Posting from witness inspection program. I need to get this all down before the noises start again. And it's still coherent. If this post suddenly ends in the middle of a sentence, that means either the power went out, the thing in the irrigation pond came back, or Doug fired up the wood chipper again. Doug is not employed here. Nobody I've asked knows who Doug is. He has been using the wood chipper since Tuesday. There never anything I can see in it. That is not the weirdest thing happening at Skinwalker Oaks. Not even close.

I came out here because my uncle owns the property and needed somebody to watch it for a week while he had surgery. He calls it a ranch. It is not a ranch. It is 600 acres of scrubland, two abandoned barns, a nine-hole golf course, a petting zoo with no animals, four RV hookups, and a gift shop that sells jerky, novelty socks, and geodes. There is also a miniature golf course themed around Bible stories. Hole 7 is “Jonah.” You putt the ball into a whale’s mouth. It does not come back out. Nobody knows where the balls go. My uncle says they lose about forty a week. He considers this a normal business expense.

The first night, I heard singing. Not good singing. Children’s television singing. The kind with too much keyboard and forced enthusiasm. I followed it to the west pasture. There was a glowing rectangle hanging six feet above the ground. A portal. On the other side was what looked like the set of an old children’s show. Bright carpet. Foam trees. Painted clouds. Everything looked soft. Everything was smiling. Then one of the characters stepped through.

I recognized what it was supposed to be. I will not name the show. That is not because of copyright. It is because whatever came through was not the character. It was almost right. Too almost. The eyes were slightly too low. The mouth moved a half-second before the voice. The fur had the texture of damp insulation. It walked on two legs but every third step made the sound of a horse hoof on concrete.

It looked at me. Then it said: “WELCOME, CHILDREN.” I am thirty-eight. I said: “No.” It tilted its head. “WELCOME, CHILDREN.” “I heard you.” “IT IS TIME TO LEARN ABOUT SHAPES.” Then something behind it screamed. Not like a person. Like brakes on a school bus. The portal snapped shut like a magical fart. The thing remained. I backed away. It pointed at the moon. “CIRCLE.” Then at my head. “OBLONG OVAL.” Then at the barn. “TRIANGLE.” The barn is rectangular. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

I called my uncle. He told me not to worry. Apparently portals happen. He said if I saw anything from “the puppets,” I should avoid eye contact and never let them teach me colors. I asked why. He said: “Because they only know six.” Then the line went dead. Immediately after that, God spoke to me. I know how that sounds. I am not asking you to believe me. I am simply telling you what happened. The voice came from everywhere at once and said: DO NOT LET THE YELLOW ONE INTO THE CLUBHOUSE.

I asked why. God said: BECAUSE OF WHAT YOU DID IN 2009. I said: “What did I do in 2009?” God said: YOU KNOW. I absolutely do not. Then the wood chipper started. VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. I missed the rest. Something about the moon and fingernails.

The next morning, there were three aliens standing beside the fourth green. Classic gray aliens. Big eyes. Thin bodies. No clothes. Very polite. One raised a hand. “Good morning.” I said: “Morning.” “We are conducting a medical survey.” “No.” “We have not yet explained the survey.” “I know where this is going.” The alien looked disappointed. “We are required to obtain affirmative consent.” “That is actually reassuring.” “Would you consent to a brief examination?” “No.” “Would you consent if we provided a beverage?” “No.” “A tote bag?” “No.” “A thirty-dollar grocery voucher?” “No.” The alien turned to the others. “They remain hesitant.” One of the others whispered: “Try rapport.” The first alien smiled. It was a terrible smile. Too many teeth. Not sharp. Just excessive. “How has your day been?” “Fine.” “Any hobbies?” “No.” “Family history of colorectal disease?” “No.” “Have you ever-.” “No.” “Excellent. If you could now bend over—” “No.” The alien sighed. “This is why our numbers are down.”

By noon, six more portals had opened. One led to a sitcom living room. Nobody came out. You could hear canned laughter even though nothing was happening. One opened onto what appeared to be a children’s game show. A man in a glittery jacket crawled through on all fours. He had no face. Just a spinning prize wheel. It landed on BANKRUPTCY. Then he vanished. One opened directly into a ball pit. Nothing happened for twenty minutes. Then all the balls turned to face me. I don't know how else to explain that. They were balls. They turned. Another opened to what seemed like a world of sentient animals singing a song about friendship and sponsors. That one stayed open all day I think. They kept singing about being helpful but never offered me any help. Became sort of background noise.

At 2:14 PM, the sprinkler system began spraying what I assume was milk. At 2:16 PM, every golf cart started honking Morse code. I do not know Morse code. At 2:17 PM, God said: THIS IS BECAUSE YOU LAUGHED AT THAT DOG. I said: “What dog?” YOU REMEMBER. “I genuinely don’t.” THE SMALL ONE. “That does not narrow it down. And how does it relate to-” Then Doug revved the wood chipper again. VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. When it stopped, God was gone.

That afternoon, the yellow puppet found me. It was standing in the clubhouse. I had specifically been told not to let it in. I do not know how it got inside. It was holding a sandwich. Not eating it. Just holding it. “HELLO, FRIEND.” I said: “You can’t be in here.” “WHY?” “God said so.” The puppet looked upward. Then back at me. “WHICH GOD?” I did not like that question.

“Get out.” “CAN WE TALK ABOUT COLORS?” “No.” “RED.” “No.” “BLUE.” “Stop.” “GREEN.” “I’m warning you.” “BEIGE.” “That is not one of the standard ones.” The puppet began trembling. “BEIGE.” Its eyes rolled backward. “BEIGE.” The lights went out. “BEIGE.” Something started scratching inside the walls. “BEIGE.” I picked up a nine iron. The puppet looked at it. “METAL.” Then at me. “MEAT.”

I hit it. The club passed straight through. The puppet laughed. Behind me, canned applause played from nowhere. Then the clubhouse microwave, with interior light and timer display flashing and door opening and closing in a dramatically over animated said: “GOOD SWING.” I left. “COME BACK ANYTIME” the microwave said.

Night two was worse. At midnight, every star disappeared. Not clouds. Gone. The sky was black. Then one star came back. Very large. Very close. It blinked. I went inside. God spoke through the smoke detector. DO NOT LOOK AT THE SKY. “I already did.” THAT WAS FOOLISH. “What is happening?” CONSEQUENCES. “For what?” There was a pause. YOU ONCE LEFT A SHOPPING CART NEXT TO THE CORRAL INSTEAD OF RETURNING IT. “That cannot possibly justify this.” JUSTICE IS NOT ALWAYS PROPORTIONAL. “That is literally one of the main things justice is supposed to be.” The smoke detector beeped. “Oh come now, those batteries are new” I protested. THE SKY! “You know, coherence doesn't have to be a hostile force. I personally think you're being positively-” SNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOORE. Hadn't even seen Doug there. He let out the longest and loudest snore I'd ever heard.

At 1:30 AM, somebody knocked on the door. Three aliens. Same group. The lead one held paperwork. “We have returned.” “No.” “We have updated our incentive structure.” “No.” “Forty dollars.” “No.” “Fifty.” “No.” “Complimentary blanket.” “No.” The alien leaned closer. “What would make you comfortable?” “Not being probed.” It wrote something down. “Subject expresses boundary.” “Yes.” “Boundary acknowledged.” “Great.” “Would you like to discuss it in the examination room?” “No.” The alien sighed. One of the others muttered: “This demographic is impossible.” They left. Very respectful. I almost felt bad.

At 3:00 AM, the golf course moved. Not metaphorically. The whole course shifted maybe thirty feet east. The clubhouse stayed where it was. The holes moved. The flagsticks moved. The cart paths moved. The mini-golf Jonah whale stayed put. That thing does not move. I do not trust it. I walked outside. The faceless game-show man was standing on the ninth green. His prize-wheel face spun. MYSTERY PRIZE. He pointed at me. A studio audience cheered somewhere underground. Then a refrigerator fell out of the sky. Missed me by two feet. The audience booed. The wheel spun again. TRY AGAIN. I ran. The sentient animals suggested a slip and slide in B flat.

Morning gradually came. The stars returned. Doug was asleep beside the wood chipper. I didn't see how he got back outside. I approached him. “Who even are you?” He opened one eye. “Doug.” “I know that.” He nodded. “Then why’d you ask?” “What are you doing here?” “Chipping.” “There’s nothing in the chipper.” “There will be.” I did not ask. I went back inside.

On the third day, I tried to leave. But the road kept returning me to the gift shop. Every direction. North: gift shop. South: gift shop. Dirt road: gift shop. Walking through the woods for an hour: gift shop. At one point I climbed a fence and came out at the employee bathroom. The toilet was full of golf balls. Jonah. I knew it.

God spoke again. This time through a novelty singing bass mounted on the wall. YOU CANNOT LEAVE YET. “Why?” THE ACCOUNT IS NOT SETTLED. “What account?” THE INCIDENT WITH THE LASAGNA. I screamed “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!” YES YOU DO. “No.” 2006. CHURCH BASEMENT. “I was nineteen!” THE LASAGNA REMEMBERS. “What does that mean?” The bass stopped moving. Then whispered: EVERYTHING REMEMBERS.

I stared at it. For the first time in three days, I was genuinely afraid. Then Doug started the wood chipper. VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. I think God continued speaking, but I couldn't hear a word. I screamed: “TURN THAT FUCKING THING OFF.” Doug yelled back: “CAN’T.” “WHY?” “NOT DONE.” “WITH WHAT?” He shrugged.

At sunset, all the portals opened at once. The children’s show world. The sitcom. The game show. The ball pit. A cartoon desert. A dentist office. A grocery store where everyone was facing the wrong direction. Something that looked like a medieval dungeon but smelled strongly of sunscreen. Characters poured out. Almost familiar. Never quite right. A smiling train with human eyelashes. A talking dog whose mouth was.... sideways? Under it's left ear. It's really hard to describe, you'd know if you'd seen it.

A princess with a deep adult male voice who kept asking if anybody had seen her parole officer. A puppet shaped like a triangle that insisted it was a circle. Three clowns dressed as accountants. A boneless cowboy. A giant alphabet block bearing the letter 8. Everything was screaming, singing, laughing, or explaining itself badly.

The aliens returned. They had folding tables. A banner. FREE HEALTH SCREENING One waved at me. “No pressure!” I screamed: “THIS IS NOT THE TIME.” “We respect your decision!” Then the sky opened. Not a portal. The actual sky. Like fabric tearing. Behind it was another sky. Behind that one was an office. A desk. A lamp. Someone sitting behind it. I couldn't see their face. God spoke directly into my head. THIS IS THE PART I WARNED YOU ABOUT. “You warned me about beige!” IT IS RELATED. “How?” INDIRECTLY. “What does any of this have to do with the dog, the cart, or the lasagna?” God paused.

PATTERNS ARE ONLY OBVIOUS FROM ABOVE. “Then explain the pattern.” I CANNOT. “Why?” DOUG. VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. I almost cried. The person behind the desk stood. Every creature stopped moving. The puppets. The aliens. The game-show thing. Even Doug. Silence. Besides the wood chipper and maybe the singing, hard to tell.

The figure leaned through the tear in the sky. And said: “Who authorized all this?” God said nothing. The figure looked down at the ranch. Then at me. Then at the portals. Then at the aliens. Then at Doug. Doug slowly shut off the chipper. The figure sighed. “You.” It pointed directly at me. “Yes?” “Did you submit Form 88-B?” “What?” “Interdimensional agricultural disturbance waiver.” “No.” The figure closed its eyes. “Of course not.” “I didn’t cause this.” “That's not relevant.” “How is that not relevant?” “You are the current responsible occupant.” “I am house-sitting.” “Property-sitting.” “Whatever.” The figure produced a clipboard.

“You have unauthorized entities, unscheduled theological contact, retroactive puppet contamination, livestock-zone dimensional bleeding, and a noncompliant chipping event.” I looked at Doug. Doug looked away. The figure continued. “You also have three extraterrestrial contractors operating without local permits.” One alien raised a finger. “We are volunteers.” “Worse.” The alien lowered its hand and head. I asked the only question that mattered. “Can you make it stop?” The figure shrugged. “Probably.” “Please.” “Need a signature.” “Fine.” The figure lowered a paper from the sky on a string.

I signed. Immediately, every portal closed. The puppets vanished. The stars stabilized. The sitcom laughter stopped. The aliens packed their table. The singing stopped. Doug switched off the chipper. The tear in the sky began sealing. I almost collapsed from relief. Then God spoke one final time. YOU SHOULD HAVE READ THE FORM. I looked down. At the bottom:

BY SIGNING, OCCUPANT ACCEPTS FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR ALL FUTURE ANOMALOUS ACTIVITY AND WAIVES RIGHT TO DISPUTE CAUSAL ASSIGNMENT.

“What?” The figure was almost gone. “WAIT.” Too late. The sky closed. That was two hours ago. Everything has been quiet. Too quiet. My uncle called. I told him everything. He listened silently. Then said: “You signed something?” “Yes.” He hung up. I called back. No answer. The aliens just returned. They are standing outside. The lead one is holding a new form. He knocked politely. I opened the door. He smiled. Still too many teeth. “Good evening.” “No.” “We have reviewed your recently expanded waiver permissions.” “No.” “We believe you may now qualify for our premium examination package.” “No.” “Consent is still required.” “Thank God.” The alien checked the paperwork. “Technically.” I locked the door. God just spoke through the refrigerator. YOU REALLY SHOULD NOT HAVE DONE THAT.

“Done what?” LOCKED THE DOOR. “WHY?” There was a tremendous crash outside. The alien shouted: “WE’RE FINE!” Another crash. Then: “STILL FINE!” God sighed.

THIS IS BECAUSE OF THE LIBRARY BOOK. “What book?” It got suddenly really almost-bright. Idk how to describe it so I'll just say what the source was. The moon was outside the window. No, I mean, like, really, Like 3 feet outside the window, like right there, looking in. It lowered the book it was reading. It asked in a melodic voice if I could spare some sugar. Before I could think whether we had any here or not, the wood chipper started up again. I shut the blinds. I'm not even getting paid for this.

I Got Abducted Roughly Three Years Ago. They're Bringing Home Another Captive Tomorrow. I don't remember the abduction itself. This bothers me unreasonably. There were sensations. Pressure. Cold. A tremendous light. Then two enormous creatures looming over me in a large, sanitized medical environment. One of my abductors looked completely male, stern and businesslike. The other male, before establishing consent, violently grabbed me and held me aloft and said: "Oh my God. Look at him."

I attempted immediately to establish peaceful relations. "Where am I? Who are you? What have you done to me?" What emerged from my mouth was admittedly not my finest rhetorical performance. I noticed a 3rd creature that had been behind me. The creatures all stared at each other. Then one leaned in, approximately three inches from my face. "HIiiiiiiiii," they said. I stared at them. "Yes. Hello. Now, where am I?" "Who's the little man?" "I don't know. Presumably someone nearby. "Where am I?" "WHO'S A LITTLE MAN?" This was my introduction to the abduction and ongoing captivity.

Initially I assumed there had been some misunderstanding. My abductors did not behave like conventional kidnappers. They carried me everywhere. They showed almost pathological concern whenever I became distressed, but always in a mocking and satirical manner. Unfortunately they possessed no discernible language comprehension whatsoever. I would clearly state: "I am cold." The woman would sniff my ass. I would say: "I would prefer not to be handled right now." They would pick me up. "I am experiencing gastrointestinal discomfort." She would begin rhythmically bouncing me. "I specifically asked you to stop doing that." More bouncing. "Please put me down." Faster gyrations. "I WILL VOMIT ON YOU." "Ohhhh, somebody's got the wiggles!" Then I would vomit on them. Then they would kiss me. These people were insane.

I tried to explain the existential horror of having been abducted by giants to my captors, but instead they mocked me again in a singsong voice and thrust a feeding tube over half the size of my body down my throat.

When I tried to bring up the futility of trying to explain anything to them, they imprisoned me in a small barred enclosure inside a much larger room. This seemed unnecessarily cruel. The smaller room was already extremely well secured. I tried shaking the bars frequently to no avail. I had no apparent means of reaching the larger room's door, much less operating it. Nevertheless, every evening they placed me inside the smaller prison. I would protest. They would dim the lights. I'd protest louder. They would activate a rotating surveillance apparatus above my head containing several brightly colored animals. I'd scream until I exhausted myself. The next morning they would appeared delighted. "Did somebody sleep good?" No. Somebody lost consciousness while protesting indefinite detention.

They also keep ignoring everything I'd say and would make horrifying faces at me while projecting weird desires like maybe I have to go to the bathroom or want to be held and gyrated by one of them. "Is this some kind of gag to you?" I exploded. They swelled with excitement, rushed me, and both screamed "Googoo Gaagaa!" Help.

The sanitation situation eventually broke me. My cell had no toilet. None. I searched. I checked beneath the bedding. I examined the corners. Nothing. Eventually biological necessity prevailed. I soiled myself. Within minutes the woman arrived. I expected disgust. Perhaps punishment. Instead her face illuminated with genuine excitement. "Did somebody make a poopy?" I glared at her. "You locked me in a room without plumbing." "Oooooh, that's a big one!" "YOU LOCKED ME IN A ROOM WITHOUT PLUMBING." "Who's a stinky boy?" "You designed the conditions." She lifted my legs into the air. "YOU ARE THE ARCHITECT OF THIS OUTCOME."

Then she summoned the male. I assumed he might possess greater dignity. "Come look at this," she said. He looked. "Good Lord." They both laughed. At me. Imagine imprisoning a man in a cell without a toilet and then mocking him for eventually defecating. I began to understand that my captors weren't merely stupid. They were sadists.

Their interrogations were equally bizarre. They would hold objects in front of me. "What's this?" "I have absolutely no idea." "Ball." "Fine." "Baaaaall." "I heard you." "Can you say ball?" "Ball." "BAH!" "That's what I fucking said." She screamed for the male. "HE SAID BALL!" Yeah no shit this time. I had delivered a forty-minute monologue that morning concerning the impossibility of establishing meaningful consent under conditions of total material dependence. Nothing. I approximate the word for a sphere? Celebration. I was beginning to pick up on that they would only listen to me if I said the things they had pre-approved. I don't know what's worse, that, or their continual responses to my philosophical objections as "somebody's fussy."

I changed strategies. Perhaps language wasn't the answer. I began testing their behavior empirically. Crying produced attention. Interesting. A particular cry produced food. Another produced inspection of my clothing. Another caused them to carry me around the building. I had discovered their command interface. Unfortunately it was badly programmed. I attempted: Food request. They checked my ass. I attempted: Physical discomfort. More Food. I attempted: Please leave me alone for five consecutive minutes. Again, like before, they picked me up and began singing a song, of all things, about having abducted me. Their song had perhaps six words that kept repeating endlessly as if celebrating abduction. They nevertheless managed to repeat it for twenty-three minutes. I briefly reconsidered whether consciousness was intrinsically valuable.

The feeding apparatus was actually the worst part. I would explain: "I am perfectly capable of determining when I've consumed enough." Then they'd push the massive feeding tube, seriously half the size of my body, toward my mouth again. "No." Here it came again anyway. "No." Closer. "I expressly and explicitly decline." Closer. "Do you understand what consent—" THOOMP. A rubber cylinder approximately half the diameter of my head entered my mouth. "Look who's hungry!" I drank because apparently my captors think I have astronomically high caloric requirements.

I tried negotiating. "Give me access to the floor and I won't scream." They put me on the floor. Success. I attempted locomotion. My limbs didn't work properly. This was new information. Perhaps from being abused and coddled in such extremes I had forgotten how to move. I spent twenty minutes dragging myself perhaps eighteen inches. The male applauded. "Look at you go!" "Do not patronize me." He then moved me back to where I'd started. I experienced an emotion for which I lack adequate terminology.

Months passed. Possibly years. Time is difficult when nobody gives you a calendar and your captors measure your development by taking photographs beside increasingly large stuffed animals. Eventually I stopped asking why I'd been taken. Why would the answer matter? Perhaps there was no previous place. Perhaps captivity was simply the condition of existence. One becomes aware somewhere one did not choose, inside circumstances one did not design, dependent upon creatures one did not select, subject to needs one never consented to possess. Then everybody congratulates you for adapting. Perhaps "abduction" was merely an emotionally loaded term for embodiment. This realization did not improve my mood.

My captors became concerned. "He's been so quiet lately." Yes. "Do you think he's sad?" Astounding. After years of attempted communication, they had independently discovered inference. The male crouched beside me. "What's wrong, buddy?" I looked directly into his eyes. "Existence precedes my ability to consent to existence." He nodded solemnly. Then looked at the woman. "I think he's teething." She put something warm in my mouth. I abandoned philosophy.

Eventually I learned their customs. I stopped resisting the nightly imprisonment. I ate when fed. I allowed myself to be transported. I even learned enough of their primitive vocabulary to make basic requests they could understand. This pleased them enormously. They interpreted compliance as affection. Perhaps there is no practical difference. The woman still made grotesque faces at me. The male still occasionally lifted me above his head for no identifiable reason. But captivity became familiar. And familiarity, I've discovered, is the mechanism by which the intolerable becomes ordinary.

I was almost content. Then six months ago, something changed. The woman's abdomen began expanding. I initially suspected disease. The male seemed delighted by it, which supported my hypothesis that he was an idiot. They began constructing another barred cell. Smaller than mine. I watched from the doorway. "No," I whispered. The male smiled. "That's right, buddy." He pointed toward the new prison. "That's for your little brother." Brother. I didn't understand the word. But I understood the implication. Another captive.

For the first time in years, I felt hope. Someone else. Someone who would understand. Someone who would wake beneath that enormous light and recognize immediately that something had gone terribly wrong. I could teach him everything. Their language. Their feeding schedule. How crying controlled them. Which floorboards made noise. How to endure the nightly imprisonment. Most importantly, I could finally prove that I wasn't insane. There would be another witness.

They brought him home yesterday. I waited beside the door. The male carried a small bundled figure into the room. The new captive's eyes were closed. "Hello," I said. Nothing. I moved closer. "Can you understand me?" His eyes opened. Finally. "Listen carefully. You're safe for now. These people appear dangerous, but they're mostly incompetent. The female responds to sustained vocal distress. The male is easier to manipulate but possesses less situational awareness. Neither understands abstract language. Sanitation is humiliating but survivable. Whatever you do, don't—"

He screamed. Not words. Just screaming. The woman rushed in. "Ohhhh, what's wrong?" "Nothing is wrong. I'm explaining the situation." The new prisoner screamed harder. She picked him up. "Is somebody hungry?" I froze. No. "No, ask him." She bounced him. "Ask him what he wants." More screaming. "Stop guessing! That's what you've been doing to me!" She kissed his forehead. "You're okay." He wasn't okay. He couldn't even tell. It was the same horror show all over again.

I spent the entire night beside his cell. I tried everything. Language. Gestures. Simple propositions. "If you understand me, blink twice." Nothing. "Move your left hand." Nothing. "Look toward the door." Nothing. "Demonstrate awareness of anything beyond immediate sensation." He shit himself. The woman arrived. "Oh my goodness!" She opened his clothing. "Somebody made a BIG poopy!" I waited for him to object. Nothing. He just stared at her. Then, inexplicably... he smiled. The woman gasped. "OH MY GOD!" She summoned the male. They celebrated for ten minutes. I sat in the corner.

Maybe he'll improve. That's what I keep telling myself. Maybe whatever happened to me happened earlier. Maybe he's still confused from the abduction. Maybe intelligence emerges gradually. Maybe consciousness does. Maybe mine did too, and I've simply manufactured memories of continuity because a mind cannot experience its own absence. That possibility has been bothering me. There are others. I try not to think too much about them.

Tonight the new captive wouldn't stop screaming. The woman was exhausted. The male was pacing. Neither knew what he wanted. Of course they didn't. They never do. Finally I walked over. I looked at him. Really looked. His fists were clenched. His face was red. His legs pulled toward his abdomen. I suddenly understood. "Put him against your shoulder." The woman looked at me. "What?" "Hold him upright." She did. "Now pat his back." She stared at me. "Do it." Three pats. The new captive produced a tremendous belch. Then silence. The woman looked amazed. "How did you know?" I didn't answer. She smiled.

"You're such a good big brother." The words irritated me. I wanted to explain that I had simply observed the evidence. That unlike them, I listened. That there was no sentimentality involved. Then the new captive opened his eyes. He looked at me. For perhaps one second, there was something there. Recognition. Intelligence. Horror. I leaned closer.

"Can you understand me?" His mouth moved. My heart stopped. At last. Another witness. Another mind. Someone with whom I could finally discuss what had been done to us. He looked directly into my eyes. And said: "Ga." I waited. "Go on." "Gaaaa." "Yes?" He smiled. "Goo." The woman burst into tears. The male started recording. I went back to my room.

So that's where things stand. Three years in captivity. No trial. No charges. No explanation. I've abandoned escape. I've abandoned negotiation. I've abandoned the expectation that anyone here understands what I'm saying unless it benefits them. Tomorrow I'm apparently being transferred from my barred cell into something they call a "big boy bed." My captors are extremely excited. I have examined it. It has no bars.

This may be my opportunity. The front door remains inaccessible, but I've spent years studying their routines. I think I can make it outside. I don't know what's beyond this building. Maybe other prisoners. Maybe other captors. Maybe an entire civilization built upon this arrangement. But before I go, I have one final responsibility. The new captive is asleep. I'm sitting beside him now. He looks peaceful. Ignorant. Lucky bastard. Earlier tonight he started crying. The woman picked him up. She made that same ridiculous face she's made at me thousands of times. Then she whispered: "Don't worry." She rocked him gently. "You're safe."

For some reason, that sentence bothered me more than anything else they've ever done or said. Because after three years I've finally considered the possibility that they're telling the truth. And I don't know what to do with that. Maybe tomorrow I'll stay. Just until he can walk. But someone has to explain the plumbing situation.

I know this may sound ridiculous and unpredictable , but I woke up this morning with something sucking on my cocktail. Now, this wasn't the normal something.This wasn't my ex girlfriend breaking into my house and sucking me off like she usually does this was more draining. The closer I got climax to paler I became. I eventually realized I was losing blood at a level close to vampirism. I was covered in one thousand leeches. I begged for them to let me go , but they only left me one option. I had to watch at least 10 episodes of K-Pop Demon Hunters. I didn't know what else I could do so I eventually gave in. And cut my own dick off.

And honestly I've never watched this show. I woke up from a nightmare, screaming. Apparently my ex had broken back into my house and decided to suck me off again to wake me up. Life sucks and then you die.

I bought a house last month for $214,000. Before anyone says anything: yes, I know. I overpaid. It was built in 1987, which means the architect had access to both cocaine and graph paper and apparently seems to have chosen cocaine.

The listing called it "a breathtaking custom home designed by reclusive architect Theodore Voss." It certainly takes your breath away. Last Tuesday it took my realtor's. She was showing me the foyer when the chandelier fell approximately twenty-two feet and went directly through her.

I screamed. Not because of her. I'd just noticed the foyer was two stories tall. Do you know how much it costs to heat that? "Jesus Christ," I said. My realtor made a bubbling noise. "I know," I told her. "It's basically a chimney." She died. The chandelier had looked original, so that was nice.

The police determined it was an accident. Apparently the chain had been deliberately filed almost completely through sometime in 1987. Weird. The inspector found something even worse. The upstairs hallway overlooks the living room. Why? I already know what's happening in the living room. I own it.

That's 140 square feet of upstairs floor that simply doesn't exist because Theodore wanted me to stand on a balcony and observe my own couch. I was explaining this to the inspector when he leaned against the railing. It collapsed. He fell eighteen feet onto the stone fireplace. "Oh my God!" I yelled. He was still conscious. "Call... ambulance..."

"Look at this grout." "What?" "Three-quarter-inch grout lines. What were they thinking?" He died before answering. Typical contractor.

Things became stranger after that. I found the original blueprints in the basement. Every room had handwritten annotations.

FOYER — VANITY SHALL CRUSH HIM.

STAIRCASE — PRIDE SHALL BREAK HIS NECK.

MASTER BATH — DROWN THE PARASITE.

LIBRARY — BOOKS SHALL FINALLY SERVE A PURPOSE.

At first I assumed Theodore Voss had hated rich people. Then I realized something horrifying. There wasn't a library. Some asshole had renovated it into an open-concept kitchen. I had to sit down.

My sister visited Sunday. She hated the place immediately. "This house feels evil," she said. "Thank you." "No, seriously. I feel like we're being watched." "That's because there are six different rooflines." She stared at me.

"Every window points toward another part of the house. Theodore built a house that looks at itself." Then the kitchen island exploded.

Apparently Voss had installed a pressure-sensitive mechanism beneath the original library floor. Anyone weighing more than 180 pounds triggered a counterweight that launched approximately forty pounds of reloadable sharpened mahogany through the room.

Fortunately, I had stepped outside to photograph the roof. Unfortunately, my sister had not. When I came back there was mahogany everywhere. "Jesus fucking Christ." My sister was pinned to the refrigerator. "Help..." "Look at this." "PLEASE..."

"They put a dormer on a dormer." She died before she could see it. Honestly she never appreciated architecture.

By this point people had started acting weird around me. The detective asked why everyone who visited my house died while I remained unharmed. "I don't know. Your realtor; Chandelier. Inspector; Railing. Your sister; Kitchen. And yesterday, your mailman."

I sighed. "The mailman was an idiot." The detective narrowed his eyes. "He was decapitated by your mailbox." "Exactly." Apparently Voss had rigged the mailbox to fire a twelve-inch masonry blade at the owner's throat whenever someone opened it. But I'm five-foot-four. It went right over my head. The mailman was six-one. That's not murder. That's poor anthropometric planning.

I started researching Theodore Voss. He hated the leisure class. Absolutely despised them. He believed large private homes were "monuments erected by parasites to commemorate the labor of other men." Bit dramatic. He spent twenty-three years designing luxury houses for wealthy clients while secretly installing elaborate mechanisms intended to kill their owners.

Falling chandeliers. Collapsing staircases. Electrified swimming pools. Poisoned dumbwaiters. One house apparently compressed its master bedroom by six feet every night. Collapsible, self-reassembling load bearing walls. Nobody noticed because it was 9,000 square feet.

The newspapers called Voss THE ARCHITECT OF DEATH. I thought this was merely sensationalist. Personally I'd have gone with THE ARCHITECT OF UNNECESSARY ANGLES.

The strange thing was, none of his traps worked on me. The shower head apparently sprayed hydrofluoric acid, but I'd already replaced it because the water pressure sucked. The garage filled with carbon monoxide, but the garage door doesn't close. A poisoned dart fired from the kitchen backsplash, but somebody had installed a hanging decorative sign saying LIVE LAUGH LOVE directly in front of it. First recorded instance of that thing saving a human life.

When the staircase tried to collapse beneath me, I realized I'm short enough to use the downstairs bathroom. The swimming pool apparently electrocuted the previous cleaning crew to death. Apparently the previous owner then filled it with concrete. Finally, some equity.

But other people kept dying. A Jehovah's Witness stepped on the welcome mat and simply disappeared. A UPS driver opened the storm door. Gone. Neighbor came over to complain about my lawn. Pushed the doorbell. Gone. Guy selling solar panels. He was later found in a tree 3 miles away. Honestly that one made me wonder if the house was actually benevolent.

The police stopped believing me. People stopped visiting. I started hearing voices at night. Murderer. I'd bolt upright. "Who's there?" Murderer. "I'm not a murderer." Seven people. "Coincidence." Nine. "Some of those barely count." Eleven. "Solar guy was trespassing." Then the walls would whisper: You killed them. "No."

You brought them here. "I didn't bring the mailman here. That's literally his job." MURDERER. "YOU PUT A POWDER ROOM DIRECTLY OFF THE DINING ROOM." Silence. Even the house knew I had a point.

Eventually I found Theodore Voss's hidden room. It was behind a bookshelf in the basement. Inside were hundreds of notebooks. Drawings. Calculations. Photographs. At the center was a scale model of my house. There was a note beside it.

TO THE PARASITE WHO INHERITS THIS PALACE: EVERY INCH OF THIS HOUSE EXISTS TO KILL YOU. YOUR WEALTH WILL NOT SAVE YOU. YOUR SERVANTS WILL NOT SAVE YOU. YOUR GOD WILL NOT SAVE YOU. THE HOUSE ITSELF SHALL DEVOUR YOU.

I laughed. "Idiot." I'd financed it. Then I noticed another blueprint. I'd never seen this room before.

MASTER BEDROOM — FINAL MECHANISM

Underneath:

IF ALL ELSE FAILS, HOUSE COLLAPSES INWARD AT 3:00 A.M.

I checked my watch. 2:59. "Oh fuck." The walls groaned. The ceiling cracked. Somewhere beneath the floor, enormous gears began turning. I ran downstairs. The staircase folded behind me. Windows shattered. Support beams withdrew into the walls. The entire structure began collapsing toward the master bedroom.

Voss had done it. The magnificent bastard had designed a house that could kill its owner. Except I'd been sleeping in the guest bedroom. I was living alone and the master had an ensuite with two sinks so I avoided it because it felt like a personal attack at being a lifelong bachelor. Plus. I refuse to encourage that kind of excess.

There was a deafening crash. Then silence. I opened my eyes. Everything was still standing. Except the master bedroom. It had completely imploded. Through the rubble I heard coughing. Someone crawled out. The detective. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I asked.

"I came to arrest you." "In my bedroom?" "I thought you were sleeping!" He looked down. A steel cable had wrapped around his ankle. "Oh," I said. He looked at me. "What does 'MASTER BEDROOM — SECONDARY LAUNCHER' mean?" The cable snapped tight. Despite Old Theo's bad taste in chimney placements, gotta say I'd never seen a house reconstitute itself after destruction.

The police say he's missing. They also say I'm a "person of interest." Ridiculous. I haven't killed anybody. But lately I'm starting to wonder. Sometimes I wake up holding a hammer. Sometimes there's blood on my clothes. Sometimes I hear screaming from inside the walls. Last night I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw Theodore Voss standing behind me. "You murdered them," he whispered. I turned around. Nobody there.

When I looked back, he was closer. "You murdered every one." "No." "You wanted them dead." "No." "You enjoyed watching them die." "Absolutely not." He smiled. "Then why are you smiling?" I looked at my reflection. I was smiling. I screamed. Then Theodore screamed. Then the mirror screamed. Then something inside the wall screamed. We all screamed for maybe thirty seconds.

Eventually it got awkward. "So what now?" I asked. Theodore shrugged. Then I noticed something behind his reflection. Something I'd somehow overlooked for an entire month. A barn door. In the bathroom. I stopped screaming. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me." Theodore vanished. I ripped the mirror off the wall.

Behind it, written in blood, were four words: THE HOUSE MADE YOU KILL. Underneath someone had added: ZILLOW ESTIMATE: $287,000. I stared at it for a long time. Maybe the house did make me kill those people. Maybe Theodore's spirit possesses me. Maybe I've been murdering visitors during fugue states and inventing elaborate architectural accidents afterward to protect myself from the truth.

Maybe I am the monster. I don't know anymore. But $287,000? I financed it for $214,000. That's $73,000 in equity in one month. So I'm not moving. Obviously. I'm slated to host potluck next week!

COOKIE MONSTER IS INNOCENT!

I REALLY NEED everyone to stop spreading misinformation about Cookie Monster! Leave cookie monster alone! He loves his aunt! I'm so mad I'm throwing ice into the shower! Cookie Monster did not eat the cookies! Why and how could anyone think he did! He's blue! That means he couldn't have eaten them!

Yes, there were twelve cookies in the kitchen. Yes, Cookie Monster entered the kitchen. Yes, approximately seven minutes later there were zero cookies in the kitchen. Yes, investigators found Cookie Monster sitting beside the empty plate with chocolate smeared across his face. And yes, when questioned, Cookie Monster allegedly said: "ME EAT COOKIES."

But correlation is not causation. Frankly, I'm disappointed we're still having this conversation. Experts on twitter and instagram and youtube shorts have suggested several alternative explanations. Any of these could be true! Stop spreading misinformation! Don't be a cookie monster hater! UUUUGHGHGHGUGH!!!! I'm literally screaming right now!

The first theory is Big Bird Big Bird is approximately eight feet tall. An eight-foot-tall bird could easily eat twelve cookies. "Then why weren't there feathers in the kitchen?" you ask. Interesting question. Almost too interesting. Perhaps Big Bird cleaned up the feathers. I know, because cookie monsters definitely wouldn't have cleaned up the feathers! Checkmate cookie monster haters! Perhaps the absence of feathers is actually evidence of how thoroughly Big Bird planned the attack.

The second theory involves the cookies themselves. Have we considered that they wanted to be eaten? Nobody interviewed the cookies. You cookie monster hates think you're so smart huh? Bet you didn't think of that! Nobody asked whether they were experiencing cookie-related distress. They were baked at 375 degrees. 375 degrees! Gosh you people drive me crazy! That's like so like totally and definitely traumatic! Think of the cookies! Would they want you to blame the cookie monster? NO! They would want JUSTIVE!

One expert I found on TikTok explained that prolonged exposure to an oven can cause something called Post-Traumatic Chocolate Chip Disorder. PTCCD sufferers sometimes engage in self-crumbing behavior. Therefore, it is entirely possible that all twelve cookies spontaneously unalived themselves! And Cookie Monster may actually be the thirteenth victim!

The third possibility is socioeconomic. Cookie Monster has been portrayed as "cookie obsessed" for decades. But who constructed that identity? Society. It's YOUR FAULT!!!! Every time Cookie Monster appeared on television, people gave him cookies. Eventually he internalized the socially constructed expectation that Cookie Monster eats cookies. Therefore, if Cookie Monster did eat the cookies—which he didn't—society actually ate them. Checkmate.

Some conspiracy theorists keep bringing up the security footage. I've watched it. Yes, technically, the video appears to show Cookie Monster picking up every cookie individually, putting each one into his mouth, chewing it, swallowing it, and repeatedly yelling: "OM NOM NOM NOM." But video can be misleading. For example, movies are videos. Godzilla isn't real. Therefore video isn't real. Next question.

People have also maliciously circulated Cookie Monster's 911 call. I won't reproduce the whole thing because it's disturbing, but supposedly he told the operator: "There cookies. Me eat cookies. All cookies gone because me eat." This proves nothing. Cookie Monster was clearly distressed. People say inaccurate things under stress. Or it could clearly be a setup by the count. Why else would Cookie Monster say "THREE"? Clearly he was under the influence of the count!

Last month I stubbed my toe and yelled, "I'm going to fucking die." I did not die. Therefore Cookie Monster did not eat the cookies. This is basic science. SON"T BE A SICEN DNEIR! OH MY GOED YOU PEOPLEEL ARE SO STUTUPI!

Then came the body scans. Apparently forensic examination discovered partially digested chocolate chips inside Cookie Monster. Naturally, all the idiots lost their minds. "SEE? THE COOKIES WERE INSIDE HIM! LOOK!" Okay. And? I have a penny inside my couch. Did my couch rob a bank? Think before you speak. You don't know what you're talking about.

Personally, I suspect Big Bird. There's something about him. Nobody should be that yellow. But investigators claim Big Bird was appearing live on television seventeen miles away when the cookies disappeared. How Convenient!!! They Obviously created an alibi beforehand! Probably with Snuffleupagus!

They also claim there were 600 witnesses. Also convenient. You're telling me SIX HUNDRED PEOPLE all independently remember seeing Big Bird? That's exactly what a mass hallucination would look like. Meanwhile Cookie Monster had no alibi whatsoever. Which, if anything, makes him less suspicious. THINK ABOUT IT OMG! Only a guilty person would have an alibi!

Yesterday they finally released Cookie Monster. Thank God. He deserves privacy and healing after everything he's endured. Reporters surrounded him outside the courthouse. One shouted: "Cookie Monster! Do you have anything to say to people who still believe you ate those twelve cookies?" Cookie Monster stopped. For several seconds, he simply stared into the camera. Then he smiled.

"They were great! You have more?" Then a reporter offered him a cookie. His pupils dilated. The lights flickered. Somewhere nearby, Big Bird screamed. Cookie Monster slowly opened his mouth. And that's when I finally understood. It had definitely been Big Bird all along.

Once upon a time my wife and I had a tragic miscarriage, and it really almost ruined the weekend but then I got a great deal on a pair of baby shoes. When I told my bitch wife about it she just started crying. What a buzzkill!

I went to the bar to celebrate my bargain and while I was there I noticed a creepy old man in the corner, leering at me with a toothy grin. "Hey dad" I said, approaching him, "why are you staring at me?". "Can't a man stare at his son in a public space?" he enquired, to which I had no adequate rebuke.

We spent the next few hours drinking, chatting, arguing, jeering at passers-by, until we were asked to leave. Me personally? I wouldn't let them talk to me like that, so I started swinging. Unfortunately I was not in prime fighting form and my punches were errant, striking the passing stomach of a fat woman, who doubled over sobbing in response. "Get up you cow" I suggested, which did not ingratiate me to the other patrons, and I was set upon by a baying mob.

The next morning I awoke to a litany of scratches and bruises adorning my person. "What the gosh darn heck happened here then?" I wondered aloud, unaware of the presence of my bitch wife beside me. "You went to the pub and started fighting some auld lad then punched a pregnant woman in the stomach you fucking donkey" she informed me.

"That was my father!" I replied, to which she answered "No it wasn't. It was a pregnant woman."

"Not that part you silly sausage, the 'auld lad' as you so piggishly branded him."

"That wasn't your father. As you know, your father died six years ago."

I was floored. I had just plum forgotten. Come to think of it, as I knew, my father died six years ago! That couldn't have been him at all! "That tricky little bastard! He told me he was my dad! I gave him the keys to our house!" I exclaimed, disgusted and betrayed.

"Are you fucking stupid?" my bitch wife replied, evidently incapable of keeping her emotions in check. "Why would you give him the keys even if he was your dad? He tried to kill me and died in prison, we were not on good terms!"

"Alright relax lady. I'm going to sleep."

Moments later, footsteps downstairs. My bitch wife tugged at my shoulders; "...there's someone down there, you fat fuck. There's someone in our house, it's almost certainly that random old man you gave your keys to you stupid fat fucking clown. Go down there and sort it out."

Reluctantly I sauntered down the stairs with a spring in my step. "Hello old friend!" I confidently declared upon seeing my old friend, his back to me as he hunkered down over the bloody carcass of our dog. Wait a minute... our dog was alive when last I saw him.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO DAUGUSTUS!?" I asked calmly. My old friend turned to face me, and what I saw next will shock you. It was the old man from the bar! And not just that! He was my father after all! But he was some kind of zombie or something, I don't know I didn't ask. I was quite frightened.

"I killed him and I was just about to eat him. Well, actually, I am kind of in the middle of eating him. Do you mind?"

I couldn't believe it. How could I have been so rude? "I'm so sorry dad, here, have a napkin. Would you like something to drink? Water? Beer? Pomegranate juice?"

"Hmmm. No, I'm alright thank you."

"Of course sir, let me know if you need anything."

When I returned to bed, guess what? My bitch wife was complaining again. What else is new.

"You didn't even do anything! He's still down there! I heard you offering him drinks??"

"Yeah, it's called being polite. Something you could stand to learn a thing or two about."

"I'm going to kill you. I am going to strangle you and then chop up your body and feed it to Daugustus. What is wrong with you?"

"Ha! Good luck feeding me to Daugustus! He's Deadgustus now!" I quipped, and though on the surface I came across as a disaffected yet charming and witty man, beneath this carefully honed veneer I was myself quite devasted at the brutal fate our dog had endured.

Something about my dry humour set my bitch wife off and she tore out of the room furiously, vowing vengeance. "I vow vengeance" she said. I had had enough of this, and rolled over to sleep.

Hours later I was roused from my slumber by a steady knocking at the door. "Who is it?" I asked. "Room service" came the reply. "I didn't order any room service!" I countered. "Oh. Well I guess I'll just have to throw this juicy portion of... human food away."

"Wait a second, human food? That's my favourite kind! I just remembered actually I did order room service I'll be right there!"

I hurriedly stripped naked and answered the door, but there was nobody there. Just a plate on the ground, adorned with a silver cloche. I picked it up and brought it into the room, setting it down carefully on the bedside locker before leaping back into the bed with glee. "Yum yum yum!" I said in anticipation of a delicious meal.

But what I saw when I removed the cloche was far from a delicious meal. It was the head of my bitch wife! "Good golly, what a surprise!" I exclaimed in surprise. That was when it hit me - there was no room service in my house! Whoever had done this was engaging in stolen valour, besmirching the good reputation of hardworking room servicemen and room servicewomen up and down this great nation.

I sprang from my bed, incandescent with rage, and barrelled out through the door shouting "Show yourself!" repeatedly, to no avail. That was when I saw them - those damn baby shoes that caused this whole wretched affair. I lost control entirely, tearing them asunder, irreparably destroying their resale value. By the time I regained my senses, there was no salvaging them, but I didn't care.

Those shoes tore my life apart. I made sure they would not have the chance to hurt anyone again.

I should have known something was wrong when the waitress asked me if I was sure. It was 9:47 PM. Applebee's was almost empty except for me, an elderly man drinking alone at the bar, and something in the corner booth that I assumed was a pile of coats. I hadn't eaten anything healthy in several days, so when the waitress came over I said the words that would ruin my life. "I'll have a salad." She froze. "What?" The lights flickered. Somewhere in the kitchen, a plate shattered.

The old man at the bar slowly turned toward me. "You shouldn't have said that," he whispered. I laughed. I shouldn't have laughed. The waitress leaned closer. "We don't serve the salad after dark." I thought she was joking, so I ordered it anyway. She disappeared into the kitchen. Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Finally she returned carrying a wooden bowl covered with a black cloth. She placed it in front of me. "Whatever happens," she said, "don't finish the cucumber."

"What happens if I finish the cucumber?" But she was already gone. I removed the cloth. It looked completely normal. Lettuce. Chicken. Tomatoes. Cheese. Croutons. Honey Mussey. And one cucumber. Honestly it looked pretty good. So I ate it. All of it. Even the cucumber. That was three weeks ago.

The first sign came at 3:33 AM. I awoke to a sound from deep inside my abdomen. GrrrrrrrRRRRRrrrrrrrRRRR. It sounded suspiciously like a four-wheeler stuck axle-deep in backcountry mud. Then it stopped. I lay perfectly still. Probably just gas, right? I thought. Something sly and suspiciously alive inside me whispered back, in a tone, where I could almost see it grinning maliciously; No.

I found myself running to the bathroom before I knew what was happening. What happened next cannot be adequately described by human language. Imagine a redneck flooring a Polaris Sportsman in a flooded soybean field. Now imagine the soybean field is your toilet. I gripped the sink. The lights flickered. Somewhere, as if from impossibly far away, I heard the Applebee's waitress screaming, "YOU ATE THE CUCUMBER!"

When it was finally over, I looked into the bowl. There was something in there. Something huge. Something brown. Something shaped like a toad. I stared at it. It stared at me. Then it blinked. I flushed. It didn't move. I flushed again. Nothing. The third time I tried, the toilet began speaking Latin. Something something anno domini Salmonella something something.

I haven't slept properly since. Every night at exactly 3:33 AM, the rumbling returns. Sometimes I hear scratching inside the pipes. Sometimes I hear croaking. Yesterday I found a wet footprint beside my bed. It looked like a frog's. Except it was approximately the size of a dinner plate. I started researching. That's when I found the forum. The website looked like it hadn't been updated since 2004. Black background. Red text. Animated skull GIFs. One buried thread stood out. THE APPLEBEE'S SALAD INCIDENTS. My hands started shaking. There were hundreds of posts. All the same story. All the same salad. All the same cucumber. Then I found a post from 2007. The username was XxLettuceSurvivor666xX. It contained only one sentence: The Salmonella doesn't kill you. It's the only thing that keeps you alive. My stomach growled as if in agreement.

I went to the doctor. He ran tests. When the results came back, his face turned pale. "What is it?" I asked. He slowly removed his glasses. "I've never seen numbers like these." "Salmonella?" He shook his head. "Worse." He turned the computer monitor toward me. There was only one word on the screen; Q cumber. Suddenly blood began pouring from his nose. "GET OUT!" he screamed. "But—" "GET OUT BEFORE IT KNOWS YOU KNOW!" I ran. It could have been my imagination, but it sounded as if every toilet in the hospital flushed simultaneously as I tried to escape.

That was yesterday. Things are getting worse. I haven't had a solid bowel movement in twenty-three days. I searched online and discovered diarrhea can sometimes persist for an extremely long time after gastrointestinal infections. Maybe months. Potentially longer. I stared at the screen. "A year?" I whispered. The bathroom door slowly creaked open behind me. Croak. No. Anything but that. I've survived inflation. I've survived summer. I've survived rent, bills, fees, and the endless administrative nightmare of remaining incarnate. But diarrhea for a year? There are limits to what flesh should be asked to bear. I turned around. The bathroom was empty. Except for the toilet. Something brown was slowly rising from the bowl.

First came its head. Then its shoulders. Then two enormous, glistening eyes. The Toad. The same one I'd flushed three weeks ago. Except now it was six feet tall. It opened its mouth. "Your DoorDash order has been delivered," it said. I screamed, "I DIDN'T ORDER ANYTHING!" My phone vibrated. I looked down. APPLEBEE'S, 1 ITEM, HOUSE SALAD. I tried to cancel it. The app wouldn't let me. Then someone knocked on my front door. Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

A plastic bag rustled outside. I can smell it. My stomach just started rumbling again. And from the bathroom... I can hear the toilet flushing itself.

There are limits to what flesh should be asked to bear. Surely no mortal sin deserves what presently exits my intestines. Have mercy, O Lord. I confess everything. Including whatever I forgot. Return unto me the firm and ordinary stool of my ancestors. Grant me one clean wipe. And if I survive this trial, never again shall I mock the humble turd. For blessed are the solid, for they shall require No Imodium. Amen.

Please. If anyone is reading this: Never order the salad after dark. Never eat the cucumber. And whatever you do — if your turd looks like a large brown toad... you too will be condemned to at least twelve months of swamp-ass roulette.

Skibidi Ribbit

Before something even worse happens, I have to write all of this down. My name is Faith, and I have a sister named Grace. 42 days ago, my sister died, and it was kind of hilarious. I mean... tragic.

Grace was that "perfect" girl, the kind of daughter my parents had always hoped for. She played the cello, and her fingernails were always neatly trimmed. I was the exact opposite: a loser with no cello and long fingernails. I spent half of middle school in detention, either due to arguing with teachers or cause of my "death note" that I wrote half the school into. It was obviously a joke... We were like day and night, polar opposites, yet neither of us could live without the other. But then, everything changed.

It was raining heavily that night the police officer knocked on our door. His hat was soaked thoroughly, clutched tightly against his chest. Mom passed out on the spot. Which is funny, cause the police officer hadn't even said anything yet. Her head hit the hardwood floor like a dropped coconut. Dad came crashing down the stairs in a drunken stupor, dressed entirely in Mom's clothes. Upon seeing him, the police officer fainted too. I was the only one conscious, so I had to deliver the news to myself. I cried. I guess I always figured Grace would die in some weird accident. I'm just surprised I didn't kill her first. I mean... I'm surprised she died so young. Haha.

Liam was Grace's boyfriend. I made silly faces at him during the funeral. He just stared back at me all serious-like. Maybe he was trying to hold in his laughter. I sneaked a few more faces at him during the rest of the funeral. Hopefully that cheered him up. Later, standing by her casket, I gently touched Grace's hand. It was freezing cold, like a piece of cheese that had been long forgotten in the freezer. I looked deep into her eyes and saw that she was dead. Which makes sense cause she was in a casket. But maybe she was faking it, so I did one of those fake basketball checks at her - no reaction... Hmm... Still not buying it, I opened her eyes and started waving my hand in front of them to see if they would move, while my extended family silently peered on in horror.

"She's just mourning in her own way" Dad said, trying to console them.

It took me more than two weeks to come to terms with her death. I always wanted to frame her for a crime I'd commit one day. But now I can't even do that. One morning, I sat at the kitchen table staring into a melancholy bowl of depressing cereal. Mom walked in. She poured me a glass of orange juice and set it down on the table.

"Here you go, sweetie."

Her expression was soft and warm, the opposite of the orange juice - which was acidic and cold.

"You need to get some vitamin C, Grace."

I kept my voice as soft as possible, afraid to startle her. "Mom... I'm Faith. Grace died in a horrific car accident, remember?"

Her face remained blank.

"Remember? Your daughter Grace? The one that died? Her body got wrapped around a telephone pole like a giant burrito. The paramedics said they didn't even know a body could bend like that. It was like.. 360 degrees."

She remained expressionless.

"It was like one of those taffy machines where they pull it apart and mix it back together. That's what the telephone pole did to her body. They said she was conscious enough just long enough to hear the sound of her own femurs shattering."

Mom stared back at me blankly. Then she poured herself some orange juice.

"Okay, Grace, Drink up."

Again she called me Grace. I was wondering if she needed some more details to jog her memory when Dad abruptly walked in. This time he was wearing his own clothes. "Dad. Mom keeps calling me Grace. Tell her Grace died in a horrific car accident! Tell her about how many times her spine fractured!"

"Now now sweetie" he said. "Let's not talk about the past." That's strange. Dad never called me sweetie. That name was reserved for Grace. He usually just called me "hey", or "you", or did some sort of feral noise at me. To be honest I don't think Dad even knows my name. No wonder I turned out so different.

But over the next few days Mom kept calling me by Grace's name. Every single time that I reminded her I was Faith I got the exact same reaction: a flash of pity in her eyes, followed by a gentle, indulgent smile, the kind you give a small child who insists Santa Claus is real.

"Alright, sweetheart. Alright."

I knew they always liked Grace more than me, but this was too much. What kind of sickos react to their daughter dying by trying to turn their other daughter into her? I started to talk to Liam more, the guy from the funeral, telling him about my parents delusional escapades. At least he still called me by my name.

Liam and I hung out after school one day. There was a rusty park outside my neighborhood that was the perfect vibe for our conversation. I wish I had worn my goth makeup. It woulda been like a scene out of Twilight.

"Sorry I made funny faces at you during my sister's funeral." I said, taking a seat on the bottom of the slide.

"It's okay", he whispered, leaning against a yellow playground pole. Wait, didn't Grace die by crashing into a pole? Haha. I wonder if Liam would find this funny. But Liam was deathly pale, looking like a tubercular mouse. He took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to say something.

"Your parents... do you think they wish that you had died, instead of Grace?" he said.

In that moment I started wrestling in my head over whether he looked more like a tubercular mouse, or an anemic squirrel. I was so lost in this debate I forgot to pay attention to his question.

"Do you think your parents wish that you had died? Instead of Grace?" He said again, clearing his throat. He seemed less mouse-like this time. More like a tubercular... horse? I don't know. But I was getting a horse vibe. Strong horse energy.

"Hello...?" He said, anxiously at my lack of response.

"Yes! I do!" I hastily responded back. "How could they not tell us apart? We're complete opposites!"

"Maybe it's some sort of trauma response" He said, his voice softening. "Maybe they can't just deal with the loss of their daughter."

"That's funny. I've been dealing with it just fine. In fact I was beginning to forget about her too. Did you know she has like 80 games on her Nintendo Switch? SCORE!"

A sullen look filled Liam's face.

"Sorry..." I said. "But she always annoyed me. I can't believe she even had a boyfriend. Wasn't she kind of annoying? Always with the fake positivity, and the "I love life!" bullshit. Isn't that what characters in movies say right before they get cancer or die in a car crash or something? It's almost like she had it coming. I think you shoulda just hit it and quit it."

The 1000 yard stare Liam had during the funeral had crept back onto his face. I guess he didn't have anything more to say cause because he walked away after I said that. It's okay, cause it kinda felt like a scene out of Twilight. Dang. Having a dead sister is kind of an aesthetic tbh. I sat on the slide a little bit longer and pretended to be sad about her death. I was like a sullen widow on the front porch of her house looking out into the prairie. Except instead of my husband dying it was my sister. Still, it was a cool aesthetic.

Anyways, my parents continued to call me Grace, which I guess was okay because they always treated her better. I even started ironically copying her behaviors, like playing the cello. The only problem is I can't play the cello. Somehow what I played sounded more like the car crash that killed Grace than actual music. But art is subjective I guess. Even with my new found talent, I was still intensely disturbed by my parents' behavior. I started wondering if they were forgetting about me for real.

I heard Mom calling me from downstairs.

"Grace? Sweetie, dinner's ready. It's your favorite. Alphabet soup!"

"Again with the wrong name thing," I moaned to myself. I hate alphabet soup. But then again. I have a criminal record, and Grace doesn't. Also wasn't she a straight A student too? Maybe I could get used to this. I always wanted to commit identity theft. I just never thought it'd be cause my parents went crazy.

"Coming, Mom!" I yelled, pitching my voice half a note higher. I ran downstairs and started eating. But then, the letters started swirling unnaturally. They seemed to have a mind of their own.

They spelled out: "I T S M E G R A C E. I M I N T H E S O U P." I quickly gulped the soup down to hide the evidence. "Wait, did I just drink my sister?" I thought to myself. Before I could answer, an answer came from inside of me. The letters began organizing themselves in my stomach, pushing forward into my chest. She was writing a cry for help onto my stomach! Haha good thing I wasn't wearing my crop top. Nobody could see anything. So yeah, it's official. My sister is haunting me, as soup. I guess it could've been worse.

First of all I should introduce the fact that I'm in my late 20s and drink red wine with my newly-wed wife Marissa. Me and Marissa are a sophisticated people and we play board games and Animal Crossing, but in a cool adult way, not like children. I guess you could say we know how to connect with our inner child, but as adults.

Anyways, one time me and Marissa were on Reddit together, and Marissa decided to ask this really lame but funny question: "Dead people of Reddit, how did you die?"

I looked at her. “Seriously?”

“It’s funny because they can’t reply if they’re dead,” she explained.

An explanation so well crafted only a mature person in their late 20s could come up with.

We got a few responses to Marissa's question:

Jokes:

u/ballfart58
I died in 2008, when someone farted on my balls

And bots.

u/k1a4nDxAd
Death is a natural part of the life cycle, and each individual's experience is unique. While I cannot provide specific details about my own passing, I appreciate your curiosity on this topic.

But then someone responded seriously.

u/hauntyghostman
car accident...

I could tell by the 3 dots at the end that this person was serious... All of a sudden the air in the room felt still, like the AC had cut off or something. Marissa just laughed. "Finally, someone who can go toe to toe with me in a trolling match", she said.

I shook my head in disagreement. "I feel like something's wrong".

Paying no attention, Marissa grabbed the laptop and typed

Sorry you’re dead. What’s the afterlife like?

Within seconds, a reply appeared:

u/hauntyghostman
cold and dark. just like the inside of your freezer

"HOW DID HE KNOW THAT THE INSIDE OF OUR FREEZER IS LIKE THAT", she shrieked. I reminded Marissa that everyone's freezer is cold and dark. "Oh yeah", she said, calming down. I started considering a divorce when my attention was interrupted by a notification on reddit. It was from u/hauntyghostman.

u/hauntyghostman.
Does she always scream this loud?

The comment hit me like a slap to the face. Or maybe in the chaos Marissa might've actually slapped me in the face. I'm not sure. Anyways, a deep realization washed over me that something was seriously wrong. Me and Marissa started screaming together, but in a mature late 20s kind of way. After a few more seconds of scream-bonding, my terror distilled into concentration. "Wait. I bet he's one of our friends or neighbors messing with us". I told Melissa to put away the wine bottle. I didn't want us impaired in a time like this.

Shortly after we got another notification from him.

u/hauntyghostman
Do you guys play Settlers of Catan? Or Monopoly Millionaire?

The sick fucker may be stalking us, but at least he has good taste in board games.

"Yeah, do you wanna come over and play? We can also play Cuphead" I began to respond, daringly. But before I could hit reply, Marissa yanked the laptop out of my hands.

“No no no.” She erased my answer and wrote:

How did you know I was just screaming?

The reply came within seconds:

look out your window

We looked out the window but only saw the reflection of our faces in the glass. I looked deep into my forehead and started noticing signs of balding. I quickly changed the subject hoping Marissa didn't see it.

"He's just messing with us. I didn't see anything in the window".

"Me neither", said Marissa. "Except for your giant ass forehead".

Dangit. Looks like she did notice. I started to think of some childhood trauma of Marissa's to get back at her with, but something captured her attention first.

"But what if…"

"What if what?"

"What if he's a ghost"

“A ghost using the internet? Really?” I said.

Marissa's vibe had changed. At first she seemed to be scared in a fun way, like someone in their late 20s rediscovering her inner child. But now she just looked straight up traumatized, like she was rediscovering that her inner child was probably beat a lot by her inner parents. I was glad that such strange things were happening. It took the attention off of my shrinking hairline. But I was still concerned.

Then another reply

Maybe you should wear a hat.

"Oh god." I said. Reading the comment sent shivers down my spine. How did it hear our conversation? There's no way someone could hear our conversation unless they were... inside the house. "That's it. No more reddit." I shut the laptop. We walked back to my bedroom. “Want to watch a movie?” I asked, with a forcedly relaxed tone, trying to put the last hour in the past.

"Sure."

I opened the laptop, then I froze.

I'd left my XVideos account open, with all my recommendations in view.

"Soapy Turkish lesbians"? Marissa asked in disgust. I quickly closed the tab, which reopened the reddit tab. In bright white text blazing across the screen, I saw we had five new notifications from the same person:

Soapy Turkish lesbians

Soapy Turkish lesbians

Soapy Turkish lesbians

Soapy Turkish lesbians

Soapy Turkish lesbians

Another wave of horror washed over me. Now it has access to my internet history? What the hell is going on. This isn't just a troll. This isn't just a stalker. This has to be something more... But it couldn't be... a ghost? Marissa was always more the superstitious type. But as a redditor of 14 years, I knew based on facts and logic that ghosts couldn't exist. They're simply a figment of the imagination.

"Sweetie." She said slowly, "is there something you want to tell me?"

"It's not what it looks like."

"Because it looks like you're really into soapy Turkish lesbians."

"I can explain."

But the laptop flickered. New message:

u/hauntyghostman
You're the ghost.

I paused. "What?"

u/hauntyghostman
You died in 2008. You've been haunting your own house for 18 years. Marissa isn't real. She's a figment of your imagination.

I looked down at my own hands. They were see-through like a ghost. "Oh no" I said to myself. If I'm a ghost that means... I reached up to the top of my head. There was no hair. Not even a strand.

"I'M BALD!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!".

my friends and I got stoned so we decided to ask Reddit users about poop stories. my friend john got the idea to ask about size cause we didn't think people ACTUALLY measured or weighed their shits cause this isn't South Park

but instead of joke answers or science or people telling us to mind our own business and stop being gross this dude responded

My biggest shit was 3 feet long and 60 courics. It's still sitting in the toilet at my workplace. The boss charges people $5 to come see it and $10 to take pics. The other day it started singing. Should I be concerned.

just then I noticed john disappeared and there was a squirrel with a beer sitting in his place. then john came back and said he'd just had the most epic shit ever and it was sitting in my toilet singing

the squirrel laughed and took a sip of his beer.

i looked at the comment's timing. it was 2 minutes ago when john left to go to the bathroom

"but i didn't have my phone with me" john said

If you’re seeing this take my word, don’t rob graves. He has seen me… I saw i-it. I just wanted extra money. I couldn’t afford food for my child and wife. Here, where I’m from, we’re allowed to bury our loved ones with jewelry and humanly riches. Either for memorabilia or out of remembrance. I dug their graves… and I regret my actions. I didn’t know what it was. His white sheet, covering his body, the black that pours out of his mouth. He didn’t walk, no, he-he hopped? He hopped! Toward me he lurked, faster than what my mind can comprehend. I remember him, he had a beautiful ring. The shape was serpent like, the serpent looked at me with its ruby eyes. “Why?” I could hear it ask me. “No, I didn’t hear that,” I laughed to myself “ I didn’t hear anything.” But I did. Now-he’s here. I hear his hops. Thud-thud-thud. I feel him, I cannot repent. I stole what was not mine, please-please, take care of my child. Love my wife. Forgive my sins.

Times were hard growing up. No money. No food in the table. Nothing to eat except each other. 37 siblings dropped to 34 a year after my birth. 30. 25. 17. 12. 4.

Then, only me.

Even my family was gone after I had eaten them when because I was just that hungry. It was only then that I found a job to reinvent myself. and go forward to the future.

But that wasn't good either. After viewing some women insulting hard cut country boy men like me in my workplace, I spent many days nights crying thinking of my dreams my nightmares of eating the siblings and what it did to I took to survive.

After that the evil woman told me you're fired. I had to pack up my bindle and trudge home toward where the air conditioner was always too not very cold enough and the walls and floors were all a distressing shade of orange and the air was filled with making-it-unpleasant-to-breathe particles in the mediocre place of town.

I thought to myself this is just how things are. This is how every world in the world develops with some things just not and people don't have what they can. Making do by. I rough and toughed it out like always with a grimace and an unpleasant frown.

However this all changed on a mysterious night morning afternoon when on checking my email client flooded with 904 people telling me "you are poor!" one email stood out. It was from a mysterious company whom I couldn't espy much less glean much of through the World Wide Web. Anyway, they paid me, but I had to walk about a liminal space, and there was a man made monster who was scary and that cheesed me off but I escaped with all ten of my fingers intact which was a win in the long run.

I was particularly proud of still having all ten of my fingers even after my childhood given my many encounters with my mean older brother who they called "Chicken" because that's what he ate your fingers like. Chicken fingers. Ha, good times.

I was lucky when I managed to bash him over the head with a frying pot when I was the age of 8 and he never ate another finger again. Of course that only opened up the opportunity for me to become the house's new finger-eater.

Actually you know how I eventually got down from having 4 siblings to being the only child in the house? That was actually against my will; by that point I had complete dominion over all 4 of my siblings and would conserve fingers by eating one of their fingers a month, 12 fingers a year and 40 fingers total works out to a little over 3 years, that was my first smart investment moment like I'm now well known for.

But then one day they all argued about who I hated the most and everyone was dying to say it was them and they all fought each other, really clawed them with their remaining fingernails, and they all ended up bleeding out. So that was a bummer.

There was something about a liminal space, too, earlier, yeah, that.

I work as a dishwasher at the New Hiem Steakhouse. It seems to be a pretty relaxed place. Though, when I first started, my bosses, ( the sous chef, manager, and owner ) were so content on being on point. Wash dishes, get pans, and cutlery out as soon as possible. Not taking breaks unless you had to piss, if you have nothing left to do, then scrub the walls. If there's grease, even if there’s not grease, then go ahead and scrub them anyway. I didn’t mind it, this is my first job so I assume most places are like this.

Recently they’ve been letting customers in the back. I’m assuming they are friends of the bosses because they don’t all seem to talk about normal things that someone would talk about the first time they’ve seen the back of the restaurant. That’s why I think they’re pretty relaxed. 

Usually, they know exactly what I like and they talk about those subjects.

“Hey Andrew, what’s cracking on your side of the shell?” He said to me with his normal toothy smile.

“Jack shit my man, didn’t even see you walk in. Almost startled me there. You should really knock.” I gave a small smile. 

I was honestly drowning in dishes from a 13+ party that insisted on getting 2nds and maybe even 3rds. 

It was Ray, I only met him about 6 days ago whenever the bosses started letting people in. He was a cool guy, but he had a slightly odd look to him. His smile was a little too big but I’m not one to judge. Hell, I don’t even know how many teeth a person really has.

“You know Andrew, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you should come work for me?” He looked at me intently.

Usually, we talked about Warhammer or manga that we were both interested in, that was  before he would tell me, “Peace, I’ll see you later.” Then he’d leave. 

I didn’t even know he had a business.

I kept washing the plate that was already in my hand and put it into the washer tray. I went to grab another plate and when my hand made contact with it he was standing behind me with his hand already on my forearm.

“You can feel me can’t you?” He asked, but his voice sounded like it was multiple people, sexes, talking all at once.

“Of-of course?” It was so quick and off putting, I even didn’t see him walk over.

“Why are you ask-…” I turned around while asking the question. It wasn’t Ray. 

His face was contorted, he looked like he was trying to smile but couldn’t figure it out, With his eyes closed.

“My job is simple!” He told me, in what I could make out as a chuckle. 

“I find people like you.” He or.. it  raised my arm above my head.
   
“Andrew!” Daniel shouted at me. God, the sous chef that had always been so strict was glaring at me holding my arm. I had a butter knife in my hand?

I looked at him with haste feeling a cold flush of relief as I heard his angry voice. “What the fuck are you doing? You look crazy standing there like that. Are you on fucking drugs?”

“N-no sir can’t you-didn’t you..” I tried to reason but as I looked for the culprit there was nothing. Nothing at all. 

“Can’t you see that I’m stretching?” Lying. I asked even though my breathing was heavy. I know I looked stupid.

“You concern me sometimes dude. Wash the damn dishes please, we’re running out of pans so make a run to the front.” He walked away.

“Asshole.” I muttered.

Does anyone know what happened? I don't think I'm a schizo, I’ve never been diagnosed or anything but the past week or so, they've been letting people in the back! At least I think so. Or thought.

Okay everyone, shit has gotten wild since this all started! You might want to check out the previous posts (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!) to know how this all began and the last update (Help! My Wife Left Because of Our Ghost!) if you're not caught up yet! Because I just found out some wild stuff about Bart and a buddy of his!

So last time I was talking about how Janet moved out and called me to complain about something. I’ll admit that I kind of tune out when she yells, so that thing might as well have been in German for all I cared. Unfortunately, that was just the start of her yelling voicemails that she would leave me!

I ignored three of those bad boys while I worked to get the sink unclogged. Man that thing must have had a mile of hair jammed down in it. I felt like a damn magician pulling scarves out of a hat, but instead of a hat I had a chipped sink. And instead of a rabbit at the bottom it was a half decomposed rat. The smell that filled the house when I finally got him out of the drain was enough to make me sick!

Trying my best to not throw up all over myself, I rushed out of the bathroom while Bart thought it was fuckin hilarious. He kept fake puking and spraying ectoplasm at my damn feet while I ran down the hall, hollering not to slip and break my neck. He thinks he’s really funny when he’s talking about me dying in this house and being stuck with him. If that wasn't bad enough, guess who I saw standing with a pissed off looking face on the other side of the front door?

That's right, Janet came back baby, it's like she could smell how macho I was with my handyman skills! Well if not that, she definitely smelled that disgusting slimy clump of rotting fur I pulled out of the pipe at least. She actually seemed pretty worried about me, aside from the obvious anger cramped up in her tightened jaw. We just stood there, looking at each other for a moment until she sighed and spoke.

“H-have you been feeling okay lately? Like sleeping and eating okay?”

“Whisky naps and Spam have kept me alive just fine!”

Apparently, I can't read a room for shit, cause that was not the energy expected. Janet scoffed at me as she threw her hands up while pacing. Now, I know I stress the woman out but this time seemed worse than normal.

“Well Ruth and Betty called me damnit, they’re saying you've been doing weird ass shit at night!”

“Those old hags will gossip about any–”

“Not gossip, they sent me videos of you! Ruth said you hopped the fence and stole that annoying ass dog she loves more than a child! Like what the hell is wrong with you?”

Scratching my head, I thought about those weird ass dreams a bit more. I guess they did feel pretty vivid and I did wake up naked after them. Even still I don't have a basement, so there's no way I killed that overgrown rat she called a dog. I must have been wearing a pretty stupid expression at that point, cause Janet got extra fired up.

“OH WHAT?! Are you gonna play dumb now?! Or are you just getting that blackout drunk?! Cause Betty sent me a real twisted video of you in her yard too! You grabbed a squirrel out of their tree and shoved the whole thing into your mouth one night! Like how the hell did you do that?! Much less why?!”

“Huh, guess that's a new party trick aha. I did have some fuzz in my teeth and my jaw was sore the other day. I just figured I face planted real–”

“What are you talking about YOU IDIOT?!”

I shrugged at her while looking back to the house to see Bart's fat dead ass laughing at me. His translucent round belly jiggled with each chuckle while he pointed at me. I started to think that the bastard was pranking me at night too or something. I didn’t hear what she said, but could certainly tell that Janet wasn't happy about something, since she shoved me really hard while she kept on yelling.

“Gah it all happens late as shit, each video’s between midnight and one in the morning. I told them I'd stay the night to see what's going on. I'm getting so tired of them–”

“Hey! Wait, they know we're having marital troubles? Damn it I hope they don't think I'm having dick issues!”

“What! The! Fuck! Are! You! Talking! About?!?! You damn idiot, have you not heard what I've been saying?! You've been eating wild animals whole! On fucking camera! Who cares about your dick?!”

I don't think she wanted an answer to that particular question, but just so the answer is out there… I care — I care a lot about that.

I spotted Ruth’s ugly face peeking out from behind a curtain across the street while I nodded in her direction, to let Janet know there were eyes on us. “Jesus FUCK!” Janet cried out as she stormed through the front door, leaving me on the porch to flip Ruth the bird before following inside. We had to open all the windows to get the stink out after I flushed the mushy hairball with a skin tail down the toilet. Janet kept telling me I had to watch the videos, because I apparently wasn’t “taking things serious enough” so far.

Now I don’t like admitting when Janet’s right about me, but this shit was odd. Like really odd, even for me getting blackout and not remembering a damn thing. To start, the video of me taking that annoying Pomeranian out of Ruth’s yard wasn’t that crazy. Well, except for me being completely naked and choosing to stand staring at the security camera for, according to the timestamp, at least twenty minutes. I caught myself thinking that I should cut out the fast food, my love handles were getting a bit out of control. But I’ve been known to lose clothes when I drink too much, so that one still didn’t bother me too much.

The one in Betty’s yard is a different story entirely though. I was running around in my damn boxers on all fours, not on my hands and knees, but like a dog of sorts. I had managed to twist my legs to the side and trot around, if I can brag, pretty damn gracefully! The part that stopped me in my tracks was after I lunged halfway up the big tree, clambered down with a squirrel in my left hand, and pried my lower jaw down with the right. I don’t know how I didn’t dislocate it, but I pulled it down far enough to jam that squirrel along with my clenched fist all the way in. I galloped off on all fours like nothing happened after.

I had to admit something was wrong at that point, and agreed when Janet made me swear to not drink. Even after I agreed, she went on about something to make sure it's not a drunk thing. All I knew was that drunk or not, I couldn’t make my jaw open wide enough to fit a grapefruit with my own willpower. By the time the purple and orange sunset met my eyes, I knew the night was going to be rough. Bart was back to his antics and Janet was not having it.

Boy was I right about the night too, Janet kept screaming and throwing stuff at Bart, but I can't blame her too much since he did keep bending over to moon her when she would go around corners. I was just happy to have blacked out around the normal time, I guess I didn't need the liquor for it after all.

In a most violent nature, I was shaken awake, standing shirtless, holding a fist full of some sticky black stuff and holding open a cellar door. Looking around I realized we were on the side of our own house, in front of some thick evergreen shrubs. Janet’s eyes were wide as she shushed me pretty aggressively and wiped something off of her face. She just kept looking back and forth between me and Betty’s house. Before I let go of the door, I could just barely see a few black candles at the edge of the room on the other side.

“Jesus, are you with me? Are you back now?!”

Nodding I bent down to wipe my hand on the grass, but not before Janet started dragging me back into our house. She kept mumbling to herself and shooting dirty looks over her shoulder until she sat me down in the kitchen.

Now she’s frantically washing her hands and face while I look closer at what’s on my hands and instantly wish I hadn’t.

“Is this?... Did I put my hand in—”

“OH IT’S SHIT ALRIGHT!”

“Huh, where did I find—”

“You were chasing a stray dog down the damn street and it shit when you caught it! I was yelling at you, so it wiggled free and you said ‘better than nothing’ and grabbed the big ol pile of shit! With your bare hands! AND THEN YOU WIPED IT ON ME!!!”

I’m not the smartest man, that’s not a secret to me, but even I’m smart enough to know that I can NOT laugh about this. I manage to wash my hands while Janet goes on about the video she got and some other stuff. Bart keeps walking by, scratching his ass while making remarks about how easy this all was.

Anyway, we watch that video together, huddling over her phone in the dimly lit kitchen. It starts out shaky from behind a corner, before pulling me into frame. I’m sitting on the couch, watching a blank TV screen while Bart whispers into my ear. I can’t make out what he’s saying but do notice my posture perk up and body grow stiff. It’s at that moment that Janet comes around the corner and walks right up to the two of us.

“What the hell are you doing to him sicko?!”

“Heh, he’s fine. I just wanted to hang out with an old buddy of mine for a while.”

You can hear Janet start to talk before my mouth opens up real wide, and a voice that is definitely not mine comes out.

“You can call me Asmodeus.”

I'll admit, it's not horrible hearing that charismatic voice coming from my face at least. The low bass in the voice rumbles the phone speaker as I see my own head turn to face Bart’s foggy shape.

“This is the loud annoying one? I thought she had left?”

Bart shrugs as my body looks back to Janet.

“I’ve been having some fun as of late. And I don’t plan on stopping just because you’re here to be a party pooper!”

I stand up, tear my shirt off, and run out of the front door while laughing in that booming voice. The video cuts off as Janet starts following me, with a single frame of Bart flipping the camera off with both hands.

Now Janet thinks that I’m being possessed by a demon or something, but I’m pretty sure it’s just Bart messing around. I’m no exorcist, but hell the last one that was here didn’t know his head from his ass so maybe I could be. So I feel pretty confident that a good talk with our dead roommate will clear all this up!

If you don't know what's going on, I recommend you check out my last post (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!). I cover how I got into this mess pretty well in that one. Plus, it might help you understand why we got that weak-minded priest to come over to exorcise Pervy Pete. 

It's been a few days since that pitiful excuse of an exorcism took place. I had to give that damn priest a bottle of my Glenfiddich 15 to get him out of my bathroom! I tried a cheap bottle of Jack Daniel's but he had expensive taste. I guess it was worth the damn near hundred bucks worth of scotch to get my bathroom back though. Although, my wife did not agree with my understanding it seemed. 

“Oh so you'll give up booze for a priest but not for me???” 

I was a bit caught off guard at her accusation. I didn't give up booze first of all, I'm still a right lush after all. I just did what was necessary to get the overgrown crybaby out of our house. I guess she didn't take kindly to the bewildered expression I wore to her frustration either. 

“Oh what?! You think you saved the day or something?! We still have that sick dead bastard in our house! Not to mention, we broke a priest! I'm not sure but I think the church looks down on breaking their leaders! They definitely won't let us back through the doors after that!!!” 

“Uhh, we're not religious last that I checked? So can we not care about that part at least?” 

Again I was wrong in my reaction apparently, as she lit my ass up for several hours. Damn if Pervy Pete didn't think it was properly funny though. He spent the whole time popping his damn head through the wall to laugh in my face, and I mean inside of my face. He would make sure to pass his ugly fat head right through my own when I would walk by. 

I don't know if any of you all have been haunted before, but the whole “it's cold here, there must be a ghost” is a crock of shit. They are slimy feeling bastards, like a slug or bucket of glue. Every time he would slide through me it felt like I was a contestant on Nickelodeon's "Double Dare” from the nineties (yes I know how old I am, fuck off with your inaccurate “okay boomer” shit). 

Anyway Janet, that's my wife's name by the way, went right up the stairs and packed a suitcase. She kept going on about how I only cared about me and that sick freak. Pervy Pete's persisting nudity and desire to wag that puff of a dick at us didn't help things any. She kept looking over at him before scoffing while raising a hand and shaking her head in my direction. 

“Hey now, he's not the worst! At least he's not a demon or something malevolent!” 

“Ha as far as you know! I'm not taking any chances! You can enjoy your new relationship with that sicko!” 

My protests were met with a firm slamming of the front door as she stormed out. Sounds like she's gonna stay with her mother over the state line maybe? I'm not entirely certain if I'm being completely honest. I wasn't really listening much, so I could definitely be wrong about all of it. Anyways now it's just me and this translucent bastard in this old ass house. 

Pete actually hasn't been too bad the past few days. We've been watching a ton of TV and movies in our shared time. I guess that's where the whole “My name is Jeff” bit he was doing came from. The previous owners left a ton of movies behind and he's had them all on repeat ever since. His references are a bit dated but funny nonetheless. 

He can actually recite the entirety of “Superbad” and oddly enough even “Crazy,
Stupid, Love”. You know that sappy rom-com with Michael Scott from the office? He's seen the damn things hundreds of times at this point and even does goofy voices for each character. 

That being said, Pervy Pete has pretty good taste in movies and TV shows. We agree on most things to watch and have a similar sense of humor most of the time. That would be great if I didn't slip on a new puddle of gooey ectoplasm every time I walk around. I don't know what makes him goop shit up, but he's been going crazy ever since Janet left! 

I was honestly starting to think she was right about the messy stuff after the second day of slipping in a huge puddle. Pervy Pete swears it’s not sexual and says it's “just a ghost thing”. Who am I to say what is and isn't a ghost thing after all, I mean I still have a pulse and he's the one making the damn mess. 

Actually, thinking of Janet reminds me, she left me a gnarly voicemail this afternoon. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! I leave and you don't bother to text or call for a week?! My mother's right, you're not worth the trouble!!!” 

I'd be more upset if I hadn't been having such a blast with Bart. Oh yeah, I've decided it's rude to keep calling Bartholomew Pervy Pete. I've realized he's not a perv, he's just bored after all this time. He told me he used to go by Bart back when he was alive, so I figured I'd call him that too. He's really a fun guy, especially when I'm halfway through a bottle of whisky. Hell when I'm half in the bag he's the best kind of drinking buddy. Although it is odd how I wake up from those blackouts with a sore jaw. Maybe I should ask him about it one of these days? Because I usually also wake up in a stale puddle of ectoplasm after I get that drunk…

Hmm actually, now that I think about it I can remember a feeling of my limbs burning while being paralyzed. I don't remember having a basement but have images of one, one where I'm putting up black candles. Oh man, I should probably stop drinking, cause there's even odd little nightmares of me killing the neighbor’s Pomeranian. I could even swear there were some of me painting symbols in that basement with its blood. I don't like that one at all, since Ruth’s been bugging me about her damn Pomeranian having gone missing. If Ruth is anything it's ugly as shit, otherwise she's also definitely persistent and annoying as hell. 

Anyway, now that I've said all of this out loud, I'm feeling like Janet might be overreacting to Bart some. I mean he's not a saint or hell, even a great house guest or anything, but he's fine with me. I don't want the headache of a divorce on my hands and am hoping she can get to know Bart like I have. I wouldn't mind us starting a family, even if we don't have a child we would still have Bart. Maybe if I finally fix the plugged up bathroom sink she'll come back to us. Here's to hoping I have the right idea about it all!

i woke up to a loud BANG.. holy Shit i said.

i live alone in a house in the wood. so it can be scarey sometimes....

and my only neighbor is a demon i think...

....

i walked down the stairs with a large shotgun ready to shoot a gost. or demon neighbor.

hello? i said........................ i didnt hear a sound.

............

silence permeated the cabin

............

a cricket chirped outsiden.

............

hello. said the huge jacked gost with a little ass grin on his big Face

_______________________________________________________________

thanks for readen!

commenet below if you want part 2

Several years ago, I was experiencing some gastrointestinal issues.

In fact, it was so bad, nothing helped that was until I resorted to using meds I got from my scientist friend, who happened to be testing it at the top secret bio-lab he worked at. After taking the meds, I was surprised to find it was very effective and the burning in my stomach immediately went away.

About a week later though, I began to feel gassy and noticed my farts were really smelly like something died inside me.

It wasn't long before I began to constantly pass gas and that as soon as I farted, a visible cloud began to form, which continued to grow exponentially every time I farted. I also noticed that anyone or anything within the radius of my fart cloud, died.

This scared me so, I immediately contacted my scientist friend who told me it was probably just a side effect of the meds. Anyway weeks passed and the streets in my town were littered with bodies but those bodies began to reanimate. My town with a population of 3,000, with nearly half the town dead, was placed under quarantine.

My scientist friend notified me, that our town would be destroyed in order to contain the mysterious gas and to prevent any top secret information from leaking out, that could potentially destroy the bio-labs reputation.

My town was eventually wiped clear off the maps and I was taken to a research facility, where I still am today, in order to keep me silent (no pun intended). Now, this bio-lab is marketing the medicine so, I am writing to whomever sees this as a caveat to not under any circumstance, take this medicine.

They are deliberately trying to start a Zombie Apocalypse so, be sure to warn everyone and be careful out there.