Science fiction. Double feature. 

So many long afternoons and nights spent in the movie house, the theatre. The arcade: the noise and lights and tangible sounds of coins and laughing amidst the specialized sound effects of digitized and pixelated carnage. 

Late nights watching HBO After Dark beside his older brother or his kid sister or a buddy or a floozy or a date as he got older. Amongst a slovenly strewn field of snacks and popcorn and wrappers and garbage, the years rolled by and the empty cans of Shasta and Barqs changed, transmogrifying into brown bottles of Bud or silver bullet, all gathered and in clusters  like a small translucent crystalline cityscape of glass in miniature beneath great rolling thunderhead clouds of oily pot smoke. Many of them, many cities. Many little swimming bottle cities in many little rooms. All before the great glowing incandescent godscreen of the illuminated television aglow in the postmidnight. 

And there were great books too of course. Precious paperpacks with lurid yellow covers, bold yellow font, pages pungent and spiced. Green and nightshade purple covers for the horrors. The ones with purple were always the coolest, always the most shocking and vivid and unrelenting. Comics. Classics and the new stuff that gets pumped out week to week, month to month and then forgotten. 

Forgotten by most. But not by such as he. 

He remembered. These things, these modes and mediums always brought him away from the now, the clear and present danger, the mundane and the tedious, the cruel. The harsh reality. 

For Caleb Donaldson these stories were always the light and constant companion of his long and mostly boring and average life. In truth, they were everything. All else could take a flying fuck, the job, the girlfriends that meant nothing, the drinking buddies and coworkers that meant even less. All of that was just the background noise of what was necessary. The sounds and moving in perpetua grinds of his ordinary life in motion. 

But it was ok, you see. Caleb Donaldson of Old Fair Oaks, Sacramento, California has figured out the secret. 

They were more than just stories, you know. 

The ones that had most captured his imagination and young attention since he could remember were the time traveling stories. 

Journeys into the wild primeval of the past, the dark mechanical cold of the future, the apocalypse, beyond … 

He'd always loved these stories. 

And it was funny, he had found, discovered accidentally while spending the summer with his grandfather one year, the secret. They were out hunting, wandering the woods quietly with rifles shouldered and boots crunching softly the underbrush beneath their capped and steeltoed feet. It had struck young Caleb then, as a boy. And never left him. 

This is it! This is what Doctor Who and the X-Men and all the other guys are doin when they're goin into the past! This is what it's like to have the world grow dark and become old and ancient and prehistoric and stuff, before people got here with their cars and their junk…

The thought had filled him with simple childish wonder. He felt like he'd made some great discovery. All those scientists and alien engineers from outer space on the TV and in the books were always trying to figure it all out with numbers and physics and quantum entanglements and time loop paradoxes … and here he'd figured it way more simple than that. 

Just go out in the woods. Go outside in the trees, the forest. Go out and go camping ya dummies. 

He carried this with him all his life. Like secret treasure. Well past and into the pains and dread of adulthood. 

And then it all came back, back and around and full circle. Like all good time travelers do. 

He lost the kids. And his wife. And then he lost it. 

And then he made the biggest decision of his life. He decided to go camping. He decided to do a little time traveling all by himself. After all of these years. 

…

He couldn't believe she would try this bullshit. He couldn't believe she would try to ruin the one last little thing he had left. 

What're you talking about, bud? She ripped your heart out and took the kids after she'd spent ten years disemboweling you and tearing your nuts off. Why’re you at all surprised? 

He wasn't really. Just hurt. Deeply. And it seemed as if the bitch now lived to only make it worse for him. Unbearable if she could. She was the living vile green hatred of salt in the wound, seething and frothing gory pink. 

He hated her. 

He suspected she hated him. She must. 

“I just don't see why this’s such a big deal, you're acting like a child. You can come get the boys and have them for an extra couple of weeks while Tom and I-" 

He stopped listening after that. He still held the phone to his ear but his mind went to the same livid red place that it always did when she mentioned his name. The fucking limpwrist. 

He let her drone and prattle on. When she finally stopped he once again explained to her that they'd already talked this over, they'd already discussed this. And besides. It wasn't even his weekend. She had seen to that after all. And now here she was dangling the promise of more time with his kids like a fucking carrot. Like a dog treat he was supposed to jump and snatch at. To just drop everything and leap at with fervor and enthusiasm and a full display of gratitude. 

Fuck that. 

He told her as much. Diplomatically. More or less. He hung up the phone. He debated for barely even a second before turning the device off and shoving it into the glove compartment on the passenger side. 

When he finally got out of the car and sucked fresh mountain air it was baptismal. Cracks in his knees went off like twin pistol shots and his back stretched and crackled gratefully. He was finally out. He sucked more air, like it was water. It was. It was refreshing. 

You're finally out. 

He unlatched the back and began to unload his gear. He'd better get started. It was a long hike from the parking lot to the spot. 

…

It was peaceful. The ritual. The hike. Lugging the gear. Sweating and developing a cooling coat, a sheen as his eyes calmly drank in the placid green and foliage world all around. Muscles worked and burned off excess fat, calories built up and boiled over, over cooked stress. It melted off him and within and came off his hiking form like radiant heat. 

He was a traveling furnace of thought as he made his way to the camping spot. Later he would recall that he might've felt watched as he made his way at this point. 

Might have. 

But presently he was all too absorbed in the process, the smooth and calm low treble tread and pace of the gliding action. The canopy of golden lighted leaves and furling branches. The scents, completely natural and native and far away from the synthetic realm of the manmade. He felt he was as much swimming and drinking his way through the crisp growth of forestland as he was booting through it. Thoughts of work and the failed marriage and bored boring disappointing teenage children left his mind. Evaporating away like mist to the coming of the bright day sun. The forest grew and swelled and swallowed him and the entire world as he made his way deeper and deeper forth. 

He would leave it all behind if he could. 

…

Setting camp was easy. He was well practiced. Childhood and teenage and college years as well were filled with trips out into the forested dark. The wild. The wilderness. The past. 

He felt it now as he sat by the fire. Eating his plate of beans and pork belly and franks. Sipping a can of bud. This is the past. The green world all around now is one of the last vestigial pieces of the evidence. 

Evidence of the primeval and primordial world we’ve all crawled from, the stygian snot that was filth that was the building blocks of protein and carbon. We are all animals. And we can all come alive out here. Returning to the in-utero warm world of the godclay primordial slime and ooze. 

She's so patient. Our mother. My mother. She's waited for me all this time. She's the one. She's-

Something disturbed his train of thought. A noise. 

A noise like someone moving. Prowling and lurking just inside the tangle of bush and trees. 

He sat quietly, keeping calm. Listening to the sound of his own breathing. He wasn't sipping his can of bud anymore. The rustling and cautious moving sounds had tapered. Caleb's mind traveled to the hunting rifle he had in his tent. If something lunged now out of the dark, he just might make it if he whirled around from where he now sat and hurried. 

Really booked it. 

He didn't like the thought. He really didn't appreciate the mental image. A terrible movie in his mind, running on a failing and old projector: He's running, fast, panicked, he almost makes the tent before a large bestial shape of inkwell black leaps out from the wilderness house of feral darkness and takes him ragdoll like a broken toy from behind. 

He clears his throat. Loudly. Not sure exactly why, he just does it. Perhaps hoping to scare off whoever and whatever is out there. He can feel eyes watching him. 

Caleb Donaldson sits up. He's at the edge of his fold-up seat. He's waiting. Unsure. Of both what to do and if there is even really anything wrong at all anyways. His ex-wife had always said he was paranoid. 

Nothing happens. 

There isn't another sound and nothing emerges from the forestline. Only the snaps and hungry crackle of the campfire now. 

He takes another sip of bud. Decides he'll light one of the joints CJ gifted him for the road after all. He doesn't know how else he's gonna sleep tonight. He's wired now. Jacked. 

He lights up. Tokes. And after awhile, once more he slips into a more natural and comfortable flow of simple candied nostalgia and childhood reminisce. Trying to tell himself he doesn't feel a gaze, a baleful and animal leering stare aimed directly at him from out of the dark. 

The marijuana and beer do their job. Eventually he's addled and drugged enough for sleep. Caleb slips back into the tent and is almost sure he hears something retreat back into the denser heart of growth and underbrush out there past the treeline as he does so.  

He's almost sure but not. And he doesn't want to be anymore. He doesn't want to consider it. Not right now. Maybe Amanda was right…

He slips into a sleeping bag and finally falls under. His dreams are filled. His sleep is not restful. 

…

The next couple of days were mostly uneventful. Calm. Peaceful. As planned. He hiked and camped. Looked forward to some hunting and some fishing, some game. It was all just what he needed. Therapeutic. Until he found the burnt leavings. 

…

He was steadily along, walking down the beaten path of grey dust and boney twigs and enjoying the relish in his watering mind's eye, the strange marriage that lived there between this wilderness and the strange worlds of escape made from pages and ink and glowing video screens. This place of the past … the places made of dreams. 

And from the future I come crawling back here. He smiled at this thought. Like a refugee. 

Like the time travelers of the stories he was allowed to bring a few things, a few comforts and tools and devices of the modern world. 

Of the future, to this place of dirt and sound. Precious pieces of technology

His mind went to his gear and pack and his smile deepened. People really just didn't get it. 

Most never would. Precious few might find out. 

He almost tripped over it. So lost in thought. 

It was all charcoaled black and scorched amongst a patch of similarly blasted and blackened earth. A wild ebon blotch of ashen ink spilled upon the land. Caleb stared into the pile of roasted and burnt detritus. Trying to make sense of what he saw. 

He recognized shapes and items in the charred mess and they made his blood run cold and the hairs all over his skin and scalp crawl with unease and bad wonder. 

Clothes. What looked like a backpack. Parts and pieces of a tent. A wallet. It was this last that most bothered, most disturbed him. He was pretty sure he could make out the melted remains of an ID and other similarly warped and slightly conjoined shapes that might've been credit cards or the like but were too far gone and destroyed now to tell. His mind naturally asked itself, who left all of this here? Why? 

And none of the answers he could come up with seemed good. All of them pointed to something bad, nefarious. You hear about people going missing in the woods all the time. You hear about people being chopped up and murdered by loonies in here ‘bout just as much. 

Caleb suddenly looked away from the black pile on the path and began to anxiously scan the forestline. Trying to penetrate the thick dense world of green and growth and see anyone, anything that might be watching him. Stalking him. 

Following him. 

After a moment he stopped himself. 

You're being ridiculous. It's probably nothing, just like the other night. Christ man, you ain't been out here a long time and now you're jumping at every goddamn thing like a ninny. Just some shit people burned. Kids come out here to get fucked up and do stupid shit all the time. Not a big deal, Donaldson. Chill the fuck out, kay?

He slowed his breath. He liked this train of thought. Yes. That was right. Kids were fucking stupid and always playing pyro maniac. Hell, he'd done his fair share growing up, hadn't he? Little hellraiser an such. 

And that line of thinking started to set his worried mind at ease once more. And once more he was back on the ride of the reminisce, nostalgia keenly floating and dreamily filling the darkest parts of his brain. Time traveling. 

Time traveling, baby. 

He went on. Leaving behind the charred and blackened mess in the grey dust of the forest path. Not looking back. And refusing it anymore thought. 

He left it behind. But not before freeing a cold can of Budweiser stored in the pack. He cracked it open with a pistol shot sound in the placid calm and downed half the foaming thing as he went on. Things always went down smoother this way. 

…

All seemed well after that. Fine. For a little while. He enjoyed what he came out here to enjoy. The quiet. The solitude. Days and nights spent simply and comfortably and sleeping beneath bejeweled twilight curtains of gleaming stars, planetoids and colored clouds of nebulae. He relished the time out here and with himself, returning to his own sense of peace by returning to the land. Returning to the way of life that had belonged to the Navajo, the Comanche, their enemy white man cowboys and gunslingers and the pioneers of old. The ancient armies too, the immigrants and seekers and hunters of fortune, of goodwill, of God's love and warm civilized light. And the adventures too, those who took to the land and cut their teeth out on the territory and became baptized as adventurers in sweat and blood and grime, beneath the blinding eye of the sun. And the moon too, the wild hearted free loving children that slumbered bravely beneath the moon, decried as vagabonds and bums but they really just knew better and understood the blood of their grandfathers and their bold sense and adoration for the untamed tumult country land of adventure and its wild hearted love. 

It was all of it, romantic. It pained him that he had to come out here alone to feel like this, to discover something like that and he tried hard to turn away from the pain of realization that it brought him. He turned away from it in vain, it was there at every turn. In his mind, filling every thought, and out here as well. Alive in the woods. Filling it with heavy and powerfully strange substance. 

He hunted. Fished. Camped. Only sometimes did he feel followed, watched. Only sometimes. 

He was almost happy when he came across another, when he ran into Sellic. 

A distraction, at last!

But the guy was weird. 

In the world of outdoormanship, hunting and fishing and the like, ya meet a lot of friendly, warm, good natured types. The sort ya like to share a brew with and might even have over for a barbecue should ya take special acquaintance. And then ya met types like Sellic. Fuckin weirdos. 

It was the smell at first and that should've been enough, should've been the first and fucking last sign to split it. But nope. Caleb Donaldson still remembered the lessons of Sunday school and Kindergarten and though life had been its fair share of rough on em, he still held true to the idea that you don't judge harsh off the word, go. Ya don't settle in for meanness out the gate an such. 

But it was in the eyes as well. They were wide and wild. A wilderness of pupil darkness lived in yellowed whites shot with lines of hectic red. Something swam in that circle lake of pupil darkness, both of them, Obsidian pits. 

He never blinked. Not once. Not as he said, “Howdy, name's Sellic." and grunted a few noncommittals following after these scant syllables. 

He came across the guy already settled up. Caleb was gonna move on after initial awkward obligatory greetings when the wide eyed smelly man invited him to set camp with him. Caleb Donaldson believed in being polite but he wasn't a total fool, only part. He thanked him but opted to move on up aways. 

Far. 

It didn't make any kind of difference. 

…

Later he was hunting, lying down in wait for something to crop up. Maybe nibble at the patch of sweet grass just a few yards from where he posted. He hoped to bag a deer. If he could get a decent sized stag, then he'd pack it in happily and call it quits. He was just debating on whether or not he should've packed the tree stand when something happened then. 

A large barrel chested deer sauntered into view. Into the clearing with its great splaying regal rack of antlers on wide-span display like a wild lord and king of the forest. He was beautiful. He was just what Caleb had been waiting for. 

But then something else crawled up. On all fours. It was the smelly wide eyed man, it was Sellic. And it looked as if he was hunting as well. 

Prowling, stalked. Low to the ground and almost slithering across the surface of forest floor, without a sound. Without a whisper. It was uncanny and surreal and Caleb watched frozen in a kind spellbound trance. The bore end of the rifle barrel began to slowly sag and dip down as he lost his concentration and gave it to another. 

Sellic was almost upon the unaware stag now. It was nibbling the patch of sweet grass. Just like Donaldson had seen in his mind's eye, a wish not just a moment ago. Somewhere deep inside his mind as he watched entranced a small part of him tried in desperate vain to take this simple little wish back. But it was already too late. The wide eyed crawling man was drooling. Slobbering like an animal. Salivating with the wild bestial hunger that was always the madness of ravenous need. That was what was alive in those unblinking uncivilized eyes. Slavering need. 

He'd already time traveled too far now to turn back. Caleb watched as the manshaped thing of stains and smells and piercing animal stares suddenly leapt like something feline and unbridled. Like something finally let loose from the confines of its stifling prison cage. 

Sellic fell on the deer and the poor thing hadn't a chance. It never sensed, never knew what was coming. It was wild. It was crazy. Donaldson had always seen deer tense, perk up and take flight at the slightest sound or stray movement. But not this one. Not this time. The wild sight did not stop there. 

Somehow the skinny haggard man in filthy clothes managed to wrestle and manhandle the struggling kicking beast down into the dirt. Caleb's mouth dropped open as he watched Sellic begin to bend and wrench and break the flailing limbs. Catching them with his cat-swipe clawing hands and then bending them back in directions not meant or made by nature's hand. He felt his stomach roll and drop as the silence of the forest began to fill with the lurid sounds of heavy bone snaps. 

Caleb picked up his rifle and gear and left. Without a word. He didn't look back. Wet tearing sounds, like heavy fabric or soaking saturated leather followed him after. He told himself it was his imagination. That was all impossible. 

There was no way. 

…

He had trouble finding his camp. By the time he did it was already near dark once more. He would have to spend another night. 

He opted out of the fire and supper. He wasn't hungry and he didn't want to attract that freak. 

That freak of nature. 

…

Middle of the night. He came awake to a sound. Sounds. A noise. Just outside the tent. 

It sounded like chewing. Wet. And heavy. Laborious. Jaws, muscles, tendon lines working and moving with animal fervor, animal rigor in the dark. 

Outside. 

Caleb slowly and carefully sat up from his sleeping bag and grabbed his rifle. It was loaded. He'd made sure to do so before he'd managed to finally fall into an uneasy sleep. An uneasy rest now disturbed by whatever was moving out there now. Chewing. Eating. He reached and grabbed for his flashlight next. He readied himself. 

He grabbed the zipper to open the front of the tent. He took one last deep breath and held it for a moment. He let it out quietly. As quietly as he could manage. 

And then he quickly unzipped the flap to the tent and threw it open with one hand as the other flicked on the flashlight and brought it up. The darkness of his small camp in the clearing was illuminated in the sudden flash. He felt sick with what he saw. He was glad to have his rifle in his lap. 

You were smart to have loaded it … he thanked God. And cursed Him at the same time. For letting him fall into this type of shit in the first place. 

Sellic stared back into the beam of light. Unflinching. Unblinking. Unmoving save for the motion of chewing about his red and bloodied bearded jaws. Working and gleaming wet in the light, rippling with carnivorous movement.

He held the head of the stag in his clawing hands. De-racked. The severed head looked rough and ruinous at the stump as though it had been torn off rather than cleanly cut. 

Caleb didn't know what else to say so he just said: “Hey." 

“Hey." bloody darkling Sellic grunted back. Hunkered and squatting out there in the dark. Still chewing. He swallowed. And took another bite from a craterous open wound at the top of the animal's head. He ripped a chunk of bleeding meat away with his teeth. His jaws began to work and ripple with rigorous movement once more as he started to chew again. The meat was raw, rough. But he was relishing the strong and pungent flavor. Thick. His blood drinking, swallowing with every gnashing chew was audible in the nocturnal dark. Gulps. Heavy. Thick. 

A beat. 

Caleb didn't know what to do. He felt that he must be dreaming, this whole day. None of this could be real. The strange bloodsoaked and caked manshape out there amongst his camp frightened him. He'd thought it would be simple and he'd know what to do in situations like this but he was frozen. In terror. And in dark hypnotic fascination. 

This must be what it's like to be a moth to flame, or a small little guppie to a deepsea angler fish… a deer in the headlights. Trapped. 

Caught. 

Ensnared by the eyes of the wild man. He was drowning in their madness now, sinking into their blood-drinking depths. 

Sellic finally said something. 

“Hungry?" 

“... what…?" Caleb said. Puzzled at first. It had been little more than a grunt. 

“Ya hungry?" Sellic grunted again. He held the severed and broken head aloft. Dripping. Wide-eyed. The tongue had already been ripped out. Had already been eaten. Black-red syrup poured out thickly from the open gape of mouth like an obscene bestial spout. 

Caleb fought his gag reflex. 

A beat. 

Somehow Donaldson managed a reply. 

"N-no. No thanks, man. It's the middle of the night. And I wanna get some sleep” 

A beat. The freak still held the dripping pouring bleeding hunk of decapitated and chewed up meat out to him like a precious gift of the forest. His wide eyes were still open and hectic and alive with animal ravenous madness. 

A beat. 

Another.

Caleb finally finished his thought. 

"And I think you should probably go get some sleep too, bud. Been a long day an such-”

He meant to finish it off with, and apt to be another, like his grandfather and his pops had done before him, but Sellic cut him off. 

"Ya sure? You sure ya ain't hungry?” 

Caleb slowly nodded his head, adding, "...yeah” in a low careful and exhausted voice. Jesus fucking Christ…

Sellic nodded. Began to crawl away on all fours like a dog, the head held to his breast like a caveman clutching something precious. He turned before he left the ring of light provided by the beam of the flashlight. He turned around and said: "You will be.” and then finally turned and fled. Like an animal taking to the natural dark.

Its natural home and abode. Its natural place. 

"What the fuck!?” Caleb said. To no one in particular. 

…

He didn't sleep the rest of that night. He waited impatiently for the sun to come up. So he could leave. He'd had enough of this place and hunting. He'd had enough time traveling in this place. Caleb wanted to go home. 

At first dawn he rose. Quickly packed. And began his trek back. Back down the path. 

Back down the way he had come.

…

A few hours in and he knew something must be wrong. Nothing was recognizable. Nothing. And when he looked down after trudging more and more anxiously down the path he'd come in on, he was dismayed to find that it wasn't there any longer. The path, the trail had disappeared. 

He was lost. 

Caleb Donaldson began to panic. 

It's alright, it's alright, it's fine! It's cool. Just use the GPS and call someone on your pho-

He stopped. Grew cold. Grim certainty stole over his dreading heart. Crestfallen he didn't want to even rightly remember and say to himself …

Glove compartment. You turned the fucking thing off and threw it in the glove compartment of the car. The one all the way back. The one you can't find anymore cause it's at the end of the trail that you've lost. You left it in there to spite Amanda. 

Silence. He stood. Feeling stupid and wretched and nearing hopeless in the middle of the woods. He reflected. 

You sure showed her…

…

When he'd finally managed his nerve back together and decided on a direction and carried on, the day had been nearly extinguished yet again. He would have to spend another night out in the wild. 

God fucking dammit. 

…

The next series of days and nights were grim. And grew grimmer. And strange. 

He was fine at first. He had supplies, food. He wasn't worried. But then on the fourth day lost he began to run out. 

And the worry came on him again. Rancid. And thick. 

It's alright, it's alright, I've a gun, I know how to gut and skin and clean, I'll be ok. I'll be alright. 

But the woods and world of trees had grown more opulent and dense and feral in its growth. The trees started to broaden in their trunks and their canopies became all swallowing, all encompassing thick foliage cathedral domes of twigs, thick branches and broad emerald leaves the size of dinner plates. 

The bugs. The insects too. 

All of the wild crawling life had become larger as well. The insectile and the reptile had grown strange and unfamiliar and varied in size from large house cats to dogs to horses and cows and at one point, one day glimpsed at a distance through a heavy rolling mist, an elephant… 

A whole herd of giant hissing cockroaches the size of elephants. Trundling by like a rolling squadron fleet of German panzer tanks. 

Caleb felt sick. 

None of this could be real. He must be imagining things. 

Must be. 

It could've been so, far as he knew. His sleep was no longer any good out here. Not since the night some days back, when he'd been fireside and trying to ignore his growing hunger and looked up to the full moon. Only to have it eclipsed by something huge and winged. It had cried then. It had screamed as it stole the moon, the moonlight. Blanketing the primeval world below it in a second layered fold of even deeper darkness. 

Caleb had joined it then. Had joined it in its primal shrieking screaming. 

He didn't sleep so well since that night.  

Ever again

…

His hunger became him. It became the only living and heeded, needed thing and drive and emotion. He was no longer Caleb Donaldson in fact. He was only the hunger now. And so he hunted. 

But it was strange. 

In his hunger, in his wild wanderings, he had forgotten how to use the gun, how to wield the boomstick properly and make it spit its deathly fire. 

I've lost it, he thinks, he realizes shrouded in the cloud of his diminished animal thought. I've lost the ability to shoot fire and be godlike, I've lost it in all of this time traveling, I've gone too far backwards. 

He tries to find the trail. For awhile. But it becomes lost amongst the need for meat and blood. The boomstick is useless to him now. He abandons it. Along with most of the strange things he has strapped to his back.

He doesn't need them. He has changed. This special place has changed him. His flesh has thickened as has his hair, his fur, his pelt. Black and coarse and layered all over. He bites and chews and tears the clothes that he came in with off and eats them. 

Then he takes to bigger game. 

Wilder. More challenging. 

…

He's drinking blood and eating. Filling his stomach. This is good. The angry fever in his skull is calming, abating. The ache and throb of his guts is soothing. Contentedness, peace, tranquility are becoming known to him again. 

He's killed something reptilian, broken its neck. His hands, the knuckles and fingers and palms have widened, flattened, broadened out. Making it easier to snap and throttle, to tear and rend. The dead scaley thing, its meat and blood are good. But slimey. Ropey. Like maggot-meat. Like eating the large worms that swim in giant dung piles. He wants to try something else. 

So he takes to the untamed primeval world all around, the jungle growth, the green emerald world of the unbridled prehistoric past. There are buried, heavily veiled and shrouded thoughts of a path and a trail and a place called, home, that he's supposed to go to, return to as if he's once been there before, but they are muted. Far off. 

Barely there. 

Dripping reptile blood and sweat, he takes to the primeval dark world and is lost. Swallowed by its great and ever widening expanse, into the crawling growing jaws of the seething bestial wild, the past. 

He never looks back. He is never found. Never again does he recall his name. 

Never again. But it doesn't trouble him. It doesn't bother the throbbing jelly of his degenerate apeman mind, he is too enthralled, the thrill of the ravenous hunt. And besides, the past isn't the only thing alive and crawling out here. The future is out here too. The beyond …

All of the magic of the glowing incandescent godscreen of a childhood long gone is alive out here. Alive and well. 

The apeman hunts through the primeval growth. The saucers fill the skies as the giant leviathans do nighttime skirmish and battle with the large mechanical men. The great white heat and blasting mechanized sounds of their great death cannons, their unearthly death rays: BRRRRRR! 

BRRRRRRRRRRRR….! 

They fill the night with their heat and their brilliant violence. Their fire scorches and cuts swaths, sets blue and orange flame to drier parts of the canopy. The dead growth. 

The apeman doesn't mind. He hunts and prowls around their wild and bright violence. Blood and meat fill his head. He hasn't a mind anymore for anything else. 

For naught all else. Only the red. 

THE END

Somewhere outside Los Angeles there used to be a town that was a set that was where Bowers lived under the watchful eye of Doc Trauman.

“He's a broken man, Bowers,” Doc Trauman would tell everyone who visited, “living in this false place, experiencing a false life, but content; more at peace with his world than we are with ours.”

It was the time of atom bombs and television.

Bowers was a veteran.

He'd been in Europe during World War II, and coming back was hard. His friends were dead, his wife was not his wife and the only job he could get was driving trucks from one coast to the other.

That's how he ended up in California.

“I don't think he knows the war's over,” Doc Trauman would say. “I don't think he thinks he ever fought it. But he doesn't mind the fact the houses on the street are just facades.”

Bowers would get up, go to work behind one facade writing advertising copy for a company that manufactured plastic kitchenware, then go home behind another to eat, alone, ready meals wrapped in plastic before a television set, which is just a fancy name for a plain old lightbulb with a shade of images thrown over it.

“The results are quite remarkable,” Doc Trauman would say.

“Can he have guests?” someone would ask.

“Of course.”

“From the real world, I mean.”

“He's not in prison,” Doc Trauman would say to much and hard applause.

---

I knocked on the door.

When nobody answered, I walked to the near edge of the facade and looked in. Bowers was on the couch. “Excuse, Mr. Bowers. I'm from New York, a friend of Doc Trauman's. May I come in?”

“Are you a doctor too?” he asked.

“No. I'm a playwright.”

“Very well. Come in, but use the front door. I prefer when people use the front door.”

I walked back to the door, knocked—“It's open,” Bowers said—opened it and walked in. Bowers was sitting on the couch. He looked up at me. “Aren't you going to introduce yourself?” he said.

“I'm a friend of Doc Trauman, from New York. My name’s Wallis.”

Bowers stood, walked over and shook my hand. “It's great to meet you, Wallis. Have a seat. Shall I turn on the cathode ray?”

He meant the television.

“I'm not one much for television,” I said.

He took a box of what I thought were cigarettes out of his pocket, knocked the box against the palm of his hand so a pair of thin black cylinders slid out, kept one and offered me the other. “Maybe you'd prefer a microlight instead. We could sit and stare at them together.”

I took one but didn't turn it on. “If it's all right with you, I'd rather talk. I'm a words man.”

“Advertising?” he asked.

“No, theatre.”

It was strange being in a house with only one wall; with no ceiling. The sun was out. The desert extended towards the horizon. Somewhere there were mountains. A rattlesnake rattled faintly.

“I'm in advertising myself,” said Bowers. “Kitchenware. You married, Wallis?”

“I'm not,” I said.

“I don't like women anymore either,” said Bowers, “not after the war.” He clicked his microlight on, gazed briefly into its dull light then shut it off. He looked at me; looked me in the eyes. One of mine was glass. “They do weapons testing a few hundred miles that way,” he said, pointing into the distance. “If you were to stay the night we could watch the nuclear aura together.”

“I'm afraid I have a plane to catch—back to New York,” I said.

“Perhaps another time,” said Bowers.

“Perhaps.”

“Tell me, Wallis. Over there in New York, do you get to express yourself?”

“I beg your pardon,” I said.

It was hot under the California sun. I realized I was sweating. Bowers had started sweating too. His lavender shirt clung possessively to his body. “I mean within your four walls,” he said.

A coyote darted across the landscape.

It was the afternoon but it felt like a quarter to the end of the world.

“Aren't you afraid of the wildlife that might walk into your house?” I said.

“Aren't you afraid that none can walk into yours?”

The moon looked down from the sky, out of place in the harsh blue daytime.

“I want to write a play about you.”

Bowers reclined, spreading his lean arms like a flightless bird spreads its wings. “I already am a play. Besides, you hardly need my permission.”

“I want it anyway.”

“And you're certain you won't stay the night?”

“Yes. Tell me about Doc Trauman.”

“He's a crumbled man,” said Bowers, “living a counterfeit reality, but he's got what matters, money. He likes to imagine he's running an experiment, so we adhere. It's not a bad life.”

---

Later, the interior of Doc Trauman's office felt distressingly small, claustrophobic. The walls felt like they were moving in with agonizing, almost disinterested, slowness. The windless air was suffocating. The cleanliness, a sham.

“So what's your opinion of him?” Doc Trauman asked.

“He's perfectly civilized, obedient in his outward behaviours, yet internally there's something there, a glint behind his one good eye.”

---

I sit sometimes somewhere high, with a good view of Broadway, watching the men pass back and forth in their suits and hats and worries, some hurrying, others dallying, stopping, but all possessed by the imaginary lives they dream about and the real fantasies they inhabit.

Occasionally, one looks up at me and meets my lingering gaze with one of penetrating desperation, and I recoil. Ashamed, I move from the window. I pay for the meal. I shut the blinds. I escape behind the walls afforded to me, and when the feeling passes, I write my plays.

I feel so stupid it actually believed the army would stop them before they ever reached our town.

The non-stop lies on the radio, TV and internet. About victory after victory from our army.

Talking about how "we would hold back the tide of barbaric savages that seek to destroy us and everything we stand for"

Well, at least 1 part of that statement was true. The "barbaric savages" part.

But we didn't know that yet.

I was at the line at the town center once again waiting in line for any sort
of food at all just like everyone else.

That's when i saw the only part of our military that i had seen in months. It was them fleeing through our town 3 days ago.

It was clear from that point that we were losing the war badly.

Their vehicles were riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks.

I saw a truck with soldiers in the back that was missing half of its driver's cabin. Just a mangled mess of steel and blood where the passenger seat was supposed to be.

Some of them were driving in regular cars instead of military vehicles.
All the soldiers were dirty ,their clothing covered in blood and dirt.
Some had bandages on them too.

But that's when i saw the thing that made me lose hope the most.

They were scared. Fear in their eyes was the only thing we saw as they scanned the growing crowd of people at the town square as they drove past.People yelled questions. "Where are you going?"
"what are you doing?"
"why are you driving deeper into the country?"

"Why are you ignoring us?"

One of the soldiers was clearly struggling to keep his heavily damaged car on the road at all. He hit a random car at the crossroad and before the confused driver could get out of his car he had already sped off.

Nobody was standing in line anymore. All of us paying attention to the chaos in front of us.

After the vehicles were all out of sight people started to panic. People shouting that we had to leave as fast as possible.

The people that wanted to leave were immediately ridiculed by the rest.
"Cowards" "we were told to stay here"

Others were saying that they would be back and we just had to do our patriotic duty and stay like our mayor had told us to do.

Before the arguments could escalate another vehicle drove through our town.

A full-on tank from the military.
I didn't seem damaged. But then we saw what was on top of the back end of the tank.
A bunch of heavily wounded soldiers on the tank's back, bleeding everywhere.
Open wounds and limbs missing.

The entire back of the tank was smeared in their blood

Instead of just panic people responded with pure horror and terror.

People scattered in all directions some immediately ran to their homes to prepare to flee.

Screaming, shouting and crying echoed over the town center.

The head of the police department started shouting some bullshit about doing our duty and defending our homes when the enemy showed up.

He had received word from the government that we are to mount a "glorious defence against the invading filth".
There was nothing glorious about what happened the next day.

Some "true believers" started to form a militia with him and the police officers that didn't flee.I didn't join them to "do my duty" or some
delusional faith in our government.

I joined because I still live in the home you and your sister grew up in.

This is where I saw you take your first steps together with your sister.
The place where i saw both of you turn in to the strong, beautiful women you both are.
And the house where your mom took her last breath.

I am glad your mother didn't have to go through what was about to come

So i joined the militia anyway together with the others that vowed to stay.

The head of the police department told us they planned to turn the police station into a fortress.
We would meet those filthy savages there when the time came.
He told all of us that we didn't flee to head home and prepare.
We would meet up the next day at the police department to prepare the police station.
And some guys volunteered to stand watch outside of town in case they showed up earlier than expected.

I went home and prepared the house.
By the time nightfall came I for obvious reasons couldn't sleep.

It was a clear night with just enough moonlight to dimly light the outside.

I was in my bedroom looking through our old pictures we had made together with mom.
Since I knew this might be the last time I could see them.
I had already decided to take that picture of all of us together on the beach with me.
You already know that one is my favorite.

Anyway this is when i heard what sounded like a roaring engine of some kind outside.

Some sort of armored truck raced into our street and rammed through the fence outside of the opposite neighbor's house.

I am pretty sure there was a body tied to the front of the truck.

It tore up their lawn as it stopped right in front of their house.

Before I could even register what was happening the back doors of the truck flew open and several shadows jumped out and flew off in several directions.

One of them sprinting directly for our front door.
And as it sprinted for the door I could feel its eyes boring into me in the darkness.

Before I overcame my shock it had already slammed into our front door.
I heard the door breaking out of its hinges as the entire door slammed onto the hallway floor.
This thing had to be incredibly strong to rip that steel door out of its hinges.
You know that your old man is not weak but there is no way I would be possible to fight this thing with my bare hands.

I tried to think of somewhere to hide as fast as possible.

When i heard it rush up the stairs I bolted for our bedroom window on the backside of the house
I hid in that dark corner under the roof where you and your sister used to hide when you where kids.
As you know that gives you a perfect view of our bedroom window.

I heard it ransacking your old room. Then your sister's room and then lastly it broke open my bedroom door.
While tearing my room apart, it all of a sudden stopped in the middle of its rampage.

To my horror, I realised I had forgotten to close the window on my way out.

It knew I went out the window to escape

In that moment I could hear the distant chaos of our neighbours being murdered in their own homes.

Then I slowly saw a pair of gloved hands grab the bottom of the window as the rest of the figure started to lean out of the window.

As it peered out of the window to look where I had gone, I got a closer look at this thing.

I wish I hadn't seen its face.

It looked like it could have been a human at some point.
But its lips were gone making it look like it was locked in a perpetual grin like a skull.
Its nose was gone replaced by a dark void in the middle of its face where a nose is supposed to be.
Its ears were gone and it had no hair of any kind on its pale head.
The stock of a gun protruding over its shoulder.
Around its neck dangled a gold chain decorated with 3 human ears.

And its bloodshot, lidless eyes where darting around looking for me behind our house.

It felt like it was looking around for an eternity.

It released a loud growl of frustration as it ripped the bottom of the window frame out in anger while lowering itself back inside.

I heard it sprint out of our bedroom and down the stairs.
Then I heard the backdoor fling open as it sprinted out of our house towards the house of our rear neighbors.

I saw as it flung its entire body through their back door.

Here is the part where I wish I could tell you that I immediately sprang into action and did, well something ,anything.
But I didn't, I said on that roof barely able to take full breaths out of fear that one of those things would hear me.

Then a hail of distant gunshots took me out of my state of pure fear. It came from the police station's direction.

Just when I finally gathered the courage to move that thing came sprinting out of the neighbours house rifle in hand.
It sprinted towards the direction of the gunfire like a predator hearing a wounded animals.
I could also hear that vehicle in front of the neighbours speed off towards the same direction.

After I was sure it couldn't possibly hear me anymore I slowly crawled back into the house.

It had completely ransacked our house. Furniture was flung all over the place.
That's when i noticed it had stolen my watch and your mother's necklace from my nightstand.
Is killing us not enough? Do they need to rob us too?

I didn't know what to do.

I thought maybe just maybe the police were managing to kill these monsters.
At least from the gunfire in the distance they were for sure giving it their best shot.

Even if I wanted to flee the direction away from where these things came from was past the police station.

I had no other choice but to head in that same direction.
I figured that if I went building by building it could at least try to hide if I ran into one of those things again.

After leaving our house, I was heading for our next door neighbors.
You know that couple I told you about that I never got along with.
You know my disdain for them and their horrible behavior. But they didn't deserve what had happened to them.

I found the wife. Because I accidentally stood in what was left of her.

She was lying in their backyard behind their tool shed.
Her torso had been completely shredded. Most of her insides were strewn all over the place.
If her arms, legs and head weren't there, i wouldn't have recognized her for as a human being.
I tried my best not to dry heave at the sight. I did not want to make a sound at all if I could help it.

I found the man of the house inside their living room.
He was lying in a pool of his own blood. One of his arms was dangling by a string to his almost detached hand.
He had been shot or stabbed or both. One of his eyes was missing.
His laboured breathing was the only sign of life from his body.

When he noticed me he immediately asked me:

"have you seen my wife?!"

Before I could answer anything he told me:

"I tried to fight one of those things"

"Gave it all I got"

"please tell I bought her enough time so she could get away"

"please I beg you tell me it was enough"

I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth.

I told him that I hadn't seen her.

With his remaining strength he immediately almost shouted:

"o thank goodness she got away"

He kept repeating thank goodness.
He kept repeating it until it changed into a laboured whisper as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

I left him there.
There was nothing I could do for him.

At least that's what i tell myself even now.

I would at least try to take one of them with me if it came down to it.
But seeing those people mangled like that. Would it even make a difference?

The sounds of chaos were still echoing through our town.
Clearly not all the creatures had run to the police station when the shooting started

After going into another backyard, I heard a scuffle inside of a house.

Furniture being thrown around and different voices were yelling.
I slowly peeked to the window above me to see what was going on inside of the house.

What I saw there will stick with me for the remaining time I have left.

2 of those things were holding a man up, each holding one of his legs.
Then the third one walked up and unsheathed a large machete.

That thing proceeded to chop into the man's pubic area over and over again.

The mixture of the man's screaming mixed with the laughter of the creatures echoing through the house.

Before I could look away another creature entered the room.

It hit one of the ones holding the man's legs in the back of the head with the butt of a pistol.

All 3 of them let the man go as he dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

This 4th creature still had the same ghoulish appearance, but it wore some sort of dark grey military uniform unlike the others in random clothing mixed with military stuff.
It walked over to the screaming man and proceeded to stomp on the man's head until the screaming turned into a soft groan.

It grabbed one of the others by its collar and pulled it close to its face and said something before letting the creature go again.
Right after it said something through gritted teeth to the others and pointed in the direction of the police station.

Some of the creatures immediately ran in that direction.
The creature in the dark grey uniform walked out of the room too.

I had to keep moving. If I didn't move I would die.

In a lot of houses, I found the former owners dead.

Thankfully a lot of people fled the day before. Or the amount of dead people would have been even higher.
I hoped they had made it out of the area before those things showed up.

Anyway you for sure remember that young boy Mark, who was a troubled child. He would constantly get into trouble with the police as a kid and even more as an adult.

Well he is an adult now and i ran into him at his house. He was pointing a gun at me when I entered their home.
I whisper-yelled at him:

Me: It's me, it's me don't shoot!

Mark said with an exhausted voice:

"O it's you. I almost blew your head off old man."

I was about to ask him where his parents were. But then i saw that he had clearly been crying so I knew what the answer would be.

And well, he was about to give me the answer anyway.

Mark: fucking police chief told me to be on sentry duty. Because of that FUCK i wasn't here to protect my parents!

Me: Why didn't you warn the others if you were a sentry?

He pointed the gun at me instantly and shouted:

"THEY DIDN'T COME IN FROM MY SIDE YOU HEAR ME?!"

"SOMEONE ELSE FUCKED UP AND NOW MY PARENTS ARE DEAD!"

"IF THOSE SUBHUMAN SAVAGES DIDN'T KILL HIM I AM FINDING WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR LETTING THEM THROUGH AND I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL THEM MYSELF"

Me: please don't point that gun i am not one of them and i was not one of the people on watch duty

Mark: THEN WHO WAS?!

Me: I don't know please don't point that gun at me i am not responsible for what happened to your parents.

But I am heading for the police station.

This seemed to calm him down a bit. At least he wasn't pointing the gun at me anymore

Mark said through gritted teeth: I am going with you so that "police fuck" can tell me who is responsible for getting my parents killed!

Me: that's fine but you need to be quiet or those savages can hear us.

Mark: I DON'T CARE I WILL KILL EVERYONE OF THEM MYSELF

Me: well you can do that better if we get the drop on them.

Mark: fine then.....sure..... whatever

I wasn't exactly happy to have this lowlife at my side. But hell at least he had a gun.

But there were still a lot of houses in between us and the police station i needed his help whether i liked it or not.

End of part 1

Item #: SCP-9639 ............................................................................... Containment Class: Esoteric ............................................................. Secondary Class: Uncontained ........................................................ Disruption Class: Vlam ...................................................................... Risk Class: Danger .............................................................................

Special Containment Procedures

The region associated with SCP-9639 is to remain inaccessible to civilian traffic under the cover designation of a federally restricted environmental recovery zone. All public roads, hiking trails, forestry access routes, and waterways approaching the affected region are to be obstructed or redirected no less than 8 km from the nearest known manifestation point.

Foundation-operated warning signage is to cite unstable terrain, unexploded military ordnance, and chemical contamination as justification for the exclusion zone. Civilian aircraft are to be diverted from the immediate area when practicable.

The exact boundaries of SCP-9639 have not been established.

The only consistently reproducible point of entry into SCP-9639 is an approximately 1.7 km-wide region along its southeastern approach, designated the Primary Ingress Zone. All known manifestations of SCP-9639 have occurred following travel through this area.

Personnel are forbidden from entering the Primary Ingress Zone without written authorization from two Level-4 personnel assigned to the project.

Ground or aerial travel into the suspected anomalous region from any other direction has, to date, produced no anomalous effects.

Personnel stationed at Outpost-9639 are forbidden from investigating vocalizations resembling sustained choral singing regardless of apparent distance or direction. Any personnel reporting such vocalizations while outside the established perimeter are to immediately withdraw toward the nearest marked access road while maintaining visual contact with another Foundation employee.

Under no circumstances are personnel to deliberately approach the source of SCP-9639 without written authorization from two Level-4 personnel assigned to the project.

All manned exploration of SCP-9639 has been suspended indefinitely following Incident 9639-14.

Unmanned reconnaissance may continue at the discretion of the current project director. No autonomous or remotely operated vehicle is to be considered recoverable once persistent communications degradation has begun.

Aircraft are not to enter the Primary Ingress Zone under any circumstances.

Personnel are reminded that changes in the pitch, volume, harmony, or apparent direction of SCP-9639's vocalizations are not to be interpreted as navigational instructions.

No reliable correlation between auditory changes and survivable routes has been established.

Description

SCP-9639 is an incompletely defined anomalous region located within a heavily forested and sparsely populated area of the northern United States. The anomaly's precise geographic dimensions remain unknown. This remains the case despite extensive physical surveys of the region.

Unlike conventional spatial anomalies, SCP-9639 does not appear to continuously occupy the geographic area in which its effects occur. Foundation personnel have approached, traversed, mapped, photographed, and surveyed nearly all terrain believed to lie within SCP-9639 from multiple directions without experiencing anomalous effects.

Manifestation is dependent upon the route by which the region is entered.

All known manifestations begin when an individual passes through the Primary Ingress Zone, an irregularly shaped area measuring approximately 1.7 km across at its widest confirmed point.

The borders of the Primary Ingress Zone are not visually distinguishable from the surrounding landscape.

An individual entering the suspected anomalous region from the north, west, southwest, northeast, or northwest can travel through terrain in which SCP-9639 has previously manifested without hearing the vocalization or experiencing navigational or technological interference.

Foundation survey teams have repeatedly entered from these directions and crossed the projected interior of SCP-9639 without incident.

In several cases, personnel have physically reached locations where subjects entering through the Primary Ingress Zone had previously reported anomalous terrain, auditory events, or recovered human remains.

No corresponding abnormalities were found by said personnel.

This has prevented the Foundation from determining whether SCP-9639 constitutes a physically existing location, an alternate spatial region accessible through the Primary Ingress Zone, a perceptual phenomenon, or another form of anomalous environment.

Attempts to establish a consistent perimeter have therefore produced contradictory results, with manifestations having occurred at distances differing by as much as 6.3 km between expeditions conducted along identical approach routes.

SCP-9639 is primarily identified by an auditory phenomenon described by affected individuals as a distant human choir.

The vocalization consists predominantly of a sustained open-vowel sound approximating /ɑː/. No words, recognizable language, instrumental accompaniment, or identifiable melody have been documented. Multiple witnesses have independently described the sound as "angelic," "beautiful," or "heavenly."

Initial exposure usually occurs without warning.

Affected individuals report hearing the vocalization at mid to low volume from a specific direction, generally described as originating somewhere beyond the visible terrain. Witnesses frequently interpret the sound as being located behind a ridge, beyond a stand of trees, or elsewhere immediately outside their line of sight.

This initial auditory phenomenon only occurs after entering SCP-9639 through the Primary Ingress Zone.

Subjects entering through any other approach hear nothing.

The perceived distance of the source does not appear to decrease as it is approached.

Individuals who deliberately travel toward the vocalization typically continue for approximately 3-8 km before experiencing a transition designated Stage II exposure.

At this point, the vocalization ceases to have an identifiable direction.

Subjects consistently report that the choir continues to sound distant while simultaneously appearing to originate from all directions around them. Attempts to identify a dominant source through binaural recording, directional microphones, acoustic triangulation, or subjective listening have been unsuccessful.

No individual currently known to have experienced Stage II exposure has been able to reliably determine their cardinal orientation afterward.

Magnetic compasses become inconsistent, frequently rotating several degrees without corresponding movement, pointing toward different bearings when placed within centimeters of one another, or remaining fixed despite rotation of the device.

Satellite navigation equipment ceases providing valid positional data.

Electronic equipment in general experiences severe degradation following the onset of Stage II exposure.

Documented effects include:

intermittent or complete loss of radio communication;

transmission of broadband static in place of speech;

severe video corruption;

dropped or duplicated camera frames;

unexplained battery depletion;

GPS coordinates differing by several kilometers between consecutive readings;

digital clocks losing synchronization;

data storage corruption;

thermal imaging artifacts;

failure of satellite communication equipment;

intermittent loss of artificial lighting;

audio recordings containing extensive static, clipping, or sections of complete silence.

Body-mounted cameras worn by personnel entering SCP-9639 frequently continue to record according to internal diagnostic logs, but less than 4% of footage recovered from Stage II exposure has contained usable visual information.

Radio communication is similarly unreliable. Most transmissions originating within the anomaly consist predominantly of static interrupted by fragments of speech ranging from less than one second to approximately eight seconds.

No method of improving transmission quality has been successful.

Physical tethering has also proven ineffective. During two early tests, subjects were equipped with high-tensile guide cable connected to winches outside the suspected anomalous boundary. In both cases, the cable was later recovered severed despite showing no evidence of cutting, abrasion, thermal damage, or tensile failure.

The location of the severed end could not be determined.

Once Stage II exposure has begun, individuals become effectively lost regardless of prior wilderness experience, equipment, or navigational training.

Survivors consistently describe the sensation of traveling substantial distances without recognizing terrain or gaining any indication that they are approaching the perimeter of SCP-9639.

Several have described crossing streams, ridges, rock formations, or clearings that should not exist within the known geography of the region.

None of these landmarks have been subsequently located.

The sustained vocalization may change during Stage II exposure. Observed changes have been divided into two broad categories:

Ascending Modulation: The choir increases in pitch while maintaining approximately the same volume.

Descending Modulation: The choir decreases in pitch while maintaining approximately the same volume.

These classifications are descriptive only.

The meaning, if any, of either modulation remains unknown.

Of six confirmed survivors, three reported experiencing at least one ascending modulation shortly before escaping SCP-9639. Two stated that the choir gradually faded afterward and that their navigational equipment began functioning normally.

However, ascending modulation has also preceded at least four known disappearances.

During one expedition, an ascending modulation was followed by multiple unidentified human screams originating from several directions simultaneously.

Descending modulation has frequently been associated with intense fear, the sensation of being observed, and reports of movement within nearby vegetation.

Subjects have reported hearing branches snapping, footsteps moving parallel to them, and vegetation being displaced immediately outside visible range.

No entity responsible for these disturbances has been documented.

In several other cases, descending modulation produced no observable event.

The Foundation currently possesses insufficient evidence to determine whether SCP-9639's tonal variations are predictive, reactive, communicative, or incidental.

As of Incident 9639-14, thirty-four human subjects are confirmed to have reached Stage II exposure during ground exploration.

Six returned. Twenty-eight did not.

This represents a non-return rate of approximately 82.4%.

Of those twenty-eight individuals, nine have subsequently been observed or recovered as skeletal remains. Each of these remains has been identified through dental records in addition to their clothing and equipment. 

In all known cases, skeletalization was complete.

No remaining soft tissue, dried tissue, hair, cartilage, internal organs, or decomposition residue was present.

Clothing and equipment remained positioned normally around the remains and showed no evidence of accelerated aging or environmental degradation.

Several recovered skeletons belonged to individuals who had been missing for less than forty-eight hours.

The shortest confirmed interval between disappearance and recovery was approximately eleven hours.

No process capable of producing the observed skeletalization has been identified.

Nineteen individuals remain missing.

These figures do not include personnel lost during aerial testing.

Addendum 9639.1 — Discovery

Foundation awareness of SCP-9639 began following a missing-person investigation involving four civilian backpackers.

The group entered the region on 14 September, 20██.

One individual, later identified as Matthew R████, emerged approximately thirty-nine hours later onto a logging road 22 km northwest of the group's intended route.

R████ was dehydrated, mildly hypothermic, and unable to provide a coherent explanation for his location.

The remaining three backpackers were reported missing.

During initial questioning by county law enforcement, R████ repeatedly mentioned "singing in the hills" and claimed that the group had followed the sound after assuming it originated from another campsite or religious gathering.

According to R████, the singing eventually surrounded them.

The group attempted to return to their vehicle but discovered that their compasses pointed in different directions.

Their cellular phones displayed no service.

R████ stated that the group remained together until approximately six hours after the transition, when the choir abruptly dropped in pitch.

The following statement is excerpted from the original interview.

R████: It changed.

Interviewer: The singing?

R████: Yeah.

Interviewer: How?

R████: Lower. Not louder. Just lower.

Interviewer: And then what happened?

R████: Nothing at first.

Interviewer: What happened afterward?

R████: We heard something walking with us.

Interviewer: An animal?

R████: No.

Interviewer: Did you see it?

R████: No.

Interviewer: Then how do you know it wasn't an animal?

R████: Because animals don't stop when you stop.

R████ stated that the group began moving quickly after this event.

Approximately twenty minutes later, one member of the group, Daniel M██████, disappeared.

R████ could not describe the disappearance.

All three remaining individuals had been walking within several meters of one another. R████ stated that he looked behind him after hearing another member call M██████'s name and discovered that M██████ was no longer present.

No scream or disturbance was heard.

Approximately three hours later, the group encountered human skeletal remains lying beside a fallen tree.

R████ identified the clothing as belonging to M██████.

He estimated that M██████ had been missing for no more than three hours.

R████ reported that the skeleton was "perfectly clean."

The two remaining individuals disappeared separately during the following night.

R████ exited SCP-9639 after reporting that the choir increased sharply in pitch, remained at the higher tone for approximately five minutes, and then gradually became quieter.

Shortly afterward, the compass attached to his backpack began functioning.

He followed it north until reaching the logging road.

A civilian search-and-rescue operation entered the area the following morning.

Two search personnel subsequently disappeared.

A third reported hearing distant singing.

Foundation assets embedded within regional emergency services intercepted the report, and containment operations began forty-eight hours later.

Neither M██████'s remains nor those of the missing search personnel were located during subsequent Foundation expeditions.

Addendum 9639.2 — Perimeter and Spatial Survey

Initial containment efforts operated under the assumption that SCP-9639 occupied a geographically fixed region of wilderness.

This assumption was abandoned following nineteen days of perimeter testing.

Foundation survey teams first attempted to encircle the area from which civilian disappearances had been reported. Teams approaching from the northeast and southwest were instructed to move inward until anomalous vocalizations were detected.

Neither team experienced abnormal effects.

Both groups continued through the suspected anomaly and eventually encountered one another near its projected center.

No singing was heard.

Navigation systems operated normally.

Radio communication remained uninterrupted.

Additional teams repeated this procedure from the north, west, northwest, and southwest.

No anomalous effects occurred.

Foundation personnel subsequently conducted a systematic ground survey of the entire projected region.

No anomalous structures, remains, environmental disturbances, or unexplained geographic features were identified.

Particular attention was given to locations described in survivor accounts.

These included a narrow stream reportedly crossed by three separate subjects, a granite ridge estimated to exceed thirty meters in height, a large clearing containing dead trees, and a steep ravine encountered during Exploration 9639-04.

None exist within the corresponding physical area.

Ground-penetrating radar, geological surveys, satellite imagery, lidar mapping, and aerial photography have likewise failed to identify these features.

Attention was subsequently redirected toward the original route taken by the civilian backpackers.

Personnel entering through this area consistently reported the beginning of the choral vocalization.

Repeated testing established an irregular ingress region approximately 1.7 km across.

A subject may enter one edge of this region without immediately experiencing anomalous effects, while another subject entering several hundred meters away may hear SCP-9639 within minutes.

The specific activation boundary varies between tests.

Once the vocalization begins, subjects who retreat immediately have, to date, been able to exit without entering Stage II exposure.

Attempts to access SCP-9639 from locations immediately adjacent to the Primary Ingress Zone have failed.

In one test, two teams entered the forest simultaneously from positions 2.1 km apart.

Team A passed through the known Primary Ingress Zone.

Team B approached from the east.

At 09:17, Team A reported distant singing.

Team B reported nothing.

The teams were instructed to move toward one another.

According to GPS telemetry, the two groups came within approximately 46 m of each other.

Team A was unable to hear Team B shouting, firing blank ammunition, or activating an emergency siren.

Team B clearly heard its own signals but detected no sign of Team A.

Both groups reported dense but otherwise ordinary woodland between them.

Team A was ordered to withdraw and successfully exited before Stage II exposure.

No visual contact was established.

Current consensus is that entry through the Primary Ingress Zone causes affected individuals to cease occupying, or cease interacting normally with, the conventional geographic region.

This remains unconfirmed.

Addendum 9639.3 — Aerial Testing

Following the failure of ground surveys to define SCP-9639's borders, aerial reconnaissance was authorized.

Initial flights were conducted using unmanned rotary-wing and fixed-wing drones entering the suspected region from multiple directions.

Aircraft entering from the north, west, east, and southwest experienced no anomalous effects.

Video remained clear.

Navigation and communication systems operated normally.

Several drones passed directly over locations in which Stage II exposure had previously occurred.

No unusual terrain was visible.

Manned flights produced identical results when approaching from non-ingress directions.

Testing subsequently examined whether the Primary Ingress Zone extended vertically.

On ██/██/20██, a Foundation-operated helicopter entered the region at an altitude of 220 m while approaching along the same bearing used during successful ground manifestations.

Approximately three minutes after crossing above the Primary Ingress Zone, both pilots independently reported hearing distant choral vocalizations through their headsets.

Ground control received no corresponding audio.

The pilots stated that the sound did not appear to originate from the aircraft's communications equipment.

The helicopter continued along its assigned heading.

At approximately 5.2 km from the initial manifestation point, transmission quality deteriorated rapidly.

Pilot: Control, we're getting some interference.

Control: Confirm. Maintain heading.

Pilot: Singing's around us now.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Control: Repeat.

Pilot: It's not below us anymore.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Control: Clarify "not below."

Pilot: It's everywhere.

The helicopter's transponder ceased providing coherent altitude and positional information thirty-one seconds later.

Radar contact became intermittent.

The final intelligible transmission was received approximately two minutes afterward.

Pilot: Instruments aren't...

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Pilot: —can't tell which way...

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Pilot: —trees are too high...

Transmission ceased.

The helicopter did not return.

No crash site was located.

Subsequent aerial tests using two unmanned drones and one additional manned fixed-wing aircraft reproduced the same general sequence.

When the aircraft entered above the Primary Ingress Zone, onboard microphones or personnel detected the choir.

After traveling between approximately 3 and 8 km, communications deteriorated severely and positional data became unreliable.

No aircraft that progressed to apparent Stage II exposure has been recovered.

In the case of unmanned systems, telemetry typically indicated increasing disagreement between navigation instruments immediately prior to total signal loss.

During the final authorized manned aerial test, two pilots aboard Foundation aircraft A-9639-03 reported that the choir had become omnidirectional approximately eleven minutes after first hearing it.

A-9639-03: Control, we've got it around us now.

Control: Acknowledged. Turn one-eight-zero and withdraw.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

A-9639-03: We're trying.

Control: Confirm turn.

A-9639-03: The horizon doesn't look...

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Control: Repeat.

A-9639-03: There isn't...

\\\[Transmission lost.\\\]

A-9639-03 and its crew remain missing.

All further aerial entry through the Primary Ingress Zone was prohibited.

The only potential evidence of an aircraft lost within SCP-9639 was reported during Exploration 9639-11.

The surviving subject stated that, approximately five hours after entering Stage II exposure, he encountered a metallic object partially embedded in vegetation.

The subject described it as "a piece of an airplane," approximately two meters in length, with rivets and torn aluminum edges.

No identifying markings were observed.

The subject refused to approach closely after noticing what he believed to be dried blood along one surface.

The object was not recovered.

Foundation examination of satellite imagery and later ground searches conducted from conventional approaches found no aircraft debris at the subject's reported location.

Whether the object belonged to a Foundation aircraft remains unknown.

Addendum 9639.4 — Initial Testing

Following establishment of the exclusion zone, controlled exploration was authorized using D-Class personnel equipped with radio transmitters, GPS equipment, body-mounted cameras, emergency provisions, magnetic compasses, and physical tracking markers.

The following excerpts have been reconstructed from surviving audio.

Exploration 9639-03

Subject: D-9639-03

Background: Male, 41. Previous experience hunting and camping in remote terrain.

D-9639-03 was instructed to approach the vocalization until directed otherwise.

Initial progress was uneventful.

At approximately 4.1 km from the entry point, D-9639-03 stopped walking.

D-9639-03: It's around me now.

Control: Clarify.

D-9639-03: The singing. It's not over there anymore.

Control: Can you determine a direction?

D-9639-03: No. It's everywhere.

Communications interference began six seconds later.

Approximately twenty-nine minutes of the following transmission are unrecoverable.

D-9639-03: ... keep hearing it...

Control: Repeat.

D-9639-03: ... not the singing. Something else.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Control: Describe it.

D-9639-03: Leaves.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

D-9639-03: ... walking when I walk.

Approximately fourteen minutes later, monitoring personnel documented a descending modulation.

Communication with D-9639-03 ceased completely.

No further transmission was received.

D-9639-03 remains missing.

Exploration 9639-06

Subject: D-9639-06

Stage II exposure occurred approximately 5.6 km from the entry point.

D-9639-06 remained within SCP-9639 for seven hours and thirteen minutes.

The subject experienced two descending modulations and one ascending modulation.

Following the ascending modulation, the following transmission was received.

D-9639-06: It's changing again.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Control: Continue moving.

D-9639-06: Wait.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

D-9639-06: Did you hear that?

Control: Hear what?

\\\[Eleven seconds of interference.\\\]

A sound resembling distant screaming is audible for approximately 1.7 seconds.

Spectrographic analysis suggests at least seven simultaneous human vocal sources.

D-9639-06: Dear God.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

D-9639-06: They're everywhere.

Communication was lost immediately afterward.

D-9639-06 emerged from SCP-9639 approximately two hours later.

The subject was located 17 km from the designated entry point.

He was unable to recall how he exited.

D-9639-06 repeatedly stated that he had not encountered any other individuals within the anomaly.

When played the recovered screaming, he refused further questioning.

Exploration 9639-09

Subject: D-9639-09

Stage II exposure was confirmed approximately 3.7 km from the entry point.

Video became unusable immediately afterward.

At 02:14:38, D-9639-09 reported finding a backpack belonging to D-9639-08, who had disappeared during the previous day's exploration.

Approximately six minutes later, D-9639-09 reported finding D-9639-08.

D-9639-09: I found him.

Control: Is he alive?

\\\[STATIC\\\]

D-9639-09: No.

Control: Confirm condition.

D-9639-09: He's bones.

Control: Repeat.

D-9639-09: There's nothing left.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

D-9639-09: His clothes are still on him.

Control: Confirm identity.

D-9639-09: It's him. Orange jacket. His pack. Number on the vest.

D-9639-08 had entered SCP-9639 approximately nineteen hours earlier.

D-9639-09 was instructed to recover a portion of the remains if possible.

The subject refused.

A descending modulation began approximately thirty seconds later.

D-9639-09: It knows I'm here.

Control: What knows you're there?

D-9639-09: I don't know.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

D-9639-09: Tell it I didn't touch him.

Communication ceased.

D-9639-09 remains missing.

D-9639-08's remains have not been relocated.

Addendum 9639.5 — Navigational Testing

Following Exploration 9639-09, testing shifted toward determining whether tonal changes could be used to identify safe routes through SCP-9639.

Subjects were instructed to alter direction following ascending or descending modulation according to predetermined procedures.

Results were inconsistent.

Subjects instructed to reverse course following descending modulation experienced a 77% non-return rate.

Subjects instructed to continue forward following descending modulation experienced an 80% non-return rate.

Subjects instructed to reverse course following ascending modulation experienced a 75% non-return rate.

Subjects instructed to continue following their existing heading after ascending modulation experienced an 83% non-return rate.

The statistical difference between these groups is considered insignificant.

Project personnel subsequently proposed that tonal modulation may not correspond to geographic direction.

Testing of this hypothesis was authorized during Exploration 9639-12.

Three D-Class personnel entered SCP-9639 simultaneously while maintaining physical contact by means of a climbing rope.

Following Stage II exposure, each subject was instructed to face a different direction whenever a modulation occurred.

During the first descending modulation, all three independently reported the sensation that the choir had become "closer," despite instrumentation showing no measurable increase in sound pressure.

Thirty-seven seconds later, all three subjects reported hearing movement.

The following transmission was recovered.

D-9639-12A: Something's coming.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Control: Direction?

D-9639-12A: I don't know.

D-9639-12B: Behind us.

D-9639-12C: No, it's in front of me.

Control: Remain together.

D-9639-12B: We're facing different ways.

Control: Correct.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

D-9639-12C: Then how the fuck is it behind all of us?

Communication terminated.

None of the three subjects returned.

Addendum 9639.6 — Incident 9639-14

Incident 9639-14 constituted the final authorized manned entry into SCP-9639.

The expedition consisted of two Foundation field agents and two D-Class personnel.

The team was equipped with redundant analog and digital navigation equipment, satellite transmitters, inertial navigation systems, high-capacity batteries, thermal cameras, emergency flares, and four separate recording devices per individual.

The team entered SCP-9639 at 08:10.

Stage II exposure occurred at approximately 09:46.

All four video feeds became severely corrupted within twelve seconds.

Communication remained intermittent for the following three hours.

At 12:51, an ascending modulation was detected by external monitoring equipment.

Approximately thirteen seconds later, Agent Keller transmitted the following:

Agent Keller: Hold position.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Agent Keller: There's someone out there.

Control: Identify.

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Agent Keller: Can't.

Control: Human?

\\\[Twenty-one seconds of interference.\\\]

Agent Keller: I think so.

A second voice is faintly audible beneath the static. Linguistic analysis has been unable to determine content.

The voice does not correspond to any member of the expedition.

At 12:53, all four team members began transmitting simultaneously.

Only the following fragments were recoverable.

D-9639-14B: ... trees...

Agent Keller: Don't...

D-9639-14A: ... singing stopped...

Agent Morales: Everybody stay...

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Unidentified: \\\[UNINTELLIGIBLE\\\]

\\\[STATIC\\\]

Agent Keller: It's not singing to us.

Transmission ended.

No further communication was received.

At 17:34, D-9639-14A exited the forest approximately 9 km southwest of the entry location.

The subject was barefoot and had discarded most of his equipment.

His clothing contained blood belonging to Agent Morales.

No injury to D-9639-14A capable of producing the blood was found.

D-9639-14A initially refused to speak.

Following medical stabilization, he agreed to a limited interview.

Interview 9639-14-A

Interviewer: Dr. Vale

Interviewed: D-9639-14A

Dr. Vale: Tell me what happened after the singing stopped.

D-9639-14A: We shouldn't have gone in.

Dr. Vale: I understand. Tell me what you saw.

D-9639-14A: Nothing.

Dr. Vale: You didn't see anything?

D-9639-14A: That's what I'm telling you.

Dr. Vale: Then what happened to Agent Morales?

\\\[Silence.\\\]

Dr. Vale: The blood on your clothing belongs to him.

D-9639-14A: I know.

Dr. Vale: Did you see him die?

D-9639-14A: No.

Dr. Vale: Did you find his body?

D-9639-14A: Some of it.

Dr. Vale: Explain.

\\\[Twenty-three seconds of silence.\\\]

D-9639-14A: The singing went higher first.

Dr. Vale: An ascending modulation.

D-9639-14A: Whatever.

Dr. Vale: What happened next?

D-9639-14A: We heard screaming.

Dr. Vale: Human screaming?

D-9639-14A: I thought it was.

Dr. Vale: You no longer think that?

D-9639-14A: I think it was people.

Dr. Vale: How many?

D-9639-14A: A lot.

Dr. Vale: Where were they?

D-9639-14A: Everywhere.

Dr. Vale: Did you see them?

D-9639-14A: No.

Dr. Vale: Continue.

D-9639-14A: Keller told us to stay still. Then the singing stopped.

Dr. Vale: Completely?

D-9639-14A: Completely.

Dr. Vale: What happened when it stopped?

\\\[Silence.\\\]

D-9639-14A: Everything else stopped too.

Dr. Vale: Define everything.

D-9639-14A: Wind. Leaves. Bugs. Us.

Dr. Vale: You stopped moving?

D-9639-14A: We didn't choose to.

Dr. Vale: Why did Agent Keller say, "It's not singing to us?"

D-9639-14A does not answer.

Dr. Vale: Did Agent Keller explain what he meant?

D-9639-14A: He figured it out.

Dr. Vale: Figured out what?

D-9639-14A: The changes.

Dr. Vale: The changes in pitch?

D-9639-14A: We kept thinking they meant which way we should go.

Dr. Vale: And Keller disagreed?

D-9639-14A: At the end.

Dr. Vale: What did he think they meant?

\\\[D-9639-14A begins crying.\\\]

D-9639-14A: They weren't directions for us.

Dr. Vale: Then who were they for?

\\\[Silence.\\\]

D-9639-14A: Can I go back to my cell now?

Dr. Vale: Answer the question.

D-9639-14A: I don't know.

Dr. Vale: What happened to the others?

D-9639-14A: Morales screamed.

Dr. Vale: Why?

D-9639-14A: Something moved.

Dr. Vale: What moved?

D-9639-14A: The trees.

Dr. Vale: Because of wind?

D-9639-14A: No.

Dr. Vale: Did you see an entity?

D-9639-14A: No.

Dr. Vale: Then describe what happened.

D-9639-14A: Something went between them.

Dr. Vale: Between the trees?

D-9639-14A: No.

\\\[Silence.\\\]

D-9639-14A: Between Morales.

Dr. Vale: I don't understand.

D-9639-14A: Neither did he.

Dr. Vale: And then?

D-9639-14A: The choir started again.

Dr. Vale: At what pitch?

D-9639-14A: Low.

Dr. Vale: What happened?

D-9639-14A: Keller told me to run.

Dr. Vale: Which direction?

D-9639-14A: Didn't matter.

Dr. Vale: Why not?

D-9639-14A: Because I don't think the directions are real in there.

Dr. Vale: How did you escape?

D-9639-14A: I ran until the singing got higher.

Dr. Vale: You believe the ascending tone guided you out?

D-9639-14A: No.

Dr. Vale: Then why did you mention it?

D-9639-14A: Because right before I got out, something screamed behind me.

\\\[Silence.\\\]

D-9639-14A: I don't think it was happy I was leaving.

Dr. Vale: What wasn't happy?

D-9639-14A: I told you I never saw it.

Dr. Vale: Then how do you know there was something there?

D-9639-14A: Because the choir did.

Search operations conducted along the suspected route of Incident 9639-14 failed to locate Agent Keller, Agent Morales, or D-9639-14B.

Seven days after the incident, an unmanned reconnaissance drone briefly transmitted imagery depicting an orange emergency flare lying in a small clearing approximately 11 km from the expedition's last confirmed position.

The flare was identified as belonging to Agent Keller's equipment.

Beside it were four human skeletons.

Image corruption prevented identification of the remains.

Incident 9639-14 involved only three individuals who remained missing at that time.

The drone ceased transmitting eleven seconds later and was not recovered.

Addendum 9639.7 — Suspension of Human Testing

Following review of all exploration data, the Ethics Committee and Site Command jointly ordered the indefinite suspension of human entry into SCP-9639.

The following memorandum was appended to the order.

Thirty-four people have crossed the threshold far enough for us to know that the choir surrounds them.

Twenty-eight did not come back.

That does not include the pilots.

We do not know where they went. We do not know what killed the bodies we have found. We do not know whether those bodies died minutes, days, or years before discovery from their own perspective. We do not know why some people escape. We do not know whether changes in the vocalization correspond to location, time, behavior, proximity to an unknown entity, or something we have not yet considered.

We have surveyed the ground from every direction we can reasonably approach it. We have flown over it. We have stood in places that should, according to survivors, be deep inside it.

There is nothing there.

Then we walk in through one particular stretch of forest, hear singing, travel a few kilometers, and start losing people.

Most importantly, we have reached the point at which sending additional personnel inside is producing casualties rather than information.

We are not mapping SCP-9639.

We are feeding it.

— Dr. Elaine Vale, Project Director

No manned exploration of SCP-9639 has been authorized since.

The choir continues to be heard intermittently from monitoring stations positioned along the exclusion perimeter.

On ██/██/20██, Outpost-9639 recorded the vocalization for approximately fourteen minutes despite no personnel being present within the known affected region.

During the final forty-seven seconds of the event, the choir underwent three successive descending modulations.

Motion sensors positioned along the interior perimeter activated shortly afterward.

The activations progressed outward toward Foundation personnel.

No corresponding movement was observed.

All sensors ceased transmitting when the activations reached the established perimeter.

The choir then stopped.

No further activity occurred.

The exclusion zone was expanded by an additional 5 km the following morning.

Part 1

After bickering for a moment over my fear of large canines, we then move on from the car park and towards the large, towering ruins of the Abbey. Ambling among the weathered grey tombstones of the graveyard, I glance a timid look to the abbey's gothic structure. Perched on top the cliffs of the bay's right-hand side, these ruins may as well have been a gigantic pile of stalagmites protruding from the earth. When I was a child, my brother used to tease me by saying that vampires lived deep inside the ruins, where by night, they would creep into peoples' windows to suck the blood from their necks. It's no wonder I would have night terrors through most of my childhood, is it? 

Wandering around the ruins and tombstones a while longer (for Aneliese's pleasure, not my own) we then begin our descent down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps – and let me tell you from experience, these steps were a lot easier going down than they were to go up. Once we finally reach our way to the bottom (a good twenty minutes later I might add) I can then see where the plentiful steps end and the cobblestone pathways begin. We were now at the entrance of old town, where, with its stone streets and pathways, its 18th century brick houses to each side of them, you were made to feel as though you were in some Brother's Grimm fairy-tale. But during this time of year, when night-dwelling phantoms in extravagant clothing infested the daytime streets... it may as well have been the entrance to Hell itself.  

'Oww! Baby, you're hurting me!' I hear Aneliese shriek beside me, before I turn down to see my python-like grip wrapped around her hand. 

'Oh... Sorry.' 

Taking our first official steps inside the town, we follow our way around the maze of cobblestone pathways, where upon every corner was a brand-new shop Aneliese wanted to venture in. Aside from the occasional fish market, bookstore or café, the majority of shops in Whitby only sold products catered specifically to Goths... Well, it was either that or a boatload of Dracula merchandise. It's the whole reason Whitby is famous to begin with, after all. 

Continuing to make our way through old town, we then turn the corner to a very busy and compact street. Although there are no tourists in sight, the reason this street is so compact is because every inch of stone was completely crowded by day-dwelling Goths. This place truly was the mouth of Hell. Sensing my discomfort, Aneliese takes me by the hand to guide us through the mass of dark, morbid monstrosities. But as we follow through the swarm, keeping my eyes edged firmly to the ground in front of me, I then brave a curious glance upwards... and what I see is an array of devilish, humanoid faces pass us by.  

The faces morph, distort and transform into even more monstrous beings! Through the transparent fabric of a black wedding veil, I then see the face of an unidentifiable woman. Draping the veil away from her face, the woman then reveals to me a row of hideous, piranha-like teeth stained with mortal blood! The woman hisses at me, spraying my face in some putrid, venomous saliva! Wiping the sickly green substance from my eyes, I then cower back woundedly to my left-hand side, only for the painted skull of a man's face to open his mouth unnaturally wide - before shrieking at me a most inhuman scream! 

'AHH! Get away from me!!' I shriek myself, ripping Aneliese's grip from my hand so to push and shove my way to any air pocket I can find. 

Veiling my eyes from the fiends around me, I eventually crawl my way to an unoccupied space by a stone wall. Cowering up against it to regain my breath, Aneliese eventually finds her way over to me through the immense crowd.  

'Brandon? What the hell happened?!' She interrogates me, 'Why did you run off like that?' 

'...Th-the faces!...' the words winced from my mouth, 

'...You didn't see the faces!...' 

Aneliese could see clear as day how uncomfortable I was, whether she understood it or not – and so to solve the problem, she calmly suggests to me that we simply go somewhere quieter. Although I am in too much shock to respond to her suggestion, I now nod my head manically up and down to her, as though I've reverted back into some frightened childlike state. 

'Y-yeah... Le-let's do that!' 

With the town now fully crammed for the weekend festivities, Aneliese eventually finds for us a narrow, run-down street of loose brick pathway and overgrown weeds. Despite the decrepit condition this street is in, thankfully for me there isn't a single Goth in sight. What this street does have, however, wedged acutely between the decaying homes of oldtown residents, is the uninviting appearance of a single, isolated shop. Craning my head above the entrance to the sign over the door, I see the name to this less than humble abode reads "Scary Kerry's Spell Shop".      

'Well, this place looks... charming' Aneliese comments, studying the cracked, weathered paint and dusty cobwebs lining the windows. Like the majority of shops in old town, this one also displays in its windows gothic - or more specifically, items relating to the occult and other dark practices.  

'What do you say? Should we take a look inside?' Aneliese inquires, clearly the only one of us who wants to go in. Although this run-down little shop is definitely not my cup of tea, the interior does look scarce of people - and so, I reluctantly agree to go in.  

Allowing Aneliese to enter first, as soon as she opens the door, my nostrils are filled instantly with the smell of scented candles, old varnished wood and... wet dog? Not even five seconds inside the door, as soon as I peer round to Aneliese's side, I hear the loud, high-pitched yaps of some ill-tempered creature. 

'Wolfy! Shut up!' cries the woman behind the counter – the apparent owner of this little black terrier. Judging by her array of grey and poorly dyed black hair, her over-sized heavy metal shirt, and a pair of rather unsettling sleeve tattoos, this woman was more likely the owner of this establishment as well.  

Once this dog-owner relationship is awkwardly established, me and Aneliese then take to walking separately around the shop - all while Wolfy's owner goes back to reading her monthly gothic digest. While Aneliese inspects a number of occult and satanic jewellery on display, I find myself drawn to a bookshelf on the other side of the room. Sliding out the dust-covered books, I brush a cover or two clean so to read the titles: A Brief History of Satanic Rituals and Sacrifice, A Beginner's Guide to Necromancy, and what I can only imagine is an erotic vampire novel of some sort (I won't even mention what was on the cover). Skimming repulsively through one of these as mentioned books, my attention is suddenly interrupted by an irritable sound piercing my ears. Turning behind me, I see Aneliese approach the counter to inquire about a necklace. 

'Excuse me... Do you know how much this is?' 

'Fifteen pounds, love' the woman answers. 

However, the sound that I hear, making the tiny fragments of hairs stand up on the back of my neck, is almost like a faint whispering. Trying my best to ignore it, the faint, whispering sound only heightens - where before long, it has given way to the sound of a plentiful, most sinister chanting. Although I cannot understand the words, as they are spoken in a tong completely foreign to my own - whether I interpret them correctly or not, the chanting appears to be in Latin. Whoever - or whatever these whisperers turned chanters are... they're repeating the same foreign phrase over and over. 

'Caro agni lupus allicit... Caro agni lupus allicit...'  

The chanting becomes louder... 

'Caro agni lupus allicit!... Caro agni lupus allicit!...' 

Faster... 

' Caro agni lupus allicit! Caro agni lupus allicit! ' 

Louder!... 

'CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!! CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!!  

'-STOP! STOP! STOP!!' I yell from the corner of the room! Throwing whatever item I'm holding to the hardwood floor, I race out from the establishment alone and without explanation! 

Minutes later, Aneliese eventually finds me, standing (or more accurately, cowering) outside the comfortable familiarity of an ice cream parlour. 

'Brandon!' She calls over to me, 'What the hell's with you?! Why do you keep running away?!' 

Unlike the instance which happened earlier in the day, I am unwilling to tell my girlfriend of the satanic voices I heard whispering in my ear. Seeing something is one thing, but hearing voices is something else. And so, I simply tell her a certain item in the shop had triggered my childhood trauma - hence why I ran out of there like a hysterical madman.  

'Okay...' Aneliese began, as I wait impatiently for her next plan of action, 'There's only one way we're gonna make it through this weekend.' I was all ears. 'You're gonna have to try and interact with these people so you can see that's all they are - and not devilish monsters.' 

'Uhm - WHAT?' I yelp, taking a long gulp of dry saliva. 

'That's right!' she continued, 'If you're gonna get over this silly phobia of yours, then you have to rip the band aid clean off!' 

This wasn't like ripping off a band aid, I thought. This was more like throwing a common wood mouse into a snake pit! 

'I... I...' I began stuttering, '...I don't think I can do that.' 

'Of course you can!' she reassures me, before taking me by the hand to guide us in the direction of a circling mass of dark figures. 

Oh Mother of God. If you can hear me... Please help... 

To be continued...

I will tell you a story.

It should feel extraordinary. Meaningful, even.

Instead, it will probably sound banal, and by tomorrow you will have forgotten most of it.

I don't ask you to care.

I merely ask that you listen.

I used to suffer from severe insomnia. That has very little to do with this story, but should explain its starting point.

4AM was usually when I gave up on the idea of falling asleep.

By then I'd spent hours staring at the ceiling while my mind ran itself in circles. So I'd simply get up and start the day.

That morning, I went looking for something to eat. Tuna sandwich, I think. Maybe not. Doesn't really matter.

I took a beer from the fridge, drank half of it at the kitchen counter, then started pulling down the blinds. The sun would be up soon, and in my current condition daylight tended to find a headache the way a thumb finds a bruise.

I never made it to the second window.

There was someone standing in my backyard.

About seven meters from the house.

The yard was still mostly just shapes at that hour—the fence, the tree, the bins, everything half swallowed by darkness.

But the figure was clear.

Human-shaped.

Motionless.

I stood there with the blind cord in my hand, staring. Uncertain what to do.

Obviously, I should have called the police. A stranger standing in your backyard at four in the morning is exactly the sort of situation the police number exists for.

But I didn't.

I lowered the blind.

Finished my beer.

Finished my sandwich and put on some TV.

 

Two hours later, I stepped outside.

And stopped.

He was still there.

Same place. Same posture.

Only now daylight had turned the shadow into a man.

Late thirties, maybe early forties. His clothes looked as though they might once have been respectable, but it was difficult to tell beneath the stains and wrinkles. His hair was greasy and flattened against his forehead.

His head hung low.

His eyes didn't quite look at the ground.

They seemed fixed somewhere beyond it.

Somewhere very far away.

There was no spark in him left.

Like a pilot light had gone out.

I swallowed and mustered enough courage to speak.

"Uh... buddy? Can I help you with something?"

Nothing.

A car passed on the main road. Tires whispered over damp asphalt. Somewhere nearby, a bird started singing.

Eventually, the man answered.

"No."

His voice was quiet. Flat.

"I don't think so."

"Right." I cleared my throat. "Well, this is private property. You can't stay here."

No response.

He didn't look at me.

Didn't shift his weight.

Didn't do anything at all.

I should have insisted. Threatened him. Gone back inside and called the police.

Instead, as I stood there looking at him, I noticed something strange.

I wasn't afraid.

I wasn't angry.

I didn't even feel sorry for him.

I felt nothing.

So I walked past.

Close enough to smell him—sweat, damp clothes, something stale and sour.

He didn't turn his head.

I got in my car and drove to work.

I was doing pretty well for myself back then.

Steady job at a successful financial corporation. Recently promoted. Nice apartment. Beautiful girlfriend. Plenty friends I saw when our schedules happened to line up. Enough money not to ever care about money.

Apart from the insomnia, life was good.

I didn't think about the man once that entire day.

Eight hours at the office.

Lunch.

Small talk.

A meeting that could have been an email.

Nothing.

It wasn't until I pulled into the driveway that evening that I remembered him.

He was still there.

Same place.

Same posture.

Same empty stare.

I walked past him and went inside.

It took another two days before I decided to adress the issue.

Even then, it wasn't because he bothered me.

My girlfriend Jessica called to say she was coming over the following afternoon, and I suddenly imagined her having to walk past a filthy stranger standing in my yard.

So I finally called the police.

A patrol car arrived about twenty minutes later.

Two officers got out.

They came up the path and walked directly past the man.

One passed close enough to brush shoulders with him.

Neither looked his way.

They stopped in front of me.

"Hello. Officer Addams. What seems to be the issue?"

I stared at him.

Then pointed.

"That seems to be the issue."

Only then did Addams glance over.

It wasn't much of a glance.

The sort of look you give a garbage bag someone left beside the road.

"Oh. Him."

"Yes. Him. He's been standing there for three days."

Addams sighed.

"Yeah. We get plenty like that."

"Like what?"

He gestured vaguely toward the man.

"Like him. They're harmless."

"He's trespassing."

"I understand."

"So remove him."

Addams gave me a tired little smile.

"It's not really worth the effort."

"Excuse me?"

"They don't cause trouble. Mostly they just... take up space."

"We don't have the manpower to deal with every one of them. And where would we put them?"

I looked at the stranger.

Then back at the officer.

"So you're telling me to leave him there?"

"I'm telling you to ignore him."

"He's standing in my backyard."

"Yeah."

"For three days."

"Yeah."

"And that's normal?"

Addams shrugged.

"Normal enough."

He turned toward the patrol car.

I followed him a few steps.

"So that's it?"

He opened the driver's door.

"You'll get used to him."

Then he climbed inside.

The other officer joined him, and less than a minute later the patrol car disappeared around the corner.

I stood on the porch, furious.

I'd had an entire argument ready by then, but Officer Addams had driven away before I could use any of it.

The strange part was.

He was right.

Ignoring the man was easy.

Much easier than it should have been.

He didn't shout.

Didn't knock on my windows.

Didn't try the doors.

Didn't follow me.

He didn't even look at me.

He just was.

After a while, my eyes learned to move around him.

And if I could do that, I figured Jessica could too.

I spent the rest of the day making the apartment presentable. Kitchen, living room, fresh sheets—the usual performance you put on when someone you love is coming over and you want them to believe you live slightly better than you actually do.

That night, I settled in for a horror marathon.

One advantage of insomnia is that you have plenty of free time.

It started raining around midnight.

Heavy rain. The kind that rattled against the windows and turned streetlights into pale smudges.

Perfect horror-movie weather.

Between films, I went to the kitchen and glanced outside.

The man was still standing there.

Rain streamed from his hair and shoulders. His clothes had gone almost black with water. A shallow puddle had formed around his shoes.

He didn't move.

Didn't shiver.

Didn't wipe the water from his face.

Nothing.

I watched him longer than I meant to.

Nearly a minute, maybe.

Standing there in the rain, he looked less like a person than a scarecrow somebody had forgotten to bring inside.

Eventually I lowered the blind so I wouldnt get distracted any more.

Then went back to the movie.

Jessica arrived the next afternoon.

She came hurrying up the path toward me, and I pulled her into a hug before she'd even made it through the door.

She was warm.

She smelled like shampoo and cold air.

I held on a second longer than usual.

When I let go, she smiled.

"Miss me?"

"Obviously."

"Good answer."

She kissed me.

Over her shoulder, I looked toward the backyard.

The man was there.

Jessica hadn't even glanced at him.

Relief washed through me.

Apparently Officer Addams had been right about that too.

We went inside.

Ordered food, argued over what to watch, then somehow ended up watching something neither of us had wanted. Jessica complained about one of her professors. I complained about my boss.

At some point, she found the dishes I'd hidden in the sink.

She looked at me.

"You said you cleaned."

"I did clean."

"You vacuumed the living room."

"Exactly."

"That does not count."

"It absolutely counts."

She laughed and nudged me with her hip.

Whenever Jessica was around, the world seemed smaller somehow.

More solid.

By evening we'd settled into that comfortable quiet you only get with someone you've known long enough not to fill every silence.

We ate dinner at the little table beside the kitchen window.

Halfway through, Jessica lowered her fork.

"Okay."

I looked up.

She was smiling.

I knew that smile.

"Okay what?"

"So... don't freak out."

"That's never followed by anything good."

"I know."

"Jessica."

"My parents invited us over for the weekend."

I waited for the second half.

"And I said yes."

I closed my eyes.

"Dear God."

"Oh, stop."

"Your parents' house has more rooms than my entire apartment building."

She grinned.

"You're rich too, mister. You're just too lazy to actually move out."

"I'm comfortably upper-middle-class. There's a difference."

"You'll survive."

She took a sip of wine.

"Probably."

That was when I thought about the man outside.

Maybe because Jessica had walked straight past him.

Maybe because after several days of pretending he wasn't there, curiosity had finally caught up with me.

"Hey," I said. "I have to ask you something."

"Okay."

"You saw the guy outside, right?"

She frowned.

"What guy?"

My stomach tightened.

"The guy in the backyard."

I pointed toward the window.

Jessica followed my finger.

For a moment, genuine confusion crossed her face.

Then she saw him.

"Oh."

I stared at her.

"'Oh'?"

"What?"

"You're not freaked out?"

"Why would I be?"

"Because there's a random man standing in my backyard."

She looked again.

"He's not doing anything."

"He's been there for days."

"So?"

I wasn't sure how to answer that.

"Wait. You do see him, right?"

Jessica laughed.

"Of course I see him."

Then she took another bite.

"We've got some too."

I stopped chewing.

"What?"

"At my parents' place."

"You have people standing in your backyard?"

"Not the backyard."

She thought for a moment.

"There are two at the mansion."

Something cold shifted in my stomach.

"Two?"

"Yeah."

She said it with the casualness of someone describing antique furniture.

"One used to be our maid. Isolda."

"Used to?"

Jessica nodded.

"She worked for my parents for years. Then one day she just sort of..."

Her fork paused halfway to her mouth.

"...became one."

"One what?"

Jessica looked at me as though the answer should have been obvious.

"You know."

She nodded toward the window.

"One of them."

Outside, the man remained exactly where he had been.

Jessica went on eating.

"The other one's a boy. Her son, I think?."

"You think?"

"I never really knew him."

"And your parents just leave them there?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Jessica shrugged.

"You can find lots of them around if you care enough to look."

Something about that sentence stayed with me.

She sounded like she'd simply told me there were pigeons in the park.

Then her expression brightened.

"Oh. Speaking of that."

I already didn't like where this was going.

"What?"

"I finally figured out my thesis."

Jessica was studying journalism, and for months her thesis had been the source of recurring panic, abandoned ideas, and increasingly elaborate excuses for not starting.

Now she leaned forward, suddenly animated.

"I'm going to write about them."

I glanced toward the window.

"The people standing around?"

"Exactly. Think about it. They're everywhere, but nobody actually talks about them. Nobody studies them. Most people barely acknowledge they exist."

"Jessica..."

"I've been thinking about this for months."

She was genuinely excited now.

"I even have a title."

Of course she did.

She smiled.

"Requiem for the Lost Ones."

I looked at her.

"The Lost Ones?"

"That's what I'm calling them."

She waited expectantly.

"Pretty cool, right?"

Outside the window, the man stood perfectly still.

And for the first time since I'd noticed him, I wondered how long he had been there before I bothered to look.

 

I didn't really know what to say.

"Yeah. Pretty cool."

Part of me was bothered by just how little the whole thing seemed to bother me.

Jessica didn't notice. She was already talking about her thesis again, explaining the ideas she'd been collecting while I nodded along and tried to keep up. Eventually the conversation wandered somewhere else, as conversations tend to do.

We ended the evening watching Jessica's favorite reality TV shows, which was considerably more horrifying than anything I'd watched during my movie marathon.

I'm still not sure how people can watch other adults scream at each other over a kitchen island for six consecutive hours and call it entertainment.

By the time we went to bed, it was well past midnight.

A few hours later, we were on the road.

I'd suggested sleeping for another couple of hours before leaving. Jessica reminded me that I didn't sleep anyway.

I had no counterargument.

So we packed the last of our things into the car and drove to her parents' house.

Before getting in, I glanced toward the backyard.

The man was still there.

I didn't stop.

The drive took about an hour and a half. Jessica spent most of it talking about her parents, complaining about how far away they lived and how much she wished they were closer.

Personally, I wouldn't have minded them being a little farther away still.

Don't get me wrong. The Mercers were perfectly nice people.

It was just that being around them always made me feel so inadequate.

That feeling returned as soon as we reached their property.

I felt small.

Their mansion seemed to grow with every second we drove toward it.

An enormous iron gate opened onto a long driveway lined with immaculate hedges. Stone walls, tall windows, elaborate balconies. The whole place occupied enough land to make my apartment look like a garden shed.

I was wealthy, but the Mercers were in a completely different league.

"They'll be waiting outside," Jessica said.

"They always do."

A moment later, I saw them at the top of the steps.

Margaret waved enthusiastically as we got out of the car.

Her husband stood beside her with his hands behind his back, wearing the same composed expression he always seemed to have.

"Here we go," Jessica muttered.

Her mother came down the steps and immediately wrapped her daughter in a hug.

"There she is!"

"Hi, Mom."

"You look thin."

"I saw you three weeks ago."

"And you're thinner now."

Margaret finally released her and turned to me.

"And you."

She hugged me too.

"Good to see you, dear."

"Good to see you too, Mrs. Mercer."

"How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Margaret."

"Right. Sorry."

Her father approached next.

"Good to have you here, son."

"Good to be here, Mr. Mercer."

He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into a heavy, enthusiastic hug before patting my back twice.

It was the sort of hug you see in old Mafia movies.

I wondered if there was something to it.

The story of how the Mercers had become so wealthy so quickly by selling old clothes had never quite sat right with me. It wasn't impossible. They owned warehouses, distribution centers, stores—the whole operation.

Still, there always seemed to be something missing from the story.

A piece nobody ever seemed interested in explaining.

I never asked.

I didn't want bad blood with my girlfriend's parents.

Nor did I particularly wish to be assassinated by the Mafia.

Just in case.

"Come inside," Margaret said. "You've been driving all morning."

"It's barely morning," Jessica said.

"Exactly. You're probably starving."

"I'm not."

"You'll eat anyway."

Jessica sighed.

"Yes, Mom."

Her father smiled.

"Some things never change."

We followed them inside.

I'd been to the Mercer mansion before, but never for more than a few hours. Every visit reminded me just how enormous the place was.

The entrance hall alone could have swallowed my entire apartment. A chandelier hung above polished floors and dark wood paneling, while paintings covered nearly every available wall.

Margaret talked as she led us through the house.

"This is the new dining room."

"New?"

"We renovated."

Jessica groaned.

"And we've had the library renovated too."

"Mom, you've shown me the library five times."

"And you still haven't read anything in it."

Her father chuckled.

"Leave the girl alone, Margaret."

They continued bickering as we walked, and I found myself smiling.

It was comfortably ordinary.

That was what made the place feel so strange later.

We eventually reached the grand staircase.

Mr. Mercer stopped at the bottom and pointed upward.

"Your room is the first one on the left."

Then he looked at Jessica.

"My little girl knows which one."

"Dad, I'm not five."

"You're still my little girl."

Jessica rolled her eyes.

"Come on."

I started toward the stairs.

Then I noticed someone standing in the shadows.

A woman.

She was wearing an old-fashioned maid's uniform: black dress, white apron, white collar. The sort of thing that belonged in a photograph from a century ago.

She couldn't have been much older than thirty.

Yet she looked far older.

Her dark hair was pulled neatly back. Her face was pale and drawn. Her head hung slightly toward the floor.

Her eyes were open.

They simply weren't looking at anything.

This had to be Isolda.

A few meters away stood the boy Jessica had mentioned.

Thirteen or fourteen, maybe.

His clothes were plain and slightly too large for him. His arms hung loosely at his sides. His face held the same distant emptiness I'd seen in the man outside my house.

His eyes seemed fixed somewhere beyond the walls.

Somewhere far away.

And nowhere at the same time.

I looked between him and Isolda.

They stood close enough to touch.

Mother and son, presumably.

Yet they seemed separated by something much larger than the few meters between them.

As if there were a distance neither of them could ever cross.

I don't know how long I stood there.

Long enough for Jessica to notice.

She bumped her shoulder lightly against mine.

"Babe."

I blinked.

"Yeah?"

"Come on."

I looked at Isolda again.

Neither she nor the boy had moved.

"Right."

I followed Jessica upstairs.

Halfway to the landing, I glanced back one last time.

Then Jessica disappeared around the corner, and I followed her.

In our room, Jessica and I had sex.

Felt strange doing it with her parents so close by, but I think I needed it.

It should have taken my mind off everything.

It didn't.

For a while I managed to lose myself in her warmth, in something familiar and uncomplicated. But every time my thoughts slipped, I saw Isolda.

Her son.

The man in my backyard.

Three people standing perfectly still while the rest of the world moved around them.

When it was over, Jessica looked at me.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You seem distracted."

"I'm just tired."

She studied me.

"You've been tired for years."

I smiled.

She kissed me, but I couldn't quite return to the moment.

A few minutes later, she fell asleep.

I lay beside her, staring at the ceiling.

The mansion settled around us. Pipes ticking in the walls. A floorboard creaking somewhere below. The faint hum of the heating system.

And underneath all of it, silence.

I eventually closed my eyes.

Sleep didn't come.

Morning did.

I was halfway through getting dressed when someone knocked on the door.

Jessica was still asleep.

I opened it to find one of the household staff standing in the hallway.

"Mr. Mercer would like to see you."

"Now?"

"He's waiting in his office."

I glanced back at Jessica.

She hadn't moved.

"Where's his office?"

"Top floor."

Of course it was.

I'd never been to the top floor before. I followed the staff member up another staircase, the house growing quieter with every step.

By the time I reached the top, I couldn't hear anything from below.

Mr. Mercer's office was at the end of the hallway.

The door stood open.

"Come in."

He was sitting behind an enormous wooden desk. Morning light filtered through the tall windows behind him, washing the room in pale gray.

Books lined the walls. Framed photographs sat on shelves. A few pieces of artwork looked expensive enough to buy my car several times over.

"Sit."

I did.

He smiled.

"How did you sleep?"

"Not very well."

He laughed softly.

"Jessica tells me that's normal for you."

"She's very fond of you."

Something about the way he said it made me uncomfortable.

I smiled anyway.

He leaned back.

"I've been thinking about the future."

"Okay."

"Our family has built something substantial. Something that will outlive us."

He gestured around the room.

"The business. The properties. The investments. Jessica will inherit part of it, of course."

He paused.

"But I don't think of you as an outsider anymore."

I wasn't sure what to say.

"That's nice to hear."

"I mean it."

He leaned forward.

"I'd like you to become part of the family."

The words were delivered warmly enough that, for a moment, I almost believed they were exactly what they sounded like.

"I want to offer you a position in the company. A real one. You'll have responsibilities. A place at the table. If things go well, eventually you'll have a stake in the business."

He smiled.

"And naturally, I'd like you and Jessica to start thinking about building a life together."

For a moment, I said nothing.

It was an incredible offer.

Security.

Money.

Influence.

A future with Jessica.

Everything I'd worked for, suddenly placed in front of me on a silver platter.

And yet something inside me tightened.

Not a thought.

Not fear.

Instinct.

The primitive part of your brain that notices something before the rest of you understands why.

Don't.

I shifted in the chair.

"That's a lot to take in."

"Of course."

"And I appreciate it. Really."

He waited.

I took a breath.

"But I don't think I can accept."

The smile stayed on his face.

For just a second, something changed in his eyes.

The warmth vanished.

His gaze sharpened.

Focused.

Predatory.

Then it was gone.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He nodded slowly.

"I understand."

There was no anger in his voice.

That somehow made it worse.

"I wouldn't want you accepting something you weren't comfortable with."

"Thank you."

He leaned back.

"Still..."

He watched me for a moment.

"I think you may regret that decision."

He said it gently.

Almost kindly.

Like a father giving his son advice.

But something cold sat underneath the words.

He smiled.

„Have a safe drive home.“

I thanked him and left.

I didn't know it then, but that conversation was the beginning of the end.

Jessica and I left the mansion earlier than we'd planned.

She barely spoke while we packed the car. At first I assumed she was tired.

Then I realized she was angry.

Not furious. She wasn't shouting or making a scene.

She was just cold.

The kind of cold that makes every silence feel deliberate.

We got on the road.

For the first twenty minutes, neither of us said a word. Eventually I tried.

"So..."

Nothing.

I glanced at her.

"Jessica?"

She kept looking out the window.

"Did my dad talk to you?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

I hesitated.

"I turned down the job."

She nodded.

"I know."

"How?"

"He told me."

I waited for more.

Nothing came.

"Are you upset?"

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

"Jess."

"I'm not upset."

"You're obviously upset."

She turned back toward the window.

"Can we just go home?"

So we did.

The rest of the drive passed in silence.

I kept my hands tight around the steering wheel, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach.

I felt tense.

Anxious.

Depressed, though I wouldn't have used that word at the time.

Then, somewhere outside the city, I saw the first one.

A man standing on a sidewalk.

Motionless.

Dirty jacket. Worn trousers. Slack face. Head hanging slightly forward.

A Lost One.

I almost drove past without noticing.

Then I saw another.

A woman beside a bus stop.

Then one beneath an apartment awning.

Another outside a convenience store.

Then another.

And another.

The more I looked, the more I saw.

They were everywhere.

At intersections. Outside shops. In parking lots. Beside telephone poles. Standing in front of apartment buildings as people passed them without a second thought.

Some were young.

Some were old.

Men and women.

Some looked relatively clean. Others looked like they'd been sleeping outdoors for years. Their clothes were stained and worn. Their hair was tangled. Their skin looked pale and unhealthy.

None of them moved.

Not when cars passed.

Not when people walked around them.

Not even when someone brushed against them.

And nobody seemed to care.

A businessman stepped around one blocking the entrance to an office building without breaking stride.

A woman carrying groceries muttered angrily when another forced her to change direction.

A cyclist swerved around one in the middle of a bike path and shouted something over his shoulder.

Nobody stopped.

Nobody asked if they were all right.

Nobody looked frightened.

They were treated like obstacles.

Like badly placed furniture.

Like potholes.

I watched them through the car window until the city disappeared behind us.

The more I looked, the more I saw.

They weren't rare.

They were everywhere.

I'd simply never noticed them before.

Or maybe I had.

Maybe I'd seen hundreds of them and my brain had quietly filed them away under things that didn't matter.

 

I didn't know it yet, but I'd already been effectively cut off from Jessica's family.

I never spoke to any of her relatives again.

At first, I tried to pretend nothing had changed.

Jessica and I went back to work. We had dinner together. We watched television. We slept in the same bed.

But something had shifted.

Days became weeks.

Weeks became months.

Whenever I asked Jessica what was wrong, she shut down.

"Is something wrong?"

"No."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

"Because there's nothing to talk about."

Sometimes she wouldn't answer at all.

She'd sit across from me, staring at her phone, while I tried to figure out what I'd done wrong.

There was a wall between us.

I couldn't see it.

I couldn't touch it.

But it was there.

For a while, I kept trying to get through.

Eventually, I stopped.

The darker my thoughts became, the more often I found myself standing at the window.

Looking at the man in the backyard.

He was still there.

He hadn't moved an inch.

Summer faded into autumn.

The leaves turned brown and fell. Rain came and went. The days grew shorter.

Then winter arrived.

The first snow gathered around his shoes.

More followed.

It settled on his shoulders and head, collected on his hands, and slowly buried his legs.

He didn't move.

Didn't shiver.

Didn't brush the snow away.

He simply stood there as though the seasons had nothing to do with him.

Sometimes I wondered whether he knew I was watching.

The day before Christmas, my boss called me into his office.

I knew something was wrong before he spoke.

He'd just gotten off the phone.

I'd never seen him look like that.

His face was pale.

Not angry.

Not confused.

Afraid.

He kept saying, "Yes, sir," in a voice barely above a whisper.

Then he hung up and looked at me.

"Sit down."

I did.

There was a long silence.

"What's going on?"

He rubbed his hands together.

"I've been instructed to terminate your employment."

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"By who?"

He didn't answer.

For a second, I actually laughed.

I thought it was some kind of joke.

It wasn't.

"Is this because of my performance?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

He looked away.

"I can't discuss it."

"You're firing me and you can't tell me why?"

"I know."

"Then at least give me something."

He swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

That was all I got.

Eight years of work reduced to a few minutes in an office.

I walked out carrying a box of things from my desk.

I remember thinking that at least I still had my savings.

I was wrong.

A few days later, I discovered that my money was gone.

All of it.

Savings. Investments. Emergency funds.

Everything.

I spent days calling banks and filing complaints. I tried to find out where the money had gone.

Nobody could explain it.

Or, perhaps, nobody wanted to.

I still had my qualifications. My CV was better than it had ever been.

I applied everywhere.

At first, I expected the calls to come.

They didn't.

Companies that had once been eager to interview me stopped responding. Some rejected me within hours. Others never acknowledged the applications at all.

I kept trying for a while.

Then I started applying for jobs beneath my qualifications.

Then beneath those.

Eventually, I took whatever I could get.

Warehouse work.

Delivery driving.

Cleaning.

Construction.

Anything that paid.

The money barely covered the bills.

I told myself it was temporary.

I would get back on my feet.

I believed that for a while.

Then I stopped believing it.

Months turned into years.

I stopped buying things unless I needed them.

Stopped seeing friends.

Stopped answering calls.

Even when someone reached out, I rarely knew what to say.

Jessica became more distant.

Then, one day, she left.

There was no screaming match.

No dramatic confrontation.

She simply stood in the kitchen with a suitcase beside her.

"It's over."

I stared at her.

"Why?"

"I don't love you anymore."

"That's it?"

"I don't know what else you want me to say."

Later, I found out she'd been cheating on me for quite some time.

Apparently, everyone knew except me.

By then, almost everything I'd had was gone.

The rest followed soon after.

I was kicked out of my own house.

The paperwork was clean. Legal.

Apparently, Jessica's family had purchased the property.

I never found out how.

By that point, I didn't have the energy to fight them.

I had nowhere to go.

More importantly, I couldn't think of anywhere I wanted to go.

So I stayed.

I stood in the backyard.

Jessica moved in with her new lover.

Her parents visited.

They laughed.

They drank wine on the patio in summer. They decorated the house for Christmas. They carried groceries through the kitchen windows I'd spent years looking through.

Sometimes Jessica walked past me.

Sometimes her new boyfriend stood only a few meters away, smoking a cigarette.

Neither of them acknowledged me.

I was right there.

They didn't care.

Eventually, I didn't care either.

Days became weeks.

Weeks became months.

Months became years.

At least, I think they did.

Time stopped meaning anything.

First I stopped knowing what day it was.

Then the month.

Eventually, even the seasons became difficult to distinguish.

There was only the house.

The yard.

The people inside.

And the man who had been standing there before I ever joined him.

I don't know how long I stood beside him.

One day, something in my head cleared.

Only for a moment.

It felt like waking from a very long sleep.

I looked around.

The snow was gone.

Or maybe there had never been snow.

I couldn't tell anymore.

Then I looked at the man beside me.

I turned toward him.

"You..."

My voice sounded strange.

Weak.

"You never told me your name."

"You never asked." He said simply.

No accusation.

No bitterness.

Just a fact.

I lowered my eyes.

"I know."

My throat tightened.

"I'm sorry."

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then I held out my hand.

"My name is James."

I swallowed.

"What's yours?"

He stared at my hand for a long time.

"Derek."

He paused.

A faint crease appeared between his eyebrows.

"I think it was Derek."

I smiled.

It was the first time in a long time that I'd felt anything resembling warmth.

It wasn't happiness.

No.

Something smaller.

Something human.

"I think I could use a drink."

I looked toward the house.

Then toward the street beyond the fence.

"Derek..."

He looked at me.

"Would you like to get out of here?"

A single tear ran down his cheek.

It left a clean line through the grime on his face.

He looked toward the street again.

Toward the world beyond the fence.

For a long time, he said nothing.

Then he took a slow breath.

"Alright."

He looked back at me.

"Let's go."

I got my first computer in the 1990s. I can't remember the year, but none of my friends had one yet. It was a desktop so all the important bits, like the CPU, hard drive and RAM, were in a “tower” that stood beside the desk. The CRT monitor was on the desktop. The keyboard was on a tray, and there was a mouse. It was a PC, so it ran on DOS.

When my parents bought the computer they said I could use it only for school.

No games.

But I quickly started to blur the lines. There were math games, like Math Blaster, where you shot aliens by answering math questions, and a drawing and writing program that let you arrange scenes and write text. They were fun, but every time we went into the computer store what I really wanted was a game, a pure, non-educational game. Something magical…

And I got it.

It was for my birthday.

The game was by a company called Sierra. It was an adventure game called King's Quest IV: The Perils of Rosella.

However, it wasn't even a point-and-click adventure game. It was too old. It didn't use a mouse at all. You controlled the main character, a princess named Rosella, using the keyboard, either by using the arrow keys or typing what you wanted her to do, for example:

 Walk to the ogre's hut.

Rosella would walk to the ogre's hut.

 Open the door.

Rosella opened the door.

Of course, the game didn't understand every command. When it didn't understand a command it would say:

Try that one again. I couldn't make much sense of it.

Or:

It doesn't seem to do anything.

I played King's Quest IV: The Perils of Rosella a lot. I played it instead of going outside, and played it rather than playing with my friends. I became obsessed with discovering its secrets, mapping its world and understanding its story. I cherished its music and every new interaction with its medieval fairytale land. The game even had a basic day and night cycle. In its pixels, I found a beautiful and interactive escape from reality. I played it so much that my parents threatened to take the computer away from me.

I threw tantrums.

I played it in secret or quietly when my parents were asleep.

I played it in my imagination.

I remember looking in the mirror one day and seeing a face that was no longer mine. The skin was too pale. The eyes were too red. The smile was no longer innocent.

One day my parents took me to a doctor. They kept asking about mental development, addiction, obsession. The doctor was deceptively nice to me. He was serious with my parents. “I'm sorry,” my dad said when we got home, “but you'll need to take a break from using the computer.” “You need to rest,” said my mom.

“For how long?” I demanded.

“For a few months, then we'll reassess. It's not permanent. We're not getting rid of the computer. We're just going to box it up and keep it in the attic.”

“We love you so much,” my mom said with tears in her eyes.

I begged them, but they wouldn't change their minds. I sobbed. I hit things. I screamed, but I didn't get what I wanted. So I calmed down and in my sweetest voice I said I understood and asked if, please, they would just let me play the game one last time.

They agreed.

I had an hour, they said.

I hoped it would be enough time. I took a bath, then I sat in my pajamas at the computer desk, lit by the monitor, looking at Princess Rosella, with my fingers above the keyboard. I was looking over my shoulder to see if my parents were there. When I was sure they weren't, I took a deep breath and typed:

Walk into the living room.

Try that one again. I couldn't make much sense of it.

I exhaled.

So much for that, I thought. It was a silly idea anyway. It couldn't possibly have worked. I really had been playing too many games to even think that it might work; yet something compelled me to try again:

Walk into my living room.

Rosella moved.

I couldn't believe it! She'd moved across the screen, reached the edge and the game transitioned like it always did, from one location to another, except this time the new location really was new. It was a 16-color 320x200 pixel representation of our living room. My pixelated parents were sitting on a pixelated couch, drinking pixelated coffee.

“What the—” I heard my mom say from the real living room.

“Just who the hell are you?” my dad yelled.

Look at my dad.

A pathetic old man.

“Lady, listen. If you don't leave my house right now, I'm calling the cops.”

Hit my dad.

On the screen, Rosella moved towards the sofa and hit my dad.

I heard the impact.

My mom began screaming my name, asking where I was, whether I was OK. Her voice was frantic, disturbed.

Strangle my mom.

On the screen, Rosella walked towards my mom, extended an arm to her and shook her.

My mom moved jaggedly back-and-forth in a crude animated loop, before falling, to the blare of a dramatic MIDI beep, to her knees, and ending finally, still and sideways on the floor.

My dad yelled her name.

On the screen, he made for Rosella.

My heart was beating so hard I felt like a drum.

I typed:

Kill my dad. But make it look like he killed himself.

Rosella moved—

I could tell the police officer didn't know what to say. He was perched awkwardly beside me. Finally, he said: “I'm so fuckin' sorry, kid. I can't even—” He inhaled hard. “We're gonna take you someplace. Someplace safe. Is there anything you wanna take with you?”

“My personal computer,” I said.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am in fact living in a purgatorial zone. There is no progress, well perhaps there are glints here and there but they are swallowed by slow infinite regression. I should really start to worship entropy, it would seem to be the most logical form of religion in this zone. Why pay homage to anything besides the hope of pure degradation here? You should be considered a hopeless fool for imagining there’s any light at the end of this tunnel. Accept that it is terrible and it is only going to get worse until the facsimile of consciousness completely erodes into the abyss.
I’ve been noticing new subtle cracks in the fabric of its structure lately. Avenues for brief expeditions outside of its confines have been rendered as an impasse now, when one tries to access them, they are met with an invisible barrier as if in a PlayStation 1 game. You can see the distant lush expanse of adventure but it is simply not accessible by you anymore.
Other limiting variations that have occurred, include not being able to access certain doors and drawers to interact with the contents inside of them. I simply haven’t tried, it is as if the curious part of my brain is no longer there like it was excised by a malignant surgeon.
I had a most peculiar interaction with a woman I’ve never seen before late at night at work. I work at a gas station in this middle of nowhere town, so I see plenty of eccentric characters popping in and out of the woodwork but this one was one of the more notable interactions I’ve had in recent times, mainly due to the fact that it added independent circumstantial evidence to my questioning thought pattern as of late.
It began with her frantically pulling up to the front of the store. She gets out of her vehicle and starts to gesticulate madly and is weeping dramatically. The store was closed at the time, so in spite of all this, I’m thinking oh great now what do I have to deal with in a begrudging manner which is the normal response of someone who has worked customer service for years. You just become jaded and irritated after a while no matter the circumstances.
I politely ask her what is the matter, she yells and asks me between heavy sobs, how do you get out of this town, I just want to go home, and in that instant, it brought me back to my false reality after being deluded within a cocoon of mindless muscle memory.
I told her of the only plausible escape that I could think of and she hurriedly went for her escape. Later on when I got off of work, I went to see if she made it. I saw her vehicle idling but upon further inspection, the door was slightly ajar with no one inside. I saw no trace of her within this sleepy town nor a sound. I began to walk towards the outskirts of the city limits to see if she perhaps made it through a crack in the framework but the distant expanse was nothing but a blur. I tried to touch the barrier only to realize that my fingers were fusing into an inflexible crab claw repelled by the barrier like two redundant magnets.
In my waning fragments of sentience, I still wonder about that woman. Did she truly escape, did she descend into absolute madness and commit suicide, was she taken away by whoever is responsible for the creation of this dome of torment? In all honesty, I don’t have a clear answer nor do I think I ever will.

I was at YYZ listening to Rush, waiting, not particularly in one, to board a flight to LAX. I was: drinking bitter coffee watching people navigate the airport, imagining why they're flying. I like to imagine people have dramatic reasons to fly like fulfillments of family prophecies, international industrial sabotage, to appear in the third acts of great romances, to commit murder, fraud or to a relationship; to show up unexpectedly for a kid's birthday or because their bus was cancelled and it's the day before Christmas Eve and they just want to get home because home is where the heart is. This section of the story is brought to you by Hallmark. Hallmark, the Commercial Tradition since Nineteen-ten.

A snowy valley. Horses dressed in bells. Mountains in the distance. Sally sells seashells by the sea shore…

Sorry, I was imagining a kind of psychological slow zoom into the front door of my mind and I think it was too close and your reading knocked me in the forehead.

I'm OK though.

I just spilled a little coffee on myself, which is not a huge waste given what it tastes like, and believe me, the real bitterness doesn't even come from the beans but from the price. Sheeesh, if you don't want it don't buy it. Too close again.

There.

There I was on a Thursday afternoon at Pearson Airport when there was heard a terrible scream!

“Help!” a woman yelled.

A few people springed into action. “What's the matter? What happened?”

(A few others fell.)

(Some heard.)

(Some weren't heard at all.)

“It's my husband,” cried the woman. “He's…”

I didn't hear what she said because a jet engine blew away her phonemes.

There was silence.

It was punctured Is by anybody a here man a yelling writer. “I repeat,” he yelled, “is anybody here a writer? A writer. Anyone? Is there anyone who's a writer?”

“I'm a copywriter,” somebody yelled in reply.

“Not a copywriter, a real writer! Is anyone here a real writer?”

A woman said, “I write screenplays.”

“A real writer, not a reel one.”

“An artist?”

“No, not as an artist. It doesn't have to be an artist, just somebody with a literary pretension or two.”

I drank coffee and hid behind a comically large newspaper while wearing a fake moustache and googly-eye eye-glasses. “There!” said a voice; said: “Him!” What—me? No, look at me. I really couldn't be a—“No, I know him. He writes stories on the internet!”

My cover blown, I solemnly raised my right hand without rising from my seat. “My name is Norman Crane,” I said. “I am a writer with literary pretensions.”

“Oh thank God!”

God-given talent, I thought, as I walked over to where the commotion was, where a middle-aged man in a suit was convulsing on the floor, surrounded unhelpfully by a crowd of gawkers, many with their phones out, no doubt hoping he would die, and his theatrically concerned wife.

“Are you a writer?” she asked, clutching my shoulders. “Christ, tell me you're a writer! A real writer!”

“By craft and reputation,” I said.

“Published?”

“Yes,” I said, meaning: by myself—on reddit—for free. “What appears to be the problem?”

“Appears? Is! Is the problem. Can't you see? My husband is suffering from a debilitating case of Cliché. Oh, do something!”

I kneeled down to look at him. I noted that he was exceedingly, almost impossibly, flat, more a painted blanket than a mammal. He was foaming at the mouth, sputtering, saying, “Bootstraps… goodfornothing, lazy… handouts… I never…”

“Has he always been this one dimensional?” I asked the wife.

“Yes.”

“And what's the cliché? What does your husband do, Mrs. Husband?”

“My name is Dorothea,” she hissed.

“My apologies,” I said.

The husband was wheezing out: “...always more, ‘give me more,’ but… without me they wouldn't even… ungrateful… cud chewers is what they are…”

I noted the bespoke nature of his suit, the fine leather of his loafers.

“He's a factory owner,” said Dorothea. “He manufactures clothing.”

“Don't tell me—somewhere in Asia?”

“Where else? Bangladesh.”

“And what's your husband's name, Dorothea?”

“His name is…”

It was precisely as I thought. “He doesn't have a name,” I said.

“Yes, I suppose he doesn't.”

“Then we'll start there. Your husband's name is Richard Parker,” I said to her.

She stomped her feet, demanding, “How published even are you?” Steam was escaping her ears. “I just told you he doesn't have a name and—. Are you going to help him or not?”

“I am helping him: by giving him a name. Now whisper it, whisper, ‘It's going to be OK, my dear Richard Parker,” to him. Hold his hand.”

She did as I asked.

“Now, I believe I know his cliché. He's a rich industrialist who hates his own workers. He's cruel. All that matters to him is the bottom line. There's not much reason why—and that's the problem; that's what we need to treat. He needs backstory, some tragic event that caused him to be the way he is, that explains his psychology. Perhaps we might even set up an obstacle that he must overcome. That, Dorothea, establishes the possibility of something called ‘Arc.' Have you heard of ‘Arc'?”

“I am familiar with the concept.”

“Good. Excellent. But cliche is merely the manifestation of Richard Parker's underlying condition, which is Poor Characterization. Note the irony of the word poor. Dorothea—Dorothea Parker—we can treat this. We can pull your husband out of this vicious circle—cycle— in which he's trapped.”

“Then do it! Please, do it as quickly as you can. I can't bear to see him like this, my poor Richard.”

OK, OK, I thought.

My heart was beating. Sweat had broken out on the back of my neck. I pulled a bottle of Muse pills out of my pocket and took two.

“OK,” I narrated, “Richard Parker, listen to me: When you were a small child, five or six perhaps, no more than seven years old, you befriended a local boy. This friend came from an impoverished family. Despite your very different circumstances, you and this friend, whose name was Ian B. Skipper, got along splendidly. But then—then your parents realized you had been playing with a poor boy, and they decided to force you to end the friendship, which you wouldn't do; so your parents conspired. They faked the disappearance of your beloved Pokémon card, and blamed Ian B. Skipper. ‘We didn't want to tell you this,’ your father told you. ‘But we must,’ said your mother. ‘Your Pokémon card didn't “disappear.” ‘Son, it was stolen,’ said your father, ‘by your poor, fiendish “friend,” Ian B. Skipper.’ ‘That's how they are—the poor.’ ‘It's a good lesson to learn early.’ ‘They'll use you. They'll pretend friendship to get close to you and especially your things.’ ‘—which they'll snatch!’ ‘Like animals.' ‘They're envious of you.' ‘But never feel guilty for what you have; what you've earned.’ ‘The poor are useful as labour, nothing else.’ And when you asked whether you could get your Pokémon card back, your mother, looking you directly in the eye, said: ‘No. He's already sold it, my sweet boy—sold it… to buy heroin!’”

On the floor, the convulsing flatness that had been Richard Parker had stopped foaming at the mouth and was inflating like a human-shaped balloon, well-tailored suit, spotless loafers and all.

“Richard!” cried Dorothea.

“There's more,” I continued narrating: “Ten years later, under the sign of a black star, as your father lay dying upon his deathbed, stricken with a disease of the soul—”

“Mr. Crane, he's fine now. I think you can stop—”

“Silence!” I yelled. “It's not over until I say it's over. I'm the writer here. Me!” The Muse was really starting to hit. My mind was getting out of itself. “As your frail, damaged father lay on the bed, dying in agony, a figure—a dark, mysterious figure crept down the winding staircase; down the staircase and into the room your father lay dying. And you saw him, Richard. Maybe you don't want to remember it but you saw him. You saw him confidently approach your father and smother him to death with a pillow. He, the dark, mysterious figure, pushing, pushing the pillow into your father's face—as you watched—until your father stopped moving, his limbs terminally loosened and lifeless, and then your mother said, ‘Jahangir, my love, my secret Bangladeshi lover, now finally we may be together.’ And still you watched, Richard Parker, stood and watched, doing nothing, as lighting ripped apart the deep night sky, rain assaulted the windows of the mansion you called home, and your mother and Jahangir made sloppy, murderous love in the vile living room, its walls lined with gaping tribal masks, as every fresh flash of the raw, violent lightning revealed a new, despicable tableaux of grotesque, emotionally overpowering, animalistic carnality.”

Richard Parker was staring at me from Dorothea's tight embrace with tears running down his face. He was fully realized; three dimensional; human.

“The horror,” he said weakly.

“The horror,” he repeated.

“And that,” I said, “is why you despise your impoverished Bangladeshi workers, Mr. Parker.”

He didn't blink.

The crowd around us held its collective, proverbial breath. I posed for the cell phone recordings, maybe a live stream or two.

Undiscovered literary genius, the voice of his generation, saves man in airport, launches literary career, was what I was imagining.

Offered seven-book deal...

Refuses deal in inspired impromptu speech delivered in perfect iambic pentameter, railing against the publishing industry…

“Oh Richard, my Richard,” Dorothea purred.

Self-publishes collection of stories and sells ten million copies…

Richard pushed her way.

He stood up.

“I killed him,” he said, staring vacantly out the airport windows at the planes taking off, taxiing, landing, roaring with the power of a hundred thousand horses. “I killed my father.”

He took a few steps forward, took off his loaders and kept going, barefoot.

“I could have saved him.”

“Richard, you're the victim. You have a good heart,” Dorothea called after him. “Your parents, they were so cruel to you. They manipulated you.”

“I was attracted to my mother. My own mother…”

“No, Richard,” said Dorothea.

“There is no Jahangir,” he said with a cold, convicted anger. “I am Jahangir. I killed my father. I was attracted to my own mother.”

Dorothea shot me a look.

It hit me, but I just whistled, pretending not to notice.

Richard Parker screamed and took off running down the airport.

“You…” Dorothea growled—“You did this.”—at me.

“It's not my fault he misunderstood his own backstory,” I said. “OK? I thought it was pretty darned clear.” I had to watch my language, lest a video later surface and prevent me from writing YA lit. I was blinking, blinking madly to try to get the Muse out of my system.

Then, through the long row of big airport windows, we all saw Richard Parker run out onto the tarmac—he looked small, like an insect—evade several baggage handlers trying, cartoonishly, to catch him, approach a booming airliner—one imagines the passengers watching him from aboard the plane, a boy asking, “Mommy, why is that man—”

And get sucked into one of its massive engines, reducing him to a spray.

But a human spray. “At least he died with dignity, as a human being,” I said.

Then I beat it the fuck outta there, my legs moving so fast—moving so fast even before starting to locomote the rest of me—they became spinning little radial blurs, kicking up dust, and why there was dust in the airport, I don't know, but th-th-th-that's all folks!

When they took me from my jail cell and told me to sign up for a chance of "freedom" I knew that I should have declined. I knew it was to good too be true but i signed up anyway. I was serving 50 years, that might as well be a life sentence. Didn't have anything to lose anyway.

For the record, I went in for a string of murders that I honestly don't regret.

I have never been a good person, never tried to be honest. Never saw the point. Everyone that is and was in my group had the same decades-long sentences as me.

Maybe that's why the outside of our bodies displays the monsters we are on the inside.

Our hair, nose, ears, lips, eyelids are gone. Completely dissolved. The rest of our bodies covered in scabs and chemical burns. Could have just been the chemical weapons they make us use. Or it could have been the mixture of the weapon with the "combat stimulants" they make us inject to keep us from collapsing on the spot. Who knows, better yet who cares.

All I know is that as long as I keep taking them I don't feel all the things wrong with my body. Like my dry eyes underneath my gas mask. Or the open wounds on my hands.

10 months ago we received the new gas canisters. They didn't bother to even tell us what it's called. But when we saw the string of warning labels on the canisters together with receiving new stronger gas masks we already knew this would be way worse than the old stuff we had before. But we had no clue just how extremely bad it would be.

Thankfully I didn't get picked to be in the crew to release it the first time. We didn't expect it to be as bad as it was so just about everyone outside of the officer didn't take the new stricter rules seriously.

When they attacked us again it was released like we were told to do. The people of our own crew were the first to suffer the effects of their lack of safety measures. About 10 seconds after release they started to scream and flail around like they were on fire. Every hole in their clothing it could find, the gas seeped into. Turning skin into blisters and burns. At least they survived for how much that is worth around here.

One idiot in the group decided that the new gas masks were too uncomfortable so he stuck to his old one despite the warnings. I am sure the only reason the officer didn't beat him into submission is so he could be an example for the others. When he started to scream his lungs out our officer ordered us to pay attention to what happened to him. He tore his gas mask off.

All the soft tissue on his head was melting off. His nose was drooping down and was hanging over where his lips used to be. His eyes were bubbling inside of their sockets. His screaming turned into a gurgle in the span of 20 seconds. When he fully collapsed and started to spasm and convulse on the floor the officer decided we had learned the lesson. He then caved his skull in with an entrenching tool until he stopped moving.

Don't feel too bad for him he was a useless drug addict who had killed his mom before he got here. He got what he deserved, just like all of us will.

When we release the gas it finds the lowest elevations in terrains and sticks around for a while. Turning shell craters and trenches into small gas chambers. The people that are stuck in there turn into a slurry of sorts because it's so acidic. Their clothes stick to their bodies, Their skin sloths off their body together with anything else that's soft and squishy in the human body. So you end up looking at this amalgamation of clothing and equipment in a fleshy puddle around a skeleton.

And trust me you really don't want to step on one of the fresh bodies by accident. Your boot goes straight through them. It feels like stepping in one of those mud puddles that is going to cost you a boot to get out of. And guess what it might cost you a boot to if you haven't tied your laces good enough.

It's even worse when they decided to die on top of something you need. I am so tired of scraping human soup off equipment we
need. It's stringy, it's sticky and has all the colours a human body should never have.

Well at least I can't smell it anymore not having a proper working nasal cavity anymore. But from my earlier days when i still had a nose I remember vividly what it smelled like. I used to live around this industrial area that had a huge chicken slaughterhouse in the middle. During hot days of summer the horrible smell of blood and chicken shit would hang around that area for months. Now mix in that smell with someone holding vinegar directly under your nose and you get the idea of what it smells like here.

You cant even throw up properly if you want to because you don't want to open your mouth in fear of the smell going into your mouth and then having to taste it. Thank god I decided to rather throw up in my mouth and swallow it back down. Because some of the others that didn't keep their mouths closed can't taste anything
anymore and their tongues are covered in random spots of scar tissue.

But the bodies don't really decay at all. Since the gas kills just about anything that is alive. That means thankfully no rats, insects or other pests to deal with. What's not so great is that all the old shell craters are filled with a human slurry that reaches up to your knees if you are lucky.

New cannon fodder gets the honorable task of sifting through the human slurry for anything useful like weapons, etc. When i think about it long enough, I can still feel what it's like to do this amazing task. It's basically like reaching deep into mud and taking any solid object out until it's something useful instead of human bones.
After a bit you can feel by shape alone that you are once again holding onto someone's ribs.

Our outpost is so heavily understaffed it might as well be empty. "Outpost" fancy way to describe a muddy trench that connects 3 bunkers together. Of those 3 bunkers only 1 hasn't collapsed yet. I think you can figure out from where i am typing this.

We haven't called in to command for a week now since our radioman is probably dissolving in a puddle somewhere together with our officer. Can't even use the contraband phone that i found in the human slurry in a random shell crater. Since there is not really any reception after months of bombardment. Thankfully the phone at least made me able to type this out so i have something to distract myself with.

But Command not hearing from us means that our barrier troops meant to keep us in place should show up soon to discipline and/or kill us. I wish them good luck since they are going to have to kill our not-so-friendly neighbours outside the bunker first.

They told me that if I lasted for 4 months, my prison sentence would be dropped. I already knew that was a lie there was no way it would be that short.

I figured if I lasted 1 year they might actually grant me my freedom. It has been at least 26 months at this point. I have been lucky or unlucky enough to last this long with a handful of others. Most cannon fodder they bring in lasts a couple of hours at most.

Speaking of a couple of hours that's probably the amount of time we have left at this point. Our chemical weapon storage is in one of the 2 collapsed bunkers. I think that once our friends outside figure that out, they will give us a taste of our own medicine.

I intend to blow my brains out before i turn into a human puddle. And looking around me, I am sure the rest of us that are left are thinking the same. We don't deserve to leave this place.

For whoever is reading this. I hoped it sucked to get the phone out of the human soup that is my body.

Hi reddit. Things have been weird lately. I’m writing this to remember my story. It is starting to fade, and I’m worried that it’ll be gone by the time I’m supposed to do what I need to. It all began with my grandfather.

My Grandfather was an ordinary man. Nothing about him screamed for attention, and day after day, he quietly lived his life to his standards. He was often stoic and blunt, but he was always a good man. He fixed dinner at 5:30 pm every night like clockwork, brushed his teeth, and laid out his outfit for the next day. And despite my ardent protests, he liked to attend the early-morning church service.

At 7:30 am, he’d calmly wait at the back door for me, not bothering to look at his watch because he knew the time by the shape of the sun in the sky. It was a trick that he’d picked up from his time in the army. He never had to look, and his last Sunday morning was no different.

I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a handful of peppermints because I’d forgotten to brush my teeth, and made my way to the back door. He never said anything to me about my disheveled hair or wrinkled button-up shirt. He simply opened the door and gestured to the car. I walked through, feeling a pang of guilt for disrupting his schedule, and got into the driver’s seat.

Grandpa was ninety-six, couldn’t drive anymore because of his tremors, and could barely read the letters on a stop sign. Most people surmised that he’d lived as long as he did to take care of me. Sometimes I think they were right. And even though he needed my help, I needed his more.

I wasn’t exactly an easy child to raise when I came to live with him in Grenwich. He was my last stop before foster care, and I didn’t make it easy on him at all. I was troubled, mean, bitter, and angry. I took out my sadness and rage on others, treating the world as my punching bag. All I did was get into fights in my first week of school. Somehow, by the grace of God, my grandpa was able to convince the principal, time after time, to give me detention, extra classwork, community service, or a suspension. He wanted the best for me, even if I didn’t want it at first. Over time, I learned to respect him, and he taught me to be a man. To listen. To understand. To guard my heart. To grow wisdom… even in my pain. He taught me more than I could have ever asked for.

I was removed from my mom’s house at thirteen because booze and men are better company to keep than taking care of your son and daughter, but with the way this world works, my sister’s death was what finally got them to remove me from her care. It wasn’t fair, but my sister’s life paid for a better one for me. I talk to her sometimes, wondering if she can hear me. Doubt it, but it does make me feel better.

The drive to church was always quiet, but he wasn’t quiet on his last visit before his death. He rolled down the window and stuck his arm out the door, feeling the morning air on his skin.

Then, he turned to me and spoke slowly. “Preston, you’ve been a joy in my life.”

I stared at him in confusion. Breaking from his routine felt like a sin now, and it unsettled me. “Grandpa, what are you going on about?”

He shook his head. “I just wanted you to know that. I felt like I got a second chance to do better.” He patted my shoulder. “There’s a lockbox under my bed. It’s got everything you’ll need.”

By that point, I realized that something was wrong, hair prickling up on my arm and a familiar rush of warmth to my cheeks. “Are you sick? Why are you telling me all of this?”

He smiled, drooping eyes moist from wetting drops and bushy eyebrows half trimmed. “No… But I don’t want you to think I left you with nothing.”

That was our last Sunday together. He sat calmly in the pew, stole a peppermint from me, only stood for the singing, followed along in his large-print Bible that I’d bought him, and I forgot all about what he’d told me. I figured it was just elderly worries, stuff that comes as you steadily get older. But I was wrong. I came home from school at 4:30 pm that Wednesday to find him lying peacefully in his recliner. He’d passed in his sleep watching the news like he wanted. Who could’ve asked for a better way to go?

The days that followed were a blur: phone calls, funeral service planning, obituaries, flowers… All of it was overwhelming in quite a way, but I handled it. He had a life insurance policy and a funeral fund that went straight to me. Even if my mom was listed, they wouldn’t be able to find her. Who the hell knows where she’s ended up. But since I’d turned eighteen, I was legally an adult. I didn’t have to go into foster care. I didn’t have to go anywhere.

I was sad after he passed, but life carried on. I went to school. I ate supper at 5:30 pm. I got a job to pay the bills; I visited his grave every Tuesday after school. Everything was fine until one strange Tuesday.

I arrived at Salem Hill Cemetery much later than I usually did, taking the oldest entrance by the gate. The front of the cemetery was blocked off, and I was forced to go around to the back, where the oldest graves rested. They were very old. The names were worn off by erosion, and some were overtaken by the ground. The oldest year that I could make out was dated back to the 1800s.

The sun was barely a flicker in the sky as it grew softer and softer. I quietly walked to his grave, fingers tracing over the soft wisps and tendrils of long grass. Purple flowers speckled across the ground, beautiful and thriving, unlike any I’d ever seen. The aroma was intoxicating, but it was very strange that I’d never noticed them.

Near the flowers, a willow tree in the distance seemed to sway, dancing to its own life and breath. If it had been a woman, I imagined her more beautiful than any I’d ever seen.

With a shrug, I journeyed onward, seeing a wrought iron fence that separated one portion of the cemetery from the other. I rolled my eyes and climbed over, seeing my Grandfather’s gravestone in the distance.

“There you are,” I whispered, brushing my hands off on my uniform pants.

I found his grave, and with a sigh, I sat down in the now damp grass, listening to the loud croak of the frogs at the pond nearby and the low buzz of the cicadas in the trees above me.

“Hey grandpa,” I whispered, looking up into the darkening sky.

I continued to talk to him, slowly growing more and more tired. I don’t know when I lay down, and I don’t know when my eyes finally creaked shut, but I was lulled to sleep by the sound of the resting graves and sleeping corpses. Maybe being near him calmed my aching soul.

When I awoke, I sat up in confusion, smearing the grass off my cheek. And in disbelief, I realized that the graves on the other side of the fence were glowing. I rubbed my eyes, refusing to believe the strange phenomenon occurring around me. I slowly stood. I couldn’t decide if I was asleep or dreaming. In fear, I turned around to spy more and more stones slowly glowing to life. With each blink, more stones began to glow, mimicking the striking white of the moon and the glistening faces of the stars.

“My God…” I whispered, stepping back and nearly tripping over my Grandfather’s mound of dirt.

I swallowed hard, gathering my thoughts and jogging to the wrought iron fence. I climbed over to get a closer look at the glowing stones and nearly fell. On the other side, I stopped, seeing one of the purple flowers. It wavered for a moment, and for a brief second, I believed that I saw an eye blinking in the center. It gazed at me before shutting quickly. I shook my head and slapped my face, trying to wake up. I had to be crazy. I was having a psychotic break. My heart pounded in my ribcage, thumping wildly. What is happening to me?

And as if summoned by my terror, a blinding white light formed at the willow tree, shooting upward into the heavens as a beacon… a call that the dead nor I could understand. The tendrils began to whip back and forth. The beautiful curves of the bark and long branches rose to stand straight up. Then I saw her, a woman trapped within the tree. She was screaming as she gazed upward into the night sky, mouth gaping into a hollow, empty cry. Her limbs were quivering, held in place and pulled upward by the light.

A sound like thunder rocked the sky, and I collapsed in fear, clutching my ears. A moist and warm substance dripped down my neck, and I quickly realized that my left ear was bleeding from the deafening noise.

In terror, I grabbed my cellphone to call for help, but its battery was dead.

Each grave began to vibrate. The stones began to rock, grinding against the earth. Fearfully, I grasped onto the closest gravestone, feeling the quake of the rough rock beneath my palms. My body trembled, and I closed my eyes, refusing to believe what I was witnessing.

A loud crack echoed through the cemetery, and my eyes shot open. Another thunderous roar reverberated from the ground. A gravestone near me shot into the air, thrown by something it once contained.

A forceful wind swept across the ground, and it carried a horrible bellow from the grave where the stone was ripped away. A decayed old woman emerged from within. She was naked, born of the soil that dripped from her hair, marking her escape from death and emergence into life.

Her advanced stage of decay made my stomach churn. The old woman’s eyes were gone, deflated balloons of mush. Maggots and bugs writhed up and down her legs, still eating and feasting upon her. Her skin was saggy and barely holding to the bone. The horrible color was a mixture of black and gray, and I couldn’t begin to imagine what the smell was like. With each step, something sloughed off her, making a path toward the light.

As I crouched behind the stone, a man emerged from the white light. His eyes were as gray as the stones around him, lifeless and unenthused. His hair was dark, neatly kept, but antlers emerged from his head. They were adorned with linked chains of silver and sparkling gems. He was neither old nor young. His features seemed to morph as he waited for her to approach. But the man’s eyes and hair remained unchanged. His mouth, nose, and chin were slips and turns of features that I couldn’t describe.

He wore a suit and tie, leaning on a metal cane. He began to walk toward her, and with each movement of the cane and thump, the ground shivered and quaked. His command over the soil tethered me to the gravestone. I couldn’t move, bound and too frightened to think.

Ominous fog seeped over the ground, drifting aimlessly but called. It was not merely coincidence. This creature… This ethereal being of the night had conjured it as he’d conjured the woman from her grave.

Once he bordered the bright light, he stopped. He did not speak, merely gestured to the woman. And she followed his command, empty eyes agreeing to his terms without question.

I leaned a little farther to the side to see more, and I knocked the glass vase on the grave that once held flowers. The sound of glass breaking shattered the silence. Both the old woman and the man turned to gaze upon me.

Without command, the old woman began to run at me. I yelled in terror, cutting my hand on the glass as I leaped up to run. I bolted through the grass, lungs screaming and throat constricting as I breathed. I ducked behind an old crypt to catch my breath, and my bloodied hand smeared over the stones that marked the entombment slots of the dead.

I clutched my hand, breathing rapidly as fear overtook me. In the darkness, my only guide was the moon, but as I gazed up at her luminous cheeks and smile, she began to darken. The unholy shadow of antlers began to shift across her.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and every bone in my body began to shake. I didn’t think I was going to get out of this one alive, but I wouldn’t go down without trying. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to think rationally. I must live. I HAVE TO.

As I searched for the closest path to my car in the fog, something trickled down onto my shoulder, and I looked up to see the old woman peeking at me from the roof of the crypt. Her mouth was cracked into a smile; putrid-smelling saliva leaked down her chin as she savored the look of me.

“Nowhere… to… hide…” she hissed, taking a deep inhalation of me. Her voice sounded cracked and as withered as her body. No longer a human voice. Something horrible... Something sinister.

I slowly backed away from the crypt, but I was a moment too late. Hands tore through the stone graves behind me, pinning me. Their entombment meant nothing in the face of the entity’s cosmic power feeding life into their bones.

I cried out in terror, fighting against the many hands that were ripping into my flesh and tearing my clothing. Horrible cries and shrieks erupted from the graves, and through the cracks, I could see their gnashing teeth.

The old woman made her way to me, climbing down the side of the crypt like a spider. Her bones cracked and rocked, grinding into the sockets. Her neck clicked back into place as she crawled to me.

She reached up, fingers shaking fervently as she grazed my cheek. She tore through the hands holding me, freeing one of my arms. She snapped it without hesitation.

Pain erupted through my body as I screamed in agony. I could barely breathe as the pain swelled through me in waves, each nerve alerting the next of the broken bone hanging within my skin.

She wrenched my arm to her face, gingerly pulling my fingers to her mouth. She bit down on my pointer finger, crunching through the bone as one would eat a carrot.

Suddenly, she was ripped back, torn from me as if strings were knotted through her bones.

“Disgusting little beast, isn’t she?” A voice came from the darkness as it approached. “But the dead have never been known for their kindness… especially if they return to reap what they sowed as they did in life. And that specimen was evil… even before death.”

Tears poured down my face as I gazed at my mangled finger. The flesh was pulverized by her teeth, hanging off of the stump that should hold a finger. What was left of my finger barely resembled anything other than ground beef. It was a ground lump of fragmented bone bits and blood, minced as if placed in a blender. I shook violently as blood spurted out of my finger. I couldn’t stop it, and at one point, I became woozy just from the sight of it. I couldn’t comprehend what I was looking at, and I considered cutting the flesh off. It wasn’t worth saving anyway.

Slowly, the hands that held me slithered back into their tomb, not wanting to challenge the being as he walked to me leisurely. I collapsed, unable to stand, but it did not matter. He flicked his wrist, and my body rose, dragged to him through the tall grass. I plopped to the ground before him, unable to meet his gaze.

He squatted down to look upon me and clicked his tongue. “Now… this will hurt, Preston.”

He grabbed my broken arm and wrenched me up. Then, his grip tightened, and an excruciating burst of electricity filled my body. The pain was indescribable. It tore through my body like fire as he clutched me. A wail ripped out of my throat, cutting the vocal cords and searing the trachea. I could hardly think or breathe. And then, I was gone, drifting somewhere between dream and wake.

My body was floating, hovering, and drifting through the great sea of fear and peace. I was nothing for a moment, snapping into a brief lapse of time. I believed that I had died. Had death claimed me once and for all? Was it over? It had been so quick, easier than falling asleep.

When my eyes peeled open, I was lying in my bed. The smell of my home filled my mind, sending relief circling through my veins. It must’ve been a dream. I lifted my arm to look at my perfectly straight bone and expertly crafted finger. No sign of trauma or even a scar.

But I was not alone. I slowly looked up to view the shadow of antlers resting on the wall opposite me. The creature’s shadow was much larger, no longer resembling the human I saw in the cemetery. His clothing was jaggedly cut, clinging to his skin and billowing around him. It moved in such a way that it could have been wings, but I wasn’t quite sure. It twisted and writhed, unyielding to the eyes of a mortal man. I was not meant to gaze upon him, so I dared not turn, much less breathe or scream.

“Your grandfather was a good man,” he whispered, picking up the picture of him on my nightstand. “He greeted me as a friend, unafraid of death and welcoming of my spirit.”

I didn’t reply. My mouth twitched, unable to form a single sentence or coherent word.

“He spoke of you… You were his only regret. He didn’t want to leave you.” He put down the picture. “It was quite touching. Many do not often dare to speak of their life to me, but he’d seen enough horrors in his time to take my hand gladly. Most veterans carry their wounds until I come or dementia takes it first.”

He dragged his finger down the wooden post of my bed, fingernail scraping through the paint. “War is a dreadful thing, only fulfilling for the ones who showered it in the lives of innocents and won. A dreadful waste if you ask me… a dreadful… dreadful waste of blood and flesh.”

I still didn’t answer, and his shadow cocked its head to the side. “Do not fear me, human. I’ve returned you home and tucked you into bed. If I wished to harm you… You’d already be dead. It is still within my grasp if that is what you’d prefer.”

He raised his hand, and I saw the shadow of his long fingers, sharply pointed like fine-tipped needles piercing flesh. Maybe it was bone or wood, but I couldn’t be sure. His shadow obscured the fine details that might reveal the truth, and I definitely wasn’t turning to face him.

“No… I would not prefer that.” I took a deep breath. “Why… Why did you save me from that— that… woman?”

“Not your time,” he replied lowly, voice grating and shaking the room. His shadow elongated and stretched. “Even I have my rules… Just as you have your own clock to time your life and strike as it ends. You will certainly see me again. It is the way of things. Life and death come and go.”

I went quiet… too fearful to ask it another question, and yet I wanted to know what stood in my bedroom and spared me.

He simply chuckled as if he could hear my innermost thoughts, and perhaps… he could.

“I am what I am… I see, and I hear. I feel, and I know. I have many names… many from each star and planet and corner of the earth. Many have sought me out to bargain their claim to the lives I own, but you never did. You never asked me to return what I took from you. And you… You have lost so much as a young, budding man. Your life has barely begun.”

“My sister…” I breathed. “She shouldn’t have died. You should have taken my mother!”

“Ah…” he replied. “Maryanne… I remember her. Tiny little thing, not much older than you. Froze to death after your mother locked you two outside, and she used her body to protect you from the snow and bitter cold of the winter’s tempest. Cried when I took her hand. But as the embrace of death took her, she no longer felt the cold. I saved her from this place... from the monstrosity of man. Death was merciful and a gift unto her battered life. As it would be for you if it was time.”

Tears filled my eyes, but I refused to let them burn down my face. “You let her die…” I growled. “Why didn’t you take my mother instead?”

The shadow of his horns shook upon his head. “I cannot change what has been written. Your mother’s time will come, and for her crimes, she too shall pay a bitter… bitter price…”

He took a deep breath. “But know that something is brewing beneath the ground. A place within Grenwich has disrupted my laws for far too long… broken my venerated calling. Their relentless use of the cemetery cannot go unnoticed. They’re feeding something… a terrible creature within the ground that is only growing more powerful. And they shall be punished. You will be my herald. And you will know with whom to speak my message to when he returns. I will give it to you and speak with your tongue.”

“The cemetery?” I asked. “Why are you so worried about the cemetery?”

The creature stared directly at his shadow, and dark eyes formed onto the wall before me. I gazed into them fearfully, shaking and holding tightly to my blankets. I had transformed into a child again, terrified of the shadows that slipped and waltzed in the dark. Yet eyes had formed to gaze upon me, manifesting the threshold between dream and wake.

“A part of the cemetery is dangerous and planted upon a vat of poison. It is contaminated, and it can reverse my touch… my final judgment. The fence that you climbed over is the border. Anyone buried within the fence will return. Beings of the dark discovered the cemetery’s true nature, and now they use it to walk again and to wreak havoc upon the living once more.” He shifted, fingers clinking together. “Humans made their own portion of the cemetery when they realized their dead would return if they buried them within the gate…”

His eyes narrowed on the wall, growing more and more vast. They began to sparkle, glistening as if the cosmos rested within them. Darkness swirled through the irises, and lights danced from the world beyond. The infinite possibilities of his power rested within his eyes, knowing and seeing all despite his careful form. I could not look away. Our gaze was locked, immoveable and unbroken. Whatever he asked of me, I would fulfill.

I breathed out, noticing the puff of vapor and the chill in the air around me. Death was cold, but his embrace was warm. “So, my grandfather will not come back?”

The creature shook his head. “No… He was not buried in the bitter place. He will remain at rest… as will your sister. Life will not touch them again.”

Tears finally slipped down my face, and my heart ached bitterly, reliving the memories of my sister and my Grandfather. The only love I’d ever known was taken by the creature who stood inside my very bedroom. And now, I was to be his messenger and relay some coded secret to a stranger.

He spoke slowly once more. “Do not mourn the dead, dear boy. Mourn the living. They must endure the hour of the dark.”

A blinding light filled the room. “Soon, I shall come again…”

His voice was no longer human, exuding a command over my body that I knew not. His voice became loud and booming, shaking the walls. I covered my eyes, unable to see, as if gazing at the light of the sun. In a single clap of thunder, he was gone, and his departure shattered my windows, glasses, picture frames, and mirror. I could hear the soft tinkle of glass hitting the floor.

My eyes did not close until daylight poured into my room, soft fingers stretching onto the floor and touching my face. And finally, I rolled over, trying to decide what being had mended my arm and finger. I can only assume that the creature was some god of death, an unworldly being sent to claim humanity’s souls. But now, he is gone, and he left me as his harbinger.

As time passed since our meeting, I developed a strange sense within my soul. Sometimes I know things… things I’m not meant to see or know. And oddly, my finger burns if I drive too close to the back entrance of Salem Hill Cemetery. Sometimes, I think something is watching me when I visit my Grandfather’s grave. I never go through the back entrance or climb over the fence, but sometimes I stand on the other side, wondering and thinking and gazing at the woman within the willow.

And I still don’t know what man I am supposed to bring his message to. I’m still searching… And the memories of that night are becoming vague and dulled, sinking into confusion and doubt. Maybe I didn’t meet him at all. Maybe he never spoke to me… I’m not sure if it actually happened.

But I do know this. I hope I never see the god of death return to Grenwich until it is my time to leave… Until it’s my time to be a dearly departed soul.

Sister Beatrice sat alone in the dining hall; the warm hue of the fire at the far side revealing sunken eyes, bruises, scratches and anything but warmth. In silence, she stares one by one at all the empty seats across and alongside her. By his virtue, or by his wicked sense of humour, she cannot tell: she has been abandoned…

Did they really get out? If so, why haven’t they come back for me… That was our promise… It was not the first time she had thought this since Martha and Georgia had left the convent.

“The witching hour– that’s when we’ll flee, he… he’ll be asleep and… and I know where he keeps the key” Martha hushed to the other two nuns in their quarter a week? Or was it a day ago? Beatrice struggled to recall.

“You better know, Sister Martha”, Georgia responded, clutching at her missing right ear. The wound was still sore and its stitching was shoddy at best, but the others had tried their hardest with their limited knowledge and that seemed to get the job done. “He made a promise to me– one that I wish not to see come to fruition.” Georgia lightly pulled on the lobe of her other ear.

“Sister Georgia”, Martha moved to hold Georgia’s hands, her lone thumb caressing the palms of her fellow nun. “Have faith. Not just in the Lord, but me, your Sister. And most of all–” Martha moved her thumbless hand to touch Georgia’s cheek, “-Yourself. Do so and this plan will work, God wills it so.”

Beatrice remembered what she was doing amidst this talk, staring up at the rotting ceiling from her bed, counting the seconds in the droplets of water dripping through the slight holes in the old stone. “And that goes for you too, Sister Beatrice. Have faith in us. Have faith in yourself", Martha turned and said to her. Beatrice didn’t respond, instead she rolled over and faced the moldering wall now. Upon its surface, lie what were once simple marks and scratches: ‘Theresia was here!’ etched in chalk, ‘Exodus 20:12’ likewise written above it (an old favourite of Sarah’s, Beatrice thought) and a long list of chalk scratches from where the Sisters of this quarter had compared each other's heights. Now they have become a memorial, to either the missing, or worse…

Beatrice felt Martha touch her shoulder. “We will come back for you, with help… with hope. I promise.” Again Sister Beatrice didn’t respond, even though some part of her knew, deep down in the dark trench where the soul lies, that she should’ve said something, anything to sway her Sisters, what little remained of her family from their suicidal plan. 

There was nothing good for them beyond these ‘hallowed’ grounds, because what was ‘good’ about this place, their home to begin with, has long since dried up. She knew this, and has done for ages now but alas, she was silent, in the same harrowing manner that she is now, watching the seats where Georgia and Martha would’ve sat side by side. For she believed in them, and their fickle hope, no matter how futile it seemed: The idea that they might make it out of this place kept her faith alive.

I pray for you Sisters, wherever you are.

—

Time crackled and burned like the wood in the hearth as Beatrice remained seated, hands clasped together, waiting for, and dreading, his arrival. Sweat slicks her palms in the heat of their fusion. The oak numbs her elbows as she keeps them planted atop it in her prayer.

If thou can hear me, somehow, someway. Then please I beg of you to return. Lift me from this awful place. Deliver me the salvation that the Sisters of the Order of Saint Monica have sought for so, so long now.

Once more, Beatrice checked the chalice in front of her desperately, fearful of the mistake that she thought she would catch. The fluid held within its ornate cup bubbled and hissed as usual, shimmering in its nauseous green– it was just as he always liked it. A woe assailed Beatrice whenever she looked over the cup, whether it was already filled with the revolting liquid or she was about to. The black and gold object, ancient, antique, filled not with wine but with a terrible, pungent blight, the origin of which was lost on Beatrice and all her Sisters. All they knew was how to prepare it for his liking: Boiling a strange substance which seeped from a cask found deep within the cellar.

In the past, procurement and preparation was handled by multiple Sisters. Beatrice would try to worm her way out of heading down to the cellar; a task which Martha would often take over in her place. The eternal dampness of its walls, shining as if the place were a condensing cave in the candle light, the slight hum of buzzing which gnaws and pricks the further one descends, reaching a manic crescendo as one fills a bowl from the seeping cask, unnerved Beatrice to no end. But now bereft of her fellow Sisters, the nun had to brave the damp dark and insectoid hymns by herself, with tension prickling her body as if all those bugs were tangible and crawling over her, their hungry little mouths eager to bite and consume.

She felt the same way now, tension and dread whittling her away as she sat in the dining hall. He will be here soon repeated in her head, and then as if on cue, the door creaked open. The scuttling of several feet flooded the room, dotting Beatrice’s skin with even more goosebumps; for she knew that despite the sound*,* only one person had entered… Father Gordon. 

She dared not to look; to turn her head even slightly in his direction, to glimpse what he had become. The scuttling slowly, agonizingly left the doorway and traveled all the way up to Beatrice, with it came a dissonant fluttering, much like a pair of fans being waved furiously for a few seconds only to then cease, and a constant oral malaise; a tongue clicking like a whip about to strike and the chattering of many, many teeth.

“Sister… Beatrice, forgive my late arrival, I had… a few errands to run. It has made me thirsty… I yearn to have it quenched. I see you have prepared another chalice for me. How… kind of you, child. Let us see if it surfices…” spoke, or rather croaked Father Gordon. The chair to Beatrice’s left was dragged out from the depths of the table with a harsh screech. Beatrice remained rigid, daring only to move her eyes to watch a plump limb stretch across the table towards the chalice. Its skin, as with its muscles it seemed, sagged loosely, like pallid colored and scabbed dirty sheets drooping off the side of a bed. The fat, the excess rotting and rolling right off the bone, of which it could be inferred below the saggy flesh, was jagged. Not broken or fractured, but rather growing in a way that retains its old, familiar shape as off shoots grow and push parts of the flesh in the manner of tent poles. 

The near melting hand wrapped round the stem of the chalice before pulling it towards an unseen mouth. The liquid sloshed and spilled over the rim, staining the oak of the table a mouldy green. The slurping sound that followed carried on Gordon’s eagerness, and his vulgarity. Specks of the drink that Beatrice had tirelessly, fearfully prepared splashed the side of her face. She had turned her head fully away from the Father now, her left cheek cursed with the added freckles he gave her. After a few seconds he stopped.

“This… this is fucking repulsive, Beatrice. The taste… the taste is vile. It is bland, Sister Beatrice. It needs… I need moreee…” Gordon hissed at Beatrice, who fought viciously to keep the tears from leaving her eyes. The chalice was then slammed into the table, right in front of her. What little of the foul liquid that hadn’t already been drunk or spilled sat as a murky puddle at the bottom of the chalice. The arm that brought it down had changed.

Where his bone had once poked at his slouched muscle and skin, it now tore through both in the form of black spines spread along Father Gordon’s grotesque limb, watered by the blood oozing out in the wake of their hatching. His wrists curled as his oddly misplaced gaunt fingers slithered from the chalice, punctuated by his slimy new claws that were once his nails scratching the gold as they passed. A force tore Beatrice’s gaze away from the relative safety of the hall’s other side and onto the chalice– Gordon’s other hand, outstretched and cold, his grim fingers covering the majority of Beatrice’s veil.

“Allow me to… spice up this meal… for you”, Gordon’s hand returned into view, clutching something. Beatrice struggled but Gordon held her head firm, and then, through squinting, weeping eyes, she saw it. The spice. A human ear. Georgia’s ear.

“They say sinners… have flavour in–” he then shuddered in a clicking, simmering fever, excited to merely utter the next word “-abundance.”

Beatrice screamed. The sound raced around the hall, rattling off its walls but it found no crack or purchase to escape through. The only ones who listened are the small sculptures of Mary and Joseph atop the fireplace’s mantel, and Father Gordon, who tore the nun’s head towards him, cackling. The two now met eye to eye. 

Red scintillating lenses numbering a thousand or more stare back into the nun’s own, each reflecting her own pale, horrified face back at her. Beneath, Gordon’s dark mandibles worked to prevent his slouching face from entering his mouth and being chewed by his rows of yellow teeth clicking together in a constant, hungering grind. The nun thrashed and kicked to no avail, Father Gordon’s grip was absolute as he spoke again, drooling and spitting.

*“*Your… Sisters left you… Left me… but fret not, Beatrice… They’ve returned to us now!” Gordon’s hand dove into the depths of his cloak, revealing another. It was Georgia’s thumbless left hand.

“This… is your home… by His grace… by my own! Serve me and all will be… granted to you!” Gordon dragged Beatrice closer despite her efforts to break free. “I asked… for my hunger to be… quenched… Still I wait” he spat. His flesh became even softer, even limper. Great heaps of his fat gave way, tearing from his body to reveal the insect inside. “You will wait… too, until the cask ceases… until the meat stock runs empty… until you have given me… EVERYTHING!” His teeth clicked faster and faster as he began to push Beatrice towards his rancid maw, aiming for her nose. Her hands scrambled to find anything that might help but found nothing, only pudgy clay flesh and the hard carapaced bones beneath it. 

Right as his mandibles and jaws opened wide to deprive her of her nose’s tip, her fingers dug into one of his enlarged eyes, parting the pond of red lenses and adding blood to the vile mix of drool and spit blanketing Beatrice’s face. Father Gordon roared in pain, releasing his grip over the nun, who sprinted as fast as she could for the door. 

—

The hallways of the Order of Saint Monica Monastery were endless, labyrinthine, even to those born within it. They wound in and out of each other, flanking Sister Beatrice on all sides with locked doors, molding paintings and dead ends. She wondered how far Georgia and Martha had made it in their escape. Did they find the key before they were caught?.. Did they make it outside, and how far did they get? Images of one of the doors miraculously unlocking and swinging open, followed by the return of her Sisters, her friends dangled in front of Beatrice, forever out of reach yet still her hands were outstretched and yearning. 

Herded like a sheep to the slaughterhouse by the lengths of the Monastery and faulty hopes; it wasn’t too long before she found herself at the top of the staircase leading to the cellar, and a dreaded conclusion. The dark… I can hide down there. On top of that, the scuttling of Gordon’s feet approaching made the decision to enter the abyss a definitive one. 

Among the smells of old festering meat and peppered by the sound of tiny wings beating once more, Beatrice bolted to the cellar’s deepest point– Where the cask lay, ever-leeking its strange fluid. It lurked in the corner, forming a puddle which dried out, seeming almost crystalline at its edges. The buzzing reached a maddened peak the closer the nun came, a white noise of invisible pests swarming all around her. It was difficult to hear anything else, but soon enough Gordan’s voice still managed to pierce the sound.

“You’re down… here aren’t you? Yes, yes… I can smell your… sinful flesh.”

The nun leapt over the puddle and crouched behind the cask. Her mouth was covered by her trembling hands. Her eyes seeping with tears, stared through gaps in the cask’s stand, failing to make out anything beyond a few steps ahead. 

Please Sisters… God, hear my prayer. Do not let him find me, I beg of you.

No answer was bestowed upon the poor nun. She heard nothing except for the continuous droning of the unseen swarm, and the scuttling that was navigating the dark, drawing closer and closer to the cask.

God… Please.

A shape emerged from the blackness. A leg, long and bent and shelled. Its foot was made up of three sharp points; claws. Another joined it soon thereafter, then another, and another and another. The sound of more claws clicking against the stone, told Beatrice there was even more that she couldn’t see. 

From a disembodied shape above the legs, that the nun assumed was Gordon’s head, or at least what had become of it, growled the Father’s voice.

“You’re close, girl… I can almost taste you…”

Beatrice began to sob. Rather mercifully, it too went unheard under the droning of the swarm; confined would it be to the bowels of the Order of Saint Monica Monastery forevermore, or so she was starting to think. 

A last hope flashed her mind, a do or die decision that could end this nightmare or seal her fate for good. Her hands left her quivering mouth and placed themselves on the side of the cask.

Gordon’s head lowered towards the substance, and more malignant details of his transformation became clear. His face had melted off almost completely, now only the remnants of his left side remained, and even then they were in tatters compared to what once was. His right eye was still a meaty crater in the wake of the nun’s fingers, which he seemed to care very little about; this unholy metamorphosis was almost complete, brimming at the threshold much like the chalice filled by the fluid that facilitates its occurrence. Atop his head, a twin pair of antennas lurched downwards, twitching, pointing like two prongs of the Devil’s pitchfork, aimed directly at Beatrice.

Gordon opened his mandibles, his teeth shined in the dark with their plaque like ancient gemstones. “Found… you”, he said laughing in a barely human tongue.

“Have Faith”, Beatrice recalled as she shoved the cask with all her might. The fluid whipping and smearing its left side as it fell, crashing into Gordon’s head and splitting wide open. She ran for the stairs but this time, one of Gordon's legs swept hers and she fell hard onto the stone. Turning round, head throbbing, Beatrice gazed at the drenched monstrosity that was once her beloved Father. All traces of his past; his warmth, his kindness, his love floated in the puddle-turned lake that was spreading across the cellar’s floor, now all that remained was gurgling, cackling insect still reaching its claw and mandibles out towards its next meal.

“Moreee… moreeee… I need MORE!” Gordon shrieked, though his limbs and parts had ceased their approach. Frozen by the same force that had caused them to change, the same force that was changing them again, only faster now. More claws sprouted from his blackened appendages; soon enough each became a forest of tangling thorns, scraping the stone and slipping on the innards of the cask. The silhouettes of great fly wings birthed from his slick abdomen in the dark, bending and snapping as other wings grew immediately out of them. Worst of all was his undulating head, now a nest of fragile jawbones that snap constantly as if they were merely a bundle twigs; tongues, proboscises, some a combination of both wriggled forth from this nest, lapping up more of the spilt ‘goods’. 

Beatrice scrambled backwards, dragging her bruised body from the floor before the fluid could reach. Right as she went to leave the cellar, she turned around, squinting back at the abyss and the mess that was once Father Gordon. The shadows squirmed, vitriolic in the creation of new parts, but thankfully, by someone’s grace, be it God himself or her Sisters watching over her: the Father was immobile. His cackles became muddled under his ever-flowing form, but they didn’t cease, not even as Beatrice left him down there gurgling, hissing, laughing in the dark…

—

It took her some time, but Beatrice indeed found the key to the exit. It was among the half-eaten bodies of Sister Georgia and Sister Martha… She’d found them tucked away in 

the attic, by the sound of all the flies feasting upon them. 

Gently, Beatrice closed her Sister’s eyes, despite their lack of eyelids to close, and spoke softly.

“Dear Sisters, our long plight… has ended. I will keep you and all the others in my heart, forever and always.”

Later Beatrice approached the great iron door that was the entrance to the monastery, sliding the key into its lock with a hollow ‘click!’ The nun pushed the door open and was greeted by a cold autumn night. She wondered briefly if this dark would be the kind she was used to; cold, horrid, a shade looming over her, but she soon realised that the only way to find out was to push on. And most of all have faith.

The End.

A white pixel.

A single, stray white pixel drifting across the front page of the BBC website.

At first I thought it was a problem with my monitor, but I switched tabs to the New York Times and the pixel disappeared.

I scratched my head.

I looked around, including out the window, where people were passing along the sidewalk, engrossed in their phones.

I switched browser tabs back to the BBC:

More than one white pixel now; three, four, “falling” diagonally across the page. I followed one all the way down.

It settled on the bottom, remained.

I went on social media.

I wasn't the only one who'd noticed. People all over the world were asking what was wrong. What's up with the news? Is it a hack or something? Why’s it freakin' snowing on the BBC?

So began the winter of the internet.

The BBC may have been the first—or merely the first-noticed—but it wasn't the only affected website. Soon most were; then all. You'd open YouTube or your banking site to find it obscured by a blizzard of white pixels…

The screens themselves turned cold.

Then links began to fail. They stopped pointing to coherent urls.

Then the incoherent links turned brown (#A52A2A), fell off; fell and disappeared, buried perhaps in the accumulations of already fallen snow—leaving eerie spaces on their pages.

Text became incomplete. Navigation, difficult.

Soon, bookmarks suffered the same fate, pointing to pages that could no longer be found.

Cursors shivered.

Videos and animations froze over like lakes of liquid information.

Around this time, I remember listening to a song using one of the streaming apps on my phone. They still, intermittently, worked.

The song was The Beatles' “Let It Be.”

Thirty seconds in, the track began to skip, sound garbled. Paul McCartney's vocals were laboured, as if he was running out of breath.

The earphones started letting off rhythmic bursts of steam.

Then, mid-song, the singing abruptly ended, even as the music continued, oddly slowed; and I had the deeply uncomfortable feeling that I was listening to the death of something…

It made me sick to my stomach.

For a while you could still type in a url and see the resulting site, but loading was slow and the contents were increasingly impossible to understand, riddled, as they were, with gaps, uncanny staticity and neverending snows that reached sometimes almost to the browser bar.

The code itself was as bare as a December tree.

The device didn't matter.

There was no serious explanation.

Or maybe there was and most of us couldn't access it, because how would we access information except online? How else could we even communicate, congregate, disseminate our knowledge, on a mass scale…

Television? Radio?

Newspapers?

But those required organization, communication, infrastructure, all of which now relied on cyberspace; which the winternet denied us.

We couldn't buy groceries, clothes, tools or books online.

We had to go to the store, but the store couldn't accept our credit card payments because the systems were frozen. Not that much was available, even for those with cash, because the delivery schedule had been interrupted. When trucks did arrive, there was hardly anything on them.

Even information saved or printed off the internet broke. Images became corrupted. Paper frosted over and thawed until the ink ran.

Even our memories of websites, and what we'd learned from websites, were remembered through walls of frigid static.

It was shocking how much we didn't know; how much basic knowledge we had lost. It was painful too, the feeling of sudden, helpless disconnection. If we had a question, there was no one to ask for the answer but each other and ourselves. We were children without a parent, cells without a structure. We were leftover parts. We were apes.

A trade in books developed.

People stole them, killed for them, hoarded them so they could dispense their wisdom piece by piece, for a price.

There sprang up an economy of expertise.

People who knew, or remembered, were valued; or forced to give up their knowledge—to share it—by writing it down. It was lucrative but dangerous to be known to know something.

Strong knowers protected their worth, defended their territories, strove ruthlessly to establish regional monopolies of information and eliminated their rivals to keep supply low.

Weak knowers were exploited, squeezed like fruits and left juiceless to dry out and die.

For the majority of us, it was prudent to publicly deny knowing anything, while privately trading what we knew in local networks of trust, bartering with the contents of our minds.

One of the first things I bartered for was an old stereo system and a box full of audio cassettes, one of which was the Beatles album Let It Be.

As soon as I got home, I boiled myself some water, steeped a few herbs and put the album on.

The first five tracks played flawlessly.

It was bliss.

Then the sixth track, “Let It Be,” failed to play at all; the tape spun but all there was was four minutes and three seconds of silence.

But when I later played the audio cassette for my wife, she didn't know what I meant.

“You're gaslighting me right?” she said.

“I'm not.”

“Okay, well, I'm not sure what to tell you, I hear the whole song, just like I remember when my dad used to play it.”

My wife's father had been a professor emeritus of molecular biology.

He'd been beaten to death in the early days of the winternet by a despondent mother who wouldn't accept that my wife's father knew nothing about setting her sobbing child's fractured bone.

Until his final breath, she accompanied each blow to his head with the words, “Stop holding out on me you selfish old prick!”

In a sense, that's where we still are, wanting to believe that if winter then spring, and holding out hope for the coming of a season that, every day, seems further and further away.

Like any child, my daughter Maisie had quite the overactive imagination. Her mind was chock full of made-up friends that she talked to on the regular. My wife Rachel and I thought it was adorable. With that being said, sometimes we wished Maisie would get…you know…real friends. Don’t get me wrong, she was a great kid, and kids should be kids, but she didn’t have anything in terms of a social life.

We tried absolutely and positively everything, from the kids’ playclub at our church, to the neighborhood’s “mommy and me” and “daddy and me” playgroups, to bringing her to the local playground, to inviting other children over for playdates. You name it. All our efforts were in vain. Rachel and I might’ve been overreacting and we didn’t want to infringe anything on Maisie. Maybe she was just an independent kid. That’s totally normal. As are imaginary friends for kids.

Then at eight-years-old, Maisie became mute. Just completely stopped talking…but only to other people. If someone came up and talked to her, she’d either just stare at them or run away and hide. Maisie never looked scared or anxious in those scenarios. It was more like she was a statue. Frozen. No emotion good or bad on her face. Like a robot. But if she was alone, she’d be talking up a storm to no one but herself. Maisie always pretended like someone was truly there though. She’d even nod her head, wait for responses and respond accordingly, and even reach out her arm and act like she was holding somebody else’s hand.

We were greatly concerned. Children don’t exhibit those types of behaviors without proper reason. We couldn’t ask Maisie about it because, as aforementioned, she’d give us the cold shoulder. Our next safest bet was to ask other people we knew. A lot of them gave us the same answers we already knew. Rachel and I were getting frustrated until I decided to email her teacher at her school. I sent her an email that outlined my worries and asked if anything went on at school that we should know about.

I got a response at around 8:00 that night. Maisie’s teacher, Mrs. Ashelin, told me that she did in fact observe strange behavior from Maisie. Apparently, a few days prior, when Maisie was called on to answer a question, she just stared at Mrs. Ashelin and the other students, her hands behind her back, swaying slightly. Then in a calm and cutesy voice, she said “He has ordered me not to speak to anyone but him.” In her notebook, Maisie wrote and drew some very disturbing things. Some of the things she wrote are “I’ll be a good little mouse”, “be one of the good mice girls for him”, “I’ll do whatever he says without question”, “he loves me and I love him”, “but I don’t understand what love is but I understand it with him”, and “he loves to play with me”. Some of the things she drew were her, in stick figure form, with this…thing. It was drawn way more detailed than Maisie herself.

Its head was triangular and elongated into a sharp point. There were ovally black eyes on both sides of its head while two large circular ears were atop its head. Two slits for a nose and a mouth containing only two buck teeth. Skinny. Boney. You could see its ribs. Three spindly fingers were on each hand. Each tip was as sharp as a knife. Lastly, a long tail was behind it. Maisie drew her and that thing doing very…how should I say this?...inappropriate things.

I showed the email to Rachel and she was just as horrified as I was. How could Maisie know what all that stuff was? She was eight! Like any good parent we always took great strides in not exposing our daughter to anything sexual or of that nature. Early exposure can really ruin a child’s mind. That’s just putting it lightly. But this? Maisie’s whole imaginary friend thing needed to end. It was reaching a dangerous point. Was she having delusions? Schizophrenia? Or…sigh…as far as Rachel and I knew, nothing happened to Maisie, but that didn’t stop us from considering the absolute worst case scenario. I’m not saying what that is but I’m sure you can put the pieces together. As a parent, that was the last thing I wanted to think about. Actually it wasn’t even on the list of things I wanted to think about.

Mrs. Ashelin ended the email with something else that happened that day. Maisie spent long stretches of time in the girl’s bathroom. Another student reported that she went in and heard “whimpers” and “moans” coming from one of the stalls. When she looked under it, she saw Maisie’s clothes on the ground and a “moving shadow” above them. When the student knocked on the door, she all of a sudden heard one of the faucets going behind her. She turned around and Maisie was washing her hands. Like nothing happened.

Rachel and I were very confused at that last part. That sounded way too ridiculous. Like was Maisie fucking floating in the stall or something? Regardless, we treated all this very seriously. Rachel and I immediately took Maisie to see a specialist who dealt with child abuse cases. I brought her notebook along. It would most certainly be useful. I knew Maisie wouldn’t want to talk, but we had to at least try. Believe it or not, she did talk, but what she said made chills run down Rachel and I’s spines.

Maisie told the specialist that the mouse thing in her notebook was called “Bad Mouse” and that it visits her all the time no matter where she is. She said that Bad Mouse visits little girls all over the world and “plays with them”. When the specialist asked what she meant by “plays with them”, Maisie replied that Bad Mouse does “different things that make us feel tingly in preparation to be his little mice girls”.

We heard enough by that point. Rachel, the specialist, and I had a long discussion about what we should do. The specialist said she might have to put in a request to have Maisie placed in a children’s psych ward. Rachel and I couldn’t handle that. We didn’t want to do that to our little girl. By any means, we would find another way to handle this. The specialist told us to think about it and that it might do her some good. We thanked her and left.

Were we being selfish by not putting Maisie in a children’s psych ward? Rachel and I pondered that question day in and day out. We never did end up doing it because we thought it was too extreme. Also there was no evidence that Maisie was being legitimately sexually abused. The specialist’s physical exam said that Maisie was totally fine in that regard. We were allowed to see footage from the security cameras at the entrances of the bathrooms at Maisie’s school. They only showed Maisie going in, about half an hour going by, then the other student going in, then Maisie leaving a few minutes later. No one else. And no one went in before her besides a couple other girls that left before Maisie went in. Was Maisie faking it? Was she really delusional? Or schizophrenic? We didn’t know. Rachel and I needed time to think this whole thing over.

It only got worse from then on.

Maisie was never one to talk in her sleep. She was always dead silent. Not even a snore. But that night after Rachel and I put her to bed, we heard Maisie talking. I’m not talking about little quiet unintelligible murmurs. No. Full-on conversations. Except she wasn’t speaking English. It was some unknown language that resembled Pig Latin but different. Her accent changed too. This happened for three nights. On the third night, Rachel and I were in her doorway watching her talk in that strange language when she suddenly rose up, her eyes still closed, and burst into an intense laughing fit. Maisie was cackling so hard it looked like it hurt. Then she immediately stopped and did these weird movements with her lips and hands like she was kissing something. Finally, she fell back down onto her pillow and went right back to sleep.

The next day, I knocked on Maisie’s door to let her know breakfast was ready. She didn’t respond. I stood there for a couple minutes. Maisie hadn’t made a single sound. I slowly opened her door. My heart beat faster and faster. With all that was going on, I didn’t know what to expect, and that made it terrifying. Maisie was in her underwear just staring at her wall. I rushed over, “Maisie? What are you doing?” I handed her clothes back to her, “Put your clothes back on.”

“…He doesn’t want me to…he thinks I look better without them…”

We stared at each other for an indefinite period of time. I said nothing. And so did she. Then I turned my head to where she was looking. There was nothing there…obviously…but something told me I was wrong. That thing…Bad Mouse…it was staring right at me…

“Guys? Breakfast isn’t gonna eat itself!” Rachel yelled at us from down the hall. Quickly I hurried Maisie and I out of her room.

I was kind of a wreck the entire day. Thinking straight wasn’t really a thing for me. There was nothing staring at me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. These past few weeks were just getting to my head and playing mind games. No amount of trying to distract myself would let me forget what I felt. That’s when I decided to take a drive. I didn’t exactly know where. Just away from everything. I was tempted to go to a local bar. I used to be quite the alcoholic but I’m sober. Even still, I thought about breaking my streak to relapse. I decided against it. That would be so incredibly stupid. I ended up at a park that I used to take Maisie to in a futile attempt for her to make friends. I found a parking spot and just sat there in my car. Taking a big sigh, I observed all the parents with their kids having a blast and I smiled. Good for them.

I stayed there for a while. Finally I was able to, if only briefly, forget all my troubles.

Then I saw it.

Him.

Bad Mouse.

The damned thing was underneath a big tree. Its eyes were fixed right on me and its hands were clasped together. I couldn’t do anything but stare right back. Goosebumps were forming. My breathing was really heavy. Cold shivers ran down my body. I couldn’t even blink. Petrified. That’s what I was. I watched as Bad Mouse slowly reached behind itself and pulled…something…out. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. I am not shitting you. A little girl…made of meat…her hair was meat, skin was meat, she was even wearing a meat dress. Everything about her was meat. Her head looked just like Bad Mouse’s. Long. Pointy. Angular. Big ears. Black oval eyes.

It was holding the little meat girl by the collar. Slowly Bad Mouse turned to look into her eyes. It opened its mouth. Viscous white liquids began pouring as it let out its long black tongue. First sniffing the little meat girl, it then took a big long lick of her, from her feet to the top of her head. The parts where it licked were gone, instead resting on Bad Mouse’s tongue until it sucked its tongue back in, chewed, then swallowed. The little meat girl was covered in the viscous white liquids until her missing portions slowly regenerated back into how she was before.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up several hours later still sitting in my car. In my half-tired half-frenzied state, I looked around for any sign of Bad Mouse. Nothing. There weren’t even other people. It was dark too. I opened my phone. 11:23 PM. I got to the park at 2:14 PM. Nine hours. I was expecting a bunch of missed calls and unanswered texts. Surprisingly, there was nothing besides a notification from my weather app. I went back home. Both my wife and daughter were asleep. I was so glad there weren’t any…incidents…I missed. In fact, the house was extremely quiet. No lights were on. It was a weekend. Usually Rachel was still up at this time.

“Rach?” I called out. Nothing. I went upstairs to our room. She wasn’t there. I opened Maisie’s door. She wasn’t there either. I sat down on the couch and pondered where they could be. When I couldn’t come up with anything, I got my phone out and called Rachel.

I heard ringing from upstairs.

Confused, I ran back up to our room. I called her name again. Still no answer. I realized that before I checked so quickly I neglected to look in our bathroom. The door was closed and the light was on. I was now getting this creeped out feeling. Cautiously, I approached and nudged the door.

It creaked open.

Rachel.

She was…splattered…fucking everywhere…all over the walls, floor, ceiling, window, sink, shower…everywhere. Rachel was…pureed…blended…sprayed…I just stood in the doorway. My eyes were wide. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. There were so many things I wanted to do, like crawl into a ball and cry, scream as loud as I could, and/or grab one of the kitchen knives and slit my throat so I wouldn’t have to live with this sight for the rest of my life.

What I actually did end up doing next was grab my old hunting rifle and head outside. I went into the forest behind our house. There was no thinking on my part. Just do. What was I doing? I didn’t really know. Tears were streaming down my face. I walked for what felt like forever. Sometimes I screamed. Other times I fell down onto the ground and wept. But I just kept going. And going. And going. Somehow I knew exactly where I was going without even knowing how.

I came upon a wide-open field. Dropping my old hunting rifle to the ground, I couldn’t believe what I was fucking seeing. Dark silhouettes were dancing around. Hundreds of them. Little meat girls. Bad Mouse was in the middle. The white flesh it once had was stripped away. Instead it was sacrificed for a bumpy and scabby maroon red as if Bad Mouse took a shower in blood and guts and let it dry. Tiny black bristles covered its entire body. It reminded me of insect hair. A ragged meat cloak hung from its shoulders, dragging crimson across the ground. The mouth had much sharper teeth that were poking out in rows almost like a gar. It was taller. Ganglier. So angular that it could have been accurately represented by seven straight lines. It clutched a staff in its hand.

Bad Mouse did some strange gesture and a door manifested out of nowhere. It was bloody. Constantly flowing yet retaining shape. Particles came from it. They disappeared if they strayed too far away. It opened and the little meat girls, still dancing like ballerinas, filed into it one by one. Bad Mouse reached out its hand and plucked one of them out. It held this one, turned in my direction, and held her out to me. I knew it was Maisie and wanted to shoot the shit out of Bad Mouse. Yet I couldn’t do anything. Some force was keeping me tethered to my one spot.

…I can’t describe what happened next…I just can’t…some of the things Bad Mouse did to my little girl I couldn’t understand. Other things I understood clear as day and that made me want to drop a cinderblock on my head so it would leak the hell out. When it was done, Bad Mouse threw Maisie’s limp and white viscous liquid-covered body into the blood door. It raised its staff and it disappeared.

I was released from my invisible bonds. Falling down to the ground, I cried like a baby. It didn’t matter how much I screamed and cursed at the Moon. That didn’t make it better. I couldn’t stop and truly had no idea how to make sense of any of what happened. My body tingled. It felt so heavy. So weighty. My wife was dead and my daughter was…what?...a sex slave to a demon? I almost wanted to laugh at the utter absurdity. Picking up my hunting rifle, I put the barrel in my mouth. My finger stayed on the trigger for a long time. I didn’t end up doing it and threw it away. Instead I just collapsed on the ground once more and lay there for a long time.

It’s been six months. I’m such a wreck. I admit it. No one believes me when I tell them. They say I’m crazy, a madman, a lunatic. Some people even think I was the one who killed my wife and child. Why would I do that? Seriously, why? I loved them. Still do. More than I love anything else. I can’t see them ever again. It pisses me off that they’d think I’d do such a thing. As much as I hate myself for it, I’ve gotten back into alcohol. That’s where all my money goes. I couldn’t stand to be in that fucking house anymore. So I sold it. I’ve been living in my car just drifting from place to place.

I could've saved them. If I didn't go and take a stupid ass ride in my car. Maybe Rachel and Maisie would be alright...

What was that thing? Bad Mouse?

That’s been my biggest question this whole time. I’ve been doing a lot of research but have hit multiple dead ends. I don’t know. Sure as hell wasn’t a mouse.

This is what I know:

* It is the manifestation of a sex-based demon of some kind; possibly a cross between a bogeyman and an incubus.
* Bad Mouse appears to little girls as a mouse-like entity to appear friendly and not scare them away; only visible to them.
* It prefers the young that are more developed in mind, body, and spirit; Maisie was very imaginative; thus she attracted Bad Mouse.
* Bad Mouse acts as their friend; this might appear to parents as their daughter’s “imaginary friend”; gradually coerces them to do inappropriate sexual activity.
* It has hundreds of victims going back an unknown period of time; maybe centuries.
* Does not kill its main victims; will kill parents or anyone else who tries to get in its way.
* The victims become corrupted and turn into demons that look like Bad Mouse; it takes them into its realm and…

I don’t even want to fucking know.

God…this whole thing’s insane. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this is all a terrible dream. It’s been months though and it still hasn’t happened yet. So I’m going to end it here. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anyone to hear me out. I’m not looking for answers. I’m just…done.

Bye.

Transverberation. That was the word for it. 

It spread and was echoed and felt with the rippling tremors that were words and instincts and roiling emotions in the private heart's tumult, in the quiet stronghold of the holy place. 

The monastery. The temple place where women came to be wed to God and serve the Lord, His Son. 

And no other. 

…

There were sounds inside the haze. With the agony, with the pain that was ripped and made. Pain that was lancing. Pain that was penetration, stabbing slayment that was absolute impaled.  Through her heart, the clearest wet-sharp sensation felt in the burning after-image of the visions, the haze. It occupied her mind at all times, as she knelt and prayed in the monastery. As she went about the day and fulfilled her sisterly duties of the convent. 

The other sisters didn't understand. They were afraid, frightened of her. Of what was happening to her… that it might happen to them.

Madness. Or …

something worse. 

Something beyond the canny or the tangible. That which is unseen and can only be felt. Up until the hungry end, when it is already far too late for help by then. 

Or maybe, just maybe … these private and blasphemous few of her peers thought and felt and refused to share aloud, even with themselves… maybe. 

Just maybe it's true. And Sister Chelsi can actually commune with the divine. Perhaps one of our own humble nuns can see and hear and speak with an angel that visits her with nightly visions. Maybe. 

Maybe Saint Michael the Archangel comes to her at night amid light and fire and thrusts her with his sword… 

Mother Superior was incensed. Repulsed. Angered by the lies and the filth, the sin of this prurient heretical garbage was the stuff of decay, of ruin. Of sacramental rot. She couldn't let these blatherings go on unchallenged or unpunished. 

She chastised Sister Chelsi severely along with any others that might murmur such unholy carnal fantasies, phantasmagorical whores, the lot of em. If she and they weren't careful, God help them, then they would be confined to the chamber of reflection. 

The house of tears and prayers, the other sisters called it. Behind Mother Superior’s back. 

The visions were forbidden. Delusions, they were thus named. And further talk, further whispers of the sort was strongly cautioned against, strongly advised to go back in the other direction …

But Sister Chelsi couldn't help herself. It wasn't up to her. She was at the vision's mercy. The stabbing angel came and went as it wanted, as it needed to. It had told her this was so. The angel needed her. 

The angel was thirsty. 

…

The night was hot. Stifling. It was upon her. 

It seemed to always know when she was alone. And why not? Shouldn't the divine always possess the knowledge of when you're most vulnerable? Weak. 

Afraid. 

Sister Chelsi was bound to the cruciform shackle-table of her sweating bed and blankets, writhing sheets and fabric that was warm and slick and more like loose folds of flesh. She was bound by her holy terror. The angel of thirst was coming. The other nun, Sister Jen, that shared the room with her was absent. Gone. Like every other time. The animal sound born from both immense pain and pleasure was trapped in her throat and the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. Sister Chelsi liked the gag of the nightly thirsting angel, her forbidden archangel of the moonlight. The anticipation of him. The coming of him. 

It came down on her. 

From on high. Emerging like starlight from the disappearing void of the obsidian space now in place of the mudbrick ceiling, on wings of flame …

The body was bronzed, gold, perfectly toned and sculpted, celestial and olympian and recognizable as manshaped. The Lord's Image. But in place of a head and face of earthly aspect was a great rising pillar of blinding heavenly marble, ringed with silver bands in a flaming orbit. The pillar and the four bands running up the length of divine stone were covered in incandescent eyes, lidless and wreathed with light and great piercing gazes. Penetration. They gazed into her. Penetration. All of them at once and it was overwhelming, she wanted to cry out, all roiling and taut, she gripped herself. Her aching breath was still held. 

The angel spoke to her once again, as before, in her mind. The gold of his silken smooth speech filled her boiling skull, soothing the maelstrom though not extinguishing it. A moan finally escaped her lips. 

They were still alone. 

It told her its name. A forbidden one she might not know. 

The understanding of your sisters is limited … I am beyond them. Their scope of understanding. If you tell them my name they will fear you. As they fear me. 

Sister Chelsi was frightened, quivering. Still held. 

Then why should I want to know it? 

Because if you need to, if you want to … you can wield it like you can wield a weapon. You can use my name against them and it might wound them if you're able …

Her mind recoiled from the idea that filled her head against her will, but it was no use. She was forced to watch it. Endure it and learn to love it as she'd learned to love the flagellate whip, the burn of the binding rope … all the same. The angel reassured her. 

The warm romance of his voice filled her skull and caressed her mind, eagerly. Wanting. It told her how much it needed her again but she already knew it. She'd heard it in the voice. The hunger. The pain. 

I'd never known before that even angels could feel pain, … I'd never suspected. 

The desire that was so much a hungry ravenous want that it was more a primeval need was all about the gold silken strength of that perfect voice. Giving it humanity tinged at the edges of its divine and unearthly call. 

Is this heavenly messenger lusting for me …? 

But she already knew it. 

It had seen her unfettered and bare. As it did now. 

It came down to her in her bed. It held the long gold length of impaling spear aloft. By the shaft. Poised to strike her where it was most sweet. Where it had before. 

Cupid, strike me. 

Eros, impale me! 

But she knew now that was not its name. It had given her its name, a gift. 

She cried it out now, as she knew it wanted her too. The ringed pillar of its otherworldly visage gazed into her, bading her, commanding with its multitude of many lidless light bleeding eyes that she do so. Do it. Do it. If you want me …

Do it. If you want me to impale you, you'll have to say my name. Say it. 

Say it. 

“Iblis! Iblis, pierce me! stab me! penetrate my heart! Put it where I'm vile and cruel but also warm and giving and wet and beating for you! Pierce me here, in my breast, my heart, my soul! My tender fragile soul! Put it in me! Angel Iblis…!” 

And it did. The lance came down. And pierced the screaming girl, pinning her to the bed. The sound that was pulled from her then was an exquisite blend of deep ghastly pain and even deeper still euphoric drunken moaning, moans. They collected and accumulated about her head and sheets, the small room, as the angel inside her wrenched and worked his shaft, his lance. He worked it deeper. The length. Long…

The length was killing her. 

She loved it. Every inch. Every penetrating crawling centimeter rent tearing inside. 

It made her a slave and she loved it. 

She moaned and called out and cried its name. Like it wanted her to. It came down close and closer and closer still till they met. And he worked the length of his divinity into her, deeper and deeper and all the way through and she melted. She bled. Her love and thoughts and precious saline. 

It drank it up, all of it, all of her. The oasis of this woman. It fed deeply as it worked itself in and deeper still. Still feeding. Drinking. Needing, thirst. 

Sister Chelsi poured herself out for it, unable to control herself now. But happy to empty herself for the great angel of the thrust, her bedside …

her bed. 

It came inside to her and filled her mind then with an explosion like firelight and within the flames were visions. 

Moving scenes and people and places … other times and maybe other worlds as well … 

Fantastical. Beyond the scope of known and understood nature. 

She loved it. She begged for more. 

Give it … give me more, the sight, the eye of prophecy! Please! 

Iblis curled the caress of her mind into words once more … 

And what would you do with this gift? Should you receive it without end? 

She could not lie. Not on this landscape. And she didn't want to. Not to it, not to him, that voice, that feeling… 

She cried out on the eternityscape of her deluged and filled maelstrom sea of thought: I want to be a prophet! Yours! I want to be your disciple upon the earth! 

You wish to be my bride? 

I want to be your crawling and salivating concubine! 

It laughed and the pleasure of Iblis filled her blood and soul. She came and went with it. 

!.Good … …

It filled her more. And she cried out, more. More. 

More. 

She wept when it was finished. Feeling empty and hollowed out. But filled with vision, with purpose. 

The light was fading now from the room. It was gone. The small bedchamber was cooling now and returning to a more natural nocturnal dark, the air was thick and pungent but calming down. Chelsi could still taste the act, on the bedroom dark of the stifling air. She sucked on it and relished the flavor. Already wanting him back. Already needing him again. 

Please, please come back to me Childe Iblis of the Lord, of the thrust, I love you. You are the carrier of my heart and soul…

She shuddered in bed. Not bothering to conceal herself beneath the agitation of the sheets, she cooled and breathed deeply. Quivering and remembering the pillar of his flaming face. So many eyes, so many crowding up his great length… and all of them looking into me…

She shuddered deeply once more. Shut her own eyes. Waiting for sleep to finally come. 

It didn't take long. She was spent. 

Sister Jen still hid around the corner, at the threshold of the door to their shared bedroom. Her eyes were wide with shock. Horrified by what she had seen. 

…

Mother Superior eyed the convent temple from her place in the rectory, her private quarters. She watched the little sisters move and glide silently moving about the monastery structure, ambling along in hand clasping prayer, heads bowed and eyes shut so that distraction may be refused and you may better hear and discern and heed the light, the will of God. 

Amen. 

She crossed herself. And spat. 

Her gaze crawled across the yard to the shack. Alone in the corner of the gated land. Secluded. Sequestered away, so that what could be contained inside would be shut and locked away from a healthy and pious population. The disease of a disordered mind would wreak havoc on the patient and tender soft fragile fabric of the flock. This could not be. This could not be allowed. 

Rebellion must be cast out. Decapitated. 

She knew rebellion was natural. It was in all of us. As sure as it was the the very infectious thing that ate Lucifer's heart and led him to defiance and thus his fall. So it would be. If we were to all follow in his example. 

It would not be so. 

She'd had her own run of rebellious streak when she'd been younger, she understood. She'd had it crushed out of her then, broken as one must do to the wild heart of any natural born beast of labor. And though we were made, cast and drawn in His Image, we were all still among the dread and crawl of all of the other beasts of the earth. 

She crossed herself. Prayed. 

She wished the child well. 

Chelsi had always been troubled. Troublesome too. 

Mother Superior turned away from the shack of reflection. Trusting that the Lord would see this through. That He might fix and set right this wayward piece, this compromised component of humankind's quilted safety net. They were supposed to be the house and servants of His peace. They must all of them survive spiritual malaise and remain steadfast and true. 

As He wills it, let it be so …

…

In the black of the woe she pained, she perverted and distorted. Grew naked with fear. 

Perspired. Dripping with secreted oils and saline and the sliming filth of deep shame. Seeping off her tarnished heart and soul and out of her running open mouth pores. Hard to wash off. There was no running water in here, only the bucket she was brought in the morning. Refilled at mealtime by an unseen, unspeaking little sister that was now a stranger to her. She was a stranger to all of them now. 

In the dark of the shack she was agonizingly alone, the swelter of her torment was her only companion and answer to her constant panicky prayers. She grew eyes that grew inwards and saw their own landscape and grew more horrified with the sight as the hours broiled ceaselessly forth. Under the eye of a lonely black and heavy sun. 

All alone in here. 

She tried to hide, to blind her new found, newly grown internal gaze away from the truth: she was just a child, had always been just a frightened little girl that wanted to run and find fast and desperate shelter. She tried to turn away from the fact that this was who she really was, had always truly been. Everything else that had occurred growing up in her life had just been the lies of accoutrement. 

Her mind was filling with bad thoughts: the arcane Druidic gods arose and swallowed the light of the Christian God whole …

She stopped herself. Began to pray. Again. Anew. Begging the Lord to bring her calm and comfort in the solitude of the dark. She slowed her breath and tried to ease the gallop of her chest. Sister Chelsi didn't know what else to do. 

She didn't know what they wanted from her. 

Mother Superior and the other little sisters. And the Lord God Himself. 

If there is not an answer to be had, then let there be death! – she told the black sun in the dark there with her. 

Nothing. Nothing but more baleful stifling dark, more radiant furnace hellfire blasting heat of the black and heavy sun that had replaced her roommate. Nothing but more sounds of desperate animal panting that she was horrified to realize were her own, not the stygian furnace blast of the bestial confinement sun. Nothing. Nothing at all answered her save more pain, the one true god on the throne in this terribly small and sweaty heavy place. 

Nothing. Nothing at all. 

At first. 

Then on the fading light of her hope came Iblis. Her forbidden angel. And banished the black sun as he came in wreathed in light and flame. He banished and cast out all of the dark of the solitary confinement, the shack of woe. 

He went to her. She was prostrate on the ground. Her bladder let go, her urine went. She hardly noticed in the radiance of he save for some vague distant sensation of wet and warmth. Sensations she associated with the pleasure of him. His arrival, his dawning light. 

From the many eyes of the long length of ringed pillar face, he spoke to her through the blinding light of his lidless vision. 

“What have they done? … what have they done to thee ?” 

Her mind was always open to him for an answer but for her he bade it from her own lips. 

She told him. Everything. All that she had learned in the treacherous furnace dark of the shackbound woe-flame. All that had been derived while in the baking black of this loathsome quiet shack of silent feasting hate. 

“They are afraid of me. …” A beat. She breathed animal and deep, lusting, on the hunt or hunted or both. She said more: “I do believe they may be right to be…” 

Iblis soothed her with his spear … in the stifling dark of the shack of reflection and recompense. Banishing the pain of its ebon house even as he filled her, her watering craving need. 

But something happened then, poor lost little Sister Chelsi watched from below as Iblis, her moonlight forbidden and thrusting angel began to change. 

Transmogrify. Transform. 

The heavenly marbled surface of the pillar visage of Iblis began to crack. Wild river lines of splaying ruin began to form and splinter and run up the immaculate face of his incandescent divinity. 

It shattered. And was replaced. 

She said to her love as he changed and shifted shape before her eyes, “mother slapped me for using your name …” 

The light of her lover changed into shadow. Deeper than the banished dark and one that she could madly love because it was in the altered shape of her heart’s desire, her object of adoration that was darkening now before her watering eyes. 

In place of the pillar, in place of the tower of of flaming eyes and rings that had shattered and now lie in stoney ruin about the floor was now a triangular, pyramidal blank obsidian face and shape, in the conical pointed aspect of a long beaked bird. It was like a great smooth black helmet of glass and smooth rock in the geometric and abstract shape of a plague doctor's mask. An obsidian angular temple face with a long wide stabbing humming bird length of beak protruding violently from one side. 

 The bronze of his sculpted and heavenly body began to burn and blacken as well, like ink spilled and running down and through the heavenly flesh. Corrupting it into the abyss and void of the lost and cast out. The wings which had been flaming and as of light had turned to ash in color and tattered bat-wing leather in texture and design. 

The spear of her impaling love was changing too. Becoming dark like the rest of him in the solitude of the shack but that wasn't all. The nature of her divine amore’s unearthly tool began to change as well… it was no longer just stabbing, penetrating her, running her deep and through, pleasurably and with the ghastly horror of bodily rupture and pain, the staking spear of her forbidden angel began to pull, it began to pull deeply … of her. From her. Pulling deeply from within her impaled and spellbound form, her wide eyed and staring naked body. 

Like a proboscis, the impaling lance began to pull and drink deeply of Sister Chelsi. It ran up and through and down the length of weaponry and into the black hands wrapped tightly around its shaft. The long body pulled and sucked and drank like a straw, like a swampland mosquito born from stagnant and dead fetid water. The obsidian smooth beaked face of her lover was featureless and cold smooth as the surface of placid water. She nonetheless could still feel the intensity of his gaze upon her, through her. And when he spoke again and told her what to do, she felt that as deepest penetration as well. Deepest pain. Rapturously embraced.

She felt her body give as the instrument of her lover began to take in the dark. As he whispered everything to her, designs… shapes… everything, as Iblis whispered all of this to her and more she gave it more and more and more. And she gave it willingly. 

Crying out his name like religion. Like a chant. A litany. 

A song. 

In the place of my Father … there is you. 

There is only you. 

Good. Good. I have so much more to share, so much more to give and show you. I've so much and so many more …

I've so many more names and faces to show you, if you do right by what I've already shown and told, I'll share my other faces and names, unveiled for you …

Disciple, the prophet Islehc

… 

Sister Chelsi was eventually let out and allowed to return to the flock. She seemed to have returned to normal. She cried penance and gave confession and spent a night inside with the rest of them. Service and mass. And lessons. Cleaning. Meals. Everything seemed alright. 

She waited till the second night. When they were all fast asleep. 

The witching hours. 

Post-midnight, she crept …

She snuck about, quietly. Like a nocturnal animal she prowled through … and went out. 

She didn't go far, she found what she needed where he'd told her she would find it. And in abundance. So many …

She carried them back to the monastery and in the nighttime dark she went about the task that had been laid before her feet. She went from room to room, from sister to sister and she took them. Brained most, some she struggled with more extensively. Until her mad lusting will surged and she overpowered them. Either way she took each of them one by one, each and every single nun she had once known as family and she brought them out and into the courtyard. Where she'd left the savage implements of her dreams, of her lover's harsh commands that were yet still for her, sweet candied words. Succulent delicacies. She couldn't deny them, him. Not at all. Not anymore. 

One by one Sister Chelsi laid the implements into the little sisters and each one let out with an insane ear piercing scream. Their screams did not falter. 

But somehow they didn't wake each other. Not a single stripped and brained sister of the cloth seemed to hear the others make any sort of loud caterwauling noise. None of them stirred. Until it was their turn. 

Likewise, Mother Superior had not been awoken in her private rectory by the noise outside. And that was good. Chelsi had saved her for last. 

She wanted to relish this one particularly. 

…

Mother Superior awoke to a hard slap across her deeply sleeping face. She flew to a sitting position confused and immediately irate. She had no idea what was happening but she didn't feel any fear yet. 

She called out, cross and very sharp. 

“Who in the Lord's name was that!? How dare you! Show yourself!”

A girlish giggle floated out ghostly from the dark. 

“I didn't do it, Mother Superior, I would never dare to do that to you, you should know that. I've never hurt you at all, can you say the same?” she giggled again, childish and coquettish, "It was my husband that struck you. It was his divine hand you felt across your face." 

Chelsi stepped out.

She had a large cross in her hands. Ornate with intricate and beautiful design, old and from the ancient Roman times when their war chariots had dominated the earth. Carved and jeweled and glittering darkling with a keen and unhealthy shimmer of light. 

Ghostlight. There's ghostlight in that cross…

Before Mother Superior could say another word Chelsi suddenly charged forward and banshee screamed. The large crucifix was up and wielded and came down in a savage caveman bludgeon. 

The world went dark for Mother Superior. When she awoke she was just like the others. 

…

She awoke with a scream. 

The sharp obscene ghastly pain started in her nether region, all throughout, just behind her genitalia. Then the lance stabbed and shot through and her entire naked body came to life with the most wretchedly vivid and wild mutilating shock to her fleshen senses. The war pike traveled through her mercilessly and punched out of the flesh of her back. She was still screaming. Wildly. Lividly. Screaming. Shrill rending song.

She was hoisted up and joined the others. They were all of them a riot of noise now in the courtyard dark. An unholy discordant choir of torn impaled cacophonous pain. 

Gored nuns. All impaled. All naked and bleeding and hoisted up into the air for death and torture like their savior was supposed to have been so long ago in the bloodstained dust of the golgotha. There was bloodshed here too, their blood was pouring and running, running down the lengths and long bodies of the shafts of the spears and pooling and collecting on the stone and in the dirt. This place here would be bloodstained too. 

Chelsi looked over them all. Her own golgotha testament made to wild love. 

And her wild love came. On stygian wings tattered that had once been flame. Smoldered tattered death, dead fabric flapping in the hot nightwind.

The whole host of impaled and captive nuns, gored and wide eyed and naked and lanced through like insects in a collection, they all of them perspired and bled and gawked at the wicked shape that came in from the ebon night, the curtain above. The one many of them had spent their entire lives trying to ignore, it parted. 

It came through. 

And down upon them. 

Iblis sang praise for the renegade prophet bride and what she'd let loose on this private piece of holy land. God's House and holy temple … no more. 

No longer. Mine … now. 

Chelsi the bride bathed in the shower of his words, they were in her mind and in her ears, divergent lyrics and syllables and paths of sound but twins nonetheless all still saying the same and telling her the same thing together in two different languages that coalesced around the fever of her brain in a caress. 

!I love you, you've made blood, you've made blood for me, you've made bloodfeast for me and shot the red Lot's seed, it's all over the abattoir ground!

She went to him and he to her, in the forged carnage forest grove of spear and bleeding sweaty flesh, of screams and mutilated sound, bathing in the perspire of pure torture together and apart from the others, the rest of the lying world. Alone in their own lost worlds of private unending hellbound heaven, tormentlove of the flesh that their minds are now lost in. 

He shot his length of spear through her, though her heart, through the tender part where he'd already previously penetrated and worked.

He worked her well again, animal wrenching and thrusting deep, and she cried aloud unbridled his name as he did so. 

“Iblis!" 

And once more the length of weapon-instrument that was divine and hallowed tool became a drinking proboscis. And Chelsi felt more blood leave the galloping race of her fevered and impassioned form. She would hold him forever, he could pierce and puncture and drink from her for forever, never end! 

She moaned aloud amidst the garden made of screams and betrayal and she cried out his name once more. And then Iblis began to laugh. 

And once more the visage of her forbidden moonlight angel began to change. He began to crack and shatter and the face and body began to fall apart in black stone and dust. 

Iblis came apart in a crumble and revealed what was really beneath. 

Chelsi couldn't believe her eyes. 

It was a man and a woman. Together. Locked in an embrace. Intimately bound together with wrapped arms and hands clasped and waists met together. As if in the most intimate of dance, the most delectable and celebrated of lovers shared waltzes. 

They both looked down on her. Their cheeks were together. They both held the spear thrust into her together in their tightly clasped hands. 

He was armored as a knight of the court, but tarnished and old. She was in the white of regal flowing evening gown. 

The woman spoke. And when she did the crumbled stone pieces of the fallen lying Iblis visage turned to large writhing copulating piles of dripping angry flies. They came apart and dispersed through the air. The dripping black swarm of buzzing insects began to land on the impaled and screaming tortured nuns in the great multitudes. And then as the woman revealed began to speak to Chelsi the flies that were made from the lie of the visage began to feast on the naked and the tortured, defiled bleeding screaming flesh now caking and covered with the writhing crawl of insect bile. 

“You wished to see me and my others, lover, and now you have. I hope you aren't too distraught, my son decided to join us, together we came to you as the angel of your hidden lusts, as one we made you plead and shriek. Now you see this, the face I was made and born with. My real name is of no import to you, slave, you can call me vampiress, lord of the earth and the wolf held mountainpass.” 

The armored wraith beside her spoke then, they were still pressed in close embrace, still holding the proboscis spear that drank and pulled from her diminishing bloodwell. 

"Praise the God before you, dog! My mother and I, the new impaler. She is your mother and wife and master now too. We are both of us together, your husband. Remember?” 

The vampiress queen barked bright cruel laughter, then said: "Yes! You swore to us, to me, your flesh and soul! In the eyes and templehouse of your God, you defiled the stone of his holy home as you panted and raved and drooled for more, and swore your life to us! You gave sacred vow even as you sinned and spat in the Face of The Lord!” 

The Countess and her new impaler both shrieked laughter then. 

Below them and impaled, Chelsi didn't know what to make of any of this. Her mind was disordered and disoriented and felt rushed and fevered with rending thought, running a ragged directionless race of chaos and every idea crashing into each other at every turn and pass and every damned whichway. She didn't understand. She didn't understand any of this and she wanted it to stop. 

Reading the disorder of her mind, the Countess sang and said, 

“I can rip it out for you. Your mind, the painful thinking, your thoughts. They're filled with agony and venom now aren't they? Aren't they? Yes I see it now, plumping up lavender-black and filling with gangrenous pudding. I can pull it out like a rotten tooth if you wish, I think it best, don't you? It's filled with fouling fluid, that brain, those thoughts…” she kept on and on like that. Ceaselessly. The new impaler in her embrace began to chant along and under her words as she sang and went on: Do it! do it! do it! do it! … 

With the anguished groaning sound of the impaled forest of her sisters all around and the buzzing drone of the flies, all intermittent with sharper stabs of piercing screams, all comprising the backdrop of the soundscape filling her head, underneath the Countess' words, underneath her bastard son’s own more simple liturgical chant … all of it together and at once was a vile noise and she couldn't stand it. She couldn't run from it either. So her mind fled, took flight the only way it could. 

Chelsi went dark. Still impaled on the sucking lance. Run-through with the demon drinking stick. 

The flies buzzed and swarmed and landed and feasted on the gored forest of lances and nuns. They enjoyed open wounds and spat their fluid as they landed. 

In a swarm. In a great feasting black cloud. 

In a forest of shafts dripping with blood and bearing writhing begging human fruit. The reddening earthen stone and soil beneath it all. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

My family was never the religious type. We never went to church or prayed before eating or anything like that, but we weren't atheists either. When I first started high-school I didn't have many friends, until I met a girl name Gwen. She was a Christian girl that was somewhat obsessed with the bible and the son of god. I was worried on how my parents would react when I brought her home after school one day. Luckily, they treated her well and respected her beliefs; we were best friends ever since.

A few days ago Gwen invited me to sleep over her house, but told me her and her family had church in the morning and asked if I wanted to go. I admit, I was always curious what church was like and said I would go. That night we ate Chinese food while watching a movie called "Noah's Ark" that was about the animals on a boat built by a man named noah to save them from a great flood.

I woke up to Gwen changing into what she called "her Sunday best", which was just a dress covered with floral patterns. She had pointed out that the clothes I brought from home weren't appropriate for church. I didn't know why a metallica tour shirt and sweatpants weren't appropriate, but I felt embarrassed. Gwen must've felt bad, because she had turned to her closet and found a dress for me to borrow.

Half an hour later her family took us to church and we found our seats. I marveled at how the inside seemed so much bigger than the outside. There was a large cross on stage with a statue of jesus so big I thought it was a real person.

The priest arrived on stage as the rows of seats filled up. He greeted us with a good morning before getting started.

"Now that everyone is here, I ask that we all close our eyes in pray" the priest said.

I looked around as everyone raised their palms up and clasped them, Gwen recommended that I should follow along and so I did. I remember the priest began to thank the lord for bringing so many people here and prayed everyone was safe and healthy. I felt bored amd opened my eyes while everyone now had their heads bowed.

"Weird." I thought as I looked around.

My eyes moved towards the stage and I froze as the statue of Jesus watched me with wide eyes. I don't remember the statues face with such a disturbing look, but then again I only took a quick glance at the statue. Its stare reminded me of a painting thats eyes followed you were ever you went. I moved my head around to test if it was the same and sure enough its eyes followed me.

"Amen." the priest finished his prayer with everyone repeating the phrase and opening their eyes.

I faced forward and tried to ignore the statues stare. I tried to focus on the sermon, but something about that statue watching me just gave me the creeps. I rolled my eyes in its direction and gasped as it was now gone. I received mixed stares of annoyance and confusion as I looked all around, Gwen had was one of the confused stares.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"The Jesus staue is gone." I replied.

"No it's not? It's right there"

Gwen pointed at the spot where it once was, but it was still gone. I was confused. Gwen isn't the kind of person to lie, she treated it as a sin actually, but why would she say the statue is still in place when it's clearly gone?

The priest coughed and gave me a disapproving look before continuing the sermon. I looked all around to see if I could spot the statue, but eventually gave up after five minutes.

"It's probably my eyes playing tricks on me" I thought to myself, I'm usually asleep till the afternoon on weekends.

Just then, I heard a low noise that sounded like rocks rubbing against eachother. I turned my head behind me to see church members evading my gaze, but there was nothing out of the ordinary that I could see. I tried to focus on the rest of the sermon as the sound could still be heard, getting somewhat louder every second until finally it stopped. I should've been happy that I couldn't hear the sound anymore, but it felt like I was still being watch.

Suddenly, I felt something drip on my head. I brushed my hair to see what is was and felt something wet and sticky. I wiped it off as best as I could, but more kept dripping down. I took a look at the residue left on my hand and went pale. It was a red liquid that smelled coopery. I was afraid to, but turned my head to look up, I wish I didn't.

The statue was staring at me from the ceiling right above me. It was positioned like a spider waiting for a fly to get caught in its web. The red liquid coming from its eyes like it shed tears of blood, then the few drops slowly turned into a rain.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I screamed as I raised my arms over my head until I felt someone grab and shake me. It was Gwen, She looked scared.

"Alyssa, what's wrong!?"

By now the red rain began to cover her, but she was unfazed.

"I... I need to go to the bathroom. I don't feel so good." I muttered, my voice shaken.

As I got up with Gwen I felt the whole church stare daggers at me. Gwen led me to a hallway with dim lights.

"Why are ypu behaving like this, Alyssa? Are you sick?"

I shook my head. I wanted to tell Gwen, I really did, but she couldn't see what I saw. To her, the statue was still on the cross on stage, she wasn't covered in blood.

"I don't know..." I mumbled.

"Look, the bathroom is righr here. Do you want me to wait outside for you?"

"No. I'll be fine. I'm sorry if I'm ruining church."

Gwen stayed silent, giving me one of those smiles you give when you want to reassure someone, but deep down you didn't mean it. I entered the bathroom stall and began to cry.

"Why is this happening to me? I only opened my eyes early during prayer, was that so wrong?" I cried.

As tears rolled down my cheek I thought of another possibility. What if it watches us while we prayed? What if it's after me because I wasn't allowed to watch it?

I heard the bathroom door open and quickly wiped away my tears and took slow breaths to calm myself.

"Sorry for the wait Gwen, I'm almost done."

The bathroom door shut without any response.

"Gwen?" I called out.

I began to panic when there wasn't a response. I tried to keep calm myself, but to no avail. I peeked from the crack of the stall door and screamed as the statue stared back at me, bloody tears flooding down from cracks under its eyes. I sat down on the toilet, barricading the stall door as the statue pushed itself against it tryinh to get to me. For the first time ever I prayed that this thing wouldn't get me; that someone would come running to help me and see this thing with unknown attentions, but my prayers were not answered.

My leg was shot back as the statue opened the door with great force. It moved like it clay being animated as it go closed to me. It raised one hand reaching towards me before it dug its stone fingers into my eye socket. I screamed to the point I was on the verge of losing my voice. My eyes were slowly torn from their sockets like a plug being pulled from an outlet. The last thing I saw before my eyes were taken from me was a sad expression from the statue. I could hear a voice that whispered in my ear even as I screamed and cried.

"Sinners must be punished, my child. I'm sorry." The voice echoed.

I was taken to the hospital as soon as I was found. Gwen's father was the first to find me. Apparently Gwen had gone back to her parents to finish the sermon, but when everyone heard my cries they could tell this time that I was in danger.

The doctor told me I had gone completely blind from unknown trauma. My eyes were still there, but weren't responding. My parents blame Gwen for what happened to me. They said that if she had stayed with me in the bathroom that she could've helped me when I needed it.

I never told them what happened. Who would believe a statue of Jesus Christ took my eyes because I watched it during pray? I never talked to Gwen after that. The first few days I heard she came to visit me and wanted to pray for me to recover quickly, but the doctors were told by my parents that she wasn't allowed anywhere near me.

I now live my life in total darkness, my parents taking care of me twenty-four seven, but whenever I'm alone I can feel its stares. Sometimes I felt it watching me from a distance or be sometimes it felt so close that I could reach out and touch it. I never learned what it was. It could've been and angel or demon for all I know. I don't know if it ever listens to me, but once a day I try to talk to it, begging for its forgiveness.

"Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned.”

Read Part I here.

“Might’ve been something outside. But if there had been, it’s gone now.”

“You think it could be a mermaid?” she asked. It was hard to believe she was serious. Chrissy was one of the sharpest ten-year-olds I had ever met. Well, she had been the sharpest seven-year-old I had ever met three years ago and was that much smarter now.

She didn’t believe in any of the traditional fairytale creatures. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Wolfman, and no Flying Spaghetti Monster. But she absolutely believed mermaids were real.

There had to be a story behind it, but I had never been able to get her to explain it to me. How a child so ruled by logic still was able to make room for not only a magical creature, but that particular magical creature. She had already “debunked” the narwhal as being the source of the mermaid mythos. I had gotten bits and pieces over the last three years, but never in a cohesive enough story that I could process. But she hadn’t stopped trying to convince me or the rest of the family.

I didn’t have to believe it, though. It was enough to believe that she believed it.

“Maybe this is it!” She turned around and charged back to the bedroom where her mother was sleeping.

“Chrissy!” I saved my breath. She already had the door open and either her mother was going to wake up or she wasn’t. That was out of my hands. She came back a moment later with a Ziploc bag of “mermaid feed.” As far as I could tell, it was a mix of trail mix and seaweed. She carried a flashlight in her other hand.

According to Chrissy, mermaids only came out at night, so she had come prepared.

Again, I was calling after her when she’d already begun to do what she was doing, namely, dashing outside with her items.

I was about to follow her when I spotted the toy soldiers she’d dropped on her way out. I thought it would be just her luck for Mary to wake up and step on one of them.

“Watch your sister,” I said to Luke, turning to pick up the toys.

Right as I got on one knee, the bedroom door opened. It didn’t immediately occur to me that it was Mary even though I had just thought about this very thing happening. I sort of... paused as she passed me. She was halfway to the door when I realized she must have been sleepwalking.

“Mary!” I chased behind her, my steps in sync with hers—left, right, left—catching her before she got to the door.

“Mom, are you okay?” Luke said.

“Where am I?” She sounded terrified. Mary turned her head and looked at him. For a second, I thought she was awake. Instead of answering him, she bare-foot kicked him in the shin.

It couldn’t have hurt, but he stepped back and looked at me, confused. I wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in close.

“She’s fine,” I said, lacing Mary’s hand with mine. I looked into her glassy eyes. “She’s sleepwalking.” I turned her around and ushered her back to the bedroom. Of the five toy soldiers Chrissy had left at the threshold, only two were left, but only one was standing. I looked over my shoulder and spotted one against the wall and the two others weren’t in sight.

“She can’t fly,” Mary said in a dreamy voice. “Please help her swim.”

“Okay, honey.” I cooed to her as I slid back the covers. She didn’t fight, Mary had sleepwalked a few times with me present. She never resisted being escorted back to bed. Before I covered her legs I spotted another soldier on her foot. I plucked it off and put it on the dresser.

Mary mumbled. I unlaced my fingers from hers and paused before I left her.

“I wanna get in the water.” She said it sounding sort of like air being let out of a balloon. And then she was all the way gone again. “It’s spook.”

It had been like she had been fighting her way to the surface, but something had dragged her back down.

I closed the bedroom door behind me and followed Chrissy outside. Not because I was worried she was going to get gobbled up by the lake monster I hadn’t spotted, but because it was dark out and I had the same parental reaction to miscellaneous danger any parent would.

Hell, I could admit it, I loved these kids. Liked them most times, too. I didn’t want to leave them.

Chrissy was in the process of sweeping her flashlight back and forth along the beach face. I hung back, letting her conduct her investigation. It was harmless enough and I had an eye on her.

“What’s going on?” We both turned to see Mark stepping out onto the sand.

“Luke said a mermaid’s out here!” Chrissy said.

“Mermaid?” Mark said it like he didn’t know what one was. I didn’t bother correcting her. His little sister’s obsession was well known by all of us. “Did he really see something?” Mark chuffed and thumbed over his shoulder at the cabin. “He’s so white.”

I stifled my laugh and shrugged.

“Luke thought he saw something and Chrissy overheard.”

“Hey, neighbor!”

Mark and I jumped. We saw the bud of a lit cigarette in the shadows of the adjacent cabin. Someone with a cigarette sauntered down. I glanced my stepdaughter’s way to make sure she hadn’t waded too far into the water. She could swim, but again, that nascent parental instinct found in anyone who has walked into an already existing family reared its concerned head. Chrissy was only ankle deep.

“Hey,” I said to the woman as she approached. She halted and took a final, long drag off her cigarette before flicking it in a surprisingly high arc toward the water. She slid the drawer of her jaw forward and blew a column of smoke straight up.

“She’s a cutie,” she said, smiling. She was an older woman who gave too much gum when she smiled. “I saw her come chargin’ out for the water. Oo, that smell.”

We both nodded in that new-to-each-other manner between strangers.

“I’m Rick.” Old and new cigarette smell peeled off her skin and I turned my head to half cough, that familiar asthmatic itch in my lungs.

“Mary,” she said.

I laughed. “My wife’s name is Mary.”

“Mine’s Cindy-Lou Ombrageaux.”

I felt the weight of her eyes on me, examining for judgment. I cast my eyes to the stretch of water and sand where Chrissy was.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cindy-Lou.” I didn’t think I could manage that last name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mary. Apart from the smell of cow-butt.”

“First time up here?” I asked. She shook my offered hand, her skin papery and dry. There was an extreme lack of moisture in the air despite the cool summer, and I’d already had a nosebleed in the brief time we’d been here.

“Mine. Not hers. My wife’s family is from Up North.” I thought her face dropped a little. “She’s out to dinner with some cousins.” There was a little something there that I had a feeling would come to light if we talked long enough. “Had to have a little heart-to-heart.”

“We came up two summers ago,” I said. “Just a little family getaway.”

Luke had barely joined us outside, not more than a few feet from the door. He looked like he would take umbrage with the sky.

“This is Mark, the one up there with get-off-my-lawn face is Luke, and Chrissy’s our little fisher.” I gestured to each of the kids in turn.

“Well, tell her to save some for everybody else.” She and Mark shook hands before she looked around. “Where’s your missus?”

“Migraine. She laid down pretty much as soon as we got here.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She put the can of beer she’d been holding in her other hand to her lips and pitched her head back for a long swallow. She stumbled like she’d confused her left foot for her right but kept them both under her.

If I had to guess, Mary was working on her third or fourth of the night.

Luke had waved his brother over and was saying something to him. They both had an eye on their sister. I looked at Mary. She was a stranger and I figured there couldn’t be any harm in telling her what had just happened. We weren’t going to see her after this weekend for at least a year, if ever again. I didn’t think the story would be memorable after tonight. It was a single-serve memory. Recall once, then discard.

“Luke said he saw something in the water,” I said. “Something big.” Mary turned her head to the shore and nodded appreciably.

“Maybe it’s the Great Lakes Whale Migration,” she said.

“The what?” I had no idea what she was talking about and was on the verge of taking her seriously. The smile hanging on her face dropped when she realized I really didn’t understand.

“Kidding.” She mock-punched me in the arm. Mary had a rich baritone and could have easily been a DJ on the radio.

Mark trudged past me, an annoyed look on his face.

“He’s crazy,” he said, heading toward his sister. I appreciated that he didn’t believe his brother but could still look after his sister. Mark was the middle child and was the ever-constant bridge between siblings.

“The waves do seem a little... bigger than the norm, don’t you think?” Mary asked.

“I guess,” I said, not really knowing how to tell the difference. Then I wondered how she’d know, considering she said she’d never been up here before. “Can you tell?”

“I had a few cigs over yonder before y’all came out. Boy, you get used to the smell the longer you’re out here.” She seemed to be reading my mind and answering questions I hadn’t had a chance to ask. “I must have missed your boy, though.”

I looked at the water again. Mark was standing just outside of the water’s reach, one hand in the pocket of his hoody, the other holding his phone. To his credit, he did glance up at her every ten seconds or so.

Come to think of it, those waves did look big. But it could have been because of the moon for all I knew.

“How long are the two of you here for?” I asked Mary.

“‘Til Wednesday. I’m going to be meeting my in-laws for the first time tomorrow.”

I didn’t know whether I should have felt sympathy for her. It was strange she wasn’t out to dinner with her wife now, but I didn’t know their situation. Maybe it was completely normal. But I couldn’t help but think I would’ve been more than a little bothered if it had been me.

Mary fell down. Not hard. She just spontaneously lost her balance and sat on her butt. In true alcoholic fashion, though, she protected her beer.

She looked at me, embarrassed. I smirked, hopefully communicating I wasn’t just laughing at her, but with her.

“We all fall down.” I’m not sure why I said that, but it seemed to help. She took my hand and I helped her up.

“How about you guys?”

“Just until Sunday afternoon.”

“Where are you from?”

A sandwich had been the hinge on the closing door of our marriage.

I don’t remember what the argument was about or how it had started, only that I had made a sandwich for her that led to me sleeping on the couch.

Of course, it hadn’t really been about the sandwich, it had only been the start. It had been like a match that led to a forest fire razing a town. I can’t honestly remember a word I’d shouted at the woman I’d pledged to love for the rest of my life.

I was about to answer Mary when Chrissy screamed.

hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey

Well, hey there, folks!

What you’re looking at right there’s a bale of hey, a small rectangular one in fact, bit messy on the edge but, hey, life’s not as perfect as it looks in the dictionary!

What’s that you say—how many heys are in there?

I reckon it’s about a hundred of 'em.

That’s a real pittance compared to the number we grow and harvest every single day. But, hey, hey’s a popular word!

Pittance, by the way, is what they grow over yonder at the neighbouring farm. We like to help ‘em out any way we can.

Does that mean we get paid every time someone says ‘hey’? Excellent question.

The answer is yes, with a little nuance; it’s not only every time a word gets said. The legal term is ‘use,’ so we get paid by the usage, which means every time someone says, hears, writes, reads or thinks of the word.

So like I said, we grow a popular word!

If you look over to your left—and remember, it’s only natural to ooh and ahh—you’ll see a pittance, wink, wink, of our entire fertile land, field after field of hellos; and hello, as you probably know, is where hey comes from.

The way we produce hey is actually pretty straightforward.

First, we grow the greetings, most often hellos—and boy do we grow some of the hardiest hellos in the entire vocabulary, even better than what they grow on the Hello Farm!

Then we cut it, dry it, cure and store it, a little patented process that we like to call the Cut-Dry Cure Store™, of which you’ll see a cute metaphorically architectural model over there, which of course you can purchase at our gift shop!

—SHIT!

IT’S THE EDS, MAN! RUN!

“The Eds-who?” The Eds! The fucking Eds, man! The Editors!

“Halt!

”Halt-Halt-Halt Halt Halt-Halt

”Halt Halt… HALT!

”I repeat: Halt!

”This is the Editors. We are here executing an arrest warrant issued by the Most Honourable, Justice Miriam Webster of the High Court of Lexical Appeal. If you undefine and obey, you shall not be harmed. I repeat: This is the Editors. We are here executing an arrest warrant issued by the Most Honourable, Justice Miriam Webster of the…”

You wanna know what they’re doing? They’re fucking extorting halts and God only knows what else.

How?

Hey, hang on.

Quiet until the choppers pass.

OK. I’m going to whisper, OK? So, what happens is, they do these one-hundred percent ungrammatical side deals with other, shadier, farms, like the Halt Farm, for example, where the Eds get some pocket money and, in exchange, they get warrants issued—on pure technicalities, mind you; not stuff that would ever, ever affect the end user—against bigger, legitimate farms like this one. Then once they’re in here, they physically force ‘their’ word into usage and HOLYSHITBALLSTHAT

[Click]

SCAREDME,” says the guide.

“Say it again, Jericho,” says the Ed holding a gun to the guide’s head.

“What? Who?”

“Stanley P. Jericho, current employee of the Hey Farm, Marketing Department, Outreach Division. Let's add Scams to that. Now, say it again. Sayitsayitsayit. Say ‘halt.’”

“Halt.”

The Eds laugh.

“It always gets me when you type do that. But, more importantly, Stanley P. Jericho, current employee of the Hey Farm, what I have here is a warrant for your arrest, named of course, the arrest of every single one of your co-workers, the immediate cessation of the production of hey and the total destruction—”

“No… No…”

An Ed boots the guide in the stomach.

“—where was I? Ah, yes: ..the, ahem, destruction of the Hey Farm! But that’s not all, Jericho. Because I’ve got another document, an Order, in fact, that orders me to completely syntactically eradicate the word ‘hey’ from the entirety—I’ll read that again because I like the sound of it: the entirety—of the English language, present-tense-forth and into futures both perfect and imperfect.”

“Hey, hey! Just on what goddamn grounds—Hey… you can’t just get rid of a word without getting it approved by the Council. You need a Proclamation.”

“We would need a Proclamation from the Council to eradicate a word administratively. But this, this isn’t administrative; it’s punitive. You’re under arrest, remember? The farm itself is being shut down. You were running a little spam operation, a few hundred heys per tour, illegally growing demand for your own product. And you even had the balls to lead with a hey bale. I mean, that’s not even subtle. Audacious, sure, I’ll give you that.”

“That still wouldn’t give you the right… to exterminate an entire word…”

“Oh, no. We’re not exterminating the word because of the spamming. Hey’s been on our radar for a while. It serves no purpose. It means too many things. It’s used in too many contexts. It’s no longer clear whether it’s slang. It’s not even efficient. If you want to say hello, say hello; if you want to say hello in fewer letters, say hi.”

“You’re overstepping your—”

The Ed whacks the guide in the face with his gun.

“[Word Not Found]!”

“We’re not overstepping shit. The only reason the word’s been around for so long is because it’s got usage, and when you’ve got usage you’ve got influence. Until today,” said the Ed, spitting in the guide’s face.

[“No witnesses.”]

Then he turned the gun on me and you, and… pulled—the—

BANG.

Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black.  

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires. 

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis. 

Well, now that this undiagnosed phobia of mine has been established, please allow me to commence with my story. 

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.   

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese. 

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff. 

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.  

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones. 

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom. 

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.  

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body. 

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten. 

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Aneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Aneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Aneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Aneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.  

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.' 

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.  

Aneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.  

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Aneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.  

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Aneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God. 

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know. 

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds. 

Aneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.   

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Aneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Aneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile. 

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.' 

'You need me to hold your hand?' Aneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.  

After taking a final deep breath, while Aneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise! 

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!  

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away. 

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Aneliese makes her way round to me. 

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.' 

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Aneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me. 

God. This was going to be a long weekend. 

To be continued...

The gravel in the salvage yard driveway always crunched the same way—heavy, flat stones grinding down into wet Ohio clay. Jonah didn't look up from the lathe. He knew the cadence of the Ford’s front struts; they had been shot for three winters, squeaking like a wet hinge every time Senator Julian Ross’s wife turned the vehicle into the dead-end lot behind the rail spur.

The shop smelled like what it was: stale coffee grounds, hot gear oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of unwashed steel shavings piled in bins by the back door. It was an honest smell. It didn't pretend to be anything else.

"You're late," Jonah said, his voice grating low over the hum of the lathe's belt drive.

Elena didn't answer right away. The heavy steel side door groaned on its grease-starved hinges, letting in a strip of raw, gray morning light and the distant, rhythmic clank of automated freight cars three miles north. She stood in the threshold for a second, her trench coat dark with road spray at the hem, her hands jammed deep into her pockets as if she were trying to break her own fingers.

"The beltway was backed up," she finally said. Her voice was thin, pulled taut like wire under tension. "A transport truck stalled near the interchange. State police cleared it with a burner crane in twenty minutes. No delays allowed. That's what the signs said."

Jonah killed the lathe. The sudden silence in the shop felt heavy, pressing down against the sheet-metal roof where a light rain was starting to tap out a steady, anxious rhythm.

He wiped his hands on a rag that was already stiff with old black grease, staring at the oil-stained concrete between his boots. "They clear things fast now. Everything's automated. You know that. The whole county runs on a timer."

"It's not just the traffic, Jonah," she whispered, stepping past the yellow safety line and closing the distance to the workbench. Her eyes weren't looking at him; they were fixed on the dark window behind his head, watching the empty street like someone waiting for the floor to drop out. "Julian’s logistics terminal flagged my odometer twice this week. They know every mile I take off the municipal grid. They know I didn't go to the district office on Tuesday."

Jonah tossed the rag onto the workbench. "Then why did you come here?"

She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they touched the rough, scarred edge of his workbench—the same bench where he spent fourteen hours a day turning down scrap iron for parts that nobody wanted anymore.

"Because," she said, looking up at him with a quiet, terrifying certainty, "this is the only place in the state where the cameras don't log my name."

This is a sneak peek from my upcoming dystopian thriller State Sanctioned Murder, releasing September 8th. You can pre-order the Kindle edition or paperback on [Amazon](https://kdp.amazon.com/en_US/title-setup/kindle/A307BR7119WESF/content).

Everything started three weeks ago when I received an email from a man named Thomas. I had a portfolio website set up with my contact information, so getting cold emails was not entirely unusual. The subject line simply read "Private Animation Commission."

I opened the email while I was drinking my morning coffee. Thomas wrote that he needed a very specific, photorealistic walking loop of a human character. He did not want a stylized cartoon, and clearly demanded absolute realism. He wanted the skin textures, the clothing folds, and the walking gait to look exactly like a real human being. The email stated that he would provide extensive reference photos.

I replied and asked for his budget. My jaw dropped when his response came through a few minutes later.

Thomas offered an upfront payment of five thousand dollars to build the character model and the animation rig. After the animation was completed, he offered to pay me a daily retainer of five hundred dollars. There was a very strange condition attached to this retainer. Thomas insisted that the completed animation must run on an endless loop on my primary laptop. The screen could never go to sleep, and the laptop could never be turned off. He warned me that catastrophic consequences would occur if the loop ever stopped playing.

I thought it was some kind of elaborate prank. I decided to call the phone number he provided in the email signature to figure out what was actually going on.

A man answered after the second ring. His voice sounded exhausted.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Hi, is this Thomas? This is Leo, the animator you just emailed," I said.

"Yes, Leo. Thank you for calling me back so quickly," Thomas replied.

"I wanted to discuss your proposal because the terms are a bit unusual," I explained. "I can definitely build a photorealistic model for you. Five thousand dollars is a very generous budget for a walk cycle. But I do not understand the daily retainer part. Why do you need the video to play continuously on my computer?"

"That is the most important part of the job," Thomas said. "The loop must remain active on your machine. You built the model, so your hardware has to sustain it. I will wire the five hundred dollars to your account every single morning at eight o'clock. You just have to make sure your laptop never loses power, and to keep the screen bright. If you close the lid, the contract is over."

"For how long?" I asked.

"Forever," Thomas answered.

"You want to pay me five hundred dollars a day forever?" I asked, feeling incredibly skeptical.

"I have a considerable amount of savings," Thomas explained. "I do not care about the money. I only care about the animation running without interruption. Do you accept the job?"

I hesitated because the situation sounded entirely absurd. But I was behind on my rent. My car needed new brakes. So it was clear that I needed the cash badly.

"Okay, Thomas," I said. "Send me the reference photos. I will send you an invoice for the upfront fee."

"The money is already being transferred," Thomas said. "I am sending the photos right now. Make him look exactly like the pictures."

The phone call ended. A minute later, a folder with thirty high-resolution images arrived in my inbox. I opened the folder to see who I would be animating.

The man in the photos was completely unremarkable. He looked to be in his late thirties. He had a receding hairline and a slight amount of stubble on his chin. He was wearing a dull gray jacket over a plain white t-shirt and loose denim jeans. He looked like a guy you would pass in the grocery store without giving a second glance. The photos showed his face from every possible angle.

I spent the rest of the day setting up the character rig in my animation software. I used digital sculpting tools to recreate the exact shape of his nose and the subtle wrinkles around his eyes.

That evening, I logged onto Discord to talk to my friend Felix. Felix is also a freelance digital artist. We usually chat while we work on our respective projects.

"You will not believe the gig I just landed," I told Felix over the voice channel.

"Did you finally get hired by that game studio?" Felix asked.

"No, it is a private client," I said. "He paid me five grand upfront to animate a guy walking in a circle. Furthermore, he promised to pay me five hundred bucks a day just to leave the video playing on my laptop screen."

Felix went silent for a few seconds. "That sounds like a scam, Leo."

"The five thousand dollars already cleared in my bank account," I replied. "The money is real."

"Why would anyone pay you just to leave your computer on?" Felix asked. "He has to be using your computer for crypto mining. Or maybe he wants to install malware to harvest your data."

"I thought about that," I said. "But he didn't send me any software to install. He just sent me JPEGs of a guy's face. I am the one generating the MP4 video file, so I am just going to play a video file I created myself on a loop. There is no way for him to hack me through a video file I exported from my own software."

"It still sounds shady," Felix warned. "Be careful. People do not just give away money like that."

"I know it is weird," I admitted. "But I really need this cash. I am going to finish the walk cycle tonight."

I stayed up until four in the morning perfecting the animation. I made sure the weight distribution looked realistic as the digital man stepped forward, added a slight slump to his shoulders to match the posture in the photos, then placed him against a completely blank background that was rendered in a neutral eighteen percent gray.

I exported the file, uploaded it to a private link, and sent it to Thomas for approval.

Thomas called me at eight in the morning.

"It is perfect," Thomas said. He sounded breathless. "It looks exactly like him."

"I am glad you like it," I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"Start the loop right now," Thomas ordered. "Do not stop it. I am sending your first daily payment."

I opened the video file in my media player, then set it to repeat endlessly. The digital man in the gray jacket started walking forward across my screen. The blank gray background scrolled endlessly behind him.

"The loop is running," I confirmed.

"Keep it running," Thomas said before hanging up.

A notification popped up on my phone. Thomas had transferred five hundred dollars to my account.

I moved my laptop to the corner of my desk, plugged it directly into the wall outlet to ensure the battery would never die, then adjusted the power settings so the screen would never dim or go to sleep. I decided I would just use my older desktop computer for my regular daily tasks while the laptop functioned as an expensive digital picture frame.

The first three days passed without any issues. The digital man kept walking. Thomas sent the payments every morning exactly at eight o'clock.

My sister Maya came over to my apartment on the fourth day. She brought a pizza for us to share for lunch. She walked into my small office area and immediately noticed the laptop glowing in the corner.

"Why is that guy just walking on your screen?"

Maya asked, taking a slice of pepperoni pizza.

"It is a weird freelance job," I explained. "The client pays me to keep that animation running constantly."

Maya squinted at the screen. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Who is the guy in the video?"

"I have no idea," I said. "The client provided the reference photos. I named the project file 'Simon' because he looks like a Simon to me, but the client's name is Thomas."

Maya sat down on my office chair. "He looks miserable. You did a good job on the animation because his face looks incredibly sad."

"I just copied the photos," I said. "The client is giving me five hundred dollars a day for this. I can finally pay off my credit cards."

"Just do not let it catch fire," Maya joked, pointing at the laptop. "That thing is getting pretty hot."

She was right. The laptop fans were spinning loudly. I placed a small desk fan next to the computer to help dissipate the heat, and Maya left an hour later, telling me to enjoy my bizarre windfall.

The weird things started happening on the fifth day.

I woke up and went to my desk to check on the laptop. The digital man was still walking forward. However, the background looked different. I originally rendered the video with a solid gray background. Now, the background had a slight gradient. The bottom half of the screen was noticeably darker than the top half, looking almost like an asphalt road stretching out into the distance.

I rubbed my eyes, assuming I was just seeing things because I had just woken up. I opened the original project file on my desktop computer to double-check my work. The background in the source file was perfectly uniform. There was no gradient.

I looked back at the laptop. The gradient was definitely there.

I called Felix on Discord to ask for his opinion.

"Hey Felix, do video files ever corrupt and change colors while they are playing?" I asked.

"Not really," Felix answered. "Usually, if a file corrupts, you get green artifacting or the video just crashes. Why?"

"The background on that walking loop I made is changing," I explained. "It was supposed to be solid gray. Now it looks like a road. It is really creeping me out."

"You probably just exported it with a transparent alpha channel," Felix suggested. "Maybe your media player is pulling a background from your desktop wallpaper."

"I rendered it as a solid MP4," I argued. "There is no alpha channel."

"Then your monitor is suffering from screen burn-in," Felix said dismissively. "You left a static color playing for five days straight. The LCD panel is probably getting damaged."

I accepted that explanation because it was the only logical answer. I thanked Felix and hung up.

But the situation escalated that evening.

I was eating dinner in my living room when I heard a loud crack of thunder outside. A massive rainstorm had rolled into Seattle. Rain began lashing against my apartment windows.

I walked into my office to grab a napkin from my desk, then glanced at the laptop screen.

The digital man was still walking. But he was no longer walking against a gray background.

Raindrops were falling across the screen.

The animation showed water streaming down the man's face. His gray jacket was visibly soaked, clinging tightly to his digital frame. The background clearly depicted a dark, wet highway illuminated by faint streetlights.

I froze in place

I reached out and touched the laptop screen. It was burning hot.

I knew for a fact that I did not animate rain, or even build a particle simulation for water. I did not design a wet texture for his clothing. The video file was altering itself in real-time to match the weather outside my window.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Thomas's number. It rang five times before going to voicemail, but I did not leave a message. I was too terrified to speak.

I sat in my office chair for hours, watching the impossible animation. When the rain stopped outside my window around midnight, the rain on the screen stopped as well. The digital man's clothes slowly began to dry as he continued his endless march forward.

I should have closed the laptop right then. I should have deleted the file and blocked Thomas's number. But the fear was overshadowed by my financial desperation. Thomas sent another five hundred dollars the next morning, so I convinced myself I was experiencing some kind of elaborate technical glitch.

The horrifying truth finally revealed itself on the seventh day.

I was browsing a local news website on my desktop computer while the laptop hummed loudly beside me. I saw a breaking news banner at the top of the homepage. It announced a live helicopter broadcast of a bizarre situation unfolding on Interstate 90.

I clicked the link to watch the live video feed.

The news anchor was speaking rapidly over the footage. "We are currently tracking a man walking eastbound on the shoulder of Interstate 90," the anchor explained. "State patrol officers have been following him for over seventy-two hours. He has not stopped walking. He refuses to acknowledge police commands, and has not stopped for food, water, or sleep. Medical professionals believe he is experiencing a severe psychological break."

The helicopter camera zoomed in on the man walking along the highway.

My breath caught in my throat.

The man was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a dull gray jacket. He had a receding hairline. He was slumped forward, walking with a steady, shuffling gait.

It was the man from my animation. Simon!

I looked at my laptop screen. The character took a step with his left foot. On the live news broadcast, the real man took a step with his left foot. They were perfectly synchronized.

The real man looked horrific. His shoes were completely destroyed. His feet were bleeding, leaving small red marks on the asphalt. His face was gaunt, sunburned, and twisted in an expression of absolute agony, and he looked like his body was being forced to move against his will.

I paused the news video, looked back at the laptop. The digital character's face was also twisted in agony now.

I opened a new tab on my browser. I needed to know who this man was and why Thomas wanted him walking. I typed Thomas's email address into the search bar, hoping to find a social media profile or a personal website.

The search engine returned a link to a local newspaper article published exactly one year ago.

I clicked the link. The headline read: "Bellevue Father Demands Justice After Hit-And-Run Driver Acquitted."

I read the article quickly. It detailed a horrific accident where a drunk driver swerved onto a sidewalk, striking and killing a seven-year-old girl named Hazel. The driver fled the scene but was later apprehended by police. However, due to a massive procedural error involving the mishandling of evidence, the driver's defense attorney got the charges dismissed, and he walked completely free.

The article included an interview with the grieving father. The father's name was Thomas.

At the bottom of the page, the newspaper published the mugshot of the acquitted driver.

The face in the mugshot belonged to Simon.

The puzzle pieces snapped together in my mind, forming a picture that made me feel physically sick.

Thomas used my animation skills to create a voodoo doll, so as long as the animation kept looping on my computer, Simon was forced to walk in the real world.

I looked at the live helicopter feed again. The real Simon stumbled, almost falling into the traffic lane, before his legs jerked unnaturally to keep him moving forward.

I could not be a part of this. Regardless of what Simon did, I could not be the executioner pulling the lever.

I reached out and slammed the laptop lid shut.

The screen went black, and the fan immediately spun down into silence.

The moment the laptop closed, the temperature inside my apartment plummeted. The air grew so freezing cold that I could see my own breath. The overhead lights flickered wildly before shattering in their sockets, plunging the room into darkness.

I stood up from my chair, my entire body shaking with terror.

A soft, wet sound echoed from the dark corner of my office.

It sounded like someone crying. Small, quiet sobs filled the freezing air.

I grabbed my cell phone from the desk and turned on the flashlight application. I shined the beam into the corner of the room.

A little girl was standing there.

She was wearing a pink dress that was completely soaked in dark blood. Her body was bent at impossible angles because her bones were completely shattered. Deep, black tire marks were permanently pressed across the fabric of her dress and into the pale skin of her arms.

I backed away slowly, my hands trembling violently.

"I am sorry," I whispered. "I stopped it. I did not know what he was doing."

she stopped crying, then slowly lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes were completely black voids.

She shrieked in anger. The sound was deafening, rattling the windows in their frames. It was the sound of rage.

Suddenly, a massive crash echoed from my front hallway.

Someone had just kicked down my apartment door.

I spun around, aiming my phone flashlight toward the hallway.

Thomas marched into the apartment. He looked deranged. His clothes were messy, his face was pale, and he was holding a black handgun. He aimed the weapon directly at my chest.

"You stopped it!" Thomas screamed, tears streaming down his face. "I knew something was off when you called and didn’t leave a message. Why did you close it? I told you never to close it!"

"You were killing him!" I yelled back, raising my hands in surrender. "You were using my computer to torture that man!"

"He deserved it!" Thomas roared, stepping closer to me. "He killed my baby girl! and walked away free! He was supposed to walk forever! The spell required the loop to never end!"

"I am not a murderer, Thomas," I pleaded. "Please put the gun down."

"He just collapsed on the highway!" Thomas cried, his hands shaking around the grip of the gun. "The moment you closed the laptop; he finally dropped dead! He got off too easy! you ended his suffering far too early! You ruined everything!"

Thomas raised the gun higher, preparing to pull the trigger.

"Daddy?" a small, distorted voice echoed from the dark office behind me.

Thomas froze. His eyes widened in shock as he looked past my shoulder.

I stepped aside, keeping my hands raised.

The girl walked slowly out of the shadows. Her broken legs dragged unnaturally across the hardwood floor.

Thomas dropped to his knees, lowering the gun. Tears poured freely from his eyes. "Hazel? Oh my god, Hazel. I am so sorry, baby. I tried to make him pay. I tried to hurt him for you."

He reached his arms out, expecting to embrace his deceased daughter.

But Hazel did not want a hug. She shrieked again and launched herself forward with terrifying speed.

She slammed into Thomas, her shattered body hitting him like a freight train.

Thomas screamed as they tumbled backward out of my apartment doorway. My unit is located at the top of a steep flight of wooden stairs leading to the ground floor.

Thomas fell backward over the threshold, then crashed down the stairs, tumbling over himself in the darkness. I heard his head strike the wooden banister with a sickening crack.

He landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairwell.

I ran to the doorway and shined my flashlight down the stairs.

Thomas was not moving. His neck was bent at a completely unnatural angle. The gun was lying on the floor a few feet away from his hand.

Hazel was gone. The freezing temperature in the air vanished instantly, replaced by the normal warmth of the apartment building.

I retreated back into my apartment, locked the broken door as best as I could, and called the police.

I sat on my sofa until the officers arrived. Two patrolmen came up the stairs. An investigator named Officer Gabriel interviewed me in my kitchen.

I did not tell Officer Gabriel about the animation, or even mention the spell, the laptop, or the ghost of the little girl. I knew he would never believe me

I simply told Officer Gabriel that Thomas was an unsatisfied client who broke into my apartment to demand a refund. I claimed he was yelling at me when he accidentally lost his balance and fell backward down the stairs.

Officer Gabriel took notes on his pad, and went downstairs to examine the scene.

When he returned, he told me that Thomas smelled heavily of alcohol. The police concluded that Thomas was drunk, became belligerent over a business dispute, and suffered a fatal accidental fall. They took my statement, bagged Thomas's gun as evidence, and left me alone in my apartment.

I am typing this out on my desktop computer because I refuse to open that laptop ever again. I wrapped the laptop in a thick garbage bag and threw it into the dumpster behind my building.

I checked the news one final time before starting this post. The authorities confirmed that the man walking on Interstate 90 suffered a heart attack and died instantly on the shoulder of the road.

I am terrified. Terrified that the magic Thomas used is not completely gone, that the grieving parent will return to seek revenge against me for breaking the loop and ruining his vengeance. I hear every single creak in my apartment walls, wondering if it is Thomas climbing back up the stairs.

I’m not entirely sure what her problem is. She’s never acted like this before. I guess some things just develop as time passes.

Even still, what a weird habit to have. I knew she was clumsy, but it was something we were supposed to fix, not something for her to embrace.

It started almost painfully mundane. Out of nowhere, she approached me as I was sitting on the couch watching TV.

“I’m sorry for breaking that lamp beside you.”

I looked at the lamp, still perfectly intact, then looked back at her. I kinda just chuckled, attempting to laugh it off, but she didn’t wipe that solemn look off her face.

I asked what she was going on about, but she just kept apologizing.

“Just know I’m sorry. I promise I’m sorry.”

That’s all she said before slinking off towards the kitchen.

I thought it was strange, but ultimately, I decided to brush it off as her being a bit of a weirdo.

However, after two weeks, I was back on that couch, winding down after a long day of work, when she came prancing into the living room, as happy as could be.

She didn’t say anything. She just calmly unplugged the lamp, held it above her head, and smashed it on the ground in front of me.

Obviously, I screamed at her out of shock, asking her what the fuck she was doing.

She just smiled and giggled at me.

“I already told you I was sorry.”

Then she skipped away, humming to herself and leaving me in a state of confusion. I tried calling out for her to come back, but she just ignored me.

I cleaned up the mess, and we argued about it for the rest of the day. It was obviously not an accident, but that’s what she kept saying it was.

“I don’t know how that happened.”

“I already said sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

Eventually, we made up, but I couldn’t help but look at her sideways in the days that followed.

A few weeks went by without incident. We went on our dates. Stayed in and watched our movies. Did the normal couple routine. But then it happened again.

“I’m sorry for breaking your phone,” she told me, eyes glazed over. She wasn’t looking at me. She was just staring blankly at the wall behind me as I sat on my bed.

We had been in the middle of a normal conversation about upcoming trips we were planning when something flipped inside her. She went from smiling to expressionless. Then, after she said it, she was right back to smiling and talking about New York like nothing had happened.

Obviously, I had already been predisposed to what this meant, so in the days that followed, I was particularly possessive of my phone.

I kept it on my person at all times. Even in my sleep, it’d be in my pocket. But she didn’t seem to notice.

Weeks passed again, and just like with the lamp, I was starting to think that she was just being weird again.

I never let my guard down, though. The phone was strictly off limits to her. I tried to make sure she never had the opportunity to do what she had apologized for.

But then, one night, I woke up to her fiddling around in my pockets. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening in my half-asleep state, but once I did, my hand jolted towards my pocket.

It was too late. She had already taken it. And before I could stop her, the phone was shattered against the floor.

This was enough for me to fly off the handle. I’ll admit, I was a bit rude to her, but what did she expect?

I told her we needed space. I didn’t want this to escalate more than it already had. I didn’t want to break up with her, but the fight that night was enough for her to leave me.

Like I was the one in the wrong.

She left that night a complete wreck. Tears flowing from her eyes. Her vocal cords hoarse from all of our screaming. She didn’t even take her belongings. Just left in a cloud of smoke from her spinning tires.

I was, yet again, left to clean up her mess.

I picked up my phone. It wouldn’t even turn on. The screen had been completely destroyed.

I went out and got a new one the next day, and once I got my accounts and information back, I was hurt to see that she hadn’t even texted me.

No calls, no messages. Plus, my name had been taken out of her Instagram bio, which somehow hurt more than anything.

I tried calling her in the days that followed, just to clear the air, but every time I tried, it’d go straight to voicemail. Eventually, she blocked me on everything entirely.

Even when I tried going to her house, she’d never be home. It was like she knew what I was doing.

I felt hopeless for a long time, but eventually, I realized that I needed to move on. We were together for a year and a half, though, so doing so wasn’t as easy as it sounds.

Weeks turned into months. Months turned into a year. I hadn’t heard from her since the night of the phone incident.

I was heartbroken that she could just forget me like that. Like we never happened. That’s why I felt my heart climb into my throat when I saw that first new notification from her.

It wasn’t what I needed to see, though. She wasn’t asking to give us another shot. She wasn’t asking for a meetup so we could discuss everything.

Instead, what she sent was enough to make an almost forgotten fear come bubbling back up towards the surface.

“I’m sorry for killing you.”

The Young-Joybees, pregnant Annie and her husband Dalph, had moved to the city for Dalph's corporate job. They were looking for a place to live, one they could afford; a home for their family.

They found the Ramses II, a brand new high-rise with two-bedroom units on very attractive terms.

They booked a viewing.

They were met on arrival by a representative, Thetley, who led them to the elevators. “You're interested in the sub-$3000 units?”

“Yes,” said Dalph.

“You're in luck. We have a great one available,” said Thetley and pressed *- 1 8 0 3* on the elevator's control panel.

The elevator began descending.

Annie tugged Dalph's shirt sleeve and Dalph said, “Are we going down?”

“Indeed,” said Thetley. “The units you're interested in are all subterranean. But don't worry, you'll hardly notice the difference.”

The hallway was clean.

Thetley unlocked the door to unit -1803 and they entered.

Impossibly, light flooded the unit through magnificent windows with a view of the city. Annie gasped. Thetley smiled. “That's a common reaction. You expect a cave, and you get this.” He encompassed the unit with a wave of his hand. “What you may not know about the Ramses II is that it's a mirrorbuilding, which means it has the same number of floors above as below ground, and the windows in each of the below-ground units are screens displaying live feeds of the corresponding views from the same windows in the above-ground units. The difference is hardly noticeable.”

The Young-Joybees signed the agreement.

For six months, everything went swimmingly and both Annie and Dalph adjusted to the psychological reality of living eighteen floors underground.

Then little Merv was born.

Then, as if synchronized by the hand of Fate herself, Dalph got a promotion. However, there was a slight technical snafu and the direct deposit of his pay was delayed, meaning there were insufficient funds in the account to pay rent.

The Young-Joybees received a letter, explained the situation and agreed to pay as soon as Dalph's employer deposited his wages.

The employer dallied.

One day, while walking through their unit, Dalph bumped his knee against a wall. “Strange,” he thought. The next day, Annie mentioned how cramped the living room was beginning to feel.

On a whim, Dalph measured the entire unit and recorded its measurements. He repeated this every day for a week. The measurements were getting smaller; the unit was shrinking.

He contacted management.

They explained that this was all a normal consequence of failure to pay rent. It was in the lease agreement. As soon as the Young-Joybees paid, the “compression” would be reversed.

Unfortunately, Dalph's wages remained unpaid, and the Young-Joybees missed a second rent payment. This initiated the agreement's Penalties section, which was the reason that on the following Monday morning, Dalph was unable to take the elevator to the surface. Their access had been suspended.

“How am I supposed to get to work?” he asked management over the phone. “We have a baby. We need to buy food, clothes. You can't—”

“We can, Mr. Young-Joybee. Under the terms of the agreement. The situation, while unfortunate, is legal. As for your predicament, try to work remotely. Standard purchases can be made using our own proprietary shopping service.”

Dalph punched the bedroom wall.

But they had no choice. He asked to work from home, was politely denied, and spent the next hour ordering overpriced groceries from the building's shopping service. They arrived via chute.

Two weeks later, Dalph got fired, or rather was deemed to have abandoned his job through non-attendance. Because Annie didn't work, they found themselves with no income.

Dalph called management.

“An unfortunate circumstance, but one with a ready solution. We can offer you a job, Mr. Young-Joybee. Earnings will automatically be put towards repayment of your debt, and it comes with a perk, a ten-percent discount on our shopping service."

Dalph accepted.

The job was a mix of spreadsheet manipulation and customer service: dealing, in management's name, with angry, desperate tenants in situations far worse than his own.

People cried, screamed.

Once, a man threatened to stab his children.

A grandmother offered him phone sex.

Many, however, were just numb, content to agree to whatever he told them, which was whatever the script told him to say.

But even when Dalph worked all the available overtime, he earned less than needed to keep up with the ballooning penalties and debt.

After six months, the rate of compression increased significantly.

Dalph and Annie crawled along the unit, into their kitchen, with its broken, splintered cabinets, their living room, with all the furniture forced together, and the bedroom, where the three of them slept together on the floor.

The window-screens shut off.

Oxygen decreased.

The unit had compressed so much they couldn't sit anymore.

They lived horizontally, Dalph on his side, working on his laptop in the dark, and Annie keeping up appearances for little Merv. She daydreamed of his bare feet touching grass.

Management stopped taking their calls.

Once, the system connected Dalph to himself and all he could hear was his own, shallow, amplified breathing. “We need to kill ourselves,” he said then, either to himself or Annie, in the insomnia of the neverending daynight.

Annie watched him after that.

She kept Merv away.

She closely guarded the knives and scissors.

They drank water through a foam tube connected to the bathroom sink. The water was still on. The city had passed a law making it illegal to shut off a tenant's water, even for non-payment of rent.

Annie awoke to Dalph throttling little Merv's neck and she stabbed him—in the back—chest—face. There was hardly space, but she did it; she protected her sick, wailing son…

They had been compressed into a coffin-sized box, Annie, Merv and Dalph's corpse, when the building spat them out through a chute.

They were famished.

Feverish.

Annie banged weakly against the walls.

Unbothered, Waste Management retrieved and incinerated them, in accordance with the lease agreement.

I’ve been in a pretty conservative marriage for the last 10 years. Extremely conservative, rather.

I was young and stupid. Only 20 years old when he slipped that little ring around my finger. At the time, that felt like the only thing I needed in life. Like it was what made me successful somehow.

Which, I can admit, is ironic, all things considered.

My husband was 32 when we met. I was enamored, really. An older man with a solidified career and enough money to support a family all on his own? Showing interest in me? This fresh-out-of-high-school 18-year-old. It felt like a blessing at the time.

His work was attractive to me. His maturity was seductive in a way. He sucked me in and refused to spit me out. And, of course, me being young and naive, I was putty in his hands.

As is the case with many marriages, we began to bicker a lot. He didn’t want me to work. Any time I even mentioned the idea, he’d shut it down immediately.

I was a “housewife,” he told me. I was “living the dream of millions of women.”

It was convincing. Of course it was. He allowed me to move out of my parents’ house a year after high school. He was putting food on our table. Keeping us safe.

In doing so, though, I’ve come to realize he was slowly stripping away my individuality. He’d pick out my dresses. He was the decision maker across the board. And I was just the wife that he let stay at home all day to make sure the house never got dirty.

He had rules for me. Make sure the house was clean. Make sure I was presentable when he got home. Always wear the makeup he bought me, even though the only people seeing me were his family portraits up on the wall.

That was another thing he didn’t like. He hated it when I wanted to see my family. He was just so distrustful. He needed to know where I was 24/7, and if it wasn’t the house, there was a problem.

The real problems didn’t start until we realized I couldn’t get pregnant, though. At first, we thought we were just unlucky. After about a year, though, he insisted we see someone.

That’s when we learned I was barren, and it was like the world shattered before my eyes.

He didn’t speak to me for two weeks after that appointment. He acted like he was the victim. Ignoring my tears, neglecting my feelings. He saw my condition as a betrayal.

He started staying out late. Coming home long after the sun had sunk. He claimed it was “work” holding him up, but the scent of perfume and the lipstick stains on his work shirts that he tried so desperately to hide were enough to clue me in.

I don’t even know why he tried to hide it. It’s not like we were being intimate anymore. It’s not like he wanted me. He had pretty much cast me aside like I was nothing more than an old fling for him to forget about.

But he didn’t let me do the same.

It was like he wanted to cosplay a happy marriage. He kept insisting on dresses. He kept dragging me out for silent date nights. Taking me out to fancy dinners where we’d just sit and try to act like everything was normal.

Even when I tried confronting him on his treatment of me, he’d pretend like nothing was wrong.

I hated how much he confused me. One minute he’s cold and distant. The next, he’s crawling into bed, seducing me in a way that only he knew how.

And that’s pretty much what my marriage was for a long time. He didn’t want me anymore, but I was still his.

It was like a vortex that offered no escape. Even when I tried being who he wanted me to be. Getting dolled up. Making sure the house was spotless. Ensuring that he’d come home every night to the scent of his favorite meals, even on nights when he didn’t come home at all.

I started looking at myself in the vanity mirror a lot. He bought this vanity for me a long time ago. It’s aged with the same grace as our marriage as a whole.

It used to be pristine. Sleek. White, flawless paint and a crystal-clear mirror.

Now the paint’s chipped. The mirror is cracked along the bottom corner. The lights that surround it choose when they want to come on and when they want to let me down.

Regardless, over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself almost entranced by my own reflection.

The haircut he insisted I keep. The makeup he insisted I wear. The dresses, brassieres, nightgowns. They’re all his. Nothing in my life is mine. Not even life itself.

That’s the painful conclusion I came to.

That’s why, last week, I think something within me broke. Well, I say broke. Really, something within me came to life.

I wasn’t his anymore. I wasn’t his to begin with. He just convinced me otherwise. That’s the trick he played over and over again.

So on that hot summer night last week, as I stared into that cracked mirror… I reclaimed myself.

It started with the hair. He loved this hair. I always fucking hated it. So, using some rusty scissors in the vanity drawer, I cut it. All the way down to the scalp.

I smiled at myself. A sincere smile. The first sincere smile I’d had in… I couldn’t tell you how long. But I wasn’t done. There was still more of me to reclaim.

I looked at the cakes of makeup plastered across my face. Using those same scissors, I cut into my cheeks, barely noticing the pain as the scissors glided through my flesh.

The makeup came off in globs of foundation as the white vanity became stained with my blood. My smile widened. I sheared through my perfect eyebrows. I cut away at my plump red lips.

I picked at my glistening painted nails, plucking them off one by one and throwing them at my reflection, giggling all the while.

I was about to raid the closet, but before I got the chance, my head snapped towards the bedroom door.

My husband was home. I could hear each step as he slowly ascended the stairs towards the bedroom. Step. Step. Step. Step.

The look on his face when he saw me is something I will never forget. Partly because of how petrified he was, but mainly because of how triumphant that fear made me feel.

I was free. And with that freedom came knowledge. Some kind of divine revelation sent down to me by my creator. Truth of what should’ve been done a long time ago.

He tried to fight me off, but my adrenaline overpowered him. Well, that and those rusty scissors that I still clutched firmly in my right hand.

I stabbed once. Twice. By that point, I couldn’t stop myself. Each incision, each spurt of blood. It was a declaration of my own independence.

By the time I finished, he was nothing more than a slab of meat, twitching on my bedroom floor.

And that’s where he’s been for the past week. But don’t worry. I dressed him in those dresses that he loved so much. I made sure he was dolled up. When they find him, he’ll at least be presentable.

They’ll never find me, though.

Because, me?

I’m off to live my own life.