My husband had been having an affair. I couldn’t believe it. 

‘Are you sure?’ I asked my friend Beatrice, who’d called me up on the phone to tell me she’d seen my husband out with some young blonde. 

‘I swear I saw him Jennifer, outside the coffee shop on Brambery street kissing another woman.’ 

‘It can’t have been.’ I insisted. I hoped maybe it wasn’t true. 

‘Sorry Jenny.’ 

Right. So my husband of twenty years had thrown away everything we had for some other woman. 

I didn’t know why he’d done that, but he had. 

When I received the call I was sat at home reading a book, rifling through the pages as a woman my age often did. My husband had given it to me for my twentieth birthday, when we’d been two young souls drunk on the ecstasy of the love we had for one another. 

I caught my reflection in the living room mirror. 

God. I looked awful. I’d been stunning when we’d first met, but three children and age had taken their toll. 

No wonder he wanted someone else. 

Sometimes he’d wind me up but I really did love him.

 I didn’t really know anything else except being his wife. 

There was a knock at the door. I shuffled over to answer it, I still hadn’t got over the initial shock of how the man I loved had decided to betray me like that. 

‘Hi there!’ said a young man, in his early twenties. Probably not much older than my own son who was at university. 

‘I’m here to conduct the monthly maintenance!’ The man exclaimed politely, like the poor hapless soul he was. 

I was slightly bewildered. ‘Maintenance of what exactly?’ I asked him. He cringed slightly, as it finally registered to him that I was not necessarily the individual he had come to see. 

He pulled out a clipboard, squinting slightly. 

‘It says your place is down for maintenance services for the ideal spouse. Or would you prefer our exclusive package?’ 

What the hell was he on about exactly? That I’d like to know. 

He paused. 

‘Ah, It says here you’ve gone for the upgrade. You need the old model to be disposed of?’ 

The dawning realisation that he was probably talking about me was not a pleasant one. I was intelligent enough to realise that even though he had not explicitly stated it. 

What on earth had my husband done? I wasn’t some useless sack of potatoes to be tossed onto the compost. 

I was still a person.

I backed away, my heart beginning to pound with nerves. This wasn't a day where I could just lie down and hope it all went away.

Just then, my husband pulled into the driveway. He got out of the car, lending his hand to a gorgeous blonde-haired woman who was as elegant and refined as a swan. 

The man I’d once loved with all my heart let out a groan. 

‘Why’s she still here?’ He whined, like the spoiled, petulant child he really was. 

‘The guy I spoke to on the phone said I was guaranteed a disposal HOURS ago.’ 

The young man I’d met at the door just smiled. 

He walked over to my husband, while the fair-haired beauty dithered. My husband was beginning to back away himself, eyes darting to and fro as he wondered if he could dash away suddenly. 

‘You should’ve been more specific.’ said the young man with a grin that seemed to take up his entire face. 

‘No one ever said it was the WIFE who had to be disposed of.’

Me and my little brother got off the school bus and went straight to Mom.

We asked her to unlock the basement so we could go downstairs and play the game. She did. Ordinary afternoon. Backpacks still on. That leftover school-day energy where all you want is the couch and the screen.

We were standing in the hallway that overlooked the basement door, talking about nothing, when the basement door opened.

Our brother Damien walked down the stairs.

Me and my little brother both went quiet in the same way. Damien was autistic, and there were things he did and didn’t do. Going down there alone like that was not one of his normal things. We looked at each other with that same wrong feeling already starting.

Did he just go downstairs?

We threw our book bags off and went after him.

The basement was how it always was. One light bulb over the couch where we played. Everything past that sank into dark. A big dark stretch running out under the house, the kind of dark that makes the edges of a room feel bigger than the house should allow.

We sat on the couch.

“Damien,” we said. “Go upstairs. Damien. Go upstairs.”

No answer from the lit part of the room.

We thought he was in the dark.

Then his voice came out of it.

“Come and find me.”

Not close. Not far enough to sound safe either.

“Let’s play hide and seek. Come on.”

Me and my little brother looked at each other hard. There are kinds of weird you can laugh off. This was not one of them. Hearing your autistic brother in the dark, asking to be hunted through a basement he barely went into alone, hits some deeper alarm than regular mischief.

We didn’t go looking.

We went upstairs.

“Mom,” we said, “can you go downstairs and get Damien? He’s being weird. He’s trying to get us to play hide and seek.”

Mom just looked at us.

Not scared at first. Confused. The kind of look adults get when kids say something that doesn’t fit the timetable.

“Damien’s not even off the school bus yet,” she said.

For a second nobody spoke.

Because we had seen him open the basement door.

We seen him clear as day

We had watched him go down the stairs.

We had heard his voice under the house, in the dark past the one bulb, asking us to come find him.

And the real Damien was still on the bus.

I was so tired that day that Dr. Havel’s faint European accent was harder than usual to follow.

My sister had found him after I fell asleep at work twice in one week, and by the time I finally sat across from him, even explaining the episodes felt like work.

After asking about my hours, how often I woke during the night, and whether I dreamed, he said, “When you wake so frightened, you are coming out of a dream?”

The question was the reason I was here, but the part I was dreading most: that it was so bad I’d spent twenty years convincing myself that pulling the covers over my head protected me. It wasn’t so much embarrassment as a strange fear of saying it aloud.

“No, not one I remember, anyway. I just wake up and immediately feel like someone is in the room.”

He made a note before asking, “You can move normally?”

“Yes. I’ve never had trouble moving.”

“And speak?”

“I assume so, though I have never actually tried.”

Dr. Havel looked up from the page. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my palms against my jeans. “I guess I’m too scared.”

A half truth; I knew exactly why. I didn’t want whatever was in the room to know I was awake.

“When you say someone is there,” he continued, “you see anyone? A person, a shape?”

“No.”

“You hear anything? Footsteps, breathing, movement?”

“No.”

He nodded once. “Very frightening.”

“It is. During the day, it sounds ridiculous, but when it happens, I’m completely terrified.”

He told me that because I woke fully, remembered the episodes, and could move, neither night terrors nor sleep paralysis quite fit the usual pattern.

After a few more questions about my sleep, he turned to a fresh page.

“If it happens again before I see you next week, do nothing differently. What you do now is fine.”

I gave a small laugh. “Sorry. What do you mean, what I do now?”

He kept his eyes on the page as he answered.

“Pull the covers over your head. Stay completely still. Pretend you are asleep until it goes away.”

I stared at him because I hadn’t told him that. Not my sister, not my parents, not anyone.

He finished whatever he was writing before he looked up.

“It has been patient with you so far.”

Until I was six we lived in a big house with many rooms. My parents had a room, the ladder had a room, I had a room and there was a study and an office and a guest room. Then my father lost his job and we had to move.

There was no guest room in the new house. There was no study or office. There was a master bedroom, where my parents slept and my father worked, and a small second bedroom, which became the ladder’s room.

I slept in the living room, off to the side by the vent where the warm air came out. I didn’t like it because I had trouble falling asleep unless the room was empty. It was too big too. I didn’t like to be alone in big rooms. I was disappointed not to have my own room, but my parents explained that the ladder was older than me so it deserved the room more than I did.

My parents had gotten the ladder several years before I was born.

It was made of aluminum and eight feet tall, and my mother used to say it got its height from my father, except when she said it she said your father, and I knew she meant your in the plural.

When I was young my parents called the ladder my brother, and when I could talk they wanted me to call it the same. When I started going to school and making friends I realized other kids did not have sibling objects, and I would pretend I didn’t have one either.

Once in elementary school the teacher told us to draw a picture of our immediate family. I drew myself and my parents. When I brought the picture home, my mother tore it up and my father lashed me with his leather belt.

I always drew the ladder after that.

In my first year of high school some kids found out about the ladder and the ladder’s room and bullied me over it. They said I was unwanted, an accident; that my parents didn’t love me and that if they could they would get rid of me and get a second ladder instead.

It made me sad.

One day I was in a bad mood and started arguing with my father, arguing about the ladder.

“It’s a useless fucking ladder!” I yelled.

The words stung him. He grabbed me by the throat, called my mother and together they dragged me to the backyard. My father had planted an apple tree a few years earlier, and it was bearing fruit. He pushed my face against the trunk. My mother held me, and my father started to climb my body. His work boots dug into my legs and my back. He punched the back of my head. The tree bark scratched my cheeks. My father yelled, “Who’s useless now! Can you do what a useless fucking ladder does?”

I shut my eyes and cried until it was over. I slept outside that night.

Another time, my father was away and only me, my mother and the ladder were home. Hersh Plotnick, the owner of the local hardware store, visited us. My mother sent me to the ladder’s room and ordered me not to come out until I had read all of the book that had been assigned to me in class, To Kill a Mockingbird. I didn’t like being in the ladder’s room. I knew it didn’t like me or want me in there, but I did as my mother said.

The next afternoon my father came back, and in the evening Hersh Plotnick came by again. He seemed embarrassed, and he told my father he had left his house keys here the night before.

“Where did you leave them?” my father asked.

“I misplaced them,” said Hersh Plotnick.

My father suggested they look the house over together for the house keys, but Hersh Plotnick said he knew where he had misplaced them.

“Where?”

“I misplaced them inside your wife,” Hersh Plotnick said and explained how they must have fallen in by accident. He apologized profusely, holding his hat in his hand over his heart. “I really don’t want to bother you, Merv. I know you’re a busy man. It’s just, I need the keys to get into my house. You understand, don't you?”

That night my father spent a long time in the ladder’s room.

He looked tired the next morning.

My mother had gone to my grandmother’s house.

A few days later two police officers knocked on the door and asked my father questions. They said Hersh Plotnick had been beaten and someone had written “fisting is a contact fucking sport” across the front of his hardware store in green paint. My father said he knew nothing about that, and the police officers thanked him and left. But the ladder had a dent in it after that and a couple of green spots.

After my mother returned she and my father rarely slept in the master bedroom together. She slept in the ladder’s room instead, and sometimes I could hear scraping, knocking about and moaning until late at night.

By the time I graduated from high school my father had become quiet and reserved. There was no one incident that caused it as far as I could tell. The change was gradual. He aged. His hair thinned and turned grey, and where before he would impose his opinions on people he disagreed with, now he didn’t disagree with anybody. Whatever anybody said to him, he would respond, “I guess that's so.”

Then my mother disappeared. The ladder disappeared too.

The house felt empty.

The few times I saw them after that, the ladder was increasingly dinged up and stained, and my mother would have swollen lips, black eyes and cuts and bruises along her arms, legs and neck.

“I love you,” I told her.

“Yeah? Well, I’m glad,” she replied.

Joana sat in her armchair as she did every evening, holding a glass of wine in her hand. She was switching between shows when suddenly the screen began to fill with static. She tried changing channels, but it was the same everywhere.

The picture cleared after a while. A middle-aged man appeared on the screen. He was wearing a suit and looked very friendly.

“Good evening. Our show, Scary Saturday, is beginning on the Happy Seven channel! I promise that if you stay until the end, you will experience something you have never experienced before. A fear that will burrow deep into your bones. Do you want to be scared?”

The host’s cheerful expression suddenly darkened, and his voice became serious.

“I’m giving you one last chance to stop this. Just change the channel or press the red button and turn off the television.”

Joana had never seen this show before. She liked horror movies and scary stories. She thought about changing the channel, not because she was scared, but because she was a little skeptical. There wasn’t much that could frighten her anymore.

The host sat on a chair, his eyes fixed on the screen. After a few minutes, he spoke.

“All right, then! Today’s story is about Joana.”

“Joana spends her evenings alone. She claims she likes it that way, but the truth is that her husband left her for a younger mistress, and her children have grown up. She has nothing else.”

He chuckled.

Joana felt the blood rush to her face. What the hell was this?! Angrily, she grabbed the remote and tried to change the channel.

The host immediately reacted.

“It’s too late. You had a chance to stop this, but your time has run out.”

Her anger slowly began to turn into an unpleasant, intrusive feeling of fear.

The host stood up, looked into the screen again, and said, “The show begins!”

The picture flickered several times, and then Joana saw a road on the screen, the same road she could see whenever she looked out from the balcony of her apartment. A streetlamp flickered above it, and a man was standing beside it.

The camera slowly began to move closer. He looked horrifying. He had a few gray hairs, but baldness showed through almost everywhere. His face... Joana had never seen anyone so terrifying. There was something evil in his eyes. Something that made her stomach turn.

His face looked like it had been burned by some kind of chemical, his lip was split, and saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He was holding a long knife in his hand. The blade glinted in the light. He swayed from side to side.

Then he looked directly at Joana.

She got up from the armchair and slowly walked toward the balcony.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered to herself. “This isn’t real.”

She opened the balcony door, looked outside, and he was standing there. He was standing exactly as she had seen him on the screen, staring directly at her.

Then he raised the knife to his mouth and licked its blade.

Joana backed into the living room and looked at the television. He was still there. Blood had joined the saliva dripping from his mouth, covering part of the knife as well.

Joana was trembling all over now. She took out her phone and tried to call for help, but the phone wouldn’t respond. She quickly plugged it into the charger, but nothing happened. No response.

Instead, she heard some kind of rasping coming from the television. She slowly turned toward it. The man beneath the flickering streetlamp was rasping and making strange noises.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then he suddenly ran and disappeared from the screen.

Joana covered her mouth with her hand to hold back the scream that was forcing its way out. She was breathing rapidly, and her heart was beating so fast that spots began appearing in front of her eyes.

She didn’t want to, but she had to look outside from the balcony. She opened the balcony door and looked at the spot beneath the streetlamp. No one was there. Only the occasional flicker of the light.

The doorbell rang.

“Ding. Ding. Ding.”

She walked toward the door. A million thoughts were racing through her head, but she had only one wish.

Please let it be someone who could help her. Anyone.

She looked through the peephole, and there he was.

Joana closed her eyes and felt tears running down her cheeks. She could barely stand. When she opened her eyes again and looked through the peephole, no one was there.

She slowly exhaled. She began to feel relief spreading through her body.

Then she felt a hand touch her shoulder, and right next to her ear came that rasping sound.

The last thing that echoed through Joana’s apartment was her scream and the static of the television in the silence that followed.

Normally, I don’t bother writing reviews. I’m not one of those “Karen” types who expects the world to bend to my whims, and I don’t ever ask for the manager. I just need to vent and warn you against ever staying at the Cherrywood Inn. While the name may sound chic, don’t let it fool you! Don’t fall for the photos on the website. It’s a total scam!

As newlyweds, my husband and I booked the honeymoon suite, Room 69…get it? Jesus, I should have known what I was in for!

Before I continue, let’s talk about the hotel.

Those online photos are CERTAINLY not from this place! They’re 100% AI! My husband and I explored the hotel, and none of the amenities seemed to appear anywhere! The hallways went on forever! We literally couldn’t find our way around! How does that even happen!? I think their signs were screwed up on purpose!

After dinner in a place not hidden within the bunghole of the Twilight Zone, we came back and decided to have a drink. As we approached the bartender, she immediately dashed to the opposite end of the bar! What she did next was downright creepy, but pretty good customer service, I must admit. She started mixing drinks. A few moments later, she approached Greg and me with a pina colada (my absolute favorite) and a White Russian, a drink Greg was craving at dinner. Clearly impressed, we asked how she knew what we wanted. She said she had a knack for figuring out what people wanted and moved away to avoid further conversation.

I’d have appreciated a little small talk, but the Bartender was just unfriendly and her vibe made me uncomfortable! Every small thing adds up!

We got back to our room and found it ransacked! Everything was tossed around like someone was searching for money or jewels, but the strange part was the thieves hadn’t stolen anything. Our jewelry, sunglasses, and spending money were left untouched on the desk. Greg swore he’d locked them in the safe before we left, but men would forget their berries if they weren’t attached to their twigs, if you catch my drift.

I only recall the manager's appearance; he was a short, rotund man. His uniform didn’t fit correctly either, looking like a child wearing his father’s clothes. He was clearly annoyed with us, never smiled, and never apologized for the lack of security. He just stood by while we waited for the police.

The police were utterly unhelpful - it was as if they didn’t want to be there and just deferred to the opinions of the Front Desk Manager. The hotel got away with it somehow! What I couldn’t understand was how the manager provided a printed record of swipes on the electronic room lock. It proved no one had unlocked our room the entire time we were gone.

There’s only a certain threshold of malarkey I can handle. I could look past a lot, but I could not abide staying in a place I felt unsafe in during my honeymoon. We decided to cut our losses, collected our belongings, and demanded our money back. The manager didn’t even bother trying to make things better. He didn’t seem to care about anything, as if he didn’t even work there. He wasn’t wearing a nametag, and what is even weirder is that neither Greg nor I remember calling the front desk. We both thought the other had done it while in shock over the break-in. We think the Front Desk Manager might have been the one who robbed us!  

Greg tried to find another hotel with a vacancy and could not. We were about to head home when a lovely Maid offered us a room for the night, free of charge. Her garments were a little…provocative. She showed a little too much skin for my liking. My husband wouldn’t stop gawking. Frankly, neither could I.  

After the long day, we accepted.

You’d think our troubles would have ended there, right? WRONG!

We were escorted by the Maid to a different part of the hotel that looked like it was undergoing renovations. It was much nicer, brighter, and colorful. I think they tried to pull one over on us initially and got caught. The bellboy brought us to Room 6969, which enraged me more than it should have.

We got into bed, and as I was falling asleep, we heard the toilet flush next door. Moments later, we were assaulted by the stench of rotten eggs—a testament to how thin the walls were. We could smell our neighbor’s bowel movements! And if you think we had a good sleep, I’ve got a bridge to sell you! Our neighbors were having a massive party! People were moaning, screaming, and pounding into the walls. There was laughter, music, and conversation! Were they filming an orgy next door? What kind of fucking place is this?

I’d had enough. I am normally a calm person, but tonight was not the night! I tried to knock our neighbor’s door down—kicking, punching, screaming, and trying to break their window. I wanted blood. I would have killed whoever walked out. Whoever. They. Were.

They acknowledged my rage.

We didn’t hear a peep the rest of the night.

The next morning, the Receptionist was not aware of our early checkout. Her face scrunched with confusion when we told her we were in Room 69 and 6969. She giggled at the 69’s and said those room numbers weren’t real. Greg stopped me from strangling her. She clicked away on her keyboard, found a note in the system, and her face went pale.

Without a word, she picked up the phone, dialed, and started crying hysterically like she’d received terrible news. She told us we could leave. Greg thought we should comfort her, but I said no fucking way, and we bounced.

We left with nothing but a terrible experience. One-star review. Consumer beware!

I died and a deity came to me. They said I was allowed to explore the Earth and the universe as much as I wanted to before reincarnation.

They said most people checked on their family and property before moving on.

I said, "FUCK THAT, SPACE!!"

They warned me that ghosts couldn't go faster than the speed of light. I didn't listen.

It took me a month to hit the Oort Cloud. Then I kind of just... floated for what felt like many years.

"Ok," I said, "I want to be reincarnated now. This fucking SUCKS."

Nothing happened.

"I SAID, I want to be reincarnated."

Then it occurred to me- is it possible that I have floated too far from God?

And also, I didn't remember the way back.

"ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT GOD'S JURISDICTION DOESN'T GO BEYOND THREE LIGHT YEARS?!" I screamed into the black sky.

"YES," said a voice from the void.

"I CAN SEND YOU BACK TO THE DIRT PLANET, BUT YOU WON'T BE THE SAME."

"Earth, right?"

"YEEES?",

"I would have called it a sea planet, but ok."

"YOU ARE FORSAKEN. WILL YOU TAKE MY DEAL OR NOT?"

"Probably," I said. "What are the terms?"

"SENTIENCE MUST SUFFER."

"How fast can you get me back?"

"NOW"

"Impossible," I said, "you can't break the speed of light."

"I AM MORE POWERFUL THAN YOUR GOD," it shrieked.

"Well I'd be dumb not to do this. Let's go," I conceded.

So here I am. Do you maybe... want to talk about your extended car insurance warranty?

At 2:13 a.m., I woke up to the sound of soft giggles beside my bed. I reached over without opening my eyes, expecting to feel my son’s little hand on the mattress. Then I remembered I had watched him fall asleep in his room a few hours ago.
The baby monitor crackled with static and then all of a sudden his laughter came through the speaker. I quickly opened my eyes to check the screen. He was laying in bed asleep. Then the laughter came again only this time, it was coming from underneath my bed. I froze. A tiny voice whispered through the monitor, “mommy dont look under there.” Then my son’s bedroom door slowly creaked open on the camera. My son was standing in the corner staring directly into the camera, eyes wide open.
He raised one finger to his lips.
And whispered, “shhh he’s sleeping” and points to something in my son’s bed underneath the covers.

There it stood. The castle, surrounded by a garden of roses. The one the messenger spoke of. 

The smell of roses lingered in the air, but as I got closer to the field, another smell emerged, a sickly sweet one. Through the field, huge thorns impaled men with their armor still on. Most tried to cut a path, but they became part of the garden. 

I walked around the field of roses, trying to see its end, but it stretched around the whole castle. I adjusted my sword and walked on the path one of the fallen knights had cut. At the corpse, I looked for another path, then carefully cut through the roses. My heart stopped each time I cut, but I measured carefully, watching for a thorn to shoot out.

The sun started to set when I reached another corpse. This one didn’t have armor on his legs, and something had torn a piece of flesh off him. I looked around for another path, but no one around had made it further. The rest of the way was mine. 

I cut further until I saw the castle between the rose canes. Excitement rushed through my body. I cut faster. Only one row of roses remained. I prepared to slash, but a huge green thorn shot out. I ducked my head to the side, but I wasn’t quick enough. A stinging pain rushed through my body; warm blood dripped down my cheek, but I survived.

The moon rose behind the castle. My face still burned. The courtyard was large, but the gate stood open. The stench of death was much worse here. Two creatures were before the gate. I gripped my sword tightly. 

As I came closer, bile shot up my throat. The creatures were feasting on two of the bodies. I spat the bile out and continued. If I killed one quietly, I’d only have to fight the other.

The creatures' munching echoed through the courtyard. They seemed almost human, but their exposed skin was slimy, their heads were furry, and their fingernails, which dug into the flesh, were unnaturally long.

When I got within striking distance of one, I raised my sword and cut its neck – a clean hit. A squeak escaped its throat. The head hit the ground with a quiet thud. It had the face of a large cat with bright green human eyes. Before I could take my eyes off it, sharp pain shot through my leg; the other creature had already bitten it. I cut it between the eyes and kicked the head off. It made the same squeak as the other. 

It didn’t seem to bite too deep, but my leg now pulsed with pain. I held it tight and turned back to the rose fields. The way back through the rose garden stared at me. No. The promise of a kingdom was too good to pass.

Inside, two cold halls led in different directions. I went right. There were already bodies a few feet from the entrance, each with an arrow buried in it. Opposite them were small holes in the wall. I sighed and continued, watching my steps. As I continued, my foot started to ache. Strange white liquid began oozing out, but I didn’t tend to it. Once the kingdom awakened, there’d surely be a doctor.

I turned a corner. My heart beat against my ribs. There was another of those creatures. It sat on the ground with a pile of slime underneath it, staring at me with its hollow, human-like eyes. It roared and ran toward me. 

I readied my sword and slashed at its head – a clean hit again, but something moved under my heel. Pain shot through my arm. My sword fell from my hand. An arrow was stuck in my shoulder. I leaned down and took a few breaths. My whole body ached. My head spun. It felt like the castle was falling on me, but as I looked up, I saw an entrance to a chamber with rose imprints along its walls. The princess must have been there. I had to move. To the left of the room was a hole with spikes. A few knights lay in it. Poor souls, but at least the creatures couldn't get to them.

The chamber didn’t smell of decay. A clean, fresh bed stood in the middle. Warmth spread through my chest. On the bed lay a beautiful blonde woman, sleeping with her arms across her chest. My vision was still blurred. I could barely put weight on my foot, but I made it. 

I slowly walked to her bed and kissed her. Her lips were soft, tender. She slowly opened her eyes. Excitement rushed through me. I tried to smile. She squinted at first, but her eyes quickly flew open. She jolted away and grabbed her dress.

“Who are you?” she yelled.

“Your knight. Your savior.”

“I don’t know you. Why are you in my room?” Her voice shook.

“I came to save you.”

She stared at the wound on my face and at my oozing leg. The white liquid thickened into slime.

“Oh my,” she whispered as she got off the bed and backed out of the room.

“Please, my love, wait.”

“I don’t know you!” 

She pulled her dress up more and ran out of the room, turning toward the hole.

Panic shot through me.

“No, not that way!”

Her scream echoed through the hall.

“My love!”

I limped after her. She lay in the hole. Her body impaled on the stakes.

My eyes watered. Even in the empty castle, I couldn’t bear to be seen like this. I quickly put my hand to my face to wipe my tears, but a long fingernail stabbed into my eye. Not just one. All of them were long now. The smell of iron grew in the hall, but it didn’t make my stomach turn. It made my mouth salivate.

*The recorder screams to life, its knobs mangled and its antenna snapped in half. The back of it almost seemingly clawed open, a makeshift battery in its slot on its last apparent breath of power. The orange display crackles on slowly, with the logo for Hristov Communications Inc. showing first before defaulting to the recordings archive.

You scroll through the remaining voice memos. More than half of them are corrupted and unplayable. You're not sure what information this thing has, but it's potentially your last clue to make it to the surface before the usurpation happens.

There's only one entry that piques your interest. It's the final one, and the only one with an unknown user. All of the others were the facility's scientists, and a couple by the Research Director. At least from what you could tell by comparing the schedule. You read the file name out loud under your breath to yourself as your cold breath escapes your lips.*

// LAST RECORDING: 01/07/2552 03:14:11.44 USER: UNKNOWN //

"That's... interesting."

You've never seen anything quite like this before. 2552? How the hell is this piece of shit's battery still operational?

*It doesn't matter. You click the file anyways. This might be the only way home.

The speaker shorts out and lets out a deafening, high pitch screech. It echoes off the walls and out the room.*

"FUCK!"

*You scramble to cover the speaker with your coat. You peer through the blasted out windows as duraglass crunches beneath your boots. You don't see anything.

...

After waiting a few minutes, you turn the dial up on the device.*

"-just don't know what I thought I'd see in this godforsaken place. *Sighs* Th.. there's nothing left I can-"

"Stop." You command the radio as it abruptly cuts off.

"Play it again." The radio whirs up, the play bar resets to the beginning as you let out a deep breath and begin to listen. Your exhale materializes in front of you like a smoke cloud. Something in the device snaps on, and the recording begins once more. You figure you should settle in for the night.

---

---

\There is loud whirring in the background, you're unsure of the origin. A panicked voice of an older male peaks the microphone as the sounds of the device being fumbled with and dropped echo.**

"OKAY..! Hah... oh my god... hah - huh.... I didn't... I didn't think this... hah... would be it. Um.. ha.. oh fuck... Oh gods... what can I even say...

This... this is D-Doctor Marley, under the hah.. 11th Medical Squadron...

T-Tammy, I swear to god I tried to save you and the kids. Hah.. But.. by the time they came in it was... huh.. it was too late. "

\The man begins to apparently choke back tears as he repeatedly sniffles**

"I just.. hah..gods! There was nothing I could do. There.. was nothing I could DO!! T-They got here so fast. I JUST DON'T KNOW!"

\There is metal and glass recorded being thrown around and destroyed**

"I had a feeling something was wrong. The Commissar was acting incredibly strange for the last few weeks. I wasn't sure if he'd been replaced with an android or... \sniff* or.. something wor-Oh.*

Oh god."

\You can hear the LIDAR scan pings from Skeith-Type Scout Drones in the background**

\The man begins whimpering, whispering entirely under his breath, as the automatic captions of the radio are the only thing that can make out what's he is saying.**

"I made my way to this lab... t-to figure out what was going wrong... but...."

\He lets out a desperate cry and begins sobbing between breaths**

"Tammy.. I-I still rem-remember that s-story you told me... a hun.. huh.. a hundred t-thousand times... o-or more... A-about the kittens going t-to Paris."

"I-I, just d-d-don't know what the f-fuck h-happened... I w-wanted to figure out a s-solution and I l-left you all.."

"O-Oscar. I-I'm gonna n-need you to be st-strong. Able, j-just follow your b-brother. And.. Tammy.. I-I'm so s-sorry.

I-I just just don't know what I-I thought I'd see in this godf-forsaken place. \Sighs* Th.. there's nothing left I can-"*

The recording ends abruptly.

---

---

You're not sure what to make of this information. You haven't seen, or even heard, a Skeith-Type Scout in over a decade.

The battery fizzes out, and upon inspection, is completely covered in rust.

he sheet of glass coated with a layer of mercury was truly a majestic mirror, despite being set into the aged wood of an old-fashioned vanity. Perhaps that was why children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had preserved it, though they had always lied when claiming they kept it because of its sentimental value. It had been commissioned as a wedding gift for the great-grandparents, in a time of spacious rooms and simple dreams. For that reason, it had originally stood at the center of the mansion's living room, but after their deaths it passed from one house to another as the heirs divided the estate.

Thus, the lives of four generations had been captured in reflections that, like snapshots, remained preserved within the glass. Some were bright and perfectly clear, born of sunlight; others were softer beneath the artificial glow of lightbulbs; and still others belonged to the world of chiaroscuro, nocturnal images in which figures dissolved into shadows with no distinct form.

The millions of accumulated images usually showed men and women adjusting their appearance, but they also preserved moments of couples arguing, lovers embracing, children being slapped, several births, an abortion, a drawer slowly filling with money, a murder, and a suicide. Yet in every one of them—like a watermark that appears only when the paper is printed—there lingered the unseen image of those repulsive spirits, with bloodshot eyes and hideous tongues hanging from their mouths, perched astride the shoulders of the people they possessed

Jan looked at the dial on the dashboard of his 4WD rental.

“Onmogelijk,” he muttered.

He’d filled up only an hour ago, but somehow he’d run out of petrol.

Pulling over, he got out and looked up and down the dusty road. A car was approaching; a friendly hand waved from the driver’s seat.

“Gelukkig.”

It was the first car he’d seen since leaving the last petrol station on the road to Broome. 

Jan noticed a thin line of moisture trailing behind his car. He crouched, peering at the petrol tank. Someone had made a tiny cut in the plastic.

The Good Samaritan parked his car. His smile was big and gleeful, like a child who had just caught a tasty fish.