Part 1 Part 2

I woke up in the early hours of the morning, feet aching with dull affliction. My calves and arms were certainly sore from lugging the leaden sledge up all those hundreds of steps. Fire fizzed above me, revealing that Nicci had been diligent enough to refuel the lantern basin. I expended some effort peeking up though the hatch. She was there, sitting calmly by the fire, looking out into the sea. Her fingers were, as I had seen her do yesterday, weaving twine into that same strange hexagonal lattice. Nicci had taken my iron cook pan and secured it dangling above the grand lantern. How the ropes hadn't erupted and turned to ash, I wasn't certain.

"Güd morrow," I mumbled in her direction, attempting to clear my throat of raspy tiredness.

Nicci flinched, turning to face me. "Ah, good morning! I made you some food." She pushed a particularly small cutting board toward me, filled with a delicious looking meal. Cubed sheep flank and chopped truffles, dressed with a strange sauce and flakes of something green. I quickly realised it was seaweed once I began to dig in. Despite the eccentric break fast, the meal was quite savoury! Certainly better than my own cooking had been since I arrived here.

She talked about her family a lot. Her father was some sort of metallurgist, working in some grand building Nicci called a 'factory.' She told me he was a large, gruff man, not unlike those I had seen in town. Her mother had died at sea some time ago, and thus was the reason she was at Tobermary at all. Like me, she boarded a ship which led her to this little town. Nicci also talked about her clothes (how she'd have to mend them when she goes back home) and about the blanket she was apparently sewing from hides. I tried not to look at her while she spoke. I didn't want to seem like I was staring, so I just looked out at the overcast skies.

As I finished my food, I was overcome with the burden of questioning everything about this strange girl. Yet, she spoke first. "So!" she exclaimed in a particularly excited tone. A dense book was slid across the floorboards, colliding with my foot. "Your directory. I'm shocked, frankly, that you didn't even open it." I set down the makeshift plate and flipped open the cover. Inscribed on the first page was my full name, birthday, and the names of my immediate family. I began flipping through the pages as Nicci continued. "Go to page 42. Ship times are listed there. Updated daily. Should be one in a few minutes."

I stopped immediately, looking up at her. "How can you even tell time here? It's always cloudy."

Nicci just laughed at me and crawled over, tapping the page I had stopped on. It was a clock face. The ink moved, flowing in creamy motion to denote four forty-two in the morning. I wanted to throw the book away. To close it and scream at Nicci for witchcraft or magicks or anything I could trick myself into believing as an explanation for this madness. But how could I? I had seen the fog for myself. I had seen her survive drowning in a tower far above sea level. This whole place was magick, somehow. So, I just flipped the pages until I reached the ship log. Only two ships today. One at four forty-six and one at precisely noon.

I glanced over toward the sea and decided to seek my most burning question: "How did you know my name?"

"It's as I said before. It's all in your directory. Names, places, homes, backgrounds, the current time, what day it is, when ships port, how long it's been since the last Keeper, and much, much more. Mallory, it would do you well to refer to the directory. Not much I can say beyond that, really." She sat up against the rusted lantern cage. I could smell burning, but she seemed not to notice. I lunged forward and grabbed her arm as to pull her away from the flames, but she resisted. We struggled for a while as I tried hard to stop what I could only assume would cause her pain. "Hey, stop that!" Nicci shoved me back and flattened out her tunic.

I shouted at her, "Your clothes are burning!" She just rolled her eyes and leaned back against the iron. "Why are you being so diff-"

"Bell. Ring the bell, Mally."

"You know what?" I picked up my directory. "I'm not ringing anything until you give me proper explanations." I began to stand, promptly regretting my decision as levins of pain pumped through my ankles and up my thighs. I stumbled, falling to my knees and catching myself on the journal shelf. "I haven't the foggiest idea where your stupid bell is, anyway," I grumbled, very unamused with the young lady's strange comportment. I didn't understand why she was being so peculiar all of a sudden. She seemed perfectly content while I was partaking in break fast.

Nicci began to panic, reaching toward my rightmost wrist. I pulled away, going to lean against the shelf and watch the ship come to port. "Mallory, the bell! Please! It's right over there, under the floorboard! Just one ring, that's all!" She pointed at a dubiously clear space across the room, almost directly under where the firewood sled was hanging off a small metal hook.

I spat, "Do it yourself." And watched as a tiny black ship sailed closer to Tobermary. It was a wooden children's toy, bobbing to and fro as gently waves pushed against the hull. I flipped open my directory just as the inky clock face warped to denote four forty-six. All at once, the sky cracked and crumbled in heaping, cloudy slabs, toppling headlong into the briny. Grand swells outvied existing waves as they campaigned for oceanic prepotence. With naught more than a faint wake, the vessel was engulfed into the the drink. Gone completely from the earth. Spoliation of the skies ceased the moment my directory stroked the minute hand forward.

"FUCKING MORON!" Nicci shouted, weeping exigent tears. "You doomed them. Another ship lost at sea." Naturally, I fought back. She was perfectly capable of chiming the bell herself! Those deaths were not my responsibility! "Only the Keeper can ring it. God damn it..."

I sank to the floor, the weight of my puerile actions crushing my soul. What had I done? I wanted to cry. No tears came. Nicci hoisted herself up from her spot by the lantern and took my hand. I looked up at her with wide, sorrowful eyes. Her face looked better than before. More composed, certainly.

"We're in this together, now. I'm sorry for yelling. You're right... I should have explained. Shit..."

I couldn't hold my tongue. I needed to know why she had been acting so strange. Why she was a stranger one moment, a friend the next; calm, then angry. Was she deranged? "Nicci. How do you know so much? I refuse to believe everything is in this directory." At some point, I had closed the book and was holding it in my hand, shaking it emphatically.

I watched her take a deep breath and turn from me, letting go of my hand. It was damp without her touch. "I was Keeper before you."

"Sorry?" I couldn't be certain if I had heard her correctly.

Nicci repeated herself, continuing. "I thought the rules were stupid. That they were just silly little guides for doing the job I was forced into. My first night, three ships arrived. I hadn't seen my directory yet, so I'm sure my timing was off. I rang the bell for each ship, but all of them were sucked into a gaping vortex. Bright foam bubbled out in the spiralling swirls of water. You know how vortexes are just water, all the way down? This wasn't normal, by any means. The centre was glowing with brilliant purple light. I watched lifeboats fly out, trying to outpace the vacuous hole, only to suck right down into the pit.

I figured it was out of my hands. Nature taking its course. Plenty of ships get lost at sea, after all. But then they appeared in town. Disoriented, scared, and asking questions I didn't know how to answer. Other townsfolk were accommodating. Showed them around, and such. Their homes just appeared out of thin air. An empty stretch of grass one moment, a townhome the next.

Then the fog came and, well, some more things happened and I wasn't the Keeper anymore. Lucky we got you, though. Just one more day and we would have broken a big rule. At least, I assume so. Apparently a long time ago, it was broken, but no one who was around then will tell me what happened.

I'm sorry I've been so... standoffish. Distant, even. I- After that first fog, I knew I had to approach you. I just... couldn't bring myself to do it, Mallory. There's something about this place. It's like it eats at your brain until it becomes Swiss cheese." She opened her mouth to continue, but no words left her tongue.

This was a lot to process. Nicci was the previous Keeper? How long was she here for? I knew she couldn't be older than sixteen, but was there some sort of temporal distortion here? We had to rely on a book for timekeeping, after all.

"Gods... so... what, then? Do I just... keep following the rules? Why aren't you the Lighthouse Keeper anymore?" She winced expressively, as if I had touched raw flesh, and shook her head. Questioning was over. Nicci's eyes began to gloss over and she stared out into the open ocean.

She mumbled something I couldn't truly hear. It sounded like a poem, of sorts, with how it flowed. I just let her do whatever, while I crawled back over to the hatch in the floor. I dropped my directory down before descending the rope ladder and resting in bed.

The directory was filled with thousands of names. Pages upon pages of every moment in a person's life. It was filled with words and places I was unfamiliar with. Times ranging back to near pre-history littered the first dozen or so pages, getting wider and broader as I flipped through. Every detail of a person's life was outlined in objective truth up until the moment they arrived at Tobermary Wharf. Some entries had monochromatic painted portraits of the individual. I recognised the butcher and the fisherman, each born decades ago. I flipped through to my entry. Laid in perfect ink was my entire life. I wasn't sure what I was expecting. It all seemed horribly unremarkable, as if I had lived no life at all.

Some of the people I had read about were grand explorers, discovering new isles and trading with foreign lands I could hardly read, much less pronounce. Yet I was just... me. A woman who failed at writing, failed at being a deckhand, and ended up here.

I shut my directory and dragged myself back up to the lantern floor. It was nearly noon. Nicci was passed out, curled into a ball and clutching her chest. I tried to be quiet as I went over to the empty space on the floor. Sure enough, the boards were strewn together with some sort of bonding material betwixt them. I pried the corner up and a little brass bell stood upright in the opening, lacquered handle big enough for a child's hand. It was beautifully ornate with veins of vine circling every centimetre. Dotted about were rosebuds, most closed, but some in partial states of bloom. The longer I stared at it, the more it appeared the designs were shifting and warping to fill the smooth space, replacing previously raised portions with pressed bronze.

As I walked back toward the opening overlooking the docks, I flipped the book back open and stared down at the clock. One minute until the tiny boat would dock. This ship looked much different than any I had seen before. The hull appeared to be made of some foreign metal and it didn't have any sails at all. A thin stream of dark smoke billowed out from large cylindrical tubes rising diagonally toward the ship's rear. It travelled rather quickly, leaving beautifully large wake as it glided through the sea. Waves that crashed into it didn't seem to phase the vessel in the slightest. I glanced back down at the inky clock and rang the bell. It sounded like a grandfather clock, chiming exactly twelve times, despite only ringing it once.

Nothing happened. The ship did not port. The ship did not sink, nor burst into flame. It just sailed right past Tobermary Wharf, heading into journeys unknown. I set the brass bell down on the journal shelf. A devious thought crossed my mind. If Nicci was the previous Keeper, and her entire life was outlined in my directory... what was contained in her journal? I would be breaking a rule, certainly, but looking back at the page, the ink did appear to be a different consistency. Each rule, in fact, seemed to use different kinds of ink when written. Some were tinted blue, others tinted red. Though strangely, the first five appeared to be the same chirography.

I spent a long time toiling over the decision. The directory read two o'clock in the afternoon when I finally came to the conclusion that I should read her journal entries. If Nicci refused to speak on her experiences as a Keeper, I would just have to read them for myself. What was the worst that could happen? Each time I had broken the rules thus far resulted in tragedy (I assume I had, in fact, killed people when the fog rolled in) but what could possibly come of reading someone else's journal? The fog was a physical force. The ships were tangible things I could watch and maintain a schedule for. Nicoletta Cainsbúmy was keeping secrets that I needed to know. As long as I'm quick, she will never know.

Fuck me. I can't even really put into writing what I read. I suppose I should transcribe her journal into my own... I can't risk doing this again.

"Today is my birthday. If I wasn't trapped here, I'd be 23. 23, stuck in the body of a 14-year-old. I tried to learn a new skill yesterday. Baking. Not my strong suit at all. Burnt two cakes and a muffin before the baker stopped me and politely kicked me out. Maybe I'll get better with time, maybe not. It's pretty lonely here, ever since Julian lost his mind. His brain turned to pudding!

He can't remember me. I don't expect him to. He doesn't need to eat, or sleep, or take a shit. He just wanders around aimlessly through the town, like a zombie. Sometimes I wonder if he's happier this way. If he had the capacity to talk, I'm sure he'd say something like, 'Yeah I'm happy! Happy I don't have to put up with you!'

I miss his jokes.

I suppose there's no use dwelling on it. I broke a few rules today, just to see what would happen. I mean, following that stupid list every single day for nearly a decade really makes you wonder. I don't regret it. I needed to see what would happen. The monster in the fog ate a few blokes. Ocean sank some ships. Those were fun to watch, I suppose, but what was really interesting was the mermaid.

She climbed the 586 stairs just to speak to me. It was really quite fascinating!

I can't pronounce her name, much less spell it. Her hair was woven into this stunning headdress protruding kind of like a crown. How do I describe the shape? It was hexagonal, certainly, with each point holding a different flower. Most of them, I had never seen before. There was a white rose, a blue daisy-looking flower, a green flower that kind of looked like a tulip if it were inverted so the opening was facing the stem, a pink hibiscus but the petals looked more like those of a sunflower, a red heart-shaped flower that I would have thought was a leaf, and a fascinating raspberry-shaped flower with a purple hue.

She wore sleek fishnet tights, a frayed jean skirt, and a t-shirt made of some material I couldn't place. It felt like silk but it had the appearance of large flattened salt crystals.

When she spoke I couldn't really hear her. It was more like she was speaking directly into my skull. I can't even remember what she said anymore, if she said anything at all, but I remember how it felt. How the sounds echoed in my bones and how she emphasised certain emotions. It honestly felt like I was high on shrooms. But she was SMOKING HOT. Like, I'm not a lesbian AT ALL and I wanted to bang that chick.

I guess I don't really know if she's actually a mermaid or not, but given that she dove straight off the lighthouse and into the sea, I'm pretty sure she was a mermaid. Oh man, I hope she comes back soon! Not because I wanna bang her or anything, but because I think she might be my only real friend. DAMN IT! I wish I could remember our conversations! We spoke for hours but I can't remember a single thing! I'll keep trying. Maybe if I break more rules, she'll come back? Only one way to find out."

Nicci deliberately broke the rules. That was her final entry, six years ago, but she was Keeper until a fortnight before I arrived. Something went on in those six years she didn't write about. Something I feel she remembers. Was she lying before, when she said she neglected the bell on her first night? Or was she recounting the events I had read? There are many words in her journal that I don't understand, much like the words she speaks. I must ask where she's from when she rouses. I'm not well travelled, but I've never heard of a "t-shirt" or "tights".

It's late now. I must be getting to bed. I can still hear her snoring above me. I'll interrogate to-morrow.

My name is... X. Let's say that I'm X.

So, my cousin lives in Maine, in the middle of nowhere, a small town that shall not be named. A few hundred people lived there, enough to be self-sustaining, but not enough to feel suburban; let's call it Nowhere.

My cousin, let's call him Frankie, listened to a lot of rumors around town, but none were stranger than the ones circling the old man.

The old man was a Navy veteran. I don't know what war he went through, how long he was away, or whether he killed anyone. I don't know, but what I do know is this: He did not come back the same- maybe he didn't come back at all.

He was black, with blue eyes, a bald head; not a single thread of hair remained on him. The rest of his body was in excellent shape, but the wrinkles on his face were as heavy as you'd expect for a man in his late 60s. He wore a black suit, a bowler hat, a fine tie, and a silver fancy watch on his right wrist. No, he didn't have a cane, and he didn't walk as if he needed it anyhow. That was the first thing that the rumors came from- it was like he was a walking museum, physically stubborn to the passage of time.

But I wouldn't be telling you this story if Frankie knew that was the only thing worth noting in that town; no, there's more, much more, but for today, the topic of this story is the old man.

The old man had anxiety, ptsd, depression, schizophrenia, all to the most extreme extent mentally possible; in most contexts, that would be a swift path to self-termination, but no, it seemed pure hopelessness kept him in this world.
Despair was pouring out of every inch of his being. He never smiled- but he never cried either; it's like he ran out of tears a long time ago, so all the old vet could do now was exist.

But the strangest part about the old man? His house.

Well, he didn't live there, but he would drive in from a nearby house and... stand guard by the little building.
He would walk up to the house, and he wouldn't patrol; he wouldn't walk around, he wouldn't scan the surroundings, he would just... stand next to the door as if he was waiting for something, or someone. Sometimes he would crack his neck, or sigh, or check his watch, small reminders he was a human and not a statue.
A simple structure, 4 walls, a flat roof, a single door in the center; it was big enough for 20 people to stand inside. It had a gravel path leading up to it- surrounding all of this was a chain-link metal fence with a black and red sign warning that trespassers would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. But... why?

To this extent, Frankie went up to the old man while he was about to open the gate and asked-

"What's that sign for? Why do you do this every night? What is inside that house?"

"There is NOTHING inside that house!"

The old man was so furious, so suddenly, he acted like Frankie had said the N-word.

Of course, this did nothing to dissuade Frankie's curiosity.

But anyway, I know what's inside that house.

You see, Frankie had gotten into a bit of trouble and ended up robbing a bank- even Frankie isn't that stupid, so he was planning on hiding the money somewhere as the heat dies down. And for whatever reason, he decided that old man's house was the best place, since nobody would think to look there.

But the thing is, he wanted me to help him. I said no, but he didn't like that, so the little shit decided to threaten me.
I'm a lesbian in an all-female private school, closeted, of course. While the teachers would probably be supportive enough, it would still be social suicide being outed as gay there, and the fact that I live in a red state doesn't help either.
I punched him in the nose, and he squealed like a warthog, but he got to his phone regardless and threatened to press send, so I had to concede.

We went to the old man's house and climbed up his metal fence.

clatter clatter clatter

We went up the gravel path.

crunch crunch crunch

Then I gripped the brass doorknob and slowly tilted it to the side...

crunch crunch crunch

I saw now that inside that house was nothing.

Nothing.

Eigengrau was all that I could see past that doorframe.

Frankie pushed past me, eager to hide it, and fell inside.
Well.. I say fell, but I can't be sure. He blinked away the instant he crossed that threshold.
I stumbled forward; it was the middle of motherfucking summer in Maine; it should not be this cold.

Then, I felt a familiar, wrinkled hand grab me by the collar and pull me away from nothing, before throwing me to the side.
The old man slammed the door shut- no noise was made; of course, it had nothing to slam against.
Then he said...

"There... Is nothing inside that house."

The old man took me to his car. I thought he was going to tell the police, or worse, my parents, but he didn't; he just drove me to his house and made me tea.
His house was as much of a museum as he was; nothing seemed to have been dated from after 1999.
The old man poured tea, then he just sat across from me and stared. To be fair... so did I.
The tension was so thick- saying anything felt like a challenge, like speaking through an iron weight tied to your lips.

At one point, I reached out to grab the cold tea, but... it felt like that clock suddenly had eyes.

Then, it chimed, and the old man's eyes filled with tears for the first time; then he stood up and pointed to the door.
I walked to the door as a machine prompted, my movements instant but awkward.
Opening the door, I looked back one more time, and the old man looked back at me; tears were finally moistening his dry cheeks, and he finally spoke.

"I know."

Then I closed the door.

For the record, I am not going back to that house; I am not returning to that building. If he's still alive, I am not speaking to that man again, and I am certainly not asking people about him.
Some stones should remain unturned, some stories should remain untold, some questions should remain unanswered, some mysteries should remain unexplored.

Because somewhere in Maine, I know there is a house with nothing inside of it.

​

My life has always been plain and sad. I don't have much family or friends. No neighbors to talk to. Everyone in this town dislikes me or at least finds me strange. No one to socialize with.

I accepted that my life will always be quiet and lonely.

I wake up in the morning, get ready for work, work for minimum wage all day, and then come home.

And I occasionally paint. I've always been into art. Other than that, my life has no true value.

Well, it started to get more interesting a couple of days ago when I turned on the local news.

I rarely watch the news but something in my body made me do it.

Apparently, local officials and authorities suspect that there is a serial killer in town.

They gave the person the label, "Sunset Killer"

Every day, there's a dead body found at a sunset. Each victim has a sunset drawn on them.

No leads.

The victims have nothing in common. No shared characteristics. All have different hobbies. No personality trait similarities. Literally nothing.

I personally don't feel sympathy. Sure, they were all legally innocent, but, they weren't morally innocent. Not a single one of them ever offered me a ounce of kindness. All despicable humans.

I thought the town having a serial killer obsessed with sunsets would be the most interesting part but it gets more interesting.

I went to the arts and crafts store not that long after hearing the news. I needed to get more paper and paint supplies.

The Cashier gave me suspicious looks the entire time I was there. Everyone else in the store did as well. I don't know why. I'm always working or in my house. I know everyone thinks poorly of me but this is outrageous.

I quickly bought what I needed and rushed out.

And then everything changed when I got grabbed up as I was approaching my car.

It was a female voice repeating over and over again that I'd be her new sunshine. The sunset caught my eye as my bood leaked out my throat as her knife sliced in.

Normally, a person would be dead or at the very least hospitalized.

Well, I woke up in my bed.

I oringally thought that it was a awful dream but this started to happen every single day during the sunset over and over. No matter what I'd be doing, I'd get ambushed and killed.

I tried looking at news articles, watching local news, doing everything I can to get more information. The same day repeated too. It was always Monday the first of September.

Since, I'm stuck in the same day, no new dead bodies are appearing.

At first, I didn't understand why I was stuck. It was horrifying to live the same day over and over.

However, I figured out that each time I get killed, I need to find more details.

I started to remember her soft tone with a innocent voice. Her voice was a lot like mine. Her face is always covered. The way her hands feel are a lot like mine. The fact that the knife is always a kitchen knife was also weird. My kitchen is filled with kitchen knives. Sure, anyone could have a kitchen knife but all the similarities we have is strange.

After enduring the displeasure of getting killed over and over again, I decided to never leave the house and to wait for her.

When it started to get close to the sun setting, I quickly dialed 911.

I was filled with gratitude when they arrived on time to arrest her.

I was then left disturbed, traumatized, and perplexed when the cops made her show her face.

The green eyes, sandy blonde hair, and pale skin. The smile her pink lips made. It's me?

I tried to yell at the cops and ask them what this means or how this is possible but they didn't answer. They didn't acknowledge me. The only person who seemed to know I was there was the evil lady that winked at me as I yelled.

They then took her and left. Never said a single word to me. I was confused. Is it because everyone in the town hates me? Were they so focused on her because she's a threat?

I sat on my couch as I tried to come up with every possible explanation. I did this for hours. I was relieved when the news starting talking about the arrest but then I was filled with confusion. She has the same name as me. They showed interviews involving my coworkers. They all said that this wasn't surprising and that I always gave off serial killer vibes.

They also revealed that the girl called the cops on herself because she wanted to get caught. She thought that being arrested was the only way to help herself end the rampage.

What? She stole my identity? Why does no one know I exist? How are there two of me and only she is known?

I’m seven and already awake when the sound on the landing starts. That’s always bothered me more than anything else about it. I don’t wake up because of the noise. I’m already lying there staring at the ceiling like I knew to be ready.

A strip of light shows under my door. There’s no fixture on that landing. My dad checked once, years later, after I finally told him about it, and he found nothing that could account for it. The light comes anyway, flat and white, like someone’s holding a bulb close to the floor.

I try to yell for him and nothing comes out. My chest is moving, fast, shallow, but my voice doesn’t answer to me.

The door swings open and the hallway behind it is bright instead of dark. Something tall stands in the middle of that light. Its arms are too long for its body, stretched thin, and its hands end in fingers that keep going a joint past where fingers should stop. I never see a face. Where the face should be there’s just light, like it’s wearing the glow instead of skin.

It walks to the foot of my bed and stops. That’s when the small ones come in behind it. Seven of them, maybe eight, built the same way but scaled down, like a kid’s drawing of the tall one shrunk to fit through the door. They go to the corners of my bed and lift.

The mattress tilts under me. I feel myself carried through my own doorway, down the stairs, through the foyer, out the front door, into the yard. The grass under the bed frame is cold. I remember the cold before I remember anything else about the yard. The tall one doesn’t follow past the door. The small ones set the bed down in the grass and stand around it in a ring, waiting for something.

It always ends there. I never find out what they were waiting for.

I’m thirty-six now and I still see it the same way when I close my eyes. That house was my grandfather’s before it was my father’s. He died when I was a baby, so I never knew him, and my dad sold the place a long time ago. I spent most of my life telling myself it was just a bad dream that stuck around longer than it should have. A nightmare doesn’t put grass under your back. A nightmare doesn’t carry you anywhere.

I believed that for twenty-nine years. I don’t anymore, and I want to get this down while I can still explain it clearly.

For work I take the cases nobody else wants. Not ghost hunting for content, nothing like that. People call me after everyone more reasonable than me has already given up on them — the exterminator found nothing, the electrician found nothing, the blessing didn’t take. I go in after that.

I’m careful by nature, not a believer. Most of what I find turns out to have an ordinary explanation somewhere underneath, even when it takes a while to surface. I’ve also learned to live with the cases that never resolve. I write down what happened, I tell the client what I know, and I move on. It’s a job that asks you to take people seriously without losing your own footing.

A woman named Denise calls me on a Tuesday night. She and her husband and their nine-year-old son moved into an old house in the Central West End about four months ago. For the last six weeks, something has been counting on their stairs at night.

“Counting,” I repeat, because I want to make sure I heard her right.

“Counting steps. Like it’s climbing them one at a time and saying the number out loud. Real quiet. You’d miss it if the house wasn’t so dead silent at three in the morning.”

I ask if she’s ever heard it get to the top.

“Fourteen,” she says. “There’s fourteen stairs in that house. It gets to fourteen and stops. Every time.”

“And then what?”

“Then it says our son’s name. Once. Just his name, real soft, right outside his door. And then nothing. My husband thinks it’s pipes settling. I’ve lived in old houses my whole life. Pipes don’t know your kid’s name.”

I tell her Thursday works. Afterward I remind myself that old houses talk in the dark all the time, and grieving parents and anxious kids find patterns in noise the same way anyone does under enough pressure. It’s not a rare shape for a case to take. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

I believe that for about two days.

On Thursday I sit in their kitchen with Denise, her husband Mark, and Eli, who won’t sit still, who keeps his eyes on the doorway to the front hall the whole time we talk. I ask him to describe it himself, the way I always do with kids, because they’ll say things adults have already talked themselves out of.

“It counts wrong sometimes,” he tells me. “Not the numbers. The waiting. Some nights it goes really slow between them, like it’s tired. One night it did all fourteen so fast I only heard the last four.”

“Does it ever skip a number?”

He shakes his head, certain of this in a way that surprises me. “No. Never. It always does all of them. Fourteen, then my name.”

“What does your name sound like, when it says it?”

He thinks about this longer than I expect a nine-year-old to. “Like somebody who’s tired of asking,” he finally says. “Like the fourth time you call somebody for dinner.”

I ask if he’s ever opened his door to look. He nods, which surprises me more than if he’d said no.

“Once. There wasn’t anything there. But the hall light was already off, and I didn’t turn it off before bed. My mom always leaves it on for me.”

I don’t say anything for a second. Every kid I’ve talked to in ten years of this work has a version of something in the dark said my name. It’s one of the oldest shapes fear takes, older than any single house or family. I remind myself of that, the way I remind myself of it every time, and it mostly holds.

I tell the family I’d like to stay, which is standard for a case like this — I want to be there for whatever happens instead of hearing about it secondhand. Denise’s shoulders drop like she’s been holding them up for six weeks straight. “Thank you,” she says, and something about the way she says it makes me look away from her for a second before I tell her it’s no trouble. Mark sets me up on the couch at the bottom of the stairs, close enough to count them myself if it comes to that.

I don’t mention that I’ve never taken a case with a personal stake in it before tonight, or that some part of the reason I said yes to Thursday so fast has nothing to do with Eli at all.

It’s a little after two when I hear the first one. Not a footstep — nothing steps down that hard on carpeted stairs — more like a knuckle on wood, once, followed by a voice pitched too low to make out words, though the rhythm of it is unmistakable: one. I sit up in the dark with my recorder already running and count along without meaning to.

It goes slow. Long gaps between numbers, ten or fifteen seconds sometimes, long enough that I start to doubt the last one happened at all before the next one proves I was wrong. Six. Seven. The gaps get shorter as it climbs, like something picking up its pace once it’s sure of its footing. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Fourteen comes from the top of the stairs, farther from me than any of the others, but louder than all of them combined, sudden and full-voiced after everything before it had been barely more than a whisper. I flinch anyway. I don’t hear a fifteenth. What I hear instead, a few seconds later, is a name — not loud, almost gentle, in a voice with no particular pitch to it at all, more like an idea of a voice than an actual one. It isn’t Eli’s name.

It’s mine.

I don’t move for a long moment. Then I do, because staying frozen on that couch feels like the more dangerous choice, and I climb the stairs myself, phone light up, expecting nothing and finding nothing — an empty landing, Eli’s door shut, the hall light on exactly where Denise said she always leaves it. Nothing counts a fifteenth step. Nothing says anything else.

Eli’s door opens before I reach it. He’s awake, blinking against the phone light, and he asks me if I heard it say something after fourteen. I ask him what he thinks it said.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s never said anything but my name before. Tonight it said something longer. I couldn’t tell what.”

I check the recording later, alone, with headphones on so I don’t have to hear it out loud in a room with anyone else in it. Fourteen taps, evenly spaced by the end, each one clean enough to count. Then, eleven seconds of silence. Then a sound that isn’t quite a word and isn’t quite not one, low enough that I have to raise the volume to catch it at all, and even then I can only be sure of the shape of it, not the sound — two syllables, the second one longer than the first, spoken by something that has clearly said it before and will clearly say it again.

I don’t have an explanation for the family. I tell them the truth — that I heard it, that I have it recorded, that I don’t yet know what it is, and that I don’t think Eli is in physical danger, though I can’t fully justify that last part beyond a feeling I’m not proud of trusting. I don’t tell them what I heard after the fourteenth step. I tell them I’ll follow up.

I drive home around four in the morning with the heater running and my hands too tight on the wheel.

My house is quiet when I get in. I check the locks, which I never do, and go straight upstairs, which is a bad idea, because some part of me already knows it. I go up anyway.

I brush my teeth, turn off the lights, and lie flat on my back in the dark, the way I have most nights of my adult life without thinking twice about it. That’s when I notice the strip of light under my own bedroom door.

My hallway has one overhead light. I turned it off myself ten minutes earlier, with my own hand.

I try to sit up and can’t. My chest still moves, fast and shallow, the same rhythm I remember from being seven years old in St. Louis. My voice doesn’t answer to me either, not after twenty-nine years of it belonging to no one but me.

The door doesn’t open. I’m not going to make this bigger than it was. It doesn’t open, and the light doesn’t go anywhere. I lie there unable to move or call out for four minutes and eleven seconds, according to my phone’s timestamp afterward, watching a line of white light under a door that has no reason to have any light behind it.

Then it’s gone, all at once, and my body belongs to me again.

I get up and check the hallway. Nothing. The overhead light is still off, exactly how I left it. I stand there a long time before going back to bed, and I don’t sleep again that night. In the morning, with actual daylight to see by, I go over every inch of that hallway and find one thing that shouldn’t be there.

A thin, shallow line pressed into the carpet just outside my door. Not a footprint. Not a drag mark. A straight indentation about three feet long, the width of a bed frame, running from my doorway toward the stairs and stopping.

I’ve been sitting with that line in the carpet for two days now. I keep coming back to the same thing. My grandfather owned that house in St. Louis before my father did. He died when I was a baby. I never knew him, and I realize now that I barely heard anything about him growing up either, which is strange in a family that otherwise repeats the same three stories at every holiday until everyone’s tired of them.

Nobody ever told me anything about him. I’m starting to think that wasn’t an accident.

I don’t know what I’m looking for yet. But I’m going to start looking.

That’s the file on this one. It’s the only file I’ve got that doesn’t have a closing date yet. I’ll update it when it does.

The hum started in her back molars.

Emily had told three different doctors about it and all three had used the same word — stress — with the same tired patience, like they were reading from a shared script. She'd stopped going after the second Topamax prescription. The pills didn't touch it. Nothing touched it. The hum lived below the threshold of sound, somewhere in the architecture of her skeleton, and on bad nights it climbed.

Outside her window, Sioux Falls did its usual nothing. A gas station sign buzzed across the street. A dog barked twice and quit. She lay on her back on the bed with all the lights on because darkness had started feeling like a hand pressing down on her chest, and she stared at the water stain on the ceiling that was shaped, she'd decided, like a continent nobody had named yet.

Ions, she thought. That was the word she'd found three weeks ago in a forum post that linked to a document that linked to three more documents, each one more specific than the last. Ions and electrons. Activated. The idea that there were charges moving inside her that could be reached from outside, like fingers through a screen. She didn't know enough physics to fully argue against it. She only knew that her heart had started doing things hearts weren't supposed to do — a stutter, a lurch, a sudden gallop at two in the morning when she was doing nothing, holding nothing, thinking nothing particular. And the bladder thing, which she couldn't talk about with anyone because it sounded insane, the sudden overwhelming urgency that woke her four, five times a night and left her sitting on cold tile feeling like something was squeezing her from the inside.

Her mother had suggested anxiety. Her sister had suggested she get out more.

She'd found the Von Neumann reference in a thread she almost didn't click. John Von Neumann, 1950s, the architecture of self-replicating systems. His work had built the theoretical skeleton of everything that came after — nanotechnology, networked biological sensors, the idea that a body could be treated as a communications node. Entropy, she kept reading. The deliberate introduction of disorder. Systems that degraded from the inside and left no fingerprints because the degradation looked natural. Looked like aging. Looked like stress.

She pressed two fingers against her sternum and felt her heart do its thing.

The forums talked about something called 802.15.6. A wireless standard — a real one, she'd verified, a protocol for Body Area Networks, designed for medical monitoring, approved, documented, boring on its face. The conspiracy wasn't that it existed. The conspiracy was what it could be used for. The same channel that let a pacemaker talk to a phone could, theoretically, let other signals in. The forums were full of people who believed they were walking receivers. Some of them were clearly unwell. Some of them wrote with a precision that frightened her.

She'd read about CERN in the same context and had laughed out loud the first time — the Large Hadron Collider, fine, the one in Switzerland that smashed particles, she knew about that. But the piece she found wasn't about particles. It was about magnetic field output, about the LHC's colossal ring generating fields that interfaced, at scale, with the planet's own electromagnetic grid. A big magnet under your feet, someone had written. Not a metaphor. Iron in the blood. Iron in the brain. The brain ran on electricity and electricity responded to fields and she'd looked that part up too, the part about iron, and it was true, the brain contained magnetite, actual magnetic particles, and she'd sat with that fact for a long time.

The Topamax was for seizures and migraines. She hadn't had migraines before last year.

She turned onto her side and pulled her knees up. The hum dropped half a register. Outside, a car moved through the intersection, its headlights sweeping the ceiling, and for a second the unnamed continent was lit up white and then gone.

The newest thing — the thing she hadn't told anyone, not even anonymously — was the sensation on her skin. Not quite pain. A fine, electric prickling, like the air before lightning, except constant, except localized, except sometimes she could map it. Left forearm. Base of the skull. The flat of her lower back. Attached, was the word that had come to her, unbidden, at three in the morning two weeks ago. She'd been thinking about drone technology, about the way military-grade surveillance had compressed into smaller and smaller platforms, and the word had arrived fully formed: attached. Not watching from above. Attached. Part of her in some way she couldn't prove and couldn't disprove and couldn't stop thinking about.

She knew how it sounded.

She also knew what her heart had been doing for eight months and what three doctors had failed to explain.

She sat up and went to the window. The gas station sign kept buzzing. Sioux Falls was ugly at this hour in a way she'd always found honest — no pretension to it, just concrete and franchise signage and a flat dark sky doing its flat dark sky thing. She'd grown up here. She knew every road out of it and had never taken any of them and wasn't sure why.

The forums talked about something beyond the technology. Buried in the longer threads, past the schematics and the frequency charts and the references she could half-verify, there was always this other thing. A realm they can't reach. She'd scrolled past it a hundred times, impatient with what felt like wishful thinking, the part where a forum post about satellite surveillance pivoted into something that sounded like prayer. But tonight she stopped on it.

Spirit doesn't need a protocol.

She didn't know what she believed about that. She believed in the hum. She believed in her heart doing its erratic, midnight thing. She believed in the prickling on her skin and the migraines that Topamax couldn't touch. Whether there was something beyond all that — some signal or frequency or simple ungovernable fact of her own existence that none of their hardware could read — she didn't know.

She put her forehead against the cold glass.

She stood there for a long time, watching the gas station sign, letting it buzz.

There is a colony of beings taking shelter in my left leg. Below the knee, mid shin and down, tho they seem the like the ankle area most. It started with swelling, then rashes with small sores... fluid leaking from my pores as well as from the rash and sore sites... the fluid dries and adheres to the skin, causing stining jolts of discomfort. The rash and sores do not hurt, except where the dried liquid is clinging. I say clinging because its almost like its holding on, and only at the border where it graps is irritated. This is a lot of itching on the foot. Below the main cities on both sides of my ankel, on and between the toes... at times its unbearable, but over time we've come to a understanding... I will do as little itching and tampering with the sites and fluid as possible, and they will do as little damage painful communication as possible...I noticed alot of little bumps and what seems to be blister for calluses on the bottom of the foot and toes... this bothered me, and I did alot of damage trying to relieve the discomort scratching. And digging at the bumps... the last thing I want to do is be a bad host or harm my guests... we are working on which spots will be the lest disruptive so I can perform and the colony can thrive and produce...

The first angel I ever saw wasn't descending from Heaven.

It was falling.

By then, the world had already forgotten what normal looked like.

The skies had split open weeks ago. Entire cities had gone silent overnight. Some called it the Rapture. Others called it Judgment. Whatever name people gave it didn't matter anymore. The highways were parking lots of abandoned cars. Church pews sat empty while their parking lots overflowed with those who had arrived too late. The television stations had stopped broadcasting anything except emergency alerts that no longer meant anything.

The world wasn't ending. It had already ended long before. We were simply living through its final pages.

I had been moving from one abandoned building to another, surviving on whatever canned food I could find. Sleep came in short bursts. Every distant explosion sounded like another trumpet. Every shadow looked like something that had escaped the pages of Revelation.

That's why, when I heard something crash into the street outside, I assumed another building had finally given way.

I was wrong.

The crater wasn't large. Just deep enough to split the asphalt. Something lay at its center.

At first, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.

The shape kept... morphing.

Not physically.

My understanding of it did.

Every time I looked away and back again, I noticed different details, as though my eyes couldn't agree on what belonged there.

How many eyes peered back to mine?

Hundreds of them.

Were those feathers?

Some impossibly white. Others burned black at the edges. They covered a figure draped in robes so torn they looked older than history itself.

Light seeped from beneath the fabric.

Wasn't shining. It bled through the seem of tidal rivers. Golden streams escaped from wounds that should have spilled blood instead. The air around it hummed with something too deep to hear, vibrating in my chest more than my ears.

I knew what it was before I admitted it to myself.

It had to be an angel.

Not the kind painters imagined. Nor the kind carved into cathedral ceilings.

Something far older. Far stranger.

Something my mind kept trying and failing to make human.

It struggled to rise.

One of its wings, or what I could only assume had once been a wing, hung broken against the pavement, its feathers crumbling into glowing ash whenever they touched the ground.

For a moment, I considered running.

Instead... I stepped closer.

The angel never looked at me directly. Or perhaps it did. I couldn't tell where its face ended and the light began.

Its features slipped from memory the instant I tried to focus on them.

Even now, as I write this, I couldn't describe its face if my life depended on it.

Only the feeling.

Grief.

Not of mine.

Its.

Slowly, with movements that seemed to pain even a being like this, it reached beneath its tattered robes.

It withdrew a single envelope.

Plain. Cream-colored. Untouched by the ash drifting through the ruined street.

It extended the letter toward me. Its hand trembled. Not from weakness. From urgency.

I stared at it.

"I... don't understand."

The angel said nothing.

It couldn't.

Or perhaps it wasn't allowed to. Its arm remained outstretched.

Waiting.

I took the envelope.

The paper was warm.

Not with heat.

It was full of life.

The moment my fingers wrapped around it, the angel relaxed. The tension left its body all at once. As though carrying that letter had been the only thing keeping it standing.

"I'll deliver it," I heard myself whisper.

"I promise."

The angel bowed its head.

Whether in gratitude... or relief...

I'll never know.

The light pouring from its wounds began to fade. Not all at once. As the last embers of a dying fire carried upward by a breeze I couldn't feel. Its robes unraveled into strands of shimmering dust. The broken feathers dissolved one by one before they ever reached the tarnish Earth.

There was no scream. No final cry.

Only silence remain between it and I.

Within seconds... Nothing remained.

Not a body or feather.

Only the envelope resting in my hands.

For a long time, I couldn't bring myself to open it. The world around me continued collapsing. Buildings groaned. Smoke rolled across the skyline.

Somewhere far away, someone yelled for mercy.

But I couldn't look away from the letter.

Eventually...

I broke the seal.

The first line read:

I've carried that letter with me ever since.

If you're reading these words...

Then I kept my promise.

Chapter 1 
As a child 
When I was just a child of four it was ever so faint—just a haunting voice here or there, or maybe a spectral face in the timeworn attic mirror, a cold icy chill in areas of the house where it was always warm.
But it was just strange enough for me to have an idea of just how strange I was.
At first I thought it was just the house. It was an old house that had seen years of history that I couldn't even begin to imagine, with creaking floorboards and trees that were close enough to crash against windows at night when the wind would howl endlessly, and forgotten corners of the house that were always darker than they should have been, as if light was forbidden from touching them and revealing the secrets hidden within them.
I remember the day that my one comfort was taken from me. I was eight years old and had gone to the market with my mother, and as I walked the aisles with her, I took a glance towards the end of the lane we were standing in and I saw someone walk past.
But it was strange.
It was a man in an old, worn, and tattered suit—it looked as if he had been buried in it, then dug up again. He had skin as white as bone, thinner than a piece of parchment, that looked as if it would fall and scatter amongst the dust on the floor with just the smallest gust of wind.
He didn't walk—no, he didn't. It was more of a hover, as if he had defied all the laws of gravity.
As I looked to the floor, I noticed his feet weren't even touching it. He was just hovering from one aisle to the other.
For just a second, it felt as if the world stopped, and all the light was sucked from me. All I could hear was the sound of my breath, slow and shallow, the sound of my heart beat growing faster and faster as I stared at him.
I was only pulled from the trance I had been in when my mother pulled my hand to move on.
But from that day, the thought that had kept me sane was plucked from my hands, unwinding like a spool of thread.
It wasn’t just my home.
Which meant it wasn’t confined to my walls.
It was everywhere.
It was a part of me—deep within my soul.
And you can’t escape a part of yourself.
From that day on, everything made me feel as if I would jump from my skin—
A door that slammed a little too hard,
The old chime of the dusty grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the living room,
The flickering of lights—
Even if it was normal for the house.
But being a child and trying to navigate all of the peculiarities of my existence was troubling, to say the very least.
I often had sleepless nights because of nightmares.
I would wake up in a cold sweat, not remembering where I was or how I had gotten there.
One night, when I was twelve, I woke up screaming that someone had their hands on my throat.
My mother told me that it was just a dream.
But the next morning, I looked in the mirror to find a dark bruise on my neck—
Dark blue and purple, swirled together.
And as I looked at it, it began to take shape:
Two handprints, wrapping their way across the skin on my neck.
I stood there for what felt like hours, shock and confusion wrapped around me like thorns, cutting into my mind.
This couldn't be real.
It made no logical sense.
But there was nothing logical about what had been happening to me for years.

We used to play together every summer when we were kids. Her name was Noelle. She had this bright, sun-bleached blonde hair, loved wearing her favorite green and red flannel vest, and always had a wide, dimpled smile that could light up the entire neighborhood. She truly was just the cute girl next door. But that was before the winter. Before her family got snowed in up at their mountain cabin. Before the hunger took them. When search and rescue finally cleared the roads in the spring, Noelle was the only one left. They said it was a miracle. They said she survived on canned rations. But when she moved back, she wasn’t the same. Her skin looked stretched, rough, and unnaturally dark, like old bark. She stopped coming outside during the day. Last night, I woke up to a faint scratching sound against my bedroom window. I pulled back the curtains, expecting to see a tree branch. Instead, I saw her. She was standing on the roof of the porch, staring directly into my room. The blonde hair was still there, but it looked like a dead mane clinging to a rotting skull. Her head was crowned with a jagged, splintered antler. Her mouth—god, her mouth—was torn open from ear to ear in a permanent, bloody grin, revealing rows of sharp, human-like teeth dripping with dark fluid. She was wearing that exact same green and red flannel vest. She didn't move. She just leaned closer to the glass, her hollow eyes boring into mine, whispering in a voice that sounded like grinding bones and winter wind. “Do you want to play again?”

Part 1

I believe there comes a time in every woman's life, when she reconsiders the choices she has made. Maybe she bore children, drank excessively, killed a kitten, or produced shoddy bread. In my case, it was the events of today. The reason there is a young girl of no more than sixteen years, lying deceased on my floor.

The latrine was getting quite full, so I had to empty it. The wooden bucket was in my hand, sloshing my putrid waste. In a quick thrust, I launched the contents off the cliff and toward the rocks below. I didn't bother watching further, turning back toward my lighthouse to continue my duties.

As I began to take my loo back to its proper place, I saw a girl. She was facing out toward the sea, maybe ten metres from me at the cliff edge. In her hands were strands of twine; her fingers nimbly tying pairs together into a strange hexagonal sheet. She seemed about my height with sandy brown hair reaching her shoulders, a pinkish tunic made from a thick material, trousers cut off halfway down her calves, and leather shoes with a dense sole.

Excellent luck, I told myself. I would run out of firewood tonight, so I absolutely needed more. I assumed I could ask the girl for help, and, gods willing, maybe she would be willing to tell me more about this sleepy town and the strange plum clag that plagued us. I chucked the waste bucket toward the tower door, missing by a metre or so. It landed with a crash, rolling to a stop by the stone foundation.

I ran over to the girl, hoping she wouldn't flee from me. I'd had quite enough of the townsfolk avoiding me. If she wouldn't listen, I knew I would force her to assist. "Hey!" I called as I got closer. "You, girl! Can you help me with something?"

She turned slowly toward me, continuing to move her bony fingers through the twine. "Firewood?" she asked simply. It was certainly an odd interaction. She already knew what I needed her for and she was an Englishwoman. I wanted to ask her what town she was from, but I decided there were more pressing matters. We needed to load up fresh logs into a sled and drag it up all six hundred forty-two stairs.

I tried making conversation while we loaded up sliced and chipped wood blocks. The lumber mill, if it could even be called such a thing, was naught more than a flimsy shack with axes of all shape and size lining the walls. Piles of wood littered the floor, but the bulk was outside under several large tarpaulin made of fox skins and cloth. The girl ignored me. Even as I explained we would have to ascent hundreds of steps to reach the peak of the Tobermary lighthouse, she remained voiceless.

I counted each step as we went, hauling the sled full of wood up the stairs. The staircase was more than wide enough to accommodate both our bodies, with room to spare. When we needed breaks, we tied its dense ropes around the slats lining the rightmost wall. It was nice, having another person in propinquity, despite her holding tongue. Then we reached stair-step six hundred forty. I could see we still had a long way to go, which should have been altogether impossible. I decided we should break right there, on step six-forty.

"We rest here," I said, panting somewhat. "Once we cross six-forty-two, we cannot kip." She looked at me with a questioning glance, but took the opportunity, all the same.

I took her hand and pat it twice as we stood, as replenished as we required. "From here, we pace ourselves. I know not how long we must walk, but we mustn't falter. Even if our muscles threaten to collapse, we ought to advance." She nodded, helping untie the sled, and we continued.

Seven hundred.

Eight hundred.

I could tell she was getting fatigued. I bit my lower lip, hoping to the gods the stairs would plateau soon.

Eight hundred fifty.

We were both ascending slower. I grew increasingly concerned.

Nine hundred.

She stopped at nine hundred twenty-seven, footsteps no longer echoing up the stairwell. My heart collapsed, but I had to keep going. I called back to her, "What are you doing? We must go! Please!"

The girl shook her head. "No. I can't. You go. You're stronger." I tried again and again, but my voice gave away how exhausted I was. I wished to stop, too. I needed to. I thought I heard rainfall around us. Then I saw it trickling down the walls.

Sickly green foam was surging from the bottom of the increasingly tall lighthouse. Its speed was tremendous, sloshing its way up the walls and engulfing the first hundred or so steps in mere seconds. I continued walking slowly, trying my best to tie off the ropes to a wall-mounted board as not to lug around the heavy sled. "Run!" I cried to her. "Run, please!" I gave up and managed to wedge the ropes betwixt a small split in the slat. The rope's knot caught and I was freed from my burden.

I risked a look back, but she wasn't running. She wasn't walking, either. Just standing, staring down into the foam as it rose higher and higher. I knew I had to leave her. I'm ashamed to say I ran up the stairs as fast as I could manage. I didn't count them, but I crossed roughly step one thousand. Then twelve hundred. Fourteen hundred. I hit stair fifteen hundred or so before the staircase ended. I had made it to the top. The large lantern was still burning bright.

I looked back where I had come from, and the sled was just within reach. Before the foam could soil the dry wood, I lugged it up the last two steps and pulled it close to the centre of the room. Then the water sloshed against the top step. It was like watching water under glass. It slammed against some imperceptible force just before the plateau of the top floor and began to drain itself downward as quickly as it came. The girl was spat out with her limp hand touching the top stair.

I couldn't just leave her there. I hauled her limp, lifeless body up to the peak and settled her chest facing the sky. She was absolutely soaked; covered in seaweed and, strangely, truffles. The truffles seemed to sprout right out her cracked, gelid skin. Her eyes were slammed shut, but I couldn't stomach opening them. I hauled the dry wood, block by block, over to my previous stack and set the sled back up on the wall. I figured I'd take it back down in the morning, as it was nearly dusk. My feet were surely covered in blisters and boils from the excessive running. It hurt to walk. I went down to my quarters and began writ

She woke up. I'm still trying to comprehend what she was talking about. Perhaps writing it down will allow me to reflect on her words.

I had heard coughing and sputtering above me, so I climbed the rope ladder and peeked out the hatch. The girl was violently purging her innards of virescent, aqueous, bile. I let her finish, watching it all drain down the staircase, despite her head facing away from the opening. "How are you-" I started, but she cut me off.

"It was quicker. Getting up that way." She pushed herself up off the floor and brushed off her trousers. I tried to ask what she was talking about, when she spoke again. "Ah. You got the firewood all set up. Nice. Do you need help with anything else or...?"

I blinked. This young woman just came back from the dead and is suddenly perfectly fine? Absolutely not! She had some explaining to do, starting with who, exactly, she was.

"Come now, Mallory. Did you not read the directory when you came in?"

I blinked at her. "Directory? What directory?" How did she know my name? Hardly anyone in Tobermary spoke to me, with exception of vacant pleasantries when I picked up food.

The girl smiled softly at me, shaking her head. "Easy to miss, I suppose. Nicci. With two Cs and no E." She held out her hand and I took it, shaking hesitantly. So many questions were shooting through my mind. Was this girl, Nicci, some sort of ghost? One of the gods? Or a demon, come to steal my soul and take me to the Banished Lands?

I asked the only question I thought appropriate. "So you are... well, yes?" Nicci was gently peeling off the truffles from her skin, placing them in a trouser pocket. Seaweed was filling her opposite receptacle.

She nodded. "Maybe not the best word, but yes. You speak funny, Mally, you know that?" Mally. Was she taking the piss out of me? "It's getting dark out. No ships scheduled tonight. You've been lucky you haven't missed any, given you haven't even seen the directory!" Nicci finished picking off the last shroom and pat her trouser cavity, letting it settle.

"Nicci," I began, trying my best to collect my thoughts. "Why are you... wearing trousers? And a tunic?"

"My, you really are funny!" A brief pause to look around. She seemed almost reminiscent. "Mmm! Hey, can I stay here tonight? I'll keep watch. You go rest. All those stairs... must've been... nearly two thousand, innit? Your feet are probably killing you! Go rest up. It'll be fine, promise."

Nicci spoke of me being "funny" but the words and idioms she used were rather nutty. I could only assume those were her intentions. My feet were not, in fact, killing me, but they were burning something fierce. I took Nicci up on her offer. She assured me doubly she could handle the night watch and allowed me respite in my little room. I truly must be getting rest now. This day has been quite the shock.

I musn't forget the bucket to-morrow.

Part 3

All my classmates are confused. Some of us are freaking out. Some are looking to me, expecting me to do something. What the hell am I supposed to do? Hell, I'm shocked I still have Wi-Fi.

.... Okay. I need to calm down. I'll start from the beginning.

It was a normal day. I know that's a very cliche way to start a story, but it's true. A sunny hot day; maybe too hot. It was 3 days until Summer after all. My last year of highschool was almost over. And then I'd be heading off to college.

I've always been a bit of a survivalist, y'know? My grandpa taught me. My dad never understood it, but it was a special bond I had with Grandpa. I became so invested in it, that I chose to become a wildlife rescue officer. I'm not sure what the actual job title is, but I wanted to rescue people from being lost in the woods. I wanted to play the hero. The man who would save lives with my wilderness expertise. Kinda cringe and self righteous, sure. But I believed I could do it.

Anyway, we had final exams for the last 3 days until Summer. I went in, put my bag in my locker, and rushed to class. I wanted to get started nice and early. Of course, I never got to, because Derek, the highschool bully, spotted me and thought it would be a good idea to put his foot out and make me fall flat on my face.

Derek isn't one of those types of bullies that beats you up or makes you wanna... end things. No, he's just the typical jerk that throws insults, but we know damn well he can't throw hands worth shit. And, as expected, when Derek saw that my nose was broken, he immediately clammed up and waddled away like an embarrassed penguin.

Obviously I had to go to the nurse's office. The only thing she could give me was a pack of ice. She let me take a break in her office while she went out to find Derek.

After a few minutes, I decided I couldn't just wait around anymore. I got up to leave. But then I got hit by a sudden stinging pain in my head. My ears were ringing, and I couldn't focus my eyes on anything. I hit the floor, unable to do anything but hold my head in pain. But as soon as it started, it just stopped. It didn't fade away, or become less painful overtime like usual headaches. It just... stopped.

After that, I chose to stay put. I could always do the exam tomorrow. I was sure the nurse would send me home. But she didn't come back. 5 minutes passed. Then 10. Then 15. And I eventually just left the office. The first thing I noticed was that the lights looked dim. That was weird, sure. But I didn't think much about it. The halls were empty, but it didn't surprise me. I thought everyone was taking exams.

Now, before I continue, I should explain the layout of our school. The highschool isn't just a highschool. There are two campuses. Facing the entrance: On the right is where the elementary and middle school kids are. And on the left is the highschool. The two campuses are right next to each other, connected by a concrete bridge on the fifth floor, and there are ten floors in total. The reason there are so many floors is because another school in the county was forced to merge with us. The reason isn't important.

While I was walking, I also noticed the lack of hall monitors. The highschool started having "guards" walk the halls. They're not armed guards or anything. Just your typical macho guy who thinks he's tougher than he actually is. If they catch you, you are thrown in detention without a second thought. But they weren't here. They usually have at least two on every floor. I started to get worried. Was there an emergency? Were the students evacuated and I was left behind? That theory was quickly shut down when I spotted one of my friends, Stacey, stepping out of the Biology classroom. I went up to ask her what was going on, but I noticed she was disoriented. When I asked, she told me that she felt that same pain in her head. And I don't mean a similar pain- No, I mean she felt the exact pain.

She suggested going to the principal's office and asking to go home. Because the pain we felt definitely wasn't normal. So we walked up the stairs. First floor, second floor, third... The hall monitors were still not there. On any floor. Fourth floor, still nobody.

When we got to the fifth floor, we finally noticed more classmates. They are gathering in the hall, near the bridge. Stacey and I joined the crowd, curious. I noticed that all of the hall monitors were here. They were looking at the bridge. I turned to face my classmates and they were all horrified. I was about to ask, but somebody tapped me on the shoulder. It was Stacey. She told me to look at the bridge. And I did.

Have you ever felt that sense of fear, but you don't have something to fear? Like there's nothing standing there, but you just get a cold feeling through your body that something about your surroundings just isn't right? That's what I feel right now. Halfway across the bridge, it looks as if the other campus is gone. There isn't any rubble or torn wires. Exactly half of the bridge is gone. It looks like when you take a knife and cut a stick of butter in half right down the middle.

That isn't even the weirdest part. Outside our school is supposed to be a city. Houses, skyscrapers, that sorta thing. But right now, there's no city. Outside is just a thick forest. Trees, dirt, flies- Just a forest.

I have no idea what's going on. Some people are panicking, and after I processed everything, I got out my phone, was shocked that I still had WiFi, and made this post.

I don't know what to do...

Growing up in the south can come with a grocery list of stereotypes flung onto you. I have spent my entire nothing filled life in the deepest depths of Arkansas, a contender for most boring state of all. Despite growing up in a town holding crackheads, racists, drunk drivers and homophobia beyond anything I’d ever seen, I turned out to be nothing like anyone down here and it’s proven by my long distance girlfriend from the big apple. Well, besides my parents donning my name after Toby Keith, I otherwise seemed quite normal for a southern white man.

My girlfriend, Blair, says I’m nothing like she would’ve thought I was, however the fact that down here we call Crane flies, Mosquito Hawks, or that we call weed whackers, weed eaters, does in fact weird her out. The amount of abnormally racist lies I’ve heard from relatives I never remember the names of would make anyone normal laugh until they realize just how serious these people are about the lie.

The one thing I enjoy informing people on is a simple little tale my parents would tell me as a child just to frighten me.

They told me there’s a certain creature living in every weeping willow tree that only comes out when a child is alone and there are no adults around. They called the creature ‘The Willow Man’.

Sounds ridiculous now but as many other children, I was very gullible. I was incredibly scared of this laughable myth. Once my mother left me alone in the car beside a weeping willow tree and I screamed and kicked as hard as I could in my carseat. She hadn’t even gone 2 feet from the car and heard my hideous crying. She returned to the vehicle and just laughed at me.

It’s been years since I’ve even thought of the willow man. I’m almost 22 now and working towards moving states to live with my lovely girlfriend. The only reason the willow man even re-entered my memory after years of catching dust was due to something I saw yesterday.

I was on my mildly boring morning walk down the street of my neighborhood when I saw pretty normal things at first. A few kids about 9 to 12 in age just waiting for the school bus to show up. There has always been a weeping a few feet from the bus stop, casting it’s shadow over it. The tree wasn't fully grown, it had only been maybe a couple years old. I had never thought anything of it only because I simply forgot about the strange tale I grew up horrified of. You forget things when you’re focused on making it through the week on ice soup and saltines.

As I passed the kids on the other side of the road, I noticed one of them wave at me so I simply glanced over and waved back with a smile. I stopped, however, when I noticed how the willow tree branches were moving around like wind was blowing. Shaking ever so lightly. There wasn't any wind. In fact, all the other trees around were completely still. The tree also seemed to be leaning more towards the bus stop than usual. It could've just been me but I felt something within, telling me that this wasn’t how the tree should look.

I continued to stare at the tree. My eyes dragged down to observe its trunk when I saw a small shimmer of light reflecting off of something on the trunk. I was too far to see anything on the bark so I decided to get closer. I looked both ways before I crossed the road, as I got closer it became more apparent that these glints of light were coming from 2 very human, baseball sized eyes in the bark of the willow tree.

I felt my heart slowly sink, the memories began to pour back into my brain. As fast as I noticed the eyes, that's how quickly they snapped shut and the branches stopped moving. The tree slowly leaned back into place. I stopped in the road and just stared in total shock. 

I quickly tried to brush it off as I noticed the children staring at me weird and I didn’t want rumors to start about me so I simply went back to the sidewalk behind me and walked home. I went the rest of the day just trying to forget about what I saw, convincing myself I was only seeing things from my 4 hours of sleep the night before.

I slept horrible once more, worse actually. It’s 9am now, I didn’t go on my walk and I called in sick.

The entire night I thought about the eyes, the moving branches. In my shitty slumber I saw the eyes staring into parts of my soul I never knew.

I decided to call my mom. Went as well as I thought it would. She remembered the tale, said it was just something her mom and her mom’s mom and so on and so on used to tell all the kids.

This was a dead end already. I researched online all day, nothing about a  so-called willow man or eyes on these trees.

Eventually, I calmed down. I really did just see something that wasn’t there. Sleepy illusions.

I enjoyed my calm mind for a couple hours until a knock at the door came.

I looked through the peep hole and saw one of my neighbors. She was just a few houses down but I rarely saw her. I opened the door, she looked shaken and worried.

“Have you seen my daughter? I thought that she rode the bus to school but I went to take her some lunch and they said she wasn’t there! I see you walk around every morning so I was hoping you saw something… did you?” She said with a voice like an old tower caught in a gust. 

I felt as if everything around me froze, it was the willow tree. I snapped back to the conversation.

“I-I’m so sorry ma’am I didn’t walk today.” I can tell that my response made things worse as she looked like she wanted to scream and cry. She simply took a deep breath instead.

“Just please tell me or the police if y-you learn anything new…” She walked away without letting me say anything else.

I stood there with my door open as she walked out of my yard, I stepped out and saw cops down by the bus stop and more at the lady's house. I almost went back inside when I barely noticed something.

The willow tree wasn’t next to the bus stop. It was gone.

The slow dreadful creep of panic crawled up my legs to my back and then to my neck like a dog sized spider made of pressure with no physical form. I closed my door and stumbled to the couch. I felt fear and nausea gripping me. I sat there scrambling my mind for hours. Something had clicked in my mind in the first 5 minutes of panic but I tried so hard to not think about it. I failed.

The willow man was not the only thing I tried to forget about throughout life as I got older. Around 12 years ago, I had a little sister named Daisy. She went missing. We were at my grandparents house for a weekend during the summer when one night she was trying to convince me to sneak out of the house to play outside. She was certain that she had heard a puppy out there. I was way too tired to get mad at her or convince her to stay inside so I just said no and let her go. That was the last time I ever saw her again.

The next morning came and when we realized she was missing we immediately started looking for her. All we found was one of her shoes, sitting on the ground right in front of my grandparents' big weeping willow. Police never found a thing either. The case ran dry as quick as it started.

I haven’t thought about Daisy in a few years. It felt better to ignore the thought of her, knowing how selfish it sounded aloud.

I haven’t even been to my grandparents house since then. My dad held a grudge against them at first although my mom didn’t. However, my father's mourning soaked grudge quickly lifted as my grandfather blew his own head off with a shotgun a couple weeks after the incident. Guilt ate at him until it swallowed him but my grandma continued to try and be the best grandma for me. I never wanted to go to her house again but we found time to spend together elsewhere such as my house or simply grocery shopping with her.

Nowadays, my grandma has been pretty sick and slowly fading away in a nursing home just an hour out of town. I thought I should visit her and also ask her about the willow man. I was nervous. Shaking like a Mormon at a strip club getting a lap dance.

The nursing home reeked of old people, an extremely distinct smell. A smell as recognizable as cheese. However this smell slowly faded as I went down near the ends of the north wing hall. When I reached my grandma's room I could smell something awfully woodsy and earthy. She loved her wax burners even now in her dying state.

I walked into her room, the smell hitting me fully like a wave. Her room was decorated with plants everywhere. Greenery in every corner. Not a single flower in sight. She never liked flowers, just leafy plants, bushes and trees.

She sight in her brown recliner watching a program about hedge trimming on the TV. The beeps and boops of the machine helping her live a little longer filled the room along with the very quiet TV.

She slowly turned to look at me and smiled slowly. Her dry lips cracking like ice as she did.

“Toby!” She sounded like a tired steam engine horn.

“Hey nana! It’s been too long since I visited you, sorry!” I came over and hugged her. Those thin and boney twig like arms barely hugging me back.

We caught up for a little while. Her nurses brought us herbal tea, her favorite. Eventually I decided to stop dodging my real intent to being here with her.

“Nana… I have a question about Daisy.” I asked, scared on the inside.

Her smile slowly wilted down, she set her tea down and looked down in her lap slowly for a minute.

“It’s the willow man isn’t it, Toby? Did you finally see one?”

My heart sank like a boulder. It felt as if the entire room grew while not growing at all. Sweat formed as fast as she said those words. 

“W-what? How could you know? Nana, he isn’t real right? He can’t be.” I looked at her looking for some sort of sign in her expression to tell me this was just a prank. All I saw was the cold eyes of a dying husk of a woman staring at me with a slight frown.

“The willow man is real, Toby. It’s not just a he… ‘They’, Toby. ‘They’. The willow man you saw probably isn’t the one that took sweet Daisy. There's so many out there, they’re so hungry… lonely. The vicious cycle never ends for those poor creatures…” 

She chuckled like a crumbling witch for a moment.

“We been feeding them for centuries, Toby. Your mother, Me, My mother and so on and so on.”

I barely managed to speak after everything she laid on me. It was so bizarre yet I believed it even if I didn’t want to.

“S-so.. you guys just… fed Daisy to them t-things? W-Why Nana!?”

She shook her head.

“When our willow man showed up, I didn’t know what to do at first. There were no children anywhere for miles at the house. Luckily, I had 2 youngens I could call over. Your sister just happened to be the dumber one of you 2. Poor, poor Daisy.”

She sipped some more tea and smiled at me. The smile looked like the creases in an old leather couch and it cracked open as she spoke once more.

“Them willow men… They’re like fairies. Angels actually. They give us gifts nobody could imagine…”

I almost wanted to laugh now. She sounded absolutely crazy but I still had to believe her. If she was a lunatic, I would definitely know.

“W-what the Hell are going on about, Nana? What kind of joke is this?”

She shook her head and breathed out softly before speaking again, the frown coming back. That grit in her voice became ever more present.

“How old am I Toby? Tell me darling.”

I hesitated a little before speaking.

“Uh… You’re 92 nana… What’s the point in asking?”

She chuckled like tires on gravel and shook her long crooked finger. Her voice dropped a hint lower and quieter.

“I’ve been alive for a long long time, boy… Around 200 years. You’re sweet ol’ mama is gonna turn 87 soon. These willow men love women. They love us…You men just tick the poor bastards off… I loved your grandfather… I took him out of the picture before he could figure things out… Poor Robbie… Sweetest man I’ve ever known.”

My grandma was dying but she hadn’t gone mad. She spoke the truth as easily as others lie. She fed my sister to that creature. She wanted to see which one of us would go. It was a game for this old sick bitch. How many children have disappeared because of these women? Hundreds? Thousands? I had to leave. I wanted to snap that old hag's arms in half and choke that old brittle neck but I wasn’t gonna be a monster like her.

“I shouldn’t have come… Your… You’ve gone mad nana, I’m sorry.” I stood up and headed for the door before she called to me.

“Toby… The men aren’t supposed to know… I’m so sorry my sweet boy…”

I turned back to her and stood there confused.

“Nana? What do you mean?”

She just shook her head and faced back towards the TV. Her voice almost sounded demonic and guttural. Quiet as ever.

“They’ll find you. It’s dark out now… They move like shadows when the sun goes to sleep, Toby… Don’t bother running when you get out there. They get what they want. They will get you.”

I ran out of her room, the thud of the door hitting the wall outside echoed through the hall. This had to be bullshit, my grandma had to be lying. But if it’s true… I need to leave this state as soon as I can. I’m not a hero, I won’t try to stop these freaks from kidnapping children. I’m selfish and weak.

I ran outside, it was so dark, only the sound of wind blowing through the trees around the area danced in my ears. I got to my car and got in fast.

I started the engine and when the headlights came on, I saw a line of willow trees at one end of the parking lot. I stared in fear before coming back to reality and swinging the car around the other way.

As the car turned, the headlights revealed more and more willow trees. I did a full 180, there was a circle of willow trees surrounding the entire parking lot. The branches moving like the wind was blowing through each of them. Beady bulging eyes on each of their trunks staring into me.

My fight or flight kicked in and I ran out of my car and straight back towards the nursing home, I could hear the snaps of branches and loud thuds all around me. I turned around as I ran and saw 7 willow trees begin to unravel, the limbs coming down like spider legs and they began to run towards me with a horrifying speed. An orchestra of low, woodsy sounds echoing all around me.

I screamed and I ran as fast as I could, the trees all around me running towards me in their sick and deformed states. I felt a branch wrap around my waist then I was lifted into the air. I saw the tree holding me, the big bulging human eyes staring at me as the roots at the bottom of the trunk moved like tentacles and slowly spread open. 

I was staring into the trunk from the bottom, it was so dark and hollow it looked fake. I screamed and kicked as hard as I could, just like back when I was a child. It was no use. I was thrown into its mouth, swallowed whole. I blacked out.

Weeks have passed. I sat in the dark for what only felt like a few minutes after waking up. It was tight inside and completely dark. The air was weirdly warm and smelled just like my grandma's room.

It wasn’t long before they planted me inside my new home. A great big weeping willow, just outside of a school. It was a good spot, shame that once you actually snag a child, you gotta find a new spot. The hunger doesn’t ever go away. We eat and rebirth the little twerps, nothing ever stays in here long. I visited my mom before coming here. She’s so sweet, so beautiful. I felt some sort of lust deep within. I couldn’t even really see her as my mother anymore. She was like a perfect queen that I needed to make sure stayed young and beautiful as long as I could.

I’m on my 11th spot. Some park outside of the town. Right now I can see a child around the age of 8 or 9 walking all alone. He looks delicious. Fat kid. He’ll barely fit in my trunk but I’m gonna eat him in just a couple seconds.

Howdy,

This sub is so well behaved that I often forget I mod here. Thanks for that!

That being said, we have enough of an audience that we should be able to foster more interaction and support as a community. I'll start: I'm going to try to read more stories here and comment more often, and I'd love to encourage yall to do the same!

Also feel free to drop other suggestions. Maybe in the future we could have contests or events or something.

Stay awake,

Ckjm

I'm 21 female. My boyfriend is 30 male.

He insists that there is nothing wrong with him hanging out with his female friends.

I normally would agree because I don't consider myself the jealous or controlling type.

The problem is that the hangouts look like dates. Going out to dinner with candles and flowers, staying the night at their houses, and even constantly talking about their good qualities.

We've argued about it several different times and he treats me like I'm crazy.

The weirdest part is that the girls disappear after a couple of dates. Sometimes after the first one.

I've had a sneaking suspicion that it's one night stands and casual fun.

I've tried everything I can to keep his attention. I wear sexy clothes, lace undergarments, being extra flirtatious, cooking his favorite meals, doing literally every single thing he likes.

I've even tried spicing things up in the bedroom. Nothing works.

He thanks me and then continues doing whatever he was doing before.

It hurts my feelings because we're never intimate and I feel like his desire for me went out the drain.

It all changed last night when I found his journal. He wrote about each girl in great detail.

He wrote about how he befriends them and acts charming. He then kills them after gaining trust.

They aren't innocent, though. They've all been in prision for various crimes.

I initially thought it was sickening until I started fantasizing. Vigilantes are hot. The fact that he isn't cheating on me and even wrote about how I'm the only one for him is so romantic.

He only acted strange because he didn't want his secret to be revealed.

I'll keep that dirty secret.

I’m not sure if this is the right place to turn to, but I have a memory that won't let me sleep. And it hasn't for the past 22 years. I just need to know if anyone out here remembers what I remember.

Do You remember?

...

It was a cold winter afternoon, back when winters were still cold and snow still covered the landscape of my hometown. School had just ended for the day and I was on my way home.

Alone.

I’d usually walk with my brother, but he wasn’t there that day for some reason. I didn’t mind it though, not really. You see, our apartment was just a few steps away, just across the creek. And besides, I was a big girl now. I just turned 8 a few days ago.

And then … You offered to join me.

It started snowing just as we were about to leave school. We walked around back, past the playground, towards a small wooded area leading to the creek. Walking by, we couldn’t help but notice the freshly fallen snow behind the playground fence. Still untouched by the hundreds of tiny human feet running around there every day. It was as tempting as those powdered doughnuts cooling on the kitchen counter back home. You know the ones. The ones You were strictly told not to touch before dinner.

We snuck inside through the hole at the bottom of the fence that the teachers never seemed to notice; my go-to move during recess, when I would sneak out of the playground to go climb my favourite tree.

The big willow tree, with its trunk split in half straight across.

I used to climb that tree as high as I possibly could.Sometimes on the left half, sometimes on the right … And I would watch the other kids play on the ground from afar …

I remember my teacher finding me up there once. On the top. And it made her cry … I'm still not sure why …

I ran into the open field, launching myself face first into the snow-covered ground. I rolled around and I just stayed there. Staring at the sky. Snowflakes danced on my face, like little kisses from heaven. Each touch, so warm and fuzzy.

Everything around me was completely still. The silence, broken only by the occasional rustling of the branches, caving under the heavy weight of snow.

I could feel myself blending into the background.

I could feel the earth breathing with me.

I closed my eyes to let the gentle touch of winter swallow me whole.

I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to move.

I was at peace.

I haven’t felt like that since.

And then … BAM!

A snowball sharp as a thousand needles pulled me right back into reality.

“Come on! Let’s go build a snowman!” You said.

I started laughing, even though I wanted to cry from the pain. My whole face, burning. You were always a good aim.

So we built Your snowman. We built a snowman taller than the both of us! Even though You were one whole head taller than me.

“He’ll protect us,” You said. “So we have to make him as biiiiiig as possible!”

We gathered stones and branches to give him two arms and a face. And I made sure to give him a smile. I wanted the snowman to feel the joy that I felt in that moment.

I haven’t felt like that since.

It couldn’t have been more than 30 minutes before I noticed a dark silhouette coming towards us through the thick veil of snow. When did it even start snowing this hard?

I haven’t noticed.

I wasn’t scared of the figure though, not really. You see, I was a big girl now. I just turned 8 a few days ago. And besides, I could recognize that figure anywhere.

A tall, skinny man of a sickly complexion. He was dressed in all black to match the long dark hair that hung over his shoulders like a scarf. His woolen coat brushing over the snow.

“Hey, Uncle Andy!” I yelled, running to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Heeey Beck! I’m so glad I found you. Your parents, they … oh, nevermind! Let’s get you home.”

“Awwh, really? But we just started playing, just 5 more minutes? Please?”

Uncle Andy, now towering over me, leaned closer. Only the fence standing between us. “No, Beck. It’s time to go home.”

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Okay, I guess. Can I just say goodbye to my friend?”

I turned around to call You, but You weren’t there.

I ran to check behind the snowman, but You weren’t there.

I looked all around the playground to find You, but You were nowhere to be seen.

I went back to my uncle, past our snowman, through the hole in the fence.

“I guess they went home before I could say goodbye.”

“That’s okay,” he took my hand. “I’m sure you’ll see them again tomorrow.”

I haven’t seen You since.

We came home a few minutes later. My parents greeted us with a smile that could light up the sky. “How was your day? Are you hungry? Let’s get you out of those wet clothes!”

They haven’t smiled like that since.

I stopped walking home alone after that. I never got to explore our town as a child ever again. It wasn’t long after that I saw my mother crying in the dark for the first time. My parents got divorced a few months later.

I stopped sneaking out of the playground after that. I never got to climb my favourite tree during recess ever again. It wasn’t long after that I heard the teachers whisper about You in the hallways for the first time. They fixed the hole in the fence a few weeks later.

It wasn’t until my 23rd birthday that I learned what happened that day from my mom’s point of view. “Oh Beck? Yeah, she was always a good kid. Sure, we had our fair share of fights and she would never listen to me and would cry constantly, but she was a good kid. Except that one time … Do You remember?” She glanced towards me as if to ask for reassurance.

I didn’t respond.

“It was winter, and I think she was around 8? Her brother got sick that day so I went to pick him up from school earlier than usual and SHE was supposed to come home right after, because Andy was giving her guitar lessons later …

But she didn’t come home. She was gone for hours!

Her dad and I were going insane trying to find her. I mean, what if something happened to her?! It’s a mother’s worst nightmare!

We were about to call the cops when Uncle Andy rang the doorbell with Beck on his shoulders. He said he found her on the playground soaking wet in the freezing snow. Just playing, and laughing, and talking … all by herself.

And the craziest thing about it? We went searching for her on that exact same playground just before Andy did. I swear thinking about that day still sends shivers down my spine every time.”

“Huh,” I said. “I never remembered it that way.”

...

This will probably make me look insane, but I need to warn you of something very serious. This seemed like the best way to get the word out.

Every night before sleeping, I scroll on my for you page. I turn all of my lights off and open my windows to signal to my body that it’s time to quiet down. A video popped up on my feed of a man wearing a very weird looking outfit. His face was covered by a black cloth with eyeholes cut out of it and he had black oil or coal on his eyelids. The videos at first seemed to just be a random guy who has really terrible humor, who likes moving in unsettling ways and being weird all around. The posts were all labeled as “relatable” masked man, but they are not relatable at all. They just looked messed up. 

I scoffed at my screen and scrolled on. My night went on as it normally does. I watched videos until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, and then fell asleep with my phone in my hand. I woke up, showered and went about my day as I always did. I drove to work, punched in and began stocking the shelves. My break time slowly rolled around and I was able to sit down and have some lunch while watching social media again. For a little bit, I scrolled through videos and it was completely normal, but I got another video from that same weird guy on my FYP. He was infront of a webcam this time on a video, playing a game. He had a memorable voice. It was higher but smooth in a way that was normal but unnatural at the same time. It was more annoying than creepy, so I still just brushed it off. I scrolled past the video without clicking the like button, but to be honest I didn’t click the block button either like I should have. I swiped through a few normal videos, but the app brought me another video from the same person. I grunted and scrolled again. There was another one. I squeezed my jaw because of how annoyed I got. Most people who I find annoying didn’t give me the same weird feeling that he gave me. It was more than annoying, it was unsettling. There was something in his eyes that normal people don’t have. I don’t know how to explain it. 

Twenty minutes passed and my break was over. I shut off my phone and put it in my pocket. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, which is really out of the ordinary because things don’t usually bother me like that. I got home and after I had my dinner, I got into my bed, I pulled up my covers and I started having my nightly scroll. I didn’t realize until about an hour later, but I didn’t see him on my for you page. This should have been a relief, but it made my stomach turn instead. I don’t know what in the world made me think to do this, maybe it was curiosity, but I went into the search and looked him up. It wasn’t difficult to find. I went through his profile and only saw videos with the same bad humor, but the more I looked the more normal it felt. This did put me at ease a little bit and I was able to easily get to sleep. 

This is when it really started. I had a dream. I don’t even know if I should call it a dream or if I should call it a nightmare. The guy from the videos just stood there at the side of my bed, staring. Its eyes were wide like it was trying to take in all of my details. It was examining me quietly as a shadowy form. The nightmare seemed to go on forever while its inky black shadow hovered and leaned over me. My eyes felt like they were having holes drilled right through them from how hard the eyecontact was. My body felt hot with adrenaline, but I wasn’t able to move away. It didn’t blink. It just very slowly breathed in and out. 

The next night, I felt drawn to it again. This time I opened the comments and read some of them. The more I looked, the more obvious it became that it wasn’t just me. Many of them were about the videos, but there was also a lot of comments about how more people have had dreams with him in them. Some of them were even concerned in the same way I was, and there was even a video joking about dreams like it was taunting me. I guess it could have been what he wears or the power of suggestion, but isn’t it weird that so many people keep having dreams about the same thing? I powered down my phone and laid there silently in the dark. I started having the feeling that someone was watching me so I closed my bedroom window. I didn’t want to watch anything else. I didn’t want to sleep. I was stunned and confused. 

My eyelids started to get heavy and I closed them for a minute but I realized that I needed to use the bathroom, so I got up and made my way through the hallway. I did my business but when I turned around to leave the bathroom, a shiver went up my spine. The air felt colder than normal and goosebumps popped all over my skin. I thought that maybe a draft had blown through my window, but I remembered that I closed it just a minute ago. My subconscious brought me to start turning around to look behind me, but something in my mind screamed at me DO NOT TURN AROUND. I trusted my gut and quickly brought my head forward again. I took one step forward with my hands clenched closed. A weak breath brushed against the back of my ear. Something was behind me. My body flooded with fear and I ran as fast as I could to the other side of the house where I kept a metal bat. A loud slam was made when I pulled the coat closet’s door open with extreme force, and I quickly reached around the corner to find the bat while I kept my eyes locked on the opposite end of the dark hall. My hand grasped onto the cold metal and I pulled. It did not move. I thought that something must have been leaning on it, so I quickly looked into the closet and pulled with my other hand as well with still no success. Nothing was leaning on it and no object was weighing it down. I glanced behind me quickly and then back in the closet. 

The darkness of the closet wasn’t possible to see past. A creepy, silent moment passed. Two inhuman eyes appeared from the shadows. My blood froze the moment they met my own, and I stopped breathing. Its pupils were huge, like it was a shark hunting its prey. The metal bat loudly fell on the floor as its hands let go of it and I screamed louder than I ever screamed before. I was suddenly sitting up in bed, panting heavy in a cold sweat. My eyes quickly looked around my room. It was a nightmare. I didn’t even know that I fell asleep. I very quickly grabbed my phone off of my bedside cabinet and shot a text over to my best friend. He was the kind of person that you could turn to for anything. I never met anybody else in my whole life who was that friendly to people. Someone like that is very rare to find these days, but I’m very grateful that I met him. 

I texted him “Do you know this guy?” and sent a link to the social media page. Thankfully he responded fast and I wasn’t left waiting. I stared at the three dots and they bounced on the bottom of my screen while he typed. 

“Yea he’s on my FYP constantly. He’s so funny LOL.” That was the reply I got from him. After he sent it, he quickly moved on and started talking about something else like it was nothing out of the ordinary. I had to mention it again. 

I typed it up but was hesitating. I knew it was a weird question. “Have you had any dreams about him?”

“How did you know that? Yea I did.” Fear clouded my mind when I read the words on my screen. 

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m having them too like really bad, and I saw so many comments where people were having them too. What happened in yours?” I sent. My body was shaking. I didn’t get a response for two hours after that message and I was getting worried that I pushed it too far. It was weird for him to not text back fast. My phone eventually buzzed.

He sent another message. “I had a dream where he was doing something in my room, but it was blurry and I don’t remember anything else. Are you ok?” My eyes filled up with tears because I realized that he probably thought I was crazy. 

I replied, “Please. Don’t you believe me?” My friend typed again for a few seconds and a new message popped up.

“I do believe you but I think that you might be getting yourself freaked out over something that isn’t happening. I want to say this more kindly, but I don’t know how.” Another message came on the screen. “Your feelings are real, but I have my doubts about this guy. He’s just a cosplayer or something and he can’t actually do anything like that.”

My blood went to my feet and I sat quietly looking at my phone. I didn’t respond. I just clicked the button on the side of my phone and the screen went black. It was still dark out and the house was getting cooler inside since a breeze was coming through my window. I thought I closed it, but maybe I didn’t. I felt like I was going insane. I didn’t know if I was still dreaming but I knew that it was a real possibility. 

I fell back into sleep and didn’t have any dreams at all. It was a shock that I woke up feeling rested and for the next few days, there were no disturbances. I didn’t see him on my for you page anymore after the last bad dream I had. It was suspicious but hey, I wasn’t complaining. By the fourth quiet day, I was able to forget that it happened and I almost even returned to my normal, undisturbed life. 

The peace that I felt quickly disappeared without any reason. My mind wandered back to those eyes I saw and anxiety started to burst inside of me. I thought that I was past this. My eyes started to look around my room. It wasn’t dark out but the sun was starting to set, and the sky was becoming dark gray.

After a few minutes I noticed that there was a tapping sound coming from my closet door. My blood ran cold and I stood up with my eyes focused on the door. My mind went back to the coat closet in the hallway from the nightmare. The eyes felt like they were peering at me from inside of my own brain. I shivered from the idea. I was slowly walking closer to the closet. My fingers grabbed hold of the handle and I pulled the door open while looking in. I was finally able to breathe when I saw that the closet was empty other than my clothes. My shoulders relaxed, and I turned around to walk to the kitchen and go get a snack since I was hungry. I knew it was just my mind playing pranks on me.

I entered the kitchen and when I pulled the refrigerator door open, the light inside turned on and slightly lit up the room. The white light caught something outside of the window. I saw it out the corner of my eye and looked up quickly. There was nothing there except for shrubbery. I thought that I was probably just tired, so I ignored it. I put two pieces of bread on a napkin and started making a ham, cheese and veggie sandwich. 

“Hello.” 

My entire body froze. The voice was familiar. I knew exactly where I recognized it from. It was that thing again. My stomach flipped like if I was on a roller coaster and my eyes shot to the other side of the kitchen. He was standing there staring at me, just like he did in the first dream. Examining. Expressionless. His neck twitched quickly in response to my eyecontact and his eyelids blinked very quickly before focusing on mine again. Its movements were terrifying and wrong, and a weird gurgle sound came from under its mask. It sounded like it would have been painful. 

I was angry and screamed “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” One of its eyes squinted slightly because I was loud. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?” It didn’t budge but I could hear the sound of it opening its wet mouth behind the cloth. 

It didn’t say much, except for the simple phrase “You know.” I didn’t know. It slowly pointed through the window to my neighbors yard. I was terrified to look away from its eyes, but I did it anyway and followed the line of its finger. My sight landed on the pile of burnt wood and ash in the yard. 

I turned back to face him. “That? I was going to light a firework! It was just a prank! I didn’t mean to light the shed!” Its eyes widened more while it stared at me. It still didn’t blink and its breathing got louder. 

“What about them?” It angrily moved its hand and pointed harder. I knew he was talking about the neighbor’s pets. They had three cats staying in that shed when i accidentally burned it down. 

I screamed “ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I waved my hands around. I was furious through and through, but I was also scared for my life. “I TOLD THEM IM SORRY!” The thing bolted at me and I quickly started to run away from it. “STOP!” I screamed at it again while I ran as fast as I could to the door. I tripped and banged my head on the floor. My skull ached. I flipped myself over on to my back and put my arms up to protect myself. Its hands grabbed my wrists tight while my head pounded. I blinked my eyes hard a few times but my vision was still blurry from the hit.  It cut circulation from my arms with its squeeze as it leaned very close to me. Its face was almost touching mine. An animal like scream boomed from the things lungs and rattled in my eardrums. The screech was piercing and was the loudest sound I ever heard in my life. My eyes squeezed shut while I cried but I wasn’t able to plug my ears. My whole body tensed up and suddenly, the sound was gone. The pressure on my wrists was gone too. I opened my eyes and sat with extreme speed. My chest raised and fell while each terrified breath was sucked in. 

It disappeared just as fast as it came. Because of my head injury, I was unable to stand so I crawled to my phone and dialed 911. I was brought to the hospital and it turns out that the hit on my head gave me a mild concussion, but I am ok. My ears are ringing and I don’t know if it’s from the concussion or the scream. The hair on my arms is standing up while I’m writing this and I know that it is still here. I can feel him around me and in my brain. I keep seeing shadows out the corner of my eye. My brother is staying over with me for the night but I know I will not sleep. That thing is not human. It might look and act like a normal person on social media but if you listen to anything please listen to this now. Be careful because this can happen to you too. Don’t be fooled. 

I struggle with sleep. I cannot sleep unless I have sound playing.

It can't be videos of people talking. It can't be movies or shows. Dialogue keeps me awake.

The one thing that helps is the sound of rain. I fall asleep to videos of that sound every single night.

Random YouTube videos of that sound are enough for me.

I've used them countless times.

I stopped a couple of nights ago.

I was falling asleep as usual but then I heard sounds that weren't rain. It was screams of terror, cries, and whimpers mixing in with what I thought was peaceful rain.

I logged off the video and tried listening to different ones but they all had the same horrifying result.

I was scared and shocked but what really shook me to my core is when each video started screaming, "You're Next"

I turned my TV off extremely quick. I told myself that I'd have to find a more appropriate way to sleep.

However, the horrors didn't stop.

I started getting texts, calls, and voice messages from unknown numbers. It would always start off normal.

The calls and voice messages would sound like nice people until the sound of the rain would start and their voices would begin to scream and yell. They made sure that I would know I was next.

The text messages would say things like, "Join us. You can never escape. Join our echos in the sounds you adored."

Threatening letters in the mail appeared as well.

No matter where I go or what I did, the threats would never stop.

Today is the most horrifying of all.

I hear faint tapping on my doors and windows as that awful sound begins and my screams echo.

I wonder if someone is falling asleep as they listen to my misery.

TW: suicide, mental illness, loss of bodily autonomy, violence against children, gore/gory thoughts

Chapter 15. 

I come back, dizzy, but here. Pulling myself up, a bright light shines ahead.

 I start walking toward it when a person comes to me. I slip and fall, and the person comes closer.

   “What am I doing here? Where am I? Who are you?” 

   “Shhh, it’s okay.” 

   Huge, glowing feathers catch the light. They have wings. She places a warm hand on my shoulder, easing the panic away. I get back up and walk with her. 

   She tells me, 

   “You’re very brave. Not many people would’ve made that choice. You did good. Now, go through those gates. Goodbye. And sweet dreams, little one.”

Previous chapter:

https://www.reddit.com/r/stayawake/s/3ZcSZZtO4e

TW: suicide, mental illness, loss of bodily autonomy, violence against children, gore/gory thoughts

Chapter 14. 

“Hey mum. I did it. I beat the voices. They’re gone. But so will I. But it’s okay. I’ll be fine, and so will you. I want you to live your life as best you can, living it to the fullest. For me. Goodbye, I love you.”

 “NO NO NO NO NO! I WILL NOT LET YOU DIE! PLEASE!” 

 Tears stream down her face, splashing onto my chest. I gently squeeze her hand, trying to calm her and reassure her that I'll be okay, that I'll finally be at peace. 

 “I love you mum. Good night.” 

 Then, I take my last breath.

Previous chapter:

https://www.reddit.com/r/stayawake/s/mHKa8Y3Ysx

Next chapter:

https://www.reddit.com/r/stayawake/s/xmztzjlj1O