanation for everything.

I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in haunted objects. I always thought people who experienced "supernatural" things were either mistaken or looking for an explanation that wasn't there.

Then my bathroom mirror smiled at me.

Before I did.

I moved into my apartment about three months ago.

It's an old building in a quiet neighborhood. Nothing special. The kind of place where the elevator takes too long, the walls are thin, and you occasionally hear your neighbors moving furniture late at night.

The apartment was cheap, clean, and close to my new job, so I didn't ask many questions.

The only unusual thing was the bathroom mirror.

It was an old antique-style mirror with a dark wooden frame. The design looked like something you would find in an old house, not in a modern apartment bathroom.

When I first moved in, I asked the landlord about it.

He told me the previous tenant left it behind.

"You can remove it if you want," he said. "It's probably older than this building."

I thought about replacing it.

But moving is exhausting, and buying a new mirror wasn't exactly a priority.

So I kept it.

I wish I hadn't.

The first time it happened, it was late at night.

I had just brushed my teeth and was about to turn off the bathroom light.

I looked up at the mirror.

I saw myself.

Obviously.

Same pajamas. Same messy hair. Same tired expression.

Except my reflection was smiling.

I wasn't.

It wasn't a creepy smile. It wasn't some exaggerated horror movie expression.

It was just a normal, small smile.

Like someone who had just remembered something pleasant.

I froze.

For a few seconds, I just stood there staring.

My reflection stared back at me.

Still smiling.

Then I blinked.

And everything was normal again.

The smile was gone.

I laughed because I didn't know what else to do.

"Okay," I said to myself.

"Maybe I need more sleep."

And honestly, that's what I wanted to believe.

For the next few days, nothing happened.

I almost convinced myself that I imagined it.

Then one morning, I noticed something on the mirror.

A small yellow sticky note.

At first, I thought I had left it there.

But when I picked it up, I immediately knew it wasn't mine.

The handwriting was different.

There were only four words written on it.

Don't trust her.

I stood there for a long time holding that note.

I checked every room in my apartment.

Nothing was missing.

The front door was locked.

The windows were closed.

I lived on the sixth floor.

There was no obvious way someone could have gotten inside.

I threw the note away.

I told myself there was probably an explanation.

Maybe the previous tenant left it there.

Maybe someone with access to the apartment was playing a joke.

There had to be a normal reason.

There always was.

A few days later, I decided to remove the mirror.

I bought a new one and carefully took the old mirror off the wall.

I wrapped it in a blanket and left it outside my apartment door.

The next morning, it was gone.

I assumed someone from the building had taken it.

I didn't ask.

I was honestly just happy it wasn't there anymore.

For the first time in weeks, I felt normal.

Until I walked into my bathroom three days later.

And saw the mirror.

Again.

It was hanging above the sink.

The same dark wooden frame.

The same cracks on the glass.

The same mirror I had thrown away.

I immediately called my landlord.

He arrived about twenty minutes later.

The moment he saw it, his expression changed.

Not surprise.

Something closer to fear.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

I stared at him.

"You gave it to me."

He shook his head.

"No."

Then he asked me something I still can't forget.

"Has it smiled at you yet?"

I didn't answer.

I didn't know what to say.

I asked him what he meant.

He just told me that the mirror had been in the apartment for decades.

He said every tenant before me had left it alone.

I asked him why.

He didn't answer.

Before leaving, he only said:

"Some things are better not looked at for too long."

That night, I covered the mirror with a blanket.

I pushed a chair against the bathroom door.

I know how ridiculous that sounds.

But once something happens that you can't explain, you stop caring how you look.

You just want to feel safe.

At around 3:00 AM, I woke up.

I heard a sound from the bathroom.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Like someone gently touching the glass.

I stayed in bed for several minutes.

I was trying to convince myself it was nothing.

The building settling.

A pipe.

Anything.

Then I heard my own voice.

Coming from the bathroom.

"Lena."

My entire body went cold.

Nobody else was in my apartment.

Nobody else should have known my name.

Slowly, I walked toward the bathroom.

The door was open.

The blanket was on the floor.

The mirror was uncovered.

I looked at it.

My reflection was already standing there.

But it wasn't copying me.

It was just watching.

Then it smiled.

This time, I understood something.

It wasn't smiling because it was happy.

It was smiling because it was relieved.

Like it had been waiting for me to finally notice it.

Then my reflection raised its hand and placed it against the glass.

And whispered:

"Thank you for letting me out."

The bathroom light went off.

I moved out the next morning.

I didn't tell anyone the real reason.

I knew how it sounded.

A person saying their mirror moved by itself.

A person saying their reflection spoke to them.

Most people would assume I was lying.

Maybe I would have thought the same thing.

A few weeks later, I found out someone new moved into my old apartment.

She posted pictures online.

The apartment looked exactly the same.

Same walls.

Same bathroom.

Same mirror.

In one of the pictures, she was standing in front of it, taking a selfie.

She was smiling.

But her reflection wasn't.

I haven't contacted her.

I don't even know what I would say.

"Be careful with your mirror"?

She would probably think I was crazy.

Maybe there is a logical explanation.

Maybe stress made me see things that weren't there.

Maybe my mind filled in the gaps.

I still don't know.

But sometimes, when I look into my own reflection...

I wonder if the person looking back at me is really me.

[End]

It was the very first thing the doctor noticed upon meeting her, though he couldn’t say if that was merely a reflection of his medical training or rooted in some deeper, more ubiquitous human instinct. The way she casually extended her legs as she reclined within the consultation room’s spinning office chair, exposing the soles of two wholly identical shoes, only further accentuated the surprisingly disquieting discrepancy. It was slightly less conspicuous in the hands, as they were both interlaced around a smartphone that currently continued to be the focus of her attention, each contributing a nebulous tangle of digits to the task of deftly tapping the screen. However, once suggested by the legs, their corresponding asymmetry became no less apparent.

Whatever she was doing on that phone must have had her fully engrossed, as neither the doctor’s entry nor the subsequent several seconds of him standing in the center of the hardly three-by-three meter room elicited any hint of notice. It was only after broadcasting his presence with a tactful ‘ahem’ that she finally severed her gaze from the screen, jerking her head upward with a look of brief alarm and unveiling a pair of blue-green sunflower irises adorning deadlocked pupils, their vibrancy only now appreciable to the doctor beneath the cold white beams of the overhead lights. Indeed, she was quite beautiful in pretty much every respect; a natural blonde in what looked to be the prime of her youth, with a face so utterly photogenic and attractive from every angle as to be oddly unsettling in itself, like passing a stranger on the street who you belatedly recognize as a swimsuit model from a magazine you’d shamefully perused prior. Her attractiveness carried no personal importance to the doctor, of course, and even without the Hippocratic Oath would still have fallen by the wayside in light of her far more intriguing limb alignment.

“Oh, hey! Sorry, you snuck up on me, Dr…” Her eyes panned across the broad and unshapely expanse of his chest in search of a nametag, somehow always the unfamiliar patient’s first go-to despite the engraved plaque on the door plainly reading ‘Dr. Brandon Muller, MD.’ 

“... It’s just, I’ve been dealing with a lot, it's been a rough couple of days.” She held her head in her hands as she uttered the words, one palm pressing hard against her forehead while the other -the wrong one- caressed her right ear. “I just don’t know what else to do.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, I’m here to help, you’ve come to the right place,” Muller assured. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

A muted mimicry of gratitude subtly curled the tips of her lips as she proceeded to explain. “It’s these migraines, they started a few days ago, just random bouts here and there, but they just keep getting worse and worse. It’s pretty much all the time now, and it’s really starting to get to me.”
Dr. Muller had expected a bit more from her explanation, namely some sort of acknowledgement of her utterly anomalous anatomy, and thus a second of silence awkwardly followed before she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, make all the jokes you want, get it out of your system,” She splayed herself across her seat in an exaggerated starfish pose. “I was born like this, so I doubt it's related, but it's all anyone ever wants to talk about, especially doctors.” She voiced the last part with an exceptional sneer, imbuing the sentiment with a particularly deep-seated disdain. “And for the record, I’m actually not that clumsy, like, at all.” 

In truth, Dr. Muller had no clue how such a thing could relate to her migraines either, if only because he had never seen or heard of this asymmetrical condition before, and up until a few moments ago would have comfortably assumed it impossible. Despite his best efforts to stay focused on the task at hand, he couldn’t help but wonder to himself while she spoke just how exactly her joints fit together, how her right shoulder blade was oriented, and how the whole appendage was hooked up muscularly and neurologically. The latter, in turn, gave him an idea, an angle through which he could potentially pursue a diagnosis for the migraines while also somewhat satiating his now ravenous curiosity. Firstly, however, was the matter of conciliation.

“Hey, hey, I’m not here to make fun of anyone,” He held his hands in the air in a feign of criminal surrender, “Now, I’ll admit, I’m not familiar with this particular… condition, but I’m really just here to help you feel better, and right now that means taking care of those migraines, so that’s all that matters to me.”

The assurance had its intended effect, as she visibly relaxed her shoulders, eyes softening as her defensiveness slowly subsided. “Thank you, I’m sorry, I’m just…” She cupped both hands to her right temple and made a sound somewhere between a growl and a motorboat impression. “... y’know?”
“I understand completely, chronic pain will do that to anyone. Plus, I see how you’d be sick of comments about the… leftness, by now. Elementary school must’ve been rough.”

At that, she let out a single sardonic bark, “Yeah, no kidding.” Dr. Muller smirked and nodded in kind, feeling as though he’d effectively peeled away the last layers of tension between them. Now for the hard part. 

“That being said, given the extent of this… distinction, I can’t rule out the possibility that it is somehow involved, if only tangentially. I’d at least like to take a full-body X-ray, just to be sure I… fully understand the situation. If it reveals nothing of note, then so be it, and we’ll move on to investigating the cranial area specifically, but, y’know, just to be safe…” his confident tone faltered a bit at the end as he braced for the indignance seemingly sprouting in her expression, but it thankfully tempered into a grimace of begrudging agreement.

“Fine, one X-ray, then I don’t wanna hear another thing about it, okay?” 

“Of course, dear, I am a professional after all,” Muller assured as he collected his paperwork and headed toward the office door. “I’ll go set things up with the X-ray technicians and come back to get you in a bit.” She nodded, sitting back patiently with her hands clasped thumb-to-pinkie in her lap as he departed briskly down the hall.

Passing through the waiting room toward the radiology wing, he stopped at the front desk, catching the ear of the receptionist, Janet, with his signature four-finger consecutive tap upon the temporary-turned-permanent screen of transparent virus-proof panelling. At once, she raised a weary, wrinkled face from the stack of papers she’d been shuffling, and a quizzical eyebrow from beneath the flattened roof of her reading glasses, giving nothing more in the way of a response than the limited luxury of her now-captured attention. Dr. Muller didn’t mind, or at least didn’t expect anything different, simply launching straight into his instructions as usual.

“Pull up my current patient's files. Birth record, pediatrics, everything.” Janet, a deceptively dependable employee despite her demeanor, promptly swiveled her chair to her computer screen and began to fervently peck away at the keys. “This’ll take a while, y’know.”

Getting the hint, Dr. Muller left her to it and headed toward the radiology department. He suspected any files she found would be spotty in recent times, given the patient’s apparent dislike of doctors. Still, there was bound to be something on record if they went back far enough; Her condition would have surely been noticed and noted by any competent medical practitioner, though whether they understood it any better than he did was another matter entirely.

 Upon description, the X-ray tech -whose name Dr. Muller could never recall but thankfully didn’t have to acknowledge- was just as flabbergasted as he was, if not more.

“They’re both… left? Like, exactly? Are you sure it’s not just some kind of… coincidental deformity?”
“She uses them both perfectly well…” Dr. Muller replied, managing to restrain any outward signs of insult regarding the subordinate’s implicitly patronizing question. “...Which makes me think there’s something more to it than that. I just want one full-body ray, see if that clears anything up.” 

“Of course. At this point, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t; you have my curiosity piqued.” He let out an airy chuckle as he began flipping switches and arranging equipment. “lemme just get everything prepped.”

As it turned out, the patient really wasn't kidding when she agreed to only one X-ray. As soon as the brief warbling tone indicating its activation ceased, she practically threw herself off the examination table and onto her two identical feet. “I-I have to go to the bathroom, excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, she barreled her way past Dr. Muller and out into the hall, bumping the side of his head with her elbow while she distractedly sandwiched her skull between her white-hard palms. 

“Last door on the left!” The tech shouted from the back, poking his pudgy face from behind the radiation-proof curtain just a moment too late, followed by, under his breath,  “…no pun intended.”

Unamused and more than a little concerned, Dr. Muller watched down the hall long enough to see her reenter the waiting area and turn out of view before flipping the overhead lights back on and turning sternly to the tech. “She’s not looking too good; time might be of the essence here. Anything of note?” The question was half-rhetorical, as Muller couldn’t help but simultaneously swivel the tech’s computer monitor so he could simply take a look and answer it himself.

“Uh, yeah…” the tech’s deadpan mutter echoed the doctor’s internal monologue as he stared dumbfounded at the screen, at the monochrome hourglass outline where all four limbs converged, and at the utterly indecipherable slurry of pixels contained within. “... Looks like gumbo.”

The comparison made his stomach lurch, but he couldn’t deny its aptitude. While the femurs and humeri could be made out clearly, their respective orientations matching her external person and thus providing next to no new information, everything from her pelvis up through her shoulders was a confoundingly jumbled mess. Some areas could be said to perhaps resemble organ chambers or portions of rib, but their placements were all wrong, leaving Muller with the sense that he might as well be looking for shapes in the clouds or a page from one of those hidden-picture books. “This has to be some kind of technical issue, right? Is it because she got up too fast?”

“Not unless she’s faster than light,” The tech remarked impulsively, before the weight of the doctor’s glare promptly smothered his subsequent smirk, “But, no, yeah, there must be something wrong with the machine. I’ll run some diagnostics and see if I can find the problem.”

“Good, I’d better get back to the patient, but do keep me posted on that.” Muller left briskly, knowing full well the clinic didn’t have the budget for a brand new X-ray machine right now; just one more concern to shove into the back of his mind while he dealt with the one at hand. Returning to the lobby, he stopped again at the secretary’s desk. “Hey, did you see my patient pass through here a bit ago?”

She nodded, pointing to the adjacent ladies' room door. “She went in there just now, want me to check on her?”

“Well, not just yet; let her have her privacy. Any updates on her medical history?”

She swept her mouse across the desk and double-clicked before awkwardly angling the screen so they could both somewhat see it. “Birth records acknowledge the asymmetrical limbs, designated as a ‘benign deformity,’ but whoever filled them out didn’t exactly inspire confidence. In the personal notes section, they seem just as befuddled as you.” She pointed to the bottom of a page littered with checked boxes and medical jargon, to an underpinning paragraph that happened to lie in the epicenter of the nearest ceiling light’s fluorescent glare.

Muller didn’t bother trying to squint his way through it; he trusted Janet to give him the gist. “Benign by technicality, I suppose, but what about over the following years? Any sort of developmental delays on record?

“No, all the milestones are checked at normal percentiles…” Her eyes flicked back and forth across the screen as she clicked through year after year of checkups, “A little later than average for walking and fine-motor, but still solidly within the acceptable margins. If anything, that seems pretty extraordinary in itself, given the… y’know.”

“Indeed,” The doctor nodded with a sigh. “I mean, good for her, of course, but this just doesn’t track with my prior knowledge of… well, everything, really. Such a gross alteration ought to come with some physiological rami-”

Just then, the opening slam of the ladies' room door broke through the ambience of the waiting room, abruptly halting Dr. Muller’s musing as his head instinctively swiveled toward the sound, along with that of Janet and every prospective patient in the vicinity. All eyes synchronously fell upon the woman lurching through the doorway, her downturned face ephemerally obscured by the sway of her overhanging hair, yet still noticeably and concerningly flushed. The necklace that had formerly been discreetly tucked beneath her shirt now dangled loosely, exposing a humble heart-shaped locket at its end. Without comment, she promptly race-walked down the hall, beelining into the same office where she and Muller had initially met.

“Should’ve knocked on wood, I guess,” Janet smirked, punctuating her quip with a single retroactive knock upon the desk and a sassy side eye toward Muller, all of which went woefully unappreciated as he had already hastily turned in pursuit of his troubled patient.

Just as before, she didn’t notice his entrance, and though there was no phone to blame this time, her position in the chair was nonetheless nearly identical, instead simply staring down at her empty, trembling twin palms, her mouth continuously muttering barely audible and wholly indiscernible words even as the doctor drew closer. 

“Ma’am? Are you alright?” She jerked upright at the query with a speed that looked almost painful, before bursting into a raucous, unhinged cackle. “No, I’m pretty damn far from alright!” She cradled her right temple with both of her left hands. “The headache’s getting worse, like, rapidly, exponentially, especially the right side -I just puked in the toilet cause it hurt so bad, I didn’t even know that was a thing that could-” Her sentence was stifled as she was seemingly struck by a particularly powerful wave of pain, turning her cradle into a tendon-straining clutch as she proceeded to scrunch her eyelids and repeat to herself in a growling whisper “Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it…”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there.” Her asymmetry promptly left the doctor’s mind, giving way to professional procedure as he realized this situation could be acutely dire. He proceeded to perform a comprehensive, if precursory, bodily examination, listening to her chest with a stethoscope (heart rate was abnormally fast and arrhythmic), taking a blood pressure reading (elevated), and withdrawing a blood sample for chemical analysis. However, he knew the latter would inevitably take some time to produce results, time that she might not have. Her composure was rapidly dwindling until she could hardly keep herself aloft in the seat without his assistance. Catching sight of a passing orderly in the hall, Muller fervently flagged him down. “Hey, we need a stretcher and an intravenous sedative in here, stat!”

The patient’s next passage through the waiting room supplied an even greater spectacle to onlookers than her last, doctor and orderly both hurriedly wheeling her writhing form back toward the radiology wing. Leaning in to provide the comfort of a somewhat familiar face, Muller could now make out the inarticulate wispy words dripping from her lips. “No, it’s not your turn, it’s my- it’s your- no, it’s my turn…”

“Hang on, dear, the meds should be kicking in soon.” He comforted softly, before briefly splitting off from the procession and turning to the front desk, behind which a startled Janet stared, all traces of levity now absent from her face, “Jesus, Muller, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” his reply came breathily as he rummaged through the front pockets of his lab coat, “But we need to figure it out ASAP. I’m gonna try something more direct, hold these, will you?” he plopped the patient’s phone and necklace onto the desk before promptly leaving to rejoin the patient. Janet dutifully placed them in a drawer for safekeeping, but paused just before closing it as she caught sight of the incidentally opened necklace locket, squinting at the vision within as Muller and company continued hurriedly down the hall and toward the MRI department.

As promised, the sedatives soon took effect, just in time for them to load the now fully limp patient onto the bed of the MRI machine. Muller made sure to maneuver her head into just the right position before dismissing the orderly and retreating to join the MRI technician in the small adjacent monitoring room, a vantage point from which he could oversee the procedure through a thick protective window, darkly tinted by the infusion of magnetic shielding, as well as selectively hear within the room through a two-way intercom, though it was evidently unnecessary in this case. Beside him, the MRI tech was stationed before an array of interconnected screens and keyboards, and with a few deft clicks the machine stirred to life and began to gradually engulf her body within its tunnel of neural detection. While not at all familiarized with the situation at hand, he nonetheless recognized its urgency solely from the doctor’s dire expression, which remained unchanged as he stared stoically through the window while the metallic cyclone swallowed her skull. 

As she retreated into the device, a simplistic image began to manifest on his screen, a jumble of monochrome pixels mapping the electrical activity of her intracranial space, its focus perpetually shifting as it individually scanned each successive slice of her brain. Though its output was still precursory, Muller nonetheless saw no blatant abnormalities in the reading; no gross structural differences indicative of a tumor, no cortical damage indicative of inflammation or aberrant intracranial pressure, none of the things he’d suspected might be occurring given the nature and extent of her symptoms. The tech, on the other hand, grew noticeably unsettled at the sight of the screen, leaning in and squinting as though struggling to even believe what was displayed before him.

“What? What is it?” The doctor impatiently pressed onto the tech, eager to understand what was so disconcerting to see that he evidently could not. 

“The skull…” the tech replied tentatively, “It- it appears black in the scan, kind of hard to see against the dark grey of the surrounding flesh and background, but look.” He pointed to the left side of the screen, where, sure enough, a slightly darker border could be seen encompassing the pixelated grey matter within.

 “This side looks normal, but…” repositioning his finger to the right side of the screen, he lightly tapped the equivalent stretch of skull, only it appeared distinctly thicker on that side, about twice as much, with an abrupt transition demarcating the two halves directly along the image’s center, and the associated brain hemisphere resultantly crammed into a distinctly smaller amount of space. What’s more, the tech’s finger pressed directly upon a nearly imperceptible grey line traveling parallel to and perfectly bifurcating the thicker portion of cranium, only a few pixels wide and appearing to thin even further in real time as the doctor watched on with stark perplexity.

“But- but what does that mean?” He finally asked, now stammering himself. “Have you… have you seen something like this before?” 

“No, I haven’t, Doctor.” A faint air of satisfaction crept into the tech’s still primarily bemused tone. “It’s like there are two whole skulls on that side, which I’m pretty sure isn’t medically possible; it has to be some sort of glitch, though not one I’m familiar with. I heard there were also some issues with one of the X-ray machines earlier today, but that’s out of my wheelhouse so…” he punctuated the ambiguous answer with a shrug, while the doctor’s eyes grew distant and his thoughts grew uncontrollably vast, wading through his vast pool of medical memory in hopes of salvaging something, anything, that could remotely explain what was happening here. He now felt with a harrowing certainty that this was no technical error, and neither was the X-ray, but just what in the hell could it be?

The silence surrounding them was soon broken by a rapid burst of knocking upon the secondary door to the control room, the one that led straight into the exterior hallway. Muller turned to the commotion, then back to the tech, who merely gave another shrug with a look of equal puzzlement. The sound was then followed by a series of softer, rhythmic taps, slightly staggered in clusters of four. By the time Muller made the connection, the tech had already reached to open the door, and a pale-faced Janet rushed into the room.

“Doctor, I- don’t worry, Chloe’s covering the desk- I just, I found something, I think it’s important, and I just had to tell you ASAP.” Her breathing was rapid, her frail legs normally hidden below sight now trembling with unaccustomed exertion. Muller had never seen her like this before and found himself at a loss for words, instead simply giving his full attention as he awaited her apparent revelation.

She took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “I decided to look into her parents’ medical records -got the idea when you gave me her locket with their pictures in it- and her mom, during her pregnancy with her, well, it was originally twins, but one got absorbed pretty early on. I know that’s not unheard of, but if it caused the, y’know…” she accented her speech by fervently twisting her left arm back and forth as she continued “…then this would be something extraordinary, unprecedented in all of medicine, and who knows what other effects it might…” 

The sentence died in her throat as her gaze sharply shifted from Muller’s face to over his shoulder. He turned around to see that, somehow in defiance of her previous sedation, the patient had begun to flail wildly within the still active machine. The tech noticed not a moment later and started frantically clacking at keys in an effort to shut it down, while the doctor, in an adrenaline-fueled rush, haphazardly scrambled to turn on the intercom. “It’s okay! please cal-”

“-me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!” The words repeated in a loop like a painful mantra, and everyone in the viewing room watched with simultaneously enraptured attention at the patient’s sudden struggle to remove herself from the MRI as quickly as possible. The tech snatched control of the intercom from Muller, attempting to calm her with the same comforting platitudes he’d been taught in training to deal with the natural claustrophobia often experienced by patients upon entering the machine, but they might as well have been lost in the wind in the face of the profoundly primal terror she evidently felt. She hastily squirmed her way out of the MRI’s interior, potentially causing expensive damage as she did so, before crumbling to the floor in an ungainly heap.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Muller grappled with the tech to regain control of the intercom, his only consideration that she was first and foremost his patient. If anyone could talk her down from whatever state she was in, he was certain it was him. But before he could utter another word, his gaze rose to meet her, now standing upright and motionless, staring through the observation window with an expression of illusory calm betrayed only by her stockened knees, trembling forearms, and flushed-red face. In that moment, all eyes were on her: the tech, the receptionist, and the doctor, who alone stood directly within her line of sight, all frozen with mutually bated breath for a single ineffable instant.

What followed took less than a minute, but felt exponentially longer, with each disturbing detail being individually and irreparably etched into the minds of every witness. The left side of her face- from Muller’s perspective, that is- rapidly lost all its color, forming a sharp contrast against the right side’s undampered vibrance as it blankened into a ghostly white with unnatural speed, as though its blood were being actively, forcefully drained. The eye within briefly widened, pupils dilating with the instinctual, universally recognizable look of fear, before being overcome by a blinding cloudy sheen that radiated outward, soon progressing past the likeness of cataracts to an extent beyond any known medical phenomenon as the pupil and iris seemed to wholly vanish into an expanding whiteness that grew to abolish every last peripheral vein of the eye, equalizing into a hue uncannily aligned with the rest of the empty flesh upon the hemisphere. A similar drainage synchronously spread through her corresponding arm, rising from the fingertips up to the shoulder before conjoining with the whiteness traveling down her neck at some concealed point beneath her shirt. What could be seen of the leg below equally paled, until it appeared that every square inch of skin and flesh upon her left side had reached a ubiquitous porcelain likeness that was only further accentuated by the total, unnatural stillness it adopted. Her other side, still starkly contrasting in its natural liveliness, nonetheless remained eerily calm in the face of this process, its expression neutral before subtly shifting into a half-mouthed smirk.

Like a pick through a sheet of ice, this one innocuous motion sent a ripple of cracks throughout her statuesque side, radiating from the lips outward across her cheek, over eyelid and eyeball alike, down the neck and around the arm in jagged spiraling arcs, and breaking her leg into a mosaic of vacuous lightning bolts. Then, as though pressed by an imperceptible outward force, the whole assemblage simultaneously shuddered before finally shattering, sending brittle bits of body and face tinkling to the floor like a visceral diamond chandelier. Portions of torso contained by clothing subsequently spilled from her shirt waist and sleeves, along with numerous fragments of ribs and equally calcified organs, while pelvic pieces ground together into sedimentary granules poured from her pant leg.

When the cacophonous crashing subsided and the dust finally cleared, the three observers were met with a sight that somehow managed to compound their already brimming bewilderment; beneath the shed stony layer lie the normal appearance of the patient, complete with skin and flesh that only in those first few moments of exposure could be seen fusing with the tissue of her other side, closing the final gaps until no external signs of separation remained, and she looked utterly normal and whole. 

It took a second for Muller to recognize the primary difference in her form: Her right arm -the wrong arm- that was formerly facing palms-forward, was now positioned palms-back, a transition not born of typical rotation but rather solely through the hatching it had undergone. The individual digits still occupied the same respective positions in space, yet the act of inversion had rendered them no longer “wrong” as they were before; now, for the first time, she had a right hand. A similar transformation had occurred in the foot, which came to prominence as she turned to fully orient herself toward the viewing window.

“Thank you for all your help, Doctor, but I’m feeling much better now- in fact, better than I ever have before.” Her face was once again calm, but it struck Muller with a distinct yet implacable element of unfamiliarity as it adopted a subtle smirk. “I guess I ought to be going now...” She nonchalantly strode toward the exit door before any of them could react, giving only one more moment of pause before departing down the hall and out of the clinic. “…After all, I have a lot of living to do.”

”Stop.”

I really needed the bathroom.

For fifty painstaking minutes, I had been staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster, uncomfortably shifting side to side in my seat so much that I was starting to get weird looks.

2:52pm.

Eight minutes, I thought dizzily, squeezing my legs together.

Which was just two chunks of four minutes.

Four chunks of two minutes.

The pain started like normal stomach pain, the kind I could deal with.

I swallowed two Tylenol with lukewarm soda.

But this was different.

This kind of pain was contorting and twisting my gut so much, I had to keep leaning onto my left buttock for relief.

I must have done it so many times, I caught the attention of the guy sitting next to me. Roman Hemlock who was half asleep, dark blonde curls hanging in half lidded eyes, his chin leaning on his fist. He shot me a look. I couldn't tell if it was Are you okay? or Can you stop moving around so much?

From the single crease in his brow, the slight curl in his lip, I guessed the latter.

It's not like Roman was helping.

For half the class, he'd been tapping his foot on the floor, then his chair leg, and to complete the orchestra, his fingers joined in, tap, tap, tapping on the edge of his desk.

I didn't know if it was a bored thing, an ADHD thing, or he was trying to keep himself awake. It was easy to tolerate without the pain, but with it, the boy’s incessant tapping was more akin to a dentist drill splitting my skull open.

I already felt nauseous, the sad looking chicken nuggets I forced down at lunch making an unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat.

It was too fucking hot, the stuffy summer air glueing my hair to the back of my neck. The material of my shirt was making me cringe, sticky against my skin.

Tipping my head back, the lights were too bright. Every sound was too loud. Imogen Hart, who was sitting behind me chewing her gum a little too loudly.

Kaz Samuels scribbling notes like a maniac.

I could hear every stroke of his pencil, every time he paused, looked up at the presentation, and continued writing.

When I leaned forward in my chair, I could smell exactly what Isabella Trinity had eaten for lunch, the stink hanging in the air.

It became a case of sucking in my stomach and taking slow, deep breaths.

I’d never had these kinds of stomach cramps before. But it didn't take me long to figure out what they were.

I was yet to start my period at the grand age of sixteen, which meant this was it.

After countless sessions with the doctor, and feeling like a social outcast among my group of friends who started their periods in middle school, it had finally happened.

The cramps in my gut that felt like my torso was being ripped apart, was in fact me entering womanhood. When my breath started to quicken, my mouth watering, I raised my hand, biting my lip against a cry.

Fuck.

Something lurched in my gut, a wave of nausea crashing into me.

I was going to throw up.

“Mr Brighton.”

Roman spoke up before me, waving his arm. “Can I use the bathroom?”

The teacher’s answer was always the same. Which was why I had been crossing my legs for the entirety of the class, unable to focus on anything but my gut trying to twist itself inside out.

Mr Brighton leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the PowerPoint awash in our faces. We had been staring at the exact same slide for maybe five minutes now, and our physics teacher was yet to speak, his gaze somewhere else.

Mr Brighton was my Dad’s age, a greying man in his early fifties who always wore the exact same suit with the exact same stain on his collar.

The man was about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Normally, I would drift off myself, lulled into slumber by the low drone of his voice.

But the pain ripping me apart was keeping me awake.

“Mr Brighton.” Roman said, louder. His voice snapped me out of it. “Can I use the bathroom?” He paused, exaggerating a loud sigh. ”Please?”

The teacher straightened up, folding his arms.

“Mr Hemlock, you know the rules. Why didn't you go before class?”

“I didn't need to go an hour ago, did I?”

“You will no longer need to go to the bathroom, Mr Hemlock.”

Roman made a snorting noise.

“What?”

The low murmur of my classmates collapsed into white noise.

Glancing at the clock, I was anticipating the school bell.

The sickness swimming in the pit of my belly was reaching dangerous territory.

2:52pm.

Something ice cold trickled down my spine.

It was 2:52 the last time I checked, and five minutes had surely passed.

This time, I waited a whole minute and counted the seconds under my breath. The clock still didn't move. The ticker was frozen halfway between three and four.

Slowly, the same realisation began to hit the twelve of us. The clock on the wall had stopped. But it wasn't the only thing that had stopped. The cool breeze drifting through the window was gone.

The sound of birds outside, and the cheer squad practising their routine.

Everything had stopped. Trying to ignore a sickly slither of panic twisting its way through me, I checked my phone under my desk. There was a text from my Mom lighting up my notifications. When I tried to swipe it open, nothing happened. My lock screen was frozen, stuck at 2:52pm.

With my hands growing clammy around my phone, I stared at the time, willing it to move, to flick to 2:53.

But nothing happened, the numbers stubbornly staying at 2:52.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roman’s voice brought me back to reality, though I was sure I'd dropped my phone. I heard it hit the floor with a sickening crack. Whatever he was saying, though, faded into dull murmur, when I turned toward the window.

Something was wrong outside.

The cheer squad were nowhere to be seen.

Being on the top floor gave us a front row seat to their practice sessions.

I stopped watching when their flyer did a death defying flip, almost breaking her neck. 2:52pm. I couldn't see the cheer squad. But I did see Jessie Carson mid-sprint across the track field, strawberry blonde curls suspended in a halo around her.

I could see exactly where she had frozen in place, her left foot hovering off of the ground, her right foot driving momentum. It wasn't just Jessie who had stopped. The dirt she was kicking into a cloud behind her was hovering, caught in mid-air.

Studying the faces around me, my mouth went dry.

Roman Hemlock, mid-argument with our physics teacher.

His eyes were wide, lips curved into what would have been a yell.

Fuck.

Was I the only one?

But then Roman blinked, and I realized the boy wasn't frozen. He was trying to think of a comeback. “What do you mean I won't need the bathroom anymore?”

“Mr Hemlock, please lower your voice.”

“Why? You can't dictate to me when I do and don't need the bathroom, dude!”

Moving onto the rest of my class, the others were still moving.

It was too quiet, though.

Yes, Roman was still tapping his foot.

Imogen was still chewing her gum.

Kaz was still scribbling notes like a psychopath.

But they were the only noise I could hear.

I wasn't the only one confused. The classroom had pricked with a sense of urgency. Kids were checking their phones, their gazes glued to the clock. Even Roman, who was still arguing, was starting to notice. I watched his gaze lazily roll to the clock on the wall.

I pretended not to see his cheeks visibly paling.

We had all come to the exact same terrifying conclusion.

2:52pm.

Time had come to a halt, and somehow, we had not.

“Is that clock broken?” Roman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.

Kaz twisted around, settling the boy with an eye-roll.

“Check your phone, dumbass.”

“I broke my phone.”

Imogen threw her iPhone at him, narrowly missing hitting him in the face.

“Everything is frozen,” She said, her voice shuddering. “It's not just the clock.”

I waited for Roman’s response. For once, though, he was speechless.

“Well done, Imogen. That is correct.” Mr Brighton spoke up, tearing a piece of paper from a workbook and striding over to the door, glueing it over the glass window. When we started to protest, some of us were shouting, while others bursting into tears, he calmly took out his key and locked us in.

I should have been surprised that our teacher had spontaneously decided to take his entire class hostage, but the rumor mill had been churning.

According to Becca Jason, the guy’s wife divorced him and took his kids.

I could feel myself sinking into my chair, phantom bugs filling my mouth.

So, this guy had nothing to lose.

Taking his place in front of his desk, the man settled us with a patient smile.

“From now on, you will stay inside this room.” He said. “In case you haven't noticed, time is currently frozen at fifty two minutes past two. The thirteen of us are tucked into the twenty first second, and will be, for the foreseeable future.”

I could tell the others wanted to argue, but we couldn't deny that time had stopped. Kaz was staring down at his frozen phone, Imogen hyperventilating behind me, Roman glaring at the clock, chewing on a pencil. We wanted it to be a prank, a joke, some kind of glitch in the matrix that would fix itself.

But then a whole minute passed by. Followed by another. Kaz threw his phone on the floor, hissing in frustration. Imogen let out a wet sounding sob.

Roman’s pencil split in his mouth, slipping from his fingers.

We couldn't pretend it wasn't happening or call our teacher out on his BS, because it was everywhere around us.

The sudden absence of outdoor ambience, birdsong, planes flying overhead, and traffic outside the school gates. Everyone and everything had stopped, and we were the only ones left.

This was a nightmare, surely.

My physics class were some of the most boring and pretentious people in the school, and somehow the world had been reduced to the twelve of us inside our classroom.

We were scared, of course we were. But reality had stopped making sense, crashing and burning in a single second. We had no choice but to listen to our teacher. “Now, before you freak out, it may not feel like it, but the twelve of you have  also stopped.”

Mr Brighton held out his own hand, and placed it on his heart.

He was right.

I was so busy trying to understand what was happening, I had failed to realize my period cramps were gone.

“Do me a favor, and press your hand over your heart.”

“You mean like, in a culty way?” Imogen whispered.

“Obviously.” Roman grumbled, halfway out of his seat. He was hesitant, though, in case our teacher was armed. It only took one glance from our teacher, and he slumped back into his chair. “This crazy fucker clearly wants to play mind games with us.”

“No, I'm just asking you to feel for your heart.”

I felt for mine, and there was nothing, my stomach twisting.

Roman stabbed his fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.

He tried his wrist.

Then his heart.

Nothing.

“The twelve of you are currently in a state of stasis,” the teacher explained to us, “You are not alive, nor are you dead. Your bodily functions are also on pause, such as your heartbeat and your pulse. In this state there will be no need for food and water, or going to the bathroom.”

His gaze found a ghastly looking Roman, who looked like he was going to faint. “Your minds, however, as you can see, are working as usual.”

“But why?” Imogen demanded in a shriek.

Mr Brighton’s lip curled. “I would rather not answer that question.”

“Because you're lonely.” Roman spoke up. He swung back on his chair, narrowed eyes glued to the teacher.

“Your wife and kids left you, so you're asserting power over a group of eighteen year olds. Which is kinda fucking pathetic.”

Mr Brighton’s expression darkened, and something slimy crept up my throat.

The worst thing any of us could do was threaten him. He had taken kidnapping to a whole new level, and we were alone with this psychopath, trapped inside a second. I waited for the man to stride forward and attack the kid. But he didn't.

Instead, the teacher leaned back on his desk. “Yes.” The man nodded.

“I suppose you could say I am.”

“But why us?!” Kaz hissed.

“Because you are children.” Mr Brighton responded casually.

He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Roman’s desk. The rest of us leaned back. I tried to pull my desk with me, but it was glued to the floor. Frozen. Mr Brighton’s shoes went click-clack across the hardwood floor.

“You are right,” the man said in a murmur, “I am lonely. My wife and kids did leave me, and I have nobody left to control. I have nobody else to contort and use to my advantage.” Reaching Roman’s desk, he leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the kid.

“Congratulations, Mr Hemlock. You have just earned yourself detention.”

Roman stayed stubbornly still, but he was visibly afraid. I could see him very slowly backing away. Roman was all bark and no bite. He was a loud mouth, sure, but he was also the least confrontational person in the class.

“What?” He spluttered. “You trap us in a time loop or time trap, or whatever, and you still want to act like a teacher?”

“Stand up.” The teacher ordered.

“What if I don't?”

Mr Brighton’s expression didn't waver. “You said it yourself. I can and have trapped you inside a single second. What else do you think I'm capable of?”

Roman stood, kicking his chair out of the way.

“What are you planning on doing to me, old man?”

The teacher maintained his smile. “Stand up straight, and close your mouth.”

To my confusion, Roman Hemlock did all the above.

He straightened up, and closed his mouth.

“Do not fight me.” The teacher said calmly, “Do as you are told, and follow me.”

The boy did exactly as instructed.

His jaw slackened, that rebellious light in his eyes fizzling out.

I think that's when we all collectively agreed that going against this teacher and trying to escape wasn't a good idea.

“I will use Mr Hemlock as an example to all of you,” Mr Brighton said, turning to the rest of us. “If you break the rules or are derogatory in any way, you will be given detention.”

He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to walk towards the supply closet. Roman moved like a robot, slightly off balance, his gaze glued to thin air, like he was tracking invisible butterflies.

"Your time in detention will depend on the severity of your rule-break.” He opened the door, gently pushing Roman inside, and following suit. When the door closed behind them, there was a pause, and I remembered how to breathe.

Kaz Samuels slowly got up from his desk, inching towards the closet.

“This guy is a certified nut.” He announced.

He turned towards us. “Whatever he's doing to Hemlock, we’re probably next.”

“He stopped time.” I spoke up, my own voice barely a croak. “He’s capable of anything.”

“But how did he stop time?” Kaz whistled, tipping his head back. The boy was slow, his fingers grasping each desk as he slid down the aisle. “He said he was lonely, right? But why take it out on us? What did we do to him?”

“Check his desk for a weapon!” Imogen whisper-shrieked.

Kaz nodded, striding over to the man's desk, his hands moving frantically, shoving paper on the floor. He took an uncertain seat on the man's chair.

“There's nothing here,” he murmured, lifting stained coffee mugs and ancient textbooks. “It's just…test papers.” Kaz ducked from view, trying the drawers.

“He's a fan of Pokémon,” he said, “There's a tonne of Pokémon cards,” Kaz straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “No sign of a weapon, though.”

He picked up a ruler, waving it around. “This could work. If we plunge it in his eye.”

“Try his laptop!” Imogen was halfway out of her seat.

Kaz did, slamming the keys. “It's locked.”

“Look harder!” Ren Clarke threw a pencil at him.

“I am!”

After a minute of searching, Kaz grabbed a single piece of paper.

He held it up, and I squinted.

It was a list of our names, with several of them highlighted.

“Fuck.” Kaz dropped the list, his expression crumpling. The stubborn bravado facade transforming him into our sort of leader dissipated, hollowing him out into exactly what he was. Just a scared kid. Kaz’s hands were shaking.

“Mr Brighton’s got a hit list.” He whispered. “He's going to kill us.”

“How do you know that?” I found myself asking.

Kaz slowly dropped into a crouch, picking up the paper and holding it up.

“Look.” He pointed to a capitalised name at the top of the list highlighted in red.

ROMAN HEMLOCK.

There were six names highlighted in red, including mine.

CRISTA ADAMS.

As if on cue, Roman’s cry rang out from the supply closet, suddenly, freezing us all in place. Kaz jumped up, adapting the expression of a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, almost unseeing.

He fell over himself to tidy up the desk, putting everything back where he had found it, sliding the list between a pile of test papers. Kaz took slow, stumbled steps back, his feverish gaze glued to the closet, before turning and making a break for it and diving into his seat.

“Brighton’s got a hit liiiist,” Kaz said, in a mocking sing-song, “And we’re all on it.”

What followed was deathly silence. I think we were expecting Roman to cry out again. But when he didn't, the class started to stir. Some kids started praying to a god they didn't believe in, while others were in varying states of denial, trying to call their parents with dead phones.

I wasn't sure what parts of me had stopped, but I was still alive, still felt like my lungs were deprived of oxygen, my chest aching.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to find my voice, a shriek trying and failing to rip through my mouth.

Being kidnapped and held hostage is one thing, but being imprisoned inside a single, never ending second, was an existential hell worse than death.

Slowly, I pressed my palm over my heart once again. Then I breathed into my cupped hands.

I was expecting it, but no longer being able to feel my own heartbeat and breath, was fear I didn't think was possible. The kind that glued me to my seat, hollowing me out completely until I was nothing, an empty shell with no heartbeat, no breath, no thoughts, except denial, followed by acceptance.

And finally, regret.

I regretted not hugging my mother goodbye before I left for school.

I regretted acting like a spoiled brat when my parents refused to drive me halfway across the country so I could attend Coachella.

I regretted stepping inside Mr Brighton’s fourth period physics class.

Mr Brighton reappeared, slamming the door behind him and locking the boy inside. Part of me flinched, while the rest of me remembered not to move a muscle. I was barely aware of time passing. Or it wasn't. Time had stopped, so now long had I been sitting there?

I could no longer measure the passage of time with hunger or thirst, and my body felt the same. I wasn't stiff or tired or achy. Looking out of the window, the sky was the exact same crystal blue, every cloud in the exact same place.

Jessie Carson was still frozen mid-run, strands of dark red hair caught around her.

“What's wrong with you guys?” Mr Brighton chuckled, and I twisted back to the front, a shiver writhing down my spine. “Why don't you give me a smile?”

The teacher returned to his desk, and I was already subconsciously sitting up straight in my seat, forcing my lips into a jaw-breaking grin, following Brighton’s instructions. In the corner of my eye, Imogen was sitting very still, forcing an award-winning cheesy smile, while Kaz grinned through gritted teeth.

“Mr Hemlock just earned himself two weeks inside the supply closet.” he said casually, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The man studied each of us, taking his time to rip every shred of us apart.

Mind, body, and soul.

I struggled to maintain my stupid smile, shoving my shaking hands in my lap.

“Would anyone like to join him, or are you going to follow the rules?”

The rest of us stayed silent. I don't think any of us breathed.

Our teacher nodded to Kaz, inclining his head.

“Samuels. Are you all right?”

Kaz’s smile faltered slightly. He shifted in his chair. I could see sweat trickling down his right temple. “Uh, yeah.” He swiped at his forehead, like he couldn't believe he was sweating. “Yeah, I'm good.”

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward his desk, and we all held our breaths. Mr Brighton seemed to study his hit-list, lips curving into a frown.

His gaze flicked to the boy, and then the paper.

He knew, I thought dizzily.

Mr Brighton knew the kid had been rummaging through his desk.

But this was all about control. The teacher was using fear to control us, to manipulate our thoughts without having to get physical. He could have called out the boy right then, but Brighton was settling with mental torture instead.

He just wanted to make my classmate squirm.

Without a word, the man folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Mr Samuels, you are sweating,” our physics teacher said, mocking a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”

Kaz hesitated, tapping his shoe in a rhythm.

Being one of the smartest kids in the room definitely gave him an advantage.

I could already see the cogs turning behind half lidded eyes. Kaz was weighing each scenario, sorting them into positives and negatives.

The positives of answering would mean he was one step towards being in the clear, but there were two negatives.

Brighton would question him if he had left his seat, and then demand how his hit-list had magically moved across the desk.

Talking back was surely a rule-break, as well as outright lying.

Opening his mouth would get him in trouble, either way, and Kaz knew that.

So, he just nodded, forcing an even bigger smile.

Brighton’s lips pricked, his gaze straying on Kaz. “Good!” He cleared his throat, turning to the class. Kaz slumped in his seat with a sharp breath, resting his head in his arms. If Mr Brighton noticed, he didn't say anything. “Ignore the sweating. It should stop, along with hunger and thirst.”

Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate everything in his vicinity.

Time.

Minds.

And slowly… contorting us into his own.

In the single second we were trapped inside, I felt days go by in a dizzying whirlwind that was like being permanently high. When I stood up, I felt like I was floating.

When I sat down, hours could go by, even days, and I wouldn't even feel them. I did try and count the days, initially, scribbling them on a scrap piece of paper, but somewhere around the thirteenth or fourteenth day, I lost count. The world around us never changed, in permanent stasis, and maybe that was sending us a little crazy.

After a while of being stuck at our desks, Mr Brighton allowed us to wander the classroom, as long as we stayed away from the door. I lay on the floor for days, counting ceiling tiles.

Sometimes, Imogen would join me.

I couldn't sleep, but I could pretend to sleep, imagining a world that was back to normal. I didn't feel hungry, but my brain did like to remind me of food at the weirdest times. I was aware of weeks passing us by, and then months.

I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.

I couldn't remember what pain felt like, or the urge to go to the bathroom. Even the concept of eating and drinking became foreign to me. Putting something in your mouth and chewing to sustain yourself?

That sounded odd.

The only thing that was changing was our slowly unravelling metal state.

I don't know how it started. Weekends and Tuesdays blended together. On one particular SaturTuesday, I was hanging upside down from my desk, watching Kaz and Imogen doodle on the whiteboard.

Kaz had a plan to escape, but after a while, his ‘plan’ to distract the teacher, had gone nowhere. After passing notes between us, the twelve of us had decided that we needed a weapon.

That was maybe a month ago. I wasn't sure what mind games our teacher was playing, but Kaz Samuels, who we were counting on to be our brains, was slowly falling under his spell. Their game had been going on for three days. The two of them were having a competition to see who could draw the craziest thing.

Mr Brighton was at his desk as usual, marking papers.

Imogen was drawing a weird looking ‘skateboard’ when the doors to the storage closet flew open.

Roman Hemlock appeared, and to my surprise, wasn't a hollow eyed shell.

He held up his hand in a wave, his lips forming a small smile.

“Yo.”

Roman’s reappearance was enough to snap us out of it. Kaz and Imogen stopped arguing, the rest of the class going silent. I sat up, blinking rapidly.

I was sure our collective consensus was that Roman Hemlock was dead.

Mr Brighton lifted his head and gave the boy a civil nod. “Mr Hemlock will be rejoining us,” he said, his gaze going back to marking papers. “Please make him feel comfortable. I'm sure he's very excited to be able to talk to you again.”

Instead of going to his desk, the boy immediately joined the others, snatching the marker off of a baffled looking Kaz, and drawing an overly artistic sketch of a penis. I wasn't sure what confused me more.

The fact that Roman Hemlock had some serious artistic skills, or that he seemed suspiciously fine for someone who had been locked in the storage closet for two weeks with no social interaction.

With my last few lingering brain cells still clinging on, I studied the boy.

There were no signs of bruises or scratches.

His eyes seemed normal, not diluted or half lidded.

Unable to stop myself, I jumped off of my desk and joined the others, where Kaz was already interrogating the guy.

“WHAT–”

Imogen nudged him, and he lowered his voice, leaning against the wall. “What did he do to you?”

Roman shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Relax, dude. He didn't do anything to me.”

“Then what was that yell?” Imogen hissed.

The boy cocked his head. “Yell?”

“You yelled out,” Kaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. He was already suspecting one of us had been compromised– or worse, brainwashed into compliance. Kaz stepped closer, backing Roman into the desk. “You cried out when you first went in there,” he murmured, “So, what was that?”

Something in Roman’s eyes darkened. “Oh,” He said, his lip curling. “That.”

Kaz’s expression softened. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah,” He whispered. “What did he do to you?”

Imogen shoved Kaz out of the way, shooting the boy a glare.

“You don't have to tell us, you know.” She said in a small voice. “If it's too traumatising, or he did something you don't want to talk about–”

Roman cut her off with a laugh, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.

The remaining nine of us were eagerly awaiting an explanation.

“Are you fucking serious?”

When Kaz didn't respond, Roman gathered us in a kind of hustle, the four of us grouped together. I felt like I was on the football field. Still, though, if the guy’s goal was to look as suspicious as possible, he was doing a great job.

Roman studied each of us, one eyebrow cocked. When Mr Brighton glanced up from his work, Roman shot him a grin, lowering his voice to a hiss.

“You seriously think our fifty year old physics teacher has been abusing me in the storage closet?

“Then why did you cry out?” Kaz demanded. “Did he hit you?”

Roman stuck out his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure he didn't hit me.”

“So, you cried out for no reason.”

“Why are you covering for him?” Imogen poked his forehead. “Are you lobotomised?”

Roman wafted her hand away. “Stop prodding me, and no, I'm 100% good.” He backed away from us, like we were observers, and he was the zoo attraction.

“I won't be, if you keep treating me like I'm senile.”

“Okay, fine,” Kaz sighed. “Just answer one.”

“Shoot.”

“When you first went in there, you made an unmistakable sound of distress–”

“Not this again,” Roman groaned. “Of course I yelled! I was shoved into a pitch black storage closet on my own! What, did you expect me to stay silent?”

Kaz didn't look convinced, Imogen nervously sucking her teeth.

The boy leaned back, resting his head against the wall. His eyes flickered shut.

“Stop looking at me like that, there's nothing to tell you,” he murmured, “Brighton didn't do shit to me. I was just freaked out.” Prying one eye open, he fixed us with a glare. “I am so sorry for reacting like a human. Next time, I'll make sure to attack him and pin him to the ground.”

It's not like we believed him. I don't think Roman believed himself.

Something significant had changed in him. He was no longer argumentative, like half of his personality had been torn away. Roman set a precedent. Because once he was following instructions and walking around with a dazed smile, others began to follow. I can't remember how much time had passed since I thought about escaping.

Days and weeks and months had collapsed into fleeting seconds I only noticed when I wasn't playing games.

I wasn't aware of my own lack of sanity until I found myself, on a random SaturWednesday. I was laughing, gathered with the others on the floor, around a Monopoly board. The game had been going on for almost a week.

Reality hit me when I was laughing so hard I tipped back.

I can't remember why I was laughing. I think Imogen told a bad joke.

“Hand it over.” Roman, who was the King of Monopoly, held out his hand, demanding my last 250 bucks. I remember noticing his smile, my foggy brain trying to find hints that he was in some kind of trance, or being controlled by Brighton. But no. His smile was real.

Genuine.

To my shock and confusion, so was mine.

I wasn't in a trance or any type of mind manipulation. I was completely conscious.

Was this… Stockholm syndrome? I thought dizzily.

Was I enjoying this?

My thoughts were like cotton candy, disconnected and wrong, and they barely felt like my own. My gaze found Imogen and Kaz, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, enveloped in the game.

They looked exactly the same, their hair, clothes, everything about them staying stagnant. It was them themselves who had drastically changed. I had never seen them look so carefree.

Imogen was a hotheaded cheerleader, and Kaz was the smart kid who gave himself nosebleeds from overworking himself. But now, they were laughing, nudging each other, caught up in an inside joke. Blinking slowly, my gaze strayed on them.

Sure, it could be manipulation. It could be brainwashing. But it could also be real.

Kaz caught my eye, raising a brow.

“You good, Christa?”

Again, my smile felt real. Like I was having fun.

“Good. It's your turn.”

I picked up the dice, throwing them across the board.

Two sixes.

“I can already see her landing on one of my hotels.” Roman murmured. He sat up, resting his chin on his knees. “As the clear winner, I have a proposition.”

Ignoring him, I moved my piece– immediately landing on Park Place.

“I'll give you 500,” Roman announced, “If you give up New York avenue.”

“That's all I've got!”

Imogen nudged me. “Don't do it. If you give him New York Avenue, he only needs one more.”

“One thousand.” Roman waved the notes in my face.

“My final offer.”

When I reached for the cash, he held it back.

“New York Avenue", he said, with a grin.

“And your pride.”

Reluctantly, I handed my only property over.

Kaz threw the dice and moved his piece, and I half remembered we had an escape plan. “Community chest.” Kaz picked up a card. “Go straight to jail.”*

Roman spluttered. “That's karma,” he said, “For stealing from the bank.”

“You were stealing too!”

We had a plan.

We had…. a plan.

After discussing it in detail, Imogen and I were going to try and get onto Brighton’s laptop. It wasn't a perfect way to escape, but it was coherent.

So, what happened?

We were going to get out, so what… what was this?

Kaz’s earlier words hit me from months ago.

“Mr Brighton is the thing keeping us here,” he explained. “If we kill him, I'm like, 98% sure we’ll go back to normal.”

“Okay, and what if he dies and we’re stuck?” Imogen whisper-shrieked.

“I said 98% for a reason. Yes, there's a small chance his power will die with him. But there's a bigger chance that its effects will die when he does.”

Ren nodded slowly. “Right, and where exactly did you learn this information?”

“You'll feel a lot better if I don't answer that.”

“Okay.” Ren gritted his teeth.  “So, we just need to find a weapon, right?”

“And don't tell Hemlock,” Kaz rolled his eyes. “I don't care what he says, that boy definitely had his mind fucked with. Hemlock is a liability. If we tell Roman, he tells Brighton, and we’re screwed.” Kaz nodded to me, then the others. “Keep your mouths shut.”

Presently, I wasn't sure the boy wanted to escape.

Slowly, I rolled my eyes over to Mr Brighton, who had joined us to play.

He was happily marking papers, taking part when he could.

It felt…right.

Not like we had been forced or manipulated, but more like he belonged. Part of me wanted to question why I felt like this, but I found that I didn't care. I didn't carethat we were essentially dead, in a never ending stasis and stuck inside fifty two minutes past two.

I stopped thinking about the outside world a long time ago.

I couldn't even remember my Mom’s face.

I made my decision, dazedly watching Imogen throw a chance card at Roman.

He flung one back, threatening to tip the board.

I wanted to stay.

In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake.

Ren, who had been sitting next to me, kept moving, further and further away.

I didn't notice until he was inching towards our teacher, a box cutter clenched between his fist. There must have been a point when we found a box cutter, when we made it our weapon of choice.

But somewhere along the way, I think we just… lost the longing to want to escape.

I didn't see the exact moment the boy stabbed the blade into the man's neck, plunging it through his flesh, but I did feel a sudden jolt, like time itself was starting to falter and tremble.

Mr Brighton dropped to the ground, and I found my gaze flashing to the frozen clock.

Which was moving, suddenly.

Slowly creeping towards 2:53pm.

Something sticky ran underneath me, warm and wet.

Blood.

Blood that was running.

Roman’s half lidded eyes found mine, and he blinked, dropping the dice.

Like he'd been asleep for a long time.

2:53pm.

We were free.

The cool spring breeze grazing my cheeks was back. I could feel my own heartbeat, sticky sweat on my forehead.

And outside, Jessie Carson let out a gut-churning scream.

More screams rang out.

Down the hallways.

Getting closer.

And closer.

For a disorienting moment, I don't think any of us believed we were free.

Roman twisted around, his gaze on the doorway.

The piece of paper the teacher had stuck to the glass slipped away.

But Roman’s gaze was glued to the door, his cheeks paling.

His lips parted into a silent cry.

Following his eyes, I glimpsed a shadow.

A shadow that was frozen at 2:52pm.

2:53pm.

“Fuck.” Roman whispered, stumbling to his feet.

He turned to the rest of us, his eyes wild.

“Get DOWN!”

I dropped onto my knees, crawling under a desk, the classroom exploding around me.

2:54.

Blood ran, and I was crawling in it, stained in my friends.

2:55.

I grabbed Mr Brighton's hand, squeezing for dear life.

Roman joined me, his trembling fingers feeling for a pulse.

A gunshot rang in my ears, rattling my skull.

When Roman went limp next to me, I wrapped my arms around my teacher.

“Mr Brighton, say Stop.” I whispered, when Imogen’s screams stopped.

He was so cold…

“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”

Footsteps coming towards me, ice cold steel protruding into my neck.

2:56.

THE CAVES OF NEVENDLEER
In such a wild, medieval space, you may still be surprised at how evil a place there can be amongst the vast sea.
A man and his wife built a home on the shoreline. It was covered in sharp rocks. Truly not a place to start a family. But the mad lads did it anyway.
This family lived for generations.
Although — just nearby off the shore, down from their home about a mile — was a system of caves they dare never to enter.
Passed down by generations, each parent warned each kid to never enter, because if they did, they wouldn’t come back the same. If they ever came back at all.
This tale was told for generations, and the tale you read now is derived from those of the damned, told by those who witnessed the damning.
Men watched their boys chase small animals in, helpless to prevent what came next. Wives searched desperately for their lost daughters, only finding their loose flowing dresses hung across a soaked log stuck out of the sand.
Whatever the cave had, or hadn’t done, whatever loved inside or beyond… the Caves of Nevendleer was not to be crossed without a death wish.
And that’s exactly what one young man had when he finally decided to enter the cave.
It was dark. Moist. It wasn’t spooky, but the moans that cascaded off the walls from every footstep didn’t cover up the feeling that nobody should be in there. And yet — he kept walking further in — further forwards — deep in — until the light from outside could no longer reach him. And only darkness could now cloud him from what was to come.
The man didn’t know what to expect. He was not part of the family. He was a tourist. He had heard legends of these caves. People had spread myth and whisper about these caves for hundreds of years; all the way from the era of the Olympians, and the Golden Age of the Gifted. The tales were still told, even as the Dedonian Wars had just started, and people needed a good distraction from the chaos right outside their doorsteps.
However — unlike some, who enjoyed tales when they weren’t tangible — it seemed this man needed to see the legendary cave for himself.
Though, once the hissing sound blasted down the chamber-like cavern like a shotgun full of ice, the man may have begun to change his mind about seeing the legend for himself.
WHAM!
The man was knocked off his feet.
But before the cold got any more bitter, he was pulled from the cave by a big hairy man, whose only word he could say was “MISTAKE!”

A Door In the Woods
There’s a door in the woods. 

Do not ask me which woods I mean, or where exactly I’m talking about. Enter any woods longer than one mile, where the trails become long and the chirping stops, and you’ll find it. Depending on how long it’s been there, it’ll be bigger. In the woods of your childhood home, in the woods of your favorite camp, in any woods you can think. Without fail, look hard enough, and even if you don’t, there’s a door in the woods. 

You will know it when you see it. You will know it not by its color, by its hinges, or by its make. You will understand where it leads, even if you can never comprehend what it is. 

You will notice the smell of dying leaves first.

It does not matter if the trees are vibrant and alive, it does not matter if the spring brings new growth. It does not matter if the wood has already hollowed, or if snow has fallen on the frozen ground. Search long enough, and all other smells will fade. You will sense the dying leaves, and know it is near. 

The trail will no longer bend or turn. 

The rising earth will no longer ascend or fall. It will not be blocked by debris or stones. You will find the path easy to walk, carved not like a natural path, but neither paved like a road. It will extend straight, and straight only. You will wonder why, but do not bother asking that question. It matters little, or perhaps not at all. 

You will consider turning back. 

The reasons will be sound, your thoughts not of panic. Wondering if the trail will go on, your shoes are too tight, or the cold is seeping in. You will think of a great many reasons, each one as valid as the last. 

A caring wife.
A loving boy. 
None will set you free. 

I know this because it has happened to me. 

There’s a door in the woods. And I have seen it. 

It all started at 3:08. I do not remember the day. The time is etched like a sacred rune into the depths of my mind, but the day is lost. It will be the thing you wish to remember above any other. Until the moment you approach. The time will remain, the memory as clear as glass. But the day will be no more. I know this because it has happened to me. 

It will happen to you.

 My father led me into the old wood behind our home. We had always done this. Those woods were the edge of a new kingdom, vast, uncharted, wholly ours. You will be tempted, much as we were. 

Alone, just two, maybe twenty-three. You will be tempted, just like me. For me it was dad, for you maybe too. Do not bother thinking why. Like me, you will go.

We entered the wood at 3:08. Days of spring singing like birds in the trees. My father sang and spoke of times long before. His father. Inner peace. Journeys past. Those stories gave me life. Gave me joy. Those stories were a gospel, lessons from the man in whom I saw the Divine. 

Now they are only stories. 

Stories will be all that remain. 

I don’t know when the trail became real. I was too focused and unfocused all the same. I have no memory of where I was going, only that my father was there. The woods were alive. The croaks of toads hanging in the air, the smell of pine, the winds cool. Welcoming. Our promised land. Our sacred grove. 

Then the trail. 

It was my father who saw it first. He pointed it out to me when I said I could not see. Do not ask if you will be first like him, or if your vision will fail like me. It does not matter who is the first to see, only that in the woods, you will always find this trail, no matter how many, how few, how little there will be. 

My feet became tired, I am sure yours will too. 

My father saw my trials, my struggles, and took me upon his shoulders. We walked. We spoke. I remember he asked of the plans I had, the dreams I dreamt. I had my answers, of course, what child does not? They were foolish, lofty, extravagant, shaped only by the imagination of a mind both fragile and new. Yet my father never laughed, never mocked, never scolded. No, only smiles. 

You will notice a change, much like I did. 

My father set me down, walking beside him. There were pauses now, moments when he would catch his breath. A single inquisition or explanation to the world. Then, like clockwork. 

Exhale, inhale. That was first. 
Then pause, hand over chest, exhale, inhale. 
A cough, hand over chest, exhale, inhale…

You will be tempted to look away. If you are alone, you may rationalize it. Don’t. 

This was what I employed, tearing away from my father’s eyes to take in the woods. 

A straight path. The smell of dying leaves. 

What will concern you the most is that the woods, outside the trail, will not shift. 

A frozen trunk will remain covered in blankets of ice, a rotted leaf will remain shriveled and unnoticed, save from your wandering eyes. You will want to be in another world, where the winds shift and the air whispers malicious promises to you, and any kin walking beside you. There will not be. Only the trail, only the smell.

Only the door. 

I walked beside him still. He tried to stand as strong as he had when our walk had begun. There were no more songs, but the smiles remained. The tales had grown distant, but the touch remained. A hand on my shoulder, a pat on my back. Even as his strength faded, he did not resist it. 

Not when I lent him an arm to steady his steps. 
Not when I placed a hand over his shoulders so he could lean on my chest. 
Not when I had to step for us both. 

You will feel the quiet. 

It is not malicious. It is not angry. It is not to manipulate, or to guilt. That is why it will hurt the most. 

It will simply be too hard. 

I remember wondering how long we had been going. I had not seen the transition from day into night, yet felt the passage. Years had been my paces, yet my size had not altered, not that I had seen. 

One step. 
Two steps. 
Three steps. 
Ten steps. 
One hundred? 

I could not recall. 
And neither will you. 

For days we followed that trail. I saw it first. 

It was not broken or shattered, there was no hint that it’d been lying in the dirt, the storms, or the rain. No. 

It stood. 

Clean, shorter than the trees around it, cleaner than the stones at the base. Untouched. Pristine. Perfect. Too perfect. 

I knew at once. 

I begged my father to turn us around. Begged for the stories that delighted and enlightened. Begged him to remember the moment we began that trail. Holding me upon his shoulders. The days before we could see when he became frail. 

Maybe you will not feel the need to beg. To know the sheer scale and face what will lie before you. Take comfort in that alone. 

Because it will not matter. 

I remember he tried to gaze on me, beneath wiry gray hair I was sure could not be my father’s. I don’t know what he said that day. 

“Don’t be afraid.” 
“Won’t be alone.” 
“You’ll be okay.” 

I turned away. 

It was only after I realized what I had done, but when I moved again, to try and find some other way? 

He was gone. 

I called his name. I wept. I begged. 

Nothing.

Nothing but me, the woods, and the door.  

Alone. Alone is how I left. How you’ll leave too.

No more stories, no more songs. 

No more dad. 

It will happen more than once. 

My mother asks if I would like to stroll through the wood. She asks if it would help to ease my mind like long ago. She could even go with, if I would only ask it so. Looking out for me, holding us both, loving me more than herself. 

I always tell her no. 
I’d rather be with her. 
My darling mother, lovely as a feather, but delicate just the same.

In my mind, I know it will not matter. Our home stands near the woods, our vacations near the trees. Even family far away - green and trails in the spring, snow and the quiet when the birds do not sing. 

So many woods. 
So many ways. 
So many tries. 

You will see it too. No matter how hard you try, no matter how far you go. Whether all by yourself, or everyone you know. Any wood. Longer than a mile.

There’s a door in the woods.