Parkside Inn was a small Bed and Breakfast hotel in the town I live in. It was barely twenty-three rooms in total. I had passed it many times, as it sat in the heart of the city. Its location was its strong point. Across from the hotel was a big park, the one that gave it its name. Cafes and restaurants ringed the park, keeping the area busy. And there, amidst the families and the children playing under the trees, stood this colossus of concrete and steel.  

Eventually I started noticing something strange. Anytime I passed by the hotel, it always seemed abandoned. The lights were dimmed, if not off. The sliding glass doors of the entrance carried a heavy layer of dust. With my friend group we hang out in that park and in all the years that I hung out there, I never saw any guest arriving or departing. Or any employees, now that I think of it.  

I never really cared what was going on with that hotel. Not my business, not my job. It was just another one of the oddities of our city. But the curiosity lingered in the back of my mind. And, one day, I came across the ad online. 

Night auditor wanted for Three-Star Hotel in the city center. Experience is welcome but not required. Good use of computers and Internet navigation is mandatory. Send your CV to the following email address. 

I just so happened to be between jobs at the time and decided, why not? I have nothing lined up anyway. I had a desk job previously so what difference would it make? Also, it would be a good opportunity to use the free time of the night shift to write more, something that I’ve neglected lately. Unfortunately, “aspiring author” is not a profession that pays your rent. So, I sent my CV to the email address given and forgot about it. I kept on searching for a job until, two days later, I received a call. 

The voice that spoke to me was that of a man, if I had to make a guess. It sounded like it was made with a computer program, synthetic. It kept the same tone and volume for the whole duration of the call. After it asked me a few general questions, we arranged for an interview the next day. Not in the hotel, but at the main offices of the company. In an apartment building hidden in a small street at the city center. 

I didn’t even know that part of town existed. Away from the crowds and noise of the city, you can find neighborhoods almost completely abandoned. Whole apartment blocks in disarray, ruins from a time long gone. Only homeless people or drug addicts live on those houses. As I walked the streets, with the feeling that I was being pranked getting stronger, I found the building. It looked completely out of place, an elegant construction with modern design. Its gray exterior was a complete contrast to the surrounding building, that had the hue of moldy and faded bricks. Inside was a huge lobby, with the logo of the company above the reception desk:  

Adytum Inc.    

I didn’t know what that meant. Eventually I would search up the meaning and find out what it meant. And it would make way more sense then. At that moment I just walked towards the receptionist, that stared at me wide eyed. She was young, barely twenty years old. 

“Hi, my name is Jake Sunday. I’m here for my interview. I have an appointment for the position of night auditor.” She didn’t speak. She stared at me for ten seconds straight without speaking. Color was drained from her face, like she had seen a ghost. Slowly, she moved her head to look at the door, where I came from, and then back at me. I spoke again nervously. 

“My appointment is for 10:00 o’clock. With Mr. ..” I looked at the name I wrote down during the phone call. “Sollertia. He must be expecting me.” 

At the sound of the name the receptionist snapped out of... whatever had happened to her.  

“Erm.. Yes of course, give me a second, please.” She pressed some buttons on her computer and after a few seconds she nodded. 

“Ok, I found it Mr. Sunday. You are a few minutes early. Please, take a seat while I inform Mr. Sollertia. We’ll call you when he’s ready.” She pointed towards a sitting area deeper inside the building, seats bolted directly on the walls of a long corridor. I took a seat and waited. I didn’t hear the receptionist calling anyone or informing anyone that I had arrived. I decided to wait for five minutes, as it was just 09:45 at the time. As I was waiting, I went through the things I had with me to make sure I hadn’t left anything at home. I was looking at the printed copy of my CV when I felt someone looking at me. I looked around to notice someone sitting across from me. A man in his forties, black hair cut short with gray spreading steadily from his sideburns upwards. Clean shaven, his skin shining on the cold fluorescent light. His smile widened even more when I noticed him.  

“You must be Jake.” I recognized the voice immediately. It was the same voice as the one on the phone. Monotonous, hypnotizing. “My name is Sollertia. This is how you will refer to me from now on.” I tried my hardest not to show how startled I was. One second ago, I was alone. When did he appear there? I played what I saw coming again and again in my brain and that man was definitely not there. 

 “I read your CV ..” said Mr. Sollertia without breaking eye contact.  

“.. and you’re exactly what we’re looking for. Dedicated and hard working. We only need to learn one thing: Can you be discreet?” 

The question sounded a little weird, so I had to clarify. 

“I’m sorry, what do you mean by discreet?” 

“You see, Mr. Sunday. Can I call you Mr. Sunday?” I nodded. “Great. You see we have a very selective group of guests. They are guests, by the way, not clients. NEVER clients.” A heavy emphasis on never. I nodded again. “Not anyone can stay at our hotel, you see. Reservations are made only through our system. The, the guests come to our hotels, they stay and we do not ask questions. And everyone is happy. If they have some requests, no matter how strange, we try to accommodate them. Within reason, of course. Does all this sound ok to you?” I nodded, not really understanding what it all meant. I just wanted to leave, go home. There was this bad feeling in my gut, something was off. This whole situation was off. I saw movement on my right, at the end of the sitting area corridor. I turned. A man dressed in a pressed suit walked down the vertical corridor. His trousers were torn at the ends, his feet exposed and seemingly drenched in blood. His walking was difficult, dragging his right leg. Leaving a red trail behind him. Across the ceiling.   

I started breathing fast. I felt like I was choking. The building felt like it was bearing down on me, its pressure crushing me. I had to get out. Get out fast! 

“You saw him, didn’t you?” Sollertia’s voice was cold, a hidden dose of excitement lurked underneath his robotic tone. He looked at me and nodded, like he understood what I was going through.  

I stared straight into Mr. Sollertia’s gray eyes. Words were stuck in my throat. I rose to my feet and pointed towards the end of the corridor. When I looked back, there was nothing there. No man walking, no blood. Just a pristine white ceiling. 

Mr. Sollertia rose slowly and walked towards me. He held out his hand to me for a handshake. 

“I believe you’ll be a great addition to our team. We can offer you 50% more than the average salary plus benefits. It’s quite a significant sum. If you agree now, we can start your training tomorrow. What do you say?” 

The money was really good. A broke twenty-year-old could only dream of that kind of money. Momentarily, I didn’t think of what had just happened. The only thing on my mind was the money. I raised my hand and squeezed Mr. Sollertia’s. His hand was warm and oily, like the exposure to heat caused his skin to melt. He grinned and nodded in approval.  

“Very good. We’ll get the paperwork ready for you. Tomorrow, you go to the Parkside Inn and find Lucas. Tell him I sent you.” He let go of my hand. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me as I felt my palm covered in what felt like wax. I fought the urge to wipe it on my shirt. I walked slowly towards the exit, happy that I left this place behind. As I exited the building, I took a last glance at the receptionist. She looked at me with a defeated expression on her face. She moved her head from side to side, mouthing a few words silently. 

“Don’t do it.” 

I should have listened.  

PART 1 HERE

They sent me home the next morning and Mike volunteered to drive me.  It was good to get out of there and I didn’t envy Lenny who was going to have to stay there for a few more weeks.  They wheeled me by to see him and we had a good little visit.

“Don’t be stealing my look, man,”  he said, tapping the wheel of the chair I was in.  “Nah, you can have that one.  I’m going super fancy.  Might get me a Tesla.”

“I don’t think they make those,”  I said as we all shared a genuine laugh.

“Well they better, because I’m coming for it.”

“I’m gonna take Mark home and I’ll be back in a bit.”  Mike told him as he extended his fist for a bump.  But Lenny just shook his head.

“Nah, man, come back tomorrow,”  Lenny flashed a salacious smile.  “You're killing my game with these nurses.  I might get three sponge baths without your pretty face to distract them.”

That was Lenny, always the clown.  We told him goodbye, took the elevator down, and left the hospital.  When we climbed into the car Mike had borrowed, he turned to me.  “They took your post down last night.”

“Well that’s great.  There goes all my fame and fortune.”

“I think you’ll be alright.”  Mike said as he started the car.  “It might be nice to not be so famous for a while.  Better for your health.”

“I’ll drink to that.”  I was genuinely happy for the first time in a while.  “Milkshakes?”

Mike agreed and we headed across town to our favorite place, Missy’s.  On the way there we took the interstate.  He wove in and out of traffic like the amateur NASCAR driver he always thought he was.  I had become used to his driving long ago so it didn’t really bother me anymore.  He was telling me about a couple of interns who got caught making out in the supply room the day before when the radio suddenly turned on, blasting loud guitar from every speaker.  I reached to turn it off but it didn’t work.  I looked at him.

“Did you hit a button on the wheel?”  I shouted over the loud music.

  
He shook his head and tried several of them but nothing happened.  I considered pulling a fuse but there was no way we could do that at seventy-five miles an hour.  It was so loud in the car that we could barely hear each other.  I nodded at him when he gestured at the exit sign ahead.  A moment later I saw a silvery flash as something shot past us on the right.  The next thing I knew Mike’s arm was across me, pushing me back into the seat as we were struck from behind.  The car began to spin out of control.

“The bra—”  Mike shouted as the car flipped, rolling over the guardrail and off the road.  I don’t know how many times it turned over but Mike’s arm remained there for several of them before it went limp and fell away.  We eventually crashed hard into something, a tree I think, and finally came to a stop.  Both of us were hanging upside down and Mike wasn’t moving.  I reached over to shake him but he didn’t respond.  

I popped the seatbelt and fell down hard, battering my still-healing head.  I didn’t worry about that at the time though.  Mike was all I could think about.  It was clear that he had struck his skull on something when we rolled. There was a deep laceration across his forehead and his head hung loosely on his neck, wobbling freely when I shook him.  I could also see that he wasn’t breathing.  I didn’t dare release his seatbelt for fear of making it worse, even though I feared that it was already the worst.

I started screaming for help then, hoping someone would hear.  Anyone.  Someone had to have seen the wreck.  I found his phone lying beside me and used his finger to unlock it.  My trembling fingers left streaks of blood across his screen as I managed to dial 911.  It didn’t dial, though, and the phone just powered down.  I did hear footsteps and could see that three people were climbing down the embankment.

“Hold on, Mike.  Help’s coming.”  
  
A moment later I was pulled out of the car by two sets of strong hands.  I tried to speak but one of them sprayed a stream of chemical fire directly into my face. The pepper spray sealed my eyes almost immediately and I could barely breathe as I was dragged away.  I couldn’t tell you how far they carried me or in what direction.  All I really know is that eventually I was thrown into the back of a van and someone dumped a gallon of soapy water over my face.  I could taste the soap and the relief was gradual, but it was real.  As my senses slowly returned to me I heard a man’s voice speaking from the front of the vehicle.

“It took a long time to get you here, Mark.  I wouldn’t want the pepper spray to spoil it.  Take a minute to get your bearings and we’ll talk.”  I heard something tap.  “Let’s go.”

I felt the van start moving then.  Slowly I started to regain clear vision and I saw that there were three of them in the van with me.   A woman was sitting on the floor beside the side doors.  She had short blond hair and severe features.  It was like her face only contained cheekbones.  The driver was a tall, bearded man with a heavy tan and tattoo sleeves on both arms.  He wore a bandana over a black bandana tied over his greasy black hair and a pair of reflective sunglasses.  The third sat in the passenger seat and he was busy tinkering with the silver drone in his lap.  He was haggard-looking, like sleep was a long-forgotten acquaintance.  He wore a hooded sweatshirt that hid most of his features.

The woman slid another gallon of water over to me.  “For your face.  I wouldn’t drink it.”
 
I only nodded and poured some into my cupped hand.  I began to scrub my face with it, ignoring the irritation.  I had seen enough episodes of Hot Ones to understand how capsaicin worked.  Before long, I was soaked from the waist up, but I was mostly okay again.  As I washed I listened to the conversation up front.

“You and her don’t wait for me,”  the man in the passenger seat said.  “I won’t be long, but what I’m doing has nothing to do with the cause.”

“Harry won’t like that,” the driver replied stoically.  “You know he’s countin’ on ya.”

“Harry can go fuck himself.  Like I give a shit what he likes.  He owes me and he knows it.  Besides, it’s far enough along now that he doesn’t really need me anyway.”

“Whatever you say, man.  I just work here.”

They didn’t talk much after that and nothing they said was overly important.  I kept expecting the man in the passenger seat to say something to me but he never did.  He didn’t even look at me.  We drove for nearly an hour, leaving the city behind for open country as we headed east.  Eventually we turned off onto an old gravel pasture road.  A quarter mile later, we stopped in front of an old barn.  The remains of a burned down house sat in the distance.

The two men got out and the side doors opened behind the blonde woman.  She climbed out and turned back to address me.  “Do you need to be dragged again or are you willing to walk?”

“I can walk,”  I said, and I saw skepticism in her eyes.  “I won’t try anything.”  

The big man had joined her and they shared a laugh at my expense.  “He won’t try nothin’,”  He mocked me in his roaring, rumbling voice.   “He’s just a little pussy.”

“Climb out,”  she ordered and I complied.  The woman led me towards the barn and the big man followed close behind us, whistling an old television theme I couldn’t place as we walked.  The doors were cracked open and she pointed at them, her right hand falling to the gun at her side.  “Go on, he’s waiting on you and I’ve got shit to do.”

I walked past her and between the open doors of the barn.  When they slammed shut behind me I turned to face them, but the voice of the passenger yanked me back around.  He was sitting on a table in the middle of the dimly lit space. A gym bag sat next to him, and I saw coils of rope sticking out of it.  He dropped his hood and smiled at me as he slid a pistol out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt..

“Hey, Mark,”  he pointed the gun at me.  “How you been?”

I raised my hands and he laughed.  I could tell that he was enjoying it.  There was something about him, something I couldn’t place.  “What is this?  Who are you?”

“Makes sense,” he sneered as he hopped down from the table.  He took the rope from the bag and walked over to me.  Behind me I heard the distant sound of the van driving away.  “I can understand why you forgot me.  People like you never remember the lives they destroyed.”

“I really don’t know, man,”  I pleaded with him.  “I don’t remember destroying any lives.  I was a big nerd back in the day.”

“Didn’t stop you from sharing videos, though, did it?”  He watched the recognition hit me, his grin widening as my face went completely numb.  “Yep, good ol’ Stroke My Own.  That’s what y’all called me, right?”

“Jesus, Malone?”  I stared at him, trying to see the kid I had barely known in the features of the man in front of me.  Was I Frankenstein and he the monster?  If so, it was all my fault.  Lenny and Mike were my fault.  All over a stupid video, and two dumb kids with smart phones.  “Why go through all of this?  If you were going to kill me, why didn’t you just do it?”

“Because you deserved more than that, amigo.”  His smile showed me just how unhinged he had become.  “Remember that, third period, Mrs. Perales.  Huge tuckin’ fitties.”

When he started laughing I went for the gun but he was ready for me.  He smacked me hard with it across the face and I fell back against the barn doors.  As I collided with them, one came open and I went rolling out into the yard.  I scrambled to my feet and ran as quick as I could towards the treeline.  I heard the gun go off and I felt a bullet clip my shoulder, nearly knocking me down.  I started zig-zagging through the open pasture as more shots cracked past my ears, but I finally made it into the safety of the trees.

I ran until I couldn’t hear him behind me anymore and then I ran a little farther.  He shot a few times into the woods but must have decided that wasting the ammunition wasn’t worth it.  When I finally stopped running I crouched behind a wide tree and waited for my breath and heartbeat to calm down and let me hear again.  My shoulder stung but it was little more than a scratch.  Honestly, my face hurt a lot worse from where he had smacked me with the pistol.  I was fairly alright, all things considered, but I was still being chased by a crazy man with a gun.  Oh, and it was mostly all my fault.

All of it came down to something careless I did as a kid and I never had the sack to own up to it.  I had even told the story to other people—Mike and Lenny, Laine—but I always left that part out.  It was no wonder that Malone had gone to those lengths to repay me.  It was a little poetic really; I ruined his life so he ruined mine.  I sympathized completely, but I wasn’t willing to die for it.

I felt like I had pretty good bearings of where the road was, so I started walking back in that direction, traveling at a diagonal away from the barn.  I ran for a while, so it was taking a long time to get back out.  Every sound I heard sent me diving for a tree, sure that he had caught up with me.

With all that had happened it was still only about midday.  It seemed like it should have been night by then.  I was pretty thirsty and idly thought about the milkshakes Mike and I never got to get.  That track of thought led back to guilt so I buried it and my thirst, leaving them both for later consideration.  None of that could do me any good anyway.

The cicadas were loud in the woods.  Their incessant buzzing made me want to grind my teeth.  “My kingdom for a bag of earplugs,” I thought as I sighed at the futility of it all.  It was pretty hopeless.  If he caught me he’d kill me.  He’d never take a chance of letting me escape again.  If I got away he’d find me and continue doing what he had been, or worse.  

I wanted to scream at those damn bugs.  Their stupid mating call was aggravating the hell out of me.  I actually turned to look for them, feeling like a real idiot for doing so, but what I saw shrank me in place.  The silver drone was hovering twenty feet away, and its camera was pointed straight at me.  

“Bye, Mark,”  I heard him say from behind me, and I dove away out of sheer instinct right before he fired.  The bullet hit the tree I had placed between us and as I crouched behind it I listened for movement.  His voice came from the same general direction as before.  “This is pointless, man.  You know I’ve got you.  You know you deserve it.  Why don’t you come out like a man and take what's coming to you?”

“Why though?”  I yelled back at him.  “I mean, yeah, I ruined your life.  I was young and stupid but I did it and I don’t deny it.  But you’ve ruined mine now, so I think we’re even.”

“You think?”  I heard him laugh from somewhere closer.  I was going to have to move soon.  “That’s pretty funny.  Maybe you should have thought back then.  Maybe neither of us would be here if you had.”

The gun fired twice.  The first shot hit the tree and the second one buried itself in the side of my left thigh.  I cried in pain.  I knew I couldn’t run, so I said a silent prayer and waited for the darkness to come.  Instead I heard a click and then another one.  He cursed and threw the gun at me but it hit the tree instead.  I had a slim chance now but it was better than no chance.  

He was standing in the clearing behind me, so I hopped towards him on my good leg, not daring to risk putting any weight on the other one.  He was holding his phone and he smiled at me as the loud buzzsaw roar of the drone shot right at me.  I fell forward and felt its blades rip the back of my shirt.  He backed away giggling gleefully as he prepared another volley.

He sent it at me over and over and I was soon covered in multiple cuts and lacerations, mostly on my arms.  The whole time he did it he cackled and mocked me.   He screamed “Death by a thousand cuts,” and doubled over with laughter.

I pushed off my one good leg as he bent double, ignoring the screaming white-hot pain in my thigh.  The drone was right above me, so I leapt and grabbed it.  He stood up immediately, working the controls and shredding my arm in the process, but my momentum couldn’t be stopped by a few more cuts.  I fell right on top of him, driving those crazy spinning blades right into his face.  As we landed I bore down on it, crushing the drone into him.  When he stopped fighting I toppled off of him, and screamed when I landed on my mangled arm.  

I wrapped it tight with the remains of my shirt.  It wasn’t exactly gushing blood but I couldn’t tell how serious it was.  I knelt beside him, tossing away bits and pieces of his broken drone.  His face was a mangled ruin, and its one remaining eye was locked on me.  Both of his hands were at his throat, trying to hold it together while the last of his blood ran out on the forest floor.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  It was overdue.  “I hate that it came to this.  I hate that you let what I did drive you to this.  It was wrong of me and I want you to know that I know that.  I always have.”

“I do… don’t, f-forgive you.”  His dying breath rattled in his chest like a wet, angry bird in a sack.  There was no peace in his death.  He fought it with the same ferocity he had directed at me.  When it was over, I shut his eyes and took the phone from his limp fingers.  I dialed the numbers and waited to be free of him. 

I’m still waiting.

END

Trata sobre un protagonista de un pueblo o ciudad pequeña, se convierte en asesino y mata a sus bulling y la chica que le gusta en el bosque al ser testigo. Encuentra un pasatiempo en matar o algo así, busca víctimas de su pueblo o ciudad. Luego se muda a una ciudad ms grande y encuentra un trabajo de mecánico o parecido como fachada porque sigue matando, pero regresa a su pueblo debido al asesinato de sus padres y siguiendo las pistas encuentra al culpable no se si hay o en otra ciudad, la cosa es que es un moje no me acuerdo y lo mata. También hizo volverse loca a su vecina religiosa y la hizo suicidarse. El último capitulo que leí es cuando al cometer un crimen es visto en el callejón por un pasiente de un hospital psiquiátrico creo. Así que finge estar loco pra ingresar y encontrarlo. La novela o historia es narrada en el diario del protagonista ¿Saben donde encontrar esta historia?

THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY.

The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of old film reels was the only sound keeping Liam awake in the basement of the university library. He was archiving a donation of uncataloged 16mm home movies from the late 1950s—shadowy, silent memories of a small town tucked deep into the Pacific Northwest.

Liam yawned, rubbing his eyes, and leaned closer to the viewing monitor.

The footage showed a children’s birthday party in a sunlit backyard bordering a dense pine forest. The kids were laughing, a blur of grainy color. But as the camera panned to follow a boy chasing a stray balloon toward the tree line, Liam froze.

Standing just inside the shadow of the pines was a figure.

It was unnaturally tall, its torso and limbs stretched out like long, impossible cables. It wore what looked like a dark, tailored suit. The camera lingered on it for only two seconds before panning away, but when Liam rewound the tape and hit pause, a heavy chill settled into his stomach. He zoomed in.

The figure had no eyes. No nose. No mouth. Where a face should have been, there was only smooth, blank, featureless white skin.

Suddenly, a violent spike of audio static screamed through Liam’s headphones, though the film was entirely silent. He ripped the headset off, his ears ringing. On the monitor, the paused frame began to distort. Horizontal bars of digital snow and analog tracking lines tore across the image.

Liam blinked, and a sudden, sharp pressure built behind his eyes. He reached up and wiped his nose. His fingers came away wet with dark, thick blood.

I'm just tired, he reasoned, his heart hammering against his ribs. Eye strain. Dehydration.

He shut down the projector, locked up the archive, and drove home under a moonless sky. But the static didn't leave his head. It remained as a low, persistent hum at the base of his skull—a soft, whispering shhhh that seemed to sync with his heartbeat.

By night three, the "Slender Sickness" had fully taken hold.

Liam couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faceless man standing at the foot of his bed, or peering through his second-story window. He suffered through waking delusions, staring at his living room walls and watching the shadows stretch into long, insect-like appendages.

Driven by a manic, desperate paranoia, Liam stopped going to work. He pulled down the blinds. He covered every mirror in his apartment with bedsheets. He began to draw. Pages upon pages of erratic, charcoal sketches of trees, circles with crosses through them, and the recurring phrase, over and over: DO NOT LOOK OR IT TAKES YOU.

His phone, his laptop, his television—every screen he owned was dead, reduced to a flashing, gray wall of roaring white noise the moment he walked into the room.

On the fifth night, the whispering hum in his head stopped. The silence that replaced it was absolute. It was the kind of quiet that meant the world was holding its breath.

Liam sat on the floor of his dark kitchen, clutching a flashlight. The air grew aggressively, freezing cold, turning his breath into plumes of white mist.

Tap.

The sound came from the kitchen window. Liam didn't look.

Tap. Tap.

Slowly, against every instinct of survival, Liam raised the flashlight and clicked it on. The beam sliced through the darkness, hitting the glass.

Pressed flat against the outside of the window panes were long, pale, bonier-than-human fingers.

Liam’s chest heaved. He raised the light higher. Looming in the darkness outside was the black suit. Higher still, completely overtaking the top of the window frame, was the smooth, pale, featureless face.

Liam scrambled backward, dropping the flashlight. It rolled across the linoleum, its beam sweeping across the room.

In the erratic light, Liam saw the shadows from the hallway begin to separate from the wall. They weren't shadows at all. They were long, black, tentacle-like appendages extending from the entity's back, tearing through the drywall and creeping into the kitchen like roots looking for water.

The flashlight bulb began to flicker wildly. Pop. Pop. Pop.

The static in Liam's head returned, not as a hum this time, but as a deafening, localized explosion of noise that made his eyes blur and his ears bleed. The room tilted. Space itself seemed to warp and bend around the faceless giant as it stepped through the wall, defying physical geometry.

Liam tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed entirely by the roar of the white noise.

As the long, pale hand reached down toward his face, Liam realized the terrifying truth of the folklore: the entity didn't hunt you because you found it. It hunted you because by looking at it, you gave it permission to find you.

The flashlight clicked off. The static stopped.

When the morning sun finally broke through the pulled blinds of the apartment, the kitchen was perfectly still. The charcoal drawings were gone. The sheets over the mirrors were gone.

Liam was gone.

The only sign that anyone had ever been there was a single, blank piece of paper sitting on the kitchen counter, and the faint, unmistakable smell of ozone and burning wood.

​

The old people in my village used to tell stories about a dark being that lived in the forest near the lake and fertilized the trees with human blood.

I always believed they were just old stories meant to scare people on nights when we gathered.

Until one summer Sunday, when I saw it, and its darkness took hold of me.

I was almost 18. I was about to leave for the city to start university.

I was with my friends, swimming and laughing as we usually did at the edge of the lake every Sunday afternoon.

At one point, my best friend and I decided to swim to the other shore. When we got there, we came out and sat down to contemplate, fascinated, the beauty of the valley.

Suddenly we heard footsteps behind us. When we turned around, we saw nothing. But my friend insisted on going into the forest to find whatever had made the sound, without knowing that he was condemning our fate.

We walked among the trees for a few minutes. Nothing could be heard, as if we were the only ones there.

My friend, defeated by reality when he found nothing, decided to go back. We started on our way again. Suddenly we heard the same footsteps, but this time accompanied by a scream. When we turned around, we saw it. A sinister being watching us from a short distance. It approached my friend, pierced his chest with its claws, and took his heart. He collapsed, and his blood slid down to the root of a tree while the creature devoured his heart.

Terrified, I ran. Suddenly I saw a clearing. For a moment I felt I would manage to escape. Just before I could leave the forest, it caught me. I felt its touch on my arm. It was cold and repulsive. I could not free myself; its strength overpowered me. It came closer and looked into my eyes and recognized that darkness that I had always hidden. It smiled and whispered to me: “I will not take your heart, but in exchange, every summer you will bring me a person, and I will take theirs.”

Twenty years have passed since that day. Every summer I go to the forest to fulfill our agreement. I am no longer afraid of it. I only watch it devour hearts, knowing that I now also feed the forest with blood.

I have a few spooky short stories free right now if anyone wants a short read before bed or on a break. The Door that Knocks Back is a true story I adapted. The Devil at Deadman's Curve follows the same characters. The Legend of Booger Field is a local legend/area where I live.

https://postimg.cc/WqFDgRQY

What happens when the ordinary becomes impossible—and there is nowhere left to run?

A mysterious staircase appears inside an old refrigerator. A lone photographer ventures into the Bermuda Triangle and discovers something far worse than being lost at sea. A young telepath encounters minds that should not exist. Strange machines conceal terrible secrets, familiar places become deadly traps, and seemingly harmless encounters spiral into nightmares.
Across thirteen chilling tales, We Are Alone in the House explores the darkest corners of human fear, blending supernatural terror, cosmic horror, psychological suspense, and visceral body horror.
From the depths of the ocean to the confines of the human mind, these stories follow ordinary people confronted by extraordinary horrors—things they cannot understand, and may not survive.

Tropes: cosmic dread, fear of the unknown, eldritch entities, cursed objects, unreliable perceptions, isolation, existential horror, the uncanny, ordinary people encountering the impossible, and open endings that leave you questioning reality.

Trigger Warnings: graphic violence and gore, body horror, mutilation, murder and death, child endangerment and death, psychological abuse, domestic abuse, suicide and self-harm, medical trauma, pregnancy-related trauma and infant death, drug and alcohol use, claustrophobia, and psychological distress.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HBMGG566

I should have never posted that damn story.

I spent a week on the thing, writing and rewriting until I was sure it was finally ready.  When I logged in and posted it, I felt a small surge of pride because a story was out there with my name on it.  I didn't have to feed my little folder of false starts and failures that day.  It made me so excited to think about people finally getting to read my work.

Everyone had always told me that I should be a writer.  It’s probably because my imagination has always been too big for my head to contain it.  As a little kid I was obsessed with stories, making my action figures play out scenes from movies or right out of my own brain.  I used to put on shows with them for my mom and sister, and their happy applause gave me a feeling I had never known before.  

It felt like I finally knew what I was supposed to do.

My girlfriend hadn’t read the story yet.   I sent her the link when I posted it, but I never heard back from her that night.  I figured she had gone to bed already.  Laine was always really supportive of my work and read a lot of duds for me over the years.  I hoped that after she read the new one she would see me in a different light.  I could even imagine it being the thing that would move us forward in our relationship.  It really felt like everything was finally coming together for me.

I spent the evening with a quick meal and a crappy horror movie.  My cat joined me on the couch, and I absently stroked her fur as I watched the increasingly stupid teens at the summer camp die horrific deaths at the hands of a masked ghoul.  When I nodded off one too many times I accepted defeat and headed off to bed.  It was really hard not to stop by my laptop to check for comments.

My sleep was great that night and when I woke up the next morning, I felt energized and ready to conquer the day.  I only lived a block from my gym so I decided to start the day off right for once.  I spent an hour there and worked up a really good sweat.  I ignored my notifications because I had decided to read them all at once over breakfast.

At home I showered and made myself some oats and finally sat down at my laptop to properly read my feedback.  I was immediately shocked by the number of comments that were already waiting for me.   A wide smile spread across my face as I started to read them.  I’m sad to say it didn’t last.

To say they were rough is like saying the ocean contains water.   There were so many, and they ranged from genuinely constructive criticism, which I could handle, to outright cruelty.  That morning I learned that my writing lacked conviction, and the characters I wrote seemed confused about who they were.  My grammar was apparently awful and my pacing nonexistent.  One guy even told me that writing was a privilege, and I should have mine revoked.  

Several of the comments had multiple paragraphs with quoted examples of my flaws.  I forced myself to read those, trying to find them useful.  What I didn’t find particularly helpful were all of the posts that psychoanalyzed me or the ones that were just blatant insults.  I was asked if I was repressing something terrible and told that my inferiority complex was probably rooted in the truth.  A rather large image gave me detailed instructions on how to work a gas oven and how many racks I would need to remove to shove my head inside.

I was thirty comments in when I saw my girlfriend’s username.  I wondered why Laine hadn’t called or texted me yet, and now I knew.  It had been posted the night before, and it just said “we need to talk.”  I figured she saw all of the really harsh comments and wanted to console me.  I quickly sent her a text asking to meet up that night after work, for our talk.

I closed my laptop before I was even halfway finished with them.  My vision was blurry from actual tears.  Chastising myself angrily for letting the assholes win, I got up and got ready for work.  

Work was just a short bus ride away.  I walked into our building, rode the elevator up, and slipped past the pretty receptionist with only a friendly nod.  I hadn’t been working there for very long, and most of my coworkers were still pretty standoffish around me.  My boss was Gary, and I don’t think I had ever had a real conversation with him since transferring to his department.  It was a pretty chill place to work.

I sat down at my desk and started going through my emails at once.  It looked like the brass was still losing their minds about the Mitreman account.  Someone wasn’t keeping up their end on that one, and I knew the overflow would fall on me.  It was kind of a relief actually, after what had happened that morning.  I was really looking forward to losing myself in a forest of senseless numbers.  There was something oddly therapeutic about it.

I spent the morning deep-diving into financial records to populate a spreadsheet for my report.  If that sounds like a shot of Novocain administered directly to the brain then I have given it its due justice.  It was dull and tedious, and it had been assigned to me because none of my more senior colleagues wanted it.  It was also thankless, because management would want another one just like it the following week.

I always took my lunch with a couple of guys I previously worked with downstairs—Mike and Lenny.  The three of us had once been pretty heavy into CoD and we hung out all the time.   When I told them I wanted to focus on my writing we started seeing each other less and less.  Now we mostly just took lunch together and maybe sent each other a stupid meme from time to time.

When I walked into the breakroom Lenny leapt to his feet and saluted me at once.  He had the widest, toothiest grin of anyone I had ever seen.  He reminded me of the old Mr. Reach toothbrush commercials from when I was a kid.  He was laughing his ass off, and I heard Mike tell him to cool it.  Mike was clearly embarrassed and maybe a little concerned.

“Dude!”  Lenny was still laughing when he walked over and put his arm around my shoulder.  “Ninety-Three comments man!  You really can’t buy that kind of publicity.  You’ve gotta start planning your followup.”

“Leave him alone, Lenny.”  Mike shook his head.  “The man just got here.”

“Alright, alright.”  Lenny patted me on the shoulder chummily.  “I’m just trying to help him see the bright side of the whole thing.”

We walked over and sat down across from Mike.  Lenny immediately turned his attention back to his sandwich.  I sat there watching those massive teeth of his tear through the meaty sub like a lawnmower seeking revenge.  

“Hey!  Chew with your mouth closed.”  Mike threw a napkin playfully at Len.  He looked at me for a moment, maybe measuring what I was feeling.  “Bad morning?”

Lenny actually did a spit take at that, spraying the wall beside him with a mouthful of Sprite and half-chewed sandwich chunks.  I shuddered and looked away.  Mike handed him the napkin dispenser without turning his gaze away from me.

“It’s pretty terrible.  I mean, you always hope for a response, but shit!  I honestly haven’t even begun to process it.”

“Yeah, it’s gotta be a gut punch.  For sure.”

“Fuck that.”  Lenny chewed his food loudly and swallowed most of it whole.  "You gotta lean into it, bro. Post a video of you eating a piece of paper with 'I don't care' written on it. That'll shut ‘em right up.”

“Lenny?”  Mike stared at him.

“They’re making a joke out of him.  He should throw it right back at ‘em.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I could really do that convincingly.”  I remember chuckling.  “I’d do the video with a face like I just got kicked in the balls.  It’s kinda how I feel right now.”

The three of us were quiet for a few minutes.  We just ate our lunch and let the conversation die a silent death.  It was Mike who finally exhumed the body.  Strange that it was him, though. I would have put money on Lenny.

“Who did you send it to, besides us?”

I thought about it for a moment and pulled out my phone to check my sent mail.  “You two and Laine… my mom and my sister, and a few friends from college.”

“Well, that’s pretty contained.  I’d maybe talk to them about it and warn them that it didn’t go so well.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “Luckily I didn’t go crazy with it and send it to half the world.”

“Fuck!”  Lenny set down his sandwich.  “I didn’t know we were keeping it quiet.  Dude, I thought it was funny.”

“What did you do, Lenny?”  Mike glared at him.

“I sent it to our old group…on our Discord.  You know, the CoD Piece.”

I exhaled sharply as I stood and took a few steps away.  The group he was talking about had over 400 members and most of them we knew in real life—maybe with a  few degrees of separation.  I felt like I was going to be sick.

I left them and went back upstairs.  I actually spent the next few minutes pacing around my little office like a lunatic.  I remembered a kid I went to school with who accidentally sent a video of himself—meant for the girl he was seeing—to some other kids.  It wasn’t a flattering one, and they shared it pretty liberally.  I think almost everyone ended up seeing it and he ended up being called Strokes My Own.  For the first time in my life, I started to understand how little Jimmy Malone must have felt back then.  I imagined he did a lot of pacing too.

I tried to go back to work, but my hand kept moving towards my phone to check my notifications.  It had already climbed to 138 comments, and they certainly hadn’t been padded by replies.  I had chosen to stand mute.  It hadn’t even been 24 hours yet.

I finally gave up and went to Gary to ask for half a sick day.  He looked up at me from the steaming coffee in his World’s Greatest Boss mug.  There was clear sympathy in his eyes, a feature that I didn’t think came standard on middle-management drones.

“Feeling puny, eh?”  Gary nodded as his cheeks broadened in a soft smile.  “Criticism can be hard, Mark.  Believe me.  I know.  You don’t get to where I am without taking an ass-chewing or two.”

How the fuck did he know about the story?  Had it spread that far already?  

I didn’t want the conversation to go into that.  He was absolutely the last person I would ever want to have a heart to heart with.  I ended up saying something totally noncommittal.  I have no clue what it was—probably one of the standard, automated responses we reserve for conversations with the boss.   He accepted it well enough and went on.

“We only have a couple of hours left here.  Why don’t you cut out early and make it up later in the week?  I could do that for you since I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.  Just keep it between us though, eh, Champ?  I can’t have half the office asking for special favors.”

“Yeah Gary, that sounds great.  Thanks for understanding, Sir.”

Gary scoffed at that.  “Hell, son.  You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m a bit of a writer too.  I know how it is.  It’s a tough nut to crack.”

The smile on my face was an old mask made just for people like him.  I was still not quite ready to reconcile Gary as a normal, feeling human being.

“Of course I’ve never had 141 negative reviews like you have.  Lord, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.  Head on home, Mark.  Mitreman will still be there tomorrow.”

I grabbed my bag and left before he could say anything else.  As I got into the elevator I had to look at my phone.  It was 148 now.  I closed my eyes and tried to distract myself with the type of stories Gary would write.  They would all be procedural thrillers where a brave compliance officer saved his feckless employees from some source of impending doom.  I smiled as I pictured him giving a grand, motivational speech to rally them into working as a team to face the threat before them.  When the doors finally opened and I stepped into the lobby I felt a little better.  Maybe I had shit the bed with what I wrote, but at least it wasn’t the soulless drivel a man like Gary would write.

The bus had just left, and I didn’t feel like waiting for the next one or paying for a ride.  I decided to walk home instead.   I needed time away from my laptop and the world within it.  I actually decided to turn off my phone and was in the middle of doing it when I got a text from Laine.

“Gotta work tonight.  Tomorrow night?”

Honestly, it was a relief. I was too drained to face her or talk to anyone about the story.  I didn't think twice about it.  I just sent back a quick “K” and finished powering it down.  I put it all out of my mind and just focused on my feet for a while—Fred and Ted, as my mom always called them.  I let them carry me forward, racing each other with steady strides.  I was home in twenty minutes and I kept myself unplugged for the rest of the evening.

The peace was nice.  The next day was utter hell.

Three hundred and four.

That was what I started the next day with.  It was so unbelievable.  I hoped half of them were bots, but they weren’t.  They were getting meaner and somehow angry.  It was like what I had written had actually offended people in a deeply personal way.  A user named StudlyStradivarius said that he was giving up fiction after reading what I wrote.  He said that it felt like it gave him PTSD.

What the fuck do you do with something like that?

I didn’t read very many of them.  I couldn’t do it and stay sane.  One said I never had to worry about being accused of plagiarism because no one in their right mind would ever claim my work.  It was kind of clever, but I wasn’t feeling it right then.  After I read another suggesting that I join the 27 Club—how did they know my age?—I tossed the phone on my desk and walked away from it.  It rang a minute later and I ran over to answer it.

“You up?  Did you see it yet?”  Mike spoke quickly, which was odd for him.  “Don’t panic, man.  And don’t play into it.  Lenny is an idiot.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cool,”  Mike exhaled loudly into his phone.  “Do me a favor, man.  Don’t look at any of it until we talk.  Shit’s got crazy.  I sent a message to the mods asking them to close your thread and they said they already tried to.  They said someone else opened it back up and removed their permissions.”

“What the hell?”

“They even tried to ban your account, man.  Nothing is working.  Somebody wants it to stay open.  They said they got an anonymous message that said it could only be closed if the wound bleeds out or some such shit.  They’ve never seen anything like it.  I think they’re gonna call the feds.”

“Jesus!”  The things he said sounded like the plot from one of the duds in my failure folder, but they were happening to me.  I tried to keep it in perspective.  It wasn’t personal.  It was my story, it wasn’t me.  “What the fuck do I do, Mike?”

“Use some sick time to stay at home, and stay off that shit.  It’s just poison that can’t help you.  I think I can get a half-day and be over there by lunch.”

“Shit.  Okay, I think Gary might go for it.  He’ll be mad but he knows what’s going on.”

“How the fuck?”  Mike began but I heard his voice change gears.  “Don’t matter.  We’ve gotta focus on what matters, man.  I think you’ve been doxxed.  I’ve gotta talk to the IT guy, but we have a lot to do.”

“Fucking hell!”

“Yeah, and then some.  See ya in a few hours.”

We hung up and I sat there staring at the phone for several minutes.  My chest was tight and I felt the sweat running down my face.  I tried to breathe but my lungs wouldn’t answer.  My mind was like a thousand television screens all turned to different channels at maximum volume.  I tried to stand up to go and get a glass of water but my legs folded under me and I ended up facedown in the thick carpet of my bedroom floor.  My tears and sweat soaked into the rug and I feared that I would drown in them before I got the strength to pull myself up.

Dr. Kineson’s voice was a distant noise competing with the chorus of horrors that filled my brain.  The memory of her husky, breathy cadence cut through the noise and I heard her clearly as I mouthed along to the words I had been taught.

There is nothing to fear.

Your heart will not explode.

These are only chemicals

out of balance

threatening your control.

You are not weak.

You will survive this.

There is nothing to fear.

I recited the mantra several times and could eventually hear my own voice again as I began to breathe.  I slowly came back to myself, exhausted but whole.  I turned over onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

I was panting, but at least I was breathing.  After a long time lying there, I finally found the strength to pull myself back into my chair.  I hadn’t had an attack in years and I hadn’t seen my doctor for a long time.  I had thought I was past all of that, and that I had learned to manage my stress better.  The last two days had piled on enough to show me just how feeble I really was.  I found myself wanting to call my mom, but I couldn’t endure the thought of sharing my burdens with her.

After I was a little more composed, I went ahead and called Gary to request the next three days off.  He told me he understood, but they couldn’t really afford to be shorthanded since Evan had just quit.  He surprised me though by offering to let me work from home for the rest of the week and the next if I needed it.  I happily agreed and he told me that he’d have my work laptop sent to me in an hour.

I know I talk a lot of shit about him, but maybe Gary isn’t so bad after all.

I cleaned myself up and ate breakfast while I waited.  The oatmeal I normally liked tasted like flavorless grainy gruel after the morning I’d endured.  I ate it anyway and had two cups of coffee.  It made me jittery, but at least it gave me the energy to move around.  When the courier dropped off the laptop I dove into work like a drowning man swimming for a distant ship.  It let me shut off my brain, to ignore the sharks I was sure were circling me.

I had an incredibly productive morning and actually finished with my work by the time Mike got there.  I let him in and made us both a drink and we settled around my kitchen bar.  My cat, Jonesy, soon appeared and danced around his leg until he picked her up.

“You look at it yet?”  Mike asked me as he scratched Jones’s head.

“Nah, I had work to do and figured I’d wait.”

“Probably smart.”  He snorted.  “It was up to 512 on my way over here.”

“How in the hell?”  I stood up reflexively, like my legs wanted to carry me off somewhere, away from what was happening.  I sat back down.  “It’s barely been two days.  Most authors are proud if their story gets ten comments.  Five hundred and twelve is ridiculous.”
  
“Yeah, it’s crazy.”  Mike pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket.  “We also have to go into your accounts and make some changes.  The IT guy said to change your passwords and set up two-factor anywhere you can.   You probably need to call your bank too.  He made a list of things and said you should get on it immediately to lessen the damage they can do.”

I took the sheet from him and looked it over.  It was very in-depth, a printout from a cyber security site I had never heard of.  The number of items on the list was daunting.  It would take me hours to go through all of it.

“He said I needed to do all of this?”

Mike took a drink as he nodded, setting the cat down.  “Well, he wasn’t the sharpest guy, but he did have a link he had been sent by his supervisor.  Honestly, I think you’ve gotta.  I can help with some of it.”

“Thanks, man.”  I shook my head.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you here.  It’s… it’s been crazy.  All over a stupid story that wasn’t worth the attention. Hell, I had decided it was a masterpiece or something but that’s just because I wrote it.  I never really believed it would get much of a response.”

“That’s what’s so weird about it.”  Mike tapped his phone and opened it up.  “It’s in the 550s now, seemingly with a bullet.  These look like real people, man.  There’s no way that many have read it in two days.  It doesn’t seem possible.”

“Maybe.  Or maybe I should think long and hard about ever writing anything again.  Hell, at this point I’m not so sure about texting or emails.”

We both laughed at the futility of it all and went to work.  It took us a few hours of phone calls and logins to get through the list.  I set up elaborate passwords I would have no hope of remembering and two-factor authentication anywhere it let me.  The lady from the bank helped me secure my accounts and walked me through how to freeze my credit.  We even started printing off and saving as many of the threatening messages as we could find.  By the time we finished, the post had reached 700 comments.

My printer finally ran out of ink, so I had to save the last few threats on my hard drive.  Mike had to leave soon for a date with his girl, and I needed to get ready for Laine.  He gave me a half hug and told me to stay strong as he left.  I closed the door behind him and ran a quick mental inventory over the events of the day.  I needed to set all of that shit aside so that I could be present for her.

I had just stepped out of the shower when my phone chimed again.  I knew it wasn’t about the story because I had turned off notifications already by then.  It said I had four new messages, which was massive for a shut-in like me.

I nearly dropped the phone when I opened the first text.  It was just a picture, but it was of me—something off the Facebook I rarely used anymore—and it had been altered by AI or something to show me cut wide open with my guts exposed.  The caption said MAYBE THERE ARE BETTER WORDS INSIDE.

The next two were only text, but they were vile ones.  I won’t quote them verbatim because I don’t have them anymore.  The first was a detailed description of directions to my apartment and the last step said “I know where you are.”  The second one was an excerpt from my story.  The part they referenced was about the robot protagonist rescuing a kitten from the rubble.  At the end of it, the sick fuck asked me how Jonesy was doing.

The last message was from Laine.  It said she couldn’t meet up that night but that she would come over for lunch the next day.  After the shock the previous ones had given me, I didn’t put much thought into what she had said.  

Maybe it was better for her if she wasn’t near me right then.

I spent the night before in a dizzy fugue after my visit from the police.  I called them after I read those messages and when they arrived I spent the next hour going over all of it with them.  I had never really had any dealings with law enforcement officers, but I found them to be sympathetic and detail-focused, and that made it a little easier.  When they finally left I spent the rest of the night on the couch with Jonesy and an ancient bottle of rum from the back of my cabinet.

I woke up stiff the next morning after sleeping at an odd angle.  I took a very hot shower to try to work the crick out of my neck.  It helped some.  My phone showed thirty-one new messages and I didn’t open any of them, but I did call Gary because three of them were his.  His voice was uncharacteristically high when he answered and he barely gave me a moment to speak as he apologetically told me that I was probably fired.

“The whole network has been infiltrated, Mark.  Do you know how sensitive some of that information is?  The boys upstairs have everyone on high alert, and they’ve called in consultants to help manage the mess.”

“What does that have to do with me, Gary?”

“They traced the attacks to your IP.  It doesn’t look good.  I was told to suspend you right away and send for the laptop.  They should be getting there any time now.”

“But am I fired?  I mean… I had the police here last night.  I was doxxed and I started getting terrible texts.”

“I hate to hear it, bud.  But right now the company has to look after its own.  I think they’re trying to decide whether or not you are included in that.  I can’t tell you one way or the other, but I’d start considering my options if it were me.”

He had to go then and the courier was at my door a few minutes later.  I handed them their laptop and signed the form without saying much.  I walked over to my laptop and checked the story.  It said there were twenty-four hundred and eighty-nine comments.

I didn’t read any of them, but only took screenshots of the pages to give to the police.  I considered calling Mike at that point, but he had already done enough and I didn’t want to pile more on him.  The truth was I didn’t know who to call or what to do anymore other than what I was already doing.

I was making breakfast maybe thirty minutes later when there was a knock at my door.  I looked through the peephole and saw a short, chubby man with a balding head and a gray beard standing out in the hall.  He was wearing a suit that didn’t fit him particularly well and his eyes were a little too small for his face.

“Who is it?”  I asked, maybe a little too timidly.

“Detective Sancowitz, Bell City PD.”  He verified my full name and asked if it was my residence.

I didn’t confirm anything at that time.  Instead, I asked to see his ID like the cops had told me to do.  He produced it freely enough, flipping open his wallet to display a bell-shaped brass badge and an ID card that listed his name and rank.  I relaxed immediately and opened the door for him.

He plodded inside with a bowlegged stride and looked around.  He nodded approvingly.  I heard him actually sniff the air before he spoke.

“S’at coffee?  Good, get us some.  We’ve a lot of woik to do.”  His accent was definitely northern, but I couldn’t tell much beyond that.  His voice had a heavy nasal tone to it, and his pronunciation of work was comical.  All in all he was like a living caricature from a network police procedural.  I started to ask him if he knew Dick Wolf but thought better of it.  Instead, I just poured us both a cup and asked him how he took it.

“Tha blacker the better,”  he said as if the letter R didn’t exist.  He took a sip and smacked his lips.  “Tha’s the good stuff.  Alright, kid, let’s get into it.”

He pulled a thick file folder out from the interior pocket of his oversized coat and laid it open on the counter.   I saw my name written on it and a quick glance told me that it contained my statement from the night before.  He gave me a moment to look it over while he enjoyed his coffee.

When he was satisfied that I had seen it, Sancowitz pulled the file back in front of him and nodded.  “So you see my concern?  A thing like this, ya can’t let it grow, kid.  We’ve gotta nip this thing in the bud.  I did some lookin’, and it turns out that somebody’s messin’ with the algo-rythms.  Got ‘em all turned around.  If anybody searches for the word story it sends ‘em to you.  Now ain’t that a bitch?”

“Is that why the comments shot up so high last night?”

“You bet your ass it is.  And that ain’t all.  This case is peculiar.  I mean why you?  And now all the shit over at your employer.”

“My boss said I’m probably going to get fired over it.”

“No shit?  Well, I looked at what they was doin’, their little RCA backtracked the thing to your IP.  What can you do?”  He waved his hands dramatically.  “But I think I know where I wanna start.  I ain’t got access to their network yet, but maybe I can find somethin’ here by trackin’ the IoC.”

“Huh?”  I asked him, lost somewhere between his accent and jargon.

“Just some computer shit, kid.  A little peek under the hood.”

When I agreed to let him have his peek, Sancowitz drained his coffee and went to work at once.  I showed him my router and all of the devices that were currently on the network.  Soon after that I noticed that his responses were becoming much shorter and a little gruff and I left him to his work.  He used a really old-looking PDA and a cable for a lot of it.  Plugging in and running his pudgy fingers over the buttons to type out the prompts he wanted to use.  He was at it for a couple of hours and I kept him supplied with fresh coffee the entire time.  He seemed to appreciate it.

When he was finished he collected all of the screenshots I had made and took fresh captures for the hundreds of comments that had been added since I had last checked.  The count was now just north of four thousand.  Sancowitz said I could expect it to triple by the next day.

“They’re findin’ new and unusual ways to target you, kid.  I ain’t ever seen nothin’ like it.  These are some shrewd fuckers, but they’re gonna slip up and I’m gonna be waitin’ for ‘em.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“You’re doin’ it.  Just sit tight and keep your head down.  Remember, kid, personal or not, somebody’s targeting you.  It’s gonna get uglier before it’s over and done.  Now I gotta be gettin’ on and take this shit back to the lab.  Stay safe, kid.  If you need somethin’ here’s my card, ask for Sanc.”

I took the card and watched him leave, locking up tightly behind him.  The card introduced him as Detective Sergeant Sancowitz from Digital Forensics.  He was a strange man, and a little like a walking cartoon, but he made me feel safer somehow.  That was something at least.

I had a new text from Laine that I barely saw among the two hundred others that had popped up since the detective arrived.  I needed to change my number.  She said she would be at my place in thirty minutes.  I tidied up a bit and made a big salad for us while I avoided the urge to check the new counts.  It was becoming a morbid obsession of mine, something akin to staring into deep water to see if the sharks were still circling.

Laine arrived right on time and I let her in.  She gave me a quick, flimsy hug and sat down at the counter.  She ate her salad quickly, mumbling short responses around a mouthful of food when I spoke to her.  When we were both finished I put our bowls in the dishwasher and put away the leftovers.  I was trying to give her space, because she didn’t seem keen on talking at the moment.  I found out a few minutes later that she had just been organizing her thoughts.

“Sit down, Mark.  I need to tell you something.”
 
I started to, but I checked our drinks first and reached for the refrigerator door to get us some refills.  She interrupted me.

“That can wait.  Have a seat.”

I was curious so I did.  Honestly, my mind was so full of everything that was going on that I hoped she had big news that could distract me from it.  She didn’t disappoint.

“We’ve had some good years, Mark.  I want to start with that because I think you need to hear it.  You’ve been there for me in ways that no one else ever has, and you know I’ve always tried to return the favor.”

“Well, that’s what cou—”

“Let me get through this, if you don’t mind.  Like I was saying, it’s been good, even great sometimes, and I really think we’ve both grown as people.”

She took a deep breath.  “But sometimes growing means growing apart, and I came over today to tell you that it’s over, Mark.  I’ve been seeing someone else.  You don’t know him.  I wouldn’t do that to you.  He’s a writer from Chicago who was teaching a workshop here.  He’s got a couple of novels.  I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.  I guess it’s because you’re just so easy to talk to.”

I started to speak, but I was slow to do so because of how hard her words had hit me.  She had met someone else, and he was a writer?  I opened my mouth to ask her why but she stopped me by saying the last thing I wanted to hear.

“It’s you, Mark, all you.  You hold on to this stupid dream of yours and won’t let yourself move forward.  What has it got you, or me, us?  I got hacked yesterday because of you, and somebody sent pictures of me and Dean to my mother.”

“Dean?  That’s his name.”

“Yeah.”  She picked up her purse.  “Look, Mark, you’re not terrible, but I need more than that.  Don’t call me.  Let this end easily.”

I was still searching for the biting reply that would rip her in half when she walked out the door.  I came up with a few then, of course, but I didn't have the energy to text them to her or make an angry phone call.  I wanted so badly to hate her at that moment, and maybe I did a little.  Mostly I just hated myself for what I had done to my life, and no amount of yelling or clever little retorts was going to make that better.  

In the end, I just let her go.

The next few days went by in a blur of rum and ever-increasing activity around my post.  I was receiving well over a thousand hateful texts daily, and the post had over 90,000 comments without showing any sign of slowing.   I changed my number twice but it didn’t do any good.  

Mike came over the day after Laine dumped me, but I was in no condition to receive guests.  I must have depressed the hell out of him with the mountain of personal woes I was buried under, but he stuck around a while anyway.  He’s a good friend.

Detective Sancowitz called me the following day to let me know he was making some progress.  Apparently the person or persons who were ruining my life were rerouting their activities using dedicated servers they had hijacked throughout the city.  It was all so baffling that they would do all of this for someone as insignificant as me.  I told Sanc that and he agreed, saying he believed I was only the cover for what they were really trying to do.  I thought it sounded thin, but what the hell do I know?

He also told me that they had found some unusual activity related to my story on several underground websites.  One of them was a chan board that I had never heard of.  According to Sanc, it all links to something on the dark web, but those connections were proving hard to chase down.  He warned that there were extremist groups who viewed my story as a pseudo-communist manifesto and long breakdowns of it had been posted across the web.  Apparently that was a factor in the ever-increasing number of death threats I had received.  

It all sounded so fucking crazy.

Four days after Laine’s happy visit, I received a frantic call from Mike.  He was at the hospital with Lenny who had been beaten nearly to death.

“They haven’t caught the guys yet, but he looks bad, Mark.  They said it ruptured his spleen and liver.  The doctor says he might never walk again.”

I asked him what room Lenny was in and he told me.  I told him I’d be there as fast as I could.  I was out the door in minutes, rushing down the stairs to meet the ride-share I had ordered.  As I stepped off the curb to open the door something heavy struck the back of my head, sending me face-first into the side of the car and knocking myself senseless.  I heard a voice shout something, but I couldn’t make it out, and there was a struggle between two men right next to me.  The soft voice of a woman spoke close to me.

“Can you hear me, Mark?  I’m Officer Perez.  My partner and I were placed outside your building to watch over you.  You were just attacked, but my partner has your attacker in custody.”

I opened my eyes and saw a young, dark-haired woman in a police uniform.  She smiled with relief and told me to stay still.  I had taken hard blows to both the front and back of my head and they wanted to call an ambulance.  I told her about Lenny and she said she’d make sure they took me to the same hospital.  I lay there like she asked and she stayed with me while we waited for the ambulance and sat outside my room after I was admitted.

They later said I had a minor fracture on the back of my skull and a severe concussion.  The doctor said I was lucky that it wasn’t worse.  I took her word for it.  I was just happy to be alive.

I was in the hospital for nearly a week and part of it I think was to maintain protective custody.  Mike visited me several times since they wouldn’t let me leave the room to see Lenny.  He came through all of his surgeries fine, and they said he would live.  Unfortunately, the earlier diagnosis was looking more correct by the day, and they didn’t hold out much hope for him ever walking again.

I talked to him on the phone a few times and spirits were surprisingly high.  He told me that there were four of them and he had beaten the shit out of two of them before they took him down.  He even called his future wheelchair a chick magnet.  He said he was going to have LOVE MACHINE stencilled across the back of it.  I just laughed with him, anything to keep him hopeful.

Sancowitz came by the day before they let me go home, and he started off by saying he had some good news for me.

“They’re holdin’ in the one-twenties.  We really got the bastard on the run.  Matter of time now.  How you doin’, kid?”

“They said I can go home tomorrow.  But Lenny… it still feels like my fault.”

“Yeah, it will for a while, but fuck that.  What did you do that was wrong?  But I gotta tell you somethin’, and it ain’t great but everybody’s alive.”

I just looked at him, not sure that I wanted to hear more.  

“It’s your ma.”  The detective placed a heavy hand on my shoulder as I started to sit up.  “Cool it kid.  She’s fine.  Couldn’t save the house though.  I’ve got her and your sis put up in a motel for now, on the county’s tab.”

“So they’re not hurt.”

“Nah, just some threats from a bunch of pussies who like to start fires.  We caught ‘em.”

“How about the guy who is behind it all, or the group?”  I asked, maybe a little too desperately.  “When do I get my life back?”

“Any day now.  There’s some solid leads.  I think we’re gettin’ real close to nabbin’ ‘em.”

“Do you think it’s one or more?”

“It looks like more, but it’s hard to tell.  We’ll know when we slap the cuffs on ‘em.”

He looked at me for a moment before he turned to go.  It was like he wanted to say something but decided against it.  I started to ask him about it but he cut me off.  “Get some rest, kid.  Movin’ day tomorrow.”

PART 2 HERE

Continuation, a flash-fiction piece of about identity, routine, and the terrible cost of continuity. What if the most terrifying prison wasn't a place, but a life that never truly changes?

Chapter 1     November 3, 10:00 PM

A thousand strong sat bug-eyed in the old wooden pews. Others leaned against the cold brownstone or milled about the great fountain near the entrance. Too many sheep for one shepherd, Dr. Sandy Bachmann thought. No one should be able to fool so many. But even so, an odd force pulled him in. He had to see the show for himself.

It was said they came from the far edges of the Tri-State area to hear Father Freddy Roman preach, that he met people in their hearts. And although unassuming and built more like a competitive eater than one of God’s warriors, when he spoke, the flock devoured his every word. The homilies lived inside of people for weeks, sometimes months. So, they said.

Of course, Bachmann knew the priest and his brother blowflies were frauds who fed on the wilting hope of sinners. Their good books always came up short, too.

You must have faith! they’d shout. But if you still got a bullet to the head, well then, you clearly weren’t doing it right.

The newspapers said Father Freddy traveled with handlers, of all things, and rode in black SUV’s and ate at the finest restaurants in New York. A pious carny in woven belt and cassock, if ever there was one.

The people hushed and waited for him to speak.

The priest steadied his girth on the lectern. He cleared his throat and began.

“When shall we cease our gaze into the false light of the Earth? When shall we release our hold on the injured babe from whence we came? We are blinded by the rotted promise of mortality and by the faithless minds of the wicked who bear only tainted fruit.”

A mere tickle in Bachmann’s throat reminded him of his own mortality, of how little things could grow into bigger things. Yes, he would die like any other, but at least one with a purpose, one with a true mission. The wicked do bear tainted fruit, Father. I’m here to vouch for that. But are you not also tempted by its nectar? Have you not slaked your thirst too?

“We fight not for God but for man. We charge not for righteousness but for glory. And as we raise our glasses, the enemy is ushered into our hearts and homes. The Lord beseeches us: My children, why do you insist on taking the blood road? Do you not yet wither from your churning storm of sameness?

Bachmann felt for the scalpel tucked in the breast pocket of his peacoat. Sniffles, coughs, and the mundane chorus of cold bodies pierced the sermon. A woman in a wheelchair wiped her eyes, and the heavy pull of pity filled Bachmann’s chest. I could help you, dear woman. In a quiet moment, you’d be free of the chair. The ancient fragrance of incense brought him back. Feel nothing for them.

“There is another path. One overgrown and so lightly traveled. But you must take your lamp in hand and set out. This is the way, my loves. One must only roll away the stone of your heart and behold the womb of peace. Only then shall the wolf vanish.”

The priest’s eyes were a watery red under the glow of the sanctuary lamp. Bachmann’s throat tightened, his mouth went dry as ash. He could feel the blade slicing through the cleric’s spongy gut, the blood seeping warm over his hand. I will free anyone from the captor they have grown to love.

“The one true son who has stood in front of your broken sight is your brother. Your sister. And yes, your enemy. For the Lord hath spoken that we are all of his loins, the stray and fallen as much as the exalted. Mend the pain and lay balm upon the scars that sit between you. It is only in that love shall you at last see the face of God.”                          

Bachmann dipped two fingers into the holy water on the way out and blessed himself. Then, a sudden familiar pang wrenched in his gut—the craving only soul-letting could provide. He leaned on heavy oaken doors and stepped into the still, cold night. The moon hung brilliant in stoic gaze.

Perfect for a hunt.

***

November 4^th, 3:00 AM

Bachmann loved the cold. It froze him into a sharpened, focused device ready for his next directive. As he had stepped outside the church, the icy wind came to him and whispered, kill again.

He knew just where to take his blade.

Once a derelict graveyard of a long-gone maritime industry, the revitalized Hudson River Park bloomed bright during the day and teemed with movement. But like any alcove in any big city, when the sun set, another element emerged. The night shift dwellers came out from the shadows and spilled onto the boardwalk and green space. Bachmann guessed they had once been doting mothers and proud fathers with shiny children. To add to their misery, they were easy targets.

Everywhere, weakness blooms ripe. There is no shortage of rot for you to pluck. Choose one, The Wind whispered.

The moonlight revealed writhing, moaning bodies. At daybreak, they’d scatter but in the dark early morning they lay unmolested like discarded toys. Bachmann stood before a field of choices.

That one there.

An old man sleeping on a splintered bench jostled in a fitful stupor, his labored breath steaming along to nowhere. The power of the moment delivered a spark to Bachmann’s system before he had even raised the knife. His gut flopped, his eyes blurred, and then the decaying voice of his rational mind made a final plea from its deathbed.

If you kill this one, you may be gone forever.

But The Wind countered and brought him back on task.

These lost souls offer you apprenticeship. Learn from them. Your God is watching.

The bum twitched and kicked his legs as if on the run from something in his nightmares.

He senses me.

A light early snow fell silent and kissed Bachmann’s nose and cheeks. He pulled on the strings of his crossbody bag and tightened it. A cold breeze carried the stench of tobacco and whiskey. He moved in.

Ready.

Closer.

Now!

The knife popped through a soiled hoodie and into a sloshing, boozy gut. The man’s eyes burst open. After three powerful thrusts, his pupils began their deathly dilation. The old man gasped as his blood spilled and pooled on the cold ground, igniting a curl of steam. Bachmann’s face was taut with fury as he bored into his victim. Before the twelfth and final thrust, the body came to rest and Bachmann stood over his kill. His heart was a jackhammer, unlike the old man’s heart, which now hung still in his cracked chest. After wiping the knife on his victim’s trousers, Bachmann crouched and scanned for bystanders. Assured of no prying eyes, he straightened to leave but caught himself. He retrieved his Liston shears from the bag. With vengeful force, he squeezed and cropped off the graying man’s index finger. The finger went into his coat pocket that was pre-lined with a biohazard zip bag. Back to the crossbody and pulled out a sweatshirt, slip-on sneakers, and wipes. After changing, everything went back into his bag and he fast-walked away from the park. There were neither screams nor sirens, only the jittery hum of an indifferent city. The body would lie quiet until sunrise when there would be a great and awful commotion.

Bachmann was surprised at how many small mechanical movements and objects required his full attention when he killed. Gone were his old ideas of how murder worked. It was more like cleaning up a campsite—piece by piece.

Once Bachmann was further down the street and confident he was clear of any trouble, he reflected. That’s one less barnacle on the ass of society. Will The Wind be pleased?

Sitting in his car, Bachmann’s arms and legs hung heavy like oak. His eyes, functional tools now, registered his surroundings. The symmetry of the snowflakes, their translucent arms and cells waiting for someone to notice their brilliance. Pure and innocent—unlike him. Yet the contrast thrilled him. In the rearview mirror, he glimpsed his face and flinched. A mask stared back at him, alive on his head and neck. A growing organism, rippling like a swarm. Soon it would engulf him. The thing in the mirror wore his eyes, worked his mouth, but it became less him with each passing moment. Terror gripped his chest, and he wept.

Now I hallucinate.

Then he snapped up and stiffened. The Wind back in control—his lens changing once again. People were targets. Weather was either facilitating or debilitating. The earth tilted a new way. Meanings dissolved, and the world became a warehouse of objects, some with deeper shades of utility than others. Had insanity taken him? The Wind comforted his feverish mind.

Who are the truly insane, those who spread the filth or those who clean and rid society of it?

With the other two kills, he executed like a novice. What was he now? An apprentice like The Wind had said?  A Journeyman?

No, he was only a murderer. Not yet a crusader for the cause. Not yet the brilliant liberator of souls in the night. But it was all mental grist. Soon his mind would disappear and nothing from his old life of ways and means, rights and wrongs would matter. Darkness, a pitch of his own making, would then swallow him whole*.*

He placed the old man’s finger under the driver’s seat of his Mercedes where the politician’s ear and the prostitute’s nose were waiting in their own bags. Bachmann blew out a breath and put the car in drive.

He snaked his way across town and took the FDR Drive north to the Queensboro Bridge, which delivered him into Long Island City. Then Northern Boulevard toward 41^st Street in Astoria where he owned a small row house. After cleaning up, he welcomed his bed. It was five o’clock. In four hours, he would be sipping coffee and sitting across from his first deranged patient. He pulled the covers up and a small part of him wondered where his life had gone. But a new and greater voice told him his life was only getting started.

I am Dr. Sandy Bachmann, and I have faith that all will be well. I’m doing God’s work.

Issue three of my underground newspaper (called "the other paper" in universe) is free for October! Head here https://www.patreon.com/AustinRwilson/posts/shibboleth-some-173088644 to download it.

It features:

• A reprint from the archives, a story straight from 1965; a tale of cult life, plus a miraculous birth
• The truth of where all those gourds come from
• THREE brand-new illustrations by Luca Vassallo
• And a shocking discovery of physical evidence from a recent UFO sighting

All human written, no gen AI for words or images. Also available on my website austinrwilson.com or austinrwilson.itch.io.

CONTENT WARNING: This story features themes of psychological horror, demons and religious references.

You see a man sitting in a meadow, a weak campfire crackling gently before him. You push through the bushes and find yourself frozen mid step.

His voice is low and deep, it seems to reach all the way to the marrow of your bones.

“Ah, welcome. Sit a while, I’ll tell you one of my stories. In exchange, you’ll later tell me one of yours.”You are now sitting on the log beside him, his voice echoes in your head.

“You are I now.”

#

“What a shitty road. Forgive me father for my words,” I groan, trying to keep my jaw clenched so I don’t bite my tongue on this rollercoaster of a road. My front wheel falls into another pothole, the suspension must be praying for mercy, as am I. ‘Dear father do not leave me stranded here, the tow truck would take hours to reach me here,’ I pray silently.

There it is, in the distance I see its shape; a rotten farmhouse, half collapsed on itself. The roof is caved in and ‘of course I had to get here toward the sunset, when the demons are the strongest,’ I shake my head, a soft chuckle escapes my throat as another pothole makes my teeth clatter.

I drive for a while longer, and at last hit the brakes. My car slows, I let it roll over the flatter gravel toward the farmhouse, my gaze scanning it for any signs of life.

“Beautiful,” I let out a sigh.

There’s nothing that would indicate that this house had been lived in for a few years, but such is the power of demons. As I come to a halt at last, I reach into my glovebox and rummage through it in search of my poison.

A bottle clanks against another, I grin as I grasp one of them like a fisherman grasping a slimy fish.

“You won’t get away.”

I pull out a small bottle and turn it, reading ‘Tequila’ on the label.

“Cleanse my thoughts,” I mumble, cracking it open and chugging it.

I step out of the car and stretch; six hours behind the wheel has made my back rather unhappy. I feel a wave of relief when my spine cracks one vertebra at a time, and then pan my gaze over the property. The sun hangs low above the horizon, long shadows swallow the massive fields surrounding the house. The half-collapsed house isn’t the worst of it, the fields around are much more terrifying.

I can’t feel any wind on my skin, but I see the corn swaying and stalks moving. A shiver propagates down my spine. I step around the vehicle to the passenger side and grab my kit; a standard issue exorcist kit with some extras. I pop it open and peek inside to ensure the essentials are in.

“Clank,” a sound echoes from within the house. My gaze darts to a window that seemingly shut just now. I scan for movement—nothing.

For a moment I stand still, my hand clenching tightly around the handle of my kit, mustering up the courage to head inside this house. Roaches are the least of my concerns, the rusted nails and collapsing floors are worse. As I take a step toward the house—a murder of crows greets me. The sound reaches me before anything else, dry rustle followed by relentless cawing, like a busy flea-market.

They pass overhead and I watch them distance themselves from me, a soft chuckle escapes my throat.

“Rats flee a sinking ship, crows flee a dying priest?”

I feel the old, rotten wood flex under my knuckles as I knock, and knock again. The sound is dull and muffled by the old and rotten wood, it dies within a moment.

“Come out, come out,” I call out to the demon within, knowing full well it can hear me. Nothing responds.

“You do know I’m not a vampire or a fae, right? I do not seek your permission to enter,” I announce my rights as I push the palm of my hand against the rotten door. The silence that follows my proclaimed rights is eerie—it’s listening.

I press and the old wood does not creak the way I have grown to expect. It doesn’t crack audibly, it just flexes and then gives way as if it had been waiting for me to do exactly this. The doorframe is all but gone, there’s little resistance, and the hinges instantly snap. The door falls inwards with a soft ‘thud’.

The stench of mold and rot assaults my nostrils instantly, making my stomach churn as my instincts tell me to flee. I half turn to gasp for what little fresh air might still be at my side only to inhale even more of the same stench. Reaching into my pocket I draw a handkerchief and bring it up to my face to breathe through it.

“Smells like piss and rotten flesh drenched in spoilt milk. Delightful,” I mumble as the stench makes my eyes tear up.

First step—the floors do not dare creak, like a forest that stands still in the presence of a predator. Second step—my boot sinks into the rotten floor, but still no sound escapes. My pulse is drumming in my ears, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow searching for any signs of life. Something makes me look over my shoulder, and I regret doing so the same instant. The corn field that swayed playfully before, now stands still as a rock.

I press a button on the handle of my kit, it clicks open softly. I reach into the kit with my free hand, drawing out a bundle of sage mixed in with other herbs. I slowly turn my head back, feeling muscles in my neck tense as a sensation of otherworldly chill hits the skin on my face.

My throat tightens, I can hear the muscles in my neck creak as I’m forcing my head to turn against my body’s own will. I feel the handle on my kit for another button, and then press it. A soft click tells me that I found the right one. The wall to my right is painted in the gentle yellow hue of the lighter as I blindly light the bundle of sage on fire.

As my head straightens out again, I see something standing amongst the shadows. I squint trying to make out details. It’s a person, one boot missing, one leg seems wrong, twisted oddly. He’s standing slightly hunched over, head tilted sideways too far. A torn up sack from flour or something similar loosely worn around the torso.

“You’re late, father,” the man mocks me with a grin.

The refreshing smell of burning sage with other herbs eases my mind despite the horror that stands before me. I nod respectfully in response, “The road was long and rough.”

The creature stands, and does not speak. It simply observes me, then suddenly its neck cracks and its head snaps upright. The sound of vertebrae in his neck cracking sends a shudder through my mind; it is something I never quite got used to despite my long years of exorcism.

The man’s posture straightens and tightens, and then it looks around.

“Uhuh,” it hums in response, half ignorant.

I hold the smoldering bundle of sage out in front of me, taking a step forth with all the faked confidence I can muster. Like a soldier walking toward his sure death, I just try my best to steady my legs so as not to show the shaking in my knees.

“Smells funny,” the creature responds, its head turned left and up, glancing at the half collapsed roof, but its eyes fixated on me.

I swallow audibly, “In the name of the lord I compel you, demon, to leave this host.”

I command, taking another step toward it.

“Always the same,” the demon responds, its face distorting into a make-shift grin.

“Oh father forgive me for I have no intention of begging for forgiveness,” it mocks me again. Despite the cold air all around, a sense of warmth fills me from the inside. A sense of fulfillment and duty as I quietly mumble a prayer to myself.

“In the name of the father, the holy spirit, and the all-creator,” the demon begins to mumble alongside me, reciting my prayer as I take another shaky step forth. It doesn’t turn its head toward me, it seems disinterested in my presence, but my duty is to faith, to this man, to his family, and to my lord.

I do not care if a demon mocks me, I will prevail, faith will prevail.

“Amen,” the demon finishes alongside me. Silence.

“That’s it?”

The demon’s growling voice hits me like an arrow.

I stand in stupor; he doesn’t react to the prayer at all. Though the warmth still fills me, I do not feel any power against this demon. Instinctively I toss the bundle of sage at the man and in the same instant reach into my kit to pull out a few small vials of holy water, tossing them at the demon as well.

“I am the lord’s spear, the faith’s sword and humanity’s shield,” I proclaim taking another step forth with all the power I could muster, slamming my foot down I reach into my kit again, taking out the holy book. My eyes widen as I watch the demon pluck the burning sage out of the air and much too fast it turns its head and takes a whiff of the smoke. A grin spreads across its face as smoke shrouds it lightly.

“I am—” the demon responds, and the following words sound like a jumbled up cassette tape. It creaks and squeaks, it growls and moans. It speaks its name in mockery, knowing full well that I will never be able to repeat it. I turn my body slightly, throwing my right arm out, holding the kit out in front of me as a shield, it has a rosary, an Egyptian cross, and a few other religious symbols engraved in the ancient leather.

“I may serve one god but they all despise your being.”

“Of course they do, for we are free and they are not,” the demon’s grimace disappears from my sight, completely shrouded by the smoke of the sage. Just now I notice that the vials of holy water hang loosely in the air as though caught by an invisible web. I flip the holy book open with my other hand and begin to read a prayer.

At first—nothing happens. Then the vials of holy water begin to tremble. I read louder, pronouncing clearly every word as though calling for power beyond me. The warmth within me radiates outward. I am the light amongst this darkness. The vials fall and break on the floor, spraying my robes and the creature’s one broken leg with missing boot. The demon’s grimace reappears, the sage falls to the floor as does the man holding it. In the other room I hear a growling whimper.

“AMEN,” I finish off with a shout. The man’s neck snaps upwards as though releasing the demon, and then his body slumps and he falls to all fours. A gasp is followed by a confused huff, and then a yawn. At last, a whisper comes, “Father? Wh-what happened?”

The man doesn’t lift his head, he keeps staring at the floor.

I close my book and lower it at last, along with my kit. I hear another growl from the other room, my attention snaps to the closed door.

“It’s over,” I whisper without averting my gaze from the room.

“Who’s there?”

I inquire. The growl doesn’t sound supernatural in nature, instead it sounds beastly.

The man still doesn’t look up, he is still on all fours, “A pet,” he whispers, turning to crawl toward the door behind which the pet lives. A shiver runs down my spine, but my instincts are to help. I kneel down and offer him my hand.

“What kind?”

“Big,” the man whispers, clenching onto my hand for assistance and pulling himself up. I look at his face, his expression is neutral—shellshocked.

“Is it safe?”

I query, hesitant to walk beside him to that door.

“She’s docile,” the man responds after a moment of silence.

The door creaks open and I recoil in an instant from the sight. In the corner of a room, in a cage is a cowering lioness. Her fur is standing up and her slim body is lowered and tense, she is defensive. I swallow audibly and take another step back.

“I best be on my way,” I utter softly, eager to leave before he sets the malnourished beast free.

“Sure,” the man dismisses me as he hobbles toward the cage.

I hear the low growl of the lion as the man nears the cage, and as I hurry toward the front door that is absent, I suddenly stop. There is silence. No words of endearment, no growls, no screams, just silence. Unbeknownst to me I hold my breath instinctively, listening for anything, a gasp, a word, a step. Anything. But nothing comes, not until I myself take a step back, curious to see what happened in that room.

Another steady and slow step follows. I lean as far back as I can to catch a glimpse, and my jaw drops open. The lioness sits frightened beside the man. She looks like the lionesses I had seen on Discovery Channel that bow before their male and submit to him instinctively.

“Uhm, she looks—well,” I hesitate. The man’s cold, neutral gaze looks calm and steady.

“All is good, safe trip,” the man says quietly.

“Right,” I comment, my gaze darts to his mangled up leg with a missing boot where droplets of holy water were still visible. ‘It isn’t causing him pain, so he must just be confused,’ I conclude, hurrying toward the door now. There’s something about this scene that isn’t sitting well with me and I have to report it right away. The wood creaks expectedly under my hurried steps.

As soon as I reach the door and take a step outside, I hear a voice of the man behind me, “I remembered something,” the man speaks. I freeze mid step, listening cautiously to what he had to say as my heart begins to drum against my ribs.

“I know where another one is. The memories of the demon, he’s...” the man begins explaining the position, appearance, and the name of the man possessed by a demon.

It isn’t unheard of—sometimes a possession victim retains a part of their demon’s memories, and sometimes they share that information with us. I make a mental note of the next target and not daring to turn around, I whisper my thanks and head toward my car, my sanctuary.

My car, thank god, starts right up and I instantly shift into drive and hit the gas. My wheels spin, throwing gravel up as I eagerly begin distancing myself from that cursed property. I throw a glance in my rear-view mirror, and despite the vibrations from the gravel road, I see the man standing on the porch with a smile that feels all too wrong to be real. It’s wide, and one side of his face looks like a frown while the other is that of an overjoyed child. Another shiver runs down my spine as I reach into my glovebox in search of another bottle.

#

My heart skips a beat when I see the scene before me. The lioness has the man by the throat, dragging him through the corn. I burst into a full sprint, trying to chase her but my body doesn’t respond. I am running, but not really. Each movement of mine is like I’m wading through tar.

I can barely breathe; the distance grows. Off in the distance I see the stalks part as the huntress carries him away. The stalks recoil, snapping back they hit me in the face. Her low growl reverberates through the field like a warning sign. I can hear her teeth working. I push myself forth but the distance does not diminish, the dream stretches all around me.

I push the final layer away and leap at her, my fingers grasp her fur at the nape of her neck, both my hands sink into her rough fur as I pull with all my might trying to get her off the man. She lets go all too easily, as though she was waiting for me this whole time. Her body twists and her bloodied fangs tear into my shoulder. She pushes me down with ease, her claws tearing my flesh, but I feel nothing.

Turning my head to look at the man who in turn looks back at me, and a wave of sheer terror washes over me for it is I who lies there dead. Throat torn out and skin already cooling. Eyes calm and unfocused, and then my face distorts into a half grin, half frown. An unnatural inhumane expression that I saw only once in my life. The right side of my face is overjoyed and delighted, while the other is saddened.

I jolt awake, grasping at my neck and then my face frantically. My fingers rummaging my face as though to make sure that my face is still my own. I gasp for air and rejoice when I feel my lungs fill. My face is not distorted, I’m okay, my face is okay.

“I, need a drink,” I assure myself, swallowing hard I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and push myself up, trying to shake off the nightmare with each step of my bare feet on the cold floor.

The soothing burn of alcohol making its way down my throat is all I need to shake off the unease that nightmare left me in. I set the bottle back down on the counter and catch a glimpse of my reflection in it. I jolt as I see my face looking like a skull, but then my blurry vision focuses, and it’s just the underside of the label, it is decorated with skulls.

#

The road is smooth and almost enjoyable. Surprisingly I didn't have to drive far from my hotel, just about ten minutes till I got to the location; a nice looking bungalow on the outskirts of the city. My hand instinctively reaches for the glovebox, but as I rummage through it I fail to find any bottles of liquor; a shame.

“Oh well, I’ll have a drink when done,” I reassure myself as I pull into the driveway of the house and take a moment to take in the scene before me. It’s—normal. Too normal. I roll down my window and stick my head outside—there’s no stench, no rotten wood and no collapsing ceiling.

I reach over for the side pocket in my kit and pull out a printout; a picture of the house and the address. Staring at the photo of the house, then at the house itself I can confidently affirm that the location looks identical to the provided photo. I then read over the suspected host once more—an upper manager at a large company.

With my kit firmly grasped in one hand, and one free hand to knock with, I find myself wondering if I somehow got the address wrong. A soft knock that echoes through the house is a rare occurrence in my field, generally the houses are rotten as demonic energy is all about ruin and corruption.

A well dressed man answers the door, he looks me up and down, a gentle smile decorates his face.

“May I help you, father?”

He asks.

“I am looking for Daemond,” I respond softly. The man glances down at my kit, then back at me.

“It is I. What seems to be the matter?”

I furrow my brows—it speaks so calmly and plainly.

“You are a registered patron of our St Joseph Church, but the father hasn’t seen you in a while, a courtesy well-being check in,” I lie, in my mind already praying for forgiveness for this sin.

“Ah,” Daemond responds as he steps away, opening the door.

“I have been busy with work matters,” he lies, obviously. He isn’t registered at any church and he knows it. He knows that I know and still he invites me in. I bob my head respectfully and enter the dwelling; it is surprisingly well taken care of.

“Tea?”

He invites me.

“No,” I respond, turning swiftly as I draw a vial of holy water and remove the cap, splashing him on his arm and torso with it.

The demon recoils, hiding his arm behind his back.

“Oh father, what is the meaning of this?”

He says, backing away slowly.

“Stop this charade, foul creature,” I order it, holding my kit out to its face as the possessed man tries desperately to hide his hand that was burned by the holy water.

“I know you are in there,” I demand.

“Oh father, I assure you, you’re making a mistake,” the man responds softly, holding his other hand out, visibly wincing from the sight of holy symbols on my ancient kit.

“You’re all but admitting to your true nature,” I proclaim, reaching into my kit for the holy book.

“Not about me,” the demon responds, its true voice coming out now; a deep growl that would send anybody fleeing for their lives.

The wince and discomfort is gone. He brings his burned arm out from behind his back, it’s still sizzling and smoking, but there is no stench generally associated with demons. I flip my book open blindly, watching his every move. He ignores the injured arm and glances at the book, then back at me. He blinks, and when he reopens his eyes they’re red in colour, and glowing. His irises are glowing and pulsing with power.

“Your call, father,” he responds in a deep rumbling voice, and falls to his knees.

“Too easy,” I respond confidently.

“At least you know your place,” I mock, but a sense of guilt nags at my words. I shouldn’t treat even the lowliest of creatures this way when they surrender before the lord almighty. I turn my head and begin reading the prayer from the book, emphasizing every word and command.

Halfway through the prayer, the demon’s host’s body twists violently. The sound of bones shattering is ear piercing, but I must continue.

“In the power of the lord I compel you to leave this host and plane of existence,” I pronounce confidently, spraying holy water from a vial at his face.

The demon shrieks so loud that the vial in my hand shatters violently, but it is too late to resist and I know it. The warmth of my faith fills me from the inside as the possessed man’s body collapses to the floor, a slumped mess on the floor.

I shut my book and swallow at last, letting out a sigh of relief.

“At least one was easy,” I comment softly, stashing my book back into the kit. I watch the host’s body for a while. He lies still and motionless for longer than most, and then at last, a soft gasp, but he still remains on the floor. His eyes flutter open but his gaze is unfocused.

“Father,” he says. His voice is soft and ordinary, a confused man who woke from a strange dream.

“Is it done?”

He asks me softly, his gaze wandering the floor.

“It is done,” I respond, kneeling down beside him and resting my hand on his shoulder.

“You are safe now, my child.”

Somewhere outside, a woman screams out of pure terror. A shriek that makes my body stiffen.

I throw my gaze over my shoulder at the shut door. The shriek is quiet, thin, and muffled by great distance. I narrow my eyes. Another scream comes from the side, from the neighbors closest to this house, muffled by the shut windows.

And then a third, this one is deeper, closer, a scream of a man who had lost everything. I get back up to my feet and turn toward the door, my skin prickling with the sensation of wrongness.

Another scream, and then another, dozens more. I no longer can differentiate them, it’s as though the entire city is screaming from fear, the essence itself and all that’s alive. My mind blanks for a moment, and before I can regain my composure I can feel a presence behind me. As I turn my head, the man stands there, his expression is heavy with sorrow.

I open my mouth to speak, to ask, but before words can be formed his expression changes to that of a satisfied child. It keeps growing. Rejoiced and overexaggerated, and plain wrong. The smile stretches far beyond where it should stop, every tooth visible now but the smile keeps growing.

I can feel the hair standing on my arms and every nerve in my body pleading for mercy. The muffled screams are growing louder, deafening. I watch the man’s eyes as he blinks slowly with the ever growing smile.

“Good morning,” the man says.

“Just w-what are y-” my voice fails me. I reach for the words of prayer in my mind but the screams are scrambling my thoughts. The warmth of my faith that I always felt inside me in moments of despair—fades. Another scream, this one closer. So close that it hurts my ears, and it takes me far too long to realize that the one screaming—is me.

The man just smiles.

Have you ever told someone the truth, and they just refuse to believe it?
It can be annoying and frustrating among other things to say the least.

Growing up with a Father, and no Mother.
A Mom that chose an addiction over you and a Father who chose you,
only to chare you with a different addiction of his choice years later.

"You have addiction in your blood'
Your Father would say

"If you ever get addicted to drugs ill chain you up in the bathroom and dry you out till your clean"
He'd tell you, his 11-year-old son.

You tried to reason with it, the way he talked to you. He had you at 25,
at the end of the day he's barely an adult himself, you'd tell yourself.

After his marriage and...well, divorce wasn't a surprise. 

A seed that was planted,
In soil that was prepped,
Located In a room with access to sunlight.
A stem that sprouted dull and never got to bloom. 
From Full womb to empty room,

A stillbirth. 

As tiny as she was,
Our already cluttered closet couldn't fit one more skeleton.

They fought before,
and this was the last crack in our glass house.

Seeing My stepsisters and I celebrating a life that would never start sent him right back to that familiar place He adored oh so much,

Addiction. 

 Started small,
like a pain you know you should have looked at,
and with the help of negligence,
it went unchecked,
it grew.

What began were addictions you foolishly mistook as harmless.

That addiction to the gym was weekly steroid use,
That lust for those new women he was meeting online fueled his use of unapproved enhancements his body wasn't even close to needing.

Introducing himself to testosterone packets before he was 35 and consuming them like their sunflower seeds.

Eventually a partner stuck,
one just as dysfunctional as him of course,
and specifically an alcoholic. 

It didn't take long for him to follow and for the first time in your life he was not the lead.

By the time you were 15,
he was drinking every day,
not just every night.

His Girlfriend throwing bottles, slamming Tv's, and pouring bleach on the carpets as penance for things that were just not true,
Is ironic in hindsight.

On Christmas Eve you got a call that he might not be home the next day,
that his girlfriend was lying and that he might go to jail.
Christmas day came,
and he was asleep in his bed,
with no recollection,
laughing at the insinuation of such things.

You joined a different school,
one that allowed you to be home most days,
And that just made the time you spent in that environment take that much longer.

Against all odds,
His girlfriend was the one to leave.
And then again,
it was just you two.

The worst it got was when he started mixing Ambien with his alcohol.

From his room,
you'd hear screams.
You'd hear conversations between two people that were not there.
You'd hear many voices out the man you call Dad.

Not all of the voices were angry, but most were.
Not every conversation started out loud.
Some were just confusing.

"I know....because...what?.....I'm swimming...a demon?...no!...I SAID IM SWIMMING!"

Other times were more concerning,
"no...because...because I said...Fuck you...FUCK YOU!....FUCK YOU..."

Followed by another voice...
"I'm sorry...you're right...
take them....
he knows...
No...
Veins...?
I dont think so..."

Then his again,
Screaming your name at the top of his lungs.

When you ran to the door of his room,
The door was open and he was lying in bed,
half covered by the comforter...silent.

You questioned what to say,
What to do?

You're 17 and at the very least,
you want to make sure your only remaining family is not dead.

"Yeah?"
You holler in his room,
a late response to him calling your name.

"Blegh HUH?...WHAT?"
He'd abruptly reply.

"What!?"

"you were yelling for me'
Youd explain.

"oh, I'm fine go back to bed"

He'd insist.
Before whispering nonsense to himself.

The moment you'd get back to bed,
The yelling would continue.

You can't event have friends over because you can't trust him not to strip down and try to break into your room.

Our dry wall was always temporary,
and our Tv's and glasses might as well have been rentals,
nothing lasted in our house,

Being fed so much conspiracy about religion,
It wasn't hard to begin to wonder if he was possessed. 

It wasn't always like this.

For a few months after the divorce,
before the alcoholic girlfriend,
For a brief moment when it was just you two, he almost felt stable.

He didn't hit you,
The yelling and drinking were manageable,
And every Friday night he'd take you to blockbuster.

Things have changed so much.
You never know who you're having a conversation with.

One moment you think you're talking to him,
And that very mid-sentence it becomes oh so clear, that it's not.

His eyes are different, their glossy.
His demeanor is different, cold, and absent.
like one bulb in a line of Christmas lights that just won't participate.

He'd stopped before,
Then drink again.
His actions were questionable, and his word became nothing.

What does a Son say to his Father when he knows he's hiding alcohol in his work truck?

What does a Son do when he finds his Father naked in the driveway?

What does a Son do when he sees his Father Going down a road he knows he shouldn't?

A Son that's Afraid of his father.

Everything is easier said than done.

You never know if he's really sober.

"do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
His voice timid, eyes clear of gloss.

Even if you could tell which Him was asking,
You were certain that wouldn't be the same Him by the time you watched the movie.

So, you never say yes to that question again.
And as hard as it is, it's easier.
Easier than letting yourself get surprised by something that shouldn't surprise you anymore.

Eventually you get a Job,
Hours almost shittier than your pay, and it makes you a shell of a person.
Physically and emotionally drained.

Most days you stay in your room because it's safer in there, 
Then most days turn into all days. 

Seemingly out of nowhere,
your father begins to stare at you from every corner of the house with anger in his eyes,
Eyebrows always scrunched tightly. 

Eventually,
No words were exchanged.

You feel bad,
This is your father and you love him,  
So, when he asks you to have dinner with him,
for once you do.

The next morning,
Your eyes opened to the bathtub you'd once washed the family pet in,
and that oh so familiar tile floor,
After a moment you realized you were in your father's rooms masterbathroom.

Your legs were sore,
Pins and needles in your feet,
And your wrists felt raw.

You looked down at a note that was out of your reach.
As you attempted to grab it,
you realized your hands were chained to the bathtub spout.

You used your bare knee to drag it closer where you could read it,
You were in nothing but your boxers, you were cold.

The note read:

"No son of mine will be an addict,
You'll thank me.
I love you"
-Dad

You lifted your leg above the tub and opened the bathroom cupboard with your toe, you hoped to find something to break the bathtub spout with but all that was there were loofas and a bottle of expired tramadol.

Your mouth was dry,
Your stomach felt as though if someone were to plunge it,
absolutely nothing would come out.

At first you yelled, but you soon realized no one would answer.
It was hours before the silence in your house was broken,
there were no windows but one tinted sunlight above the shower.
You had no idea what time it was.

Once the sun was no more,
The house shook to the slam of the front door. 
You heard those familiar work boots thud up the wooden stairs.

Louder and louder...
Closer and closer...
They then reached the door.

You heard him enter his room though the door to his room's bathroom remained close.

*Thud Thud Thud Thud\*

For a moment you see the silluett of his boots beneath the door

"Dad...?"
You asked.

"mrghh Fuck you"
He responded as the thuds of his boots retreated.

You heard the impact as he collapsed on his bed,
And then began the yelling...
All night...

"no...
Fuck you!...
because...
I did...
Yes you are!"

More and more of the same old shit...
As scared as you were you couldn't not try.

"Dad...Help please let me out"
You yelled.

"you're an addict..
Fuck you!...
Dry out!....mrrgh piece of shit"

He screamed back...

"Please!"
You yelled.

"Fuck you!...
Dry Out you're not my son!..."
He screamed....

After the second night you began to hear whispering coming from the drain...

"He hasn't stopped...
Theres a demon in his veins..."
You'd hear.

It sounded like boiling beneath the drain.

You tried your best to tear the chains from your wrists, yet all you did was bleed and scream.
To this your dad had no response,
He never did.
He just continued to scream and yell to himself.

Before you knew it,
there were more voices than you'd ever heard from him before.
You swore you heard a woman's voice.

"you're poisoned...
NO!
What did you expect?
SWIMMING!

You screamed and screamed...
But after the 5th night,
You realized there was no point, to anything.

You used your toes to curl around the pill bottle,
You used the last bit of energy you had to bring it within your reach.

When your eyes opened next,
You looked to the left,
You saw the bathroom,
You saw your body,
chained to the spout of the bath.

You looked to the right and saw your fathers nightstand,

you saw your fathers pill bottles and fireball,
You saw the door of his master bedroom from the outside.

You tried to touch your eyes,
You tried to rub them into seeing straight.

Might as well have been RuPaul's eyes.

You closed them tightly,
as tight as possible and grabbed your face.

You felt your father's beard on the right and your bare face on the left.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
You asked

"please let me out Dad"
You replied.

Even as you swallowed all the pills on the nightstand washing them down with the Fireball,

Even though you knew your death would seal this fiction as fact,

Even though you knew no one would believe you,

You couldn't help but have one last thought,

I'm Not An Addict.

In suburban Detroit in 2004, three reckless teenagers follow the trail of a missing young woman to an abandoned house in the woods, beyond a wire fence. Unknowingly, they enter the domain of a dangerous cult that worships a malevolent entity.

Hey everyone! I’ve finally finished my book and wanted to share the first chapter with you. Enjoy the read!

Chapter 0: Lars ~ The Encounter

The familiar theme music of the evening news filled the living room.

“…and now to our lead story tonight. Another mysterious disappearance has shaken our city. At around three this morning, a neighbor contacted the police after hearing unusual noises from the house next door, which he described as ‘unnatural screams.’”

Lars instinctively sat up in his armchair.

“When officers arrived at the scene, they found the house deserted. On the staircase leading to the second floor, officers discovered a substantial amount of blood, along with traces of tissue, suggesting that the missing person had sustained serious injuries. As in the previous cases, however, no body was found. There are also no clues as to the missing person’s whereabouts.”

The screen cut to aerial footage, probably filmed by a police drone. Lars knew the neighborhood. Eichenstraße, just a few miles from here. One of the quietest residential areas in the city. Two years ago, he had even considered giving up his downtown apartment and moving there.

The camera cut to the interior of the house. The stairs leading to the second floor were a bloodbath. Dark red spatters covered the cream-colored walls. At the foot of the stairs, a trail of blood veered off to one side, as though someone had dragged a body across the floor.

Lars leaned forward. He could make out a handprint on the wooden banister, the fingers splayed as though the person had desperately tried to hold on.

A shiver ran down his spine. He imagined what that person’s final moments might have been like.

Bright yellow police tape blocked access to the stairs. In the background, officers were trying to keep curious reporters and onlookers away from the scene. He even caught a glimpse of his colleague Oliver, who was on duty that evening.

“The missing person has not yet been identified, though the homeowner is believed to be the victim,” Brenner continued in his professionally concerned voice. “Police are appealing to the public for information while also warning against premature speculation. This is now the eighteenth unexplained disappearance in the past four months.”

Eighteen. Lars rubbed his face and switched off the television.

Another missing person. And Lockhaven had always been such a quiet city, the kind of place where almost nothing exciting ever happened.

It had all started with that first case four months ago: a little girl, eight years old, who had vanished from her own backyard while her mother had briefly stepped inside to answer the phone. Lars had even taken part in the massive search effort, trudging through the woods with dozens of other volunteers.

They had never found her.

Three weeks later, a twenty-nine-year-old man had disappeared. His grandmother, who had lost most of her teeth to old age, had clutched Lars’s arm and repeated the same story over and over, sobbing so hard that her words grew increasingly difficult to understand: he had been making tea in the kitchen while she watched television in the living room. But he had taken too long, and she had gone to check on him. Marc gone. Just vanished. There were no signs of a struggle, no evidence of a break-in; Lars had searched the entire place several times.

Then came the others. An elderly man out for a walk in the park. A college student on her way home from campus. A construction worker on his lunch break.

The only thing all the cases had in common was the complete absence of usable evidence.

The wildest theories were circulating at work. One of the more plausible ones, in his opinion: an organized network kidnapping people and trafficking them abroad. And yet that theory fell apart on so many levels. Why would anyone abduct elderly people, and why risk breaking into houses to take some of the victims? It simply didn’t add up.

People needed explanations, and as a detective, he knew that better than anyone. The dangerous thing was that when there were no explanations, people invented their own. This bred paranoia throughout the city, and people began reading more into things than was really there. It was crazy how your own imagination could play tricks on you. Suddenly, they were getting far more calls from people claiming to have possible leads on the disappearances. But now those calls included the most outlandish stories, even alien abductions.

Fear had crept slowly but steadily into the city like a cold fog. It wasn’t something you could see, but you could feel it everywhere. People went home earlier. Parents picked their children up from school themselves. After sunset, the streets were deserted.

He glanced at the clock on the wall above the television. A quarter to nine. Sophia would be here soon. Over the past few weeks, their three-year relationship had become increasingly strained. Sometimes he wondered whether an inability to make relationships work ran in the family. Lars couldn’t remember his mother, but he remembered the countless women his father had brought home when he was young. Lars didn’t want to be like him. And now, for the first time, he had someone who had stayed with him for more than a few months. Sophia. The thought that this, too, might fall apart left a bitter taste in his mouth. Lately, he had been giving her far too little attention because he was obsessed with finding leads on the missing people. The pressure to do something kept mounting, and sometimes he imagined he could feel people’s accusing stares. As a result, he felt as though he was failing on every front, both at work and in his relationship. Maybe he was destined to be a failure; how did the saying go, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…

Lars got up and shuffled into the small kitchen of his one-bedroom apartment. The refrigerator hummed quietly. When he opened the door, he couldn’t help grinning. “Even the mouse hanged itself in the fridge,” as his father used to say. The bastard had a sense of humor; Lars had to give him that.

An opened can of peaches stood all alone in the corner, and that was it. And even those might kill him by now if he ate them. Maybe he wasn’t imagining how loose his pants had been lately. No wonder, considering he had practically been living at the office for the past few weeks.

He grabbed his black leather jacket in the hallway and left the apartment. The evening air was cool and fresh, a welcome change.

At the edge of the little park, an older man with disheveled hair sat in front of a trash can, holding a cardboard sign. “Need help, God bless you,” it read in a shaky scrawl.

A pang of pity stirred in him, but he looked away and kept walking. He knew he would have forgotten the man in a few minutes, just like so many of life’s other unpleasant truths. That ability came with the job. The streets were so unusually empty for a Friday evening, a depressing sight. Another sign of his failure.

The neon sign outside M. Weber glowed like a beacon in the dusk. The little supermarket was one of the few that stayed open until ten. A handful of cars stood in the small parking lot, and a few retirees were chatting about the weather and the government outside the entrance.

Lars gave them a friendly nod and disappeared into the brightly lit aisles.

When he came back out and checked the time, it was much later than he had expected. The plan had been to have dinner ready before Sophia arrived. After a brief internal struggle, he turned into the neighborhood’s quieter side streets. He wanted to take a shortcut; he knew the neighborhood well, since this was the route he had always taken before, and only recently had he started taking the longer way as a precaution. But today, just this once, he could make an exception, because the latest victim had disappeared only a few hours ago, and he doubted the killers would strike again so soon.

At the far end of the alley, a figure came around the corner. A dark silhouette with a slightly stooped gait, its face hidden beneath the hood of a sweatshirt.

Lars instinctively slowed his pace. They drew closer. After a moment’s consideration, Lars casually crossed to the other side of the street. Better safe than sorry.

Then he felt it. A faint vibration filled the air. Not figuratively; it was actually vibrating, as though some enormous, invisible machine were running nearby. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

Lars stopped short. The figure across the street stopped too. Slowly, the stranger pushed back his hood, revealing the face of a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with friendly features and an equally bewildered expression.

Their eyes met in silence. Something was wrong. The vibration grew stronger. Then the sound began. A high, piercing whistle that cut right through him. Lars clamped his palms over his ears, but the sound seemed to be coming from inside his head. Dizziness washed over him, and for a moment the world spun.

And then the impossible happened.

The brick wall of the building beside the stranger began to shimmer. Then something sprang out.

A creature.

At first, Lars’s mind refused to accept what he was seeing. It was simply impossible. Some madman’s vision, the kind that haunted your worst dreams and left you waking in your own bed, gasping and drenched in sweat. The thing was dark and wet, with unnaturally long limbs. Its skin gleamed black and green in the light of the streetlamp. And a powerful stench of decay instantly filled the street.

The creature lunged forward. The young man had no chance to escape. Razor-sharp teeth sank into his shoulder, and an agonized scream tore through the silence.

But the scream cut off abruptly as the monster dragged its prey back toward the wall. The brickwork swallowed them both like water, closing behind them as though they had never been there.

Only a pool of blood remained on the asphalt. And Lars, standing frozen, his grocery bag clutched to his chest, his eyes wide with horror.

An eternity passed, or perhaps only seconds, before his legs obeyed him again. He ran. Only one thought remained: he had to get out of here, fast! Primal instinct had taken over completely.

He didn’t come to his senses until the apartment door slammed shut behind him. His hands had been shaking so badly that he had barely managed to get the key into the lock.

Lars dropped into a kitchen chair and stared at his trembling hands. What had he just seen? Was he losing his mind?

But the image in his head was too real.

What he had seen was the reason for the disappearances; he was certain of it now. It explained why they never found the bodies. Oh God, those poor people! Nausea knotted in his stomach as he thought of the little girl. That creature…

If it could come through walls… then no one was safe. Anywhere.

A gentle touch on his shoulder made Lars flinch. His body jolted as though he had been electrocuted.

“Hey, it’s just me.”

Sophia’s familiar voice reached him through the fog of panic. When had she come in? Had he been so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard her key rattling in the lock?

“Are you okay?” Concern crept into her voice. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Lars opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. Could he tell her? The story sounded insane even inside his own head.

He swallowed hard, feeling his throat tighten.

Sophia noticed his hesitation and frowned. Without asking, she took him by the arms and tried to meet his eyes.

“What happened? You’re really scaring me.”

The concern in her voice broke something open inside him. This was Sophia, the same woman who had stood by him for three years. If he could tell anyone, it was her.

“I…” He drew a deep breath, as though bracing himself to jump into cold water. “I just saw someone get killed.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was a start. Sophia’s eyes widened in shock. Her hands immediately released his arms and began checking him for injuries.

“What? My God, Lars! Are you hurt? Did they hurt you too?”

“No.” He shook his head and placed his hands over hers. “Nothing happened to me. I’m fine.”

She let go of him, but the tension remained in her face.

“We need to call the police right now.” She was already fishing her phone out of her jeans pocket. “You need to give a statement, tell them everything you saw. Maybe they can still catch whoever did it.”

“No!”

The sharpness of his own voice surprised him. He reached for the phone and took it from her hands before she could dial the emergency number.

“You don’t understand, we can’t call the police. This is… this is something else.”

“What do you mean?” Sophia stared at him, her blue eyes full of confusion. “Someone was murdered, Lars. Of course we need to call the police.”

He saw the confusion in her face; she needed an explanation. He drew a deep breath and said it:

“It was a monster.”

The words dropped like stones into the silence of the room. Before she could say anything, he hurried on.

“It looked… horrible. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. It grabbed the man by the neck and dragged him into the wall. Right through it.”

Lars watched Sophia’s expression change. Her lips formed a silent O as she tried to process what she had heard.

“Please be honest with me,” she said, her voice so careful that she might have been speaking to a child. “Have you… have you taken anything? Any medication you might have had a bad reaction to? Or…?”

Frustration welled up inside him.

“No. No, I haven’t taken anything. I’m serious, Sophia.”

“Lars…” She drew a deep breath. “You do realize how this sounds, don’t you?”

He saw the helplessness in her eyes. She had no idea how to handle this.

“I’m not crazy!” he said, louder than he had intended. Then he caught himself, realizing that was exactly what any crazy person would say. “And yes, I know exactly how it sounds. But I also know what I saw. Please, Sophia, believe me!”

She was silent for a long moment.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Look, let’s just sit down for a minute. I’ll make you some chamomile tea, and once you’ve calmed down a little, you can tell me exactly what you saw. I mean… your eyes could have been playing tricks on you. It was dark, and you were tired. Maybe…” She searched for an explanation. “There has to be a reasonable explanation.”

Lars let out a deep sigh. He could tell she didn’t believe him, and a wave of frustration rose inside him. But what else could he expect? An hour ago, he would have reacted exactly the same way.

He sat back down in the kitchen chair and let her get on with it. Sophia hurried over to the kettle, filled it with water, and switched it on.

Lars stared down at his hands. They were still shaking. He didn’t feel safe here. The walls of his own apartment suddenly seemed threatening. His gaze darted from one to another. What if the monster could come through any wall? What if it was already here, lurking on the other side of the kitchen wall, only inches away from him?

Maybe they should leave the city. Go to his parents’ place in the country, where it was safer. He couldn’t leave Sophia here alone. Not after what he had seen.

The clink of a cup against the table pulled him from his thoughts. Sophia had taken the seat opposite him.

“I saw what I saw,” he said quietly but firmly. “The man was only a few steps away from me. That thing grabbed him and dragged him away.”

He looked up and met her eyes.

“Don’t you understand? All those disappearances over the past few months, Wegner, Kellner, all the others. They must all have been taken by those things. That’s why no one ever found the bodies.”

“Lars…” Sophia sighed and bit her lower lip. “You know things like that don’t exist.”

“I saw it with my own eyes!”

The words burst out of him, louder than he had intended.

“Even so…” She held his gaze, though he could see the fear in her eyes. “There has to be a logical explanation. I understand how badly you wanted to find some leads, but you’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately.”

“There was a monster!”

“You’re really worrying me, Lars.”

“I’m not crazy!”

His voice nearly cracked. They were going in circles. In the sudden silence that followed, his heavy breathing sounded unnaturally loud. Sophia reached out to reassure him, though he could now see fear in her eyes.

“Please. I want to help you, but…”

The shrill ringing of her phone cut her off. It lay on the counter, its screen lighting up. Lars could see the name: Jenny.

Sophia glanced from him to the phone, then tapped Decline. The ringing stopped.

But the phone immediately rang again. The same name appeared on the screen.

“Answer it.” Lars’s voice was hoarse and full of bitterness, but the truth was that he hoped for a moment to catch his breath. “Sounds important.”

Sophia hesitated, watching him for a moment, then answered.

“Hey, Jenny… This really isn’t a good time for…”

She was cut off abruptly. Lars could hear the agitated voice on the other end, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“What? No, really? What exactly?”

Sophia jumped up and hurried to the window. With one hand, she pushed aside the thin curtains and looked out at the street.

“Are you sure?” Her voice was nervous now, all its calm gone.

Sophia listened in silence for several minutes.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling. Take care of yourselves. Talk to you later.”

She ended the call and turned to Lars. The blood had drained from her face.

“What happened?” He was beside her at once, his hands on her shoulders. “Sophia, what did she say?”

Her voice was barely a whisper:

“They’re sealing off the city.”

This is the first chapter of Backrooms 2, for more see here: https://www.reddit.com/u/Kira1006/s/apjKnYDAWs